by Chris Mooney
“I never told Merrick what you and I talked about.”
“But he knows it had to have come from inside the department. Care to guess which cop had a microscope shoved up his ass that year?”
“How many more times you want me to apologize? I was drunk at the time. I don’t drink anymore.”
“I’m not talking about your drinking, I’m talking about your anger-management issues. The other night on Jonah’s porch? What was that about? You’re welcome, by the way.”
“You were watching Jonah’s house from that kid’s house, right? Neal Sonnenberg. Had the website with the photos.”
Slow Ed didn’t say anything.
“I read through the kid’s online journal,” Mike said. “How much of it did Merrick edit?”
“Not a word. The kid did it to impress his friends.”
“So why’s the website down?”
“You want those pictures showing up in the papers and on TV?”
“It’s coming up on two weeks and I haven’t heard a thing.”
“Merrick’s busting his ass on this, Sully. That’s the honest to God truth.”
“I’m at my breaking point here. Please.”
Slow Ed drummed his fingers on the truck’s roof, his breath steaming in the night air.
“Just give me something to show you guys are closing in on him, and I swear I’ll back off.”
Slow Ed stopped drumming his fingers and perched his other arm on the roof. “I got your word?”
“You’ve got it.”
Slow Ed paused for a moment, then said, “Merrick’s been talking with an FBI profiler. They both agree that the way to unlock what Jonah knows is to confront him with the evidence. You know, show him that there’s no way out.”
“There is no way out. He’s dying.”
“My point. Once Merrick has the evidence in black and white, he’s going to give Jonah an option: tell us what you know about the girls or you can die in prison. Jonah’s terrified of dying in jail. Now which option you think Jonah’s going to take?”
“You get the lab results yet?”
“Just preliminary stuff—emphasis on the word preliminary. Now the lab guys have got to do their thing, and when the results come in, Merrick’s going to close in on Jonah.”
“And how long we talking?”
“Depends on the lab.”
“Can you give me an estimate?”
Slow Ed thought about it, then said, “If I had to guess, I’d say another week, max.”
“He’ll be dead by then.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Have you seen him recently?” Mike asked, thinking back to the way Jonah had looked earlier, at the grocery store: twigs wrapped in loose clothing.
“That CSI stuff you see on TV is bullshit. You don’t dump the evidence on these guys and have DNA and fiber evidence in an hour.”
“You have DNA?”
“I didn’t say that. Look, our goal here is to get Jonah to talk, and I’m pretty confident we’ll get him to open up. Try and hang in there.”
Mike draped one arm over the steering wheel and looked out the front window.
“It’s not right.”
Slow Ed said, “If Jonah hadn’t placed that nine-one-one call—if someone caught him banging the cross into the ground or saw him holding Sarah’s jacket in his hands, yeah, it’d be a different game. Maybe he’d confess right then, I don’t know. We’re dealing with the hand we’ve got.”
“I’m talking about the way everyone’s treating Jonah. Like he’s a human being.”
“We’re doing everything we can, Sully.”
Mike was thinking back to the grocery store. Turn around and leave, Jonah had said. And Mike did, like he was Jonah’s bitch.
“I want him to burn, Ed. Swear to Christ, that son of a bitch is going to burn.”
CHAPTER 17
The gig couldn’t have been simpler: babysitting a Q-tip a breath away from being worm food. Chucky Bresler had practically grown up in the business, starting off doing security for his dad’s bar in Southie before moving off to the major clubs on Lansdowne Street. Breaking up fights between drunks didn’t bother him. All it took was a firm hand and a little muscle and you were good to go.
Usually.
The problem was the posers. Sure, they were easy to spot—guys wearing muscle shirts and gold chains or gang gear and flashing a lot of green and sauntering their pretty little selves around the club, acting like they owned the place and itching for trouble. Back in the day, before clubs made it mandatory for you to pass through a metal detector or get worked over head-to-toe with one of those handheld devices, these posers would think nothing of pulling a knife or worse, a gun. Chucky never had a gun pulled on him, but one time, this group of Mattapan punks decided to get into it at the club, and by the time Chuck broke it up, he had all three of them down for the count. He also had a switchblade stuck in his lower back.
