The Dorchester Five

by Peter Manus

  “Busy as all get-out—well, but you must know how it is when tax season approaches,” he says. I’m picking up fast that Roger Coburn’s the type who only works—even his small talk’s about work. Golf’s a waste of his time, and he even resents doing lunch as a means of wooing clients. Except that at least over lunch you can talk shop. No way this man is married.

  “Isn’t tax season early spring?” H.P. humors him.

  “Not for the trust clients,” he assures us, shaking a finger in the air. “Got to get the charitable donations out before the close of the calendar year.” He stops by an office door and ushers me ahead with a flourish. “Shall we be quick? I have a three o’clock.”

  “Depends on how direct we are in our answers,” Harry says.

  I smirk to myself at Harry’s royal “we.”

  For the head honcho at a reasonably high-profile firm in a reasonably high-profile city, Coburn’s private domain is on the tight side. Not too surprising, as he strikes me as the minimal overhead kind of manager. Walls are painted a non-distracting green-grey, two computers with oversized screens, skinny blinds covering the view, and very little in the way of desk clutter. This is a man who likes his distractions minimal. Cops, of course, thrive on distraction—observing the trivial in its natural habitat is the name of our game. I kind of have a hankering to vomit my overstuffed pockets across his desk, just for balance, but I keep it together.

  “Naturally, I’ll do whatever I can to help you out,” Roger is saying, “but the clients do have this little bug in their ear about their privacy. How close are we to putting the Elliot Becker matter to rest?” In my head, this translates to his wanting to know how long it’s going to be until he gets to unfreeze Becker’s client matters and start making money on them. Not that I blame him for needing to know that, but I always get a headache when people make you figure out their motives because it would be indiscreet to state them aloud, while they have no compunctions about pursuing those motives single-mindedly.

  We sit and Harry takes the lead. “Three of the five Dorchester Five defendants have been murdered recently. Becker’s death falls between the first two killings. We know he was the Culligans’ lawyer.”

  “The killings are all connected, in your estimation?” Coburn says. Like a good lawyer, the man presumes nothing.

  “You don’t usually have a string of slayings carried out by multiple killers,” Harry says.

  “But the modus operandi vary, am I to gather?”

  “True enough,” Harry admits. “In fact, they vary remarkably.”

  I add, rather honestly, I think, “To the point where it took us until pretty recently to even connect Becker with the others.”

  He looks surprised. “Why, it occurred to me the moment I read about that other fellow’s death in the paper. The one who ran the Rhode Island establishment.”

  “Guess you could have put two and two together for me last time we spoke,” Harry says dryly. “Shucks, if only I’d asked.”

  Coburn eyes him, tapping a finger against his nose. “I, too, wish I had thought to state what I’d presumed was glaringly obvious,” he say dryly.

  “Maybe it’s obvious if your focus is the law,” I say, trying to push ahead. “You probably identify a case by the lawyers who handled it more than by any other factor. The rest of us focus more on the salacious elements. For example, seen anything in the papers indicating that the media has picked up on the Becker connection, even after Wilkie Morley’s death?”

  He looks astonished. “Why, I’d presumed that the serial killer angle was being kept quiet by your department,” he says.

  “Nope, not us,” says Harry. “You’re just way, way out ahead of the pack. It’s why we’re here, sir. Looking to catch up, any way we can.” I have to say, this is one of the rare times that I can’t tell if Harry’s using a tactic or someone’s actually rankled him.

  “So now that we finally know what we’re supposed to be asking you,” I say, “care to tell us about the trust Becker set up for the Culligans?”

  Apparently comfortable at having been acknowledged as our superior at our own job, Coburn turns to one of his computers and taps the screen to life. “I pulled it up, in anticipation,” he says. “It’s essentially a care and provision arrangement. Allowed Becker to make decisions about the needs of the patient, upgrades to medical equipment and services, etcetera. Needed to consult with the creator, but I don’t see anything here that gives that party veto power over an expenditure that falls within the terms. That’s standard.”

  “Sounds remarkably simple for a long-term arrangement,” I comment.

  “If all parties are in agreement, straightforward is best,” he says. “Complexities can allow all manner of hobgoblins into an arrangement.”

  “What I’m hearing is that Becker exercised a remarkable amount of discretion over the money,” Harry says.

  “Naturally, all spending would be on the beneficiary’s behalf,” Coburn says comfortably.

  “Justified when, though?” Harry throws at him. “To who?”

  “To any interested party who sought an accounting, in a timely manner.”

  “So I can think of the Culligans as interested parties, but they weren’t likely to question Becker’s actions as long as they got the meds, the meals, and the full cable package. How about the creator—might as well call him Myeroff, since we know. Could he demand an accounting?”

  “Conceivably,” Coburn says. “Although, as Jake Culligan is still a young man, it’s unlikely that there will be much principal left when the terms expire.”

  It strikes me that Coburn is still unaware that Jake Culligan is dead. I decide to save that juicy tidbit for later, and jump into the conversation before Harry has a chance to spill it.

