Murder in the Charlestown Bricks: A Dermot Sparhawk Crime Novel

by Tom MacDonald

  Buck was participating in an Oklahoma drill, a violent endeavor that pitted an offensive lineman against a defensive lineman between two orange cones, with a running back trying to break through. And that’s when it happened, the paralyzing injury. Buck landed on his head the wrong way. Soon after the crippling blow, Buck dropped out of school, despite the Jesuits’ pleas for him to stay. After that I lost touch with him.

  We ran into each other years later in Thompson Square. I didn’t recognize him, but he recognized me. We had coffee, got to talking, and Buck told me of his plight. He ended up homeless, living in shelters when he was lucky enough to find a bed, or in alleys when he wasn’t so lucky. He told me that he didn’t drink or do drugs. He wasn’t a charity case, he said, just a guy down on his luck.

  Buck came home with me and stayed the night, and then he accepted my offer to move into the first floor of my two-family house. The stability of a permanent address agreed with him. He went back to school and earned a bachelor’s degree followed by a law degree, with Jesuits at his side. He also became something of a computer whiz, a skill he used to help me solve two complex murder cases.

  Buck and I would sit on the porch and talk about starting a business that would help our neighbors in need, both of us wanting to serve the underserved. The idea seemed like a fantasy at the time, until fate intervened. I came into a boatload of money from an international case I worked on — actually, shipload might be more a more accurate term, shipload as in millions. I live the same way I did before I got the money. Nobody knows. I keep it in a trust, giving to charities and people in need. I used part of it to launch our business, a law practice to ensure justice for the poor. And now we have our first client, a man charged with murdering my de facto mother, Gertrude Murray, a case I wanted nothing to do with.

  I walked down Lomasney Way to the Nashua Street Jail, Victor Diaz’s current address. I submitted to the rigmarole required of visitors and went through the gate to the netherworld of the incarcerated. I sat in a chair and became one with the gloom. Gray hues dulled the area. Gray walls and gray floors, gray complexions on sullen faces. Barred windows filtered the sunlight, casting vertical shadows across the visiting room, which hammered home the grimness of imprisonment. The place reminded me of the projects, except the locks worked.

  Victor Diaz, a wiry man with darting eyes, came in wearing tattered jeans and a white T shirt. Blue tattoos covered his forearms and more tattoos crawled up his neck. A crooked smirk turned his mouth into a defiant sneer, a mime’s fuck you. He strutted to the table like an important man, sat in a chair and stared at me. I thought about Gertrude Murray, dead in a city morgue with her skull smashed to pieces, and I almost got up and left. I leaned forward instead.

  “My name is Dermot Sparhawk, and I work for your lawyer, Buckley Louis. The attorney-client privilege extends to us. Everything you say to me is confidential and protected under the law. I cannot be compelled to reveal any information you disclose. It would be illegal for me to do so. Do you understand?”

  “I know you,” Victor said, with no discernible accent. “You run the food pantry. How the fuck can you help me?”

  I had relinquished most of my duties in the food pantry when Buck and I opened our law office, but most people in Charlestown still see me as the pantry man, the schmuck who hands out rice.

  “Afraid you won’t get your money’s worth?” I said.

  “Fuck you, I don’t need this shit.”

  “Show me your hands.”

  “Huh?”

  “Show me your fuckin’ hands, or I’m out of here.”

  Diaz held them out. There wasn’t a mark on them. I got a better look at him under the fluorescent lighting and saw a boxer’s face, the tiny scars edging the eyes, the strong nose beginning to flatten. He was in shape, too. His hands were small but strong, and his arms were toned and muscled.

  “What gym do you fight out of?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about?” He pointed at me and said, “I didn’t kill that old lady.”

  “That old lady had a name, Diaz. And it was Gertrude Murray, Mrs. Murray to you. Did you break into her apartment?”

  “Yeah, I broke in.”

