Murder Board

by Brian Shea

  “Just remember to keep your guard up. I don’t want to mess up your pretty face.”

  “I’m not the one who’s got girls throwing themselves at me all day.” Kelly laughed.

  Edmund Brown gave his deep baritone laugh. In Dorchester’s early years, it had been primarily Irish Catholic and predominantly white. Edmund had been the first African American in Kelly’s school. The boys became fast friends and Kelly never saw race as an issue. Others were not as open-minded, and Kelly had fought shoulder to shoulder with Ed as they stood their ground against the ignorant. In those fights, they’d formed an unbreakable alliance.

  Ed Brown was a genius, academically lapping all of them in school, and eventually earning a full-ride scholarship to Harvard. But he was, like all of them, forever connected to the neighborhood, and returned after graduating to serve as a schoolteacher in the same school they’d gone to as kids.

  “Seriously, Donny, how do you turn down all those women throwing themselves at you?” Brown asked.

  “You really need to share some of your confessional stories with us.” McDonough punched the priest in the shoulder, then made a sign of the cross in mock repentance.

  “Mikey, you might want to say your prayers, because it’s going to be lights out for you in a minute.” Donny bit at the laces of his gloves, ratcheting them to his wrists.

  Kelly laughed as he stepped between the middle and top rope of the ring. “I hope God doesn’t smite me when I lay out one of his favorite servants.”

  Kelly bounced up and down on the canvas flooring of the squared area. The minimal cushion and spring underneath had long since been stomped out. The stains of sweat and blood had woven a unique tie-dye of various shades of brown, a testament to the years of use. Not that it was unhygienic, but some stains never seemed to come completely out. Pops ensured the gym was scrubbed clean at the end of each night, a task left to the most junior members as a rite of passage every night except Thursdays, when the four childhood friends always put in the cleanup work as a way of thanking their old mentor for the hard-fought lessons and continued support.

  Kelly rested against the worn covering over the corner turnbuckle. He rolled his neck from side to side, loosening it from the strain of his last few hours hunched over his computer, entering the notes of Faith Wilson’s death investigation. The muscles were tighter than usual tonight, but nothing a couple rounds wouldn’t fix.

  Father Donovan O’Reilly entered the ring. For a man of the cloth, he was cut from stone, more likely to be modeled for some Greek gladiator monolith than a humble servant of God. His chiseled chest and six-pack abs were a contradiction to the gentle work of his calling. “Somebody ring the bell,” he said, his words muffled by the mouthpiece surrounding his upper teeth. The mouthpiece was black except for the small white cross painted onto the front.

  The buzzer sounded, indicating the start of the first of two three-minute rounds. The group always fought two rounds unless the match was left undecided. Then, an additional would be fought. Long gone were the days when they’d move and swing for ten or twelve grueling rounds. They were not the men of their youth, but battled hard to maintain a shadowy resemblance of that time. Each week the sparring partners would rotate. McDonough and Ed Brown had already fought before Kelly arrived. He was disappointed he’d missed it; their bouts were epic. From the size of the swelling underneath McDonough’s eye, it looked as though Ed took the win.

  Kelly shuffled toward Donny and the two engaged in the ritualistic feeling-out dance, as each man sought to find their range with testing jabs. Nothing too heavy usually came in the opening moments of a match. It wasn’t like the days of Tyson, when he’d enter the ring and toss an all-out haymaker to end the fight before it began. The boys of Pops’s gym were taught the finer points of the trade and demonstrated the skills learned both inside and outside the ring. Kelly and McDonough were the only two who still found use in their day jobs, but for totally different reasons.

  Donny shot a hard jab that struck Kelly square in his forehead as he dipped. His reflexes were a bit off, his mind still back at the gravesite of Faith Wilson. The shot to the head snapped him out of his mental malaise, and he appreciated it. Kelly slipped low and to the side, unleashing a flurry of body shots to the priest’s muscle-encased rib cage. Kelly was a body blow fighter. It was his trademark. Work the body hard enough and long enough so an opponent’s hands dropped. Once down, he’d take his time and pick away on the defenseless and exposed head with surgical precision.

