Bad Thoughts

by Dave Zeltserman

  “Nothing.” His voice was cold and brutal, barely above a whisper. “She was already gone.”

  In the living room, the sofa had been pushed away from the wall and a wooden panel that provided access to the bathroom’s shutoff valves had been removed. DiGrazia got on his knees and shined a flashlight into the opening. He waved for Shannon to take a look.

  “You see that?” he asked.

  Pushed under some pipes was a plastic bag that Winters had left behind when he had visited the apartment. DiGrazia reached in and pulled it out. Inside were twenty-year-old newspaper articles.

  DiGrazia, stone-faced, studied Shannon. “It would be a good idea if we went down to the station,” he said. “Do you want to try to call Susie first?”

  Shannon declined without giving the matter any thought.

  Chapter 25

  When they arrived at the station Shannon was shuffled into an interrogation room. A half hour later he was joined by DiGrazia, Agent Swallow, and a third man he didn’t recognize. The third man wore a cheap suit and had a badly pockmarked complexion. His skin reminded Shannon of chipped glass.

  Swallow took over the interrogation while DiGrazia and the other man watched. The questioning focused on Shannon’s movements the previous night. There was nothing about his mother’s murder or the newspaper articles or any of the other women’s murders. Instead, Swallow kept going over a timetable of Shannon’s movements, from when he was with Elaine to when he later arrived home to his wife. At first, it surprised Shannon. After a while he caught on.

  “Tell me about who you found last night,” Shannon said.

  DiGrazia and the guy with the cheap suit kept their poker faces intact. Swallow’s color dropped a shade.

  “Why don’t you tell us about her?” Swallow said after a long ten-count.

  Shannon shook his head. “I don’t know anything about it. It just became obvious that’s what this is about. What did you find?”

  “You want to make a guess?”

  “Another woman forced to swallow a knife?”

  Swallow flashed a look at cheap suit. He, in turn, stared straight ahead at Shannon, his eyes glazing over.

  “Very funny,” Swallow said.

  “I don’t think she would’ve been able to swallow much of anything,” DiGrazia added.

  “It would be tough,” cheap suit said vacantly.

  “Especially with her tongue ripped out of her mouth,” Swallow noted. He opened a briefcase and took some photos from it that he dropped in front of Shannon. They were crime scene photos of what had probably been a young woman, although it was tough to tell through all the gore. As hardened as Shannon had become to this type of stuff, the pictures turned his stomach. He looked each one over before handing them back to Swallow.

  “You think I could’ve done this?” he asked.

  Swallow showed a smug I-got-you-by-the-balls smile. “Now why would I think that?”

  “Fuck you.” Shannon felt a hotness burn his neck. “I didn’t black out yesterday and I didn’t commit any of these murders.” He turned towards cheap suit and demanded to know who the hell he was.

  The man’s mouth tightened a bit. “Detective Ed Foley,” he said. “I’m working this murder out of the East Boston precinct. Did you know this girl?”

  “No, I never saw her before.”

  “You sure?” Swallow asked. “Take a closer look.”

  Agent Swallow handed him back one of the photos. Shannon forced himself to take a long, hard look at it before shaking his head and telling him he didn’t know her.

  Agent Swallow frowned. “Even if she were my own daughter, I don’t think I’d recognize her from this. I mean, Jesus, look at it. It looks like her head’s been pushed through a lawn mower. Maybe you know her, though. Ed, what’s her name?”

  The East Boston detective curled his lips before announcing that the woman’s name was Liza Keenan.

  Shannon had tried to brace himself. He knew it was coming, so he had tried to brace himself. He could feel a vein start to pulse along his temple. He shook his head slowly. “Never heard of her,” he said. From the corner of his eye he could sense DiGrazia’s face darkening.

  Agent Swallow looked almost amused. “You want to think about it a little harder? Maybe you ran into her one night?”

  “I’m getting sick of this,” Shannon said. “What do you think you got?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” Swallow’s smile had crept back in place. “I’m just hoping you can help us better understand whether your blackouts or your mother’s murder have anything to do with this mess. You want to guess what killed her?”

  There was some noise from out in the hallway and then someone pounding on the door. Agent Swallow turned towards the commotion, a look of annoyance rubbing out his smugness. A key turned in the lock and a red-faced man of about forty bulled his way in.

  “I’d like to know what the hell’s going on!” he demanded, his voice blasting out like a bullhorn.

  “I’d like to know the same thing,” Agent Swallow shot back. Thin veins started to push out of his forehead. “You better have a good reason for being here.”

  “I’ve got a hell of a good reason,” the red-faced man stated angrily. “It’s called the Constitution. Let me introduce myself. Russ Korkin, Mr. Shannon’s attorney. Maybe you can explain to me why you’re questioning him without me present?”

  “He’s helping us with an investigation—”

  Korkin snorted loudly. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Are you charging my client?”

  Swallow opened and then closed his mouth. “I haven’t decided. I was hoping he could help us clear up a few issues—”

  “He’s not going to help you do anything. My client is through talking. Again, are you charging him or is he free to leave?”

