by Brian Shea
Kelly sat back. Nothing was more draining than his adaptation to his new life. His support network had collapsed at a time when he couldn’t be lower. Ever since, he’d been rebuilding it brick by brick. Sadly, besides Embry, the foundation was built on his ever-increasing case load.
He looked at the board. The red card: Doe, Jane 3/12/2019. Before things went further, he needed the girl’s real name.
Kelly spun around in his chair. Sergeant Sutherland stood in the cubicle entrance, startling him. “Holy crap, Sarge. Are you sure you weren’t a ninja in your previous life?”
“I’ll never tell.” Sutherland did his best attempt at Crane Technique. His bulk and bum knee made for a piss-poor rendition. Mister Miyagi would’ve been very disappointed. “Any updates on our girl? I’m heading to the sitrep meeting and I’d like to go in with something.”
Kelly was used to his boss’s need for continual updates. Homicide never knew which body was going to turn the department into a media circus, so the upper echelon did their best to stay informed.
“I’m about to head down and touch base with Charles to see if anything’s popped up with the girl’s print.”
“You know they make this thing called a telephone?”
“I prefer to do things like this in person. Besides, I figure the more face time I get, the easier it’ll be for me when I need some extra help.”
“Fair enough. So, what do you have so far?”
“Teenager. Age still to be determined. She’s got some blunt force trauma to the back of her head. I’ve got the autopsy tomorrow morning and should have a lot more in the way of cause of death. We’ve got a potentially good start. Witness who found her is a homeless guy whose body is comprised of more alcohol than blood. But, at least I have an eight-hour window of when her body was dropped. It looks like the vic was injured on the tracks and her body was dragged to the back lot of Sheffield Electric. No suspect as of yet.”
“Keep me in the loop on anything you find. I fear if the media gets wind of a dead teenage girl, we’re going to be inundated with calls and FOIA requests.”
“Will do.”
Sutherland began his trek back to his office. Kelly left the cubicle and headed toward the elevators, taking his notepad with him.
Boston PD’s Forensic Laboratory was located on the lower level of headquarters, a design plan to make case collaboration between investigators and the lab more accessible. The forensic analysts were not as pleased with this arrangement as the detectives. A group of people who prided themselves for performing hours upon hours of uninterrupted work were not accustomed to the unannounced arrival of guests, even if those guests were working toward the same end.
Kelly passed through the main doors of the lab and approached Karen Deschanel at the receptionist desk. She was the gatekeeper, a woman who wielded tremendous power, and it had been rumored she once turned away the mayor. Deschanel never confirmed or denied the truth of that claim.
“Good afternoon, Michael. I see you didn’t bring a box of joe today?”
“Sorry, Karen, been one of those days.”
“I heard. Young too. Never good to have a murder in the city. Even worse when it’s a kid.”
Kelly was always impressed with how Deschanel was able to keep track of the cases that came through the lab. For someone who’d never stepped foot in the field, she had the salt of the most seasoned detective. “Ugly stuff. Is Ray in?”
Deschanel chewed at the end of her pen. The dimpled end danced across her lips, coating it in the bright pink of her lipstick. “I believe so. Let me see if Mr. Crotchety is available.”
Kelly had witnessed the two go back and forth in a live version of The Honeymooners. They were openly rude to each other, but Kelly got the feeling the two actually liked one another.
She spoke into her phone. “You available? Or are you too busy taking one of your six hundred smoke breaks?”
Kelly couldn’t hear the senior crime scene tech’s response but could only assume it was equally gruff.
“It’s Kelly. Here about the body from this morning.”
Deschanel hung up the receiver. “All set, dear. You know where he’s hiding.”
A soft buzzer sounded, indicating the next set of doors were now open. Karen Deschanel, gatekeeper, had granted him access. Kelly strode down the long hallway. A strong antiseptic odor assaulted his nostrils. He stopped at the closed door with a frosted window embossed with the words: Raymond Charles, BPD Senior Crime Scene Technician. Kelly knocked.
