Eight in the Box

by Raffi Yessayan

  Connie got a rush thinking about his responsibility as a prosecutor to keep them safe. As he continued on his five-mile run, looking in the windows of every house he passed, he felt as though he was the protector of all these people.

  CHAPTER 41

  Angel Alves watched the tape, frame by frame, studying each of the faces in the crowd. He compared them to the still photos scattered across the conference-room table.

  “Angel!” Mooney’s voice startled him. “Marcy’s on the phone. Main line.”

  Alves hadn’t heard the phone ringing. How late was it? He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. “Tell her I’m in a meeting, Sarge. I’ll call her back.”

  “I’m not selling her that bullshit. You tell her. She’s hysterical. Says you never stay out this late without calling. You haven’t called her all day.”

  “I can’t talk to her. She’s just going to tell me to come home, that I need to get some rest. I don’t need that pressure right now. I’ve got too much to do.”

  “What exactly are you doing? I didn’t even know you were still here.”

  “Comparing the TV footage from the McCarthy scene to the stills the guys from ID took of the crowd outside Robyn Stokes’s house. See if anyone showed up at both scenes. We talked about this, how these guys like to come by and see their handiwork.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Keep at it.” Good sign. At least the boss didn’t think it was a bad idea. Mooney pointed to the blinking red light on the phone in the center of the table. “Talk to your wife, first. I don’t mind working you hard and putting a little strain on your marriage. That’s fun. But I’m not going to be responsible for your divorce.”

  Alves picked up the phone. Marcy was crying.

  CHAPTER 42

  Wayne Mooney opened the door to his apartment and flipped the light switch. Something brushed against his ankle. Biggie. Good thing his Maine coon cat didn’t hold grudges. If not for the automatic cat food dispenser and a toilet full of water, Biggie wouldn’t have survived the past month of neglect. The cat led Mooney into the kitchen, looking for something better than the dry kibble he’d been surviving on. Mooney opened a can of tuna, a special treat, and dumped it on a dish before grabbing a couple of beers for himself.

  Sitting on the couch in the living room, Mooney popped open a sixteen-ounce can of Schlitz and guzzled half. It was tough to find Schlitz anymore, but Mooney knew a source that helped him keep his fridge stocked. Biggie jumped onto his lap, needing to be petted more than he wanted his tuna.

  The apartment was a true bachelor pad. Mooney’s father, God rest his soul, would have told him it needed a woman’s touch. There were no window treatments beyond the pull-down shades that were in the apartment when he moved in. There was a couch, a coffee table and a television with a built-in VCR, but nothing else. No pictures on the wall, no other accessories.

  It had been weeks since he’d had a chance to sit on the couch and watch television. He actually missed the activity, if that’s what you’d call it, which had been part of his usual routine every night for a year after the divorce. That was the only good thing that came out of the recent killings. They helped him get off his ass and back to doing his job, the job that was the main reason for the divorce. Today would have been their tenth anniversary. They had eloped to Las Vegas and were married at Caesars Palace on the 15th, the Ides of March. They had known they were testing the fates, but they’d both thought it was funny at the time.

  The divorce was much less eventful. It was her Christmas gift to him a little more than a year ago. She ended up with the house and the car; he got Biggie and this apartment in Adams Village. The Dorchester boy had finally come home. Pretty sad, but that’s all there was after nine years of marriage. Beware the Ides of March.

  He took a second gulp from his beer and it was gone. He found the remote between the couch cushions and turned on the TV before opening the other beer. It was going to take more than a couple of drinks to relieve the pressure of this case. Almost three months had passed since Michelle Hayes’s murder in December, and he and Alves were no closer to finding the killer. They’d had the McCarthy and Stokes murders, and nothing since. He saw no pattern to what the killer was doing, no significance to the dates he chose. No common thread between the victims.

  And where were the bodies?