  “Why her apartment?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was it random? Did you target her? Maybe you figured a frail woman like Gert wouldn’t put up a fight,” I said. “Nothing’s easier than busting up an old lady, right Diaz?”

  “I never touched her.” He feigned indifference. “She was dead before I got in there.”

  “Did you follow her home?”

  “No.” He looked at his hands as he spoke. “I knocked on her door but she didn’t answer, so I broke in. I was looking for stuff. I checked the freezer. Sometimes old people hide money in the freezer. I went to the bedroom and saw her on the floor. She was already dead.”

  “Sure she was.”

  “Are you on my side or not?” he said. “I’m innocent.”

  “You trashed the place.”

  “No I didn’t, I swear,” he said. “The room was trashed when I broke in. Stupid, I should’ve got out of there when I saw the mess. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

  For the first time he sounded genuine.

  “Who was your accomplice?”

  “He didn’t kill her, either,” Diaz said. “Why should I get him in trouble?”

  “He’s already in trouble for felony-murder, just like you. If you testify together, it could help your case.”

  “No one’s gonna believe us. You work for my lawyer, and you don’t believe me. I wish my mother never fuckin’ hired you.”

  I half-respected Diaz’s loyalty to his partner, and I was taken by his devotion to the code of silence, which is a highly held Charlestown custom. But he wasn’t dummying up on principle. He was protecting somebody. But who? A family member? A close friend? A gang affiliate? I decided it didn’t matter who.

  “So you stalked Mrs. Murray.”

  “I didn’t stalk her and didn’t kill her. I robbed her, that’s all.” Diaz crossed his arms, and the tattoos merged into a jumble of Spanish graffiti. “Let me ask you something. You liked Mrs. Murray. If you think I killed her, why are you helping me?”

  I’d been asking myself the same question.

  “Your mother hired us to defend you, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

  “You don’t give a shit about me.”

  “Not if you murdered Mrs. Murray, I don’t.” I got up from the table. “I’ll presume you’re innocent for now, but if I find out that you or your accomplice killed her, I’m out.”

  “We didn’t do it,” he shouted, as I walked out of the room. “We’re innocent.”

  I couldn’t get a solid read on Diaz, but there was something about him that felt right — enough that my gut was telling me he was not guilty. I signaled for the guard.

  5

  I went through security and into the lobby and that’s where I saw her, the woman I had seen at the AA meetings. She was leaning against the wall and talking on the phone, fully engrossed in conversation. Tall, lean, angular, she was all legs and arms. Her body was athletic and fit, not curvy. She wore a black pencil skirt with a white silk blouse. On her feet she wore black pumps. Her professional attire contrasted with the casual style I had seen her in before.

  Both worked.

  I walked up to her after she hung up and said, “I saw you at a couple of meetings this week. Friend of Bill W’s?”

  “Ah, not really.”

  Though she hesitated, her body language remained poised. Shoulders back, chin up. Did I violate her anonymity? I looked around. No one was within earshot of us.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” I said. “I’m Dermot. I saw you at the Powder House Square meeting.” I waited, no reply. “I saw you at the Sparrow Group, too.” It sounded like I was
following her. “You were talking to Ike the Indian.”

  She smiled. “You know Ike?”

  “Sure, I know him,” I said. “I’m not a stalker. I just sound like one.” I laughed nervously. “I was at the same meetings. That’s all.”

  “Okay.” She laughed too, thank God. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Dermot Sparhawk.”

  “I’m Cheyenne Starr.” Her eyes smiled, crinkling at the corners. We shook hands and she asked, “Are you Native American?”

  “Half Irish, half Micmac.”

  “I’m a Cherokee, from way down in Georgia,” she said with an exaggerated southern accent. Now it was my turn to laugh. Without any accent, she said, “Isn’t Micmac an Algonquin tribe?”

