The Dead Soul (26 page)

53

Friday, September 12 - 6:27 P.M.

Jake sat on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, reading through Micah’s trial transcripts. A BoDeans CD played in the background on low.

Dawn was in the kitchen. Brendan played in the living room on the floor.

Dickie arrived to fill Jake in on the latest.

“Bren, little dude, can you go downstairs and put on one of those Batman DVDs, so I can talk to Uncle Red here alone for a while. Would you mind, little buddy?”

Brendan grabbed a folded up towel from the laundry basket sitting atop the stone foundation of the fireplace. Flung it around his back like a cape, tied it with a clothespin. With his fists at his sides, arms crooked. “Sure thing, Robin.” Then the boy ran away, arms stretched out in front, fake flying noises buzzing from his mouth.

“Sit down, Dickie.” Jake tapped the chaise lounge in front of him. “These transcripts are something else. Graphic as hell. Not sure what I’ll find here, though.”

“Got a message from Rossi. Good kid. How ‘bout that bag of blood?” Both waited for the other to make a comment, but neither did. It was too weird for a joke. “She said something about a breakthrough with mm at Bess Eaten Donuts.” Dickie sounded proud. “I told her to study those notes of Lisa’s. She’s probably come up with some off-the-wall rookie lead we’ll have a good laugh at.”

Jake shrugged off the news, uninterested. He had thought about mm while driving back home. He wanted to call Dickie and tell him, but needed more time to consider the implications.

“Lieutenant’s busting my chops. Glad you’re back, Kid.”

“Been gone only a day and half, Dick.”

“I know. I know. I’ve been bearing the brunt here.”

“He means well, Dickie. Matikas is just doing his job.”

“Paranoid as hell, that guy. Thinks someone broke into his office.”

Jake ignored the comment. He looked down at the page in front of him. Changed the subject. “MM, Dickie. I cracked the code, but it does us no good.”

“It’s not a name?”

Dawn arrived with some coffee. She looked great as ever. Her sweat pants—the pink ones with the white pinstripe down the sides of the legs, body tight, 1895 written across the butt cheeks—showed how well she took care of herself.

“It’s simple, Dickie.
Mail Man
. Not sure how it fits, but
mm
equals mailman. He was up at the prison visiting Micah. Kind of makes sense now with the red, white and blue paint chip you two have been working on.”

Dawn turned to walk away—then stopped. “What’s that about a mailman?”

Jake looked up.

Dawn put her hands over her face. Started shaking, crying.

Jake stood. “What is it, Dawn? What’s wrong?”

54

Friday, September 12 - 6:34 P.M.

The bullet hit Anastasia in the right thigh—an unimaginable pain, a golf ball shot out of a cannon a foot from her leg—with a heavy thud, followed by an excruciating burn.

Even though it hurt like hell, Anastasia managed to run toward the back of her vehicle, jump, then roll down the slight hill, onto the train tracks. The donut shop was too far. The mailman could easily tackle her in the parking lot without anyone seeing. She was on the opposite side of her car door. Her only chance was to make it to the tracks. Hide in the brush somewhere, maybe flag down a customer when the opportunity presented itself.

The mailman was close behind, grabbing at her, diving for her hair.

The gun stayed on the ground near Anastasia’s car door.

“Blood is thicker than water,” the man dressed like a mailman said, laughing. “You get it, Ana? You get it? I kill myself sometimes.”

He jumped off the hill and onto Anastasia. Got on top of her down on the grass to the side of the tracks. They struggled for position and control. The mailman was no bigger than Anastasia. No heavier. But the searing gunshot wound and so little sleep over the past two days was working against her strength.

Anastasia gouged her assailant in the face with her fingernails. It didn’t stop him. “You bitch! I’m going to cut you like I cut the others—and do it while you’re alive.”

“I am an officer of the law,” Anastasia struggled to say, “and you are being told to put your hands up and lay down on your stomach …” Sounded as if she was reading from a card.

He laughed. A cop till the end.

Anastasia yelled, “Help!”

No one was around. It was dusk, the sun just about out of view. Anastasia felt a chill only because blood was draining out of her leg.

A jet came barreling into Logan, whistling and roaring its engines.

“Shut your mouth.” He had the control back. On top of her, the mailman pinned Anastasia’s arms in back of her head as she squirmed around trying to get loose. He spat in her face, a chunky slab of phlegm. “You just shut your cop mouth right now.”

Anastasia fought him kicking and tensing up, trying to get free.

