THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller

by M. William Phelps

  “We know there’s only one location in the state that uses that specific type of paint to detail vehicles. And the paint is ten years old—at least. But we do not know the chemical makeup of the paint, which can lead us to a source.”

  “Not yet. And we have a list of what, about three hundred different vehicles we’re looking at, right?”

  “Which does us no good.”

  “Wrong. Keep thinking it through, Rossi.”

  “We know that Lisa was communicating with ‘MM’ about buying something, presumably rare flowers.”

  Dickie moved to an open area of the chalkboard. He drew two large m’s on the board. Put the chalk down. Clapped the dust from his hands.

  Anastasia went to say something.

  Dickie interrupted. “Just sit and think. Don’t speak now.”

  With the solemn drone of the air duct above buzzing, Dickie bent down in front of the tablet armchair desk where Anastasia fit into it like a high-schooler. As gentle as a father to his daughter, “I want you to sit here, Rossi,” Dickie said, “and I want you to go through your databank. You’re a smart investigator. You have the answer somewhere. I had a blue go over to your apartment and grab Lisa’s bag. I’ll have someone bring it down, along with some coffee. I want you to begin to cross off any ‘MM’ you can think of, however stupid or silly or extreme the name might sound to you.”

  Anastasia was quiet, sinking into the chair. This was her chance. Still, she didn’t want it now. She wasn’t ready. She started speak again.

  “Uh-uh,” Dickie put a forefinger up to his lips. “Shh … You sit here and you study this case. Because once we find the meaning behind MM,” he stood, tucked in his shirt, “we got our guy, Rossi. You hear me? We got this sick bastard.”

  49

  Friday, September 12 - 10:40 A.M.

  Dawn called in sick. That episode at the soccer field had rattled her. She was a mess. Dropping dishes. Putting laundry detergent in the dryer. A flashlight in the refrigerator. Yet after putting Brendan on the bus, she realized there was no way she could blow off her appointment with Denny Garcia. If nothing else, Denny needed to know there was one constant in his life—the time he had with Dawn twice a week.

  The drive to the school took fifteen minutes. Dawn pulled into the parking lot, opened the car door to the smell of fresh-cut grass wafting up. That aroma reminded Dawn of walking through Boston Common as a child with her dad, eating a snow cone, the city crew cutting the lawn around them.

  Denny was waiting by the door, one leg bouncing a mile a minute.

  Dawn gave him a high-five. “Sit today, Denny, will you?” She looked down at the boy. Placed her pocketbook on her desk. Noticed the red voice-mail light on her phone blinking.

  Denny smelled as if an adult had rubbed Brut cologne off on his clothes. He wore a faded Star Wars T-shirt—Luke Skywalker holding his light saber above his head in victory.

  Dawn could tell Denny fought an urge to get underneath the chair. After contemplating it, the boy sat, knees to chest, head resting on the top of his legs. The bruise on his face—now a tie-dyed collage of yellows and purples—was almost gone.

  Denny gave Dawn a few of his most recent papers from English class. They talked about schoolwork when Denny didn’t want to address life. Looking at one paper in particular, in which Denny’s English teacher had left a note about, Dawn mentioned that they needed to discuss it.

  She pointed to a story Denny had written about lions. On one entire page of the story, Denny failed use periods, as though he had forgotten how.

  “Denny, you know how to use periods, right?”

  The boy shook his head yes.

  “How come, Denny, you didn’t use periods here?”

  He rocked back and forth in the chair, shrugging.

  “Why do we use periods, Denny?”

  He looked up. Then: “So the words don’t fall off the side of the page.”

  Dawn winced. Such an intense response from a strange kid. But that was Denny. He had the highest IQ in his class. Yet at times came across as borderline retarded.

  “Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.”

  “It’s okay, Denny. Take a deep breath. This is your ‘safe zone.’ You remember me telling you about that?”

  He stopped.

  “Mrs. Cooper?”

  “Yes, Denny.”

  “Good is good, right?”

  Dawn wondered where this was going. “Yes …”

  “And evil is evil, Mrs. Cooper, right?”

