Welcome to Witchlandia

by Steven Popkes

  I stared at Rush. I stared at Hoffman.

  Hoffman held up the tennis ball. Without taking his eyes off me, he squeezed the ball until with a gasp it ripped apart.

  I threw up.

  oOo

  Both Rush and Hoffman jumped up out of the way. The morning’s coffee and croissant spilled over the table, photographs and folder.

  “Shit,” yelled Hoffman.

  Rush carefully snagged the papers by clean corners and pulled them off the table gingerly. “Well, that was unexpected.”

  They gathered up the papers and photographs—carefully, of course—and took them out of the room. I was left, just me and the smell of my own vomit.

  I groped in the pocket of my coat and pulled out a napkin. At some point in my life I had apparently eaten at the Au Bon Pain. This napkin was evidence. I wiped my lips and cheeks, blew my nose and stood up. I got up and walked around the room. Noon came and went.

  The door was locked—unsurprising. Interrogation rooms would be locked. I wondered what the rules were in case of a fire.

  The door opened suddenly and a huge black man entered. “I’m Abraham Dooley. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Right.”

  “Something’s come up, Mr. Sabado,” he said with a smile. “We’ll have to reschedule. Please come with me.”

  “Sure,” I said, uncertainly.

  “Good.” He opened the door and led me out.

  Down a hall lined with doors that I presumed opened into other interrogation rooms, to a back stairway and down stairs.

  Dooley followed me all the way down—initially, I didn’t think anything of it. I would expect to get escorted out of the police department. But we went past the first floor and into a parking garage.

  “My car’s over there,” he said.

  “I can take the T.”

  He waved me away. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Sabado. With all you’ve been through, giving you a ride home is the least we can do.”

  “Thanks.”

  He didn’t say anything as we drove outside. It was bright out. Blue sky. Glare off the white of the police building. I didn’t mind getting a ride home; I’d come in on the train and it was a pain to go home.

  “Did you know I was partners with Officer Loquess?” he said suddenly.

  “No.”

  “But you did see me in headquarters when you came in?”

  “You’re pretty unmistakable.”

  “Yeah. I get that a lot. Well, we’ll get you home.”

  Home was up in Gloucester. I’d hated the Parker Street apartment. When I’d moved out it was back into my family’s place. Somehow, the idea of being in Katelin’s jurisdiction just made me angry. I kept thinking what it might be like if she caught me speeding or jaywalking—not that she ever would. Flyers didn’t do traffic patrol, and the last jaywalking ticket in Boston must happened before Prohibition.

  Then, Mom died suddenly. Stood up one morning, got ready to go to work down at Addison-Gilbert Hospital, collapsed into a coma. They took her there and she never woke up. Dad had to hear about it over the radio since he was fishing off the Banks. He made it home in a few days and together we buried her. Dad sold the boat and lay around the house for a couple of months and then I found him downstairs slumped over the table: heart attack. I’d heard about one spouse dying shortly after the other but now I saw it firsthand.

  Years later, I’m still there.

  Being a passenger makes me reflective, I suppose.

  Then, we crossed over the Charles River and he signaled to get off in Somerville.

  “The best way to Gloucester is up I-93 and 128.” I felt ridiculous. He must know this.

  “Ah,” he said. He glanced at me then back to the road. “I have an errand to make.”

  “You can let me off at North Station, then. I can take the train.”

  “No. I don’t think so.” He glanced at me again then back to the road.

  “I need to get home.” I felt my voice get high. I looked around. We were still on the off ramp. Maybe I could jump out of the car when he had to stop. I looked at him and he was watching me.

  “Just stay in the car and everything will be fine.”

  “This corner’s good,” I started to open the door as he stop at a light.”

  “Sweet Jesus in cashmere,” he said in a tired voice that said he knew exactly what I was thinking. Dooley pulled out his gun—not pointing it anywhere. Just holding it. I realized how huge he was. He was a little taller than I was but with big shoulders and chest that looked like he could toss me over the car, much less in it. Without thinking, I raised my hands.

