THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller

by M. William Phelps

  “Switch what around?”

  “You’re basing your rationale on the point that vic number one was Boston Common Lisa Marie. Vic number one, don’t forget, was Quincy Market Alyssa Bettencourt, who supposedly had the m on her. Now it becomes m-i-c.”

  Dickie picked up a chalice off Father John’s desk. Looked at it. “Pure gold, I bet. This is heavy.”

  Jake wasn’t sold on it. M-i-c? Maybe.

  He walked out of the office. Across the parking lot. Up the stairs toward the rectory. Father John sat at the large dining table gluing little bells onto green felt Christmas trees he liked to drop off in the Southie housing projects around the church during Advent. The old man was lost in this simple act of giving.

  Dickie followed. “A town, maybe?” he said to Jake as they made their way into the rectory.

  “Not sure. I might be on board with a name—and that’s a stretch.” Jake held the door for Dickie to go in before him.

  “He’s not going to give us his name. That’d be too obvious.”

  Jake stopped. Turned to Dickie. “Right. Okay. Let me get this straight. If nothing else, he’s subtle, Dickie.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Remember, he tacked the body of a deacon’s daughter to the mast of the Tea Party Ship. Cut her legs off. Dug her insides out. Don’t you think he’s a bit narcissistic?”

  “Got your point. But—” Dickie hit a nerve.

  “But nothing! Give me something substantial. Not three letters that might be letters, that might be a name, that might be a town. Come on.”

  “I didn’t kill these girls, Jake. I know it hits home for you with Mary. Relax.”

  Father John looked up from what he was doing, startled by Jake’s outburst.

  “What do you have? Don’t come over here,” Jake raised his voice as Father John looked on curiously, “giving me some crap about a name that starts with m-i-c. I need more than that. I need leads, Dickie. Speculation is for TV detectives.”

  Father John watched Jake walk toward the library in the room adjacent to where the priest sat. There was a large opening between the two rooms. Father John hummed something, a hymn probably, to try and lighten the mood. The memories of being an altar boy came back for Jake as he looked at all the yearbooks lined up by year. He could smell the burning incense in the thurible during special Mass processions, the ball-shaped apparatus at the end of a chain the priests swung as they walked down the aisle, consecrating the altar and chapel. It gave the church an Old Testament aroma, made the room smoky and feel ancient. Jake delighted in preparing the incense.

  “What I’m telling you, Jake—” Dickie started to say, but was cut off.

  “Dickie, forget it.” Jake was calmed by the smell of the old books. “Father? I have to go. But we need to finish our conversation ASAP. When can I come back?”

  Father John got up from his seat, walked over and searched for a book on the shelf to Jake’s left. It was a large leather-bound yearbook. Jake wondered what he was doing.

  “The one good thing about getting old, Jake,” Father John hobbled with pain in his limbs, the book unfolded in front of him, “is that I can see the end of the road. I can feel the warmth of the light. And I know in my heart I’ve spent my whole life preparing for it. Thank the Lord, though, that my memory is still intact.”

  “What are you talking about, Father?” Jake was out of patience. He needed to get out of the rectory and into his car. Alone.

  “This book,” Father held it up, “may help you.”

  It was a compilation of St. Paul lectors for the past fifty years.

  Dickie walked over. Stared at it over the priest’s shoulder. Jake didn’t seem interested.

  The photos were black-and-white. Nothing stood out to Dickie. Father John had a look about him, though. He was taking this somewhere good.

  “Jake,” Father John stared down at a name and photo, “I heard you yell a moment ago about someone named Mic.”

  “Father, what are you getting at here? I need to be other places.”

  Father John took off his glasses. “Stuart Micah, you recall him?”

  The name was not familiar to Jake.

  Father pointed to his picture. The name sounded so biblical. “Micah.”

  M-i-c, Jake thought.

  “Tell me about him, Father?”

  Stuart Micah was a small kid when he showed up at the church. Buzzed-cut hair. Buddy Holly-type horned-rimmed glasses. Lanky frame. In the photo, he looked as if he wanted no part of his photo being taken.

