By the time 9 a.m. rolled around, Kate had figured out a bunch of things. She’d gotten the identity of the man: Cliff Montague. He wasn’t currently held in custody, but he’d been asked to stay in town, just in case the police had more questions for him. She’d read through his file, and she’d also looked up Luke’s home address. She wasn’t going to be strung along by another man, forever waiting for him to call her back later.
Kate glanced at the clock on the wall and figured it would be fine to call the sheriff now.
“Deputy,” a man answered.
“Hi, my name is Kate Murphy. I met the sheriff about a week ago.”
“What are you calling about?”
“Last weekend he was asking around about the identity of a man. Did you figure out who he was?” she asked.
“Don’t believe so. Still a John Doe.”
“I think I can help you identify him. Is the sheriff available?”
“I can patch you over. Who did you say you were?”
“Kate Murphy.”
“Hold on...”
A muted click, a short pause, and then another click.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Sheriff Wallace. I met you last weekend at a gas station. You had a picture of a man and were asking about his identity.”
“Ah... yes, I remember, the blonde lady with a rental car?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes, that’s me. I’m with the Boston PD,” Kate said. “Long story short, we’ve had a murder here recently, and a man came forward for further questioning. That man looks just like your guy.”
“But my guy’s dead. Can’t be the same person.”
“Of course not, but maybe they’re twins or at least brothers,” she suggested.
“Did you ask him if he has a brother?”
“I couldn’t, he’s been released already, but I thought I’d pass along his contact information, and you could follow up if you wanted to.”
“Sure, let me grab a piece of paper. Boston PD, you say?” the sheriff asked.
“Yep. Do you have an email address? I can take a screenshot of the information I have, including his picture, and send it to you.”
“That’d be great.”
Kate cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear and then proceeded to type the sheriff’s email address in Outlook.
“Got it,” she said, before repeating it to be sure she’d entered it correctly. “I’ll attach his information, and it should be in your inbox in a few minutes.”
“Do you have a phone number I could reach you at, in case I need to talk to you again?” the sheriff asked.
“Sure,” she said before providing it and hanging up.
Kate felt good about herself. She hadn’t been able to help her uncle—at least not yet—but maybe this poor man from Ohio would be identified, his family notified, and a proper funeral could be held for him.
Chapter Fifteen
July 20, 2015
Kate Murphy
Roxbury Police Station, Boston
Roll call on Monday morning was different, as though someone had put something in the city’s water supply. Everyone was more talkative, more anxious, more driven to find the murderer, although most were happy that Ferguson could no longer hurt little girls.
With no proof of who’d killed him yet, all patrol officers were told to keep their eyes peeled for any suspicious activity.
At noon, Kate knew she wouldn’t have enough time to make it to court, but she managed to get five minutes at a coffee shop to grab a sandwich while catching up on the news. The anchorman reported that a letter to the editor had been published in the Boston Globe.
The screen changed to a light blue background with black lettering on it:
Our society is headed in the wrong direction, and those in power are responsible. They get involved where they shouldn’t, and they abandon those who need their help. They take advantage of powerless children, destroying their lives forever. They take bribes from large corporations that don’t have the world’s best interests at heart.
Money and power isn’t the end goal, life is.
But not everything is as gloomy as it seems. We are here to help, ready to right their wrongs, by any means necessary.
That’s any means necessary.
Sleep tight. The Lord’s servants are watching.
-SJC
The camera returned to the anchorman.
“Who do you think wrote this letter?” he asked the first guest sitting next to him, an Indian woman wearing a business suit.
“By the tone of the letter, I’d say it’s a religious organization, albeit a very extremist one,” she replied.
Kate had missed the guests’ titles, so she didn’t know the woman’s area of expertise or why she was taking part in this interview.
Anyone who can read would conclude the same thing.
The anchor turned to his other guest. “Dr. Fischer, any thoughts on that?”
A gray-haired man wearing a bow tie and a plaid jacket answered slowly as if he was carefully selecting each and every one of his words. He reminded Kate of those college professors who enjoyed hearing themselves talk. “The terminology reflects a certain level of passion and initiative. Not many people go through the trouble of writing a letter to the editor these days, with Twitter and other social media being much faster avenues for getting the word out—”
“But sending a Tweet would require an audience, a large group of followers in the first place,” the Indian woman interrupted.
“Of course,” the man continued. “But from my understanding, this letter was hand-written and addressed to Mr. Edward Fitzgerald, not just to ‘Dear Editor.’ Once again, who goes to the trouble? The postmark indicated it was mailed in Boston, and the police did not find any trace of DNA, fingerprints, or anything that could point them to the identity of this mysterious person. The writer is meticulous, well-organized, passionate, religious, and angry. If you ask me, that’s an explosive mix. I wouldn’t want to be a crooked politician right about now.”
The television now displayed the guests’ titles. The man was a sociology professor at Harvard, and the woman was a social media expert associated with MIT.
