“You here?” He only yelled to make it look good. He stared up the basement steps. “Hey, Mo?”
Out of breath, Sunshine made it to the top. Opened the door.
The living room was dark. The air-conditioner was set so high Sunshine thought he could see his breath. The air was crisp, heavy, like the inside of a restaurant walk-in cooler. Still, cold or not, the smell was pungent and sobering. He pulled a hankie out of his back pocket, placed it over his nose and mouth. “What the hell?”
Turning the corner into Mo’s office, Sunshine discovered the embattled cop on the floor, blood and brain matter on the wall behind him, the carpet a halo of tissue, skull, and bone underneath his blown-apart head.
With a crinkled look of disgrace and disgust, Sunshine stepped over Mo’s body, walked toward his desk.
Reaching inside the top, middle drawer, he felt his way around to see if that file was still taped underneath the drawer.
Thank heavens.
Sunshine walked to the door, used the same hankie to cover the knob, took one last look at Mo’s bloated and decomposing corpse, then out he went, file in hand, ready to meet on the rest of his day.
81
Monday, September 15 – 10:00 A.M.
Brendan slept on a cot in the conference room down the hall from Jake’s office. Jake sat in a chair next to his son, feet up on the table, his suit coat—now a blanket—strewn over him.
First thing in the morning, Dr. Kelsey called. She said the fishing reel that made the indent on Lisa’s back was sold by only a handful of retailers in the Boston region. Jake got up and spent hours going through records provided by K-PAC, looking to see if any one of the five dozen retailers made sense to the geographical locations of the case. Jake’s iPhone did not have a sensible comparison to make a judgment and returned a report that was of little use. When the chime came in with the bad news, Jake stood behind his desk, the iPhone cocked back in his arm like a baseball, but then stopped, thinking better of throwing it against the wall in frustration.
He sat. Palms on his forehead, elbows on his desk. What have I done? He’d begged Matikas for a murder case. A second chance to prove himself and redeem that little girl. Now Dawn was a victim. Probably cut into pieces. For what?
After falling back into his swivel chair, Jake had an idea. The diesel fuel lead, coupled with his theory of a boat, and now this fishing reel, meant they needed to be looking for a marina. Only problem was, there were ten marinas named on K-PAC’s list of “potentials” Jake had received via text after keying in the latest information.
“Damn it.”
He looked down at the phone and thrashed the ENTER key repeatedly. Kept pushing it down. “Come on!”
A blue knocked, walked into his office with Krispy Kreme doughnuts and coffee.
“Thanks, man.” Jake put the phone away.
Brendan came into the office as the blue walked out. “Is Mommy okay, Daddy?” The kid rubbed sleep from his blue eyes. He had his favorite source of comfort these days, a red Let’s Rock Elmo!, with him. “I want to see Mommy.”
Jake got down, eye-level with his boy. “She’s in trouble, buddy. Daddy is going to do everything he can to find her. I promise, okay?”
Brendan collapsed into his father’s arms. Then backed away and stuck out his pinky. “Promise, promise?” he said, referring to a gesture they had made up. Jake had been working so much overtime that even Brendan noticed, calling him on it one day. Jake apologized as Dawn stood behind him with raised eyebrows and an I-told-you-so gaze. Brendan made his dad pinky swear he would try to make more time for them. And so Jake linked pinkies with his son. “Promise, promise, buddy,” rubbing the top of his head, messing his hair up.
They ate doughnuts together without talking. Jake took Brendan down the hall where Father John was just getting up. “Don’t take your eyes off him, Father.”
“Jake, I need to do more. This is all my fault.”
“No, don’t go there, Father. You could not have done anything.” Jake and Father John had spent three hours the previous night going through every detail of what happened. He blamed himself for not putting his family under house arrest in some state police barracks up north, where they could be watched until it was over. That was stupid and selfish. Jake said he allowed his ego to override his instinct.