  “Sad story, Jake. And, well, you just told me about Mary’s murder being personal.”

  “Sad?”

  “Stuart and his family were devout Mass attendees. His parents pushed him into becoming an altar server, then a lector. But it wasn’t in Micah’s heart. He was here because he had to be. Anyway, he grew into his role as a Catholic. Excelled, actually. He was around twenty, I think, when this photo was taken in 1967. I heard he went to Boston College, stayed in the area. Never married. Contemplated going to seminary but gave up on it after an incident he said he didn’t want to discuss. Stuart became a teacher at a local grammar school. Not sure of the name, but I can look it up. Might be JFK in Malden.”

  “What does any of this have to do with my case, Father?”

  “That’s what I’m getting at. I need to sit.”

  Dickie grabbed a chair from the dining room. Father John sat. Jake stood in front of him. Arms folded.

  “Stuart Micah got bored with teaching grammar school. He wanted to make a difference, or that’s what he told us—and worked very hard to make us believe. We had an opening in one of our orphanages up north.”

  “Which one?”

  “Bainbridge, the orphanage St. Paul’s is affiliated with. Or was, I should say.”

  “And this Stuart Micah, he went up there to teach?”

  “Well, he had nothing holding him here. His family was dead. No wife. He started a class up there for the kids who were smarter than the others. The gifted ones, I suppose they called them. Things went smoothly for years. The kids loved him.”

  Where’s the but? Jake wondered. He could almost hear the drum roll in Father John’s voice as he paused before delivering the sobering punch line.

  “Then, well, one of his kids came forward and accused him of the worst thing imaginable—which opened the floodgates. There’s much more to it. But the short end of the story is that he was tried, convicted, sent to prison.”

  “And he’s there now?”

  “I believe he’s not in great health, but yes, Stuart Micah is still alive.”

  Jake’s interest piqued. At least for the time being. What else did they have?

  “He’s been incarcerated for nearly twenty years, Jake. Everyone has his Calvary—the place of the skull. He cannot be your killer. That’s not what I’m saying. But the m-i-c fits. It’s a start.”

  “I’ll be in touch, Father. Do me a favor. Dig out all you can on Mr. Micah and have it sent over to my office—immediately. And don’t tell anyone what you’ve told me today. Especially Deacon O’Keefe.”

  Father John frowned. “You noticed that?”

  “Come on, Father. Of course.” Jake walked out of the rectory.

  Dickie turned to the priest, shrugged his shoulders in a what-am-I-missing-here gesture.

  The priest pointed to the photo. Dickie looked at it.

  “That is Deacon O’Keefe standing next to Stuart Micah in their class photo,” Father John explained. “The deacon trained that class of lectors. He and Mr. Micah were once very close, Mr. Shaughnessy.”

  35

  Wednesday, September 10 – 4:32 P.M

  Lieutenant Ray Matikas stood outside the captain’s office downtown. In the corner of the room, to his right, was a plastic fern plant, its spiked leaves covered with a coat of dust. Matikas sat on a cheap, stiff sofa. The room reminded him of going to the doctor. How we all get lost in the perpetual act of waiting. Always waiting. Hurry up and wait. The life of a white
shirt cop. Your appointment was scheduled for four. Four-thirty rolls around and you find yourself still working the next hemorrhoid out.

  Control. Everybody elbowed for it.

  “Is he around, Candis?” Matikas was sick of sitting. The captain’s secretary was playing solitaire on her computer. “Your People magazines are weeks old. I cannot sit anymore.”

  “Funny, Ray. He is, as a matter of fact. But like I said, he’s on the phone. Very important call. Just give him a few more minutes.” She never looked away from her game.

  Matikas ran a hand across his face, freshening himself up. Then poured a paper cup of water from the big upside down jug, pounded it in one loud gulp. Crumpled the cup. Tossed it in the basket ten feet away. He hated this. Being summoned to Captain Annadel Morely’s office. It was never good news. Matikas knew when he screwed up. He didn’t need to be told.

  Candis was focused on finding a home for a nine of hearts when the lieutenant went for it, walking angrily, grabbing the doorknob, barging into the captain’s office.

