Murder Board

by Brian Shea

  The man put the car in drive and accelerated away before Barnes even had a chance to fully close the door. The momentum slammed the door’s armrest against her knee. “Hey man, relax. You’re going to get pulled over, and I don’t feel like going to jail tonight.”

  The man said nothing and took the first right.

  “Where are we going? I’ve got a spot nobody goes to.” Barnes looked in the side mirror. “You’ve done this before, right?”

  The man said nothing except licked his dry lips. The Lincoln’s front axle sounded as though it were held together by its last thread. Barnes had been around too long and knew something wasn’t right. She was growing unnerved by the man’s silence.

  She clutched the small, bedazzled purse tucked under her right arm. She felt the weight of its contents and thought about unveiling them to the bloated man in the driver’s seat. Barnes hesitated and patiently waited out his intentions. Seven and done, wishing her lucky number had been six.

  Loose fat from the man’s waist bubbled out from underneath his sweat-stained orange T-shirt. The man could have been a stunt double for Charlie Brown’s Great Pumpkin, but his impressive girth could also crush her windpipe if given the chance. The space of the Lincoln suddenly felt cramped.

  “So, what’s your name, sugar?” Barnes asked, hoping the feigned sweetness of her tone worked to lighten the mood.

  He grunted and then wiped his nose on his exposed forearm, leaving a slug trail of mucus along the wisps of dark hair. “Gavin.”

  “You know, I’ve gotta ask. And the rules say you have to tell me.” Barnes paused for effect. “Are you a cop?”

  The man chortled loudly. “Furthest thing from.” He slid his right hand off the frayed sweat-stained leather of the steering wheel and gripped Barnes’s thigh. “I’m your rocket ship, baby. And you’re about to blast off.”

  She felt the moisture of his meaty hands dampen her torn fishnet and fought the impulse to jerk her leg away. It was part of the job. She accepted the repulsive touch. A nasty bit of business, but necessary if she were to close the deal. “What are you lookin’ for tonight?”

  “How much?” Gavin kept his eyes on the road and his hand on her thigh.

  “Depends on what you want.”

  “I want it all.”

  “It’ll cost you eighty for all of this deliciousness.” Barnes ran her finger seductively from her lip to belly.

  The man smiled, exposing the yellow-stained enamel of his teeth. His head turned, but not to Barnes. His eyes glanced behind her, toward the back seat, as he engaged the door locks.

  Barnes followed his gaze and saw the end of a braided rope sticking out from beneath a roll of silver duct tape.

  “Stop the car! Now!”

  The man began to accelerate toward the upcoming intersection. The light transitioned from yellow to red. The Lincoln didn’t slow, pushing forward with no indication of stopping, not until the through traffic entering the intersection forced Gavin to slam on the brakes. Both he and Barnes thrust forward at the sudden change in momentum as the car fishtailed, skidding wildly.

  The driver took his hand off Barnes’s thigh to brace himself against the dashboard. The disruption gave her the window of opportunity to reach for the contents in her purse. She unzipped the small bag and slid her hand inside just as the car came to a screeching halt.

  Barnes found what she was looking for. Her hands seated around the end of her compact semi-automatic Glock 23.

  As she began to pull the weapon free, the big man struck out his thick, greasy arm. Fat or not, the weight and sheer force of the man’s blow to her chest was dizzying. She gasped, the wind knocked out of her.

  A sudden flood of red and blue filled the interior of the Lincoln. The loud bang of fender- to-fender contact reverberated with a deafening crash. The car jerked violently forward, the driver’s window shattered, and the loud commands of plain clothes officers with guns pointed at the driver replaced the sounds of the collision.

  A hand reached in, manually unlocking the door and tearing it open. Gloved hands pawed at the oversized driver and ripped him from his seat. Barnes could hear the whimper of the man’s smothered pleas as several blows were rained down upon the would-be rapist.

  Barnes opened her door and stepped out onto the street. She stretched and rubbed her chest, taking a second to collect herself. The impact of his thick forearm’s blow pulsed along her ribcage above the sternum.

