THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller

by M. William Phelps

  “I do know, son. Whatever happened to you, it can be overcome.”

  “It’s too late for that now. Much too late. I need to finish what I started.”

  “You do not have to.”

  Meyers pushed himself up closer to the back of the driver’s seat. A rosary Father John had hanging from his rearview mirror crashed against the windshield as he hit the road ruts. Meyers got right in father’s ear and whispered, “If I see cops, I slit your neck like a water balloon. We clear on that, Father?”

  “Yes, son.”

  “Stop with the ‘son’ business. Won’t work with me.”

  Father John finally got a good look at him. “Randy Meyers.”

  “You do remember.” Meyers laughed mockingly. “Well, they call me the Optimist now. Just keep in mind, if you’re thinking of martyring yourself, today would not be the time to do that. I will kill you and drive the car there myself.” He pressed the blade against Father John’s neck again. “Are we clear on that?”

  “Yes, Randy.”

  Father John’s loaded rifle bumped the back of his left foot. He had no idea how he was going to get to it without Meyers seeing him.

  70

  Sunday, September 14 – 2:15 P.M.

  Matikas had tried calling Jake and Dickie all weekend. Neither cop had answered. They were either blowing him off, or were out of a serviceable area. Matikas guessed the former. He even called the Bainbridge Sheriff’s Department, but Deputy Cal explained that Jake had picked Dickie up already. “Oh, musta been, what, an hour ago. They done took off outa here like there was a corn feed sale somewheres.”

  The lieutenant pulled the phone away from his ear. Looked at it. This guy serious?

  Screw Dickie and Jake, the lieutenant told himself. This was his collar. He was only calling them out of courtesy, anyway. Matikas had the post office run that name, Rainn Meyers. The clown in human resources wasn’t happy about getting up on a Sunday morning, but Matikas convinced him that he’d have a Boston blue up his ass every morning on his way to work if he didn’t help. Thus, within a half-hour, Matikas found himself at the Postal Operations Center office on Brookline Avenue, holding the addresses of two Rainn Meyers employed by the post office over the past twenty years. It was such a rare name. One guy was twenty-five. Died in a car accident six months before the first murder.

  Scratch.

  The other guy was single. He lived in Winthrop by himself. Just turned forty. He’d had some trouble on the job saying perverted things to a few women on his route. His boss took him off the road two years ago. He’d been on medical leave—suing the government for discrimination—for the past year.

  No one had heard from him.

  “That paint chip,” Matikas asked the cop riding to Meyers’s house with him, “we get a match?”

  “No, but there’s an indication,” the cop said, reading from a report, “that this Meyers dude liked to dress up in his mailman’s uniform on his off days and approach females. Says here many of them were college kids.”

  Matikas pumped his fist. “This is our guy. You ready for your first big bust, kiddo?”

  “He even bought himself a used mail truck, the report says.”

  Matikas felt a sense of urgency. Even anxiety. He’d show up Cooper and Shaughnessy, those arrogant pricks. He’d gain the captain’s trust back. He could see a photo on his wall of him and the captain, side by side, city service awards in hand.

  Two troopers made it to the scene merely an hour after Matikas ordered them to watch the house. Both reported seeing “curtains move” in one of the bedrooms.

  Meyers was home.

  Five cruisers followed Matikas. Depending on the layout of the house, the lieutenant explained over the two-way, he wanted to surround the place. “Drive on the lawn. Tear it up. I don’t give a shit.” He told the team to take action in three swift moves—pull up, approach the door with weapons in hand, kick it in. “Let’s grab this sonofabitch and get him on the floor, facedown. No questions.”

  “Riley?” Matikas said to the cop riding with him.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “After the collar, you call your source at the Globe and leak the arrest. Use the name ‘Optimist’ in your description. Make sure you give him our names. Tell him we have no idea where Cooper or Shaughnessy are. Got it?”

  “Consider it done, Lieutenant.”

  71

  Sunday, September 14 – 2:25 P.M.

