by Jack Bowie
“Well, I sure ain’t divine, but I’m meeting with my contact at CPD again this evening. We’re having a few beers. Maybe I can get more dirt on Graves.”
Slattery raised his bottle. “I’ll drink to that. Call me if you learn anything new. Did you call Karen?”
“Oh, yeah. Did she chew my head off. Had a few kind words for you as well.”
Slattery nodded. “No doubt.” He took a long swallow of his beer. “We need to get Adam out of this, Sam. I’m afraid he’s into something a lot bigger than we thought.”
* * *
The Copper Kettle was a workingman’s pub off First Street in East Cambridge. For over fifty years it had served as the home away from home for CPD policemen. It’s location at the opposite end of Cambridge from Harvard University said volumes about its clientele.
Fowler had only been to The Kettle, as it was known locally, once before, but remembered it as his kind of bar. Dark, noisy with the constant blare of Irish music and having more varieties of beer on tap than fit on the menu, it was the perfect place to meet his contact.
He had known Regan Fitzgerald for over fifteen years. Fitzgerald was the prototypical Irish cop: tall and beefy, with curly red hair sprouting from a head a bit too big for even his over-sized body. His grandfather, uncle and father had all been cops in Philadelphia. He had joined the DC force when Patricia, his new wife and recently-graduated nurse, had gotten a position at Georgetown University Hospital. Over the following years, Fitzgerald had worked his butt off, taking on every assignment like it was his personal destiny, and eventually getting his detective’s shield.
He had been Fowler’s partner for over a year when his wife had been offered a management position at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. It had been an excruciatingly-difficult decision for the childless couple, but the opportunity, and increase in pay, was too great to refuse. They had picked up stakes and moved to Boston.
After a year struggling to find work, Fitzgerald had finally gotten a job in CPD. But from what Fowler had heard, his friend had not had an easy time of it.
Fowler was ten minutes early when he approached The Kettle. The sky above him was starless. Dark clouds covered the city, threatening a torrent of rain. He flipped up the collar of his raincoat and trudged down First Street.
When he was about half a block away he saw the unmistakable outline of Fitzgerald standing outside the pub. Fowler had worked with the man on too many stakeouts not to recognize the detective. He was about to call out to his friend when Fitzgerald turned and starting speaking to a woman who had appeared out of the darkness. She wasn’t tall enough to be Fitzgerald’s wife and Fowler wondered if perhaps she was another Cambridge cop.
He kept walking then suddenly stopped. He knew that woman. It was the snooty scientist Braxton had introduced him to at Omega Genomics. Kerry McAllister. What was she doing talking to a Cambridge cop outside a bar at this time of night? Did it have something to do with Braxton?
The two seemed to argue back and forth, then Fitzgerald handed McAllister a small package. The scientist took the package and retreated back into the shadows. Fitzgerald turned and went into The Kettle.
What the hell is going on?
* * *
“Okay, Sam,” Fitzgerald said as he reached for one of the frosty mugs the waitress had just delivered. He drank down half of the glass in a single swallow. “I hadn’t heard from you in over six months and now you’re all over me. Why the sudden attention?”
Fowler leaned over the table and replied in his best conspiratorial tone. “Like I said at lunch, Regan, just helping out a friend. Adam Braxton can be a real sonuvabitch sometimes, but there’s no way he would kill anyone. Especially not like O’Connor. He’s helped me in the past and I just wanted to return the favor.”
Fitzgerald finished the beer and waved for a refill. “Fair enough. But I sure would like to know who put the fear of God into Graves. I’ve never seen him work so hard on a case. Guess the Feds must have spooked him.”
“Yeah, guess so.”
Fowler sipped some of his beer—there was no way he was going to keep up with the Irishman—and pondered how best to approach his new questions.
The Kettle had changed very little. The long wooden bar was still scarred with use—and likely a few too many fights—and it was packed with patrons enjoying a pint. On the walls, every possible variety of Guinness poster alternated with photographs of Cambridge police awards and events. Behind the bar there was a CPD Wall of Honor frame, showing the photographs of fallen comrades.
