“Okay, doctor … humor us, would you. How is the DNA similar?” Dickie couldn’t help but think the professor sounded like one of the scientists he watched on Discovery Channel. Crass. Over-educated. Smarter than everyone else. The attitude the guy projected felt demeaning. It was hard to ignore.
Prick, Dickie said to himself.
“Your toxicologists could probably answer this better, Detective. But I’ll give it my best. When you come down to it, we are not so much different than plants. Our DNA, speaking scientifically, appears almost identical on paper.”
Dickie picked his teeth with a toothpick he took from a bowl at the TGI Fridays the night before. As the professor spoke, he pictured two strands of the DNA ladder, the helixes, twisting next to each other.
“You see,” Shelton continued. He held out the seedling. Pointed at different sections of it with the tip of his pen. He smelled of Old Spice and used bookstore dust. “In all of us, mitochondrial DNA is found in the energy-producing organelles of the cell called ‘mitochondria.’ ” He peered up over the top of his glasses to make sure they were listening and paying close attention. “Most of our DNA is found in the nucleus of two types of what we call copies—nuclear DNA, which is routinely used for the typing you are likely familiar with. But also mitochondrial DNA, which is a shorter piece of DNA found in hundreds, I’d say, even thousands, of copies per cell.”
Dickie and Anastasia shook their heads, as if to say, Ah, now we get it.
“If you come upon a scene, you should take samples of those plant species that might be out of character for that particular region. This way we can use this sort of mitochondrial DNA typing to wipe out other possibilities. It won’t convince me. I’m already there. But you’ll need this additional evidence when you prosecute.”
“You get that, Rossi?” Dickie wondered how it was going to help them to find a murder suspect. Forget about courtrooms. He had made up his mind—this guy wasn’t going to make it that far if they found him.
“I got it all, Shaughnessy.”
The doctor looked at his watch. “I am stressed for time. Certainly, whoever allowed this ‘clue’ to escape onto the scene of this crime did not intend it to happen. That’s one possibility. The other is, he did intend it to be left there. It’s either a mishap or a deliberate attempt to confuse or say something.”
Dickie and Anastasia took a breath. The professor paused.
“But then, of course,” the doctor continued, “it could have been frozen. A test I ran indicated that it’s dead. It would not grow, in other words, if we planted it. The flower it spawns is sometimes called the Dutchman’s Pipe Cactus. Or the Nightblooming Cereus. The scientific term we use here is, Epiphyllum oxypetalum.”
“Dutchman’s Pipe sounds exotically erotic.” Dickie raised his eyebrows.
“Great turn of phrase, Shaughnessy. Cinemax fan, I see.” Anastasia laughed.
The doctor walked over to his computer and Googled “Queen of the Night.” Dickie stood in back of the doctor’s chair, waiting for the white screen to produce that list of water blue links.
“You see,” Shelton said. He pointed to 7,230,000 hits the phrase returned. His glasses hung from a chain around his neck. He breathed laboriously, reminding Dickie of a chain smoker. “There are chat rooms and sites where you can buy these flowers. People today will start a chat room about anything—including the Epiphyllum oxypetalum.”
Dickie was interested in this observation. “Make a note, Rossi. Maybe get inside a chat room, start talking like you’re a young blonde hottie looking for these flowers. See what happens?”
Sounded totally NCIS, but what the heck.
“I need to run more tests. Call a few colleagues. Which will take some time. But I should be able to pinpoint where the seedling originated from and even track down its source within, say, a few dozen miles. Shouldn’t be that hard with a little bit of patience, Internet searching, and study of the botanical patents filed for the species.”
“Patents?”
“Correct. Each species has its own patent. Ever drive by a cornfield and see those signs along the side of the road with numbers on them?”
“Where are these flowers mainly from, Doctor?”
A strong wind blew outside, whistled underneath the cracks of the windows. They all looked out into the parking lot. The tops of the trees bent toward the east. A shiny, dark purple hawk with an orange beak and beady black eyes pecked at a squirrel carcass in between two yellow parking lines as a Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows drove up to the lab entrance and parked.
