The Dead Soul (18 page)
33
Wednesday, September 10, 3:30 P.M.
Anastasia sat behind her desk, seething. How could that bow tie-wearing prick do this to them?
Shelton
.
She calmed herself. Then dialed the professor at his Simmons University office. He just happened to be coming off the heels of an interview with the
New York Times
regarding his role in finding a killer the national media was now calling the Boston Butcher.
“Professor, you are not to be running to the press about what you’re doing for the Boston Police Department. It’s an ongoing investigation, sir. We need your total commitment and silence where it pertains to what you uncover for us. I thought I made that perfectly clear in an email to you.”
“CNN
and
Geraldo’s people called my office today,” Shelton squealed. There was flames in his voice. He sounded energized. “Nancy Grace live tonight. In fact, I’m in a hurry.” This was his fifteen minutes. No one was taking it away from him.
“Well, I suspect more will be calling.” Anastasia leaned back in her chair with a squeak. The office was loud this time of the day, first-shift cops coming in off the road, second-shifters getting ready to head out. Bosses barking orders. The phones. It was hard for Anastasia to block it all out. She liked the idea of a private office for herself some day.
“Indeed,
Officer
Rossi. I think you might be correct. I was also contacted by a few publishers. I may get a book deal out of this.” There was that crass, I’m-better-than-you-because-I-have-a-doctorate tone back in his voice again. “I get your title right that time?”
Anastasia ignored Shelton’s tactless attitude. Gave him a few seconds to enjoy the gloating. Then: “I hope you understand that you won’t be going on any of those shows, Professor. And a book? Please.”
He was puzzled. “Excuse me?” Anastasia heard him laugh. “I am not an employee of the Boston Police, Miss Rossi.” She could picture him fixing his bow tie. Twisting his neck. “I can—and
will
—do anything that helps further my academic career.”
“Indeed. True. And I can also release the fact that your first wife accused you, let me see”—she rattled a piece of paper to make it sound real—“some thirty years ago now, was it, of visiting your son in his room late at night. Dose boys in the dean’s office know you’re an accused kid-toucher?”
“I was cleared of those charges.” His voice turned hostile. “It was never proven and my son denied it ever happened.”
“A bell was rung, Professor. I can re-ring that bell. Doesn’t matter if you’re innocent. You’d be over.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would, sir.”
Silence.
“Professor? You there, sweetie?”
“Your tactics, Miss Rossi, are vile.”
“I’m from New York, what can I say? We get the job done.”
A beat.
“Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, let’s talk about my seedling?”
Shelton hesitated. The snappy tone gone. “I … I …”
“Get on with what you’ve found out about my seedling, doctor. I won’t even bother getting into the fact that it’s Wednesday and I had to call you about this.”
Shelton had finished his work on the seedling. He confirmed it was from a Queen of the Night. The variety was of a South American origin. From his perspective, there was no doubt about it. Whoever left the seedling behind did it not long before or after Lisa’s death. The seedling the professor tested in the lab showed no decomposition after a few days inside a similar environment. The seedling in an opposing environments—warmer and colder—deteriorated quickly.
“You’re looking for someone who knows this is a rare flower.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because they are not your ordinary roses or lilies. They take great care and a tender touch. A green thumb, if I must use such pedestrian language.”
“Still doesn’t answer my question.” Anastasia watched a ruckus flare up at the front desk. There was a woman with bruises on her face. She was crying, holding both hands over her mouth.
“As I was saying, the Queen of the Night—”
“Lay off with the tone, okay?” Anastasia snapped. “Enough of the academic snobbish bullshit form you. You got me? Now, start again.”
“You can find the Queen in waste areas, streambanks, near gardens, bush margins, gullies, alluvial flats, places like this—but not around here. Only in extremely warm climates. She prefers higher rainfall areas. She is extremely tolerant of frost.”
Anastasia hated that he called the plant a she. It sounded dirty.
“You know what, I’m through with this call.”
“Well, there’s more.”
“Email me what you have right now. Don’t make me wait.”
Anastasia hung up. Waiting for the professor’s email, she Googled “Queen of the Night.” Scrolled and read.
The seeds, in remote areas where you wouldn’t normally find them, were dispersed by birds and water.Pieces of cut root, one Website said, can spread the flower by cultivation. It also reproduced from buds and creeping roots. Seeds remained dormant in the soil for many, many years.
She wondered how any of this could help them catch the Optimist. Then it hit her: “He sold Lisa plants?” Anastasia said out loud, staring at the monitor.