Tables of every shape and size were scattered randomly over the floor, allowing customers to configure the space to the needs of their group. Fowler and Fitzgerald had dragged a small one into a relatively quiet space against the wall opposite the bar.
“How’s Patty?” Fowler finally asked.
Fitzgerald’s eyes lit up. “Really great. She’s head of all the surgical nurses at B and W. I don’t know how she does it. I can’t manage worth shit, but she makes it look easy. I’m one very lucky dude.”
“Glad to hear it. I always liked Patty. Would hate to see her get hurt.”
The waitress dropped another mug in front of Fitzgerald and Fowler let the comment hang in the air.
After she had left, Fitzgerald sat up in his chair and glared at the man across the table. “Why would she get hurt, Sam? What are you sayin’?”
“Nothin’, Regan. Take it easy.” Fowler raised his hands in mock defense. “It was just, well, I saw you with this gal outside. Looked like you two were goin’ at it pretty hard.”
The color drained from Fitzgerald’s face. “What gal? When?”
“Tonight. Just before I came.”
Fowler watched as Fitzgerald’s eyes glanced over to the door, then to the bar. He’d given too many interrogations not to sense the rising caution in his colleague’s demeanor.
“Don’t remember talking to anyone tonight, Sam.”
“Come on, Regan. I saw you. Spent a good five, maybe ten minutes together. Conversation got kinda heated at the end.”
Fitzgerald took a slow swig of his beer. “No idea what you’re talking about, Sam. Sure you don’t got me confused with somebody else?”
As Fitzgerald lifted the glass for another drink, Fowler’s huge black hand shot across the table, engulfed the top, and slowly pushed it to the table. Fitzgerald tried to pull it back, but as big as he was, the older cop’s grip was immovable.
“It’s been a real long day, Regan. I didn’t expect this kinda crap from you. And I don’t think for a minute you’re messing around behind Patty’s back. This is something else. I need to know if this has anything to do with Braxton.” Without loosening his gaze, he slowly removed his hand from the mug. “And you owe me. You never would have gotten your first gold shield without my recommendation.”
Fitzgerald’s eyes dropped to the table. He reached for the beer, then hesitated and left it where Fowler had pressed it into the tabletop. “Okay. What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with her name.”
“Lisa,” Fitzgerald replied dejectedly.
“Lisa what?” Fowler had had about all he could take from his friend.
“Lisa Jones.” Fitzgerald’s hand shook as he finally downed the rest of the beer. He caught their waitress’s eye and waved for another round.
Fowler knew he had hit something. Whether it had anything to do with his case he would find out soon enough. “Lisa Jones. Right. I think you’d better give it to me, Regan. All of it.”
“This is just between us, right? You can’t tell anybody. It’s my career, Sam.”
“Shit, Regan. I told you. You know you can trust me.”
The words stuck in Fowler’s throat. How many times had he sat across a similar table from some perp and said the same thing. Knowing that all he cared about was locking the sleazebag away. Now he was doing it to a friend.
The waitress brought two more beers and a big smile for Fitzgerald. He ignor
ed the attention as he began his story.
“I screwed up, Sam. I screwed up big time.”
Chapter 24
The Copper Kettle, East Cambridge, Massachusetts
Saturday, 8:30 p.m.
“It was nine months ago,” Fitzgerald began. His eyes wandered and lost their focus. “Just after I started at CPD. The case was a drug bust in North Cambridge gone bad. Two kids, just eight and ten, were killed. They had nothing to do with the drugs. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The pressure from the press, the major, and subsequently the department, to solve the case was unbelievable.
I finally got a lead from a snitch and we went into this tenement building hot. Turned into a real firefight. We got the whole damn ring including the asshole that killed the kids. But there were two more civilian causalities. A couple of users who were hanging out in the building.”
Fitzgerald tentatively reached for his beer, Fowler nodded, and he took a long swallow.
