THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller

by M. William Phelps

  It was clear to Jake now as he headed for the parking lot closest to the conservatory that his identity and self-worth—the conditions for his life—were with this killer. No one else—and nothing—mattered. Likewise, he needed Dawn in the same way he needed to kill the man who had violated that space. He was a slave to original evil. He knew that. But there was salvation there, too. He could see that clearly now.

  As he got out of his car, Jake knew deep down that Dawn was dead. He was on a mission of payback at this point. Nothing more.

  85

  Monday, September 15 – 12:19 P.M.

  Other exhibits in the museum included an entire wall of Queen of the Night flowers. This was where the Optimist had spent a lot of his spare time the past few weeks. The greenhouse had become a place where Rainn Meyers could fulfill the final wish he had for himself.

  Dickie was right. The Optimist had set it up to end here. He knew Jake and his team of cops would storm into the museum’s greenhouse conservatory at any moment. They would wave guns and threaten. Tell him he was cornered. There was nothing he could do.

  What a damn joke.

  Meyers hid in a closet when the museum announced it needed to close “for routine maintenance.” He knew it was about him.

  “ ‘Our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee.’ ” He wondered if it was the Teacher or Father John who had given him that Bible passage. He couldn’t recall.

  He walked about the greenhouse, feeling the petals of the Queens brush smoothly against his open palm, almost as if he was giving the leaves high-fives. It was here where he came up with the idea to place that lone seedling underneath Lisa Marie’s body. And also to leave the brochure with today’s date, leading Jake and his cronies here. They would think it was all some sort of master plan. Some crazy serial-killer thing. But it was nothing more than a ruse. A well-thought-out plan to kill one last victim.

  Police were so easy. So predictable. Too damn gullible.

  As he walked around, the Optimist pictured what was about to happen. Jake was going to point his gun. Where is my wife?

  The Optimist saw himself laughing in the cop’s face.

  Waiting for Jake, the killer pressed his nose up against the glass. He stood in the conservatory alone. He wondered which path Dawn had chosen. It was over by now. She’d made her choice. As he watched cops barrel into the parking lot three stories below, he pictured Dawn on the bottom of the Atlantic. Bloated and blue. Her hair swaying in slow motion, like algae, with the surf. Eyes wide open. Fish swimming around her.

  Who wanted to live a life on stilts—stubs of flesh and bone—anyway?

  She was better off dead.

  “There they are now.” His hot breath bounced off the glass back at him. “What a pack of fools.”

  Jake had pulled in, banked his Crown Vic to the right, skidding to a stop, television cop-style.

  And, What a surprise. Here we have Father John. He would tell Jake, “I got her into this. I need to be here to help get her out.”

  The Optimist shook his head, laughing.

  86

  Monday, September 15 – 12:23 P.M.

  Every piece of furniture had its place, not to mention those little coasters underneath each leg. There were two paintings on the walls. A reproduction of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” and a nameless beach landscape setting he had probably bought in Cape Cod. The Queen of the Night flowers were lined up on the mantle above a fireplace filled with three birch logs, perfectly pitched on a metal grate. Inside the Optimist’s spotless house, Dickie pried open the padlocked door to the basement. No sooner did he reach the last stair, did it become clear that he had hit pay dirt.

  In an old photo album with a sticky white cardboard backing, a clear sheet of plastic covering the photos, Dickie found a scrapbook dedicated to Jake, Dawn and Brendan. They were common photos of Dawn and Brendan going about their lives. In the park. At TGI Fridays, eating and laughing and being half a family. Miniature golfing. Then Jake at the Boston Public Garden crime scene. Dawn coaching soccer. Brendan getting off the school bus.

  Beyond that were boxes of black-and-white photographs of women’s legs. Hundreds of pairs. Skinny. Fat. Long. Short. Every leg type imaginable.

  Dickie flipped through the photos. “What a sick sonofabitch …”

  “Detective?” The call was from upstairs in the kitchen. “Come here.”

  Dickie put the photos down, ran up the stairs.

  “Have a look at this.”

