Murder Board

by Brian Shea

  Murder Board

  A Boston Crime Thriller

  Brian Shea

  Copyright © 2019 by Brian Shea.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Severn River Publishing

  www.SevernRiverPublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-951249-04-5 (Hardback)

  ISBN: 978-1-951249-08-3 (Paperback)

  Also By Brian Shea

  The Nick Lawrence Series

  Kill List

  Pursuit of Justice

  Burning Truth

  Targeted Violence

  Murder 8

  The Boston Crime Thriller Series

  Murder Board

  Bleeding Blue

  Never miss a new release! Sign up to receive exclusive updates from author Brian Shea.

  BrianChristopherShea.com/Newsletter

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  Unkillable: A Nick Lawrence Short Story

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Love Reading Mysteries & Thrillers?

  You Might Also Enjoy…

  Thanks for Reading

  Next in Series

  BLEEDING BLUE: Chapter 1

  BLEEDING BLUE: Chapter 2

  BLEEDING BLUE: Chapter 3

  Read Bleeding Blue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my wife.

  You've stood beside me every step of this journey, never wavering and always pushing me forward in those moments of doubt. It's not easy being married to a writer. We are a constant ebb and flow of creative energy.

  This book is possible because of your love and support. Forever will never be long enough for us.

  Prologue

  Twelve minutes doesn’t seem like a long time. It’s the time a morning commuter waits for the next T to arrive. Or somebody idles in line at their local Dunkin’ Donuts in anticipation of their morning jolt. To those people, twelve minutes is an inconvenience, but to Michael Kelly, it was an eternity.

  He looked down at the glossy black handle of the phone, resting in the receiver. A watched pot never boils, he heard his mother’s thick Irish brogue adding whimsy to the phrase. Even with his mother’s words at the forefront of his mind, Kelly couldn’t help but stare. His gaze focused, willing the person on the other end to call back.

  His partner, David McElroy, sweated profusely. Not uncommon for the large man, but today’s dermic downpour went beyond the norm. His shirt clung to his skin. His headset had drifted down, now wrapped tightly around the lumpy folds of his neck. The man was anything but the epitome of health, but his mind was as sharp as any. He wrung his hands, cracking his knuckles. Kelly was glad for his presence.

  He had been teamed with McElroy since joining the Boston Police Department’s Crisis Negotiation Team. McElroy’s gruff exterior had pushed others away, but not Kelly. They were a bit of an odd couple. The pairing worked, each counterbalancing the other’s weakness.

  Their teamwork on the Shoenthal incident, a year and a half earlier, had earned them the Medal of Valor. Kelly and McElroy were returning from a training session and heard a call for a suicidal party on the interstate. Realizing they were only a mile down the road, the two took it upon themselves to assist. A disturbed Herb Shoenthal was sitting in his beat-up Corolla with a pistol in his mouth. For three straight hours, in ninety-degree heat, they’d sat twenty feet from the armed man and played a mental chess match, ultimately leading to the man’s surrender. The photo with the mayor was tucked in a box somewhere in Kelly’s mother’s attic.

  The two locked worried eyes. Kelly returned his focus to the dry-erase board affixed to the wall on his right. Notes were scribbled in a variety of colors, denoting different parties and their relation to the man in the house. The most important piece of information gathered over the last ten hours of negotiation was noted in a two-column table—one category marked with an H and the other a T. Hooks and Triggers were the linchpin of any successful negotiator’s ability to control a situation.

  Some of these came from outside sources, usually family and friends. Most were gathered during the brutally long hours of conversation, the seemingly mindless banter taking place between negotiators and the distraught. The triggers, sometimes discovered at great cost, were mental landmines to be avoided at all times. Hooks were positive, a lifeline connecting the disturbed person to a piece of their life that still held meaning. Like reeling in a fish, the hook could pull a person back to a sense of reason. These returns from madness were often short-lived but gave small windows of opportunity to seek peaceful resolution.

  The trigger list on the slick white surface of the dry-erase board was as long as any Kelly had ever seen in his two years on the Crisis Negotiation Team, or CNT, as it was commonly referred. Kelly so far had only one item listed under hooks. Son—Baxter.

  The call originated when members of BPD’s District E-13 Uniformed Patrol Division were called to the man’s residence after he’d fired a gun multiple times in an otherwise quiet Jamaica Plain neighborhood. The information gathered was that the man in the house, Trevor Green, worked in IT at a local bank and had taken an overtime night shift to debug some accounting software. Green was good at his job, and after a few hours, he’d apparently remedied whatever crisis his company faced. His boss let him out early.

