06 Every Three Hours

by Chris Mooney

  Coop stared up at the ceiling, suddenly fascinated at the patterns in the acoustic tiles. Grove stared at Shapiro as though she had grown a third eye. Gelfand, appalled and livid, said, ‘Hey, Rosemary, in case you forgot, we’re dealing with a terrorist –’

  ‘Cut the shit, Howie. I’ve heard the way you talk. Why can’t a woman joke around and bust balls? I’m sorry, Cooper. The accident I had, it did something to the part of my brain responsible for judgement. Just unbutton your shirt and show me your eight-pack and we’ll call it even.’

  Darby pinched her temples between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed, feeling like she had just stumbled inside a Tourette’s support group.

  Gelfand said, ‘Attorney–client communications do not extend to statements pertaining to a crime or fraud committed in the future. If you have, or had, a client who told you he was going to hijack the BPD headquarters and then plant bombs all over the city and you failed to report it, we’re talking a serious ethics violation. We’re taking disbarment.’

  ‘Thank you for explaining the law to me, Howie.’

  ‘Good. So I don’t have to explain to you how the government can compel a defence lawyer to reveal information about a client in an emergency or life-threatening situation. What I’m saying to you is, if you screw me, Rosemary, I will make it my life’s mission to destroy you.’

  ‘Noted. And for the record, my ovaries are officially quivering. Also, for the record, I would like to state I have no knowledge, nor was I ever in possession of such knowledge, of a client or person who shared with me his thoughts about blowing up the BPD headquarters or killing cops or doing any other revenge-related activity.’

  ‘What about a client named Karl?’

  ‘Sorry, baby, that’s confidential.’

  ‘What about a woman named Clara Lacy?’

  The sarcasm bled away from her face, and her eyes clouded with thought.

  ‘Is she a client of yours?’

  ‘No,’ Rosemary said. ‘She was going to be a witness at the Sean Ellis civil case against the city.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Ellis was killed by a person or people unknown, and the case never went forward – which, I’m sure, gave our former mayor a big chubby.’ Shapiro smiled brightly, the biting sarcasm and cockiness having returned. ‘Nothing gets that man more excited than saving a dollar, even if the dollar isn’t his.’

  ‘What was her testimony going to be?’

  ‘That Sean Ellis was not the man who entered her home on the evening of the Fitzpatrick shooting.’

  ‘So, why did she pick him out of the lineup?’

  ‘So glad you asked, Howie. Here’s the thing: Clara, before she found God, was a drug addict and a prostitute. This was a long, long time ago, you understand, before you and I were even in diapers. The time of the Fitzpatrick shooting, Clara had been clean and sober for several years, was working as a secretary for a shipping company while raising her son. She –’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I was trying to, before you opened your fat yap and interrupted. Now, as I was saying, Clara found God, Jesus, Mary and everyone else and was living the good life when the shooter entered her home. And the shooter was – you ready for this? – a white man. Not black or brown or yellow, but white. Now ask the next question. Go ahead, don’t be shy.’

  ‘All the reports said the shooter was a black man.’

  ‘And that’s because – brace yourself, people – Danny “Mr Murder” Hill made her say that. Threatened there’d be all sorts of legal repercussions if she didn’t go along – not jail, necessarily, I’m talking about minor stuff. Stuff where she’d have to pay fines and fees that she couldn’t afford, that whole death by a thousand paper cuts you law enforcement types are so good at. Danny Boy also threatened to put her son into foster care by creating all of these problems that would make her look like an unfit mother. So what did you think an uneducated, poor and frightened black woman did, Howie?’

  ‘Everything we’ve read about Fitzpatrick and Sean Ellis was a lie. That’s what you’re saying.’

  ‘Look at you connecting all the dots by yourself like a big boy. I’m so proud of you.’ Shapiro clapped.

  ‘If what Lacy says is true –’ Gelfand began.

  ‘Oh, it is.’

  ‘– then why didn’t she turn around and sue the city?’

