Lesser Evils

by Joe Flanagan

  Warren said, “How well do you know Wilson Hayes, Jenkins?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone tipped them off,” Dunleavy said.

  “Well, it wasn’t Wilson.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know. Before you start throwing accusations around . . .”

  Warren said, “The only people who knew about this were us three and Wilson Hayes.”

  “Wilson would never get in bed with these people.”

  “Seems he has no trouble getting in bed with some others who aren’t much better,” Warren said.

  “Lieutenant, I’m telling you, Wilson Hayes did not tip these guys off.” Jenkins’s voice was defiant and he took a step toward Warren.

  “I’m not convinced,” the lieutenant shouted back.

  Officers were gathering around the other side of the swinging doors.

  “Boys,” Dunleavy said, “let’s not do this in here.”

  “Pack it up,” Warren said.

  Once they were outside, a car pulled into the lot and a man in a porkpie hat got out carrying a camera and approached Warren. “Hey!” Warren shouted at one of the uniforms, “No one in this area. I want this guy out of here.” The man raised his camera and a flash went off. Warren covered his eyes, swore, and advanced fast on the photographer. “Get out of here! This area is off-limits!” The flash went off again. Warren grabbed the photographer by the front of his shirt. Two officers came up behind him. “Sir,” they said, “lieutenant.” Warren pulled the man toward him. “How did you find out about this?” he yelled.

  “Easy, easy.” The man was frightened, his face contorted. “I got a phone call.”

  “From who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  At this, Warren flung him to the ground. Jenkins suddenly had him by the arms from behind. “Calm down, sir. Calm down.”

  “I want to know how this son of a bitch knew! You answer me!”

  Several officers got in between Warren and the photographer.

  “It was anonymous,” the man shouted back. “It was an anonymous phone call to the offices of the Cape Cod Standard Times, that’s all.”

  Dunleavy spoke to Warren. “We’ll talk to him. We’ll see what’s going on. Lieutenant, you have to calm down.”

  “Don’t you tell me to calm down!” He jerked his head toward the building. “Someone leaked this. Someone tipped them off. And how the hell does this son of a bitch know to show up?”

  “We don’t know anybody leaked anything yet. Let’s take it slow.”

  Dunleavy walked over to where Jenkins was standing over the photographer, who was sitting on the ground. Jenkins said, “You better tell me who called you and I don’t mean maybe.”

  Dunleavy nudged the man with his shoe. “Give me your driver’s license.”

  “I don’t know who called me,” the man responded. “A man called and said there was a police raid going on at the Elbow Room. I said, ‘Right now?’ and he said, ‘Yeah, right now.’ And that was it.”

  “You ought to know better than to just walk up on a police operation like this,” Jenkins said.

  “Your lieutenant ought to know better than to put his hands on me.”

  Dunleavy said, “Ed, come here.”

  The two walked a short distance away from the photographer and stopped.

  “We need to get the lieutenant out of here,” said Dunleavy.

  “Right.”

  Dunleavy pointed to the photographer. “If that guy’s boss starts making phone calls this is going to get messy.”

  “Well, I don’t see any way around it. It’s gonna happen anyway.”

  “Just get him out of here.”

  “Wilson didn’t tip this off.”

  “It had to have been.”

  “No. I know him.”

  “You’ll never get me to believe that, Ed. I know he’s your friend, but you guys fucked this one up.”

  “What do you mean, you guys? Huh? What do you mean by that? You were involved too, Phil.”

  “Hayes was your deal, though.”

  “Fuck you, Phil. Who the hell are you? I don’t see you putting much into this, traipsing around with the goddamn state police and fucking around with that goddamn Stasiak.”

  “Like this is real police work and that’s not. You’re as crazy as Warren is.”

  “This is what we got. This is a bookie operation with an assault, a possible abduction, and who knows what else wrapped up in it.”

  “And we got three murdered kids.”

  “Yeah, I’d love to work on that case, Phil, but I wasn’t invited. I’m just trying to earn a paycheck. Don’t stand there and tell me that this isn’t worth our time.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. My point is Hayes tipped this thing off. If that hurts your feelings, maybe you need to get a new set.”

  “I’m not talking to you anymore, Dunleavy. I’m about to say something both of us will regret.”

  “See if you can get Warren to go home. I’ll answer phones at the station. Because they’ll be ringing.”

  29

  Marvin Holland’s retirement dinner and testimonial was the last place Warren wanted to be. It was a Saturday night and he had a hard time finding someone to watch Little Mike. Jane Myrna had plans and he wound up calling one of the neighbors, who sent her cousin over, someone Mike did not know, which caused the boy a fair amount of anxiety. Warren sat at a bank of tables near the podium, where the selectmen all got up to say a few words about what a decent, upstanding man Marvin was. Earl Mott, Donald Nicholas, and a few others made remarks to the effect of Marvin having wisdom and an intuitive sense of what was right, the clear implication being that these qualities were sorely missed at the moment.