  “Denny, where are you getting this from?”

  “One cannot come from the other, right, Mrs. Cooper?”

  “Denny, where did you hear this?”

  “Is it true?”

  “I guess it is, Denny.”

  “I read it in the library.”

  “There is an instinct in all of us to want to do bad, Denny. We need to be mindful of it at all times. Do you feel like being bad today, Denny?”

  “Only when my daddy hurts me.”

  Dawn sensed a breakthrough.

  “But he’s gone now, Denny. He cannot hurt you anymore.”

  “Yes. But there will be other new ones.”

  Denny said he wanted to draw. Dawn kept him focused on his thoughts.

  “Tell me more about this, Denny.”

  “Mad. Mad. Mad.”

  “That’s good. Keep going.”

  Denny jumped up and wiggled his way underneath the chair.

  Dawn pushed her chair aside and got on her stomach. She was nearly nose to nose with Denny. “Good, Denny, what else? Tell me what else you’re feeling, honey.”

  Without warning Denny screamed. Then stopped.

  As Dawn went to speak, Denny put his hands over his ears and let out a high-pitched shriek. When he didn’t stop, Dawn buzzed security to calm him down enough so the nurse could give him a glass of water and a tranquilizer.

  Dawn drove home in tears.

  50

  Friday, September 12 – 2:32 P.M.

  Jake was in the kitchen leaning against the sink, arms folded. It was a quick trip back from up north. Looking around, the wallpaper peeling back a little by the stove, Jake was thinking how long it had been since he’d actually broken his tools out and did some work around the house. Maybe it was time to throw it in and go back to living the life of a normal person.

  Dawn walked in. Seeing her husband, she ran over and kissed him hard on the lips.

  Jake grabbed her butt cheeks with both hands and lifted her off the floor.

  Dawn slapped his hands. “That’s what’s on your mind as soon as you see me?”

  “I just got home myself.”

  Dawn put her keys down, picked up the mail on the kitchen table, started sifting through it. “There’s a package for you on the dining-room-table chair,” she said. “Came yesterday morning. Weighs a ton.”

  Jake moved fast. Picked the package up. He didn’t see any writing on it. So he put it down. Stood, staring at it, wondering if he should make Dawn to leave the house.

  “No one was here to scan this?” he yelled.

  “Huh?” Dawn said something about not being home. She had no idea. It was on the front steps when she walked in from the grocery store earlier that morning.

  Jake flipped the package over, quickly realizing it was the transcripts from Stuart Micah’s trial. They had been sent over from the DA’s office as he had asked. His heart settled.

  Then his iPhone buzzed. It was on the countertop. Jake got to it before it vibrated onto the floor.

  “I’m at a pay phone. Listen, I did that thing. Company is Lawler, Clein and Keiser. Thirty-million-dollar lawsuit just filed.”

  Jake walked out onto the front porch, closing the door behind him. “Rossi, sorry ‘bout that package. It’s part of being a good cop, you know, taking hits like that. Crazy shit’s gonna happen sometimes.”

  “I know. You’d think a girl from New York would be able to take a little blood, Cooper. I got my period when I was eleven.”


  Jake didn’t know how to respond to that. “What else was in the file, Rossi?”

  “There was something about Mo and his working traffic duty back during the heyday of the Big Dig. He was in a bad spot, gambling. Doing a lot of overtime on city pay for this one company. That was the only red flag I saw. Someone lobbied for him to be tossed, but he pulled a favor and got put behind a desk. I have one more place to look, though. I heard HQ has a sealed file in that SEG room downtown. But it’s going take some time, and maybe a little cleavage, to get my hands on it.”

  “Good work, Rossi.”

  Anastasia looked down at her cell phone. Dickie was calling. He was probably wondering why she wasn’t in the conference room. “Gotta go, Cooper. I’m supposed to be having lunch.”

  “Don’t talk about this in the office or around anyone—including Dickie.” Jake felt strange saying that. “Call me in a few days.”

  51

  Friday, September 12 - 4:49 P.M.