  What was the sick bastard doing with the bodies? How could three women disappear without a trace? Did he bury them somewhere? Shallow graves that were formed not by digging but eventually by the passage of time—dead leaves in fall, new growth in spring? New England still offered acre after acre of thick woodland. Would their bones turn up months later, the soft flesh they needed to determine cause of death already gone?

  It was only a matter of time before there would be another homicide. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  He started flipping through the channels when he remembered seeing a commercial for a pro wrestling on-demand channel, where you could order some of the old matches, the classics. It took him a few tries, but he found the match he was looking for.

  For Mooney, nothing tapped into the human struggle between good and evil better than professional wrestling. And it did it in very basic terms. You simply had a good guy, or “baby face,” versus a “heel,” the bad guy. In pro wrestling, like all other forms of entertainment in the television age, the good guys might lose a battle here and there, but they always won in the end.

  What fascinated Mooney was how effortlessly a wrestling promoter could turn a popular baby face into a despised heel, further proof that the masses were like sheep that could be easily manipulated. The most beloved wrestler could become public enemy number one by simply pulling some underhanded stunt on his opponent, like a thumb to the eye or a cheap-shot knee to the groin. But the worst thing a baby face could do was betray a friend.

  That was exactly what wrestling fans thought André the Giant did to Hulk Hogan. The main event from Wrestlemania III in 1987 pitted a 7' 4", 540-pound André, one of the most popular wrestlers of all time, against a young Hogan, the world champion. In the months leading up to the match, André had been turned into a heel. André’s transformation was founded on his jealousy of Hogan and his desire to win the championship belt that had been denied him throughout his career. The script called for André the Giant, “The Eighth Wonder of the World,” to get body slammed and pinned for the first and only time in his career.

  It was a difficult match for Mooney to watch. André had put in all those years as a fan favorite who had never lost a match, and now, at the end of his career, he was going out as a despised villain, disgraced by a new hero who would go on to carry pro wrestling on his shoulders. As big as André was, he and the rest of the world had learned that night that he wasn’t bigger than the wrestling industry.

  Mooney began thinking about the killer. He knew that the real world wasn’t like pro wrestling, that the good guys were the good guys and the bad guys were real bad guys. There was no middle ground. The roles could not be reversed, and the good guys didn’t always win.

  Mooney watched as the big man was lifted and then slammed helplessly to the mat. He was sickened by the sight of André the Giant, the wrestling legend, pinned to end the match, stripped of his pride and dignity at the end of his career. Mooney turned the television off and sat quietly drinking his beer, petting Biggie, the silence broken only by the sound of the cat’s loud purring.

  CHAPTER 43

  Richter military-pressed the giryas over his head for the twentieth rep. The burn he felt in his lats, traps and triceps was incredible. He slammed the giryas back down on the rubber-matted floor. Leave it to the Russians to come up with a simple piece of equipment—a cast-iron cannonball with an attached handle—that gave you the ultimate workout. Americans called them kettlebells, but Richter preferred the Russian name, girya. It was their invention; they had the right to name it. Working out with the giryas maintained the kind of strength he�
�d developed working on his grandfather’s farm during his summers as a kid.

  He didn’t mind going to the gym a couple of nights a week, but when he wanted a real workout he would go home and use his own equipment, especially the giryas.

  Richter first started using them in college, and they’d played a big role in his success as an All American wrestler. The first pair he bought only weighed about thirty-five pounds each. They were meant for beginners, but they gave him an incredible workout. In almost no time his overall weight increased while his body fat virtually disappeared. Now he only used the eighty-eight pounders, which most people couldn’t lift off the ground with two hands. The key to mastering the giryas was developing the correct swing to ensure that your body was properly balanced during the workout.

  He liked doing the double military presses, lifting them straight up from his shoulders toward the ceiling. But the toughest workout was the one-armed snatches, the ideal exercise. Lifting the weight from the floor toward the ceiling worked every muscle in his body. Nothing made him feel more powerful. Doing the snatches gave him an escape from everyday life. They took him from being a schlep who went to his job every morning, and turned him into an animal, a beast, a man with extraordinary strength.