  He held his gun so he knew I was looking at it. “This is a Glock 9 millimeter. Do you know what it will do to a man?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good. It’s better not to know. Now close the door. I am not going to hurt you. But I need to take you someplace where we can talk.”

  I nodded.

  “You are an idiot,” Dooley said as he holstered the pistol in his jacket. “When an officer of the law says stay in the fucking car you stay in the fucking car, do you not?” He turned and stared at me. “Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now put down your goddamned hands.”

  I held them in my lap. “Where are we going?”

  “Someplace you can tell me everything you know about Misty.”

  I stared at him, stunned by a name I had not heard for years.

  oOo

  It came to me then. “You did something. What?”

  He looked at me slowly and turned back to the road. “Something bad. Or Misty did. I don’t know which.”

  “That’s impossible.” I shook my head. “Misty was a figment in my head. A personality disorder—”

  “I don’t know what she was when she was in your head. But when she was in my head, she was real enough.” Dooley shook his head. “This is no good. They’re going to be looking for both of us soon. Once they realize I’m gone, they’re going to want to talk to you. We need to find a place to talk. Private. Cozy.”

  I stared at him. “Are you coming on to me?”

  Dooley snorted. “You wish.” He grinned at me. “But a little perfume or a nice sun dress can do wonders.”

  That kept me silent the rest of the way.

  oOo

  Dooley pulled into a vacant spot in front of a disreputable-looking bar-front on Broadway. The windows were boarded over with plywood and the edges were separating. The roof was low—some of the shingles had fallen off and more than a couple were lying on the sidewalk in front. The closest thing to a name was a broken collection of letters hanging in the front window like some disheveled game of Hangman: “G__y R___b_d.” The place didn’t look functional, much less open. I said so.

  “It’s always open,” Dooley said shortly.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  “The Gray Rosebud,” he said, looking at the place with evident satisfaction. “Owned by one of the last surviving members of the old Killeen gang.”

  “Who were they?”

  “One of the Irish gangs from long before Winter Hill took over the underworld. In the first gang war it was the Charlestown versus Winter Hill. TKO for Winter Hill by virtue of having some remaining survivors. The second gang war was the Killeens versus the Mullins, a decided knockout by the Mullins. The third was the Whitey Bulger Takeover when Howie Winter retired. That lasted until Bulger ran off. This gentleman,” Dooley gestured at the storefront, “had the good sense to leave town when the Killeens and the Mullins were in the ninth round. Howie Winter’s truce included him and he came home.”

  “When was that?”

  “Back in the seventies.”

  I appraised Dooley. “You’re a little young.”

  Dooley shrugged. “I am a student of Boston history. Besides, he’s my father.”

  oOo

  “Pop!” yelled Dooley when he came in.

  An old white man came out fro
m the back. His face crinkled into a grin when he saw Dooley. “Son!”

  They hugged one another and I stood off to one side in the traditional third wheel stance.

  “Pop,” Dooley said when they released one another. “This is David Sabado.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said the old man as he offered his hand. “Tom Dooley, like the song.” It was absolutely clear he had never heard of me.

  “Same here.” I left the cognitive dissonance from an aging white Irishman being Dooley’s father for another time. I had enough to worry about.

  Dooley leaned towards Tom. “We’re going to talk privately for a bit.”

  “Okay.”

  Dooley led me to a booth in the back. “Couple of Harps, Pop?”

  “Coming up.”

  “We won’t be bothered for a while,” Dooley said as he sat down. “Pop doesn’t open until two.”

  “I thought you said this place was always open.” I sat down at the booth.

  “It’s always open to me.”

  The two beers appeared a moment later. Dooley held his up. “It’s always happy hour somewhere.”

  It had been a rough morning. I nodded and clinked his glass with mine and drank a third of it. I put down the beer. I felt it roll through my empty stomach and my head went light. “So, what happened?”

  Dooley nodded and told me about the William Wallace and Oscar Plante murders, how connected Katelin seemed to be.