  “Yes, it is. My father was the Micmac. He came from Nova Scotia. The ironworkers called him Chief Sparhawk. I thought they were riding him because he was an Indian, but he turned out to be an authentic chief. I didn’t find out until after he died. The booze did him in.” Why was I telling her this? “I’m sober. I don’t drink anymore, not in a long time.” Stop talking, dummy.

  “Of course,” she said, touching my arm. “I understand all about alcoholism and recovery.”

  “Who’s the ponytailed man?” I asked.

  Her smile brightened and her eyes twinkled again. “My father, I support him by going to meetings.”

  “You’re not an alcoholic yourself?”

  “I’ve never taken a drink,” she said. “Growing up with an alcoholic father turned me away from it.”

  “Wow, good for you,” I said. “It didn’t work that way for me.”

  “What do you mean?” She leaned closer and looked me in the eyes.

  “I followed in my father’s tippling ways,” I said, “until I tipped over from an alcoholic seizure in a Martha’s Vineyard bar.” Keep it up, Dermot. You’re really winning her over.

  She chuckled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. You are quite funny. But seriously, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be, it saved my life.” Time to change the subject, fuckhead. “What are you doing here at the jail?”

  “I’m out on bail on an electronic bracelet,” she said. Now it was my turn to laugh, and she continued. “I’m a student intern. I go to the Tufts grad school for social work.” She brushed back her chestnut hair with an open hand. “I’m starting a prison ministry for Native American Indians when I graduate next year. I’m laying the groundwork for it now.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “I’ve seen the miracle of recovery firsthand, and I want to help others. I’m proud of my Indian heritage.” She handed me a card. “I have to run. Give me a call if you’d like.”

  If I’d like? Was she kidding?

  6

  From the jail I walked back to Charlestown over the Gridley Dam, but I could have leaped over the river I was so excited. When I reached the middle, still giddy about Cheyenne Starr, my cell phone rang. Buck Louis was panting on the other end. His words came in a rush, barely understandable. I asked him to slow down, but he couldn’t.

  “Some crazy bastard stormed the office waving a gun looking for you.”

  “What? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I thought he was going to shoot me.”

  “You’re not hurt.” I waited a couple of seconds before I spoke again, in an effort to slow him down. “What did he look like?”

  “Oh my God, he is a complete lunatic.” Buck rattled off a damn good description, considering his agitated state. “Mid-sixties, buzz cut, crazy blue eyes, huge ears, a squeaky voice. He’s after you, Dermot. I had to tell him where you were or he’d have shot me. I am so sorry.”

  His words clicked faster than a dead battery. I told Buck not to worry, that I’d handle it, and I hung up.

  As if on cue, a man in his sixties with buzzed gray hair marched toward me from the opposite end of the locks. When he got closer he picked up speed and threw a wild punch at my head. I parried it past my jaw, but it brushed my cheek. He fired another one and missed. I didn’t have the heart to blast him on the chin, so I tapped him in the ribs with a light jab. He buckled like I had hit him with a pickax, doubling over with his hands on his knees. What happened? I barely touched him. He eventually stood up, his face glaring red and snot running from his nose. He looked familiar, definitely a Charlestown guy, but I couldn’t place him.

  “You’re supposed to be a Townie,” he said, gasping. “Why are you helping the prick that killed my mother?”

  Shit, it was Bo Murray, Gert’s felon son.

  “When did you get out, Bo?”

  “Fuck you, Sparhawk,” he said, regaining his wind. “My last day in the can and I find out my mother is murdered. And then I find out you’re defending her killer. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “I won’t help Diaz if he killed Gert.”

  “You won’t help him at all, fucknut. If you talk to him again, I’ll put a hole in your brain.” He raised his shirt, showing a gun. “The same goes for your crippled pal.”

  “If you go near Buck, I’ll shove that gun up your ass and empty it.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You’re gonna regret saying that.” He pointed at me. “Another thing, if you ever put a hand on me again I’ll crush your skull, fuckin’ punching me like that.”

