The Fens

by Pamela Wechsler

  “I heard you had a long night. I went ahead and autopsied Wayne Ellis without you.”

  “Sorry I missed it,” I lie.

  “I found something.”

  Reggie is competent, but he tends to be theatrical; he takes a dramatic pause. I give him his moment.

  “There were traces of steroids in Wayne’s system.”

  “I’m way ahead of you on that one.”

  “I recovered a bullet fragment from the occipital bone.”

  This would be good news if we had a gun to compare it to, but until then, it’s just a piece of shrapnel that doesn’t lead anywhere. I thank Reggie and check my phone. Sixty-three emails, twelve texts, and nine voice mails. I listen to the first phone recording. It’s Stan.

  “Steroids?” Stan’s voice is loud and angry. “The press office is being bombarded with questions about a steroids scandal. It’s all anyone in the city is talking about. You should have given me a heads-up.”

  My apartment is dark. I sit up and reach for the lamp. Fumbling with the cord, I elbow a glass vase full of yellow tulips. It falls to the floor, water spills, the flower petals detach from their stems, and the glass shatters into a series of sharp, jagged pieces. The vase was expensive, handblown Venetian glass, but today it doesn’t seem like a big loss.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It takes an entire roll of paper towels to soak up the puddle of water and remove the shards of glass. When I’m done, I toss the flowers in the trash and call Stan to apologize and explain. He’s upset I didn’t tell him about the steroids, but he’s more upset that my photo is plastered all over the news, instead of his. He’s becoming a politician faster than I’d anticipated.

  Ty is at the gym. Recently, he took up boxing and he’s trying to get me to do it with him. He thinks it’ll be good for me to exercise and get out my aggressions, and I know he’s right. I told him I’m too uncoordinated to box, but the real reason I’ve resisted is I’m afraid that once I start hitting people, I’ll never stop.

  I surprise Ty with an impromptu dinner invitation. He has to play a gig at Wally’s in a few hours, so we don’t have a lot of time. We agree on Anchovies, in the South End. It’s cheap and has good food, plus there are back booths where I can dine unnoticed. Ty and I went to Anchovies on our first date, which always makes it a good choice—especially when we’ve hit a rough patch.

  Anchovies is always packed and tonight is no different. I elbow my way past the crowded bar.

  A woman calls out, “Hey, you’re the lady on TV.”

  I keep my head down. A man, wielding an Amstel Light as though it were a lightsaber, blocks my path. “Hey, I know you.”

  “You have me confused with someone else.”

  He stands in place and it’s impossible to go around him. “You don’t even remember me?”

  I shake my head.

  He’s not giving up. “You sent me away for a deuce.”

  A deuce—if this guy only served two years in prison, it means he didn’t kill anyone, and he’s only moderately dangerous. He probably sold heroin or held up a gas station. He doesn’t look familiar, but that doesn’t mean anything—I have all I can do to recognize my murderers. I can’t keep track of my nonhomicidal felons.

  Ty sees me and comes to my rescue. “Everything okay here?”

  The man returns to his barstool, and Ty leads me to our table in the back of the restaurant. When he smiles and kisses me, it confirms what I already know: Ty is handsome and charming, and I’m lucky to have him in my life. And not just because he has a glass of red wine waiting for me on the table.

  “I read about the steroids. You making progress on your case?”

  “As Kevin would say, we got bubkes.” I regret mentioning Kevin as soon as I see Ty’s expression harden.

  The waiter takes our orders: stuffed peppers for me, linguine with mussels for Ty, and two more glasses of Chianti. When the food arrives, we both dig in. I haven’t eaten since yesterday and I’m a little woozy from the alcohol.

  “Did you report the Brookline thing yet?”

  I expect him to snap at me or at least roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. “I will. I’m on it.”

  “When?” I hate myself but can’t seem to stop.

  “Babe, chill. We’re not in court, don’t cross-examine me.”

  Ty twirls pasta around on his fork and I down the second glass of wine and order a third. He raises his eyebrows in disapproval.

