Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  ``Listen to me,’’ Brant began. ``Your days of bullying are over. You bullied mom and now you’re bullying us. Marcellus and I aren’t going to put up with it.’’

  Jerry Brant sulked.

  ``You two are quite the pair,’’ the old man said after a moment. ``Days go by and nothing. Crestor over there. His son comes every Sunday. Can’t shut him up about the visits.’’

  Jerry Brant nodded to a door and the adjoining room. To save on costs, Jerry shared a bathroom with his neighbor. Alan Crestor had been a physics teacher at a local community college before a stroke had left him partially paralyzed and unable to form words correctly.

  ``Don’t talk garbage. Mr. Crestor doesn’t speak, Dad.’’

  ``That’s the point,’’ Jerry Brant said. ``The old fool just sits in his chair, drools and mumbles. But I know what he’s saying. He’s mocking me.’’

  Brant rolled his eyes and sighed. ``He’s not mocking you, Dad. Give the poor man a break. He has challenges you don’t.’’

  ``Is that so?’’ Jerry Brant had opened the book he’d been reading and began flipping the pages to where he’d marked his spot with a fold. His hands shook. ``And you know a lot about challenges, do you Mr. Perfect?’’

  Brant clenched his fist. He was about to launch a verbal volley when his cellphone rang. He retrieved the handset and looked at the screen.

  ``I need to get this, Dad. It’s important.’’

  ``I’ll bet it is.’’

  Jerry Brant licked the tip of his index finger and turned a page of his book.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ``You’re going to like this.’’

  ``I’m listening.’’

  Brant ran his fingers along the edge of the bulletin board hanging on the wall of concrete block outside his father’s room. Flyers advertised community dances and daily outings. A menu showed that evening’s dinner to be roast beef and mashed potatoes.

  ``I think we’ve found the birth certificate.’’

  Brant shifted the handset from his left ear to the right. John Clatterback breathed deeply with excitement on the other end.

  ``Carswell? The baby?’’

  ``Yes.’’

  ``How did you manage that?’’

  ``It wasn’t me. It was Malloy. She’s with me at the moment. Want to speak with her?’’

  ``Put her on.’’

  Noises filled the airwaves. A roar resonated, then subsided. The unmistakable sound of glasses being raised and lowered played like music. Brant imagined the two younger detectives at a downtown bar. The Red Sox would be playing on a flat screen. Speakers affixed to the far corners of the bar would be piping the game’s soundtrack into the room.

  ``Hi, boss,’’ Malloy said, her voice filled with confidence and levity.

  ``Where are you two?’’ Brant asked out of curiosity.

  ``McGreevy’s.’’

  McGreevy’s was a sports bar and Irish pub on Boylston not far from Brant’s townhouse. It was a Boston institution. Renowned for its collection of baseball memorabilia and for being the favored haunt of the Dropkick Murphys, McGreevy’s was often the place where many of the city’s movers and shakers cut their deals and sold their souls. He and Ben often ate at the grill next door to the pub.

  ``Thought so. I can taste the place over the phone.’’

  ``That so?’’

  ``Yup. Now tell me. What’s going on?’’

  ``I called Carswell’s parents back.’’

  ``I was going to do that,’’ Brant interrupted.

  ``I know. Sorry. We were eager.’’

  ``I see,’’ he said, doing his best to sound pissed off. He was, but he also admired the enthusiasm. He would have done the same a few years earlier. ``We’ll talk about how wrong that was later. What did you find?’’

  ``They’re still pretty devastated by her murder. They can’t believe she’d been killed.’’

  ``I can understand.’’

  ``The mother opened up this time, kept going on and on about how she’d been such a good girl. How she’d been the brightest in school and how she’d planned on doing some kind of post-graduate work abroad.’’

  ``Is that so?’’

  ``She’d been planning on it for some time but then things changed last year when she met someone.’’

  ``And now you’re going to tell me who the boyfriend is, right?’’

  Malloy hesitated. ``No, sorry. They had no idea. She was very secretive. Never told them who she was seeing.’’

  ``So how does this help us?’’

  ``They said she’d changed about 18 months ago.’’