  “Ray!” Candis shouted, getting up, running.

  The captain was on his computer, serious look on his face, reading something. “It’s okay, Candis,” he said, not looking up or turning away from the monitor.

  Matikas went straight at him. Palmed the desk. Stared at the monitor holding the captain’s attention.

  The captain was reading an article on WebMD.

  “Important call, huh, Captain.”

  Morley smiled. “Sit down. Relax, Ray. Be with you in a minute.”

  Matikas did what he was told. Waiting, he scanned the captain’s desk and considered how well-connected Morely was. The captain smiled in a framed photo with the late Ted Kennedy. They were at some black-tie function, looked to be Harvard. In another, he stood next to Red Sox wunderkind GM Theo Epstein. They held Cuban cigars, smiled like winning gamblers. There were commendations from the mayor and City Hall on the wall in back of Morley’s desk. Photos of the captain golfing with the likes of the governor and Bill Clinton.

  Morley donned gold bars on the side shoulder of his white shirt, three stars on his collar. Matikas believed deep down he should have gotten the promotion Morley took from him only, Matikas thought, because Morley was black.

  “What’s the problem, Captain?” Matikas finally said after giving the guy his minute. “I’m busy downtown. I need to get back to my people.”

  “Ray, let me tell you, this Google thing is amazing—but very dangerous.” The captain still had not looked at Matikas. “I woke up this morning with a tiny bubble on the roof of my mouth. Thought nothing of it. But then it grew bigger as the morning progressed. So I did what everyone told me to. Hopped onto Google and diagnosed myself. Within ten minutes of comparing the bubble to some photos, I thought I had mouth cancer.”

  “Captain, what is it that you want?”

  “Come to find out, it’s just a skin rash. Very common.” The captain spun around in his swivel chair and faced Matikas, a serious tone and look to him now. “I understand someone broke into your office.”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “Uh, now, now, Ray. I don’t want to hear your excuses.” Morley had his eyes closed. Hands up in front of himself. “What I need from you is to know how far you’ve come with your inquiry into this Mo Blackhall, Jake Cooper thing. Mo is causing us some problems. He needs to go. I cannot have a cop hitting the bottle in the office. That’s so nineteen-seventies, Ray. Barney Miller stuff. And this Ted Williams Tunnel thing. If my people are connected in any way, the Big Dig just went over budget again. Now, I don’t want any of your bullshit, I just want answers, Ray.”

  The police scanner in the captain’s office let out a static-filled cough. A cop said something about a 10-54d, possible dead body, in Chinatown. When he came back on, he requested a 10-78 (“ambulance”) … Looks like a heart attack.

  Matikas waited for the transmission to conclude before speaking. “Blackhall is definitely involved with Mancini Construction and that work on the Ted Williams, just don’t know to what capacity. He moonlighted as security for Mancini when they dug the tunnel.”

  “And Cooper?”

  “Not sure about Cooper yet. Still looking into it.”

  Candis rang up the captain on speakerphone. “Mrs. Morley is on line five, sir.”

  The captain pressed the button, held it down, “Tell her we’re having dinner with the deputy chief at Gitano’s in Quincy. I’ll be picking her up at six.” He looked at his watch.

  Matikas stood. “Look, I’m still working on this, Captain.” He used his hands to plead. Come on, cut me some slack here. We’ve known each other how long? “But I have a full boat with this serial case Cooper’s working on.”

  “I was getting to that. Sit back down, Ray. The deputy chief is friends with the Bettencourt kid’s father.”

  Matikas’s stomach turned over. Great. The color drained from his face.

  “Yeah, Ray. Tell me about it. He’s up my ass on this.” The captain could sense the distress Matikas’s body language. “I need answers, Ray. Not your typical ass-kissing. I’m tired of carrying you. This Mo thing. The idea that you put Cooper on this serial case when the guy cracked up a year ago. Gees. People around here think you’re losing your touch. I tend to agree with them. We’re not chasing Whitey Bulger around Southie anymore, Ray. Things are different today. The stakes are higher.”

