When he hit bone, he put the knife down and picked up the hacksaw.
They think they’re smart? He sawed back and forth, back and forth. I’ll show them.
27
Tuesday, September 9, 9:48 A.M.
The last place Angela Bizzetti wanted to be on a Tuesday morning during the second week of her sophomore year was aboard the Boston Tea Party Ship. “It’s not even, like, real,” Angela told a friend as they stepped on the school bus. “It’s a replica.”
The ship was an accurate model. The hull tar black, with two yellow pinstripes running bow to stern, two masts centered perfectly on the vessel’s deck. Beyond that, it was your typical tourist trap. People from Wichita who had never been to Bean Town were wowed by the vessel. And that was the idea.
“Smells like dead fish,” Gina Belanger said as the children stepped off the bus and filed into a single line in front of the boat.
“Rat shit,” Mark Tassel shouted, getting a roar from the group.
The boat swayed to the motion of the bay as the children, antsy and impatient, waited for their guide.
“He’s not bad-looking,” Angela said, staring at the guy as he made his way to the front of the line, a clipboard in hand.
“I’m glad it’s rather chilly this morning,” the guide explained, “because on that cold night, December 16, 1773, when a group of patriots, disguised as native Americans, raided three tea ships like the one in back of me, dumping their cargoes of tea overboard and into the Boston Harbor to show their distrust of the King and disloyalty to taxes, all of your little iPod, text-messaging, boy- and girl-crazed lives changed forever.”
As the guide explained the rules of the ship, Angela tapped out and sent a text to Bernadette Alden. Angela was pissed about what Bernadette and Marcus Hardy had done the previous night in the storage room of the Abercrombie and Fitch.
YOU SKANK. U 2 BETTA HOPE
I DONT FIND YOU. 4 2DAY YOU
SAFE. 2MORROW YOUR ASS MINE.
The tour guide wore jeans, a blue hoodie, SAVE THE WHALES written on the front, DON’T BUY CORPORATE COSMETICS on the back. He was able to project his voice like an opera singer. “The rebellion would have started about right here.” He pointed to an area near the stern. The props—a chest, boxes of tea—looked like leftovers from the set of a Peter Pan play.
It was an awful thought: Sandy Duncan in green tights.
The ship was crowded. Boys and girls bunched together, talking, joking, making fun of how people lived back then. Their teacher stood with folded arms, captivated by the guide’s tutorial.
“The rebel boycott reached a terrible climax when a band of irate colonists raided these British tea ships on Griffin’s Wharf, right here, where we’re all standing.”
Angela got a text back.
LOL! WTF. BITCH. LET’S GO. ANYTIME.
“Look at this, Jackie.” Angela turned the screen toward her friend.
“As they dumped the three-hundred-and-forty-two tea chests into the harbor, the rumor is that they all shouted what are now infamous words, ‘Taxation without representation.’”
“You betta not, like, let that skank get away with that,” Jackie said. “She stole yo man and dissed you?”
Angela tapped out another text. As she did, something fell on the screen. It startled her.
“What the …?”
The wind whipped a flag above them. It sounded like a sheet hanging from a clothesline on a blustery day.
The substance that dropped on Angela’s cellphone screen was red and tacky, thick and creamy, the texture of Tabasco sauce.
“What in the heck?” Angela said. She couldn’t figure it out.
Then she felt several taps on her shoulder.
Was it raining?
Angela and her two friends stood below the front mast of the ship. It was the only section of the boat you couldn’t see getting on. Angela looked up instinctively, hoping to see the source of the red droplet on her screen. As she did, her mind didn’t quite register at first what her eyes focused on.
Mary O’Keefe’s legless, naked corpse was strapped about ten feet in the air, where a yardarm crossed the mast. She hung there as if some sort of a grotesquely dissected Christlike figure. Mary’s chest cavity was filleted open. It was clear that her insides, at least partially, had been crudely removed. Her legs were lopped off directly below the knees.
Angela couldn’t take her eyes off the dead woman as blood droplets peppered down onto her neck and into her mouth.