  Warren sat with Jenkins and Dunleavy to his right. He was still working over the discovery that Dunleavy had visited Marvin in the hospital, wondering how many times he had done so and what it could mean. But now there was something else, too. Two days earlier, in the hellish aftermath of the raid on the Elbow Room, he had driven out to the Weeks place again to find it still unoccupied, the grass knee-high, a notice from the post office advising them to come down and get their ever-growing pile of mail. On the way back to Hyannis, Warren spotted a gray car parked among some trees, sitting perpendicular to the road. It looked like an unmarked and Warren checked it out as he passed. Phil Dunleavy was behind the wheel looking directly back at him.

  Warren turned to look at him now, and in doing so, caught a glimpse of Captain Stasiak sitting with Elliott Yost and some town officials. Up at the front of the room on a raised platform, Marvin sat with the board of selectmen. Off to the side, on a small stage surrounded by gold curtains, was a band led by a Dean Martin impersonator with bags under his eyes.

  Warren was trying to gauge the right moment to step out, not that an early departure would have damaged his standing any further. He had heard plenty about the raid on the Elbow Room: the formal complaint from the managing editor of the Standard Times, the meeting with the bewildered selectmen who, while they seemed inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt, couldn’t understand why he took such action based on information that turned out to be false. They didn’t know about Wilson Hayes. He’d have to tell them by the end of the month when he reported the department’s expenditures. In the current climate he couldn’t bring himself to tell them that he’d spent three hundred dollars—two weekends’ worth of extra traffic details—on a questionable ex-cop who took advantage of him. There would be consequences but he would handle them later.

  The photograph of him in the Standard Times was almost worse than the raid itself. His cap had somehow gotten tilted back and his mouth was open as he yelled at the photographer. His eyes glowed with the light from the flashbulb and his teeth showed. He looked demented.

/>   He turned to Jenkins. “I’m going to make my exit.”

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Warren walked toward the doors, threading his way through the tables. People looked at him but said nothing. Mrs. Holland was standing by the bar speaking with two other women and she gave him a brief, withering look. As he entered the lobby, he ran into Stasiak, who was coming out of the men’s room. He was buttoning his suit jacket and looking at Warren like he was about to laugh. “Hey,” he said. “I need your guy Jenkins.”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “I’m telling you. Three dead kids, Warren.”

  “I need him at the moment.”

  “Putting him to good use, are you? Raiding empty bars and whatnot?”

  Warren felt the hot flush of anger and for a second he saw himself striking Stasiak in the face. Even though the bookmaking and moneylending operation was now likely shut down and its members either off-Cape or lying low, he held out hope that he could pull off something miraculous and show them all he was right. Warren was hoping he could count on Wilson Hayes to at least sit down with him and the district attorney so he could get support for an investigation, but if Hayes had in fact betrayed them, then that avenue was closed as well. Short of new witnesses coming forward, it came down to finding Russell Weeks or discovering what had become of him.

  “I need Jenkins for the task force,” Stasiak said. “If you don’t want to make him available, you can take it up with the district attorney.”

  “I have him working on a case. A missing person we’re trying to locate.”

  “A kid?”

  “No. A guy named Russell Weeks.”

  “Russell Weeks? What the hell are you doing with him? You have no business with that.”

  “He might be tied into a gambling and extortion racket. He and his wife and daughter disappeared . . .”

  Stasiak waved him off. “We located them some time ago down in Florida.”

  “Florida?”

  “He had some debts he was trying to get away from. There’s nothing mysterious about it, Warren. They’ve been moving around from motel to motel down there.”

  “That’s interesting, because I spoke to his brother the other day. Fred Weeks.”

  Stasiak looked around the lobby and adjusted his belt buckle. “Fred Weeks.”

  “Yes. Did you know about him?” Warren asked.

  “Of course. We interviewed him.”

  “Well he’s unaware you located his brother. In fact, he says he’s never been contacted by the state police.”

  “He’s a drunk. We talked to him. He’s half out of his mind. Spent some time locked up in Bridgewater.”

  Stasiak suddenly seemed slightly off balance. Warren waited a moment longer and watched him but he betrayed nothing. Warren said, “Well, since you located Russell Weeks, maybe you can tell me where he is because I’d like to talk to him.”

  “You’re wasting your time. Weeks is a six-time loser. Biggest thing he ever did was write some bad checks. You’re headed down another blind alley. Not that that’s going to stop you. But it would be good if you didn’t take Detective Jenkins along with you. I want him at the Yarmouth barracks at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do with my own people.”

  Stasiak laughed. “Warren, you’re a little fish in a little pond. You’d be a little fish in any pond.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I ought to knock you on your ass right here.”

  “Stop pretending. You don’t have it in you.”

  Warren could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Suddenly, Jenkins was there at his side. “Jenkins?” said Stasiak.

  “That’s right.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Yeah? Am I authorized to speak with Captain Stasiak, lieutenant?”

  “Depends what it’s about.”

