Dulac brought us both what must have been coffee since it was black and at the bottom of a Styrofoam cup. There was little other indication.
“You knew William Wallace?”
“Fundamentalist prick ass. Yeah, I knew him.”
Dooley looked up at him. “You didn’t get on?”
“Fuck no.” Dulac laughed. “Asshole kept trying to get me into his little fuckbag church. Like I wouldn’t be caught fucking a nun first.”
“Did it make you mad?”
“That he wanted me to go to his puswad church? Fuck no. It pissed me off that he wouldn’t shut up about it. You make your bed and it’d be come to Jesus. You look at the moon and it’d be come to Jesus. You’d take a fucking shit and it would be come to fucking Jesus.”
“What did you do about it?”
“Bust his fucking teeth in.” Dulac held up his hand in a fist. “That scar there. Nine stitches. Worth every fucking one.”
“Did you see him after that?”
“No. They fucking kicked him out. Would have fucking kicked me out, too, but MacIlvey put in a good word for me. Not a bad sort, MacIlvey. For a Protestant.” Dulac admired his hand. “Nine fucking stitches. It was a fucking good hit.”
Dooley sat back. “You never saw him afterwards?”
“Not a bit of it.”
“Where were you Sunday night? After midnight.”
“Fucking here.” Dulac pointed back through the door towards his bed. “Back there. Checked in about eight. Wallace dead?”
Dooley didn’t answer immediately. “Why do you ask?”
“Two fucking cops come in talking about fucking Wallace. Not like he’s worth a bucket of piss. So he either killed someone or he got killed. If he killed someone you wouldn’t be asking me where I was the other night so the fuck must be dead. Am I right?”
Dooley nodded. “You know you’re a suspect.”
Dulac waved it away. “Of course. I wouldn’t piss on the fucker if he was on fire. You find out who killed him and let me know. I’ll send him fucking flowers.”
Dulac rose and went back to his bed.
“Okay,” said Dooley, putting his notebook in his pocket.
We didn’t talk until we were outside again.
“Did Wallace sing at the same spot every day?”
“Every weekday I was there. But I fly in to the station a lot.”
“Did he ever preach to you?”
“Never.”
“Interesting.” Dooley thought for a moment. “This case is far more interesting than either Hoffman or Rush could have determined. I believe we might make it back to the station quite late.”
oOo
Like gazelles around a watering hole, Boston’s collection of street musicians collected around Boston’s public transit system. There are three descending tiers: the subway, the trolley and the bus lines. For the subway, think a scaled-down New York system without New York’s efficiency or pride of service. For trolleys, think buses on tracks. Boston has buses, workhorse trolley lines and subway trains.
I lived on Parker Street, at the edge of Heath Square, near New England Baptist Hospital. There was a T stop on Huntington and down at Jackson Square, a fair distance. The neighborhood had been inconveniently left off the best Boston transit grid. There were no trains and the closest trolley was the bumbling and unreliable line several blocks away connecting the medical area, the museums and Mission Hill. Parker Street was served only by a decrepit and complex bus system—not a pleasant venue for the society of folk musicians, jazz guitarists and other street virtuosos that prowled the city competing for the generosity of transit patrons. If the subway was the moral equivalent of a great and beautiful lake to the performance crowd, I lived on the edge of a bug-infested swamp.
Wallace frequented Heath Square near the bus stop.
“There’s nobody here,” said Dooley looking around.
“The resident musician is dead, remember? He sang here. On this corner. Next to that park. Across from yonder church.” I pointed across the street.
“‘Yonder’?”
“That’s just the way we talk out in the sticks.”
Dooley didn’t respond. “He sang hymns?”
“That’s all I ever heard. Maybe that’s the church Dulac was talking about.”
“Let’s check it out.”