Then she screamed, a piercing howl startling everyone aboard the ship, grabbing their attention, beckoning them to gather around.
A gust of wind kicked up as mayhem ensued.
Two dozen teenagers ran for the exits at the same time. Two or three of them jumped into the water, swimming for the dock.
The tour guide stood on the deck staring up at Mary O’Keefe, calling someone on a walkie-talkie he pulled from his back pocket.
The devil had done his work aboard this ship, tainting this stop along the Freedom Trail forever. Generations of future schoolchildren would climb aboard the ship, then point—“Right there, on that mast. That was where the girl saw the dead woman with no legs, her insides hanging out of her like The Walking Dead.”
28
Tuesday, September 9, 1:45 P.M.
Lieutenant Ray Matikas had an obsessive-compulsive nature about him when it came to locking the doors to his office, drawers in his desk, and the elephant-gray cabinets that contained files he needed to keep private. With the call of a legless body hanging aboard the Tea Party Ship, Matikas made the appropriate shout-outs from his office, rallying the troops over the radio to head out to Dorchester Avenue. Just so happened, Dickie was on the road. Jake too. No one had seen nor heard from Anastasia Rossi in hours.
“I want everyone there ASAP,” Matikas shouted, tearing out of D-15’s parking lot.
Jake called in immediately. “What’a we got, Lieutenant?”
Matikas passed through several red lights, siren blaring, pedestrians stopping to look as the tires on his Crown Vic squealed.
“Just get your ass over there, Cooper. Looks like it’s connected to your case.”
Jake’s chest tightened.
1:47 P.M.
Back inside the D-15 squad room, one person lagged behind purposely, waiting for this moment when everyone was gone. The few blues hanging around, a Vice detective and two cops from Patrol, were in the locker rooms arguing over how the Red Sox had blown the third game of an important series against the Yankees.
Upstairs, the young cop at the front desk was calming a screaming wife. She said her husband had beat her up and took off with the family nest egg. All thirty dollars of it.
“I need you to relax, ma’am,” the officer said, “and start at the beginning.”
Getting by the front desk was not a problem for the intruder. Opening Matikas’s office door, however, was not going to be as simple.
Even though the intruder was good with a lock pick, it took a few tries. Then, making sure the coast was clear down each end of the hallway, a twist and a slight push with a Visa card and pop … the door opened.
The intruder was in.
The file cabinets were a breeze, same as Matikas’s desk. It was dark in the office with the blinds folded down.
Flipping through several manila folders, the intruder uncovered a file marked Echo 1-Echo 2.
“Ah, yes … the gold mine.”
29
Tuesday, September 9, 2:28 P.M.
Looking east from Congress Street into Boston’s Inner Harbor, standing on the bridge over Four Point Channel, the sky had turned menacing and mad. It had that dark gray color to it—same as you see on the Weather Channel in one of those tornado-hunter videos from Kansas or Missouri. A few cloud tails drifted downward, funneling, moving slowly in a vortex. Looked like ink being poured into a swirling glass of water. Yellow crime-scene tape blocked off the dock leading to the Tea Party Ship. The Congress Street
bridge was closed on both sides. The presence of the tape made the wharf look as though some sort of Revolutionary War movie was being filmed on location. The slight mist and increasingly darkening skies didn’t help. The wind whipped. Having a ship like this as the scene of such a gruesome crime, reporters and television satellite truck crews jockeying for position on the other side of saw horses, you worked under a microscope.
Matikas ordered squad cars parked on both sides of bridge, facing each other, lights flashing. The white sheet covering Mary’s hanging corpse was staged in a circus tent-like fashion around her body so no one could see or take photos. Think of a cable lineman working on a telephone pole in winter under a canopy. You get the picture.
Jake and Matikas stood below Mary’s body, looked up. Their gold badges against black leather pouches dangled from their necks on long chains. Both men shook their heads in disbelief and for several minutes, neither spoke a word.
Breaking the silence, Matikas said, “Holy shit, Cooper. This is unreal.”