  “Can you give us the dollar amount for the principal, Mr. Coburn?”

  “That I cannot,” he says readily. “Confidentiality, you know. But I’m sure that if you put your mind to it, you can ballpark it.”

  “Okay, I’ll play,” I say. “So if I were to ballpark it at, say, eighteen, twenty million, would I need to put my mind to it much more?”

  He wags the finger at me cheerily. “I’d say you’d be safe to start putting your mind to other matters.” So what do you know? Apparently I get to play smart cop, this round.

  “Mr. Coburn, if Becker was supposed to be keeping Jake comfortable, would he need to be in relatively steady contact in the Culligans?”

  “That’s the way it generally works,” Coburn says opaquely.

  “So was he, to your knowledge?”

  “There is evidence to that effect. There have certainly been no complaints from the Culligans.”

  “Well, we’ve already talked about how the Culligans wouldn’t be likely to demand much once they were settled into a care routine,” I say. “So was there some other form of evidence that Becker was tending to them regularly?” See, that, Zoey—told you I should have gone to law school. Witness evades, Pop pursues, barracuda style.

  “Yes, there’d be Becker’s own record of the time he put into managing the trust.”

  “Like billable hours?”

  “Not unlike those,” he concedes.

  “So what might Becker have been doing to keep tabs on Jake? Maybe send a junior lawyer or a paralegal out to the Culligan place once a quarter to make sure their needs are met?”

  “It might be handled that way. Many lawyers, including myself, prefer to keep in touch personally with the beneficiaries of the trusts we manage.”

  “So you make the rounds yourself? How often, once a month? Sounds like a gravy train, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  He colors visibly, if only for a moment. My gut impression, however, is that this is because he is essentially ethical and doesn’t like being accused otherwise, rather than because I caught him pulling the old “billing for breathing” caper. “Clients under a care arrangement can be greatly aided by a vigilant attorney. In most cases, however, regular site visits aren�
�t necessary unless an alteration to the arrangement is under contemplation.”

  “Okay, my bad, and cancel one gravy train,” I say agreeably. “Maybe in this case there’d be a need to make sure the trust money is being put to the right use? What if Momma Culligan sells her kid’s massage table to fund a trip to Vegas, or the nurse is putting Jakey’s meds into her own arm? Guys like Jakey can’t complain.”

  Coburn nods like a pleased schoolmarm. “Well, I think you’ve just explained why Becker would need to keep regular tabs on the beneficiary in this case. And of course he’d pay himself out of the trust; hence the record of hours.”

  “Sure, but the point here is that it sounds to me like you’re saying that most lawyers don’t keep such close tabs on what’s going on with their trust beneficiaries unless someone starts complaining, and we don’t actually know if Becker was making an exception in this case and keeping close tabs on the Culligans, except for the fact that he paid himself as if he were doing just that. I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, but if Becker was feeding himself from the trust—not so greedily as to risk depleting it, but enough to keep himself in oysters and champagne—there’s just him to say that he’s earning that bread through his dedicated service to young Jake, am I right?”

  “I think we have a cynic in the room,” Coburn says coolly, “but I follow your logic, yes.” I get the feeling that the indignation is, at least in part, an act. Fact is, I think that on one level ol’ Roger’s relieved to discover that at least someone else has cottoned to his own theory that Becker was an immoral SOB who could have caused the firm some serious embarrassment if anyone had been—or started—keeping tabs on him.

  I nod, satisfied. “So now that Becker’s dead, what happens?”

  He recites. “We at the firm meet with both the trust creators and its beneficiaries to identify a suitable replacement to manage the assets.”

  “Creator’s dead too though, right?”

  “Hiram had a co-creator.”

  “Yolie carries on?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.”

  “Okay. Have you met with her on it yet, if you can answer?”

  “Put it this way,” he says. “Step one is to pull together the figures so as to inform all parties of how the firm has performed insofar as investing the principal and whatnot.”

  Harry gets back into it. “Meaning you’re still dressing up the dog-and-pony show to convince the clients to allow the trust money to continue to sit with you.”

  “We have an excellent return on our managed investments and several partners with significant experience in overseeing medical care situations, myself included,” he says. “I see no reason why anyone sensible would contemplate moving this trust to another fiduciary.”

  “You’ve sold me already,” I say. “And in the meantime, I guess the payments keep coming out of the trust department as they did when Becker was alive?”

  “I’ve seen to that personally,” he agrees.

  “Handy. That makes you the guy I need to ask about the nurse.”

  He steals a glance at the corner of his computer screen—today’s way of checking the time. “Jake Culligan’s home health aide, do you mean?” he says.

  “That’s the one. I don’t suppose she’s named in the file?”

  “Not in the creating document,” he says, but he’s game to bang up the expense account. I like a guy in a hurry—tends to get me the info I need with a little less of the lunge and parry crap. “Monthly care payments are wired directly to Prudence Culligan.”

  “The mother? I’m confused. We met Pruddie Culligan, and she may have a lot of talents, but nursing does not appear to be one of them.”