  Jake and Dickie were on I-93, driving past Medford, near the suburbs of North Boston. Dickie checked his voicemail—or calls he didn’t want to answer as they came in. When he heard Matikas’s voice announce they were converging on Rainn Meyers’s house, Dickie looked at the digital time display on the dashboard.

  “Move it, Jake. Matikas got a lead on Rainn Meyers. They’re at his house.”

  Jake was furious.

  Dickie hit the button for the blue light and siren.

  Jake floored the gas pedal.

  “Ray … what a bastard.”

  72

  Sunday, September 14 – 2:32 P.M.

  One cop set his right shoulder against the doorjamb leading into Rainn Meyers’s small, single-family Cape-style home at the end of Summer Street in Winthrop, the back of the home facing the Belle Island Reservation. Matikas and his crew stood on the stoop, weapons in hand, badges hanging from their necks, blue BPD windbreakers fluttering in the wind coming in off Broad Sound. It was cloudy out. Looked like rain. A blue wearing a bulletproof vest, helmet and face shield, brandished a double-barrel shotgun and faced the door.

  As ordered, the other blues surrounded the house.

  Matikas motioned with a head nod that it was time to go in.

  “Police!” screamed the officer dressed like Robocop as he kicked the door in, and they all flushed into the living room, one after the other.

  Rainn Meyers was not there.

  Matikas ran toward a bedroom down the short hallway.

  The door was closed. “Shh …” The lieutenant heard a television.

  One, two, three … he whispered, counting off with his free hand, motioning for Robocop to kick this door in, too.

  The bedroom door came right off the hinges.

  Rainn Meyers was in bed, just waking up from the ruckus going on inside his house. Around him were the remnants from a recent delivery pizza and powdered doughnut binge. An old western on American Movie Classics flickered on the television. John Wayne, Richard Widmark.

  There was a poster of Bruce Lee, that infamous Enter the Dragon pose, tacked to the wall above Meyers’s bed. A shiatsu ran around in circles, barking, wagging its rat-like tail. There was dirty laundry all over the floor. Had the smell of a locker room on game day.

  Meyers weighed, Matikas guessed by looking at him, about four or maybe five hundred pounds. He reminded the lieutenant of one of those guys you see on the Discovery Channel who cannot get out of bed and needs the fire department to help.

  “Damn,” Matikas said. He holstered his pistol. Put his hands on his waist. Walked over to the window, spread the curtains to let some light in. “Get on the radio. All clear here.”

  Just waking up, Rainn Meyers said, “I thought you were my housekeeper.”

  73

  Sunday, September 14 – 2:43 P.M.

  Jake and Dickie were almost at Meyers’s house. Dispatch called and explained the false alarm. They looked at each other, then busted out laughing.

  Jake got off the exit and headed back toward the squad room.

  Getting out of the car in the parking lot, Dickie said he needed to go home and pack up a few personal items Caroline forgot to take with her. Then FedEx them to Michigan.

  “Let’s hook up later today.”

  “Right.”

  Jake texted Dawn.

  how are all of you doing?

  Dawn answered as though she had been waiting.

  fine … father john is supposed to be here sometime this afternoon—i’m told we’re moving again!!!!????.
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  Jake typed out his answer, sent it, put the phone away.

  let’s leave that there. don’t say another word about it. few more days. hang on. be strong. i’ll see you today or tomorrow morning.

  The next order of business was Mo. Jake needed to talk with Mo while he had a chance. Jake hadn’t eaten lunch. So he grabbed a sandwich at the deli on the ground floor of the Patriot Building, ate it while on his way over to Mo’s. It was time to end all this bullshit with his mentor. Once and for all. If the feds were coming for him, Jake needed to know what to expect. How deep he was involved. He couldn’t live—or work—while constantly looking over his shoulder. Part of him wanted to drive straight to HQ and lay it all out for the captain. Tell brass what he knew and what he thought he had done per the Big Dig. Let the chips fall. As he drove and ate, Jake considered how it would go. “Kickbacks, Captain,” he heard himself saying. “I knew but I said nothing. After I put this sonofabitch serial in prison, fire and indict me. But let me finish this.”