Waves crashed up against the sides of the ship. White caps crested over the swells in the channel. Keeping steady on the boat became a job in itself.
“Where’s Shaughnessy, Cooper?”
“Don’t know, Lieutenant.”
“Fat bastard should be here.”
“Does it always have to be personal, Ray? Damn. Look at yourself, for crying out loud. You could stand to eat a peach now and then.”
Matikas didn’t answer. He was paying careful attention to Mary’s stubs. “Can you believe this? Look at her. Press gets hold of this, we’re fucked.”
Jake checked his watch. He, too, wondered where Dickie had run off to. And Anastasia, where in hell had she gone? Were they working together on a lead he didn’t know about? Jake thought maybe it was time to pull in the reins on those two and get control of his team. It took a true leader to earn that respect back. They might say no one forgets. But cops remember everything.
Studying Mary, Jake realized he was now part of a case that had become much bigger than a homicide investigation. This was in a different league. He even caught himself looking away, wondering if he could now ever come out of this case with a sane head. It was a cliché to say that homicide cops latched on to vices—booze, drugs, sex, gambling—after a career of dead bodies. Yet Jake could see himself falling in, not being able to crawl out of that same hole.
“If we don’t come up with something soon, Cooper, we’re done. You got anything yet? How ‘bout that super-duper, high tech CSiPhone piece of shit of yours?” Matikas lit a cigarette, titled his head back, blew the first drag up in the air. Then stared at Jake.
“I need a bit more time here. It’s only been a week. Let’s all just take a deep breath. Chill out. I’ll turn up something soon.”
Neither had to say it. Their killer had sent a message. The Optimist, as the Globe branded him, had turned a corner. He was now speaking to Jake and his team directly.
“A boat,” Jake said. He twisted his neck, stretching it from side to side.
“What’d you say, Cooper?” Matikas kept his eyes on Dickie as he walked the dock. “Has Shaughnessy qualified lately at the range, Cooper?” He took one last drag from his cigarette, looked at the end of it, flicked the butt in the water.
“Not sure, Lieutenant, why don’t you ask him?”
“What’s this about a boat, Cooper?”
“Only way this guy could have gotten her up there like that was with a boat. That video surveillance along the docks would have picked him up otherwise.”
Harbor Patrol motored up the channel by the Tea Party ship. Jake watched it go by. The driver waved. Jake nodded.
“Don’t be so sure of that, Cooper.”
Dickie walked up, gave the lieutenant a hand wave. He had a scorned child look about him. He knew what was coming.
“Where the fuck you been, Shaughnessy?”
“Takin’ care of business, Lieutenant.” Dickie stared at his boss.
Jake looked over from behind the lieutenant’s shoulder, smiling at Dickie, wagging a finger at him.
Dickie looked up at the victim. “I had a feeling … shit.”
Jake and Matikas turned.
“What do you mean?” Matikas asked.
“Well, I sensed a religious tone, maybe even motive. Now I know for certain.”
Jake had thought the same thing as he studied the way the body was presented. How the killer had left her spoke to a man with issues against Christianity. The scene would be forever etched in Jake’s mind, a blasphemous intent written all over it. Did their serial have a vendetta against the Church?
“Our guy could be a victim of the Church sex abuse scandal?” Matikas offered, thinking out loud. They walked to the stern after Jake suggested they view the crime scene from a different angle. The rain started without warning, as if someone had suddenly turned it on.
“Wasn’t Anastasia with you, Dickie?” Jake asked.
“No. I thought she was at the station. You haven’t seen her?”
“Nope.”
“Cooper here seems to think a boat was involved.”
“I’ll go there, too, Lieutenant. There’s no way one man could get a body up that high by himself.”
“He docked off here, let’s say.” Jake explained, pointing, looking toward the side of the boat that faced the open ocean. “In the middle of the night, he hoists her up on that mast with a pulley system of some sort he has on his boat. All fishing boats are equipped with a hoist to load bait and remove the catch of the day.”
“Like on Deadliest Catch, Lieutenant. Those crab cage hoists.”