  “Are you all right?” Sergeant Winston Blake asked.

  “I’m good. Told you we should’ve stopped at six.”

  “Sorry about the delay. Comms really sucked tonight. We only picked up bits and pieces from your feed.”

  “I checked for you in the side mirror, but you guys were way back.”

  “We didn’t want to spook him by following too close. He didn’t go to the spot.”

  “I think this sicko had an entirely different agenda this evening.” Barnes thumbed toward the back seat.

  “Well, look at that.” Blake shook his head. “You definitely saved some poor girl’s life tonight.”

  “After he’s booked have somebody do a deep-level interrogation. I have a feeling there’s a lot more to this guy’s life that needs looking into.”

  “Agreed.”

  Barnes walked around to the driver’s side of the car and eyed the man. He was cuffed, using an extra pair to accommodate the beefy circumference and limited shoulder mobility. A trickle of blood ran down his face from a small cut above his left eye. It looked worse than it was because it mixed with the sweat oozing out of the man’s pores.

  She kicked his foot to get his attention. The winded man looked up. No longer did the lustful intensity permeate his eyes as it had only minutes before. That look had faded into some assembly of weepy confusion.

  Barnes pulled out an item from her purse. She pressed it out in front of his face. The red and blue strobes danced across the shield. “Detective Barnes, Boston PD. Looks like you picked the wrong girl to hurt tonight.”

  The heavyset man said nothing, just dipped his head low.

  Number seven definitely earned her an early night. Seven johns in a two-hour prostitution sting was a decent number and would shut the corner down for a night or two. And then, as with all want-based crimes, the need would overwhelm the fear of arrest and the streets would resume its normal traffic of prostitutes and the johns who sought their services.

  “Why don’t you head in and get cleaned up? Grab Moynihan’s car. We’ll take the paper on this. Take the rest of the night,” Blake offered.

  “Sounds good.” Barnes walked away and plopped into the driver’s seat of Pete Moynihan’s unmarked car. She reached up to shift into drive when her phone rang. Looking down at the caller ID, Barnes smiled. It had been a long time since that name had come up, but it was a welcome surprise.

  “Saint Michael? Calling me? To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Hey Kris, I know it’s been a while,” Kelly said. “But I could really use your help on something. You able to meet up?”

  “It’s been a hell of a day.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Let’s do this over a cold one at Shep’s.”

  “Shep’s it is. Let’s say half an hour?”

  “Make it an hour. I’ve got to change out of my getup and remove about ten pounds of hooker makeup.”

  “I’ll buy the first round. Sounds like you’re gonna need it.”

  11

  Shepherd’s Flock, or Shep’s as it was affectionately known by the townies who served as its primary source of patronage, was an old-school pub at the corner of Savin Hill and Dorchester Avenue. It had all the bells and whistles associated with an Irish-owned and run bar. The lighting was poor and the darkly stained wood was coated in a heavy lacquer, making it easier to clean up spills of both beer and blood. Depending on the night, both fluids were spilled in equal volumes.

  Stephen McCarthy was born and raised on a farm in Kilkenny. His father ha
d been a sheepherder. He’d come to America in his early twenties with dreams of being an architect. As things happen, the reality drifted far from the dream. Starting as a stock boy in a warehouse, Stephen put away enough money to put a down payment on what would become the most popular Irish watering hole between Bay Street and Savin Hill, which wasn’t saying much, since it was the only pub on that area of the block.

  McCarthy named the drinking establishment in honor of his father. And he’d managed to make a modest living keeping the residents of Dorchester inebriated. Booze was steady business in a predominantly Irish city. Regardless of the day, there was always a decent-sized crowd bellied up to the bar. The Kelly and McCarthy families had a long-standing relationship, mostly established through business. Lemuel Kelly, Michael’s father, owned a liquor store around the corner on Savin Hill. Much of the booze lining the mirrored wall behind the bar was supplied by Kelly’s Liquors, now run by his mother, in the wake of his father’s passing.