  The priest didn’t take the abuse lying down and sent a barrage of short hooks toward Kelly’s head. The detective slipped most of them by bobbing side to side, rolling with each punch as it came. It was a smooth defense, and was working well to deflect the punishment, when Kelly was suddenly caught off guard by a surprise uppercut. The impact buckled his knees and sent him staggering backward.

  Donny’s eyes widened. Kelly watched as his friend approached, his shoulders tightly drawn up, and his gloves extended a few inches in front of his face. It looked like Donny was trying to end the bout early, seeing his opportunity with Kelly off-balance and rocked by the previous attack.

  Kelly shuffled until his back found the ropes. He leaned into the rubber-encased top rope. Donny moved in quickly. Once in range, Kelly used the springy ring’s barrier to launch himself forward. The immediate change in distancing threw Donny’s planned assault off-course, and Kelly seized the opportunity, slamming his gloved fists up and down his friend’s body and head. When he was a Golden Glove Champion, the paper had called him the Irish Hurricane for his memorable onslaught of combination attacks. During those times, he had more in the tank, and could release them at will. Now, not so much, and Kelly was actually surprised he was able to do so tonight.

  The whaling sent Donny backward several feet. Kelly let up and watched his friend wobble. He waited, evaluating the extent of his efforts and, if he were to be completely honest with himself, waiting for the wind to re-inflate depleted lungs.

  Donny fell forward. He caught himself by stepping out with his left foot. His body dropped down, and the fighting priest knelt like a squire readying himself to be knighted. He placed his gloved hands on the mat for balance. Then he held up his right and waved it slowly in the air. The match was over; Kelly immediately went to his friend’s side.

  “You all right, Donny? Sorry. I didn’t even know I had one of those combos left in my arsenal.”

  “Whew!” Donny laughed. “I think I saw God for a minute there.”

  “I’m not going to lie, when I saw you take a knee, I thought you were going to call in a lightning strike or something.”

  The two sat back on the moist mat, freshly saturated with their contribution of sweat, and laughed.

  McDonough rolled water bottles to both of them. “Hydrate. We’ve got some drinking to do. I assume the good priest has brought us something pleasureful for our heathen palates?”

  “Seriously, I steal from a liquor store when I’m fifteen and you guys make me buy the beer every Thursday for the rest of my life? Seems a bit harsh.”

  “Father, it’s your atonement. You’re a Catholic priest. You must be burdened with guilt. We’re just trying to help you.” McDonough loved to chide Donny. “But, seriously, what’d you bring?”

  Donny slipped his gloves off and pointed a wrapped hand in the direction of the cooler by the back door. “Look and see.”

  “Mikey, I haven’t seen that combo from you in a while, son. Nicely done.” Pops leaned his elbows onto the mat.

  “Didn’t know I had it in me.”

  “Donny, what’d I tell you about getting overconfident? Never go in for the kill that early. Especially when you’re facing off with Mikey.”

  “I know, Pops, I just thought I had him this time. Saint Michael here is getting a bit old. He did just turn thirty-five.”

  Pops smiled faintly and shook his head. “You boys take the drinking to the back lot. I don’t want this new generation thinking I co
ndone that amongst my fighters.”

  Kelly gave Pops a gloved thumbs up. Pops gave them the same warning each and every Thursday. Kelly hoped one day the old man would join them for a cold one. It hadn’t happened yet, but all four boys felt it was overdue.

  The cold air felt good on Kelly’s sweat-soaked shirt. He cracked open the IPA and swallowed hard. There was something about the first swig of beer after a good fight, an intangible and unquantifiable experience that only a small percentage of the population ever shared.

  “I really thought I had you tonight,” Donny said. “You seemed a bit distracted. Figured I’d try to get a win under my belt.”

  “You definitely caught me good with that uppercut.”

  “So, what’s eating at you? Work?”