The lieutenant sighed. Massaged his temples.
“Vernon,” Dickie shouted.
An officer in blue ran over. “Yeah, Dick, what’s up?”
“Listen, I want a canvass of this entire marina along the Channel. All the fishing, private and party boats, et cetera. I want every boat accounted for last night.”
Jake interrupted. Thought about the look that guy had given him. “Including Harbor Patrol,” he added.
“Yeah,” Dickie echoed. “Where they were? What time? Find out if anyone reported a boat in this area of the channel late last night. Haul their ass in if you run into a problem. Got me?”
Officer Banks flipped his police cap, covered with plastic, dripping wet from a harder rain that had picked up. The wind blew west, throwing the downpour in slanted sheets.
“Okay,” Jake said, yelling over the sound of the rain, covering himself with his jacket, “so he docks off here. He hoists her up there. Tacks her arms. Ties off her elbows with that rope and duct tape. Then ties her knees, right above where he cut off her legs, to the mast with fishing line.” He shook his head at the thought of the description. “He’s grabbing whatever is available to him. He didn’t plan this part well. Then he speeds away? Something’s not right here. We’re missing a step.”
Jake walked over to the body, stared upward, covering his face by making a visor with his hand, as if blocking the sun’s rays.
“That’s your problem, Cooper,” Matikas shouted. “I have a crapload of paperwork to get done. I’m not about to stand out here all afternoon, getting soaked. You need to start thinking about a specific type of killer. Call in that FBI profiler.” He snapped his fingers. “SA Talbot. Get me something I can work with.” Matikas watched Anastasia Rossi work her way through the officers guarding the docks and onto the ship. “I cannot bring your theory of a boat and pulleys and strange characters in the night to brass, Cooper. They’re already up my ass. I need something tangible. Like a fucking killer!” Whenever Matikas become irritated, he spoke in English and Lithuanian. “You’ve got, what, three bodies now? Three!” He held up the appropriate amount of fingers, then said something in Lithuanian. “All blondes—all with their legs missing.”
Dickie laughed.
“Funny, huh. This is hilarious, isn’t it, Shaughnessy?” Anastasia walked over with her forensic tackle box in one hand, flashlight in
the other. “Hey, glad to see our CSI could make the party. Rossi, how are you?” Matikas threw his hands up in frustration, walked toward the exit. “Follow me, all of you.”
“Sorry I’m late, Lieutenant. Cooper. Shaughnessy.” Anastasia gave head nods to both.
“I’m wondering, Lieutenant, do you think in that funny language of yours, or do you think in English?” Jake mocked.
“Up yours, Cooper. Laugh all you want. But damn it all, get me something today, before we’re all in a heap of shit. If the press makes a connection to the Church, it’s gonna get nasty.” Matikas walked off the ship, stopped halfway across the little catwalk, put a hand on the rope railing for balance, turned around. “I don’t need to tell you, Cooper, that the hourglass on your career is almost out of sand.”
Jake, Dickie and Anastasia turned, went back to the mast where Mary’s body was strung up.
“I want this entire deck swept tonight, Rossi,” Jake said. “Outside of the ship, too. Pay particular mind to rope burns and markings on the side of the ship facing the water. Things like that. Text me a brief on what you find by the end of the night.”
“We know who she is yet?” Anastasia slapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Damn, it’s pouring out, huh.” She took a poncho out of her box, stretched it open, placed it over her head.
Dickie went off to get that info. Anastasia and Jake waited. “Hey,” Jake asked in a semi-whisper, looking around, “you get a chance to check that thing out for me yet?”
Anastasia fiddled with her flashlight, turning it on and off. “Not sure I can do that, Cooper. I kinda feel dirty about going in there.”
Dickie came back. The rain made a tinny sound, almost as if hail was falling on a metal roof, as it hit various sections of the canvas sails.
“Looks like, um, from what the blues are telling me, she was identified by one of the kids on the tour. Said he recognized her from church. It looks like we got us one Mary Margarine O’Keefe, thirty-one. She lives in …”
THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller Page 14