“It happens, Regan,” Fowler replied. “You know that.”
“Yeah. We went through the whole IAD shit and came out clean. It was a good bust. But the press didn’t like it. ‘Brutal attack’ they called it. I was the ‘gunslinger’ of Cambridge.
“The chief caved to the pressure and put me on leave. Came back a month later but they kicked me where I wouldn’t be seen. Cold cases. I got screwed, Sam.”
“They could have canned your ass, Regan. You know that.”
Fitzgerald shook his head. “I know, I know. But I’m a good cop, Sam. It wasn’t fair.”
Fowler wanted his friend to get on with the story but he held back. Pushing wouldn’t get what he wanted. He gave the cop a moment then asked, “What happened next?”
“It was last June. I’d been looking at these old cases for a month and done nothin’ but reading dusty case files and clawing through ratty evidence boxes. All I’d managed to do was ruin two perfectly good shirts from all the goddamn dirt.
“So one night I was sitting here in The Kettle, right over there.” Fitzgerald pointed to where the bar curved back to the side wall. It was a quiet corner well suited for either privacy or despondency. “I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, drinking my way through a bottle of Irish whiskey.
“Then this lady comes up to me. Says her name is Lisa and she’s in law enforcement, too. Says she’s been following what happened to me and thinks I got a raw deal. I told her to go to hell. Figured she was one of those goddamn reporters with a new angle.” Fitzgerald’s face screwed into a grimace. “They were the ones, Sam. They had already crucified me. They were the ones that turned my career to shit. What did they want now?”
Fitzgerald was sweating now and his hand was shaking.
“Come on, Regan. Take it easy. So what happened with this Lisa?”
The cop took a long drag on his beer. “Nothin’ at first. She was real cool. Said she might be able to help me with some of my cases. She slipped a business card under my glass and left.”
Fowler’s jaw dropped. “That was all?”
“Yeah.”
“What was on the card?”
“Not a helluva lot. Just said Lisa Jones and a telephone number. I almost tossed it, but ended up stuffing it into my pocket.”
Fowler sat back and sighed. Maybe this was just a wild goose chase. And he wasn’t sure Fitzgerald was sober enough to tell him anything. “Did you call her?” he finally asked.
“Not then. She came back in a couple times over the next month but never said anything to me. She’d sit at one of these tables, and have a round or two. But she’d always drop one of those business cards next to me before she left.” Fitzgerald emptied his glass and Fowler reluctantly waved for another. “It was just before the Fourth.”
“What was?”
“When I called her. I was going nowhere on the damn case files. What did I have to lose?”
“So what did she say?” Fowler prodded.
“Met her back here. Started out grilling her on procedures. She wasn’t a street cop but she did know forensics. Could have been a Fibbie, or even a spook. She wouldn’t say.”
Most local cops had no love for the FBI and even less for the prima donnas over at the CIA. For the most part, Fowler shared their feelings.
“She finally got around to business. Said she worked for a company with some new technology. DNA stuff. Thought she might be able to help me.”
DNA. Finally, something connects.
“How could she help?” Fowler asked. “Do some DNA matching?”
“She was pretty vague. Wouldn’t say exactly what she was doing, but asked me to test her. Give her a DNA sample from one of the cold cases and see what she could find out. I told her the samples had already been run through CODIS but she was insistent. ‘Just try me,’ she said.”
The waitress brought them another round and Fitzgerald wasted no time on his. Fowler took another sip.
“So you gave her something?”
“Yeah, but not what she wanted. I wasn’t about to blow what was left of my friggin’ career by destroying real evidence. I gave her a piece of an old rag with some of my blood on it.”
Fowler had to give the cop credit. Despite all his problems, he had still had the sense to play his new contact. “So what happened?”
“She came back here about a week later and threw an envelope at me. She was really pissed. Said if I didn’t give a damn about my career she didn’t either. Said she’d go find another cop that could use her help.”
“What was in the envelope?”
“A picture. Of me.”
