Welcome to Witchlandia

by Steven Popkes

That was the sales pitch for the Commissioner when they created the position. BPD headquarters wasn’t the most convenient point of departure in the city—that would probably have been the Hancock or one of the other tall buildings. A flyer could start at altitude and ride gravity to the target.

  But the Commissioner liked his luxury items where he could see them so flyers were stationed at BPD headquarters at Schroeder Plaza in Roxbury. We even had our own FAA-approved heliport: a six-foot circle next to the HVAC units on the roof. A single blue runway light mounted next to it. One time Sniezek had posted a silhouette of a witch with a red circle/slash through it on the HVAC next to the circle. We didn’t get along.

  Every time I left from Schroeder I had to fight planet earth for every vertical foot. Maybe it consoled the Commissioner since he really couldn’t talk about us. Like deep cover officers, everyone knew we were there but no one identified us. A sort of paranormal don’t ask, don’t tell. I swore at him every time I took off from the low roof. I hoped he heard me.

  The sales pitch was partially true. BPD headquarters or not, Gifford and I could take off and be ready on the ground crucial minutes before other officers could make it to the scene—even if those other officers were nearby. But there were only the two of us and Sniezek. That meant we had to be on watch most of the time, in headquarters, ready to run at a moment’s notice. Such speed was rarely that useful. More often we were on standby, parked on top of a building during a special celebration—a visit by the president or some similarly high-profile individual. Somebody important enough that seconds actually did count. Most of the time we spent together was uneventful. So we talked. And did other things.

  This meant we had a lot of time for solo work. Most of mine was intelligence and surveillance. I loaded myself with snoopers, and dressed in sheerest black or overcast camo and followed a Person of Interest through the city, noting their movements, listening to outdoor conversations with a parabolic microphone. It was exacting, precision flying—hours of high-tension boredom that at any moment could turn into seconds of sheer terror as the POI twigged to what was going on. Every time I hovered at altitude, not moving a foot in any direction while I took pictures, I thought of Sam. It was Sam that always insisted I never settle for just what would be necessary.

  I wondered what Sam would think of me now.

  I had no idea what I would be doing now that Gifford was gone and paired flying was out of the picture.

  Once we reached the bullpen, Dooley wandered off to see what sort of assignments they would give us now that Gifford was gone. After being our handler, becoming my partner was a step up; one small incremental advance towards the rank of detective.

  I pulled out my cell and called Gifford.

  “Yes,” he answered, his voice cold as stone.

  For a moment, I thought I was talking to David. Two years ago. In the last days before I left. Tolstoy was wrong. Happy couples are different from each other. They become identical in misery. “Dooley said you quit.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He said you’re going to Seattle.”

  “There’s an opening there.”

  “There’s no flying in Seattle.”

  Gifford sighed. “That’s not true. City flying is still permitted—the ceiling is rarely lower than six hundred feet. Higher flying is problematic.”

  “You hate the rain.”

  “I’ll learn to live with it.”

  “Dooley said you were giving up flying.”

  The silence across the phone was deafening. “I didn’t think Horn would make that public knowledge.”

  “Are you?”

  Again, a long pause. “The opening in Seattle is for a detective. It’s not a flight position. I’ve been told it’s up to me. I’ll think it over on the way out there and see if I change my mind.”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt. Gifford had been nice. Pleasant. Loving. And comfortable—what was it I had against comfortable? David had been cozy but never comfortable. Exciting, maybe.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “I left yesterday. I’m flying over the Berkshires right now. All the rain is east of me. With any luck, I’ll camp in Herkimer diamond country tonight. Tomorrow’s a rest day. Think I might do some prospecting.”

  “You’re taking the Long Walk.”

  “We always talked about it. Now I’m doing it.”

  Silence came between us. At that moment I truly realized Gifford was gone. “I still have some of your stuff.”

  “Yeah,” Gifford said reluctantly. “The closing date on my condo is the twenty-fifth. I have to come back for that. I’ll be in town for Conclave. I’ll pick up everything then.”

  “I’ll take you out to dinner,” I said woodenly. “It’ll be like old times.”

  “No. But maybe we’ll get a little closure. Bye.”

  The connection went dead.

  Closure.

  Was that what I had with David? Did we have closure?

  “Hey, Loquess.” Dooley was standing right in front of me. “Life is better with a cup of coffee.” And handed it to me.

  I took it with a nod. “What’s happening? Are we still on the D’Macy investigation?”

  “Maybe,” Dooley said softly.

  “What?”

  “Do you want to be a flyer all your life?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “I can’t fly. But I can make detective. Hoffman and Rush are willing to throw us a bone.”

  “Go on.”

  “They have a homicide to cover. An old homeless guy they found over on Centre Street early this morning—only a few blocks from your building. Hoffman’s been designated as investigator-in-charge. They’re willing to let us do some of the leg work.”

  “Horn okay on this?”

  “As long as A, it doesn’t interfere with you doing any needed surveillance work, and B, Hoffman and Rush get all the official credit. Unofficially, if we do a good job we might be looked upon favorably when (and in your case if) we take the exam.” He looked at me sternly. “I have ascertained that no immediate surveillance requires your expert hand.”

