The Fens

by Pamela Wechsler

  Will, not to be out-alpha-ed, takes control of the conversation. “How’s that firm of yours? Has the economy hit you hard?”

  “Not at all. How’s retirement?”

  Coming from my father, that’s the ultimate dig. He inherited enough money to stay at home and watch his investments grow, but that’s not the Endicott way. Endicott men work, even though they don’t have to.

  My father gestures for the waiter, and we place our orders.

  “Will and I are going to Palm Beach next week,” my mother says.

  She holds her water glass at just the right angle to flash her unadorned ring finger at my father.

  “Enjoy,” he says. “Bring us all a T-shirt. The place is swarming with tourist traps and souvenir shops.”

  When the first course finally arrives—rich, buttery langoustine—we all focus on our food with such intensity you’d think it were our last supper. In between my second and third bites, my phone vibrates. I take it out of my pocket; the screen says it’s Kevin.

  “I have to excuse myself.”

  “Muffin, not now,” my father says.

  “It’s rude, dear,” my mother says.

  At least they can still agree about something—their disdain for my job. They know a call from work is about life or death, most likely the latter.

  “I have to take it.” I step into the hallway. “Did you serve the subpoena on Wayne Ellis?” I say to Kevin.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  Kevin takes a breath. “Where are you?”

  “Back Bay.” Best to be vague. If I tell him I’m at the Four Seasons, I’ll never hear the end of it. “Where are you?”

  “The Fens—we found a body.”

  I press the phone closer to my ear. “Is it Rudy Maddox? Is he dead?”

  “Close, but no cigar.”

  My heart pounds. “Who then?”

  “It’s Wayne Ellis, and, yes, he’s dead.”

  Wayne is dead.

  I look back in the room. My mother is talking about Will’s family castle in Scotland. Will asks my mother to hold his glass of bourbon while he searches his phone for a photo. While everyone feigns interest in the castle, my mother looks at the glass longingly. Will could have put the glass down on the table himself. He must know she’s an alcoholic. I hope he’s not subtly encouraging her to drink.

  Ty sees me in the doorway; he excuses himself from the table, but no one seems to notice.

  “They found a body in the Fens.”

  “Is it Rudy?” Ty says.

  I shake my head. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “Do you have your car?”

  I hand him the valet ticket. “Can you take it home?”

  “Is Kevin picking you up?” Ty says without expression.

  “No, I’ll take a taxi.”

  “Want me to grab you a coffee for the road?”

  I bristle, knowing what he’s hinting at. “I’ve only had two glasses of wine. Plus, I won’t be driving.”

  “I’m not sure who’s getting the better end of the stick, me with your family, or you with your murder.”

  I peer in the room. The dysfunction is palpable. Missy smiles as she struggles to make pleasant small talk. “Me,” I say. “I’m definitely getting the better deal.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Fens is an urban wild, near Fenway Park. In the 1800s it was fetid swampland, flooded with sewage, a threat to public health. Frederick Law Olmsted developed it as part of his Emerald Necklace. Now, it’s a vibrant part of the city, a park with marshes, playing fields, and gardens. It’s where kids play soccer, urban gardeners plant tomatoes, and prostitutes cruise for johns.

  It’s a five-minute ride from the Four Seasons, but the taxi gets stuck in a traffic snarl, in front of Symphony Hall, where a concert is letting out. I grab a pair of flats from my tote, pay the driver, and walk the last few blocks.

  When I finally arrive, the crime scene is in full swing. Uniforms work crowd control, keeping the cameras away and holding back the lookie-loos. Detectives canvass the area, stopping potential witnesses on the street and knocking on doors. Technicians scour for evidence, holding flashlights and dropping orange evidence markers. Reporters have set up a staging area, on the periphery of the park.

  As soon as I step into view, a swarm of cameramen and reporters shout at me. Do you want to comment? Can you confirm the name of the victim? Does it have anything to do with Rudy Maddox’s disappearance?