  He arrived home at 11 p.m. to find his wife in the deep thralls of sexual embrace with his best friend. They were too engaged in their carnal activity to notice him. Trevor Green, as he’d recounted numerous times while talking with Kelly, had no choice. Green went to the kitchen and took the revolver stored in a cabinet above the fridge, out of the reach of their seven-year-old son. He returned to the bedroom and stood in the hallway, listening to his wife’s pleasureful screams. In a fit of rage, he fired at the two. It had taken four of the six shots to render his wife and former best friend lifeless.

  The shots woke their son, Baxter, sleeping in his bedroom down the hall. The noise also alerted several neighbors in the multi-family brownstone. When the Patrol Division arrived, Green refused to exit his third-floor apartment. With his son inside, it quickly escalated to a barricaded hostage situation. Consequently, SWAT and CNT mobilized.

  Officers Kelly and McElroy had been briefed by the on-scene supervisor. Initially, there wasn’t much to go on. Other tenants in the six-family
building had been escorted from the premises by patrol and debriefed. There were varying accounts, but most of the residents claimed hearing between two and five shots. Green said little to the first officer who’d made contact except that he swore to kill anyone who entered.

  They’d been able to locate a cellphone for Green, but it went straight to voicemail. Patrol used a cruiser’s PA system to bark commands, demanding the gunman inside give himself up. Green shut all of the blinds, reducing any visibility to a zero point. Upon Kelly’s arrival, patrol hadn’t heard or seen any sign of movement within the domicile for forty-eight minutes. The only positive was that they hadn’t heard any additional gunshots. Forty-eight minutes could mean a world of possible outcomes, and people, especially deranged people, did horrible things when left to their own mental devices. Just because there weren’t gunshots didn’t mean Trevor Green hadn’t used another method to end his or his son’s life.

  SWAT took over the close perimeter and relieved members of the Patrol Division staggered around the exterior of the house. Once set in place, a three-man tactical element approached on the east alley side. After several poorly aimed attempts, a throw phone was tossed through the east bedroom window. It broke the glass, but the heavy case containing the phone was designed for just that. Nine hours had passed since that point in time. Kelly and McElroy had settled into the tight space of the Mobile Command Center. It was basically an oversized RV fitted with all the bells and whistles needed to sustain long-term operations. As far as all that was concerned, Kelly was really only grateful it was outfitted with two essential items—coffee maker and a bathroom. Impossible to maintain focus without access to both. During the Shoenthal negotiation he’d been reduced to urinating into an empty Dunkin’ Donuts cup.

  CNT was comprised of eight members, divided into two-man teams, who worked on a rotational basis. They worked in tandem for a multitude of reasons. First, always good to have a second set of eyes on a problem. But more important, there were times when personalities between negotiator and suspect failed completely, and calling for a relief pitcher to take the mound was sometimes the only way to continue. This had not happened in Michael Kelly’s time in the hot seat, but on any given day the equation could play out, and the team would need to be seamless in their transition. The other member needed to be able to pick up exactly where the other left off.

  “Mike, aren’t you going to call back?” Captain O’Brien asked. He was the district commander, and although jurisdictionally in charge of the overall scene, negotiations did not fall under his scope. Therefore, the question was one of unnecessary annoyance, as Kelly didn’t answer to him. Kelly’s team fell under the auspices of the tactical commander, Captain Darren Lyons.

  Here we go again, thought Kelly. The impatience on the part of the brass for long, drawn-out situations had potentially disastrous complications. Kelly looked down at his watch; he knew why. The horde of news reporters clamored for an exclusive and Captain O’Brien loved the spotlight. He wasn’t officially the Public Affairs Officer, but everyone could see the captain had his eye on that job. Kelly was never one to get excited about seeing his name in print or face on the television. He did his job for many reasons, not one of which was being in the limelight.

  Kelly looked at his notepad and shook his head absentmindedly. “Got to give him time. We push and that phone’s coming back out the damn window.”

  The captain turned and began strategizing with one of his lieutenants. Kelly looked over to his large partner, who rolled his eyes in response.

  “They’ll never understand what we do without sitting in the hot seat. Don’t waste your energy on them,” McElroy said.

  “Maybe when you make rank it’ll be different.”

  “They ain’t got room for a guy like me in their ranks.” McElroy gave a laugh and patted his large belly.