  Inside the freezer were several Ziploc bags of frozen blood. Dates were written on the front with a Sharpie.

  “Damn.” Dickie reared away from the macabre display. “He was keeping track of each victim.”

  “You think he drank it, too, Detective?”

  Dickie wasn’t about to gratify that rookie question with an answer.

  In back of the bags was a small amount blood inside an empty 35mm film cartridge. The sweat of equity written on the front of it. It was the Optimist’s.

  Back in the basement, Dickie located a large Tupperwarelike see-through tub. It was full of electronic gadgets, navigation charts, maps of Boston Harbor and Cape Cod Bay. “Jake was right.”

  Putting that aside, Dickie pulled out a GPS system for a car. It was a portable unit that plugged into the cigarette lighter.

  A state trooper stood over Dickie’s shoulder, looking on. Dickie sensed the cop—literally breathing on his back—had something to say. So he turned.

  “It’s your stage, Trooper.”

  “Oh, thanks, Detective. I just was thinking. You can probably find out his normal, everyday comings and goings by looking at the history in that thing. A GPS works like a computer, leaving an imprint of every move the driver makes. Saw it on Discovery once … that How It’s Made show.”

  “Take it outside and have one of the techs hook it up so I can get into it. Call me when you’re ready.”

  87

  Monday, September 15 – 1:23 P.M

  The Plant Conservatory was three flights above the parking lot. Strategically positioned over the museum’s lab. A set of executive offices sandwiched in between. This section of the museum was part of a new construction project. The roof and walls of the conservatory were glass. Inside the greenhouse were two doors—one leading to the east side of the museum, another down into the back parking lot. In the small foyer by the east-side door was a stairwell of about ten steps heading up, dumping you out onto the roof.

  “Well, well, well.” The Optimist gripped the handle of his knife with force. “You came.”

  Jake had not entered the greenhouse. He stood outside the open glass entrance, opposite the east-end doorway. Several troopers and BPD personnel stood around. “Wait here,” Jake whispered, explaining how he wanted things handled. “Do not come in without my signal.”

  During the commotion of arriving at the same time, Father John rushed past everyone and made it inside the museum before anyone could stop him. He was working his way up the back stairs. “Let him be,” Jake told two blues who went after the priest. “This will be over before he makes it.”

  The Optimist moseyed through a row of flowers displayed on large boards like plants for sale at Home Depot. He bent down and pulled a stem and its petals up to his nose every so often. He seemed calm. He knew Jake was not about do anything foolish until he knew for certain the status of his wife.

  “Ah …” The Optimist took a slow breath in through his nose, eyes closed. “The rare but fruitful-smelling Alchemist Rose.” He leaned over the flower.

  A moment of silence pulsed.

  “Tell me, Detective, what would you put over her coffin? Roses or carnations? I have you pegged as a carnation guy.” He used the knife to point at Jake. “Am I right?”

  Jake had one foot in the greenhouse. He exchanged a glance with the sharpshooter sent in by the FBI, a guy who did not miss. “Get a bead on him, but stay back. When you have a clear shot, take it. But do not kill him. Hit him in the shoulder.”

/>   Head nod.

  Jake walked underneath a hanging, viney plant of some type and into the room, not taking his eyes off the target. He had swiped out his Glock back at the office for a .357 Magnum he rarely shot. Now it was pointed out in front of him, cop-like.

  “Where is she?” Jake said. He pointed the weapon at the Optimist’s head, one eye squinted.

  “You cannot come up with anything better than that?”

  Jake walked toward the killer.

  “Hey, hey. Don’t you come too close. You’re making me awfully nervous.”

  A row of flowers four feet wide separated the two of them. It was a line of wild orchids. Jake did not take his eyes off Rainn Meyers.

  “Put that gun down, Detective, or you’ll never find her. Which reminds me. Can Dawn swim?” He laughed. Took his Red Sox cap off, threw it at Jake.

  Jake lowered his weapon. “It’s over, Meyers. You’re done.”

  “You haven’t changed much, Jake. Just taller. Broader shoulders, maybe. But that baby face of yours, it’s still the same.”

