Beacon Hill

by Colin Campbell

  Witness 1: “I can do better than that. I can describe the man drove it.”

  Detective: “You get a good look at him?”

  Witness 1: “Damn right. Pardon me. I never forget a face.”

  Grant opened his door wide and prepared to get in. A group of uniformed cops were crossing the road from the house. The detective listened attentively, waiting for the description. The retired schoolteacher froze on the ambulance step as he glanced towards the Crown Vic. A wiry finger pointed at Grant.

  Witness 1: “That’s the man right there. Oh my goodness.”

  The detective turned towards Grant. He’d never arrested a murder suspect before. He fumbled with his sidearm and barely got it out of the holster before the uniformed cops realized what was going on. They all drew simultaneously. Four guns swung towards the Crown Vic. Grant stepped away from the car and held his arms out from his sides. Like Jesus on the cross. Not so much the Resurrection Man as the Arrested Man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Grant was taken to Winthrop police headquarters, a chunky redbrick building with arched windows and a flat roof on the southern tip of Metcalf Square. The square was a public park with trees, lawns, and a symbolic mound with a flagpole in the middle. The stars and stripes hung limp in the late afternoon sun.

  He wasn’t handcuffed and he wasn’t read his rights. When he tried to explain his involvement, Grant was cautioned to be quiet until the detective had arrived back at the station. He wanted to check all the evidence before recording Grant’s confession. The fact that he thought Grant was trying to confess was enough to shut Grant up. He knew that unsolicited comments could come back to haunt him in a court of law. Being innocent wasn’t always the best defence. So he kept quiet through the entire procedure.

  The procedure wasn’t very professional or scientific. There were more loopholes than a string vest. This was probably the biggest thing to happen in Winthrop since it had been incorporated as a town in 1852. The brutal slaying of a little old lady and her grandson. A vengeful Boston police officer running amok in the coastal township. The most important forensic scene examination that the coroner had ever undertaken. If it’s true that practice makes perfect, then it’s certain that inexperience breeds mistakes. There were lots of mistakes. Grant bided his time and went with the flow.

  Grant was searched and placed in a cell. The search was cursory but enough. The cell was basic and the only one that Winthrop had. It wasn’t a big police department. It wasn’t a big town. In England it would barely qualify as a village. He’d seen American food portions nearly as big. That meant the full-time police officers were barely full time. Dealing with tourists and school kids most of their service didn’t equip them for dealing with a murder suspect.

  One thing they did get right was seizing Grant’s service weapon. The cop who took it sniffed the barrel and smiled. Recently fired. Not a forensic examination but the right conclusion. Next thing they did right was take a gunshot residue test. The coroner did that in his capacity as a CSI. Same guy who’d examined the scene. Loophole. Potential for cross-contamination of samples. He did do a fairly competent job of swabbing Grant’s hands and forearms. He took scrapings from Grant’s fingernails. Swabbed between his fingers. Nobody asked him if he’d fired a gun recently. Grant didn’t volunteer the information. In the army, they used to say “never volunteer for anything.” In the police, it was more a case of never volunteer information until asked.

  The searching officer left Grant with his belt and shoelaces. Either they didn’t think he was a suicide risk or the custody suite was only part time as well. They didn’t take his wallet, watch, or money. This was the most relaxed incarceration Grant had ever seen. He sat for an hour before they finally got their act together.

  “You’re a cop. So you know your rights. Yes?”

  The interview room was a small office at the rear of the building, just off the main corridor. It wasn’t soundproofed and the tape recorder didn’t work. The detective from the scene was writing down questions and answers. The way they used to do it when Grant joined the West Yorkshire Police, before civil rights realized that written notes didn’t record slaps to the back of the head or precise answers.