  I sipped my coffee thoughtfully. I looked up at Dooley. “You really want to be detective that bad?”

  “Some of us are not gifted with the diabolical power of flight. We do what we must with our feet on the ground.”

  “Why don’t you just follow up this homeless thing on your own? I’ll be fine.”

  Dooley looked pained. “The captain feels that partners should work together. I must say I agree. Two sets of eyes are better than one.”

  I realized that in his own oblique way, Dooley was worried about me.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go check out a corpse.”

  oOo

  The weather had cleared during the hour or so we’d been inside—I could see the cloudy remnants east of us still hanging over the taller buildings. The sky was clear blue and warm in the sun. The damp and misty smell of the early morning lurked in the shadows.

  I drove while Dooley worked through the medical examiner’s report. I hate driving. I can barely see over the steering wheel. It makes me drive like an old lady. I hate driving like an old lady.

  As we crossed Berkeley, Dooley looked up from the file. “William Wallace.”

  “Governor of Alabama back in the sixties.”

  “That was George Wallace. This is William Wallace. Wasn’t he famous or something?”

  “Scottish revolutionary, seven hundred years ago,” I said.

  Dooley nodded and returned to the file. “This is pretty nasty. This guy was found by the super in the utility room of an apartment building. Hickey puts the time of death between ten and midnight last night.” He gazed out the windshield thoughtfully. “He was tortured.”

  “Tortured how?”

  “Whipped, it looks like. But it happened a while back. The marks have healed.”

  “Maybe he was abused as a child.”

  Dooley read further. “Hicke
y says no. They’re adult injuries. There are pictures if you want to see them.”

  “I don’t want to see them.”

  “Suit yourself.” Dooley examined the examiner’s pictures closely. “Didn’t have anything to do with cause of death. Quick knife wound to the heart. Slashed the ventricle and aorta both.” Dooley whistled. “Murderer was an accurate so and so.”

  “Sounds nasty.”

  “Oh, it’s nasty all right.” Dooley read carefully. “Last known address Kennedy Inn. We’ll ask around the apartment building first, then the shelter.”

  The super was named Antonio Estevez. We found him in the furnace room cleaning the filters. “Going to be cold, soon.” He put down the frame he was working on and wiped his hands. He was dressed in overalls and spoke perfect English with only the faintest of shifted vowels.

  Dooley introduced us. “We’re here about the homeless guy you found.”

  “Two detectives already talked to me last night. I was in the apartment all night with my wife and son.”

  Dooley nodded. “They’re the front runners. We bat cleanup. We’re here to collect statements from other people in the building. But out of politeness, I thought we’d talk to you, first.”

  Estevez nodded. “Thanks.”

  “And we need a list of people in the building.”

  “I figured.”

  Armed with the list, we started at the top floor and worked down. Nobody had heard anything. Not the fat and pregnant single mom on the top floor or the gay couple in first floor west. The retired National Guardsman and model train hobbyist thought he’d heard something but under questioning he just wanted to show us his trains. His neighbor across the hall hadn’t heard the murder but she had heard the model trains and complained about them bitterly. Nobody had heard William Wallace. Nobody knew William Wallace. Nobody had any interest in William Wallace. He died unloved and alone in the basement. After he had survived torture.

  I had a sour taste in my mouth when we reached the lobby.

  “Nothing,” I said, disgusted.

  “Yeah.” The lobby had two benches. Dooley selected one and sat down. “It’s strange.”

  I sat across the small lobby from him. “Strange?”

  “Surprised he didn’t make any noise.”

  “Maybe he was gagged.”

  Dooley examined the examiner’s report again. “Doesn’t say anything like that in the report. You should look at this. At least make an effort.”

  “I’m not the one trying for detective. It could be hard to hear anything from the basement.”

  “Yeah. Nobody recognized Wallace, either.”

  “Nobody we talked to, anyway. Some apartments didn’t answer.” I shrugged. “Maybe the basement was just a convenient spot to drag somebody.”

  Dooley didn’t say anything for a moment. “Let’s go look in the basement again.”

  Downstairs, we stepped past the yellow tape into the alcove where Wallace had been killed. “There’s no outside door.”

  I walked to the other side of the basement and peered into the corners. “Nothing here.”

  “So the only entrance and exit is the basement stairs.”

  I pursed my lips. “So someone would have to drag Wallace down here without being seen, do the deed, and then leave him.” I looked at Dooley. “The super?”

  Dooley shook his head. “Why report it? Why kill somebody in your own backyard? Hauling somebody down those stairs would be a chore.” Dooley tapped the file. He looked around the alcove. “No. Wallace was already here.”

  “What did the super say last night? Is it in the report?”

  Dooley paged through the report. “You really should read this. It’s more professional. The super said he didn’t know Wallace. Didn’t know who could have gotten down here.”

  I shrugged. “Let’s talk to him again.”

  oOo

  “All right. I did know someone had been coming in since the hard freeze the end of September.” Estevez spread his hands. “Come fall sometimes, when it gets cold, I see signs of somebody sleeping down here. Nothing obvious—I’d have to do something about it if I saw a bed or a blanket or anything like that. But every now and then I’d notice the dust disturbed or water in the sink. What can you do? There are homeless people out there. It gets cold at night.”