  That plan, Jake knew, might foil the investigation. He couldn’t afford to put Dawn and Brendan in danger. On top of that, there was loyalty involved. The Southie code.

  You don’t rat. No matter what.

  Mo was a perfectionist when it came to cleanliness. On patrol, if he found so much as a foil gum wrapper on the floorboard of his cruiser, the guy went spastic. He hated disorganization. That’s why, when Mo opened the door to let his former student in, Jake knew right away things were as bad as they could get for Mo Blackhall—he was at the end of a long rope. The inside of Mo’s house was disgusting. Empty cartons of food scattered among beer bottles and cans and strewn newspapers. All sorts of different documents spread about the floor in Mo’s office as though he was searching for something he couldn’t find.

  “What is this, Mo?” Jake had to step over things walking in. The kitchen stunk of rotten food.

  Mo tried to tidy up as Jake made his way into the house. But there was no use. It was obvious the guy had given up.

  They walked toward the slider. Dog hair was piled up in the corners like tumbleweed. “You’d think the pooch goes out in the middle of the night for secret chemo treatments,” Mo said, trying to lighten the mood, “with all the hair he sheds. Look at this shit.”

  Mo hadn’t shaved in four, five days. He had the beginnings of a gray, white and black beard. His eyes sagged. His face had that puffy, red, alcoholic bloat to it. Jake thought of a woodsman, terribly downtrodden. But most of all, tired. Yeah. That was it. A man tired of running.

  Mo slid the door open, inviting Jake to walk outside with him. “No one can hear us out here. Sounds paranoid, I know. But look at me, Jake. Do I look like I shouldn’t be?”

  “Mo, what the hell is going on?” Jake was as confused as he was angry. “Why’d you take off on me like that? Matikas said something about an indictment. What am I missing here? Come on, man, talk to me.”

  Mo shrugged. “Embarrassed, I guess. It’s hard to face you sober.” Changing the subject, “You should have used me on the Optimist case, Jake.” There was pleading in his voice. “I needed that one thing. One last feather to go out on.”

  “That’s bullshit. I’ve seen you get drunk as a hobo and brag about sleeping with the fattest, ugliest skank you could find. You have no shame, Mo. Your pride is gone. This isn’t about solving a murder.”

  Mo knew why Jake was there. “I was running an errand upstate. Trying one final move to get out of this. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Out of what? What do you mean, ‘errand’?”

  “Jake, come on. The less you know …”

  Jake didn’t want to hear it. He wanted Mo to say he was having a rough time and things would be okay. A few weeks, a month, Mo would be back in the game. Jake shook his head. Put his hands in his pockets. Mo walked toward the wooden chair swing near the edge of his property. Jake followed.

  “What’s going on? Talk to me, Mo. Maybe I can help. How is the Teddy Williams Tunnel law suit connected here?” Jake had a good idea, but wanted Mo to confirm his suspicions—and also tell it to the wire Jake was wearing.

  “I don’t know how this happened, Jake. I never expected people would die.”

  There was movement in the woods behind them. Leaves cracking. A squirrel chasing nuts.

  “Were you paying someone off up north?”

  Mo thought about it. “Freakin’ bartender. I gave him a c-note to keep his trap shut.” He waved his trembling hands around. The skin on Mo’s palms was yellow, Jake noticed. His eyes, too, held a jaundiced hue. “You don’t want to know, Jake. It won’t do you any good now.”

  Mo pulled a half-pint of Black Velvet from his back pocket. Before he could take a swig, Jake grabbed the bottle and threw it into the woods. “Tell me what’s going on here!”

  Mo looked with longing at the shrubbery where the bottle had landed. “It’s over, Jake. There was so much money floating around during that Big Dig. You have to understand how hard it was for me.”

  “What have you done?” Jake was startled by this revelation. He assumed it was a few thousand dollars here and there. Coffee and donuts, the old-timers called it. Local merchants liked to give cops free stuff. It was a community thing. But he could tell by the look on Mo’s face it was much more involved. “You’re stronger than that, Mo. Come on. What are you saying? How deep have you gotten me involved.” Jake paced. Put a hand on his forehead. “Tell me.”