  The detective’s opening words replaced Grant’s Miranda warning. Grant didn’t reply. He used his own interview technique against the interviewer. Silence is a great motivator. People naturally want to fill the void. Preferred method is for the interviewer to lead the suspect into an area he wants answers from, then go quiet. Let the suspect fill the silence with whatever lies he wants to concoct, then provide evidence that shows they were lies. The detective didn’t lead Grant anywhere. Grant waited to see if he was still expected to confess. The detective filled the void.

  “My name’s Detective Rafter.”

  Grant already knew that. Detective Nigel Rafter was written on the name badge pinned to the detective’s very plain jacket. Giving his name didn’t fill enough of the void so the detective continued.

  “And you’re Jim Grant, works out of Jamaica Plain. Cop from England. Been working over here for a while now. Recently bereaved.”

  Grant clenched his jaw but didn’t speak.

  Rafter showed his sensitive side. “Sorry for your loss.”

  Grant waited. It wasn’t time to explain until he had more information.

  Rafter filled the void again. “Considering what happened, I can understand your reaction. We can’t condone it but I do understand. You’ve got to understand, that’s motive right there.”

  Rafter paused, waiting for Grant to confirm or deny he had a motive. Grant did neither. Silence hung in the air. Nature abhors a vacuum. Rafter couldn’t deal with the quiet.

  “That’s one thing. Other things are stacking up.”

  He didn’t tick the things off on his fingers but he did make a little mark in his notebook as he listed the evidence.

  “Gunshot residue’s gonna come back positive. We both know that. That means you’ve got motive and you fired a gun.”

  He moved the pen down to the next line.

  “We’ve got your service weapon and the team are going over the house with a fine-tooth comb. Once we recover the slugs, they’re gonna match your gun. We both know that too.”

  This time he did count them on his fingers. “That’s motive, gunshot residue, and bullets.”

  Three fingers. Now it was back to the notebook.

  “We’ve photographed the skid marks outside the house. They’re gonna match the tyres on your Crown Vic. No argument there either.”

  Grant didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything at all.

  Rafter sat back in his chair and prepared to deliver the coup de grace.

  “And we’ve got an eyewitness saw you coming out of the house straight after the gunshots and speeding off.”

  Grant decided it was time to sow the seeds of doubt.

  “That the same witness that’d struggle to identify Santa Claus leaving the scene after Christmas?”

  “He’d recognize Santa Claus.”

  “Might struggle with the timing though. Before or after Christmas? Before or after the gunshots?”

  Rafter drummed his fingers on the table. Pondering whether to play his hold card. He stopped drumming.

  “You’ve got a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later.”

  Grant fell into the trap. “I never shoot first.”

  Rafter pounced. “Is that what happened then? The grandmother shot first?”

  Grant shrugged.

  Rafter continued. “Self-defence? That your excuse? That might work. Except neither of them had a gun on them.”

  Grant dug himself deeper. “You checked the kitchen table?”

  “What? That where their guns are?”

  “That’s where they left them.”

  Rafter slapped the table.

  “So you admit you were there?”

  Grant decided it was time to expl
ain. “Nobody’s asked me if I’ve been there. Nobody’s asked me if I’ve fired a gun. And nobody’s explained how I managed to shoot one in the face and the other through the back of the head from two different directions at the same time. Maybe Santa came in the back door and your witness missed him.”

  Rafter leaned back and marshalled his thoughts now Grant was talking.

  “Well, I’m asking now.”

  Grant nodded and was about to speak when there was a knock on the door and the desk sergeant waved Rafter out. There was a muffled conversation in the doorway, then Rafter came back in. He didn’t sit down.

  “They’re tying this in with the shootings at Beacon Hill. Your captain’s suspended you. Taking you downtown for further investigation.”

  Rafter gathered his pen and notebook.

  “Sit tight. You’re going for a ride.”

  The office went quiet once Rafter left to organize transport. Grant looked out of the window. The sun was low in the west. Afternoon was turning into early evening. The police headquarters nestled between Amanda’s Oakleaf Cakes and the Winthrop School of Performing Arts. The cake shop was across the road. Police headquarters shared a parking lot with the acting school.