Jake went to the locker rooms to take a shower. Shave. Change into some fresh clothes: jeans and black T-shirt and dark blue BPD-issued windbreaker. He always kept an extra set of clothes at the office.Putting on his pants inside his office, the tears came. Not a crying fit. But more of that feeling before you sneeze. Sinus pressure. The well-up. He saw himself burying Dawn—that is, what was left of her. He envisioned himself standing graveside, his arm around Brendan. Scores of people, heads bowed, lined up along her mahogany coffin on each side. The image was so clear. He couldn’t help it. His experience told him Rainn Meyers had taken Dawn for one reason.
I have to find her …
As he pulled his shirt over his head there was a knock on the door.
“You got a minute?” Matikas poked his head in, never sounding so courteous.
“Dawn?”
“Jake, can I come in?”
Matikas entered. He had a somber look about him, shoulders drooped, eyes darting around. Jake stood in front of the mirror slipping on his windbreaker. “Just spit it out. They found her, right? I’ve prepared myself, Lieutenant.”
“You had better sit down, Jake.”
The comment startled him. Jake whirled around. “What is it?”
Matikas looked down at the carpet. Took a breath. Sighed.
“Come on, Lieutenant. Time is not what I have right now.”
“It’s Mo, Jake … he’s gone.”
Jake froze. “What?”
“Dead. I heard the call this morning on my way in. I radioed over to the Lexington PD to confirm.”
“What do you mean, dead? I just saw him.”
“Shotgun blast to the head. Killed himself. Anonymous tipster called it in.”
Jake closed his eyes. He should have known. Mo sounded desperate, as if he was going to, well, take the easy way out. He had that don’t-worry-everything-will-be-all-right tone to everything he said. Jake knew it, too. In his gut. As he sat in his car getting ready to head home to meet Dickie that day, he felt it. But he had more important things to do.
He worked at a kink that had popped up in his neck, kneading it gently, before telling Matikas, “Call his ex-wife and tell her take care of this.”
“Of course,” Matikas responded.
82
Monday, September 15 – 10:07 A.M.
The Optimist asked Dawn why she didn’t like the gift. He had gone to so much trouble to pack and wrap the thing.
Dawn took it out of the package and held it up—a wig?
“No.” He laughed, then stood. “That whore your husband worked with—it’s her hair. I scalped her like an Indian.”
Dawn struggled to hide her disgust. She was being held prisoner aboard a boat in the middle of the ocean by a madman. He was, at any time, going to kill her. She needed to get her strength up so she could employ her psychological knowledge and skill to beat him. Her only chance was to talk him out of whatever he had planned.
Go right at the trauma, Dawn knew. That was the key. Get him chatting about why he ended up this way. It was a crapshoot. He would respond hot or cold. Did Dawn want to take that chance?
What else do I have left?
Out in the middle of Cape Cod Bay, the Optimist anchored. He sat for a while, legs up on the bar in front of the steering column. He had his arms behind his head, relishing the plan he had dreamed up for Dawn and Jake.
Dawn said something.
He turned. “Did you want to talk now, honey?”
Dawn had her head bowed. She nodded.
“Go right ahead.” He stood.
“You, I … I.” It was no use. She was out of breath. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. She
tried again. “This child I counsel, he’s a lot like … you.”
The Optimist didn’t respond immediately. He picked at one of his cuticles with the tip of his knife. Had a serious gaze about him. With a curdled face, he walked over, grabbed Dawn by the hair, put his knife to her throat. She could feel the razor-sharp edge digging into her skin.
“That psychobabble, it will not work with me, you stupid shrink. Don’t you dare try that shit with me.” He shoved her hard against the side wall of the boat.
“When … when … did … it happen?” Dawn was not going to give up easily.
Point out vulnerabilities.
He pushed the knife against her skin, drawing a straight line of blood. “I said to stop that right now.” He became transfixed by the sight of the blood. Shook his head.
Keep him talking …
The Optimist then walked to the other side of the boat. Stopped. Lowered a small, Navy SEAL-like rubber rescue raft with a ninety-horsepower engine down into the water. Tied it off. He had taken anything of value off the boat the previous night and loaded it into the SUV before they departed the marina. He had no idea why he did this, but couldn’t seem to stomach seeing all of those body parts he had collected and froze end up at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Didn’t seem right.