  “So,” he said. “We’d pretty much tied all of the murders to Tim Rabbitt. Loquess came up with a sweet theory: Wallace was messing with the church congregation so Rabbitt killed him. Plante saw something or figured something out so Rabbitt killed Plante and split. Then, last Tuesday I get a call from Sandra Kohl.” He stared at me, levelly.

  He’d already mentioned Sandy, so I was prepared. I stared back.

  Dooley broke it off with a wave of his hand. “Kohl tells me she has information that she wants to pass on. Information about Tim Rabbitt. I agreed to be the conduit. But it’s not enough to talk on the phone. She has to meet me in person. Okay. But that’s not enough, either. It has to be without Loquess.”

  Dooley tipped his glass towards me. “This, I thought, was a little much. I ask why. She says seeing Loquess was too embarrassing. I’d already heard what happened to Schmidt—”

  “Who’s Schmidt?”

  “Officer assigned to take care of Kohl the night that Rabbitt was murdered. Apparently, appearances are deceiving: she’s really not as weak as two sticks tied together with butter. Schmidt came in the next day looking like he’d been through a garbage compactor, a big grin all over his face.”

  “Ah.” Not for the first time I wondered what I’d missed out on that one night with Sandy.

  Dooley grinned sourly. “So I figured that was one possibility. More likely, I thought she might be trying to set up a meeting. She tells me she’ll see me at the church.”

  Dooley stopped for a minute and drank down the remainder of his beer. “Can I get another one, Pop?”

  The old man appeared from the back as if by magic. “Here y’go.” He put two Harps in front of us. Dutifully, I drank the rest of my first one so I could start the next.

  “I get to the church, right? Sure enough, Rabbitt is waiting for me. He looks like hell—like he hasn’t eaten or slept in a week. Even so, I have my weapon out and covering him. He pulls out a knife and I tell him to drop it or die. He puts it down on the ground and lays face down. I kick the knife away. I cuff him. That’s when it got weird.” Dooley rubbed his face for a moment. “The instant I touch him, I feel strange. A little disoriented. A little dizzy. Then, it’s like some thin smoke starts to fill the room—strands of it. Different colors, too: purple, red, green. Food poisoning, I think. Something. Suddenly, I feel squeezed inside. Like I’m pushed into a little bubble. I uncuff Rabbitt and put my weapon away. This is odd, I think. He comes up and kneels, looking at me like he’s never seen me before. I walk over and pick up the knife. It’s a wicked little straight blade—a skinning knife. I come back to him, looking at him. I can’t figure out what’s going on. I’m doing things but I’m not thinking about things. You know what I mean?”

  I nodded, not knowing at all but unwilling to stop the story.

  Dooley nodded back and sipped his beer. “Then, I lean down and slip the knife right into his chest. Rabbitt gives me a surprised look and falls back.”

  “You killed Tim Rabbitt?”

  “It would seem so.”

  I felt oddly calm—not like I was talking to a killer at all.

  “Inside I’m yelling but nothing’s getting out. The colored smoke is everywhere so I can barely see. It’s like trying to make your way through a burning fireworks factory. And I’m clumsy. Barely able to walk. I manage to make it to the back of the church, to where Rabbitt lived, and lay down on the bed, and then the smoke overwhelms me completely. When it clears, I’m not there anymore.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Dooley nodded again. “This is the weirdest thing of all. I saw. I acted. Occasionally, I thought things. But I—me, myself and I—wasn’t there at all. I remember everything perfectly from then on. No smoke. No dizziness. No confusion. But I’m not there. Someone else is.”

  Insane, I thought. I looked over towards the door. Pop was sitting behind the bar, a racing form in front of him. He was watching us. His face was cold and I suddenly remembered that this man was one of the survivors of the Irish gang wars.

  “Someone else,” I said, trying to figure out what to do.

  “Yeah. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” He stared into the beer moodily. “I was there when I reached Rabbitt’s bed but when I woke up I wasn’t. I was this… Dooley-thing. Dooley undead or something. Maybe that’s the way to think about it.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly.