“Come in,” Charles called.
Kelly entered. The room was a small office. The walls were lined with built-in shelves filled with voluminous editions of medical books and journals, some Charles had penned himself. One of the technician’s books was required reading at the basic academy. The wall behind his desk was filled with various degrees conferred over the years. Charles had printed a picture of a window’s view, looking out onto a lake on a summer’s day. Being in the basement, it was the man’s attempt at creating a sense of normalcy. Kelly wondered how many times the tech had stared out this imaginary view.
“I’ve just finished processing the shovel. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the digger didn’t use gloves. That rough handle could be a treasure trove of DNA if that’s the case.”
“I know you printed the girl on scene. Any return on those yet?”
“I guessed her age to be between twelve and fifteen. So I hadn’t much hope she would be in the system.”
“And?”
“She was. Somebody did the child ID kit for her when she was nine. Probably at some school safety event. Regardless, she’s in the database. Not sure how good the address information is, but our Jane Doe is Faith Wilson. Age thirteen.”
Charles handed Kelly the printed file. Faith Wilson was listed as missing out of North Andover one year ago.
“I hate this part,” Kelly mumbled. He stared at the photo from the missing person flyer. Faith Wilson’s broad smile and dimpled cheeks showed a girl full of life.
“What’s that?”
“Notifications.”
“Never easy. I’ll keep you posted if I get anything back from the DNA analysis.”
“I know your investigative load is stacked, but can we give this case top billing and put it at the top of your priority list?”
“Already did.”
“Thanks.”
Kelly left the office and returned the same way he’d just come.
“That was fast,” Deschanel said.
“Just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Good luck with this one.”
Kelly gave a faint smile. “Next time I’ll bring the joe.”
He departed the lab space and headed back toward the elevator. Kelly prepared himself for his next stop. North Andover wasn’t a far drive from Boston, but for a thirteen-year-old girl it was a world away.
Michael Kelly needed to go back to the beginning in the hope of finding the path to Faith’s end.
7
The mid-afternoon commute from the city to North Andover should have been quicker than the nearly two hours it ended up taking. But, as all good New Englanders know, road repair during the spring thaw is an arduous and never-ending battle. Entire political careers were built on the transportation nightmare.
Crossing into the suburban town was entering into another world for Kelly. The endless sea of concrete and cramped houses was replaced by open space filled with trees awaiting the first real kiss of spring. Each house he passed seemed bigger than the one preceding it. They each had something none of the lots in his hometown had—a yard with grass. The streets had wide lanes and the curbs weren’t lined with cars. Most homes had detached garages. He’d been to suburban towns before, but each time took him a moment of adjustment.
North Andover was a far cry from the neighborhood of his childhood. He loved where he came from, but part of him always wanted to give his daughter something better. Maybe a town like this would give her more opportunities. Maybe
not. That theory hadn’t proven true for Faith Wilson.
On his drive in, he passed an elementary school. A group of children were outside enjoying a break from the freezing temperatures. There were pockets of kids chasing each other around an open field. How did a girl growing up in these surroundings end up dead in a ditch in Boston? As a cop it was disturbing. As a father to a young daughter, it was a nightmarish thought.
The Impala’s heater sputtered out inconsistent bursts of heat, giving teases of comfort followed by blasts of cold air. Whatever malady the vehicle was suffering, it was no doubt terminal.
He’d called ahead and spoken to a Detective Vincent Chalmers, who agreed to make himself available when Kelly arrived. Kelly told him he was there to look into a missing persons case from a year ago and that the body of the girl had turned up. Chalmers sounded interested, almost giddy, at the prospect of assisting on such a case. Kelly understood this was an uncommon occurrence for the affluent Essex County town. A department about only one percent the size of Boston’s meant a limited exposure to certain crimes, typically violent ones.