  That’s what Grant was looking at while his mind reviewed the evidence. His gun had been fired. His tyre marks were at the scene. He’d been seen driving away. All circumstantial. All easily explained since he wasn’t denying visiting the address. Leaving Kincaid out of it, all he had to do was say he’d tracked the family there and gone to question them. More difficult to explain why he hadn’t arrested them or called for backup, but that wasn’t as serious as being accused of killing them.

  That accusation wouldn’t stick once all the forensic evidence was processed. They would eventually match up the bullets Grant had fired into the ground and confirm his story. The kill shots would be recovered. Not from Grant’s gun. Also, the angles of the shots would prove there were two shooters, one from the front door and one from the rear. The eyewitnesses were right about the gunshots being confusing. There were the initial shots from Greg Dunsmoor and Grant, then the fatal shots later.

  Eventually the evidence would prove Grant innocent.

  Eventually wasn’t quick enough.

  Eventually would leave the real killers out there and the real killers had also shot Terri Avellone. They might finally get a shot on target and kill Mike Dillman as well. That didn’t bother Grant. What bothered him was how many more innocent bystanders might get hit in the process.

  Winthrop PD had made lots of mistakes. Grant fished another one out of his pocket. They hadn’t taken his car keys either. He looked out of the window at the parking lot. The Crown Vic was parked where they’d brought it, in a slanted bay facing the cake shop. He tossed the keys in his hand and tried the window. It didn’t budge. He looked for the lock. There wasn’t one. The frame had been painted so many times it was sealed shut.

  He glanced at the door, then looked at the phone on the desk. The custody suite was at the rear of the police station. Grant had been brought in the side door. Nobody had seen him at the front desk, but that’s where Rafter had gone to arrange transport. Grant took out his wallet and leafed through the papers. He found Kimberley Clark’s business card and smiled. The WCVB logo was big and bright on the back.

  The telephone. Grant sat behind the desk and looked for an internal directory. He didn’t need it. All the numbers were printed on a laminated sheet taped to the desk. He picked up the phone and dialled the front desk. He could hear it ringing through the office door.

  Three rings. Four. Nobody answered.

  Five. Six.

  Grant drummed his fingers on the desk. A voice came on the line after the eighth ring.

  “Winthrop. Yeah?”

  As professional as the rest of the staff. Grant didn’t try for a Boston accent but did his best not to sound English.

  “Custody. Send Rafter back here.”

  He didn’t explain. That wasn’t the Winthrop way. He hung up and moved to the door. Shambling footsteps went past towards the custody suite. Grant waited five seconds, took his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder, then opened the door. He went left, holding the WCVB card out for everyone to see. The desk clerk was busy. The only person who paid any attention was a young cop who looked like he was still in training. That made him keener than the rest, but less experienced. Grant felt guilty for what he was about to do to the kid’s career. The kid held up a hand.

  “Hey, you’re not allowed back there.”

  Grant shrugged and looked embarrassed. He smiled and waved the card instead of answering. The young cop felt emboldened and puffed his chest out.

  “No press inside until the captain says so.” He jerked a thumb towards the front door. “And don’t you try sneaking in.”

  Grant nodded an apology and went out the door. He turned sharply right and doubled round to the parking lot. Opposite side to the custody entrance. He put his coat on and the card away. The car keys dangled from his hand. With Terri gone and Kincaid out of reach, there was just one place for Grant to go. To see the only other person he could trust.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  John Cornejo still lived in the traditional green-painted clapboard house on Woodlawn Street just south of Jamaica Plain. Grant dumped the Crown Vic at Downtown Crossing and took the T to the Forest Hills station, then walked the short distance to Woodlawn. Police cars have transponders. He didn’t want the BPD knowing where he was going. He needed time to figure this out. Time and a friend.