The doctor had to cut him open to repair the punctured kidney. Thank the sweet Lord for painkillers. While Chucky lay in the hospital recouping, doped up on Percodan, this humongous black dude dressed in some seriously expensive threads waltzed in and said how impressed he was by the way Chucky handled himself the other night at the club. Dude’s name was Booker and he owned a private security company in downtown Boston. You interested in a full-time salary with health bennies, paid vacations and gym memberships? Hell yeah.
That was almost a decade ago, and during that time, Chucky, now forty-three, had carved out a nice life for himself, the only steady woman in his life a white pit bull named Snowball. Once in a while, when movie stars came to Boston to promote their latest piece of crap, Chucky would sometimes be called in for body detail for one of these cushy crowd-control jobs. Most of the time, though, he was called in to provide protection services for Mark Thompson’s clients, guys out on bail who basically needed a babysitter—like this dude Francis Jonah.
Since six P. M., Jonah had been sitting in the rocking chair with an afghan draped over his lap, staring out the window overlooking his backyard. It was now one in the morning and he was still up, still rocking and staring out the window. What was the point of sleeping when you knew you were dying, right? One look and you could tell the guy was on his way out:air tubes in the nostrils, portable oxygen tank on the floor, veins bulging from beneath his egg-white skin, that vacancy sign already hanging in his eyes. Chucky had seen that look so many times throughout his professional life he instantly recognized it.
“Get you something to eat or drink, Mr. Jonah?” Phil Debrussio asked. He was Chucky’s partner. When it came to these gigs, you always worked in pairs.
Jonah mumbled something under his breath.
“What’s that, Mr. Jonah?”
No answer. Not surprising either. Jonah liked to speak silently to himself, not hearing you or ignoring you, Chucky wasn’t sure which. The guy was probably praying. If you knew you were on your way out, you probably tended to pray your ass off, talk to the guy upstairs and make sure everything was in order.
Only this guy could pray twenty-four seven and it wasn’t going to make a lick of difference. After what he did to those three girls, this guy was destined for hotter climates.
“I’m going to make myself a sandwich,” Phil said to Chucky. “You want anything?”
Chucky shook his head and Phil stood up, walked down the hallway and disappeared into the kitchen. Chucky turned back to an article about the pros and cons of breast implants. The article was written from a medical perspective, interesting as hell, sure, but there was no mention about which kind men preferred.
“Your sister’s Sheila Bresler,” Jonah croaked in a wet voice.
Chucky shut his Newsweek and made sure his face was blank before he looked up. Jonah had stopped rocking; his head rested on the back of the rocker, his face turned to the side, Chucky sure those dreamy, faraway eyes were staring straight into his soul.
“That Globe article,” Jonah wheezed. “That was your siste
r. She died of a heroin overdose.”
The interview had run in the Globe about a month ago. The reporter was a buddy from the neighborhood who wanted to talk about the heroin epidemic in Southie, and Chucky had jumped on it, wanting everyone to know that his sister was more than a junkie who had died in a motel room.
“I understand. Sometimes the hurt can be too much for us to bear. The Lord understands that. The Lord doesn’t condemn, He embraces . Don’t hold onto the hurt. If you let it go, the Lord will free you. The Lord will heal you. Trust me.”
Chucky tossed the Newsweek on the end table and stood up, his knees cracking, and without a word walked out of the living room and into the kitchen.
Phil put down his sandwich. “What’s up?”
“Just stepping outside for a smoke.” Chucky picked his black Navy peacoat from the coat rack and shoved his arm in the sleeve, found it too small.
Not his coat; it was Jonah’s.
Right. Jonah had a similar coat to the one Chucky wore.
Phil said, “You’re as white as a sheet.”
