The Fens

by Pamela Wechsler

  He stops tapping his foot, rubs his forehead. “Sure, whatever I can do to help.”

  Tags closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and opens his mouth wide, as though he’s about to get a root canal.

  “Relax,” the technician says. “It’s not going to hurt.”

  When everyone has given a sample, Kevin and I head back to our cars.

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” I say.

  “You got a hot date?”

  “My friend’s baby shower.” Technically, it’s not my friend’s event, it’s my sister-in-law’s, but I want Kevin to think my social circle extends beyond immediate family. Even if it doesn’t.

  Kevin laughs. “You don’t have friends. When I first met you, like a decade ago, you had a social life. As far as I can tell, you haven’t gone to a party since your brother’s wedding, and only because you couldn’t find an excuse to get out of it.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, even though it is.

  I used to have friends, lots of them, in college and law school. After I took this job, I always had a stack of invitations on my desk—birthdays, weddings, fund-raisers—but something always got in the way. People grew tired of my no-shows, and eventually the invites dried up; the last time I was asked to anything was my college roommate’s anniversary party. I was all dressed up, ready to head out the door, when I was called to a quadruple slaying in Dorchester. I stood over four dead bodies, in a floor-length Dior.

  At first I felt a little lonely, but I don’t miss the cocktail party circuit anymore. After my tenth visit to a murder scene, I lost interest in making small talk over canapés and cosmopolitans.

  Today’s baby shower is obligatory, since I’m the godmother. My mother is hosting the event, which in this case is a good thing. It means that the only baby shower games will be mind games, like how to tell if you’re being praised or insulted when someone says, You’re so thin. Or: When was your last vacation? Or: Your work sounds so … interesting. On the upside, there won’t be any inane baby shower activities, no rounds of pregnant Twister, baby bottle bowling, or guess the baby food.

  The lunch—or as my mother calls it, the “luncheon”—is at the Alden Club, on Fairfield Street in the Back Bay. My great-grandmother was one of the club founders, and my grandmother gave me a membership for my sixteenth birthday. It’s a place where Bostonians wear black tie and ancestral diamonds. Members chat about where their children prep and where they summer, and they complain about how hard it is to find decent help. It’s all a desperate effort to convince themselves, and one another, that they are still relevant.

  When I walk into the dining room, the women are pecking at their plates of baked sole and overcooked vegetables, pretending to eat. My mother gives me an air kiss, and I can smell the booze on her breath. My stomach drops. Her wineglass is empty. She must be doing her drinking in private, in the powder room or the back of her Town Car.

  “I’m so glad you could make it,” Missy says. “I know how busy you are.”

  Coming from anyone else, that would be a dig, but not from Missy. She is her usual gracious self. She looks radiant; her brown hair is shiny, and her cheeks are rosy. Missy’s mother sits beside her, looking out of place in this room full of snobs. Missy learned how to pass for a blue blood—the understated but expensive outfits, the barely there makeup that took an hour to apply, the simple but flawless diamond studs. Missy’s mother, Pat, however, will never assimilate—with her synthetic dress and garish pin—and I adore her. She’s my favorite relative.

  “Missy tells me you’re still with the DA’s Office,” Pat says. “That was quite a scare you had last year.”

  Before I can respond, my mother interrupts, “We’ve tried every which way to Sunday, but we can’t get her to move on with her career. At first, it appeared admirable—her decision to go into public service. But now, it’s beyond the pale.”

  “Mother—”

  She cuts me off. “Don’t shush me, it’s impolite.”

  Missy signals the waiter. “Let’s all have some coffee and cake.”

  My mother grabs her clutch and goes to the ladies’ room—probably for a shot of whiskey, or whatever she’s got stashed in that bag.

  “I’d love to come by and see your new apartment,” Missy says.

  I picture Missy and my brother taking a tour of my seven-hundred-square-foot walk-up. We’d all have to try to be upbeat and overcompensate for the awkwardness.

  “There’s not a lot to see,” I say.

  “There’s you, and there’s Ty,” she says. “That’s all I need.”

  When Missy crossed the three-month threshold, she took a leave of absence from her job as a fund manager. She has a Harvard MBA, and she’s pretty high up the food chain at Fidelity. I can’t imagine what she’s doing with her time now. She has a full-time housekeeper, and a part-time everything else she needs. She sounds a little stir-crazy.