  Jake didn’t know what Meyers was talking about.

  “Oh, you don’t remember me? How come? All that ‘instinct’ ”—he tapped the back of the blade against his palm—“you cops are supposed to have. And Detective Cooper does not recall a fellow parish member and altar server? I’ve been told I was invisible as a child, but shame on you, Jake. You’re not a good Catholic.”

  Jake thought it would help if he could place Meyers into some context of his life. Maybe talk about old times. But the face was unfamiliar.

  The Optimist changed the subject. “That Alyssa Bettencourt, she should have never rejected me. She started this. You know that, don’t you. All I did was approach her in Quincy Market and show her some photos I was nice enough to take. I couldn’t help it, Jake. Or do you prefer Sundance? Anyway, Alyssa resembled my mother so much—that is, of course, until I cut her into pieces and fed her to the sharks.”

  Nothing. Jake studied the room. He looked for the best corner to back the Optimist into. He wanted to keep him talking.

  “From there, you know, saving Alyssa’s legs for the Taylor family, I just went with the flow. Did what felt right.”

  Jake kept his eye on the Optimist. The sharpshooter had him dead-on, even though the killer kept moving.

  “And you thought I was stupid, Detective, didn’t you? I’ll have you know, I was an honor student. ‘Golden child.’ That’s what Mr. Micah called me. Imagine that.”

  Jake grew tired of this psycho’s trip down memory lane. “Just try to think about how this will eventually end, Meyers.” Jake had a composed affect. Perfect cadence. All business. Zero emotion. “You are not going to leave here on your feet. No matter what.”

  The Optimist looked down at his knife. He ran the tip of his forefinger along the sharp edge, making a fine paper cut. He waited for blood to emerge. When it did, in a controlled rage, he screamed. “What makes you think I want to live, Detective?” He paused. Lowered his voice to a calm note. “What is it that makes you think you can dictate when I live and I die, anyway? I’m the one who makes those decisions.”

  “First chance I get, I’m blowing your fucking head off.”

  “Promises, promises. Tsk, tsk on you. Now put that gun down, like I said.”

  “My wife is dead, Meyers. I know that.”

  “You think you’re so smart,” the Optimist yelled, spittle spraying from his mouth.

  “I don’t.”

  “You see, Detective, we’re not so different, you and I. Our teachers have let us down—haven’t they? Maybe you ought to take my lead. Let redemption guide you. My teacher, he’s still alive—dying a miserable death in prison. Yours, well, we all know yours was a dirty cop who couldn’t live up to his responsibilities. He took the easy way out. Didn’t I just hear that on the radio this morning?”

  Mo.

  The Optimist walked up to the glass door on the east end of the greenhouse. He stood in front of a large case of flowers, reached for the door handle.

  “You walk out that door, Meyers, I’ll shoot you in the back.” Jake held his weapon chest-high, pointed at the madman. The door led to the rooftop. To the left side, a stairwell led down the stairs into the back parking lot.

  “You ever read C.S Lewis, Detective?” The Optimist let out a guttural laugh. Waited. “No, right. What am I saying? I didn’t think so.”

  Jake kept his Magnum poised at eye level. His heart thumped. He wasn’t prepared to fire. He looked over at the sharpshooter, who couldn’t keep the Optimist in his sight long enough to get a good crack at him.

  “Great Christian writer, that Lewis. The Catholics love him. Anyway, Lewis said we all have this ‘ordinary idea’ of a ‘natural self with various desires and interests.’ He suggests that we all ‘know something called morality and decent behavior’ have a grasp—Lewis called it a ‘claim,’ I think—on the self. We are hardwired, Detective, to understand the demands of morality and society. Imagine. We know better. It’s instinct.”

  “Stop moving toward that door, Meyers.”

  The Optimist heard something. Footsteps. He stopped in front of the door.

  Jake heard it, too. He pointed his weapon at the door, then back at the Optimist.

  “As I was saying—”

  The door flew open and almost hit the Optimist in the shoulder.