“Can you take him up the stairs yourself?”
Phil looked insulted. “Chucky, the guy barely weighs a buck.”
“Grab some shuteye if you want to. I’ll take the first shift.”
Chucky picked up his coat, put it on and stepped out onto the back porch. Later, while he was in the hospital and after the doctors had stabilized the pain, he would think about how life could take a series of small and absolutely meaningless events and turn them into one big torpedo that seriously fucked up your life.
Morphine-induced psychosis. Jonah had trouble remembering where he left things like his glasses and keys, but his mind could, at any time, cough up memories from his childhood and month-old newspaper articles. Weird. Chucky had seen it happen before, to Trudy, his saint of a stepmother. When the breast cancer had finally taken hold of her organs, she’d sometimes have trouble remembering Chucky’s face. Then, out of nowhere, she’d start listing off the ingredients of a recipe she read in Good Housekeeping. The morphine just spit up these random bits, mixed them together, somehow made it a memory.
Good Lord the air felt good, so cool and sweet and clean. Spend an hour in that house, the windows shut and that baseboard heating percolating all of Jonah’s sneezes and coughs, and you started to appreciate fresh air. Right now, it was nice and quiet, no reporters parked on the street—at least none that he could see. For the moment, the stream of reporters had pretty much petered off. Last night, around this time, Jonah had decided to go out for a walk. Again he refused to use his walker. It sat where it always did, in the corner near the top of the stairs.
Chucky leaned forward, grabbed it and stretched out his back. First time Sheila overdosed, she was so weak she had to use a walker to get to the bathroom. She had undergone every kind of detox and gimmick under the sun; but in the end, she always went for the needle, loved the needle, and Chucky knew that. Deep down he knew it was only a matter of time before he had to say goodbye, so he prepared himself, thinking that early grieving, if there was such a thing, would somehow spare him from whatever horror was waiting for him down the road. Wrong. In the end, you still needed to grieve. You still had to make room for your losses and find a way to carry your love for that person without drowning in it. Chucky Bresler didn’t hear the dry flick of a lighter or see the jumping flame, but he did hear the solid crunch of footsteps running across snow. By the time he looked up, the glass bottle had shattered against the railing, splashing gasoline on his clothes and face, engulfing him in flames.
CHAPTER 18
Homemade Molotov cocktail,” Merrick was saying. “A glass bottle hit the porch and sprayed the guy’s face and clothes. Lucky for him, he immediately dove into the snow and started rolling around.”
Mike lifted his toolbox into the back of the truck. They were standing in Margaret Van Buren’s driveway in Newton. It was Saturday, sometime after one, and Mike was wrapping up a half day of work.
“The bodyguard wasn’t the target though,” Merrick said. “He had a coat that was similar to Jonah’s. Someone unscrewed the bulbs from the sensor lights out on the back porch. Bresler’s out there in the dark, same height as Jonah, wearing a similar coat and standing near the walker, it could have been Jonah. If Bresler had noticed that the porch lights hadn’t kicked on, he probably wouldn’t be clinging to life inside a burn unit at Mass General.”
Mike slammed the hatch shut.
“I’m sorry to ask you this,” Merrick said, “but I need to know where you were last night.”
“What’s the deal with my daughter’s jacket?”
“Still waiting for the lab results.”
Mike fished his keys out of his pocket, Merrick’s voice picking at his brain.
“So you don’t know a thing.”
“Not yet,” Merrick said. “I should know something soon.”
Mike felt a barely suppressed scream rising in his throat. He brushed past Merrick, opened the door to his truck and climbed inside the cab. Merrick stepped up next to the opened window.
“I asked you a question.”
“I think I’m going to follow Jonah’s lead,” Mike said. “What do you guys call it? Getting lawyered up?”
“You care to explain the bug that’s stuck up your ass?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s a question for my lawyer.”
Mike started the truck, wondering if Merrick might slap the cuffs on him, drag him down to the station. The guy looked pissed enough to do it.