  “The Big Dig, Jake. Everyone was making money.”

  Jake put his head down. He couldn’t believe this. His cell phone buzzed. “Yo? Kinda busy here, Dick.”

  “We got our break, Kid. Meet me at your house in an hour.”

  “What is it?”

  “The name … the name … but I need to show you.”

  Jake hung up. “Mo, I need to get going. We’re close to getting our guy. Let’s talk tomorrow or Tuesday.”

  Mo did not speak.

  “Hold on, Mo. We’ll fight this. Together. Just a while longer.”

  Jake went to walk away.

  Mo called after him. “Mayor Devino, Jake, we go way back. I owed him.”

  That stopped Jake in his tracks. He turned.

  Mo raised his voice. “I always taught you to pay your debts. Remember, there are only three sources of morality—object, intention, circumstance. I failed all three, Jake.”

  “You did what?” Jake looked down at the ground as his temples throbbed. “Two people died in that Ted Williams accident, Mo. What the hell are you talking about?”

  Mo stared at nothing, tearing up. “I know …”

  “Last time I checked, we were supposed to save lives.” Jake walked over and poked a stiff finger into Mo’s chest. “Two,” he held up the peace sign, spoke slowly. “Two. People. Died. Mo. You got me involved in that?” Jake stared into Mo’s sad eyes.

  Mo didn’t speak.

  Jake started for the house. He had a hand on the sliding glass door handle. “I’ll call a few people, Mo. Find out some things. Just give me a few days. We’ll turn ourselves in. Figure this out. ”

  “Why didn’t you just follow Casey into the service, Jake? I’ve always wondered. I gotta know.”

  Jake considered this. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Then said: “No guts, Mo. I was scared of dying over there. No fucking guts. That’s me.”

  Jake walked in, closed the door behind him.

  Mo stared into the woods, not knowing Jake was gone. He said, “Our plan was to groom you. Bring you into the fold with us. But when I began to see how good of a cop you were, how much tougher than I could ever be, how far you had come from that neighborhood, I couldn’t do it.”

  Jake was out in front. Inside his car. The blue light above him on the roof spinning and flashing. The siren wailing.

  On his way home.

  74

  Sunday, September 14 – 3:13 P.M.

  A manila folder in his hand, Dickie paced in Jake’s driveway.

  Jake pulled in, ch
irping the tires to a stop.

  The house was empty, the shades pulled. It had that no-life look to it, same as when families go on vacation. A tell-tale sign to home invaders was the porch light on during the middle of the day.

  “What’s up?” Jake slammed his door shut, tore off his sunglasses.

  “I could have explained it over the phone, but I had better show you this. I took one of the files from the sheriff’s station house like you told me to.”

  “Naughty boy.”

  “Listen, you were right. I found something. There was a report in here about that boy, Rainn Meyers, who supposedly killed the neighbor after escaping.”

  “I know all this already.” Jake was impatient. “Come on here—”

  “Just shut up and listen for once. I did a Lexis-Nexis on the name. Look at this newspaper clipping.” Dickie shoved an article published by the Augusta Gazette in Jake’s face. It was a short piece about the break-in and murder of Howard Charles Markmann.

  Jake took the article. Walked toward his garage. The next-door neighbor started his lawn mower, pushed it into gear, began cutting his grass. The noise reminded Jake how out of the suburban loop he was.

  “Read it,” Dickie said.

  HOME INVASION ENDS IN MURDER

  Suspect Sought by Sheriff

  BAINBRIDGE—Howard Charles Markmann, 57, a retired Port Henry school teacher and lifelong resident of Bainbridge, was murdered by an intruder last night. The intruder broke in, killed Mr. Markmann with a pick-axe. Nothing appeared to be stolen.

  Asked if residents in the tiny town should be concerned, Sheriff Buford Townsend responded, “Not at all. Isolated incident. The only thing missing was Markmann’s wallet and a few papers from his desk. We have a suspect.”