  “We like to believe we can overcome anything,” Anastasia’s father once told her after she worked her first homicide. “Truth is, some things are just too despicably evil to get over.”

  Time—the healer of all wounds. Nothing but bullshit. Ask the Taylor and Bettencourt families. How do ever get over burying pieces of your child?

  The case was weighing down Anastasia. That bag of blood maybe the final thread. Anastasia was going home to get some sleep. As she made her way toward the elevator after collecting her things, the desk sergeant yelled from behind the counter. “You have a phone call, Rossi.”

  Todd.

  Her insides felt fuzzy, but conflicted.

  “I’ll take it downstairs in the lobby. I gotta get out of here.”

  “I understand. That I do, Rossi.”

  She pressed G for ground. The elevator smelled of leather and several cheap replica men’s colognes Anastasia pictured patrol cops buying from Indian vender kiosks at Weston Mall. In the reception area of the lobby, cops sometimes used the phone for personal business. It was set up like a break room, a Poland Spring water cooler, microwave oven, a table and some chairs. Anastasia’s call had been transferred to the phone on the wall. Cops were coming and going. In and out the room.

  “I knew you’d call.” She felt relaxed. How Todd could make everything all better.

  Mr. Right.

  “How so?” the voice asked.

  “I’m sorry.” Anastasia snapped back into reality. “Who’s this?”

  “I need to report a tip about this serial killer case you people are investigating.”

  You people. A term only racists used, no matter what they were talking about. Great, Anastasia thought. All the case needed now was some over-zealous, Investigation Discovery-watching nut who had seen one too many episodes of Dark Minds.

  “You should really call into the hotline, sir. I don’t know why you asked for me.”

  “I’ve seen you on TV. I know you need to solve this case for your own reasons. I’m good at reading people. It’s in your eyes.”

  Anastasia put a hand on her forehead as though she were checking herself for a fever. This guy had thirty more seconds before she hung up. “Well, okay then. Humor me here, sir. Shoot.”

  “I know these phones are monitored. I cannot talk about it on this line.”

  Anastasia did not reply. That throbbing wine headache was back.

  “You there, Detective Rossi?”

  Nice touch.

  “Officer … I’m Officer Rossi. Forensic side.”

  “Oh. Okay, then.” He sounded aggravated. “Maybe I should give this lead to someone who knows what to do with it. Obviously, you are not an investigator. You’re a scientist.”

  “Hold on. Hold on.” She thought about it. “Tell me something here that will spark my curiosity, sir. Get me interested in this call. Like, for starters, your name.”

  “How ‘bout I say, oh, I don’t know—m-m. Would that give you pause to consider what I have to be important information, Officer Rossi?”

  Her body stiffened. She walked over to the door window into the room and looked from side to side as if he was calling from inside the building. How could this person know about mm? It had to be one of Lisa Marie’s punk-ass friends playing a phone prank. Barton Colby was the only person outside the squad room who knew the letters mm were connected to the case—and it was made very clear to him that he was not to talk to anyone.

  “Well, you’ve got my interest, sir.”

  “Great. Now, please let’s meet somewhere so I can get you this info and you can catch this lunatic.”

  “Where?” Anastasia had slept maybe two hours in the past thirty. She was in no mood to meet anyone, anywhere. But she also knew that this might be the break the team needed. Chances were this guy knew nothing. He had a source inside the precinct. Or was one of Lisa’s older-sounding friends, getting back at Jake and Dickie for busting Barton Colby’s chops.

  Either way, Anastasia decided, she needed to hear him out. “Instinct, honey, is sometimes all we have. You always listen to it.” Anastasia hadn’t done much beat work over the years. She was strictly a lab tech and crime-scene collector of forensic evidence. She had spent a year talking insecure criminals without the balls to kill out of holding hostages. But it wasn’t until she joined D-15 that Anastasia Rossi was invited out into the field to investigate. Did she really want to diss this clown without hearing him out? How would Jake handle this?

  Think, Rossi!