  McDonough cracked his second beer. “Father, maybe our good friend Mikey doesn’t feel like going to confession tonight.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” Kelly took a pull from the can. “I caught a bad one the other day. A young girl, just turned thirteen, turned up dead in a ditch.”

  “Where at?” Ed Brown asked, his face etched with concern. He taught kids in that age bracket and Kelly knew he was concerned it might be someone he knew, or a possible former student.

  “Close. Over off Von Hillern.”

  “That’s in our backyard!” McDonough slugged back his beer. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just did. You know, Bobby, you’re not always the first person I call when there’s a crime.”

  “Was she local?” Brown asked. His face looked strained as he sipped his beer. Ed Brown only allowed himself one beer during these nights. It was the only alcohol he’d consume during the week. He prided himself on clean living and would nurse the beer until the night was over.

  “No. Suburban kid. Ended up on the wrong side of something.”

  Donny O’Reilly placed a gentle hand on Kelly’s shoulder. Kelly didn’t know if he was doing it as a concerned friend or consoling priest. The lines of those two roles had long since blurred. Either way, the gesture was appreciated.

  “I don’t have much to go on yet. Hopefully, tomorrow I’ll know more.”

  “I’ll do a little digging too and let you know if I hear something,” McDonough said, crushing the beer can in his hands.

  If Ed was the teetotaler, then Bobby McDonough was the yin to his yang. Kelly witnessed his friend demolish the upper side of a twelve-pack in less than an hour. What was more astonishing is the lay person would never be able to tell the man had taken a drink. Tolerance was the word for it, but Bobby claimed he had a magic liver, a gift from the homeland.

  Bobby McDonough and Michael Kelly were interchangeable as youths. The McDonoughs lived two doors down. At times it was impossible to tell who lived where. Both mothers treated them as their own, bandaging cuts and feeding them on a constant basis. Bobby’s first legitimate job was as a stock boy in the Kelly family liquor store. It didn’t last long, and was probably the only legitimate job he’d held.

  Many thought the two were brothers. More times than not, Kelly felt closer to McDonough than his own kin. The two had plans of conquering the world together. That was until Conner Walsh intervened.

  Bobby McDonough was also a wrong place, wrong time kind of kid. He got sucked in by the fast money of being a runner. Walsh recruited heavily from the neighborhood and thus Kelly’s best friend became the newest member of the Savin Hill Boys.

  McDonough’s real break came when he was making a cash drop at one of the bars run by Walsh. It was a front to wash the money from drugs and guns. Bobby Wrong Place, Wrong Time McDonough walked into the back room as Conner Walsh pulled the trigger, killing a local thug named Joseph Gillespie. Conner Walsh was rumored to have dispatched many a rival into the great beyond, but very few had ever witnessed his acts of violence firsthand. As far as Kelly knew, his friend Bobby was the only living witness to such a crime.

  In that moment Walsh let McDonough live. Each day after a gift, and Bobby knew it. The bond between Walsh and McDonough solidified over the years as Bobby never spoke of the incident to anyone, at least as far as Walsh could discern. Bobby had told one person and one person only. Michael Kelly.

  Kelly had tucked that secret deep, knowing to expose it would mean certain death for his friend. In the eleven-plus years Kelly served the City of Boston he was never able to close a case against the Irish kingpin. Joseph Gillespie was still listed as a missing person. No body. No murder. But Kelly knew. And some day he planned to right it. Maybe it would free his friend from his indentured servitude, but many years had passed since the days of old. It was unlikely Bobby would ever leave even if he could. Still, Kelly’s loyalty to his friend had no expiration date.

  “I don’t know if I want anybody from Walsh’s crew sniffing around my case. Even if it’s you.”

  “Well, Connor’s not going to like hearing a young girl ended up dead on his turf. You know the rules around here, Mikey. You know ’em better than most.”

  Kelly didn’t answer his friend. McDonough was right. If something happened in Dorchester, then Connor Walsh took notice. A dead girl from out of town would bring an unnecessary amount of heat down on the area, and that would be bad for business.