* * *
So Lisa Jones had access to the Department’s DNA files in addition to her DNA analysis equipment. Nothing all that surprising. “How did she get access to your DNA profile?”
“Beats me. That’s all locked up tight. Or so the brass says. But she must have had some contacts. And I was goin’ nowhere fast so I decided to give her a real test.
“We had this serial child molester about five years ago. Six girls killed over three months one summer. The perp was a real monster. Grabbed ‘em on their way home, raped and strangled them and left their bodies out at Fresh Pond.”
A shot of adrenaline set Fowler’s nerves on alert. He had heard about this case. Fitzgerald had been hailed as a genius when he solved it. Could this Lisa have been involved in that?
“I remember that,” Fowler said. “It was all over the news. Washington was on it wasn’t he?” Guy Washington had been one of the best detectives Fowler had ever known. A real professional.
“Worked on it three goddamn years. It really ate him up. He had persons of interest but never any real evidence. They had the perp’s DNA but couldn’t find a match. After the department finally deep-sixed the case, Washington retired. He couldn’t do it any longer. I gave Lisa a piece of one of the girl’s panties.”
What could she do with that?
“She came back a week later. Handed me another sketch of a face.”
“A face?” Fowler exclaimed. “How the hell did she get a face?”
Fitzgerald shrugged with an indifference that turned Fowler cold. “Wouldn’t say where she got it. It wasn’t a photo. More like a police artist’s sketch. Anyway, I recognized it. It looked just like one of the original suspects. A guy that lived in the apartment building of one of the victims.”
“What did you do? It couldn’t be used as evidence.”
“What difference did that make? I was already dead, Sam. I said I had an informant. Said he was sure the guy had evidence in his apartment. So I asked for a warrant.”
“Why the hell would they give it to you?” Fowler asked.
Fitzgerald actually smiled. “Easy. They thought it was the nail in my coffin. When this crackpot evidence blew up in my face, I would be finished.”
“But it didn’t turn out that way did it?”
“Nope. We raided the asshole’s apartment and found a cache of the ugliest kiddie porn I had ever seen. Plus an envelope
with a set of golden crucifixes. The single artifact that was the only thing missing from every one of the victims.” Fitzgerald finished off his beer with a flourish.
“All of a sudden I was a hero. The media loved the resurrection of the fallen cop. Such goddamn hypocrites. I got put back on the A-Team.”
It was time for Fowler to finish his beer. How had McAllister gotten the picture? Where could it have come from?
He looked over at Fitzgerald. The cop had dropped his head in his hands. Something was still missing. “But that wasn’t the end, was it?” he asked.
Fitzgerald raised his head. His eyes were red and sunken. “No. I loved the acclaim. Being the new hotshot. Lisa Jones was my magic genie. But also my drug. And she kept pushing me. Always wanting more high-profile cases. To use her more. That’s what we were arguing about tonight. I wanted to stop, but she threatened to expose me.”
“Why? What did she want?”
“I don’t know. She kept asking what cases I had access to. Could I work with the Boston PD as well? The State Police? Like she wanted to prove herself.”
Fowler heard a buzzing and Fitzgerald reached for his phone.
“I better take this, Sam,” he said, swiping his finger across the screen. “This is Fitzgerald. Oh, hi, Sarah. What’s up? … No shit! Thanks. I owe you.”
He turned back to Fowler. “That was Sarah from dispatch. I asked her to call me if anything new popped on your case. You’re never gonna believe what just happened.”
* * *
Slattery had just settled in his bed and was planning the next day’s confrontation with Kerry McAllister. If his gut was right, and she did have records on the assassins, he had to find a way to get her to take the next step. It wouldn’t be easy. He was struggling with this dilemma when his cell phone buzzed.
“Slattery.”
“Good evening, Roger.” The familiar voice crackled over the line.
“Sam. Good to hear from you. Isn’t it a little late for an old guy like you to be up?”
“Good to talk to you too, buddy. I figured somebody needed to be working on this damn case so I had a drink with my friend from CPD. Interested in what he told me?”