“Thank you, Dr. Fischer. Stay tuned. After these messages, we’ll share some of our viewers’ opinions. Send us your thoughts and comments at @BOSnewstweets.”
The dispatcher reported a nearby accident on her radio, so Kate left the coffee shop and returned to her patrol car.
At 5:30 p.m., Kate was unpacking a few grocery items she’d picked up on the way back to her apartment when her phone rang. The call was from area code 234.
“Hello?” Kate answered, wondering who it could be.
“Miss Murphy, this is Sheriff Wallace.”
“Hi, sheriff. How are you?” she asked.
“Good. I’m calling to follow up on what you sent me. You were right about the resemblance between these two people. Look like twins to me.”
“Are they?”
“That’s what I’m calling about. You said you were a cop?”
“Yes,” she said. “I mostly do patrol.”
“I’d like a favor, from one law enforcement officer to another.”
Kate was puzzled. “What’s that?”
“I called up the guy, and he has no interest in talking to me, or providing me with a sample of his DNA so I could test it against my John Doe’s DNA here. Thing is, I can’t justify issuing a warrant, and even if I could convince our judge, it’d be a nightmare dealing with two different state jurisdictions. You know how that goes?”
Kate wondered where this was headed. “Yeah...”
“Well, at least Montague did say something useful. He told me he’d already provided a DNA sample to you guys when he walked himself in. He had nothing to hide from the police or the public back then, so he willingly gave you his DNA. Now, with your creepy electoral candidate’s pedophile tape out there, Montague doesn’t want to be involved anymore. Can’t blame the guy. That
thing’s gone viral here as well.”
“Okay,” she said flatly.
“So... I was wondering if you could help me close my John Doe case without ruffling any more feathers and without complicating things for anyone.”
“How? I can’t send you his DNA. I don’t have access to it.”
“I figured as much, but how about I send you a sample of my John Doe, and you request a DNA comparison on your end? I don’t care about sticking to protocol. I just want to give this guy a name before we bury him. If the DNA shows some genetic relations, at least I’ll have a starting point, and I can trace birth records. Maybe there won’t be anything, but at least it won’t keep me up at night.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Kate said. “Ship your sample directly to the DNA section of the Massachusetts State Police Lab, care of Luke O’Brien. He’s the lab supervisor. I’ll talk to him about it.”
Kate gave him the address and hung up.
How would she ask Luke for that favor? Would he even listen to her? Heck, he was a professional. If he wasn’t willing to do it, she could go through the trouble of filling out the required paperwork. All human beings deserved to be identified when they died, right? She hoped someone would do the same for her if their roles were reversed.
However, she had to present that idea to Luke. She already had his address, and now she had a reason to go see him, so Kate grabbed her car keys and purse, and then headed to his house.
A block away from his home, as indicated by her GPS, she stopped at a Chinese restaurant. After parking, she walked in and realized she had no idea what kind of dishes he liked. Figuring a variety would be good—better odds of her buying at least one that he’d eat—she ordered the standard meal for four before heading to the liquor store next door. She got a bottle of chilled white wine, paid, and then returned to the restaurant to wait for her order.
Fifteen minutes later, she got back into her car, meal in hand, and then she made her way to Luke’s. She found a parking spot just a few houses down from the address she’d seen in the police records. Her heartbeat increased with every footstep she took toward his house.
Will he be angry at me?
What will he think of me showing up unannounced?
Will he even be home?
The bag of food and her bottle of wine gave her added courage. At least she came bearing gifts.
Luke lived in an old brick building with metal railings and huge bay windows. She walked up the seven concrete steps and then rang the doorbell next to the azure door.
A silver-haired woman answered, wearing a bright yellow dress with little red flowers. Not a particularly flattering fabric, but the pink plastic rollers in her hair and the thick layer of green mud slathered on her face took Kate’s attention away from the dress.
“Hi,” Kate started, regretting her decision. “I’m looking for Luke O’Brien. Is this where he lives?”
“Yes, and who would you...” the lady said when her eyes suddenly widened. A broad smile appeared on her face, cracking her facial mask, and the woman’s arms wrapped themselves around Kate.
Kate’s confusion came to an end when the lady pulled back and spoke again.
“Katie, love! I’m so glad you’re all right!”
Kate scrunched her face up at the woman standing before her. “Mrs. O’Brien?”
“Who did you think I was?” Mrs. O’Brien brought her hand to her green cheek. “Never mind. I probably look ridiculous like this in broad daylight.”
“No.” Kate shook her head. “It’s just that... I didn’t expect to see you here. How are you?”
“Come in, love, come in! I have to take off this mask then we’ll talk. It’s been so long,” she said, pulling Kate by the arm. “Luuuke... Luuuke,” she yelled toward the stairs, “We’ve got company.”
He lived with his mom? That explained a lot.
Kate suddenly remembered she was holding bags.
“Oh, I brought dinner.”
She’d never been more pleased with her silly habit of buying way too much food.
