06 Every Three Hours

by Chris Mooney

  She let go of the doorknob and turned around, feeling thrown off-kilter by his random statement, like she was standing on a boat plunging down the other side of a wave.

  ‘I’m not talking about Murphy,’ he said.

  Darby waited. Coop stared hard at the fingerprint chart resting on his lap, like he was waiting for a hole to open up so he could disappear through it.

  ‘I’m talking about ghosts now,’ he said, his voice raw. ‘I’m talking about Frank Sullivan.’

  Now Darby swallowed. She wasn’t the only one whose life had been affected by Frank Sullivan. In some ways, Coop had suffered the worst, having grown up in Charlestown.

  She wanted to go sit next to him but for some reason was afraid to move, as though the act would cause Coop to shut down. She rested her forearms on the top box of one of the stacks and looked across the table at him.

  He wouldn’t look at her. ‘That garage in Hyde Park? Sullivan owned it, back in the day,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean legally, I’m saying it belonged to him. He was there a lot, especially at night, late at night, well after the place shut down. There was this room in the back, a good size one. Sullivan hosted some private … get-togethers there.’

  Darby said nothing. She knew Sullivan had held private parties all over Boston, featuring every kind of drug imaginable and scores of underage girls, all locals, who were forced into sex to pay off drug and financial debts. He held the parties at hotels and people’s homes and all sorts of other places, and a lot of times he secretly recorded what went on and sold the videotapes to porno distributors overseas. A lot of the men wore masks so they couldn’t be identified. A lot of the men were law enforcement – BPD, Staties, Feds – who were on Sullivan’s payroll.

  ‘Murphy?’ she asked.

  ‘Can’t say for sure. I never picked him up.’

  ‘Picked him up?’

  Coop shifted in his chair. He still wouldn’t look at her.

  From outside the door, and past the chatter, Darby thought she heard the distinctive ring of the hostage phone and wondered how many times the gunman had called, if he was just calling now for the first time.

  They both jumped when the desk phone on the table suddenly rang.

  46

  +08.06

  Darby was the closest to the phone. She reached over a box and scooped up the receiver.

  It was Gelfand. ‘Why aren’t you answering your cell?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s in my jacket pocket. Why are you calling? Why not just –’

  ‘I’m with Grove. Big Red has called twice. Wants to speak to you about Clara Lacy.’

  ‘What did Grove tell him?’

  ‘Big Red keeps hanging up. Says he’ll only speak to you.’

  ‘Is Clara Lacy on the news?’

  ‘Not yet, so he doesn’t know anything. It’s been an hour and a half, Doc. Where do we stand?’

  ‘I’ve got some info. Listen, I need your people to quietly find a Boston cop named Robert Murphy and bring him in.’

  ‘The guy you cut off at the knees in the lobby this morning?’

  ‘That’s him. He works out of Kenmore. I think he’s tied into this thing with the gunman. I’m not sure how yet.’ Then she told him about meeting Murphy standing outside Lacy’s house when she arrived, leaving out the part about rearranging his nose.

  ‘Shapiro’s here,’ Gelfand said. ‘She’s waiting in the conference room with Donnelly and Nappa.’

  ‘The attorney general?’

  ‘Yep. They’re here to take over. You got anything to blow them out of the water?’

  ‘Give me five. Actually, make it ten. We still have to check ballistics.’ Darby hung up.

  Coop stood and grabbed the ballistics stuff. He seemed glad for the distraction.

  She didn’t have to prod him to speak. Coop knew they had limited time. ‘Everyone who lived in Charlestown knew what Sullivan was doing, the drugs and murders, the extortion, but you never went to the police,’ he said. ‘If you did, you were killed or you disappeared. If you were lucky, maybe he’d only burn down your house. You kept your distance from him, but if he wanted to find you – if he wanted something from you …’

  Darby knew all of this, was all too familiar with Charlestown’s Code of Silence, the fierce tribal street mentality where all matters were settled in the neighbourhood, not by the police. And Coop knew she knew this already. But she didn’t say anything because she could feel him circling around whatever it was he wanted to tell her.