  “You’re one to talk,” I say.

  “I’m not a public figure, out in public. No judgments—but you’ve been drinking a lot lately. I know you’re under a lot of stress, but still, maybe you should take it easy.”

  He signals the waiter for two cups of cappuccino. It looks delicious, but I let mine remain untouched, in protest of Ty’s newfound paternalistic oversight. My phone vibrates. I look at the screen, then at Ty. I don’t have to tell him who it is.

  “Hey, Kevin, whassup?”

  “You okay there?. You sound a little under the weather.”

  Under the weather is Kevin-speak for “you’ve had one too many.” I don’t like this new thing where everyone feels at liberty to micromanage my alcohol consumption.

  “I’m in the middle of dinner.”

  “I got Wayne Ellis’s phone records.”

  Ty is watching, fiddling with his phone, but I know he’s got both ears on the content and tone of my conversation. I keep my words to the bare minimum. “Anything interesting?”

  “He called his mother every day.”

  “And?”

  “He’s got a significant other. Kind of a secret lover.”

  This is news. It could be a break in the case.

  “What’s her name?”

  “His name is Graham Davenport.”

  It didn’t occur to me that Wayne might be gay, but I’m not surprised.

  Ty clears his throat, reminding me we’re on a date. I look at him, but keep talking to Kevin.

  “Is the boyfriend local?”

  “He lives in Charlestown.”

  “You want to take a ride out there?”

  “Tomorrow,” Kevin says. “When you’re feeling better.”

  I hang up.

  Ty signals for the check. “Did you drive here?” He holds out his hand, palm up, and I give him my car key. “I’ll drop you off at home and Uber to my gig.”

  Ty leads me through the crowd at the bar.

  The felon with the lightsaber calls out, “You’re the reason I spent two years away from my kids.”

  “No, you’re the reason you went to prison. I didn’t commit a felony.”

  “Babe, don’t argue with him,” Ty says.

  “I don’t know how you sleep at night,” the man says.

  I almost tell him I don’t sleep at night, but not because I sent him to prison. I don’t sleep because I’m busy working. Or worrying about my victims.

  Ty takes my elbow. “C’mon babe.”

  I jerk my arm away, lose control of my tote, and it goes flying. As I take a step forward, my ankle gets tangled in the strap. I fall forward, Ty reaches for me, but I go down hard and land on the sticky floor.

  I look up to see the man, holding his cell phone. “Smile.”

  The camera clicks twice, then a third time. This is not what I need right now. Soon, a picture of me—on my hands and knees, hair in my eyes, dazed expression on my face—will be splashed all over the internet.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next day, Kevin and I interview Wayne’s boyfriend, Graham Davenport. He lives in Charlestown, one of Boston’s smaller neighborhoods. Charlestown only occupies about one square mile, but it holds a lot of history. The USS Constitution is docked in the harbor. The Bunker Hill Monument is perched high atop the steep hill. The area also hosts the highest population, nationwide, of bank robbers.

  Graham’s apartment is in the Navy Yard, in a building designed to look like an ocean liner. He buzzes us in and meets us outside his apartment, on the third-floor landi
ng. His face is wan, his eyes unfocused, and a silver-dollar-size stain is on the front of his polo shirt. He reminds me of what I must have looked like last night in Anchovies.

  “Can we talk out here in the hall? My place isn’t really presentable.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ve seen it all,” Kevin says, peering over Graham’s head, into the apartment.

  Graham hesitates, then stands aside. Unpresentable isn’t an apt description; it’s a massive understatement. The place looks, and smells, like a crime scene. The loft is modern and spacious, with a killer view of the harbor, but something’s very wrong. Every surface is covered—the floors, tables, countertops, bookcases—with an assortment of clothes, papers, exercise equipment, and trash.

  “Was there a break-in recently?” Kevin says.

  “No.”