North Andover had seen five murders in the last fifteen years. Boston accumulated ten times that number in any given year. Not that the city’s body count made him a better cop, it just made him more experienced. There was a distinction, though few understood it. And, because of this, Kelly didn’t dismiss the smaller department as beneath him. In fact, there were times he envied the idea of shouldering a lighter case load. Still, Boston was his home and he knew the only way he’d be leaving it was in a casket.
Kelly parked in front of the red-brick building. It was small in comparison to BPD’s main headquarters, but similar in size to his C-11 District HQ, where Kelly had cut his teeth as a rookie cop, patrolling the same Dorchester streets where he’d grown up. Over the years some of his childhood friends had gone on to make poor life decisions as adults, choices that forced Kelly into the uncomfortable situation of making the arrest. Some understood he was just doing his job. Others held a perpetual grudge, another reason policing in a suburban outlier held appeal.
He exited the busted Chevy and noticed the outside temperature was remarkably consistent with the poorly maintained climate of his unmarked. He shook off the chill of the day in the main lobby. Winter through spring, the lobbies of his city’s district headquarters were filled with homeless trying to stave off the cold. It was a pleasant surprise to stand in the foyer of the North Andover building and not be overwhelmed by the smell of urine and body odor. It smelled of lilac. Hell, maybe he’d need to reconsider the idea of making a transfer, Kelly thought to himself.
He approached the three-paned, bay-window-style encasement housing the main desk officer. The heavy, bullet-resistant glass was now standard in most police departments, especially in recent years, when cops became targets for unbalanced citizenry. The thickness made it near impossible to communicate through, a minor pittance for safety. There was a phone attached to the side panel with a handmade sign taped to it reading Dial 700 for main desk.
Kelly did as instructed and could hear a faint ring penetrate the glass.
“Can I help you?”
“Detective Kelly, Boston Homicide, here to see Detective Chalmers.” Kelly exposed the shield from inside his coat.
“Just a minute.” The clean-cut officer behind the glass picked up the desk phone and spoke briefly into it. “He’ll be down in a moment.”
Kelly meandered about the lobby. There was a display case with turn-of-the-century photographs of cops. These nostalgic pictures could be found in most departments in the northeast. The lineage of these men gave policing a sense of history. Kelly liked feeling connected to something bigger.
A secure door adjacent to the main desk area opened and a middle-aged man with a soft gut stood in the doorway. He was wearing a mauve button-up shirt and khaki pants. The man’s badge was clipped to his waist in front of the pancake holster containing his duty weapon. He waved over at Kelly with a warm smile. “Detective Kelly? I’m Vinnie Chalmers. We spoke on the phone.”
Kelly shook the detective’s hand. The man’s soft exterior hid his strength. Chalmers had a firm grip which Kelly tried unsuccessfully to match. “Michael Kelly. Thanks for making time to meet with me.”
Chalmers ushered Kelly inside, and the two walked a short distance to the elevator. “So, you said this was about Faith Wilson’s disappearance when we spoke on the phone.”
“I did.”
“I pulled the report and took the liberty of doing a little digging into the case. The detective who investigated it is now retired.”
“That’s a shame. I was hoping to have a chance to sit down with him and go over it.”
“Not sure it would do you much good. To be honest, it wasn’t handled efficiently. But again, I’m looking at this thing in hindsight knowing she’s now dead. It looks like it was chalked up as a habitual runaway and left open. There were some leads, but no clear notations as to why they weren’t pursued. There was another issue I found.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, after Al Jeffries, the detective that worked it, retired, it looks as though the case got lost in the shuffle. It should’ve been transferred to somebody else, but it wasn’t. There’s only a handful of us in the detective bureau here and normally any open cases, especially a missing person case, would be handed off.”
“You don’t have a digital case tracking system?”