  ``Changed? In what way?’’

  ``She became more withdrawn. Didn’t see them as much. Her mother says she thinks something was up. I mentioned a baby and the mother wasn’t at all surprised.’’

  ``Do they have any idea when or where she gave birth?’’

  ``Yes.’’

  ``Are you going to tell me?’’

  ``She started visiting them again seven months ago. She looked different. Her body, I mean. The mother says she knew but didn’t want to say anything. They’re Catholic. The father would have gone apeshit.’’

  ``Seven months ago, eh? Well, I suppose that’s something. What about location? Does the mother know where she gave birth or what happened to the baby?’’

  ``Yes.’’

  Brant rolled his eyes in exasperation as he pressed a fingernail into the bulletin board’s cork surface. Malloy’s spooning of information was beginning to annoy him.

  ``Come on, Katy. I don’t have all night. Want to cough it up?’’

  ``The mother confronted her when the father wasn’t around and she got the whole story. Allison Carswell gave birth in Boston. Seven months ago at the South Shore Hospital. She used a different name but it won’t be difficult to trace her steps. Won’t be hard to find the baby, either. It was given up for adoption.’’

  ``Good work,’’ Brant said, meaning it. ``There may be a chance she put the real father’s name on the birth certificate.’’

  ``There’s always a chance, yes.’’

  ``But the mother has no idea about the identity of the boyfriend? I mean in this little confessional. Carswell never gave it up?’’

  ``Nope. She held that one pretty close. All the way to the end it would seem.’’

  Brant hung up and returned to his father’s room. Kenny G had done the job. The old man had closed his eyes and was sleeping. The book, as before, had fallen to the floor.

  Brant picked it up, saved his father’s place by refolding the page, and returned it to the side table. Jerry Brant gasped, spluttered and coughed.

  Ray Charles had taken over from Kenny. Brant listened as Ray sang about an old sweet song and Georgia on his mind. Good old Ray. Voice smooth as silk, rich as whisky.

  Jonas leaned in and kissed his father gently on the crown of the head. The old man’s hair was downy soft. The drugs he’d been taking for the cancer had made his skin thin and dry.

  A complicated man, a complicated relationship, Brant thought as he patted his father’s knee. They’d fought so many battles. So many disagreements. Brant was conflicted, unsure how much space he had left for the old man. He knew he should feel something as his father’s life ebbed and flowed to its end. But what? Regret? Sympathy? Anger?

  Jerry hadn’t agreed with his becoming a cop. He’d wanted him to make his life in the foreign service, to roam the world much as he had. He’d wanted a son in his own image. Brant had fought like hell to disappoint the old man. The effort and the anger had worn them both down. Brant gently took his father’s hand in his own and squeezed.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Monday brought cloudy skies and rain. A light drizzle at first. A downpour by mid-morning.

  Roll call was at 9 a.m. To miss it was to flirt with demotion. Brant made it his mission to piss Jolly off as much as possible, but not on this particular Monday. To that end, he was found seated at the back of the squad room, an unread copy
of the day’s Boston Globe on the desk in front of him.

  ``Haven’t seen you around lately, Brant. Jolly seems to have a real stick up his butt whenever your name’s mentioned.’’

  The man seated beside him broke into a broad smile.

  His name was Eloi Vasquez. Brant and Vasquez had met at the academy. Vasquez was a sergeant, putting him one rank below Brant, though that had never prevented the man from scoring a point or two at his senior officer’s expense.

  ``Word is next year’s cuts are gonna be even more brutal than this year,’’ Vasquez said, the smile on his handsomely rugged face unchanged. ``You got retirement plans, sir?’’

  ``No time for retirement, I’m going to be paying my kid’s school for the next twenty years. Where’d you hear about the cuts?’’ Brant asked as he stared ahead. At the front of the room, Jolly had mounted the podium and was leafing through a set of papers.

  Vasquez shrugged. ``You know, just the word. The grapevine.’’

  Brant turned to face the other officer. ``The grapevine? What does that mean?’’

  ``You know. The rumor mill.’’

  ``Rumor mill, huh?’’