Then went limp.

He was out of breath. And let up on the pressure. “You know what it is, I like holding life and death in my hands.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, using one knee to hold her down.

Anastasia spat back up in his face. “Let me go.” The pain in her leg pulsed, robbing her of the ability to concentrate.

“You’re wasting your breath, Officer Rossi. I am going to kill you.”

She threw all her weight into her waist and, in a humping motion, lifted him off her body enough to knee him in the groin. It was enough to make him buckle, double over. She pushed him off. Then hobbled up the slight hill back toward her Crown Vic. There was nowhere to hide. She had to make it to the car. Get to her cell. Find her gun.

He leapt at her, just missing her right heel as she breached the summit of the incline.

Grabbing hold of the back bumper of his Jeep, Anastasia pulled herself up and onto her feet.

The gun was in sight.

She dragged her wounded leg. It was tight, but she made it to the Glock in time.

As she reached down, the man dressed as a mailman came from over the top of her car and kicked the gun underneath his Jeep. Then stopped. Caught his breath.

“Well now, bet you didn’t expect that.”

Anastasia lost her balance. Fell flat on her face.

He knelt on her back, grabbed her arms, put them behind her, snapped the handcuffs into place. In an insane burst of force, he picked her up and hoisted her into his Jeep. Then slid the door closed.

Anastasia kicked at the glass. It wouldn’t budge.

He looked in all directions to make sure no one had seen them. Then opened the back door and leaned in. With the butt of her own gun, the mailman smashed the cop on the back of her head. The blow spattered droplets of blood all over his face and the inside roof of the Jeep. He had knocked CSI Rossi unconscious. Looking at her, he watched a slow, fluid trail of near-black blood run down her temple, hook inside the channel of her jawbone, then pool on the creviced indentation on her neck. Watching this gave him a throbbing erection.

Feeling triumphant, he flipped her over. How attractive. How young, too. She actually had the eyes of his mother. That whore. She sold her soul for those drugs. Brought those men into the house and did dirty things to them in front of him, sometimes making him, just a boy then, a part of it. She needed to pay. Now that he thought about it, Anastasia’s hair was all wrong. Nothing like his mother’s flowing blonde mane. He’d have to buy CSI Rossi a wig to keep his string going. Yes, he’d even stitch the thing to Anastasia’s head—that is, after he sewed her mouth shut and cut her from her asshole to her vagina.

Bitch. You should have listened. Now you suffer like I did.

He brushed the hair away from Anastasia’s face. Smiled at her. Tiny pebbles from the parking lot were embedded in Anastasia’s forehead and cheeks, dried grass in her hair, a large cut on her lower lip.

Maybe you’re not so great, after all
, OFFICER!

55

Saturday, September 13 - 4:48 A.M.

The garage light was on, the automatic door closed. Jake was putting the suitcases in the trunk. Brendan and Dawn sat inside the car, watching the fuzzy glow of sun burn through the foggy morning haze outside those four square garage-door windowpanes.

Jake had called Father John and explained that Brendan and Dawn needed a safe house to hide in. At least until he could figure out what was going on. He could put them in a room with a standing guard, but that was no way to live. He could order a team of blues to watch the driveway and station a few more inside the house. But that wasn’t going to cut it, either. He didn’t want his wife and son imprisoned. Just safe. Father John knew people. Monks at monasteries. Nuns at convents. There was definitely somewhere Jake’s family could be securely hidden.

“It’ll be okay,” Dawn said to Brendan.

“Why are we up so early?”

“Shh …” Dawn said, a finger up to puckered lips. “It’s going to be okay, Bren.”

“I want to spend the day at Cary’s, Mommy. Why can’t I, Daddy?”

“For right now, Bren, just trust daddy and mommy.”

Brendan dropped his head in a huff on his favorite a red and blue Spiderman pillow. He wore shorts. Flip-flops. His hair was wild. Bed head.

Dawn got out of the car and walked to the back. Jake was in motion, a suitcase in his hand, when he stopped.

“I messed up, didn’t I?” Dawn said. She looked down at the concrete floor.

“No. Not telling me about the mailman would have been messing up, Dawn. It’ll be okay. I’ll figure it all out. As soon as I can, I’ll come see you. You’ll be safe where you’re going.”

After Father John arrived, Dawn and Brendan drove north with the priest inside the Impala with tinted windows Jake had a blue deliver to the house. After they left, Jake headed to D-15 to meet up with Dickie and figure out their next move.