  Dooley looked up. “The Dooley-thing left and went to my apartment over in Allston. Slept the night through and went in the next afternoon. He talked to Loquess and pulled out all that stuff—” Dooley gave me a long appraising glance. “There is some truly fucked-up shit between you and her. When this all settles out, you two have got to get some serious counseling. And I haven’t even heard your side of it. I bet that’s going to be fun.” He wound down for a moment, thinking.

  “You talked to Katelin about me?”

  “Not now. I’m not drunk enough. Then, this morning, you come in. The Dooley-thing is all hot about you. All excited. You get in and Loquess and the Dooley-thing go into the observation room to watch. Then, the Dooley-thing fakes a phone call and gets Loquess to run out on your interrogation. Part of some big plan—which I’m not privy to since I’m not remembering any thoughts. The Dooley-thing clearly has access to every memory I ever had but I haven’t got dick from it.”

  I leaned back in the booth. I watched Dooley. He sure didn’t look like any sort of killer. Oh, he had the big dangerous man thing down. But I got no impression of immediate threat. “What happened next?”

  “Then, the Dooley-thing chloroformed Loquess and carried her, unconscious, into this basement in a nearby building, which, apparently, it had prepared beforehand.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know how all this sounds. I’m not a psychopath. I have a bachelor’s degree in math from Boston University and I graduated from Suffolk Law School. I’m not crazy.” He snorted. “At least, not yet. But I feel like I’m going to be.”

  “You chloroformed her?”

  “Yeah.” He sipped his beer. “Sean Gifford was tied up in the basement. I—the Dooley-thing—slugged him around for a little bit while it waited for Loquess to wake up. Then, they all talked for a couple of minutes. Then, it reached around and sliced Gifford’s throat. Gifford died. The Dooley-thing grabbed Loquess and that damned colored fog rolled in. When it cleared, Loquess was gone and Gifford was still dead but I was back. I went outside. My car was still there. I raced back to BPD. I was going to tell Hoffman and Rush about it but I got scared. You puked and the two of them came o
ut. They decided to let you stew for a bit—but I knew you were what the Dooley-thing was hot about. So I took you out of there.” He stopped and looked at me. “You hungry?”

  “I suppose.”

  Dooley finished his beer and put it down on the table. “Pop?” he called out to Tom. “I’m going in the kitchen.” He rose and led me through the double doors in the back of the bar.

  Tom nodded as we passed and went back to his racing form.

  Dooley pointed to one of the stools at a long table. “Sit there.”

  Dutifully, I sat. “Where did you hear the name Misty?”

  Dooley rummaged around in the cabinets and brought out mayonnaise, a few spices and a monstrous can of tuna fish. He ripped it open on an industrial strength can opener. “That was the last thing the Dooley-thing said: Hello, Katelin. You don’t know me. My name is Misty.” Dooley looked at me, his eyes red. “Who the hell is Misty?”

  “A figment of my imagination.” So I told him my story, all of it: Gerald, Amanda, Donald, the time in McLean, and of course, Misty. “Misty was the personality that told me how to get rid of the others. I pulled them out with my bare hands—metaphorically speaking, of course. She stayed. She was helping me with the piano, helping a young boy navigate the currents of life.” I shook my head. “They were all imaginary, Misty included. Finally, the night I met Katelin I cast her out as well. It’s just been me in here ever since.”

  Dooley slid a plate over to me. On it was a beautifully made toasted tuna sandwich placed just so with a radish next to it carved into the shape of a rose.

  “This is lovely,” I said around a mouthful of spicy tuna. “But I’ve never had tuna like this.”

  “It’s the curry powder. Nobody expects it. I used to cook for Tom when I was a kid.”

  I decided conversation could wait until I finished.

  Afterwards, he delicately wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Whatever was in my head was no figment,” Dooley said quietly. “Or you’ve invented some sort of contagious mental disease.”

  “Well, if she’s real, what is she?”

  “I don’t know. But I bet I know somebody who does.”