  ‘Because, as you may recall, after Sean Ellis was released from prison, someone killed him. Lacy said she wanted to drop the whole thing and live out her life, didn’t want to be involved with BPD – or the Feds, when I suggested we persue this on a criminal level. Don’t give me that look, Howie. Back then, BPD was a cesspool of Irish inbreeding and ineptitude that rivalled, well, the Boston FBI office. Did you hear what that US congressman said not that long ago on the report that came out on the Frank Sullivan case.’

  ‘I read it. Now –’

  ‘He called it one of the single greatest failures in the history of federal law enforcement. Congratulations, by the way.’

  ‘If Ellis wasn’t the shooter, who was?’

  ‘That, Super Special Agent Gelfand, is a great question – the ten-million-dollar question.’

  ‘Was the Fitzpatrick shooter, this white guy, was his name Karl?’

  ‘I don’t know the shooter’s name, Howie.’

  ‘But if you did –’

  ‘If I did, I wouldn’t have to tell you, technically speaking. But since you’ve been nice to me, the answer is no, I don’t know who this gentleman is. I might know more about the gunman if you put me on the phone and let me speak to him. What’s it gonna be, Sweet Cheeks? I’m not talking to you, Cooper, I’m talking to Howie now.’

  52

  +08.37

  Coop looked visibly relieved when his phone rang.

  ‘Howie, I’ve got to take this.’

  Gelfand nodded, looking tired and weary. Shapiro studied Coop’s backside as he left, whistled after the door was shut. ‘That boy is sexual napalm,’ she said to no one in particular. Then, to Darby: ‘What’s wrong with you, not tapping that?’

  Shapiro sat while everyone else remained standing, everyone but her on pins-and-needles as they talked strategy. She picked up the second receiver and, as Grove placed the call to the gunman, Rosemary admired her manicure, her face undisturbed, as though she was waiting on the line to make a dentist appointment or to get her oil changed.

  Darby leaned her back up against the far wall and crossed her arms over her chest, staring at the speaker, listening to the phone ringing … ringing …

  Big Red picked up and said, ‘Do you have Rosemary on the line?’

  Shapiro perked up, perplexed by the deep, modulated voice.

  ‘She’s sitting next to me,’ Grove said.

  ‘Who else is there?’ Big Red asked.

  ‘Dr McCormick and SAC Gelfand.’

  ‘Can they hear me?’

  ‘They can.’

  ‘And is this line still being recorded?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I want to retain her services. Put her on.’

  Shapiro got on the line. ‘This is Rosemary. We’re on an unsecured line, which means –’

  ‘I know what it means,’ Big Red said.

  ‘Don’t say anything, okay? Just listen for me for a moment. This line is being recorded, and people are listening, so it would be in your best interest not to talk because anything you say could be used against you. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand. I have a question about the Justice Initiative.’

  Shapiro straightened a bit, her eyes narrowing in thought.

  ‘You know the one I’m referring to?’ Big Red asked. ‘The document created after the Boston Police Department underwent a series of internal investigations that resulted –’

  ‘I’m familiar with it. Why?’

  ‘Please explain it to our guests. It’s a public document, available to anyone, so there are no legal ramifications in speaking about i
ts contents. Tell them.’

  Shapiro, confused and trying to follow the logic in the man’s thinking, spoke in a dry monotone: ‘The document is the result of a series of two internal investigations – the first conducted by a state attorney general was a criminal investigation that was presented to a grand jury; the second a comprehensive review by the Suffolk County District Attorney. The Boston Police Department also conducted its own independent audit.’

  ‘And the result of these investigations?’

  ‘The report concluded that the wrongful convictions in cases like Sean Ellis and several others did not – and this is a direct quote – “did not result in a system failure”. The report laid most of the blame on false or erroneous eyewitness identifications.’

  ‘And your legal opinion?’

  ‘It’s all horseshit,’ Shapiro said.

  ‘And what do you base that on?’

  ‘Evidence. My firm has represented, to date, fifteen wrongful conviction cases with the Boston Police.’

  ‘And when did these cases take place?’

  ‘Between 1993 and 2004.’