  ‘Sullivan saw me witness him killing that guy and he knew he had me – knew I was terrified of him because everyone was, because this guy had the power to make you disappear and no one could stop it,’ Coop said. ‘So, when he told me to get my ass over to C & J garage, I went. When he handed me keys to one of the cars and told me go pick up so-and-so, I went. I didn’t ask any questions.’

  ‘You pick up cops?’

  Coop shook his head. ‘He had me pick up girls. Locals, mostly. I did, I dunno, maybe a dozen or so trips. I don’t remember the faces.’ He was quiet for what seemed like an hour, then his voice cracked slightly when said, ‘What I remember mostly was them crying. There was a lot of crying.’

  Darby said nothing. He had never shared this particular piece of history with her, but one night three years ago when he was drunk, when they were still with BPD and working a case of a skeletal set of remains buried for nearly two decades in the dirt basement of a home in Charlestown, he had told her how an FBI agent picked him up and brought him to the basement where Frank Sullivan was cracking peanut shells as he sat next to a girl around his own age tied down to a chair and gagged with duct tape. Coop had made the fatal mistake of going to a priest and, under the seal of confession, said he couldn’t live with the guilt of not telling the police about the man Sullivan murdered. The priest told Sullivan.

  And then came the part that changed Coop’s life: Sullivan putting a gun to Coop’s head and Coop gaping in wide-eyed horror at the girl whose fingers were caked in dirt and bloody from having been forced to dig her own grave with her bare hands, Sullivan saying to him, One of you is going in that hole. I’ll let you make the decision.

  Darby blinked the image away as Coop said, ‘A lot of ghosts are in that garage. I don’t know any of the cops who were there, don’t know how it connects into what’s happening with the gunman, his agenda.’

  ‘But Boston cops were definitely there.’

  ‘Yeah. Definitely. I remember seeing a handful there back when I was doing, you know, errands for Sullivan. But those guys are all dead now. I checked.’

  ‘You tell Gelfand about the garage?’

  He shook his head.

  You should, Darby wanted to say. That would help keep the ball in Gelfand’s court, keep the case from turning over to BPD. But she knew why he hadn’t said anything.

  ‘You worried Murphy might tie you back to the garage?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ he said sombrely. ‘What I’m more worried is …’ He swallowed, steadied himself. ‘I killed that woman, Darby. Nothing’s going to change that.’

  ‘Sullivan didn’t give you a choice.’

  ‘I was the one who put that bag over her head and suffocated her.’

  Coop had tied a plastic bag over the woman’s head. The two cops from last year had died the same way. Darby wondered if there was a connection between the two, one that led all the way back in time to Frank Sullivan.

  ‘Coop … there’s nothing from that time that can come and bite us in the ass,’ Darby said. ‘We destroyed the evidence tying you to that body.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What are you worried about, then?’

  ‘Karma,’ he said.

  47

  +08.16

  Darby opened the door to the conference room and saw Gelfand standing to her right with his back against the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, his face filled with a sour contempt and directed to a person sitting at the corner of the table: a striking olive-sk
inned woman with full lips and thick, long black hair that spilled across the shoulders of her ruffled white button shirt.

  ‘I’ll say it again, Howie, but this time I’m going to say it extra slow,’ Rosemary Shapiro said, her voice thick with sarcasm – her de facto mode of communication. ‘I cannot – I repeat, I cannot discuss the particulars of the Ellis case because of the protective orders that are in place. Now, a protective order is –’

  ‘I know what it is,’ Gelfand said, looking relieved to see Darby and Coop, the case materials in their hands.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Darby,’ Shapiro said, rising to her feet. She wore big silver loop earrings and a grey pinstriped pencil skirt that hugged her wide and curvy hips. Her gaze landed on Coop, and she smiled brightly. ‘Always nice to see you, Agent Cooper.’

  Two other people were in attendance, both of them stone-faced, eyes bright with anger, both seated at the opposite end of the table: Commissioner Donnelly and a thin pixie woman with blonde hair worn in a bob – Massachusetts attorney general Tina Nappa.

  Shapiro saw the case materials and, rubbing her hands together, said, ‘Ooooh, I love show and tell.’

  AG Nappa said to Gelfand, ‘Dr McCormick is no longer a law enforcement officer. She can’t be present if we discuss sensitive or confidential information.’