The door of The Church of the Living Christ was wide open. It was a broad space, filled with folding chairs and tables instead of pews, a door open to a back hallway where I could see the doors of other rooms. There was a plain wooden altar and cross opposite the main entrance, but other than that the space was devoid of ornamentation: plain white walls, linoleum floor, hanging electric lights. Two racks of lurid evangelist pamphlets braced the door. It reminded me of churches I’d been in back home.
A man was sweeping around the altar.
“Excuse me?” Dooley called to him as we passed the pamphlets.
The man stopped and straightened. He smiled at us. “I’m Tim Rabbitt. Can I help you?”
Dooley introduced the two of us. “William Wallace used to sing across the street. We’re looking for people who knew him.”
“You said ‘used to’.”
“William Wallace is dead. We’re investigating his murder.”
“Oh.” The man sat heavily in one of the folding chairs. “Bill sang here last night.”
Dooley pulled over a chair and sat across from him and pulled out his notebook. “I’m sorry for your loss. When was he here? When did he leave?”
“He sings—sang—every Sunday and Wednesday night at evening services. That went until seven o’clock. Then he left.”
“Where did he go?”
Rabbitt shrugged. “As far as I know he has no fixed address. A lot of my congregation is homeless. I give out free meals when I can.”
“You’re in charge here?”
“As far as it goes. I’m the minister, groundskeeper, janitor and accountant. I live in the back.” Rabbitt waved around the space.
“Where were you last night?”
“Right here. Evening services until ten. Bible study class until midnight.”
“That’s late for a bible class.”
“It’s a pretty dedicated class. We’re studying Second Corinthians.”
“Was Wallace in the class?”
“No. He was here for evening services and then left.”
“At seven?”
“That’s right. The bible class started at eight.”
“So you were at loose ends between seven and eight?”
Rabbitt laughed. “A minister is never at loose ends. I grabbed a bite and read up for the bible class.”
“You knew Mr. Wallace well?”
“Sure. He was here two, maybe three times a week. Since he moved into town a couple of years ago.” Rabbitt watched me for a moment. “What did you say your name was?”
“Katelin Loquess.”
“I’ve heard of you.” Rabbitt smiled. “We have a friend in common. Sean Gifford.”
“You know Sean?” I felt queasy with the sudden change in roles. Rabbitt was no longer a faceless source; he was somebody connected to me.
“Yes.” Rabbitt gestured for us to sit. “Sean and I grew up together in Rozzy. For a while I thought he was going into the priesthood—both of us were devout in our own ways. But then he took the aptitude tests and discovered he had different gifts.”
“I’ve never heard of you,” I said flatly.
“I’m not surprised.” Rabbitt gave me a slight smile. “Sean said there were… issues of connection between you. He probably never took you to the old neighborhood, either.”
“No,” I said.
“Let’s get back to the subject at hand,” Dooley interrupted. “You said Wallace came to town a couple of years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Where did he live before?”
“Columbia, Missouri.”
I stood up and stepped back from them. I turned an
d went outside. I sat on the bench and watched the pigeons. Christ. I wondered if I had ever seen Wallace. Or if he’d ever seen me.
A few minutes later, Dooley came outside.
“What else did Rabbitt say?”
“Not much. He promised to ask his parishioners about Wallace. Hickey said Wallace was killed after midnight so he’s a suspect with regard to opportunity. No motive I can see. We can leave it up to Hoffman and Rush to see if it’s worth a warrant.” He paused. “You’re from Missouri, right?”
“Born and raised.”
“Columbia?”
“That’s where I went to school. I grew up south of there, down in Jefferson City.”
Dooley looked across the street, digesting this. “You don’t know him from Columbia?”
I shook my head. “I’ve been trying to remember. As far as I know, I never saw him before I moved here. Columbia’s not a small town. It’s the size of Framingham or Worcester. I could have spent my life there and never seen him.”
“Yeah.” Dooley bit his lip. “Guy moves out here and settles down not three blocks from your house, then joins a church where the minister grew up with your boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s an unpleasant coincidence.”