  He shakes his head while scanning the document some more. “The home health aide payments can go through the client. Happens from time to time.”

  “Why, if you don’t mind giving us a lesson?” Harry asks. “Seems like that would be almost tempting fate as far as a potential misuse of funds.”

  Roger nods mildly while continuing his perusal. I watch the pages scroll by, reflected in his glasses. “There are various reasons we might set it up that way, the most common being that the patient insisted on a particular nurse, and the lawyer does not want to be on record as having been a party to the arrangement. Someone uncertified or an illegal—that sort of thing.”

  “All about covering your ass, huh?” I muse, totally dissatisfied.

  “Much of life is,” Roger agrees comfortably. I can tell by the assertiveness of his keyboarding that he’s shutting both the trust doc and the interview down.

  “Could it be that the person who actually tends the books might know something?”

  “Be happy to check for you, but right now, unfortunately…” he says, clicking away.

  On cue, Coburn’s phone buzzes. I rise, and both men follow suit. Harry gives me the wink, and I have to agree that I’ve earned the right to drop our little closing bomb.

  “Hey, since you’ve been so helpful to us, Mr. Coburn, I thought it would be fair to give you a little intel in return.”

  “Just trying to help clear the air in connection with Becker’s death so we can all move along,” he says, coming round the desk to herd us the few feet toward the door. “I’ve got another opportunity to be helpful, right on your heels, so what you could really give me in return for my assistance is that you allow me to stay somewhat close to schedule.”

  “Ah, but this you’re going to want to hear,” I say. “We went over to see Jake, just to satisfy ourselves that he hadn’t miraculously recovered and jumped into the revenge racket.”

  “And of course he hadn’t,” Coburn says to press me along. “Brain damage like his doesn’t mend itself. Wish we’d spoken earlier on that, too. Could have saved you the trip.”

  “You’re right again. Jake Culligan hasn’t recovered,” I say.

  “Indeedy,” Coburn says perfunctorily.

  Harry decides I’m stringing it out too long. “He’s dead,” he says flatly.

  Coburn stops short, then looks from one of us to the other, waiting for the punch line.

  I give it to him. “Leaves me wondering who is chowing down the meals-on-wheels you’ve authorized to continue going out this month. But—not my hunt, eh Rog?”

  He looks across at me and for the second time reddens very briefly. “You simply must try the crow,” he says. “It’s absolutely marvelous.”

  Gotta say, I like a man who takes it like he dishes it.

  Downstairs, I shoo Harry. “Go cool your jets—bug Malloy or something,” I say, punching my cell. “Got some girl stuff.”

  I call the law firm—good reception, too, being as I’m standing right outside. They bounce me around, and then Penny Dupris picks up. Looks like Roger’s got the whole team trained to hop in for Saturday duty.

  “Marina Papanikitas. Remember me?” She does, but then I’ve got a good name for that. “Mind joining me for a butt?”

  She shows up squinting into the wind just like last time. I get a flash memory of our prior conversation, and how I’d gotten the sense that she’d known there was something off about Elliot Becker’s draw from the Culligan trust. Plays it close to the chest, our Penny. She’s a tiny bit full in the face, I can’t help noticing, and since this is not a girl who is going to let the pounds creep in on her, I figure congratulations are due. She catches me snatching a glance at her left hand. Looks kind of bare where there used to be the dime-store engagement ring.

  “Boy, you don’t miss a thing, do you?” she says. “I’m having it resized.”

  I smile in apology. “How far along are you?”

  “Like fourteen weeks.”

  I can’t help my maternal side from coming out. “Todd still into it?” Or maybe that’s my vigilante side, come to think of it—the side that wants to break bones when a guy leaves a girl high and dry after she turns up pregnant.

  She makes a face like I’d better believe it. “He’s walking on air. Anyway, even if he weren’
t still into it, the wedding would be very much on. It’d be me in my big white dress, walking Todd down the aisle with my father’s shotgun. We’re moving up the date, just so I don’t show. Personally I think it’s crazy in this day and age but his mother’s old school.”

  “Sounds good all around. Hope you’re real happy.”

  Her hair’s loose today, and she holds it at her neck with both hands to keep it from whipping her face. “So what’s on your mind?”

  “Was just upstairs talking to Roger Coburn about the Culligan situation. He had to run, and I have a couple of questions that I think you’d answer better than he would anyway.”

  She shrugs. “I can’t say anything that wouldn’t be okay with the firm.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “You be the judge. First, I was talking to Pruddie Culligan and she mentioned that a man came by to check on Jakey. Described him as a lawyer type, whatever that means. Said she didn’t know him and that it was the first time anyone had dropped by to check on things. Do you know if Mr. Becker sent someone out there shortly before his death?”

  She frowns. “That’s totally weird,” she says. “Maybe they called, and Mr. Becker went himself. There wouldn’t have been any reason for him to bother telling any of us that.”

  “Mrs. Culligan seemed to think it was at the firm’s initiative. It couldn’t have been Becker himself, either, because she knew him and she said it was some man she’d never met. Said he was young and snooty. Ring any bells?”