“We do now. The department recently went all-in in revamping and updating the technology side of the house. The chief used some seizure money to bring us into the twenty-first century. But we only got the system up and running six months ago. Faith Wilson went missing over a year ago and it slipped into our closed case section, so her case never made it into the new system.”
The elevator dinged. “Okay. I still may have to speak with Jeffries and get some clarification on things. Is he local?”
“I think he splits his time between here and Florida, but I’ll make sure I get you his info before you leave.”
They walked to the door marked Criminal Investigations and entered. The workspace contained five desks neatly lined along a windowed wall. On one end was a lieutenant’s office, on the opposite side was the sergeant’s. Both doors were closed, and the cubicles were empty. “Nobody working today?”
“Just me. Everybody else is at a fundraiser luncheon at town hall. Between us, I’m glad I drew the short straw. I hate those things. Rubbing elbows and kissing ass is just not my thing.”
“Same here.” Kelly liked Chalmers. “All right, so let’s see what we’ve got so far. Maybe those leads you mentioned can still be followed up on.”
Chalmers walked to his cubicle, set in the middle. Everything was tidy and filed away. The only thing out on his desk was a manila file folder. The label on the upper lip had a case number followed by “Faith Wilson.” Inside was an 8x10 glossy photograph of Faith Wilson at age twelve. It looked to be a school photo, taken at the start of her seventh-grade year. She had on a light blue summer dress, complementing the girl’s eyes. The image before him bore no resemblance to the damaged creature he’d extricated from the hole earlier that morning. Kelly turned the picture over and quickly thumbed through the pages of the report. The initial investigation was documented by patrol. It detailed the last known sighting, lists of possible friends, description of clothing, etc.—the standard compilation of information for a missing report. Nothing out of the norm, and the wording conveyed the probability the girl had run away. Hindsight is 20/20.
Kelly came across the supplemental reports documented by Detective Jeffries. Chalmers was right. The case seemed to point to a possible connection with a teenager, Clive Branson, but it wasn’t followed up on. Or, if it had been, there was no documentation. The case was left open, but the last notation stated no further leads and recommended suspending it until new information was presented. Odd, thought Kelly.
“I see what you mean about Jeffries dropping the bal
l on this one. Looks like he closed it to new information but failed to follow up on the lead he had. Definitely something I’m going to need to speak with him about.”
“Sure. No problem.”
Kelly flipped the folder closed. “Mind if I take this?”
“It’s yours to take. That’s a copy. I photocopied everything I could find from the original case jacket.”
“Thanks. Did you make the notification to Faith’s father yet?”
“Not yet. I wanted to speak to you first and get the details so that I could relay them to the patrol. We typically have our uniformed officers make notifications. Chief thinks it looks better for our citizens to see the shiny badge and uniform when we’re delivering the bad news.”
“I don’t think this one should be done by uniformed patrol.”
“Makes sense.”
“In fact, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to go myself and be the bearer of bad news.”
“You sure? Patrol does this all the time for fatal car crashes and the like. I’d hate to put you out.”
“This is a lot different from a car accident. This little girl was murdered. I think it’s best if it comes from me. Her father’s going to have a lot of questions. I know I would.”
“The address in the file looks to be current. I double-checked it through DMV records. I can go with you if you’d like.”
Kelly could tell Chalmers made the offer with the hopes of being refuted. It was better he go alone anyway. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. Plus, no need to tie up the only working detective in North Andover.” Kelly watched the relief in the man’s eyes.
“You’re a life-saver. I didn’t want to have to tell my wife I’d be late tonight. It’s our ten-year anniversary today and I promised her a long-overdue date night.”
“Well, happy anniversary. It looks like you can keep that promise.”
“Don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything on our end.” Chalmers pulled a business card from his wallet and scribbled something on the back of it. “I put Jeffries’s number here. Hopefully, he can fill you in on the gaps in the investigation. Go easy on the guy, his wife just left him, and from what I last heard, he’s in a pretty rough spot.”