  “Meet me over in East Boston, by the back of Logan, there’s a Bess Eaten Donuts off the one-forty-five, Bennington Street. You know where it is?”

  Keep it public. Guy could be a wacko.

  “You still there?” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah. Near Constitution Beach, you mean?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Be there at six.” He hung up.

  Anastasia wanted to go back upstairs and discuss the tip with Dickie. She called him on his cell and desk lines. No answer. She figured he was busy interrogating a burglary suspect two blues had just brought in.

  So Anastasia Rossi decided to go home and rest. She’d call Dickie later. She had plenty of time before her meeting with the tipster.

  52

  Friday, September 12 - 6:12 P.M.

  Bess Eaten Donuts was closer to Neptune Circle than Constitution Beach. After asking a few locals, Anastasia had no problem finding the rundown coffee shop she lived ten minutes away from.

  When she got home after taking the call, Anastasia made a mental note to call Dickie and let him know what was going on. That was the safe thing to do. Lying down on the couch and turning on Days of Our Lives, however, she fell asleep and woke up to the sound of Alex Trebek and that annoying Jeopardy music.

  Doom. Doom. Doom. Doom. Pause. Doom-doom-doom.

  It was six o’clock on the dot.

  Racing out the door, Anastasia dialed Dickie’s cell. Left him a hasty message: “Running late to meet a source at the Constitution Beach Bess Eaten in Chelsea who claims to know mm. Call you soon.”

  When she pulled into the Bess Eaten lot at 6:25 P.M., only two cars were parked up front, an Olds Cutlass and a Honda Civic. Anastasia guessed both were owned by the two patrons sitting on round stools inside the donut shop, talking to the clerk in the filthy apron standing behind the counter with a coffee pot in her hand.

  None of them looked as she pulled in, drove toward the back, and parked near the train tracks bordering the north side of Logan Airport. The opposite side of the tracks were blocked off by barbed-wire on top of a chain-link fence about twelve feet high.

  Our Homeland Security dollars at work, Anastasia thought as she pulled in and realized how easy it was to get on to the tarmac from here.

  She sat in her car and waited for her mystery man. Jumbo 757s and A-30 international flights landed behind her, rattling the rear window of her Crown Vic. Every so often, the noise subsided, but then quickly returned. Evenings were b
usy at Logan. Flights coming in from all over the world.

  “MM,” she said aloud, lost in thought. When she looked up, she watched as an old USPS Jeep with red, white and blue pinstripes pulled into the parking lot, motored by the coffee shop’s front window, then parked next to her vehicle.

  Mailman.

  How simple.

  The guy waved as he unlatched and slid the side door of the Jeep open. He was a normal-size man. Scraggly hair underneath a worn out, greasy Red Sox hat. He had a beard that looked to be born more out of laziness than style. His crooked teeth were somewhat stained from either chewing tobacco or poor hygiene. He had little dimples, like braille, dotted about his red nose. Despite not taking care of himself hygienically, he looked to be a guy you passed a thousand times in your life on the street and never noticed.

  Anastasia closed the car door behind her, approaching him with a look of surprise on her face. He seemed familiar.

  “Yes, before you ask,” he held up two hands, waving them up in the air as if to say, you caught me, “it was me who sold Lisa Taylor those rare flowers. We sparked up a friendship at the library one afternoon while I was delivering the mail and realized we had mutual interests. But I’m no killer. I just happened to bump into her table and noticed what she was researching. eBay—a virtual tag sale. Gotta love technology, Officer.”

  “You sold Lisa those flowers? Why do you look so familiar to me, sir?”

  He laughed. “Well, because we kinda ran into each other in front of your apartment. I wanted to tell you then, that’s why I was there. But I chickened out.”

  The guy had a hard time talking because of a speech impediment. It wasn’t a lisp, but more of a stumble, or stutter. Anastasia felt that embarrassing, uncomfortable pang of guilt—same as when you’re forced to wait for a stutterer to finish. She wanted to reach over and slap the word he was stuck on out of him, fighting the urge to finish the word herself. She rode out each sentence, her patience waning.