  Only two more years to retirement for McElroy. All of his thirty years of police experience would be lost to the ether when he left. Kelly planned to absorb as much as he could from the wise veteran. Physicality aside, the rotund man was one of the best cops he’d ever known.

  The last contact they’d had with Green ended poorly. The TacOps guys were salivating at being put into action. Kelly understood their enthusiasm; he used to play for that side of the team. Captain Lyons had devised multiple tactical options, and the team had been in a hold position for nearly nine hours. Perimeter team members were rotated out every two hours to give them a little down time and to keep fresh eyes on the target. The entry team rested in a nearby BearCat, an armored personnel carrier parked a hundred feet from the dwelling, idling loudly in the early morning air. It was an intimidating vehicle painted in matte black, with bright white SWAT lettering on both sides. Sometimes the sight of it caused suspects to surrender. No such luck today.

  Ring. Ring. The red light flashed in sync with each wail of the phone. The voices in the room went silent without additional cueing. McElroy slipped the headphones back on, mussing his unkempt, greasy hair, nodding his readiness. Kelly, taking the cue from his counterpart, picked up the phone on the third ring. The red light transitioned to green, indicating an established connection. The system was designed to record all conversations, but Kelly never relied on technology; he had his notepad ready to jot down any pertinent information.

  “Trevor?” Kelly asked calmly.

  “You think this is a game? I said on the last call you need to leave. Do it now!” Trevor Green’s voice was shrill, each word accented with a raspy hiss. The long night and overwhelming stress were wreaking havoc on the man.

  “Trevor, as I said before, we can’t leave you and Baxter alone at this point. We need to ensure you both are safe.”

  “You shut your stupid mouth! You don’t want me safe. You’re going to shoot me dead the minute I open the door or come to a window.”

  Kelly rubbed his eyes. They were dry and irritated, a combination of fatigue and the recycled air sapping out moisture. Even though it was chilly outside, the heat generated by all of the electronic components, coupled with the body heat, made the command center uncomfortably warm. The air conditioning fought a losing battle.

  “The government is corrupt and you and your department are just as dirty. I watch the news. I’m not stupid. I see what goes on.”

  “I’d be lying if I said there weren’t bad apples in every bunch.” Kelly looked for any angle to give him a foothold in the man’s manic world. “I’m sure the media morons are wrong about what they’re saying about you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You have the news on?” Kelly knew the answer because the audio feature of the throw phone enabled him to pick up background noise in the room. He’d heard the news reports and he’d heard Green’s angry reaction to their summation.

  “Yeah.”

  “They don’t know anything about you, but they’re out there filling the airwaves with your story. They don’t know what I know. They’re completely in the dark. I want them to get it right.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Because it matters.” Kelly looked at McElroy, who nodded back. “Because you matter, Trevor.”

  “I’m already dead. My life’s over. My son’s life is over.”

  “When you start talking like that, I get nervous. I need you to see beyond your current circumstance.”

  “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Your son needs you.”

  “I killed his mother. He’s never going to get past what I did. His life is over.”

  “You’d be surprised what kids can overcome. In the end, things may never be the same, but if you don’t give it a chance, you’ll never know.”

  “You don’t care what happens to me or my son.”

  “Let me prove you wrong. Let me show the tactical unit surrounding the house that you’re a reasonable man. One who put his son’s life ahead of his current circumstance.”

  “Why don’t you leave me and my kid alone and we’ll figure this out.”
>
  “You know there’s no way we can leave. You’re a smart guy. You and I need to come up with another solution.”

  “There’s only one solution.”

  Kelly was making little headway in redirecting the last few conversations away from this topic. “I haven’t heard from Baxter since we first started talking. How about you put him on the phone so I can hear his voice? Let’s start there. A show of good faith.”

  “I don’t want you filling my son with nonsense. He’s my son, and I know what’s best for him!”

  “Tell me what you think is best for him. Tell me how you think I can help him.” Kelly had marked the boy as Green’s hook but was concerned at playing this card too often.

  “You can’t help my son. You couldn’t help my daughter. The police turned their back on me when I needed them. Now she’s lost. Maybe dead for all I know. No thanks to guys like you.”

  “I’m sorry about your daughter.” Kelly looked at the board. Listed under the triggers column: Daughter – Sabrina. “You mentioned Sabrina before. I will look into that when this is all said and done. I keep my word.”

  “Promises! Empty promises!”

  “Trevor, let me help make this right. Let me help Baxter.”