In the back of his mind, that problem with Mo Blackhall nagged. Jake needed to confront Mo and have it out. All of this waiting and avoidance stalled his ability to move forward and focus on this case. His family’s safety was at stake now. He needed to find the killer, or predict his next move before he killed again.

When it rains …

Inside the squad room, Jake handed off the remainder of Micah’s trial transcripts to a middle-aged woman with a pale complexion they called Ing. Ingrid Swenson worked part-time at D-15. She came in on certain days and took messages, set up interviews, answered phones when no one was around.

Dickie and Jake sat together in Jake’s office, thinking, not saying much of anything, when Ing stuck her head in. “Got a minute, boys?”

Jake made a gesture for her to take a seat.

“I read through the last few hundred pages. Did you see what the state’s final witness had to say?”

“No.”

“Well, he talks about how this Mr. Micah carved the initials of one victim into the boy’s calves. Scarred the boy pretty grotesquely.”

There was some banter outside Jake’s door. He got up. “Excuse me for a minute, Ing.” Walked over.

It was Mo. The guy was bouncing off the walls down at the end of the hallway. Two blues watched him, laughing, pointing.

Jake took off out the door. Told the blues to get Mo the hell out of the office. “Stop making fun of the guy and get his ass home. Now.”

Looked like talking to Mo today was out.

Back behind his desk. “Go on,” Jake told Ing. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Well, apparently, this kid with those scars on his legs wouldn’t testify. He ran away from the orphanage.”

“Name?”

“Waiting on it from the DA. These kids were all underage. Juveniles. During the trial they were known as Victim A, Victim B. So on.”

Dickie stood. He had an idea. He walked over and looked outside. Jake had one of the best views of the city. The sun was bright today. There were perhaps thousands of people scurrying around from place to place down on the streets. Ants marching. Dickie watched. Then turned. “You get that name checked out yet from the prison visitor’s log?”

“Fake. Christopher Devlin. Cute, huh. We checked it out, anyway. No such person working for the post office in Massachusetts, Vermont, or New Hampshire. Don’t ask me how he did it. He showed ID. They got him on video. But he never faced the cameras long enough for us to grab an image. Going in there, he was taunting us.”

“So this Micah,” Dickie walked with one hand in his pants pocket, two fingers fidgeting with his lips, looking down at the carpet, “he holds the key. He knows the boy’s name.”

“That might be true, Dickie. But you can’t make a con talk when he’s got nothing to lose and nothing left to trade.”

Blood from a stone.

More noise outside the office door. Mo was being a problem. Yelling his drunken threats—“Hands off me. I can walk myself.”

Dickie looked at the door, back at Jake.

“Not now. I am
not
dealing with that guy now.”

Mo busted into the room. “You bastard … how
dare
you.” He stared at Jake. To Dickie, “And
you
. You think you can get rid of
me
? You sonofabitch!”

The blues grabbed him. “Sorry, Cooper. We’ll get him home.”

Mo screamed, “You’re done, Jake. All finished. Kaput.” He slapped his hands together as if swatting a fly.

Jake took a breath. “Get him out of here.” He closed his eyes. Paused.

One of the blues took Mo by the arm and pulled at him. “Check that file, Jake. Mancini Construction.” Mo laughed, went with the escort. “Your ass is going to burn, too. Burn hard.”

Dickie and Ing looked at Jake, waiting for him to respond. Jake ignored the comments. Then continued with his analysis as Mo was led out of the office. “Part of the psychology behind these predators when they get caught is knowing that there are victims out there suffering because of what they’ve done—and
they
hold the key to closure. Micah is sitting in that wheelchair, laughing, enjoying the fact that he knows and we don’t. Locked-up serials do the same thing—think Gacy and Dahmer. They give up only a certain number of bodies and kept a few for themselves. They get off on the fact that there are families out there suffering, not able to bury their babies, but
they
know where those bodies are.”

“Sick.”

Ing spoke up. “Well, I’ll keep reading. But it seems like one of you should go up to the orphanage and search through the old records.”

“Closed about ten years ago,” Jake said.

“No records for it anywhere?” Dickie added.

“There are. We’re working on tracking them down.”

“You Google the place?” Ing asked.

“You techies and your computer craziness. iPhones and profiles … ridiculous.”

Ing laughed.

Jake frowned. Stood. Walked over to the window. Palmed the ledge. Stared out into the dead space of Boston’s skyline, watched a radio station traffic helicopter hover over the Mass Pike.