  Shapiro was grinning from ear to ear. ‘I was just telling Howie that I can’t speak to that unless Commissioner Shitbird and Mayor Hankey waive the protection order.’

  Darby couldn’t resist. ‘Mayor Hankey?’

  ‘You a fan of the cartoon South Park?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. Why?’

  ‘There’s a character in it named Mr Hankey. He’s a piece of shit who lives in the sewer and wears a Santa hat and looks a lot like Mayor Finch, minus the sense of humour – and I’m not saying that because he’s black – or African American, or whatever the politically correct term is. What I’m trying to say is they’re both pieces of shit.’

  Shapiro had been a public defender before becoming one of the most successful attorneys in the city of Boston. At thirty-two, she was involved in a car accident that left her in a medically induced coma for nearly a week. She emerged from it a force of nature and, some liked to say, certifiably insane. The truth was she had never liked to operate within the bounds of propriety or political correctness. She enjoyed making people uncomfortable – especially men – and she spoke a mile a minute, barely let anyone speak and had absolutely no filter.

  Gelfand said, ‘Big Red has already shared confidential information with Dr McCormick. The cat’s out of the bag, Ms Nappa, and Dr McCormick needs to be briefed on all information for when she has to go in and speak to the gunman.’

  ‘Agent Gelfand, this is a waste of time. We’re not here for show and tell, as Ms Shapiro so eloquently put it. We’re here because Commissioner Donnelly and his people are taking over the situation. Now if –’

  ‘That hasn’t been decided yet. I’ve called my boss, who has bumped the matter up to a federal level. We’ve got someone from Justice en route, and I think he’s going to be very interested in the stuff we’re about to show you. Grab a seat everyone.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to do this,’ Shapiro said, then propped her feet on the corner of the table, not far from Gelfand – a stunning pair of high-heeled black leather boots that came up past her knees. ‘They’re Givenchy,’ she told Gelfand. ‘Try not to lick them.’

  Coop took the lead. He went over the fingerprint chart shown to the jury and shared his findings. Donnelly, Darby could tell, was itching to get this over with so he could take over the reins. The attorney general listened passively to Coop, Darby knowing the woman was using the time to line up her artillery, aim it at the FBI’s vulnerable areas to sink the ship.

  ‘This is the most important part,’ Coop said. ‘Warren testified the prints contained sixteen points of identification, making what he called a “strong match”.’

  Shapiro chimed in. ‘Identical was the word he used in court.’ Then she rolled her head to the AG and Donnelly and added, ‘Sixteen points of identification, that’s far higher than necessary even under the most rigorous standards for a match. Isn’t that right, Agent Cooper?’

  ‘It is,’ Coop replied. ‘The prints recovered from the soda can, they all belonged to Lacy and her son. Sean Ellis’s prints weren’t anywhere on it.’

  Shapiro slapped a hand on her meaty thigh. ‘The independent forensic team I hired came to the exact same conclusion. Imagine that.’

  The AG said, ‘The prints were mislabelled. It was an unfortunate mistake –’

  ‘Unfortunate mistake?’ Shapiro swung her feet off the table and turned in her chair. ‘Unfortunate is when you get in a car accident or your bratty kid throws a baseball through your neighbour’s window. That, you skinny bitch, is an unfortunate mistake.’

  ‘Ms Shapiro, if you’re going to resort to name-calling, this meeting is –’

  ‘Sean Ellis went to prison for twelve years because Boston police officer Trey Warren, a well-known drunk and addict and all around shit of a human being – deliberately falsified evidence. That isn’t unfortunate, Ms Nappa, it’s illegal. It’s criminal.’

  ‘Miss Shapiro, you’re dangerously close to violating the terms of the protective order.’

  ‘The only reason Mr Ellis was exonerated was because I finally managed to convince a judge to get the DNA from that soda can we tested. BPD did nothing with it. You people dumped the evidence in a box and forgot about it.’

  ‘Let’s not forget that both Ms Lacy and Officer Fitzpatrick were shown photo arrays of eight potential suspects, and Mr Fitzpatrick picked Mr Ellis – and he also identified Mr Ellis in a live lineup.’