“You didn’t have to do that, girl, but thank you. We’ll catch up over dinner. What did you bring?” she asked, tearing away at the bags now sitting on the table.
Luke entered the kitchen behind her, directing a confused look at Kate.
“I needed to talk to you, so I thought I would just pop by,” she started. Then she leaned closer to Luke and lowered her voice. “I didn’t know you lived with your mom.”
“No, she lives with me. There’s a difference.”
Kate smiled, but he didn’t smile back.
A minute later, Mrs. O’Brien wiped away her mask and finished unpacking the meal. Then she requested that Luke and Kate both sit down before prompting them to hold hands to say grace.
“Thank you, Lord, for bringing little Katie back into our lives,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “I’m glad you’ve taken good care of her and looked after her. Thank you for the food, and bless those who’ve cooked it, and brought it to our table. Amen.”
Based on how fast the containers were emptied, everyone was enjoying the food as much as Kate. But halfway through the meal, Mrs. O’Brien’s expression changed.
“I still remember the day you came back from your house... Running, in tears, with your dead baby brother in your arms,” she said with her voice shaking. “You couldn’t speak to tell us what had happened. Poor thing. It was good that Luke and you were playing in these darn caves; otherwise, you’d have been killed, too. I often wondered what had happened to you. If you ever got over it or if it had made you crazy.”
Luke slammed his hands on the table. “Mom!”
“I’m serious. I worried a lot about you,” his mother continued. “I kept telling Luke to talk to you. He was supposed to ask you for your new address at the funeral, but he never gave it to me. I doubt he even asked you.”
Kate stared at what was left of her Kung Pao chicken. “That was a long time ago, Mrs. O’Brien. I’m good now. My uncle took good care of me.”
Saying these words aloud brought a sharp pang to her heart. She hadn’t helped him a bit. She hadn’t even touched base with George today.
“I testified,” Luke said.
“And how did it go?” Kate asked.
“Not looking too good for him.”
Mrs. O’Brien seemed confused for a second, taking her eyes off Katie and bringing them to Luke. “What’s going on. What are you two talking about?”
Luke’s face reddened. Kate couldn’t tell if it was shame, embarrassment, anger, or a mix of all of these, so she decided to change topics.
“This was a meal for four people, so that means one of us will get an extra fortune cookie,” Kate said.
“I love those! I always play the lotto with the numbers on the back,” Mrs. O’Brien said.
Luke shook his head. “Lottery is a tax on the poor, Mom.”
“It may very well be, but it brings thrills and excitement into my life. What if we won? What would you do, Luke, if you became a millionaire?”
“Not sure. I’d probably build myself a small but comfy house on the coast. And I’d get you your own little condo in town, with a butler.”
Mrs. O’Brien frowned at Luke. “Ah... you wouldn’t keep your dear old mum in your house?”
“I say you deserve the extra cookie, Mrs. O’Brien,” Kate said. “That way you can decide what you’ll do with your money when you win.”
After dinner ended, Mrs. O’Brien left them alone in the kitchen and headed to the living room to watch her favorite TV show, which was about to start.
Luke adjusted his sitting position, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at Kate. “Why are you here?”
“I said I was sorry,” she started, her hand on her heart, tilting her head. “You didn’t call me back, and I need your help with something.”
His eyes softened a little, but abrupt words kept coming out of his mouth. “What? What do you need my help with?”
Kate t
old him of her progress in trying to figure out another motive for the murder, then continued with the story of the sheriff she met after visiting the Ohio penitentiary.
“I was hoping you could help us identify that Ohio man. Sheriff Wallace will be sending you a DNA sample from his John Doe. Could you compare it to Montague’s sample?”
Luke shook his head, pushed his chair back from the kitchen table, and then got up. His hands were now braced on his hips. “I’m a ‘by-the-book’ guy. You know that, Kate. This isn’t proper.”
She got up as well and reached for his right arm. “No one will get hurt,” she said, nearly begging. Kate knew she couldn’t do this without him. “It isn’t being used in a criminal investigation. Best scenario is you tell the sheriff the two samples are related, and then he’s got a starting point to trace the identity of the unknown victim. Worst scenario is there isn’t anything in common between the two, and you wasted a few minutes running the test.”
Luke waved his arms to the sky, his soft blue eyes locked on Kate. “I’ve got better things to do with my time.”
“If something happened to you or your mom, or if you died without any documents on you, wouldn’t you want your family to be notified of your death? There could be a wife, a kid, a mother out there, worried about this man.”
“Katie,” he said, shaking his head. He stared at her with an intensity she’d never seen in his eyes before. “Fine, but just this once.”
Kate hugged him.
“Thank you,” she whispered. The hug felt good, like an electromagnetic field recharging her emotional battery. “I’ve missed you.”
“Me too,” he said. “Let’s grab a drink sometime this week or next, okay?”
“It’s a date,” Kate said.
Chapter Sixteen
July 22, 2015
Kate Murphy
Near Roxbury Police Station, Boston
The Last Hope Page 12