  The captain got up. Walked over to a small table next to the large window looking out onto the Prudential Center Building to the north. Fenway Park was due south, the Citgo sign in back of the Green Monster spinning. Looking down, you could see cars that looked as small as kids’ toys zipping underneath the building on the Mass Pike. The city was quiet staring out at it through the thick glass of the thirty-fifth floor. Not a peep of social noise. The captain didn’t say anything, arms behind his back, rocking, taking it all in like a president. A Swinging Wonder sat on the window sill in front of him. The small square structure with five chrome steel balls hanging from strings was modeled after the original Newton’s Cradle. The captain pulled back one of the balls, looked at Matikas through it, then released it. The apparatus clicked back and forth, metronomelike.

  Matikas watched, understanding the message.

  Time was running out.

  “Keep an eye on Cooper. He likely knows more about this Big Dig problem of Mo’s than you think. And if it becomes my problem, Ray, well, let’s just say, losing your job will be the least of your worries.” These guys were once friends. They hunted. Fished. Played cards every Saturday night.

  “Understood, Captain.”

  Matikas sat in his car outside thinking about what the captain had said. He had known Morley twenty-five years. Still, there was a new code of blue in the BPD. One thing mattered when you sat in a position of power—your loyalty to higher-ups. Matikas didn’t want to play ball anymore. He was tired. Stood to retire in two years.

  Before driving away, he reached into the glove box, pulled out the phone number he swore he’d never need, better yet use. Then typed out a text:

  look, capt. is pissed.

  we need to resolve this asap.

  i cannot wait any longer.

  After he hit SEND, Matikas peeled out onto the street, keying the radio.

  “Cooper?”

  No answer.

  Matikas dialed up the office. As he did, Jake responded. “Yeah, Ray? What is it?”

  At a stop light, Matikas looked left and right down Commonwealth. The T train, whining its tinny electric squeal as it passed, glided through the middle of the street. The Boston Museum of Art was on Matikas’s right, several blocks away. A Star Market dead ahead.

  “Cooper, I need to speak with you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “What’s up, Lieutenant?”

  “Just come see me, Cooper. I’m warning you. Don’t blow me off.”

  That night, Ray Matikas and Jake Cooper did not sleep.

  36

  Thursday, September 1
1 - 8:43 A.M.

  Dickie walked into the squad room. He opened the plastic lid to his medium cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee—light and sweet—just as the lieutenant came around the corner and started in.

  “Are you two out of your minds?” Matikas screamed. “Holding the Colby kid hostage like that, the father out in the car, handcuffed? Where are we now, Shaughnessy, Guantanamo Bay, doin’ friggin’ terrorist interrogations? I didn’t hear from anyone that the Colby kid was reading the Koran and building pipe bombs in his room.”

  For no reason, Dickie thought of the term waterboarding. How he had just seen something on TV the night before about the United States being accused of using the torture technique.

  “I got a call at home last night from our attorney’s office, Shaughnessy. Big problems with the Colbys.”

  Dickie had the morning’s Globe tucked underneath his arm. He took a sip of his coffee, slurping it the way the lieutenant hated. Looking around, he wondered, Where is Jake when I need him?

  “Did you hear what we got out of the kid, Lieutenant?”

  “That’s beside the point.” Matikas looked at his watch. “Where is Cooper, anyway? Tell him to get his ass in here to come see me. You two do not go out on the road today without stopping in my office.”

  “Right-o, Lieutenant.” Dickie saluted. He took out a Lactaid pill. Popped it. Swallowed. “Listen, love to sit and chat, but I gotta drop me a deuce. You know what this coffee does to my colon. I got a bubble rolling around in here.” He massaged his stomach in a circular motion.

  Several blues standing by the front counter looked at one another and laughed. One yelled, “TMI, Shaughnessy …” The time clock nearby made a pop sound as it hit fifteen minutes before the hour.

  “Screw you, Shaughnessy,” Matikas said. “You’re just like him. As a matter of fact, where in the hell are my reports for the Public Garden and Tea Party scenes? I won’t even get into the Bettencourt case.”

  “I’m still working on those, Lieutenant. Give me a day or two.”

  “End of today, Shaughnessy.”