It made no sense. A teenager who bought rare flowers?
Anastasia heard her inbox blow a flute sound.
----- Original Message -----
FROM: [email protected]
Sent: September 11 - 3:57 PM
Subject: The Queen
Officer:
I don’t appreciate being treated like a common criminal. I am helping you.
I sent some information to your home address via FedEx, as you suggested in your last email.
The Queen has enemies. This particular variety that was found at your crime scene is extremely toxic to farm animals. Your killer is not a farmer! Dense infestations exclude all vegetation. No other plants can grow near the Queen, hence one reason for her name.
Anastasia was bored with this guy and his useless information.
What we found in retesting the seedling was a trace of sodium chloride
and H2O—salt water. Interestingly enough, we also found saturated hydrocarbons, or paraffins and cycloparaffins, and aromatic hydrocarbons that include naphthalenes and alkylbenzenes.
-Professor Shelton, Ph.D.
“In English, Professor,” she said to herself. Then Googled those words:
aromatic
hydrocarbons that include naphthalenes
and
alkylbenzenes
. She was certain the professor didn’t explain their meaning just to get her back on the phone.
She scrolled through the top results and found a site of microbiology fluids that had profound effects on the environment. The professor was apparently referring to diesel fuel.
Diesel fuel
?
“Yes, a boat could be a source, or a Mack truck,” said a croaky voice from over Anastasia’s shoulder. It was Mo Blackhall. He was on his way out the door. “Your killer has a boat, Rossi. Check that out. Looks like the Sundance Man was right after all.”
Mo was enemy number one in the squad room. But at last, a lead.
“Thanks, Blackhall.”
Mo stopped before heading out of the office space. Stared Anastasia in the eyes. “You tell that boss of yours, Cooper, that I stopped by your desk to say hello, okay. He’ll know what I mean.”
34
Wednesday, September 10 - 4:01 P.M
.
It was the closest Jake Cooper came to a good feeling these days. Stepping beyond the large oak doors into St. Paul’s had always humbled him. With its cathedral ceiling, stained-glass windows, burning candles, and smell of roses, frankincense and carnations, Jake was at home here. Protected from that world outside. The past and present. Both pulling at him. In here it was safe.
He found Father John in front of the altar. The priest knelt before the blessed sacrament. As Jake watched his old parish priest pray, he thought how strange it was never to have seen Father John shed a tear. He could not recall seeing Father cry. What hardened the emotion of this priest in such a way? With all the death he faced—funerals, sometimes three a week; bringing Communion to the sick and dying in the hospital; cancer wards; abused kids; the Southie junkies and prostitutes with AIDS—on a routine basis, you’d think he’d be more prone to melancholy. But not Father John. He seemed flat-lined, emotionally. A lot like a cop who’d seen too many dead bodies. Jake wanted that. He wondered if you could learn detachment. If you could train yourself to be immune to life’s heartache. But then, weren’t those the same people he chased?
Jake walked up to Father John. “Father?”
“Jake, how are you?” Father John whispered. “Twice in one week, how ‘bout that?”
“This is a not a personal visit, Father. We need to talk.”
“I suspected as much. Help an old friend off his knees, would you.” The priest groaned as he stood.
They walked out of the church toward the rectory. In the hallway, Jake stopped. “I’m so sorry, Father. What happened to Mary is …”
“Nobody has the answer to why evil happens, Jake.” They stood just outside Father John’s office. “If you read your Bible, you’ll see that even Christ questions it on the cross: ‘
Eli, eli, lema sabachthani
.’ ”
They said the English translation together, out loud: “Why have thou forsaken me …?”
Father John said, “You remember your Aramaic! I’m impressed.”
Inside Father John’s office, Jake sat as the priest looked through several messages written on those pink while-you-were-out slips of paper his secretary had left him. He sat down with a tremendous thud. “We just had cake and a celebration with Mary on Sunday night.” He rubbed his forehead and eyes with one hand. “This is awful. I do not understand. This girl was as pure as summer rain. Please tell me she wasn’t violated sexually.”
Jake had not heard from Dr. Kelsey on that yet. He could say with certainty, however, that their killer was not prone to rape. “Father, no. She was not.”
“Praise the Lord, Jake.”
“How is the deacon, anyway?”
“As expected. He’s being cared for at home by Carla and Ramsey, our devoted sisters. The doctor sedated him. Perhaps this is retaliation for the Church’s sex scandal, but I don’t know.” The father put his fists up to his lips. Took a minute. Tried to find an answer in his thoughts.