  ‘And 2004 was the same year the Boston Police’s fingerprint and ballistics units were shut down and then restarted with qualified personnel.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the officers involved, Trey Warren and Mark Vickers, were any criminal charges ever brought forth?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what about Detectives Daniel Hill, Frank Ventura, Robert Murphy and Ethan Owen?’

  ‘They were never charged.’

  ‘Disciplinary actions?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. How can I help you, Karl? You’re name is Karl, right? That’s what they told me.’

  ‘Yes. I’d like to retain your services.’

  ‘Smart move. As your attorney, I suggest that you and I meet and discuss –’

  ‘I don’t want you to represent me,’ Big Red said. ‘I want you to represent Clara Lacy. Dr McCormick will take you to her – and only Dr McCormick. I want Clara and her family to be moved to a safe location.’

  Darby felt her stomach lurch as a greasy sweat broke out across her hairline.

  ‘I can take care of that,’ Shapiro said, watching Darby now.

  ‘I sent a Priority Mail envelope to your office,’ Big Red said, Darby thinking he had, like her, planned to use Shapiro from the very beginning. ‘Inside you’ll find a bank cheque for $250,000. Is that a sufficient retainer?’

  ‘As long as the cheque clears,’ Shapiro said.

  ‘If you should need more money, follow the wiring instructions I sent in along with the payment. The envelope should arrive no later than tomorrow.’

  ‘I get a lot of mail. What name should I be looking for?’

  ‘I put my name in the return address. Walter Karl Torres. That’s my legal name. But everyone calls me Karl.’

  Shapiro’s jaw went slack. She stared down at the table, as though a crevasse had just opened in front of her.

  ‘I want to speak to Clara before you send her away,’ Big Red said. ‘Once I do, I’ll call and give the location of the fourth bomb. Goodbye.’

  Darby spoke first. ‘Do you know who Walter Torres is?’

  ‘Yes,’ Shapiro replied. She placed the phone carefully on the counter, as though it was fragile, and then quickly recovered, looking heatedly at Gelfand as she said, ‘Yes, we do.’

  53

  +08.00

  Gelfand didn’t want to talk about it inside the small command room. Truth be told, he didn’t want to talk about it at all, Darby could tell, but since Rosemary Shapiro definitely could not ethically talk about Walter Karl Torres because Torres was a client, it was up to Gelfand to supply the details, which he most definitely did not want to do. It was written all over his face.

  He’s scared, too, Darby thought. Scared and sick. Gelfand, as far as she had been able to tell in their handful of past encounters, hid his true emotions behind sarcasm and barbs and anger. Or maybe now that he was dying, he felt he didn’t have to work as hard to hide anything any more.

  ‘Rosemary,’ he said, his voice hoarse, ‘would you excuse us, please?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Shapiro replied, the woman barely able to contain her excitement at her luck at now having a ringside seat to what would turn out to be the single biggest case of her career. Shapiro had just been granted her ultimate wish: to be a media fixture, maybe even a local media icon, for months if not years. ‘Darby, call me when you’re ready to go to Dorchester. Here’s my card, cell number’s written on the back.’

  Walter Torres has to be either former FBI or a current agent, Darby thought as Shapiro left the room. There was also a third possibility: federal informant. Pick any one of the three and it would explain why Gelfand looked like he was moments away from experiencing a heart attack, a real chest-burster.

  Darby and Grove stared at Gelfand, waiting. Gelfand stared at the tops of his shoes, hands deep in his pockets, thinking.

  When he didn’t speak, Darby said, ‘We can’t tell her about Lacy and her family. If she finds out, and the gunman asks, legally she has to tell him the truth. She can’t willingly deceive him.’

  Grove nodded. Added, ‘Walter Torres obviously cares about Ms Lacy and her family’s safety. If he finds out –’

  ‘I get it,’ Gelfand said quietly. ‘I get it.’

  Gelfand’s gaze bounced around the room, looking like a man who had been handed a gun loaded with only one round and asked to fend off an enemy invasion.

  ‘I’m going outside for some fresh air,’ Gelfand said. ‘And a cigarette.’