  Secretly, Kelly was glad McDonough now knew about the case. Bobby could work in channels off-limits to one of Boston’s finest, even if that cop came from the neighborhood. The badge created barriers.

  19

  She was shrouded in the binding weight of a thick comforter. Tabitha was aware she was on a bed, but for the life of her couldn’t figure out how she got there. The last distinct memory she had was in the van. There was no accounting for the lost time. The clock on the nightstand read 1:13 a.m.

  Tabitha Porter sat up, or at least tried her best to assume a position that could be described as sitting. Gravity worked against her, and the room spun wildly with her effort to resist it. Her right leg broke free from the restraint of the sheets and a cool draft worked its way up her body. She realized she was naked. The seafoam green skirt was strewn across a chair.

  A toilet flushed, and the suddenness caused her to turn toward the bathroom. The quick movement increased her vertigo and she closed her eyes in an effort to bring about some equilibrium.

  The bathroom door opened, and a bright light fell across the red shag carpeting of the floor. The glow was dashed by a shadowed silhouette. The clearing of a throat, deep and weighted, told Tabitha it belonged to a man.

  A middle-aged man stepped into view. He wasn’t threatening or scary. On the contrary, he looked like your everyday average Joe. She guessed him to be in his mid-to-late thirties. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. There was writing on the shirt, but her eyes were still adjusting, and she couldn’t make out the details. Same went for the man’s face. It was difficult to make out any features, except he had dark eyes and similarly matched hair color.

  The man gave a smile and placed some money on the dresser closest to him. “Here’s a little something extra just for you.”

  The words, although gentle in delivery, were confusing. None of this made any sense.

  He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. Tabitha slid off the bed. Crawling across the floor, she followed the trail of undergarments. With great effort, she slid her bra and panties on. She was sore but didn’t allow her mind to ask the question she already knew the disturbing answer to.

  Tabitha pulled herself up onto a padded footstool. She stepped her feet into the soft fabric of the skirt and began inching it up toward her waist. Unsteady, she had to stop several times to correct for her lack of balance.

  Successfully zipping up her skirt, she reached behind to grab her top. The door to the room opened, and she instinctively covered her chest with the small garment in her hand.

  “No need to cover up, baby. Your night has just begun.” She had never seen this man before, and the coldness with which he spoke was a far cry from the man who’d just left.

  He crossed the r
oom quickly and stood over her. In the poorly lit room, the tall man was a menacing sight. Tabitha assumed, even in the light of day, this man would intimidate most. She cowered back, sliding into a chair.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Tabitha shook her dizzied head.

  “Good. Better for you it stays that way.” The man pulled out his cellphone and swiped his finger across the screen, casting his face in an eerie glow. He looked like somebody telling a campfire spooky story.

  He pushed the screen toward her face. The light was blinding, and it took a moment for Tabitha’s eyes to adjust. The image was of a girl. That she was sure of. The rest took her a bit to decipher. She was wearing a sequined dress. Silver shimmers had bounced off the flash when the picture was taken, giving the girl an angelic glow. Then, as her eye traced the outline of the body, she noticed the fancy-dressed girl was face down, surrounded by dirt.

  “Do you know this girl?”

  Tabitha, entranced by the disturbing image, shook her head.

  “Do you want to be this girl?”

  Tabitha looked up, eyes wide in terror. Her heart pumped faster, and she could hear the blood pounding in her head. A deafening, rhythmic thumping overwhelmed her ability to think.

  “Good. Then you understand.”

  Without saying another word, he walked to the door. As he left, a familiar face replaced his.

  Slice walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. Tabitha looked at the girl who’d taken her shopping and bought her new clothes. She sought an answer to the madness in her friend’s eyes. The hazel eyes staring back held none of the kindness she’d seen earlier. No compassion or worry. Only coldness.

  “You understand how this works? You’re with us now. We’ll take care of you as long as you take care of us.” Slice was devoid of emotion.