Dawn started to say something as she watched him lower the boat, but he stifled her—“You make another peep, I will decapitate you.”
She didn’t move.
After making sure the raft was secure, he walked over to Dawn. Grabbed her wrists. Dragged her toward the stern as she pulled in the opposite direction, trying to fight with him. Not giving in.
“Get up on your feet or you go for a swim.”
Dawn let out a desperate scream the Optimist didn’t think she had left in her.
He stopped. “Was that you?”
“Yes,” she said with as much hate as she could muster.
He was pleased—a player. “Now this is what I appreciate. Spunk.”
He let her go and walked over to the cabinet where he kept his knives.
“I knew you had some fight left in you.” He licked the blade of his serrated knife, nicking his tongue, drawing blood. “Believe me, I would love nothing more than to gut you and watch your colon fall out on this deck like a Slinky. But I am a killer who offers his victims options.” He spit a mouthful of blood in Dawn’s face. “At least that’s what the papers say.”
Dawn swallowed. “My husband is going to skin you alive.”
“Ooo …” He said it in a mocking fashion, wiggling his fingers out in front of her. “Scared of the Dawnster’s threats.”
He squinted one eye. Then grabbed Dawn by the back of the head once more, put the knife to her throat. He made a short, quick slit. A slow trickle of warm blood ran down her neck onto her chest. A droplet fell on the deck in front of her.
“Lick that up.” He pushed her mouth into it. “I cannot stand a mess.”
The Optimist put the knife down. Pulled out a pair of titanium handcuffs he had purchased online (two sets). Dragged Dawn toward the steering column.
“Time to get on with this.”
There were two one-inch thick metal bars protruding from the sleeping cabin below deck, bolted to the main control room. The Optimist took one of Dawn’s ankles, slapped a side of the cuffs around it and the other side around one of the bars.
He did the same with her other leg.
Dawn stared down at her imprisoned feet. “Oh my God, what are you doing?” She grabbed hold of his hair and pulled. He backed off, smiling. Took a breath. Went back to work.
As he finished handcuffing Dawn to the bar, she beat on his back with her fists, shook the steering column as hard as she could.
Nothing moved.
The Optimist held the serrated knife up in front of Dawn as if it were Holy Communion and slowly moved it toward her cuffed hands.
“There’s a soft spot in the bone, down here close to your Achilles heel.” He turned his leg and pointed to his. “It’s softer there near the joint. Have you ever deboned a chicken, Dawn? You’ll know what I mean.”
Dawn had a bruise under her left eye that was starting to pulse and swell up.
“If I were you, Mrs. Cooper, I’d snap the bone with your hands once you get through the skin. Ever see that movie 127 Hours, where the mountain climber gets trapped under a boulder and … well, whatever. Same thing. Like near the thigh and the leg. It’s not really that hard to do. You’re a psychologist, right? You can talk yourself into anything, I’m sure.”
Dawn was immobilized by the fear of his proposition. The blazing sun alone would kill her. As a child, she suffered repeated nightmares of drowning and being buried alive. Looking at him, listening to this, she wondered now if she would choose one of those methods over dehydrating on this deck, or bleeding to death.
“Oh, yeah. Almost forgot the most important part. I wouldn’t be a good killer if I didn’t make things a bit more interesting for you.”
Confused, Dawn watched him walk toward the back of the boat.
There was a plug in the far corner. He bent down, unloosened the nut holding it in place. As soon as it came loose, seawater spit out of the tiny opening as though Sprite soda overflowed from a shaken-up two-liter bottle.
Meyers had uncorked the boat’s drain plug.
“You probably have about, oh, maybe an hour. Perhaps two. Give or take. You need to make up your mind, Mrs. Cooper, but give yourself, I don’t know, at least ten minutes to get through each leg. That knife you’re using is rather dull. Miss Rossi’s bones were hard as ceramic.”