“Yeah.” He made a note in the notebook. “We can call Columbia and the state police. Maybe Wallace was followed to Boston by somebody that didn’t like him.”
I looked up. The church was a flat-roofed building. I unfolded my stick, wrapped myself in my own personal flight bubble and rode my stick up to the roof. I stood there looking around.
“Loquess?” Dooley called. “What the hell are you doing up there?”
“Trying to figure out where we are.”
“Come back down here!”
I mounted the stick, stepped off and came down gently.
Dooley stared at me. “That is so unnatural.”
“You’ve seen me fly before.”
“You think I don’t have the same reaction every time I see it?” Dooley waved it away. “Explain yourself.”
“Checking distances. The Kennedy Inn is close to here. He goes to church here. He picks up his mail at Kennedy. He sleeps over at the apartment building.”
“So?”
“Wallace stayed in the same area. I bet he didn’t go far.”
“So?”
“Nobody heard anything, right? Wallace was taking care of that sleeping space—he was careful not to leave traces. That means he understood the situation. Maybe he had some understanding with Estevez or somebody that knew Estevez turned him on to the situation. The point is he was protecting his space by taking care of it. Do you think he’d jeopardize it by letting in a stranger?”
Dooley thought about it. “Maybe he was asleep.”
“Was there any sign of a struggle?”
Dooley consulted the file. “No. Cause of death was a quick knife to the heart—ventricle and aorta were slashed open. He wouldn’t have had a chance to struggle. No skin under the fingernails. No abrasions on the knuckles. No marks of strangulation. Maybe he was asleep.”
“Was he drunk?”
“No.”
I thought for a moment. “Maybe he could have been asleep. Or, he could have known his attacker.”
“It’s an idea,” Dooley said speculatively. “Not conclusive by any means. But worthwhile.” He wrote it down.
“Okay, then.” I smiled. “That was fun. Now, we write it up and give it to Hoffman and Rush, right? We’re done.”
“Not so fast. We can hold onto this for a bit. If we stay out of the office, we don’t have to submit a report until tomorrow. We can find out lots more.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“We can go back to the minister and grill him for more of Wallace’s friends. Maybe we can even take him back to the station and talk to him there. If you’re right about Wallace staying in one area, we can canvas the apartments here. That little store on the corner. The packie across the square. See if anybody’s seen Wallace. Anybody who knows him. We could give Hoffman and Rush some real leads instead of all these notes and speculation.”
I watched Dooley’s earnest face. “You know, as interesting as that sounds, I’ve had a rough day. It’s late and we’ve been doing this since early this morning. Our shift is over. What I’d like to do is give Hoffman and Rush the notes, clock out and go have a burger and a beer. Come on, Dooley. I’ll front you the first beer.”
“Some of us have to work for a living,” Dooley said in a tight voice.
“Some of us want to make detective.” I spiraled a finger into the air. “And some of us don’t. Well, if you’re not coming with me, I’m going down to Faneuil Hall for some crab bisque and a tall drink of something cold. There’s a juggler there tonight. Oscar Plante. He only comes into town in October and plays in front of the hall because Boston is where he got started. I see him every year.” I smiled at Dooley. “We all have our traditions, witches included.” I pulled my stick out of the back of Dooley’s car.
“You aren’t going to amount to crap, Loquess.” Dooley shook his head. “Come on. I could use your help.”
“No. I’ve had enough for today. You go and get your man, Dooley. You’ll make detective yet.”
“I understand why Gifford left you.” Dooley snapped out the words like breaking sticks.
“Then, you understand how it feels.” I settled down in the saddle and started my ascent. “For the moment, I am leaving you. Welcome to Witchlandia.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
oOo
I came into town over Exchange Place, my favorite place to perch in Boston. From the top of the Exchange you can see the city, a bit of the river, most of the harbor. You can see the bones beneath Boston, watch the buildings shrink as they approach the water and melt into the dumpy warehouses next to the harbor. Some of the hotels and apartments were designed to look like these old buildings—as if, somehow, the temporary storage of rum and bales of hay was the epitome of architectural grace. Others tried to outshine the adjacent granite or brick with soaring heights of glass and stainless steel. Didn’t work. Somehow the old columns and severe angles seemed to glow while the newer buildings just looked like dressed up transients.