  Kelly shook hands with the doorman, Bill Cooney. He knew him from the neighborhood and was a grade above the thick-necked bouncer in school. The two never traveled in the same circles but each knew the other by reputation. Cooney loved a good fight and apparently found a job suited for an opportunity to pursue his passion. Kelly did too and was likewise rewarded by an occupation capable of providing its fair share of use for his skills. Although, the older he got, the more he sought for simpler resolutions to conflict.

  Cooney also had a bit of a drug problem. He got snagged with coke and steroids a couple years back. It had been Kelly who saved him from eating the case. A little tit for tat and Cooney helped put Kelly onto a supplier higher up on the food chain. In return, the big doorman never saw the inside of a cell.

  Kelly never held Cooney’s misstep over his head. It was water under the bridge. Coming up the way they did, nobody was a saint, and nobody judged.

  Cooney also moonlighted as extra muscle for Conner Walsh’s crew. The Savin Hill Boys were an Irish gang borne out of the Savin Hill neighborhood of Dorchester. Although Walsh had long since expanded their operation beyond its borders, he still drew much of his talent from townies like Cooney. Walsh trusted the old neighborhood and the loyalty it forged. Kelly had resisted the temptation even though the carrot of money and power had been dangled in front of him many times during his youth.

  “It’s been a while.” Cooney sized him up. “Heard you made detective.”

  “Nothing stays quiet for long.”

  “We keep tabs on our own. You know how it is,” Cooney said. “Speaking of which, tell your deadbeat brother his tab is overdue by a month.”

  “You’ll probably see him before I do. How much does he owe this time?”

  “Two fifty.”

  “Why do you let him keep racking up the tabs?”

  “He used to be good about paying his debts. Looks like that’s not the case anymore. Not the same since your father passed.”

  Kelly nodded but decided to drop the conversation. In the seven years since his dad died, Kelly’s younger brother, Brayden, had let his life spiral out of control. Kelly was tired of hearing about it. Tired of bailing him out. The thought of it now exhausted him. But regardless, for the Kellys, family came first. No matter what.

  “He doesn’t pay it…” Cooney shrugged his shoulders, a gesture that spoke volumes of his hands being tied, of him doing what he had to do, of Brayden either paying his tab or a hospital bill.

  “I hear you.” Kelly shrugged back. “Tell you what. How about you pay the tab.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me. Before I leave, I want to see you pay my brother’s tab.”

  “Now why in the hell would I do that?”

  Cooney stepped closer to Kelly in a meager attempt to intimidate. But size was a minor factor for Kelly. He’d toppled much bigger opponents. His first move would be to the big man’s knee, but Kelly hoped it didn’t come to that.

  “Because if you don’t I’ll haul your ass in for the pistol you keep tucked in your front waist.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’ve gotten a little soft around the middle. The butt of the gun doesn’t sit as flush as it used to.” It was Kelly’s turn to step closer. Although smaller, he was equally menacing, if not more so. “I know you don’t have a license to carry that gun. That alone makes you up for a two-year minimum. But you’re a convicted felon. You know how that works. It’s an automatic five.”

  Cooney seemed to shrivel in stature but said nothing.

  “Do you think you’ve got the chops to make it five years in Walpole?”

  “Damn, Kelly, why do you got to be such a ball-buster?”

  “Just stating facts.” Kelly stepped back and relaxed his stance. He could see the implication of his words had delivered a punishing blow to the big man’s overinflated ego. “So, what’s it going to be?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Good seeing you, Bill.”

  “Tell your Ma I said hello.”

  “Will do.” Kelly walked inside. He remembered coming here in his youth and the air was laden with smoke. Even now, over a decade since the state banned cigarette smoking in bars, Kelly could smell the remnants as if the furniture had been so deeply permeated in those early years no passage of time would remedy the damage done.