“Speaking specifically of the units traded on the Internet, most are from South America. They’re imported into the states from buyers and sellers throughout the world. You see, Detective, people are attracted to the allure of her bloom. The Epiphyllum oxypetalum opens at night and closes before dawn. It’s quite compelling. Brazil, I think, is the host country for the annual Queen of the Night Festival. You’ll probably want to get your computer forensic people to amp up their end. There’s probably an answer for you somewhere on this young girl’s computer.”
Dickie thought a minute. “What about eBay?” They had heard Lisa Marie traded on eBay, but the computer forensics lab hadn’t found any sign of it on her computer.
“That is a possibility. Hold on.” The professor Googled “Queen of the Night, eBay.”
Hundreds of hits. There were literally dozens of eBay sites trading the Queen of the Night flower.
“Appears you two have your work cut out for you.” Shelton scrolled down through all the eBay hits.
“In your opinion,” Dickie paced in back of where the professor sat, “you think it’s a dead end? I mean, like you said, this thing could have been on the ground for weeks—dropped there by some Boston College botany student.”
“I did not say that, Detective. Please stick to the facts. Do not overstate my opinions.” Anastasia didn’t appreciate this guy’s attitude. It was beginning to grate on her nerves. “What I said,” he paused for a quick beat, “was that perhaps there’s a chance the seedling could have been left at the scene a few days before your squad found that young woman. Seedlings are a lot like bodies, in a manner of decomposition. It takes time. In that environment, with moisture and a certain amount of protection from the elements, that time could be extended or sped up. Don’t know. This is one of the tests I need to conduct in the lab.” The doctor walked over to the coat rack near the exit, pulled his fedora off a hook, grabbed his trench coat and umbrella. He then took a peek at the clock on the wall. “I must be going if I am to make my flight north. As you can see, my car has arrived.”
Dickie helped the old man put his jacket on.
“Thanks, Detective. These bones of mine sometimes do not want to cooperate.”
Taking a look at Shelton decked out in his fedora, trench coat, white shirt and bow tie, an umbrella hanging from his arm, Dickie said, “Hey, doc, I gotta be honest with you. Besides the Amish beard, you’ve got this whole John Steed-Patrick Macnee-Avengers vibe happen’n.” Anastasia looked on, puzzled. She was too young to get it. “I hope you’re not holding out on us, like that secret agent, Steed. That would not be a smart thing to do.”
“Don’t insult me, Detective. Please. This is a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar Vero fedora. Do I need to tell you what my clothes are worth?”
Dickie wanted to punch the guy in the face, but kept his cool. “So let me ask you then,” Dickie said as they started for the door. “Hypothetically speaking. Let’s say our vic was into these flowers and traded them on eBay. Would she have pollen or any sort of trace of these flowers on her possessions? Do they shed their DNA, I guess I’m asking?”
Neither Rossi nor Dickie could fathom a kid Lisa’s age so engaged in the hobby of e-trading flowers. Her parents had said nothing about it.
“Of course. If she trafficked in the Epiphyllum oxypetalu, her bedroom, handbag, clothes, all of these would be covered with a fine layer of residue from the Queen that is quite
easy to observe under the glass eye of a microscope.”
Forensics probably overlooked this when they went through Lisa Marie’s belongings. The scrub-down at the morgue would have taken care of any of it left on her body. “Anastasia, make a note to call forensics and tell them to FedEx any clothes taken from Lisa’s bedroom up here to Mr. Shelton as soon as possible.”
“That’s ‘Doctor.’ Not sure I can get to that for you right away.”
“Oh, I think you can, Professor,” Dickie shot back.
Shelton looked at Dickie, who stared him down.
“Perhaps I’ll make some time, Detective.”
The big, beefy chauffeur dressed in black stood by the door of the Town Car.
“They treat you pretty good in Canada,” Dickie said. “Shoot. Look at this.”
“I’ll be in touch, Detective.” Shelton sat down inside the car. “A few more tests and I think I can break this thing open for you. I don’t want to get into it just yet, but I have a theory. I may know who it is you’re looking for. Driver, let’s go.”