  ‘And that occurred two weeks later, when the grand jury considering a case against Ellis specifically requested it. By that time Ellis was all over the news.’ Shapiro straightened. ‘If Fitzpatrick were alive, I’d bet he’d be singing a different tune. Do you know what happened to him?’

  The AG stiffened.

  ‘He blew his brains out six months after Ellis went to jail,’ Shapiro said. ‘Gee, I wonder why he’d do such a thing.’

  ‘Officer Fitzpatrick had a history of depression –’

  ‘Which he coincidentally developed shortly after Sean Ellis was arrested.’

  AG Nappa ignored Shapiro; she looked directly at Coop. ‘Mr Ellis was, in fact, exonerated of the shooting by DNA evidence,’ she said primly. ‘As for the fingerprint evidence, we’re not at liberty to discuss that matter because Mr Ellis, represented by Ms Shapiro, engaged in civil litigation against the city – and won. The terms and conditions of that suit were negotiated and filed under a protective order.’

  ‘Ellis is dead,’ Coop said.

  ‘But the protective order is still in place unless it’s waved by the mayor, which he has no intention of doing,’ Nappa said to Coop. ‘The Sean Ellis case has no bearing on the siege; frankly speaking, we’ve wasted enough time. All of you are dismissed.’

  ‘The Ellis case is directly tied into what’s happening, which means –’

  ‘You can’t prove that.’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ Coop said. ‘The fingerprint evidence in the criminal case against Ellis was falsified. No, don’t say anything, Ms Nappa, because you don’t have a leg to stand on – especially concerning the ballistics evidence. BPD officer Mark Noonan was head of ballistics when Ellis was indicted, am I correct?’

  The AG folded her hands on her lap – a defensive move people used when they wanted to wall themselves off from the truth. The woman must have caught herself, because she immediately pushed herself up against the table and leaned slightly forward, as if she appeared interested in listening.

  ‘Am I correct?’ Coop prompted.

  ‘You are. However, I –’

  ‘In the evidence file – again, we’re speaking strictly the criminal case – Officer Noonan stated he collected, stored and examined bullets and shell casings fro
m the crime scene. Later, he testified in court the shots fired at Officer Fitzpatrick all came from his service weapon, a nine-millimetre Glock. Do I have that right?’

  A curt nod from the AG.

  ‘Then explain to me why Noonan didn’t examine the bullets that actually hit Officer Fitzpatrick,’ Coop said.

  ‘I’m not following.’

  Yes you are, Darby thought. I can see it in your eyes.

  ‘When EMTs treated Fitzpatrick at the scene, they didn’t find an exit wound, which meant the bullet was still inside Fitzpatrick when he was brought to the hospital. That bullet should have been retrieved by doctors and given to BPD. That’s standard practice in a shooting, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘This isn’t a courtroom, Agent Cooper, and I would appreciate it if you –’

  ‘A cop shooting is a high-priority case,’ Coop said. ‘I should know because, unfortunately, I worked several of them when I was at BPD’s crime lab. And, for the life of me, I can’t understand why the bullet lodged inside Fitzpatrick was never handed over to one of the lead detectives on the case.’

  ‘It was an oversight.’

  Darby said, ‘Or something worse.’

  Coop nodded in agreement. Said, ‘According to Noonan’s testimony and his own notes and reports, he said he examined all three bullets – the one collected from Fitzpatrick, which we know was never collected, and the two bullets lodged inside Fitzpatrick’s bulletproof vest. Those last two bullets are still inside the vest. They’ve never been removed and tested, yet Noonan said all three came from Fitzpatrick’s gun.’

  AG Nappa said nothing, her face impassive, as though Coop had been discussing a weather forecast. Shapiro was barely containing her glee, chomping at the bit, waiting to talk. Donnelly, though, looked as still as a dog that was about to lurch and bite.

  ‘Here’s what I think,’ Coop said heatedly. ‘Actually, let me rephrase that. Here’s what I know. The criminal case against Sean Ellis was … I don’t know what to call it other than atrocious. Every single piece of crucial evidence was either deliberately misrepresented or missing or never examined. I’ve never seen anything like this.’