  Agent Swallow stared at Shannon before looking back at the red-faced attorney. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said as if he were spitting out phlegm.

  “While you try to make up your mind, why don’t you and these other two gentlemen get out,” Korkin said, pointing a thumb at DiGrazia and the East Boston detective. “I’d like to talk to my client alone.”

  “Bill, is this the way you want it?” DiGrazia asked.

  “This is exactly the way he wants it,” Korkin answered for Shannon. He then sat down and crossed his legs and waited for the three detectives to clear out. As he waited, he clasped his hands behind his head and whistled the theme song for Cops. When the door closed behind them, Korkin sat upright and held a hand out to Shannon.

  “Your union hired me as soon as word got out about this. It’s a good thing you’ve got friends here. Now, before you say a single word, I want to know if this interrogation room is private or if it can be observed from outside.”

  “It’s private.”

  “Thank god for that.” The attorney looked as if he were going to slap Shannon across the side of his head. “You ought to know better than to agree to questioning without an attorney.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide—”

  Korkin glared angrily. “You ought to know better.”

  “I said I’ve got nothing to hide. I haven’t done anything—”

  “That’s good,” Korkin said, cutting him off. “That’s all I want to hear about the matter, understand? Nothing else. What did you give them?”

  “They were trying to get a timetable for last night.”

  “And?”

  Shannon gave the attorney the same rundown he had given Swallow. Korkin smiled as he took it in. When Shannon was done the attorney shook his head and let out a sigh.

  “You shouldn’t have said a word without an attorney present,” he said. “You really should’ve known better.”

  Shannon didn’t say anything.

  “Eh!” Korkin waved the issue away. “It doesn’t matter. You know what they got on you?”

  Shannon shook his head.

  “An anonymous phone call!” Korkin exclaimed with amazement. “That’s all. A
bout an hour ago some punk called up and gave them your license plate. What the hell does that mean?”

  “Not much,” Shannon said.

  “That’s right,” Korkin agreed. “I mean, shit, you’re a cop here in Cambridge, I’m sure you’ve made life difficult for some of the punks doing business here. So one of them decides to make life difficult for you. Why in the world would anyone take an anonymous call like that seriously?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Probably because your neighbor was murdered recently,” Korkin noted. “And probably by the same person who butchered Liza Keenan. But that’s probably what gave the punk the idea in the first place to make the call.”

  “Probably.”

  Korkin laughed at that. As he laughed his face grew redder. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “if they do try to charge you, we’ll hit them with a twenty-million-dollar defamation suit. Let’s keep our fingers crossed. With a little luck we could both be retired in the Bahamas.”

  The attorney stood up and winked at Shannon. “I’ll go check and see what’s happening,” he said as he left the room.

  When he came back his red face had somewhat deflated. “Bad news,” he said. “They’re not charging you with anything. You’re free to go. The Bahamas will have to wait.”

  Chapter 26

  Phil Dornich couldn’t keep from thinking about Liza Keenan. A lot of ink had been given to her murder—more than you’d expect for a junked up prostitute in East Boston. The pure brutality of the crime was partly responsible. Even though the papers didn’t give many details, they sure as hell hinted at them. It bothered Dornich when he read the articles. There was something oddly familiar about the murder, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He tried calling acquaintances of his from the East Boston precinct, but they were being vague about it; either they didn’t know anything or they weren’t talking. It took over a dozen phone calls before he was told about her tongue being pulled out and then another half hour of calls before finding out about the internal damage that had been done to her.

  He tried to imagine how difficult it would be to pull a person’s tongue from their body. After a while he realized he couldn’t even imagine it.

  * * * * *

  Dornich was rereading the articles when Susan Shannon called. She wanted to know if he had found anything yet. He hesitated before telling her that he had. “I think it would be better if you came to my office,” he told her.

  Susan tried to get him to tell her over the phone what he had found, but Dornich refused. She finally agreed to meet him at his office during her lunch break.

  Dornich closed his eyes and tried to pull out whatever it was that was lurking in the back of his mind. Eventually, he gave up and made a long distance call to California.

  * * * * *

  Susan Shannon showed up at his office around twelve-thirty. She looked a bit ragged, her eyes reddish, thin lines creeping underneath them.

  “I only have about fifteen minutes,” she told Dornich after he offered her a seat.

  “We shouldn’t need much more than that,” Dornich said, smiling sympathetically, showing his few rotting teeth. “I’d like to ask you to read something.”

  Dornich handed her the articles he had gotten from the Sacramento Journal. As Susan read them, the skin around her mouth tightened. It gave the fat detective a good idea what she’d look like at fifty. By the time she finished with the articles her hands were shaking. She looked up at him, her eyes nothing more than small black beads. Dornich could see fear in them.

  He asked her if she knew about any of it.

  “N-no.” Her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. “All I knew was that Bill’s parents had both died. About the way she was murdered . . . our neighbor, Rose Hartwell, was murdered the same way . . .”

  “I know.”

  “What—what do you think it means?”