Dickie and Anastasia stood, watched the limo drive out of the parking lot.
“So tell me, what stands out the most to you, Rossi?”
“If I had to pick something, I’d say that indentation on Lisa’s back. This flower thing—it’s probably meaningless.”
“Did anything come back from trace yet? That mold Jake had cast?”
“Yep. No known source. They tested it against the FBI’s database. Every type of vehicle they could. The idea was that she was put in a trunk and the backside of a bulb or some sort of instrument in the trunk made the indentation. But no one found a match.”
The Town Car disappeared into the woods, out of view.
“Check into this douchebag professor’s background for me, would you. I’m getting bad vibes from this guy.”
“That’s insulting, Shaughnessy.” Anastasia tilted her head to one side. “But I’m on it.”
Dickie didn’t mean anything by it. He talked to Anastasia as though she were one of the guys.
“I suppose,” Dickie said as they walked toward his Crown Vic. “You think you know what that indent is?” He opened the door and spoke to Anastasia over the roof as she held the passenger’s-side door handle across from him.
“I have my thoughts. Yes.” Anastasia opened her door and got in.
“I knew it! What might that be, Rossi?” Dickie got in. Then, thinking about it, said, “I should probably take a leak before we go. This prostate of mine is not what it used to be, Rossi.”
“TMI, Shaughnessy. And, yes, oh yeah, it’s a handle all right. A briefcase handle. Or some sort of a handle on a box.”
“That’s pretty good, Rossi. Not only thinking outside the box, but inside of it, too.”
She smiled, buckled herself in.
“Maybe Jake’s iPhone will come up with something!” They had a good laugh between them. Dickie opened the door and stepped out. “Let me ask you, seriously now. What do you think of this seedling lead?”
“It’s a ruse. Our guy left it to throw us off. Serials like to play tag, Shaughnessy.”
“I might be with you on that.” Dickie went to walk away, but stopped. “Let me take a piss and we can get back to the motel to pack up and go home. It’s too quiet out here. Spooks me.”
“I won’t argue with you on that, Shaughnessy.”
Dickie walked into the professor’s lab. He had noticed a receptionist’s office while they were inside. As soon as he got around the corner, out of Anastasia’s sight, he found a landline telephone. He didn’t want to use his cell phone. After taking one last look out the window, through the slit of the dusty blinds, making sure Anastasia hadn’t decided to follow him, Dickie dialed.
21
Monday, September 8, 10:00 A.M.
The man dressed as a mailman worked Saturdays, giving him Mondays off. This was the only reason why he had chosen the second day of the week to kidnap, torture and kill Mary O’Keefe. It simply fit into his schedule.
Mary spent a few hours in adoration at a small chapel outside Brookline every Monday morning. How had the mailman found out? After Saturday’s Mass, he walked out of St. Paul’s and shook Deacon O’Keefe’s hand. Congratulated him on such a “powerful and heartfelt” homily. “Your daughter,” the mailman said, “what a wonderful young woman she is. So devout. The reverence in her eyes. My, my, are you a lucky father to have such a wonderful child of God.”
The mailman disagreed with the Vatican’s decision to allow deacons to marry and raise families. But who was he to question the magisterium’s teaching?
Regardless, he now felt, in the scope of revenge, it had all worked out. Karma, he once heard—or, “the universe,” what a joke—was like that, wasn’t it?
O’Keefe smiled as though Mary had won a beauty contest. “Oh, thank you, my son. Are you ever so right.” As they shook hands, the deacon placed his soft left hand over the top of the mailman’s and tapped him gingerly in a comforting way. “She is blessed with such a grace and, I should add,” he couldn’t just leave it there, “going to adoration every Monday in Brookline, let me tell you,” O’Keefe winked, “sure doesn’t hurt.”
File that one away. The mailman smiled.
He left St. Paul’s, went to the library, did a quick Google search for adoration chapels in Brookline. And, wouldn’t you know, there was only one on Mondays:
The Blessed Sacrament Chapel
Adoration of Our Lord Jesus Christ, 6:00 A.M. to Noon.