  Vasquez smiled back in response. Brant shifted in his seat, moving his weight from one butt cheek to the other. Truth was, rumors and innuendo were like poking him with a stick. Dangerous at the best of times. He never gave much stock to idle chatter; the time wasted through departmental politics was a black hole he’d long ago decided to avoid.

  Realizing Brant wouldn’t take the bait, Vasquez turned his attention to the front of the room and Jolly. Brant smiled inwardly. If he hadn’t liked Vasquez so much, he would have been angrier. But they shared a past and a connection. They both had roots in South Boston. Both had alcoholic shitheads for fathers. Neither was married.

  Vasquez took out a notebook as Jolly cleared his throat. At the front of the room, Clatterback and Malloy — both seated in the first row — straightened their backs.

  ``If we can get started,’’ Jolly said to the room. A pair of uniforms in the back coughed. A too-loud radio in the squad room squawked. ``First order of business is the stats for the first eight months of the year.’’

  The room erupted in a collective groan, Brant included. Jolly raised his hands to stifle the outburst.

  ``Yeah, yeah, I know it’s a pain but for the bozos in the room who’ve been living on planet X for the past five years, the metrics are what make this place work. They’re also what’s used for something called a budget. So if the shitheads want to shut the fuck up…please…I’m going to run through the top stats.’’

  One of the uniforms at the back raised a hand in protest. Jolly’s face flushed red and the uniform sheepishly retreated.

  ``Homicides,’’ Jolly said, reading from his notes. ``District A is leading the department with eleven for the year. That’s A-1, A-15 and us for those of you in the special needs class.’’

  No one laughed at the joke. Undeterred, Jolly pushed ahead.

  ``The good news, across the city, homicides are way down. Department-wide, we’ve had 19 so far to the end of July. That compares with 34 at the same time last year.’’

  Jolly stared out at the room as he moved to the next spreadsheet. Deadened eyes and looks of bored indifference stared back. Enthusiasm could be a hard thing to find in a cop shop, especially on a Monday morning.

  ``Moving on to rapes and attempted rapes,’’ Jolly said. ``Thirty seven for the fine folks here at A Division. That’s also down from last year. But that’s where the good news ends. We’re seeing spikes in robberies and attempted robberies, domestic aggravated assault, commercial burglary, non-domestic aggravated assault….’’

  Jolly continued, reading off a long list of statistics as he broke down the division’s performance for the year. Some of the officers shifted awkwardly in their seats as they wondered when the litany would come to an end and why Jolly had become so fixated on the numbers. Truth was, the data meant only so much. As with any metric, the system could be gamed. They all knew it, but no one was brave enough to say so.

  ``The man loves his data,’’ Vasquez said finally to Brant in a hush. ``Either that or he doesn’t have anything better to do.’’

  ``I won’t argue with that,’’ Brant said.

  ``Moving on to some lighter matters,’’ Jolly said when he’d come to the end of his file folder. ``The K-9 Unit has a new dog and it needs a name. It’s a he by the way. A nine-week-old Belgian Shepherd. Looks like the little bugger’s headed for patrol and explosive ordinance detection duties. I’ve been asked by his handlers for any suggestions. They’re looking for strong and commanding name. No more than two syllables.’’

  More groans.

  ``I’m also looking for officers to join our Coffee with a Cop on Thursday. Anyone?’’

  Jolly looked out at the room. Some of the officers appeared to shrink in their seats to avoid their senior officer’s gaze.

  ``The Superintendent-in-Chief will be attending as will I. We need at least two other officers. Any volunteers?’’

  Again silence.

  ``Good. Brant and Vasquez. You both seem to be enjoying yourselves back there. I’ll see both of you on Thursday at Fuel America. That’s on Chestnut Hill in District D-14, Brighton. 9 a.m. Don’t be late and bring your happy faces.’’

  Brant turned to Vasquez.

  ``What?’’ Vasquez glowered back in response.

  ``Coffee with a Cop? Screw you, Vasquez.’’