  “It was a love tap, Bo. You’re supposed to be a Townie.”

  “You’re gonna regret saying that, too.”

  He turned and left the lock.

  I hustled down Chelsea Street to the Navy Yard and when I got back to the office, a shaken Buck Louis said to me, “I thought he was going to kill me.”

  “Are you doing okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Who the hell was he?”

  “His name is Bo Murray, Gertrude’s son.” I went to the cupboard and prepped the coffeemaker. “He just got out of federal prison.”

  “I didn’t tell him where you were until he cocked the hammer. I feel like a rat.”

  “Don’t, he would have found me sooner or later.” I started the coffee brewing. “Better to get it over with. You don’t want a guy like Bo Murray festering.”

  “Is he a threat?”

  “Hell, yeah, he’s a threat. He’s soft as shit.” The coffee plunked into the pot. “Bo solves problems the old Townie way, with violence. He’s been charged twice with murder, but never convicted, which shows he’s smart, too.”

  “What was he in for?”

  “An armored car robbery,” I said. “Bo’s gun jammed. The Loomis guard’s didn’t. After Bo recovered from the gunshot wounds, he went away.”

  “My hands are still trembling.” Buck held them out. “He aimed at my head. Shouldn’t we call the police or something?”

  “We don’t do that in Charlestown.”

  “You people are mad,” Buck said. “What are we going to do about him?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I thought about it. “We’ll stay off his radar for now.”

  “Pretty passive approach.”

  “True, but it’s best to stay away from a rabid dog, especially when he’s frothing. Bo is a killer, Buck, a heartless killer. He is not a man to be taken lightly.”

  The coffeemaker hissed and beeped, letting us know it was done. I poured two cups, added cream and sugar to both, and gave one to Buck. I saw a folder on his desk with the DA’s logo on it.

  “More evidence came in.” He handed me the legal-size folder. “You probably knew this already, since you grew up in the building with her. Gertrude Murray collected silver coins.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just what I said, she collected silver coins.” He sipped his coffee. “She started when she was working at the T in a token booth. After she retired, she kept it going.”


  “Kept it going how?”

  “The stores in Charlestown set aside coins for her, dimes and quarters minted before 1965. Apparently they were silver back then. The police said she’s been collecting them for sixty years if you include her time at the T.”

  “I didn’t know she collected coins.” Why didn’t I know? Gert told me everything.

  “The police found silver coins in Diaz’s pocket.” Buck seemed to be calming down. “They didn’t put much stock in it until they found coin-collector folders on Gert’s dresser. They were empty, probably for future use. The police are now saying that Diaz demolished the place looking for coins.”

  “Why didn’t I know about the coins?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Diaz told me the place was already trashed when he broke in.”

  “Did you buy it?”

  “I thought he was telling the truth.”

  “When they arrested Diaz, he had a mercury dime, five silver Roosevelt dimes, circa mid-1940s, two buffalo nickels, a wheat-leaf penny, and something called a standing-liberty quarter.”

  I glanced at the report again.

  “He had ninety-six cents when they arrested him?” I shook my head. “Busted for murder while stealing pennies, what a dumb bastard.”

  “No one said he was smart.”

  “No wonder he’s our client.” The idea of stealing coins began to sink in, and I didn’t buy it as a motive. Junkies look for quick scores, TVs and computers and phones, things they can sell fast. Coins? I couldn’t picture Diaz going into a coin dealership, unless it was to rob the place. “I don’t know, Buck. Stealing coins?”

  “I thought the same thing, until I did some research.” Buck showed me a computer printout. “The payoff is good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I looked up the coins Diaz stole. On Ebay I found a 1931 mercury dime that goes for $30. Silver Roosevelt dimes go for $10 apiece, and he had four of them. That’s $70 right there. The standing-liberty quarter can fetch as much as $100. That’s big dough for a doper.”