  His other weight-lifting equipment was organized neatly in the corner. Each piece of equipment served its purpose, but if left alone on a deserted island all he would really need to maintain his physical prowess and his spiritual well-being would be the giryas. As he reached down to lift them up for another set, he felt as if he was alone on an island—and perfectly happy to be there. Richter preferred to be alone when lifting weights. That way he didn’t have to deal with those who weren’t serious about getting a workout. It bothered him that people didn’t take conditioning as seriously as he did. He thought back to an incident that had occurred when he was in high school.

  Richter’s friend bent down into the squat position, his face turning purple as he struggled to stand back up with the 405-pound barbell balanced across his shoulders. Richter was close behind with his hands under his friend’s arms, spotting him to make sure he didn’t lose control of the weight. As they stepped forward to lower the barbell onto the squat rack, some loser bumped into the bar. It was the slightest contact, but it was enough to throw Richter’s friend off. He staggered backward. Richter stepped forward and reached under his friend’s arms, hugging his chest and using all his strength to steady him. Together, they regained control of the weight and stepped forward, lowering the weight back onto the steel rack.

  As his friend was nodding that he was okay, Richter heard a girl stretching out nearby tell the same guy to watch where he was going. The guy laughed and told her to fuck off. Richter had never seen him before. He must have been new to the gym, but he was big, taller and heavier than Richter. He had the puffy muscles and pinhead of a steroid user. When Richter caught up with him, the guy was busy hitting on a girl in a thong leotard.

  Jerks who treated the weight room like a singles club didn’t belong in a gym. Weight lifting was a religion and, even as a teenager, this was Richter’s house of worship. He didn’t appreciate some ’roid-head being disrespectful in his sacred place. He walked up behind the guy and tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” Richter said in a pleasant voice. “Don’t I know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” the guy said. He seemed annoyed by Richter’s interruption. He turned back to the woman.

  Richter tapped his shoulder again and politely asked if he was sure.

  “Yeah, I’m sure!” the guy shouted. “And don’t touch me again.”

  “But I swear I’ve seen you someplace before.”

  “You haven’t, so why don’t you fuck off?”

  “What’s your name?” Richter asked.

  “None of your fucking business.”

  Before the guy could say another word, Richter grabbed his left hand, bending it back into an unnatural position. Once he had him in a solid wristlock, he pushed him facedown into a weight bench. Now he could twist the guy’s wrist with one hand and push his head into the bench with the other. “Well, Mr. None-of-Your-Fucking-Business, do you realize what you just did?” The guy struggled to get away from Richter, but he was locked up tight. Richter could see that the guy was doing everything not to scream in pain. “You bumped into that barbell while my friend was finishing his reps.”

  The guy tried to twist away, but Richter was too strong. He turned his head to the left, looking at Richter from the corner of his eye.

  “You could have hurt someone because you weren’t paying attention.” Richter applied more pressure to the wrist as the guy struggled. “This is a weight room, not a pickup joint. You want to meet women, go somewhere else. Be thankful I’m not really angry and that my buddy over there seems okay.”

  The guy struggled to breathe with the pressure Richter was putting on the back of his head, pushing him into the bench with all his weight. He gave a feeble nod of his head.

  “I want you to go over and tell my friend you’re sorry for being such a fucking idiot.”

  Richter released his grip. The young woman had watched the little wrestling match with interest. Most of the women in the gym were constantly being hit on by guys like this loser, so they didn’t seem to mind watching one of them get dressed down.

  The guy got to his feet, shaking his wrist and rubbing his neck, trying to get the blood flowing again. He glanced around at the small crowd that had gathered. He must have figured it was best to do what Richter had told him to. He walked over to Richter’s friend and said, “I’m sorry for being such a fucking idiot.” With as much dignity as a busted man could muster, he picked up his towel and headed for the showers.