  Darby didn’t wait for an invitation. After slipping inside the galley and chugging down a bottle of water, she grabbed a PayDay candy bar and then went outside, the cold winter air amazing after being slowly roasted inside the heated trailer.

  She found Gelfand smoking furiously and pacing underneath the awning of the side of the trailer. The wind had stopped – had tired, really – and the snow fell softly and quietly around them, the air still packed with the same sounds, the same throbbing engines and chatter and now, the low drone of the helicopters which were mercifully further away.

  A fireman swung around the other side to grab a smoke under the awning. He saw the expression on Gelfand’s face, turned around and left.

  Darby joined him. ‘We going to play twenty questions or are you going to tell me about this Torres guy?’ she asked, taking a big bite from her candy bar.

  ‘Never met him.’

  ‘So why do you look like you just dropped a loaf in your drawers?’

  ‘Said I never met him. Didn’t say I didn’t know him.’ Gelfand sucked deeply from his cigarette and watched the falling snow. ‘This is gonna be one for the history books.’

  Darby chewed, wondering if he was talking about Torres or the upcoming nor’easter which, if the weathermen were to be believed, would dump up to five feet of snow by tomorrow afternoon, the time when the storm would start to lose its power, begin to fade.

  She waited for him to get to it. Finally, he did.

  ‘Torres was a federal informant.’

  ‘How important?’

  ‘TEI status.’

  Top Echelon Informant was the code given to the FBI’s most valuable informants. Darby knew this because Frank Sullivan had been one such informant. The TEI status gave the FBI a lot of leeway and discretion – or it least it had until a couple of years ago, when the truth about Sullivan and the law enforcement corruption came out; Congress enacting a massive investigation and overhaul into how such informants were handled.

  ‘Frank Sullivan was TEI,’ Gelfand said as she drew closer.

  ‘He was also an undercover federal agent.’

  ‘You think I forgot that fact?’ Gelfand glared at her for a moment. ‘Every family’s got a scumbag or two. Doesn’t mean we’re all scumbags, Doc.’

  ‘Never said you were.’

  ‘But you were thinking it. Your old man was an upstanding guy, righteo
us, tried to do the right thing, what have you. So naturally people assume you’re the same way, right, because what else would you be? But if your old man was a notorious thieving serial killer, then it’s guilt by association. People think the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree because it’s in the blood.’

  ‘I thought we were talking about the Bureau.’

  ‘What I’m saying is, we’re not alike. Feds, cops. Families. We don’t share, you know, the same mind.’

  Gelfand then rested his arms on top of the fence and looked out at the traffic. ‘You take the job as SAC of a field office, you inherit the good and the bad, all its dirty secrets. Your job is to keep the old secrets guarded and keep the news ones from getting out. It’s like being the owner of a storage facility, only you get to wear a suit every day and carry a gun. Thing is, if something happened a long time ago, something you had nothing to do with, you’ve got to pay for it because that’s the job. You get stuck with it.’

  Darby sighed, her patience wearing thin. She was about to press him to get to it when he said, ‘I didn’t handle him. Walter-Call-Me-Karl-Torres.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘This went down before I was here. Back in the late eighties and early nineties.’

  ‘The Sullivan era.’

  ‘Right. Before Karl became an informant, he was working with Sullivan, moving in large quantities of heroin; made it popular and cheap here in Bean Town.’

  None of this surprised her. Confidential informants were key to solving cases and preventing new ones, and the best informants were high up the food chain, the truly awful and ruthless. The shaky alliance was constantly fraught with risk and danger.

  ‘So, Karl. Guy was a real nasty piece of work. Smart, though. Savvy. The drugs and murders – nobody can pin anything on him, not even us. He gets it in his head to supply information on Sullivan to the FBI so he can take out Sullivan, become the new king of the hill. What Karl doesn’t know is that Sullivan is an undercover Fed who’s supplying information on Cosa Nostra, the Italian mob, which everyone here had a major hard-on for at the time. It was all about dismantling the Italian mafia’s stronghold here in New England, which meant corners could be cut, things overlooked, sins forgiven. Problem is, shortly after Karl made contact with the Feds, he finds out that it’s Sullivan who’s been doing the snitching.’