  I nod at the patrolman who is guarding the perimeter and duck under the yellow tape. Walking down the steep staircase, I scan the area for the brightest cluster of portable kliegs—that’s where the body will be. I tread carefully, keeping to the edge of the cement path, trying to avoid the scattering of goose droppings, until I find Kevin, who is talking to an EMT.

  Kevin breaks away and walks over to me. “A junkie saw Wayne laying in the grass and asked him for a light. It took him a minute to realize he was dead.”

  “Did the guy see anyone else in the area?”

  “Sure, lots of people: George Washington, Beyoncé, the pope. He’s not gonna be a great witness.”

  Nearby, the medical examiner, Reggie Rene, is in a cluster of dry marsh weeds, leaning over a body. I inch closer.

  This is the toughest part of an investigation.

  I stop in my tracks, turn to Kevin. I need more information, to lessen the shock. “What’s the cause of death?”

  “Gunshot wound to the head.”

  “How bad?”

  Kevin knows what I mean. He issues a warning: “It was at close range.”

  My shoes sink into the muddy grass as I make my way over to Reggie. I take a couple of shallow breaths, kneel down, and lean in. I have a system, it helps me to tolerate the horror. I start low on the body and work my way up. First, I take in Wayne’s feet, then slowly, my eyes travel up his legs. When I’m ready, I scan his torso, and his arms. I pause at his neck.

  “He’s been here a few hours.” Reggie twists Wayne’s arm and points at bite marks on his elbow. “Rats.”

  The langoustine churns in my gut as I try to settle on Wayne’s face. His eyes are open; his head is resting on a pillow of blood and a smattering of brain matter. A technician snaps photographs; a forensic entomologist tweezes a couple of insects that have burrowed in Wayne’s ear. When Reggie is done with his preliminary inspection, he gives his assistants the go-ahead, and they zip Wayne into a body bag. They hoist him onto a gurney and slide him into the back of the van. Yesterday, Wayne Ellis was living his dream, the dream.

  Kevin and I walk around the reporters and get in Kevin’s car. We divvy up the tasks: he tries to track down Wayne’s family, and I phone Rebecca. The media is already reporting that a body was found. I want to be sure Rebecca knows it wasn’t Rudy. She’s grateful for the call and relieved that there’s still a chance her husband is alive.

  Kevin hangs up and fills me in on what he’s learned about Wayne. “Twenty-three years old, and single.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  Kevin shrugs. “He lived alone.”

  “Next of kin?”

  “His mother, she lives in Chattanooga.”

  Kevin doesn’t want to make the notification over the phone, so he calls the locals. A Chattanooga police officer will drive to the Ellis home and deliver the sadness in person. We’ll do the follow-up.

  As I wait for Kevin to finish his calls, my phone vibrates. It’s Stan.

  “I should always be the first to know. You should’ve called me the minute you found out.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Rudy’s wife—that’s all.”

  Emma Phelps taps on the car window. “Abby, would you like to make a comment? Off the record?”

  I twist the front of my body away from her.

  “Is that a reporter?” Stan says. “Don’t talk to the press.”

  “Don’t worry.”

 
“I’ll tell the front office at Fenway.” Stan wants to be the big cheese.

  “Roger that.”

  “I don’t want you to call them.”

  “Got it, boss. I won’t call anyone at Fenway.”

  I hang up and turn to Kevin.

  He starts the car. “Where to?”

  “Fenway.”

  “Seriously? Didn’t you just tell Stan—”

  “I said I wouldn’t call anyone at Fenway. I didn’t say anything about you. So, call them, and tell them to meet us there.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  When we reach the Green Monster, a security guard is outside waiting, and he lets us in the gate. We call Donnie, who sends Tags down to escort us to the front office.

  “I heard on the radio they found a body,” Tags says, his voice cracking.

  “It wasn’t Rudy,” I say.

  He looks relieved, but that will change when he learns the victim’s identity. Two catchers from the same team are gone. The prosecution is batting zero.