  The only other explanation for the state of the apartment is that Graham is a hoarder. He picks up a stack of yellowing newspapers and piles them on another stack of newspapers, about three feet away. We all remain standing; even though there are chairs and a sofa, there’s not enough empty space on them to sit. I try to ignore my surroundings, keeping my hands clasped in front of me, careful not to touch anything.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” I don’t say, I know what you’re going through, even though I do know exactly what he’s going through. The love of my life was murdered two years ago. This meeting, however, isn’t about my loss, it’s about his.

  “It’s complicated.” Graham tears up. “I’m trying to respect Wayne’s privacy, but it’s hard to act like we were just really good friends.”

  “How long had you been together?”

  “A few years—we met in Kentucky, when he was playing in the minors.”

  Graham blows his nose, bunches up the dirty tissue, and slips it into a drawer in the open kitchen.

  “It’s not going to be secret for much longer,” Kevin says. “We won’t release the information, but it’s bound to leak out.”

  Leaks are an inevitable part of any homicide investigation, especially the high-profile ones. There’s little we can do to control the information flow. I’ve even leaked things to the press myself—if it helps further the investigation—but in this case that’d be counterproductive.

  “I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore. Wayne was the one who wanted to keep it secret.” Graham walks around a cluster of empty shopping bags and opens the refrigerator. I turn my head away, I can’t bear to see what’s inside. “Would you like something to drink?”

  I’d love a glass of water. I’m dehydrated from last night, and I’ve already consumed the Poland Spring bottles I carry around in my tote.

  “No thanks,” I say.

  Graham pours himself a paper cup full of lemonade and takes a series of small sips.

  “It’s embarrassing to live like this. Wayne hated coming here, but he didn’t want to be seen with me at his place.” Graham looks around the apartment, stopping at a mound of trash bags. “It’s gotten worse, I’ve gotten worse, in the past few weeks. Anxiety.”

  “Was something particular going on, before the murder, that caused you to be on edge?” I say.

  “Sure, lots of things. The relationship, the secrecy, the move to Boston.” He puts down his cup, crosses his arms tightly. “And the threats.”

  “You were being threatened?” Kevin says.

  “Not me—Wayne. He was pretty freaked about it.”

  “Extortion?” I say.

  Graham nods. “I think so.”

  “Pro athletes are starting to come out,” Kevin says. “Is it really that big a deal? Still?”

  Graham nods. “Wayne didn’t want to be known as the gay baseball player. He wanted to come out on his own terms, when he was more established.”

  “Wayne was using steroids.” Kevin tries to gauge Graham’s reaction. “Did you know that?”

  Graham looks away, starts to talk, then stops himself.

  “We’re not trying to disparage him,” I say. “We’re trying to find out who killed him. It could be relevant.”

  “When did he start using?” Kevin says.

  “My best guess is about six months ago. His skin started breaking out, his mood was up and down. I confronted him about it.”

  “What did he say?” Kevin says.

  “He denied it. I think he didn’t want me to worry.”

  “Do you know what he did last night, after the game?” I say.

  “He said he had to finish some things at work. I think he had a meeting with the coach or something.”

  Graham rubs his hand over his chin and I notice his watch. A platinum Patek Philippe; my father has one. I gave it to him for his fiftieth birthday and it’s easily worth $50,000.

  “What do you do for work?” I say.

  “I’m taking classes at Bunker Hill.” He catches me eyeing the Porsche key on top of an end table, partially hidden under an empty Heath bar wrapper. “Wayne was generous.”

  Kevin and I exchange looks. Maybe Wayne was generous. Or maybe Graham was the one who was extorting money from him.

  “Would you be willing to give a DNA sample?” I say.

  He doesn’t hesitate and agrees to come by the police station tomorrow to take the test. Odds are seventy–thirty he doesn’t show up.

  I’m almost out the door when I remember something and turn back around. “Did Wayne keep any of his things here?”

  “Some clothes, a razor. That’s about it.”

  “What about drugs or money?”

  “Definitely not, but he did leave something I thought was weird.” Graham walks over to a teak side table, covered with papers.