  The woman flashed Richter a smile. The group of guys, hoping for a fight, started to move apart. “So,” Richter asked his friend, “you ready for your next set?”

  CHAPTER 44

  Professor Roger Olsen reached into his briefcase, took out a pair of aviator goggles and put them on. Flipping his necktie over his shoulder, he announced, “Fasten your seat belts, boys and girls. Today we’re going to fly.”

  Outside the second-floor window of the New England School of Law lecture hall, a drizzling rain fell on the city. Looking out, Andi Norton knew that April showers would bring something good in May, but she couldn’t remember what. It was almost the end of her final semester, and she was pressured, tired and overworked. She hadn’t been keeping up with her studies because of the long hours she’d been putting in at the courthouse. She’d originally planned to work eight hours a week. One day. The eight hours had turned into sixteen and sometimes twenty-four. She was in court at least two days a week, but last week she had gone in every day because she’d had her second jury trial, another guilty verdict. It was a great experience, well worth the backlog she was trying to clean up at school.

  Professor Olsen had flipped the goggles back onto his gray hair, his eyes blazing with intensity. “Okay, people, you should all remember this case from Criminal Procedure. A young girl has been abducted from a YMCA in Des Moines, Iowa. She’s believed to have been kidnapped, possibly murdered. The suspect was apprehended two days later in Davenport, Iowa, roughly one hundred sixty miles east of Des Moines. His attorney in Des Moines had him turn himself in to the police,” Olsen continued, “on the condition that his client not be interrogated. On the long ride back to Des Moines, the detective did not interrogate him.”

  “That’s open to debate. You’re talking about the Christian Burial case, right?” Andi said. She had read it recently while getting ready for a motion to suppress, but she couldn’t remember the actual case name.

  “Someone remembers the case,” Professor Olsen smiled. “Why is it open to debate, Ms. Norton?”

  “The detective did not interrogate him per se, but the statements made by the detective could easily be seen as rising to the level of interrogation. Although not actual questions, the statements were designed to elicit a response from the suspect.”


  “Can anyone follow up on Ms. Norton’s observation?”

  A voice, Andi couldn’t see whose, from the other side of the class said, “The detective talked to the suspect about the approaching snowstorm and that, if they were going past the location of the girl’s body, they should stop and find her now so she could get a proper Christian burial. If they waited until morning, after the suspect talked with his lawyer, they might not be able to find the girl’s body. As a result of the conversation, the suspect felt guilty and led the detective to the body.”

  “Good,” Professor Olsen said. “Now, what are the issues here? Which, if any, of the constitutional rights of the prisoner were violated?”

  While the class launched into a discussion of constitutional law, Andi thought about the motion to suppress she had to argue the next day on a real case, not some law school hypothetical. And she had to argue it in front of a real judge, in a real courtroom, with a real defense attorney trying to rattle her by objecting to every question she asked her witnesses. She wasn’t worried, but she knew she had to do some more work on the case to be properly prepared. Sitting in this classroom listening as other aspiring lawyers tried to make brownie points with Professor Olsen wasn’t helping her.

  Hers was a drug case where the cops had done a nice job of building a strong drug distribution case against the defendant. It was what they did after the arrest in order to get the defendant to make a statement and lead them to the rest of his stash that concerned her. She kept replaying the facts, trying to figure out a way to argue that the police had acted within the law, and that the defendant’s statements and the stash of drugs should not be suppressed from evidence.

  “All right, people, please stow your snack trays and return your seat backs to their upright position,” Professor Olsen said as he took off his goggles and tossed them into his briefcase. Everyone in the class started to close their laptops and pack their books as Olsen drew his tie back over his shoulder and smoothed it down over his blue oxford shirt. “This flight is over but we’ll continue with Miranda issues next time.”