  Fenway is dark, eerie. Donnie is in his office, along with Moe Morrissey, and Pete Taylor, whom I recognize as the team owner. The three men are on their phones, having essentially the same conversation. I can’t tell you who they found in the Fens. No comment. I’ll have to get back to you.

  When Kevin taps on the door, their heads whip around. Donnie waves us in and introduces us to Pete, who looks as if he’s come from a formal event. He’s dressed in black tie, minus the tie.

  “You’re John Endicott’s daughter,” Pete says.

  I nod. “You know my father?”

  “We went to the Business School together.”

  Pete doesn’t identify which business school he’s talking about, he just says the Business School, which is shorthand for Harvard. That’s how locals refer to it. I went to the Law School. My brother went to the Business School, as did my father, and apparently Pete Taylor.

  We give them an update, without getting into specifics about the condition of the body.

  Moe shakes his head in disbelief. “Wayne played a game this afternoon. He can’t be dead.”

  “He was just getting started,” Donnie says. “This was only his second season in the pros.”

  “Did you ever notice signs of drug abuse—steroids or opioids—from either Wayne or Rudy?” Kevin says.

  Donnie and Pete speak at once. “Impossible.”

  “You think this was drug related?” Moe says. I can’t tell if he’s surprised or not.

  “We have to ask,” I say.

  “None of my players were using drugs,” Donnie says.

  Pete starts to speak, pauses, and looks me in the eye. “The men here are like my sons. They know they can come to me for anything. I’d know if there was a problem. I know everything about them.”

  “Where did Wayne live?” Kevin says.

  Pete looks to Donnie, who looks to Moe. Guess they don’t know their players as well as they claim. I can’t blame them; my parents wouldn’t know my address off the top of their heads either.

  “He keeps a condo in the Mandarin,” Moe says.

  Pete’s phone rings. “It’s your boss.”

  Stan will find out that I disobeyed him, but I don’t want to be reprimanded tonight.

  Kevin and I slip out and drive to police headquarters, where I make arrangements to get a search warrant for Wayne’s apartment. Kevin dispatches a police detail to stand guard at the front door so no one can sneak in or out before we get there.

  When we’re done drafting the papers and get a judge to sign off, we drive into the Back Bay. The sun is starting to rise; the sky is washed in an array of pinks. A well-heeled investment-banker type strides across the Public Garden, briefcase in hand. A homeless woman pushes her shopping cart toward the soup kitchen on Newbury Street. A couple of domestic workers get off the bus at Copley Square.

  Word is out that Wayne’s body was recovered in the park, and when we reach the Mandarin, a half dozen lookie-loos are camped out near the entrance to the building. Stanchions have been set up, to protect the residents and hotel guests from the swarm of reporters.

  As Kevin and I approach, we’re peppered with questions.

  “Did Wayne Ellis die of an overdose?”

  “Was he murdered?”

  “Have you found Rudy Maddox yet?”

  “Is Rudy a victim or a suspect?” This one is from Emma Phelps.

  I keep my eyes trained on the door, offering no reaction.

  The lobby is gleaming; the brass fixtures and the marble floor look as if they’re repolished every time someone sneezes. Kevin and I approach the reception desk and I’m surprised to see who is there: Manny, the doorman from my former condo building.

  He greets me with a broad smile and a hearty hug. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “You work here now?”

  “After you moved out of your condo, my tips shrunk in half. It was time to check the want ads.”

  There’s not a lot of demand for doormen in Boston—unlike in Manhattan, most of the buildings in Beacon Hill and Back Bay are small brownstones. Kevin and Manny shake hands and exchange greetings. Kevin spent a lot of time in my old lobby, waiting for me, drinking coffee, and chatting with Manny.

  “The journos out there are saying Wayne Ellis was shot.”

  Kevin and I look at each other. Kevin speaks first, saving me from having to dodge the question.

  “You must have some inside info to share.”

  Manny lowers his voice. “I didn’t really know him. We were both new to the building and he wasn’t here very often.”

  “Did he get a lot of foot traffic?” I say.

  Manny hands over the visitors’ log. “I don’t remember ever calling up to his apartment to announce a guest. Not once.”