“I suggest you go home,” Merrick said. “A detective will be waiting there with a search warrant.”
“There’s a key under the mat on the back porch. Knock yourself out, Kojack.”
WBZ news radio had the story in heavy rotation.
“In what police are calling a deadly case of mistaken identity, Charles Bresler, one of two bodyguards hired to protect Francis Jonah, is listed in critical condition after suffering third-degree burns and inhalation injuries resulting from a fire-bombing attack during the early morning hours. Francis Jonah, the former priest police believed to be responsible for the disappearance of three young girls, the most recent Sarah Sullivan of Belham—”
Mike clicked off the radio and gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles formed white half moons. Fucking Merrick. Guy hunts me down, runs right up here to get his questions answered and expects me to drop what I’m doing and then lies about the lab results.
And what about Jess? She had to have known by now what was going on. The story of Sarah’s jacket was everywhere—USA Today, CNN. They had USA Today in Paris, right? They sure as hell had CNN, and CNN had the story in heavy rotation the first two days. And even if Jess wasn’t reading the papers or watching TV, one of her friends knew what was going on and must have tried to contact her in Italy or wherever she and her new boyfriend were honeymooning.
Mike came to a stop at the light. Sweat had gathered beneath his clothes; a dry pasty coating lined his mouth. Across the street was a bar. He stared at the neon sign and the big, dark window facing the street when his cell phone rang. It was Slow Ed.
“Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
“You actually think I did that?”
“You tell me. You were the one talking about wanting Jonah to burn.”
“You know what, Ed? Go fuck yourself.”
“Then what’s this shit I hear about you getting lawyered up? Merrick just called over here to get a search warrant going.”
“Merrick came by the jobsite with all these questions about where I was last night.”
“Right. It’s called a police investigation, Sully. Someone tried to turn Jonah into a candlestick and got the wrong guy. Given your past history with Jonah, you’re what we call a prime suspect.”
Mike squeezed the phone as he stepped on the gas. “I love how you guys expect me to drop whatever I’m doing and answer your questions, but when I’ve got a question, you turn into a bunch of mutes.”
“I asked Merrick about the lab results.”
Slow Ed didn’t say anything.
“I didn’t tell him about last night or anything you said,” Mike said. “I just wanted to see if he was—”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“—telling me the truth, and as usual, Merrick denied—”
“You’ve got a serious hearing problem, you know that?”
“I’ve got rights here. You guys keep forgetting that this is my daughter we’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you’re right, Sully. We’re all a bunch of heartless pricks. That’s why we kept you in the loop the first time around, only you had to turn around and beat the shit out of the main suspect because you felt we weren’t doing our job.”
“If you guys had done your job five years ago, Jonah would be behind bars. At least I’d have that satisfaction. He’s out and about doing his thing and the cop you have watching him fell asleep at the wheel and I have to schedule time and pay money to piss in cups.”
“You ever stop and ask yourself why Jonah hired bodyguards? Why he’s got panic buttons installed all over his house? You think he’s scared of us? The media?”
Mike heard his blood slamming against his eardrums, felt it pounding across his forehead and behind his eyes.
“Merrick shows up to your jobsite—he comes to you so you don’t have to make a trip down to the station and deal with this media shit-storm—the guy’s doing you a favor and as usual you turn around and kick a two-by-four up his ass. The fuck is your problem, Sully?”
“My problem?”
“Yeah, you’re the problem. You’re the one with the goddamn attitude. You’re the one—”
“They found my daughter’s jacket hanging on a cross—on a cross, Ed. I’d love to see what you’d do if the one person you loved more than anything—” Mike’s throat froze up. He tried to clear it and felt his love for Sarah burning in his chest, his hope rising and falling, rising and falling, and then he thought about the jacket on the cross and thought that if given the opportunity, he’d gladly cut off his own arm if that meant discovering what had happened to her, because knowing whatever nightmare she had endured, alone, without him—knowing it had to be better than what he felt right now. It had to be.