“No, Father. One would have nothing to do with the other. People threaten, sure. They make prank phone calls. But this? Not a chance. There was hatred and deep-seated anger here. A psychology deeper than revenge. This was direct. Mary O’Keefe was chosen specifically.”
Father John stood. Walked over to a table near the window. He reached down into the cabinet nearby and took out a bottle of Jack Daniels, lifted it to Jake, asking without speaking if he wanted one.
Jake nodded no.
Father poured himself three fingers worth and sat back down.
“I don’t know, Jake,” he said after taking a sip. He was responding to Jake’s suggestion that the murder was for other reasons than the sex abuse scandal and possible retaliation. “I was at Logan a number of weeks back, just waiting to board my flight for a conference in Seattle.” Father John took a breath, stared at Jake. “This young boy, maybe five or six, was playing in front of me, pushing one of those cute little John Deere tractor toys around on the carpet, making funny engine noises like kids do. I smiled at him and waved. His mother must have been watching. She ran over, grabbed the child, looked me in the eyes. The hate. You should have seen her. ‘How dare you! You’re disgusting,’ she said. ‘You should be locked up like the rest of them.’ All I did was smile at the boy, Jake. There was hate in that woman’s eyes. Considering what happened to Mary, I could see someone loathing us this much.”
Jake shook his head, commiserating. Then took out his iPhone and opened up a new file to begin taking notes. “We’re going on the record now, Father. I need to get into some uncomfortable areas.”
“First, I need to ask how your father is doing, Jake?”
“Not bad, considering. It’s my mother I worry about.”
Father John felt Jake wasn’t being completely honest. Yet knew him well enough to understand that when Jake Cooper was ready, he would talk about what was bothering him under the surface.
“You need not struggle to find an answer, Jake. Sometimes we just wait it out and that in itself becomes a solution—time.”
Jake shook his head. “My integrity has been put to the test, Father. There’s more to what I thought at first. You remember Mo Blackhall?”
“Years ago he had this beat, down here by the parish. Good cop, if memory serves me. Seemed to take a liking to you.”
“Right. Well, some things are erupting between us … but hey, let me stay on point here.”
“What can I help you with?”
Father John’s office was dark, not matter how many lights he had on. The walls were paneled with a caramel-colored oak left over from the seventies. The red curtains, heavy and thick as a comforter, allowed little light into the room. It smelled of dust and frankincense. Mildewy, like a basement.
“I am under the impression, Father, that this murder was directed at the O’Keefe family, not necessarily the Church. Have you seen anyone ‘different’ hanging around lately?”
“Jake,” the priest took another sip of his whiskey, “we have new attendees at Mass every day. It’s that type of parish. People stop in. We never see them again.”
“But anyone stand out? Like, has anyone been asking questions?”
The father considered this. “Not that I know of.”
“The deacon, Father. Any problems with his daughter?”
“Come on, Jake.” Father John had a strange look about him. He knew something, but held back. Jake picked up on it.
“What is it?”
Father John closed his eyes.
“Father? If you know something—”
“Jake, I cannot divulge Church information without due reflection and speaking to the bishop. You know that.”
“Father, his daughter was dismembered.”
“It’s about him, Jake.”
Father John got a call on his desk phone.
“Excuse me. Yes, Eleanor?” There was a pause. “Okay. Send him in.”
“What is it?”
“Your partner, Mr. Shaughnessy, is here.”
“Here?” Jake’s face straightened as he pointed down at the floor with his forefinger. “Here … now?”
Dickie knocked. Father John yelled for him to come in. The priest stood, grabbed Jake by the shoulder, squeezed. “Meet me in the rectory when you’re done. I have a project started that I need to get back to. Keeps my mind,” the old man had a hard time walking, “darn knees … weak as gum … off this horror.”
Jake was on his feet. “I’ll be over in a few minutes, Father.”
Dickie nodded hello to the priest. Father John motioned the same back. As soon as Father John crossed the threshold of the door, Dickie closed it.
“What are you doing here, Dickie? What’s so important you gotta come over here?”
“Just came from the morgue.”
Jake didn’t say anything.
“Kelsey seems to have found something underneath Mary O’Keefe’s right titty.”
Jake rolled his eyes.
Titty
. “You’re in a church building, for crying out loud, Dickie.”
“Sorry, Kid.” He made the sign of the cross, missing the second station—the Son—near his belly button.