  “Can you give us the security tapes for the last couple of weeks?” Kevin says.

  “Whatever you need. All you gotta do is ask.”

  “Girlfriend?” Kevin says.

  Manny shrugs. “You’d think—with a paycheck like his—but I can’t say for sure. I never saw him with a woman.”

  “Was he a renter or an owner?” I say.

  “He was a tenant. He had a one-year lease.”

  Wayne’s pockets were deep, but not as deep as Rudy’s or Moe’s. Manny gives us the security video and a key to Wayne’s apartment.

  “This’ll save us all the headache of you busting in the door,” Manny says.

  Kevin and I take the elevator to the tenth floor, where the search warrant team has already assembled. I pass the key to the sergeant in charge, and he opens the door and steps aside to let us in.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wayne’s apartment is spectacular. The view includes the Charles River, the downtown skyscrapers, and the Citgo sign. The furnishings are straight out of Design Within Reach—sleek, modern, and expensive. The bamboo floors are pristine. The floor-to-ceiling windows are smudge-free. The white marble bathroom fixtures don’t have a spec of stray toothpaste or shaving cream. Either Wayne was never at home or he had daily maid service.

  I wait in the living room while the search team executes the warrant. I settle into the black leather Corbusier sofa, much like one I used to own, and answer some of the emails that have been piling up. The search team checks under furniture and on top of cabinets. They open books and shake the pages. They unscrew the tops of condiment jars and empty the contents.

  “They collected a couple of hairs from the drain,” Kevin says. “I’ll send them to the lab, but other than that, we got bubkes.”

  “Anything in the medicine cabinet?”

  “Nothing stronger than Advil.”

  Kevin tells the sergeant to call us if they find anything of value. When we step off the elevator, Manny is in the lobby, waiting, eager to get an update. I can’t tell him anything, which is easy since we didn’t find anything. I move to give him a hug goodbye, but he stops me.

  “You can’t go yet.”

  “I’ve be
en up for twenty-four hours. I’ve got to go home and take a shower before I start offending people.”

  “But you didn’t check his storage locker.”

  “Storage locker?”

  We follow Manny onto the elevator and he presses B3. In the garage, past the rows of Beemers and Bentleys, are a series of locked doors. Manny stops at one, types numbers into a keypad. The lock clicks open. Manny smiles, winks, and directs us inside.

  Wayne Ellis’s storage room is about the size of a one-car garage. The space is filled with dozens of boxes, piled atop one another. Kevin notifies the search team, and they soon join us. After a technician photographs the area, the officers glove up and slice open the boxes.

  The first ten boxes contain clothes, linens, dishes—things that probably came from Wayne’s old apartment. The next group is filled with papers: tax returns, contracts, and receipts. These are hauled off and transported into a police van.

  “Go home and catch some shut-eye,” Kevin says. “I’ll give you a jingle if we find anything in here.”

  The air is stale, my eyelids are heavy, and the fluorescent overhead is giving me a headache. “I’m fine.”

  After another hour of sorting through Wayne’s possessions, an officer rips open one of the last boxes.

  “Yowza.” He holds up a wad of cash—just like we found in Rudy’s Weymouth hideaway—a box of $100 bills.

  “I wonder if all players hate banks, or if it’s just the catchers,” Kevin says.

  “They probably didn’t want to declare the money because it’s dirty,” I say.

  “They could be trafficking in steroids.”

  I shake my head. “It wouldn’t be worth the risk.”

  “Maybe they were betting on games.”

  Kevin offers to give me a ride home. When we get outside, I shield my eyes against the glare of the noonday sun. Boylston Street is bustling with pedestrians, cyclists, and motorists, many of whom are triple-parked outside the shops and restaurants.

  Somewhere between Kenmore Square and BU’s towering law center, I doze off. Kevin gives me a nudge when we’re at my front door. I drag myself inside, kick off my shoes, and fall asleep on the couch. A couple of hours later, feeling almost refreshed, I wake up to the sound of my phone. It’s the medical examiner.