It was that easy.
10:15 A.M.
The mailman sat behind Mary O’Keefe inside the Blessed Sacrament Chapel and prayed to a Lord he did not believe in. As Mary recited the rosary in a whisper in front of the gold monstrance containing the consecrated, sacred host, the mailman could feel the palms of his hands salivate.
There were candles flickering on each side of the Body of Christ. The flame was soft and manila in color. He got lost in the gentle grace of the fire and black smoke billowing in swirls upward. The sight of this brought him back.
The furnace … his nose pressed up against the grate. “No, Teacher. Please. Please do not do this. It burns. You’re hurting me.”
There were two additional devotees in the chapel. It was quiet, only the hum of a fan somewhere hidden in the drop ceiling buzzing to the soft breath of prayers.
At times, Mary folded her arms. She had gotten down on the carpet in front of the host earlier that morning, and prostrated her body on the floor like a novice taking her final vows. The mailman took careful note of this. He recalled once having to do the same for punishment at the Bainbridge orphanage. But not for bad behavior on his part. As he lay there, face down, listening to the nun scold the child who had stolen food from the kitchen, he realized the punishment wasn’t so bad. It had given him a chance to consider that no, there was no life for him in the Church. His calling was not to serve God. He had grown bitter by then toward a God who took everything from him. Southie, with its people lined up for block cheese handouts and gangs and drugs and welfare, wasn’t Palm Beach, but it was home.
After an hour of adoration, he sat in a minivan outside the chapel in the parking lot, waiting for Mary O’Keefe to emerge. She lived a few blocks south. Whether she drove or walked made no difference to his plan.
He was impatient. It took intense concentration to ignore the pain. Thinking about it, he could cut himself now without thinking twice and treat one form of hurt with another. Emotional salvation, he liked to call it. Readdress existing objection. If Mary was there with him, inside the van, he could cut her open and get to the same place. Feel the same pleasure. There was rage inside him toward the Teacher. He could not express it alone. The man—the “powerful figure”—needed to be drowned out.
You will do what I tell you to …
He dragged the sharp edge of the knife blade across his forearm slowly, closing his eyes.
Opening them, looking down, he watched as the warm fluid drizzle
d down the contour of his arm, clinging to its shape.
Ecstasy. He was swept away.
The blood of the innocent …
“You will thank me,” the Teacher had said, zipping up.
Instant relief.
He was drawn out of his trance memory by the sight of Mary opening the glass door. The blood still dripping down his arm, he tied a bandana around the small incision while watching Mary put a set of rosary beads into a little pouch, zip it closed. She held the door for the woman behind her. Mary had a happy-go-lucky look about her. There was something fake about it, he felt.
He had put on his hoodie, a fake mustache he picked up at Party City, along with a standard, no-name security guard’s uniform he bought online. That get-up, plus the sunglasses, made him look ridiculous and contrived, which was exactly the appearance he was after. Any bystander who saw him would soon say something like, “This security guard who looked like the Unabomber grabbed the girl and took off.”
He pulled up alongside Mary, slid the door of the rental minivan open, then grabbed Mary by the hair. Pulling her down, he disabled her senses with a handful of gauze soaked in chloroform, then stuffed her in the back of the van, sliding the door shut. Driving over the curb, chirping the tires, the back end of the van bounced onto the street.
The young girl behind Mary screamed.
The minivan’s license plate was covered with cardboard.
He drove out onto Route 9, into traffic, disrobing the disguise with one hand, the other on the wheel, placing everything inside a black plastic garbage bag. Doing this, he realized he probably looked like some villain from an episode of Barnaby Jones or Hawaii Five-O, and laughed at the image. Still, the important thing was that Mary O’Keefe was on her way to be sacrificed. He had just the right place in mind. For now she needed that chemically induced sleep she was getting. The next twenty-four hours were going to be the worst of Mary O’Keefe’s life. The path from this world into the next would involve every level of hell she had ever envisioned in her mind as she knelt and prayed day after day, night after night.
THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller Page 11