  Dornich tried to make his shrug look natural. He had been thinking about that question off and on since he found those articles. The obvious explanation was that Shannon was involved—that when he blacked out, he repeated his mother’s murder. That was the obvious explanation, but it didn’t ring true to him. He didn’t feel it in his gut and usually his massive gut was right on target. Except recently. Every gut feeling he’d had about Shannon had been wrong, so why not this one . . . ?

  “I don’t know. It’s possible he’s involved. It’s also possible someone’s trying to frame him. Or it could all be a coincidence.”

  “Do you think he’s involved?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  His answer didn’t seem to comfort her any. All her color seemed to bleed out of her. “The articles say Bill was hospitalized. They didn’t say what happened to him,” she said.

  “Fingers on his right hand were badly broken. Repeatedly. I was able to speak to the doctor who treated him. He still remembers it. He thinks that the damage occurred over several hours. That the murderer, Herbert Winters, used those fingers to torture him.”

  Susan put a hand over her eyes. “I can’t believe this.”

  “There’s something else,” Dornich said. “His dad’s still alive.”

  Susan took the hand away from her eyes. She stared blankly at Dornich.

  “He’s living in California,” Dornich explained. “I’ve got his phone number. He’s willing to talk to you if you want.”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  Dornich hesitated. He took out a handkerchief and wiped some wetness from his neck. “I have to warn you. It’s going to be unpleasant. There’s some mental illness there.”

  “Like father like son,” Susan muttered under her breath.

  Dornich started to say something and then thought better of it. He didn’t want to discourage her from talking to Shannon’s father. He wanted to see her reaction to what the old man had to say. He reached over and redialed the number to California. “I’m going to put this on the speaker phone.”

  After a few rings a voice picked up. It wanted to know who was calling. The voice was both strained and hostile.

  “Hello, Mr. Shannon,” Dornich answered. “This is Phil Dornich calling back from Boston. I’ve got your daughter-in-law with me.”

  The line seemed to go dead. Then, in a tight brutal voice, “Okay, I’ll speak to her.”

  Susan had to clear her throat before she could talk. “Hello, Mr. Shannon,” she said. “I’m your daughter-in-law, Susan.”

  There was a soft hiss over the line, something that could’ve been static but more likely was the old man breathing hard. Then, “You want to know about your husband?”

  “Why, uh, yes—”

  “I’ll tell you about him. First, though, let me tell you about his mother—my wife. About what was done to her.” He started to tell her about the murder, the brutal facts that the police had determined. At some point he shifted away from reality to a series of grotesque obscenities that he had convinced himself of over the years. They were hateful and irrational things. Monstrous things. His rantings spewed out over the speaker phone like blood from a burst artery. It was sickening to listen to. After only a few minutes of it Susan had to disconnect the line. By that time her face had turned a queasy white.

  “You realize none of that makes any sense,” said Dornich.

  Susan just shook her head.

  “Winters had spent several hours breaking and rebreaking your husband’s fingers. Whatever your husband might’ve done, he had no choice.”

  “How could he say those things?” Susan asked, her eyes wide open as she stared into the fat detective’s face.

  Dornich shrugged, lowering his eyes.

  “No wonder Bill told me his father was dead,” Susan said. She started laughing; a weak, tired laugh. “At least I know why he goes crazy every year.” The thought seemed to sober her up. She stood up quickly and then put a hand out and steadied herself to keep from falling back into her seat. “I have to get back to the office.”

  D
ornich watched quietly as she left, amazed at how small and frail she looked. How much older . . .

  Chapter 27

  Even the best laid plans, huh, Billy Boy?

  But I’m not complaining. Because those plans weren’t worth shit. You see, Billy, even us gods can screw up occasionally. Especially when we’re reacting to the moment, when the adrenaline’s pumping so hot through our veins we don’t know what’s up or down. That’s when we’re vulnerable. You can just ask poor Herbie.

  But, Billy Boy, there’s a providence watching out for me. You’re out on the street where I need you. It just wouldn’t do to have you locked up now. Not while there’s so much more that needs to be done. So much more doubt to sow. So much more blood to spill. And bodies to send to the morgue. God knows what I was thinking when I made that phone call . . .

  * * * * *

  As his consciousness seeped back into his body, Charlie Winters became aware of a sour taste in his mouth. He had been out for hours watching Shannon’s interrogation. Now that he was back in his physical body he could feel an ache spreading across his chest. He coughed and spat on the floor. With some disgust he realized the sour taste had been blood.

  He probably had pneumonia. That goddamn cop from the night before. Making him stand out in the freezing rain. Winters forced himself to concentrate until he remembered the cop’s name. Podansky. Eddie Podansky. When the time was right he’d be dealt with. After Shannon.

  Winters tried to sit up but found himself dizzy. He lay back down among the dirty sheets and soiled clothing. Right now it was time to get some rest. Time to make his plans. And not rush things now that everything was so close to working out.

  Chapter 28

  After Shannon was released he headed across the Boston University bridge and then to Brighton. Without really thinking about it he found a small biker bar and had three quick shots of scotch. As he held his fourth shot he looked at it, mildly surprised, realizing he had no taste for it.

  That part of his life was back to normal. He didn’t have any desire for alcohol. He didn’t really have any need for it. The three shots he poured down were wasted on him.