“Nice try. What is it? Or, rather, what does Kelsey think it is?”
“Another marking. She’s pretty firm on this one. Letter
c
. Looks to have been carved with a knife. Or some sharp object, like maybe a screwdriver. ‘Very clear,’ was the quote Kelsey said she’s putting in her report. She made a point to tell me that.”
Jake thought about it.
A cipher
?
“Makes no sense, though, Dickie—
i-m-c?
What could that mean?”
“Anastasia and I brainstormed it through. Switch them around.”
“Switch what around?”
“You’re basing your rationale on the point that vic number one was Boston Common Lisa Marie. Vic number one, don’t forget, was Quincy Market Alyssa Bettencourt, who supposedly had the m on her. Now it becomes
m-i-c.
”
Dickie picked up a chalice off Father John’s desk. Looked at it. “Pure gold, I bet. This is heavy.”
Jake wasn’t sold on it.
M-i-c? Maybe
.
He walked out of the office. Across the parking lot. Up the stairs toward the rectory. Father John sat at the large dining table gluing little bells onto green felt Christmas trees he liked to drop off in the Southie housing projects around the church during Advent. The old man was lost in this simple act of giving.
Dickie followed. “A town, maybe?” he said to Jake as they made their way into the rectory.
“Not sure. I might be on board with a name—and that’s a stretch.” Jake held the door for Dickie to go in before him.
“He’s not going to give us his name. That’d be too obvious.”
Jake stopped. Turned to Dickie. “Right. Okay. Let me get this straight. If nothing else, he’s subtle, Dickie.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Remember, he tacked the body of a deacon’s daughter to the mast of the Tea Party Ship. Cut her legs off. Dug her insides out. Don’t you think he’s a bit narcissistic?”
“Got your point. But—” Dickie hit a nerve.
“But nothing! Give me something substantial. Not three letters that might be letters, that might be a name, that might be a town. Come on.”
“I didn’t kill these girls, Jake. I know it hits home for you with Mary. Relax.”
Father John looked up from what he was doing, startled by Jake’s outburst.
“What do you have? Don’t come over here,” Jake raised his voice as Father John looked on curiously, “giving me some crap about a name that starts with m-i-c. I need more than that. I need leads, Dickie. Speculation is for TV detectives.”
Father John watched Jake walk toward the library in the room adjacent to where the priest sat. There was a large opening between the two rooms. Father John hummed something, a hymn probably, to try and lighten the mood. The memories of being an altar boy came back for Jake as he looked at all the yearbooks lined up by year. He could smell the burning incense in the thurible during special Mass processions, the ball-shaped apparatus at the end of a chain the priests swung as they walked down the aisle, consecrating the altar and chapel. It gave the church an Old Testament aroma, made the room smoky and feel ancient. Jake delighted in preparing the incense.
“What I’m telling you, Jake—” Dickie started to say, but was cut off.
“Dickie, forget it.” Jake was calmed by the smell of the old books. “Father? I have to go. But we need to finish our conversation ASAP. When can I come back?”
Father John got up from his seat, walked over and searched for a book on the shelf to Jake’s left. It was a large leather-bound yearbook. Jake wondered what he was doing.
“The one good thing about getting old, Jake,” Father John hobbled with pain in his limbs, the book unfolded in front of him, “is that I can see the end of the road. I can feel the warmth of the light. And I know in my heart I’ve spent my whole life preparing for it. Thank the Lord, though, that my memory is still intact.”
“What are you talking about, Father?” Jake was out of patience. He needed to get out of the rectory and into his car. Alone.
“This book,” Father held it up, “may help you.”
It was a compilation of St. Paul lectors for the past fifty years.
Dickie walked over. Stared at it over the priest’s shoulder. Jake didn’t seem interested.
The photos were black-and-white. Nothing stood out to Dickie. Father John had a look about him, though. He was taking this somewhere good.
“Jake,” Father John stared down at a name and photo, “I heard you yell a moment ago about someone named Mic.”
“Father, what are you getting at here? I need to be other places.”
Father John took off his glasses. “Stuart Micah, you recall him?”
The name was not familiar to Jake.
Father pointed to his picture. The name sounded so biblical. “Micah.”
M-i-c
, Jake thought.
“Tell me about him, Father?”
Stuart Micah was a small kid when he showed up at the church. Buzzed-cut hair. Buddy Holly-type horned-rimmed glasses. Lanky frame. In the photo, he looked as if he wanted no part of his photo being taken.