  Stasiak addressed Jenkins: “I want to bring you on to the task force. I need you to be at the barracks tomorrow morning. 0800 hours.”

  “Forget it,” said the lieutenant. Then, moving slightly closer to Stasiak, “If you don’t like it, take it up with Elliott Yost.”

  Warren went outside. He stood by the front doors of the hotel and when he tried to light a cigarette he noticed his hands were shaking.

  The following morning, with Jenkins sitting in one of the chairs against the wall in Warren’s office, the lieutenant raged about the failed raid, about the total lack of support he’d gotten from the town, about Chief Holland, about Earl Mott, the Standard Times, his inability to get anywhere with any of it. “And you’re not working with Stasiak,” he said to Jenkins. “You’re not working with the state police. Dunleavy’s already with them practically full-time. I’ve got one detective. How am I supposed to run a department?”

  He knew Jenkins would rather be working on the child killings and he knew it was unfair to use him as a token in a turf battle with Stasiak. The detective had worked doggedly for him on an investigation that had never gotten any legs and was now lying flat on its face, unlikely to rise again. And still, Jenkins would not complain. Warren stopped in the middle of the room and looked at the detective. “What would you like to do?” he asked.

  “Sir?”

  “What would you rather do?”

  “Whatever you say. I don’t have an opinion.”

  “I’ve never told you how much I appreciate how you’ve worked with me on this.”

  Jenkins shrugged.

  Warren went over to his desk and sat down. He took a pile of papers off his desk, opened a lower drawer, dumped them in, and kicked it shut. “Go on over to the barracks and see Stasiak. Help them out with the investigation. It’s more important than this.”

  Jenkins looked at Warren. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll call Elliott before he calls me and starts giving me hell.”

  Warren reached Elliott Yost at his office. Before he could say anything, the district attorney said, “I’ve already heard from Dale Stasiak. He needs extra people. Why are you not cooperating?”

  “I already sent Detective Jenkins over.”

  “You did?”

  “He’s on his way over now.”

  “O.K.” Elliott sounded unhappy and fatigued.

  “I wanted to ask you a question about the Weeks case,” said Warren.

  “The Weekses have turned up in Florida.”

  “Do you know where in Florida?”

  “Dale said they were moving around. Call him if you want to know more.”

  “Did he happen to say where this information comes from?”

  “Local law enforcement. Are you checking his work, lieutenant? Why?”

  “Do you know when they were located?”

  “Lieutenant . . . I just got the call from Captain Stasiak this morning so I assume within the last couple of days. Is there something else happening with this? Do you have information?”

  “I talked to Stasiak last night and he said they located the Weekses some time ago. I wonder why you’re only finding out now.”

  Warren heard the district attorney let out a sigh. The line was silent for a moment. “Well, I don’t know what that means. But they’re in Florida and unless they come back up here and file a complaint about whatever it was that was done to them, we’re finished with it. We have considerably bigger fish to fry at the moment. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

  30

  Father Keenan was in the study, paying bills and catching up on paperwork. Mrs. Gonsalves had had to nag him to get on top of these things, which he didn’t like to do. Now he couldn’t find the recent bank statement she’d given him. He was about to call out her name when she appeared in the doorway. “There’s a phone call for you.”

 
“Where is the bank statement?”

  “I just gave it to you.”

  “I know you did. Now I can’t find it. What’s the phone call?”

  “The archdiocese.”

  Father Keenan looked at her and saw that she was watching him. He knew this was about Father Boyle, about whom Mrs. Gonsalves had firm opinions. He took the call in the parlor. The voice on the other end triggered a feeling of chagrin.

  “This is Monsignor Van der Lohse. I’m calling about Father Boyle.”

  “Yes, monsignor. I’m terribly sorry I didn’t give you my report last month. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “It’s important that you keep me apprised, Father. There is a protocol and we have to follow it.”

  “I understand.”

  “How is Father Boyle?”

  “He’s very good.” The words came out too quickly, unconvincingly cheery.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Let’s see. He says Mass once a day. Twice on Sundays. He spends a lot of time at the hospital. He’s quite devoted to the sick.”

  “Have there been any complaints?”

  “No. Not a one.”

  “How is his medication?”

  “As far as I know he’s taking it.”

  “As far as you know?”

  Father Keenan opened the door a crack and looked down the hallway. Mrs. Gonsalves was just disappearing back through the kitchen door. “I should keep closer tabs on it, Monsignor,” he said, watching the kitchen. “But he seems fine to me.”

  “Does he have contact with children?”

  Father Keenan closed his eyes and paced the parlor. “He does. A bit. He helps out at our little school down here for retarded children.”

  Van der Lohse was silent on the other end of the line.

  “But I’m convinced there’s nothing to be concerned about. They love him there. And he has hobbies which he very much enjoys.”

  “So his mental state seems stable to you?”

  “Yes—well, he’s a depressive, as you know. What can I say? Depressively stable.”

  “The last thing we want is a call from down there saying that something’s happened.”