Dawn looked at her legs. She had the knife in her good hand. The Optimist walked over to his cabinet, took out a chef’s knife, placed it in the crook of his back, then jumped over the side of the boat.
Dawn heard the splash.
Then an engine fire up.
Looking out toward the west, Dawn Cooper watched the tiny image of her kidnapper inside that rescue raft disappear over the horizon.
She looked down at her legs. Then at the knife in her hand.
The first cut was going to be the hardest. After that it was about survival.
She put the knife up to her right ankle and slowly glided the jagged, scalloped blade across. She could taste a steely electric shock on the tip of her tongue as she broke through the skin and blood trickled down the sides of her foot slowly, mixing in with a bit of the seawater swirling around the deck, running into the side channels.
83
Monday, September 15 – noon
Jake was getting ready to head out to Rainn Meyers’s house. If nothing else, he could help the search team and maybe get an idea of where Meyers was holding Dawn. But the clock, he knew, had just about timed out on Dawn.
As Jake collected his keys and radio, Dickie called to say forget about it. “I know where the showdown is going to occur.”
“What do you mean, ‘showdown’?” Jake stood in his office. Stared out the window. Below was the busy Monday lunchtime rush. All those people shopping. Visiting friends. Running errands. Grabbing a quick sausage-and-pepper sandwich on a hard roll. Jake wanted to be one of them. A normal guy. Doing regular things.
“Yeah.” Dickie was energized. “Showdown. OK Corral-like. He set it all up.”
“Dickie, what did you find?” No emotion.
“An invitation. You need to get over to the Museum of Science immediately, Jake. ‘Member that brochure I was telling you about? The flower exhibit?”
He waited, but Jake didn’t answer.
“Well,” Dickie continued, “the museum has a conservatory on the second floor—it’s part of that exhibit. Full of rare flowers. Trust me, Kid, this is where you’ll find him. That is where he gets his inspiration. It plays into what we’ve uncovered here. Get over to that museum now. I’ll call Ray, get it shut down, and have a team of blues meet you there.”
84
Monday, September 15 – 12:10 P.M.
The Plant Conservator
y was inside Boston’s Museum of Science on Route 28, just off Storrow Drive. The Museum displayed one of its most prized possessions on a grant from the John Kerry Foundation. It was a Titan Arum, or Amorphophallus titanium. The rarest flower in the world. But more famously, it went by another name.
The Corpse Flower.
Oddly shaped, much in line with a cactus, this massive botanical freak of nature grew up to ten feet tall. It looked like some sort of a stem-cell experiment gone terribly wrong. At times it emitted an aroma considered to be the nastiest smell on the planet. Hence its nickname.
“This plant is one of the wonders of the botanical world,” one of the museum’s botanists told reporters the previous Friday morning, unveiling the flower for the first time.
The exhibit drew thousands of visitors over the first three-day period of the 3rd Annual Museum of Science’s Rare Flower Exhibition. Definitely the star of the show.
Jake raced down Storrow Drive. The Longfellow Bridge and Massachusetts General Hospital was a blur on his right. Cars pulled off to the side of the road in front of him as sped toward the museum.
Matikas called and demanded that the Museum be closed.
“But only the day,” the museum conservator said. “I’ll give you that.”
“A cop’s wife’s life is at stake here, you bowtie-wearing prick,” Matikas was pissed. “You’ll do what we tell you to.”
It was 12:16 p.m. Jake took a hard left onto Route 28. The museum was in his sights.
Matikas radioed to say the museum had just ushered patrons and employees out of the building. There wasn’t time for a complete sweep. “But the conservator is certain the place is completely empty.”
Jake kicked the knob off the radio. It went dead.
Dawn.
Cooper had based his value on being a cop and his professional standing in the community on what his father thought of him. It was as if being a cop, completing the transformation from Southie bad boy to golden-child lawman, somehow justified his existence. He thought of Rocky, his and Casey’s favorite movie. Adrienne, Rocky’s girlfriend, asked why it was so important to win. Why Rocky needed to be the champ. “Then I’ll know I’m not a bum,” Rocky said.
THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller Page 32