  Grant kept to the shade as he walked up the tree-lined street. The cul-de-sac rose in a gentle slope towards Forest Hills Cemetery. The other houses were still painted shades of pale blue or pink or yellow. Cornejo’s house was still the only one painted green, a throwback to his military days perhaps but more likely the Irish heritage that meant most houses in Jamaica Plain had dull green window frames and doors.

  The front porch was neat and tidy. The paintwork looked fresh. Grant paused at the bottom of the steps and nodded a silent greeting to the inevitable stars and stripes hanging out front. The ex-marine was obviously doing better since Grant had met him as a hollowed out, suicidal husk. Helping Grant’s investigation of the Sullivan brothers had given Cornejo purpose and put him back on the straight and narrow. He now worked at the VA helping returning veterans. Grant hoped he was home. Only one way to find out. He climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell. The stars and stripes fluttered as he passed.

  “Who’re you pissing off this time?”

  Cornejo set the drinks tray down on the living room coffee table. Grant stirred two teaspoons of sugar into the mug of milky coffee.

  “Nobody yet. But I’m working on it.”

  Cornejo took his coffee black. He left his mug on the tray.

  “If you’re here looking for help, I’d say you’re more than working on it.”

  “I’m getting there.”

  The living room was still the family room it had been before Cornejo’s parents had died. A sensible three-piece suite. A trophy cabinet and pendulum clock. Miniature Lillyput Lane cottages above the fireplace. A standard TV and an obsolete VHS recorder. Air freshener reinforced the cleanliness. The fresh coffee smell was a welcome intrusion.

  It was the differences from Grant’s last visit that proved Cornejo had moved on. At that time, Cornejo had been ashamed of what he had become and removed all evidence of his childhood and family upbringing. The photos had been missing from the walls. The trophy cabinet had been empty. Now all those things were back in their rightful place. Family portraits and photos of Cornejo in his US Marines uniform. Photos of Cornejo as a school sports star. Trophies to prove it. Evidence of a man who hadn’t always been alone.

  “I heard about Terri.”

  Grant nodded. Neither spoke for a few moments. Both knew that words would be meaningless. Grant sipped his coffee. Cornejo did the same. The silence was in danger of becoming unb
reakable so Grant brought the room back to reality.

  “I need to keep a low profile while I figure this out.”

  Cornejo put his mug on the table.

  “And bunking with an ex-marine with anger management issues was the best you could come up with.”

  “I’m developing anger management issues of my own.”

  “Two negatives don’t make a positive.”

  “But two angry negatives give me an edge.”

  “So you want help with the heavy lifting.”

  “With the heavy hitting.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Grant finished his coffee and put his mug next to Cornejo’s.

  “Let me run this by you. See if I can break something loose.”

  Running it by Cornejo meant breaking it down to its component parts. That started with somebody shooting at Mike Dillman outside Daniel Hunt’s Beacon Hill address. Originally at Hunt until the smokescreen was lifted and the true target identified.

  That was the first part and even that broke down to smaller pieces. Hunt had denied Dillman was with him. Why do that if Dillman was a legitimate business contact? Why was Dillman there in the first place? Why was the bodyguard/driver not with them that night? Questions without answers at the moment.

  The answers Grant did have related to the shooters. He had now identified them as Kalene and Greg Dunsmoor, grieving relatives of Dillman’s bombing victims. A half-assed attempt at righting old wrongs by a couple completely unsuited to the task. They had fired and missed. Six times. Then sped off colliding with a parked car on the way. A bad shot and a worse driver.

  The shooting on Mount Vernon Street was the first component.

  The catalyst for everything that followed.

  Next thing had been the attempted robbery on Charles Street and Grant’s intervention. The robbery was no doubt unrelated, but it revealed Grant’s surveillance point at the street café. On national TV. Grant had been caught on camera again. Dillman was seen coming out of the doorway. Anybody paying attention might put the two together and know it was a likely meeting point. A little forward planning and discreet observation and the next thing you know, Grant and Dillman are having coffee at an outside table.