  He spotted a table with two chairs set back by a broken pinball machine. There was no waitstaff at Shep’s. If you wanted a beer, you got off your butt and walked over to the bartender. Kelly tossed his jacket over the back of one of the chairs facing the entrance and did just that. He wedged himself into position at the bar between a thin woman of about sixty and a bearded man who smelled distinctly of fish.

  Kelly flagged the bartender, a younger woman he didn’t recognize. He ordered two Harp lagers with whiskey backs. Balancing the four items, Kelly gingerly navigated his way over to the table he’d scouted.

  He placed the beers and shot glass on the small, round table. Kelly took a seat facing the door. The cool brick of the wall beside him dampened the air. Then he saw her. Kristen Barnes’s bright green eyes were twinkling under the light above the entrance door as Cooney overtly flirted with her. He could see Cooney’s immediate downturn at something she mentioned and thumbed over his shoulder toward the interior of the establishment. Barnes must have told the big bouncer she was here to see Kelly.

  She gave Cooney a kiss on the cheek and moved inside.

  Barnes stood in front of Kelly’s table. “Why didn’t you order anything for yourself?”

  Kelly laughed, although he knew from past experience the girl standing before him was capable of going drink for drink with the best of them. “I see Bill over there still holds out hope.”

  “Nothing changes. He’s been barking up that tree since you first turned me on to this place during our rookie year.” Barnes looked back at the big lump. “Besides, he’s harmless.”

  “Tell that to my brother.”

  “How is Brayden?”

  “Same old.”

  Kelly’s brother was a good-looking kid and always had a way around the ladies. He regretted introducing him to Barnes. The two had dated for a brief time, but Brayden’s unbalanced life quickly proved too much. Kristen Barnes still held a soft spot for the damaged people of the world. She’d proved this time and again as a patrol officer, bringing food and clothing to the homeless on her beat, and she’d jumped at the chance to work in the Family Justice Division’s Sexual Assault Unit, which handled Boston’s most broken souls.

  Barnes grabbed the shot glass and downed the amber liquor as she took her seat.

  “Wow. Went for the whiskey first. One of those nights, I take it?”

  The burn of the Jameson caused her eyes to water slightly. The effect was immediate. Her green irises glowed in their moistened state, refracting the emerald with what little light the barroom offered. �
�Yeah. Some perv went all Silence of the Lambs on me.”

  “I assume it didn’t end well for him?”

  “Never does.”

  Kelly laughed. He’d seen the woman, barely over five feet tall, lay waste to men much bigger than Cooney. She was a tightly packaged, ass-kicking machine. One time, a perp jumped Kelly while he was cuffing another. The man hit Kelly in the back of the head with a pipe. Kelly carried a seven-inch, jagged scar line ever since as a permanent reminder to always watch his six.

  The initial blow rendered him unconscious, but the maniac continued his assault and managed to beat Kelly back awake. Danny Rourke was down the alley tussling with another one of the gangbangers. It was Barnes who’d arrived as backup. Kelly remembered watching in amazement as she went to work. Within seconds Barnes managed to knock out the pipe-wielding lunatic. That ferocious swing of her baton forever won the gratitude and respect of Kelly.

  “You sounded pretty intense on the phone. What’s going on?”

  “I caught a body yesterday and I’m thinking you may have some insight on how I should proceed.”

  “Okay. How so?”

  Kelly pulled his notepad from his back pocket and scrolled through it. Although most of his case was committed to memory, habit forced him to reference the pad’s notes. “She was thirteen. Found dead in a man-made ditch.”

  “You’re thinking she was a working girl?”

  “Fancy dress for a kid. Found in a place she didn’t belong. Your guess is as good as mine, but I’m leaning toward yes.” Kelly pulled out his digital camera and scrolled through the photographs to find the one showing the girl’s prone position within the shallow grave.

  Barnes looked at the picture. She sighed but gave no overt reaction. Kelly knew she’d seen a lot of horrible things within the Sexual Assault Unit, much of which dealt with young children. Every once in a while, her unit’s investigation crossed over into his. “Local girl?”

  “That’s the thing, no. She went missing from North Andover a year ago.”