  ``Finally, one last word of caution. It’s summer, which means silly season. More specifically, it means guns, heat waves and kids. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you. Officers from District B-3 last night responded to a call for a person shot on Hosmer in Mattapan. On arrival, officers identified three male victims of apparent gunshot wounds. Two were suffering non-threatening injuries. The third victim, a Hispanic male in his early twenties, was pronounced deceased at the scene. This is an active investigation. More to come later this morning on the composition of the investigative team. But until that time, all questions from the media are to be forwarded to the media relations team. I don’t want any cops on my watch shooting their mouths off to score points with members of the fourth estate. That’ll be all.’’

  Jolly closed his file abruptly and left the podium. Brant made for the exit just as quickly, but was intercepted by the captain as he made a hasty retreat. From the corner of his eye, he caught a broad smirk on Clatterback’s face.

  ``What’s the status of the Carswell investigation?’’ Jolly asked when he had him cornered.

  ``Making progress, sir,’’ Brant said.

  ``Define progress.’’

  ``We have leads. The roommate filled in some of Carswell’s details and we have a strong belief that she recently had a child. We’re pursuing the father in hopes that he can tell us a bit more about her. Heinz recovered a bullet from the skull. Firearm Analysis is conducting tests. We’re reasonably confident they’ll be able to give us a good idea of what kind of firearm was used to kill her.’’

  ``Interviews?’’

  ``Clatterback has pulled CCTV footage and he and Malloy have been doing preliminary interviews with some of the merchants in the area where the body was found. We recovered some documentation from Carswell’s apartment, which we’re reviewing.’’

  ``What kind of documents?’’

  Brant shifted his weight. It wasn’t that he was intimidated by Jolly, but he was nervous all the same. The captain had that effect on people.

  ``Some phone records. She had a collection of data CDs near her computer. We’re still working on her password for better access to her electronic files.’’

  ``Where’d she work?’’ Jolly asked, a glimmer of interest flicking across his face.

  ``A place called Genepro Molecular. She was some kind of scientist or researcher.’’

  ``Do you really think the baby will lead you anywhere?’’

  Brant shrugged. ``It’s worth a try.’’

&n
bsp; Jolly puffed his cheeks. ``This is a high-profile case. Lot of interested parties, Jonas. The Mayor’s office. The press. The brass. See that you do everything by the book.’’

  Jonas. When was the last time Jolly had called him by his first name? An ominous sign to be sure. Nothing good could come of that, Brant thought as he made to leave.

  ``By the book, sir. You know me.’’

  ``Yes, I do,’’ Jolly said, his voice flat and emotionless.

  They reconvened in the squad room. Jolly had decamped for the day, summoned to City Hall. Budget committee hearings were planned to last well into the night. All agreed the news was not good. Whatever Jolly was to be confronted with by their paymasters would eventually become their problems as well.

  ``I thought the budget had been set,’’ Clatterback said.

  ``That was this year’s budget,’’ Brant said, raising a mug of coffee to his lips. ``Process starts all over again as soon as they sign off on this year’s. It’s never ending.’’

  Dennis Tate nodded in their direction as he made his way between a row of desks. A uniform named Gillihar followed. Gillihar was old-school, tough as nails and just as sharp. He’d seen action in Desert Storm as a Navy navigator stationed on the U.S.S. Lincoln.

  ``What are you ladies up to?’’ Gillihar asked when he saw Brant and the two other detectives huddling over their coffee.

  ``Staying out of sight of your ugly mug, that’s for sure,’’ Brant said in response.

  He liked Gillihar, rough edges and all. The cop knew his stuff and suffered fools lightly. He’d locked horns with Jolly on more than one occasion, which made him a hero of sorts in Brant’s books.

  Gillihar smiled in response.

  ``See you later at the Tam?’’

  ``Not if I’m lucky, Gillihar.’’

  ``Suit yourself. I suppose brass rails and ferns are more your style anyway, Brant.’’

  The Tam was a dive bar on Tremont Street. Among Gillihar and his cohorts, the Tam was legendary. Many a wake had been held at the Tam, followed by a late-night curry at an Indian place down the street. At the Tam, the drinks were strong. The smell of urine and vomit near the bar was even stronger. Just the thought of the place made Brant’s stomach turn.