  I start to sort through some of the pages, but Graham stops me. “Not the papers, the table. It didn’t make sense, the last thing I needed was more stuff, but he really wanted me to have it.”

  The table has a thick pedestal base, and the style doesn’t match the rest of the room. Kevin puts one hand on either side of the table, tilts it on its side, and rolls it around a little. Something rattles inside.

  “I need a screwdriver,” Kevin says.

  Graham opens a tattered cardboard box and displays a dozen screwdrivers of all shapes and sizes. Kevin grabs one, removes some screws, then pries off the tabletop. He reaches inside and pulls out a wad of bubble wrap.

  “What’s in it?” Graham says.

  Kevin unwraps the package and discovers the contents: a scuffed-up baseball.

  “Any idea why he would have kept this?” Kevin says.

  “None.”

  “It’s gotta mean something,” I say.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Unlike the majority of my witnesses, Graham makes good on his promise. The next day, he shows up at Boston Police Headquarters and allows a technician to swab the inside of his cheek. The DNA results are not surprising: Graham’s profile doesn’t match anything relating to the case, but it was worth a try. We can eliminate him as a suspect, at least for now.

  I stop by the executive suite in Bulfinch to let Stan know. It’s an easy way to appease him. He’s been threatening to take me off the case, and I want to make him feel that he’s in the loop.

  I find him in a conference room, at the tail end of a press conference. It sounds as if he’s just announced the arrest of a sicko who’s been preying on children. The reporters hurl a bunch of questions at him—none of them pertain to the case he’s been describing. The only thing reporters seem to care about these days is the Red Sox.

  I slip past the door, unnoticed, and wait for him in his office.

  “You’d better have something for me,” he says.

  Unfortunately, I don’t, and I’m running out of options. “Don’t worry, we have plenty of options.”

  “Baloney.”

  “We could do a DNA dragnet, swab everyone.”

  He shakes his head in frustration. “We can’t get warrants for an entire ball club.”

  “We don’t need warrants—we have Donnie. He can get the players to coope
rate, without a court order.”

  “You’re assuming management is going to help. My money’s on them not wanting to risk the exposure.”

  “Donnie is savvy. He’ll comply. Otherwise, it’d be a public relations disaster.”

  Stan thinks about it for a minute. He may not know a lot about local investigations, but he’s an expert on communication shortfalls. He allows the hint of a smile. It’s been so long since I’ve seen anything other than a grimace on his face that he’s almost unrecognizable.

  “I’ll call Donnie. He can make it happen.” Stan dials Donnie’s cell and puts him on speakerphone. He makes the ask and Donnie agrees to cooperate—at least in theory. Stan has a tough time pinning him down.

  “Give me a couple of weeks, and I’ll call you when we get back from our road trip,” Donnie says.

  Stan looks at me; I shake my head.

  “We need samples before you leave town. It’ll only take about an hour, total,” Stan says. “We’ll send the technicians to you.”

  Donnie hedges, Stan pushes back. I tune them out, trying to figure out Donnie’s real concern. He’s not trying to protect a killer; Donnie wants the case solved as much as anyone else. I realize why he’s hedging: steroids. Donnie is afraid the test will reveal that some of the players were using performance-enhancing drugs, and he wants to buy time to get it out of their systems.

  “We don’t need to draw blood,” I say, “just a quick cheek swab for DNA.”

  That seems to allay Donnie’s concerns. “Okay, sure, come on by the clubhouse.”

  After we hang up, Stan says, “Be sure to get Donnie’s DNA too.”

  Kevin arranges for a couple of lab technicians to meet us at Fenway. When we arrive, Tags comes to Gate E and escorts us inside. The procedure takes about an hour and a half. The players and coaches line up, and the technicians swab the inside of their cheeks. Tags stands off to the side, watching, looking anxious. His toe taps up and down, up and down. He may as well be wearing a sign that says Hey! Test me too.

  “Tags,” I say, “we’d like to get your DNA sample too.”

  Tags pretends not to hear me, but Moe is standing nearby and says, “Tags, I hope you’re going to cooperate with the police.”