The best part of Exchange Place was to look down first over 75 State, an ornate gilded thing, and then down on the Customs Tower, a narrow, proud spire that came to a pyramidal point barely to the Exchange’s shins. It didn’t care. It always seemed to say Screw you, Jack! to the newer buildings. I’ve been around nearly a hundred and fifty years. Of course, compared to some of the other buildings in Boston, the tower itself was young. But it didn’t care. It was an upraised finger to the rest of architectural Boston. I respected that.
Down and around the Customs House Tower, just over the rooftops and down in a narrow alley next to Butler Row. This close to Conclave, Bostonians were used to the occasional, if illegal, flyer. Even so, and legal as I was, I didn’t need to advertise my presence. I still needed some degree of anonymity to do my work.
Bernoulli’s had occupied the intown corner of Faneuil Hall since before I had moved here. Crab bisque had always been on the menu. David had introduced it to me when we first came to Boston. I had loved it. When David moved out, Bernoulli’s had been the first restaurant I’d visited; eating the bisque with tears rolling down my face in some obscure act of defiance. Now it was mere habit.
Even so, Bernoulli’s had a marvelous chef and for half an hour, I was able to lose myself to culinary excellence.
I paid my check, warm from both the bisque and half a bottle of wine, and strolled outside. The strings of Christmas lights decorating the brick avenue had seemed a wasteful extravagance when I came to Boston. That was before my first long Boston winter. Now, I viewed them as illuminated rage against the encroaching dark.
Plante always performed on Merchant’s Row at the western end of the hall. I sauntered in that direction,
enjoying the crisp autumn air, the electric blue of the early evening sky, the easy comfort of the crowds. I like crowds as long as I don’t know anybody in them.
The crowd began at the edge of the hall. I walked up the stairs and looked down, expecting to see Plante’s signature opening: Plante in a mask, sitting still next to a clock. He would look at the clock every few seconds and hold up his hands in a great exaggerated gesture: five more minutes. Or four. Or three. After a while, the crowd would be laughing, wondering what the next gesture would be and by the time he started his act, they would be ready.
Instead, I saw Hoffman and Rush, notebooks in hand, questioning a young boy. Someone from forensics I didn’t know was examining Oscar’s equipment.
Oscar Plante was nowhere to be seen.
“Loquess!” Dooley vaulted up the steps. “Where have you been?”
“Here. Eating dinner.”
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
I pulled it out. Sure enough, there was a missed call note on the face. “I didn’t hear it.”
“Come on. You can help take statements or something.”
“Why?”
“Your friend, Oscar Plante, was found an hour ago not far from here. Killed just like William Wallace.”
Chapter 2.2: Tuesday, October 19
The following morning, me, Hoffman, Rush and Dooley sat around a standard gray table going over each other’s notes.
Hoffman was a big man, an athlete gone to fat. His big shoulders seemed to be the only thing keeping his enormous belly from falling down and striking the floor. Rush was tiny by comparison, only millimeters above the minimum allowed by regulations. The contrast always reminded me of one famous couple or another: Abbot and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, the Walrus and the Carpenter.
Today, I couldn’t help thinking of Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. If they had worked together. If they were deadly serious and devoid of humor. If they had been human—at least as human as the Walrus and the Carpenter.
“Okay,” Hoffman said at last. “You did good getting Wallace’s information. Horn wants to keep this case intimate. That way if anything new shows up in the press we’ll know where it came from.” He gave me and Dooley a pointed look.
Rush was silent as a rat, watching Hoffman.
Welcome to Witchlandia Page 8