  Dooley gave him a picture of Wallace. “You said before you didn’t recognize him. Do you know him now?”

  Estevez looked at the picture, then handed it back. “I never saw anybody down there. I certainly never saw this guy. Maybe he was the guy who slept down here sometimes. Maybe not.”

  Outside in the clear autumn air, Dooley shook his head. “Well, we learned he was in there when he was killed. We knew he was a homeless guy from Kennedy. So he hangs around in the area.”

  I had a sudden cold thought. “Let me see his picture.”

  “Which one?”

  “His face. Let me see his face.”

  Dooley selected a photograph. I took it as if it burned. I stared at it a long time. Then gave it back.

  “I’ve seen him before.”

  oOo

  “This is why policemen should actually examine case folders before we question subjects.” Dooley shook his head bitterly. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. William Wallace, I suppose.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “I didn’t say I could help. I just said I’ve seen him before.” I stared at my hands. “Around my apartment. He hangs out at the edge of Heath Square. I’m surprised no one recognized him.”

  “Heath Square is five blocks from here. That could be light years away from these people. If he wasn’t begging them in front of the door every day they wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe not even then. What did he do in the square?”

  “He sang.”

  “He sang.”

  “Hymns, mostly. He has—had—a beautiful singing voice. Blues rough but right on key.” I smiled at Dooley. “Something you learn to be sensitive to when you’re living with a musician.”

  “Gifford was a musician?”

  “I never lived with Sean and Sean is not a musician. This was a while ago. David Sabado.”

  “Sabado? The pianist?”

  I nodded.

  Dooley whistled. “You do hang out with the upper class.”

  “You know who he is?”

  “Katelin, he sold out the Wilbur last fall. There were posters on every plywood construction front in town. They even put his face on the little Fourth of July flags on Longfellow Bridge. The only way I’d never heard of David Sabado is if I were dead.” He tapped himself a couple of times. “No. Not yet. Therefore, I’ve heard of David Sabado.”

  I scowled at him. “Well, I’d never heard of him before I met him.”

  Dooley checked the case folder again. “We Boston sophisticates will just have to forgive you, being from Missouri and all. Kennedy Inn, next, Miss Katelin. You drive.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “My, how they talk down where you come from. Do you kiss your momma with that mouth?”

  oOo

  The Kennedy Inn was one of the better homeless shelters in Boston. Individual beds. Lockers. If someone managed to get a bed, they stayed on their best behavior to keep it.

  Dan MacIlvey, in charge of the men’s unit, checked his files for us. “William Wallace. I thought I remembered the name. He doesn’t have a bed here.”

  “Really? We have an address for him here.”

  MacIlvey nodded. “We keep mail for him but he isn’t allowed to stay.”

  “Does he have any mail?”

  MacIlvey shook his head. “I already checked.”

  “Why isn’t he allowed to stay here?”

  “Looks like there’d been some trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Religious. Turns out Wallace was some kind of Pentecostal. He had made it his mission to convert some of the men here—especially some of the Catholics. We have a lot of
Catholics here. They didn’t appreciate it.”

  Dooley chuckled. “I expect not. There must have been a final incident that got Wallace kicked out.”

  MacIlvey nodded. He lifted up the file. “Yeah. He had a fight with a Frenchman from Quebec named Dulac. François Dulac. I found the incident report after I heard about Wallace. Made a copy for you.” He handed the file folder to Dooley.

  “Any idea where I can find Dulac?”

  “Yeah. Third floor. Bed six. He checked in twenty minutes ago.”

  Dooley wrote that down. “Anybody else know William Wallace? The staff, perhaps? Or some of the residents?”

  MacIlvey shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask around.”

  “You do that.” Dooley fished out his card and gave it to him. “Call me later and tell me what you find. We’ll go up and talk to Dulac.”

  Outside, I asked: “So why are there so many Catholics in Boston? From the Italians in the North End?”

  Dooley chucked. “That happened much later. This was a strong Protestant town until the eighteen hundreds and the Irish immigration. The Irish ran this town until the eighties. Some of the gangs ran arms for the IRA.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “Ireland is Catholic, you know.”

  “No! Really?”

  Dooley chuckled again. “Is Loquess French?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you Catholic?”

  “No. Methodist.”

  “Aren’t most French Catholic?”

  “Things change. Where did the name ‘Dooley’ come from? Are you Irish?”

  “The name of the family that adopted me when my parents died,” he said matter-of-factly.

  I felt immediately miserable. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need,” Dooley said.

  Dulac was sitting on his bed, sorting through his things.

  “François Dulac?” Dooley asked.

  “Call me Frankie,” Dulac said without looking up. “‘François is too much of a strain for you.”

  Dooley sat on the adjacent bed.

  Dulac glanced up at him quickly. “That’s Tom Kelley’s bed. Things might get sticky. Best not sit on it.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  Dulac led us to a common room. “You want coffee?”

  “Sure,” Dooley said for both of us.