  Father John stepped out. The priest was out of breath. Huffing and puffing. Beads of sweat ran down his crinkled brow.

  Jake refocused his sights on the Optimist. “Father, don’t move.”

  The Optimist lifted the knife over his head, slasher-film-like—and then lunged at the priest.

  88

  Monday, September 15 – 1:39 P.M

  Dickie stood outside the Optimist’s house. He leaned over the hood of his Crown Vic. Trooper Styles by his side. They searched through the GPS’s history. The idea was to find a pattern. Anything that might lead them to Dawn.

  “Detective?” A blue walked out the front door. He had a book in his hand.

  “Yeah?” Dickie sounded distracted. “Kinda busy here, Officer.”

  The cop held up a three-inch-thick version of the King James Bible. “Check this out.”

  Several pages were flagged with Post-Its. They all contained a reference to drowning. Dickie read Matthew 18:6 to himself: “But if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.”

  “Hey, Detective,” another blue yelled from the porch. “We found a laminate machine—must be how he got into that prison to talk to prisoner Micah.”

  “Thanks.” Dickie never looked up. He wasn’t paying attention. In his mind, he kept repeating that phrase: Drowned in the depths of the sea.

  “Detective Shaughnessy?” Trooper Styles was still panning through the GPS files. “I think I know where he keeps his boat. Look.” He pointed to a list of about two dozen trips to the same North Shore marina over the past two weeks.

  Dickie stared at the readout. “Same location. He kept going back there.” Then, Dickie took his radio in his hand and keyed, “Jake, you there?”

  No answer.

  Dickie put the radio against his forehead in frustration.

  Drowned in the depths of the sea.

  “Call the Coast Guard and Harbor Patrol, Trooper. Come on. Let’s move.”

  89

  Monday, September 15 – 1:41 P.M.

  The Optimist grabbed Father John by the neck. Whirled him around, using the priest as a shield. He had gone to stab Father John, but thought better of it, stopping mid-strike. He had another idea. Something more practical to his endgame. He whispered in the priest’s ear. “Don’t do anything stupid, Padre.” Then looked at Jake. “Drop that weapon, or I expose the priest’s larynx and juggle with his Adam’s apple.”

  Jake obliged. He knelt down, placed his gun on the ground. Stood with his hands rai
sed above his head.

  Holding the knife blade to Father John’s neck, the Optimist walked him toward the door. “Open it.” Father did as he was told.

  “I’m wondering, are you going to answer that call, Detective? Seems your partner has some information for you. We’ll wait.”

  “Call me on my cell, Dickie.” Jake threw his radio at the Optimist, just missing his head.

  Jake took out his iPhone, put it between his shoulder and ear. He bent down and picked up his gun. Held it out in front of himself.

  The Optimist and the priest stopped in front of a large Judean date palm plant by the door. He leaned down and rubbed his face against the leaves.

  Jake dropped the phone from his shoulder on purpose, refocused his attention back on the moment.

  “Do you know the story of the Masada, Detective?” The Optimist gripped the priest’s neck tighter. Closed his eyes. Took in a deep breath through his nose. Pinned the knife to Father John’s neck, drawing blood. The priest struggled for air.

  “You need to put the knife down, let the priest go. Then tell us where my wife is.” Jake had learned a few things throughout the years. Stay on point. Stick to the basics. Don’t get into any good-and-evil conversations with a perp holding a hostage. It fuels their rage. Most of all, let them do the talking.

  “Let me tell you about the Masada. They say the Jews committed suicide on the mountaintop sanctuary of Masada. But that’s not true. Six men killed all the women and children on Masada—with machetes! Can you imagine that? Women and children.”

  Father John looked to be changing color. “I’m choking,” he said in a raspy voice. “Please, Randy. Let’s talk about this.”

  “Women. Incredible, isn’t it?” The Optimist squeezed a tighter grip on the priest’s neck, jamming the knife even further into his flabby skin. “One of the men then killed the five others afterward, and he—that one man left behind—committed suicide. Masada was not a mass suicide or a massacre by the Romans. It was mass murder, and one suicide. You should know your biblical history, Detective.”