  When my mother comes sashaying back to the table, looking re-lipsticked and refueled, I bid my goodbyes.

  “But you just got here,” Missy says.

  “Where are you going?” my mother says. “To meet another one of your murderers?”

  “No. I’m going to meet another one of my victims.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Kevin meets me in Boston Police Headquarters, outside the third-floor conference room. I peek in the window and catch a glimpse of the two heartbroken women, seated across from each other. The mothers of Wayne and Rudy have much in common: they’re each in their midforties; they live in the South; and they’re grieving deeply. They also have a lot of differences: Wayne’s mother, Lenora, is single and modest—in both attitude and attire; Rudy’s mother, June, is married and flashy—with a chunky gold chain, and Gucci purse. Rudy’s father, Clyde, is sporting reptile boots and a turquoise belt buckle. The biggest difference, however, is that the Maddoxes can still hold out a glimmer of hope their son is alive.

  I turn back to Kevin and speak quietly. “Did you run their financials?”

  “Last year, Rudy’s parents went from an eight-hundred-foot, one-bedroom apartment to a million-dollar split-level ranch, paid for in cash.”

  “What about Wayne?”

  “His mother had a small influx of cash, not as much as the Maddoxes, but still suspicious. The numbers don’t add up.”

  I take a breath before opening the door. When we walk in, Wayne’s mother is in the middle of describing the day her son made it to the majors: “Proudest day of my life.”

  Kevin introduces me to the families.

  “I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances,” I say.

  I say this to all my victims’ families when we first meet. It’s not original but it’s heartfelt and true, and I’ve never been able to come up with anything more appropriate.

  Kevin gives them an update on the investigation. They ask a few follow-up questions. There’s not much we can tell them, but this is a good opportunity to learn about their sons.

  “Rudy is a devoted husband, a good father,” Mrs. Maddox says.

  “When he’s not chasing skirts.” Mrs. Maddox elbows her husband but he rolls his eyes and keeps talking. “We have to say the truth, June. Otherwise, how are they going to figure out what happened?”

  “What about you, Ms. Ellis?” I say. “Do you know anything about Wayne’s personal life?”

  “I knew he was gay,” she says without missing a beat. “I’m pretty sure I knew before he did.”

  I wonder how much my parents know about me. I had been dating Ty, practically living with him, for a year before I mentioned his existence. They don’t know that before Ty I was in love with a fellow prosecutor, who was married, and that he was the one who was murdered last year. And they don’t understand that I spend my days in a world of loss, and pain.

  “We have reason to believe that both Rudy and Wayne had additional sources of income,” Kevin says.

  “You mean from the sneakers?” Mr. Maddox says.

&n
bsp; “We didn’t find any endorsement deals,” I say.

  “He told us he had a big contract with Nike.”

  So that’s how he explained the infusion of cash.

  “Do you know if Rudy or Wayne had any involvement in drugs or gambling?” Kevin says.

  They all shake their heads in disbelief. It seems that none of the parents have information, at least none that they’re willing to offer.

  Mrs. Maddox tears up. “Are you any closer to finding our son? Do you think he’s still alive?”

  I put my hand on her arm and she drops her head, closes her eyes.

  “We don’t know,” I say.

  “When was the last time you saw Rudy?” Kevin says.

  “He was home in March, for his cousin’s wedding,” Mr. Maddox says.

  “Tell them about the box,” Mrs. Maddox says to her husband.

  “One day I went out to clean the garage. I found a small box. It was a baseball, all wrapped in bubble wrap. I thought it was kind of weird that he never mentioned it.”

  Kevin and I exchange looks.

  “Did you ask him about it?” Kevin says.

  Mr. Maddox nods. “He said it was a souvenir.”

  Rudy and Wayne both stashed souvenir baseballs in strange places. Maybe it’s a thing that catchers do. Or maybe they’re hiding something inside the balls.

  “We need that baseball,” Kevin says.

  My cell phone vibrates. I check the screen and read the text. Got a hit on the tissue we found in the Fens. I excuse myself, and Kevin and I step into the hallway.

  “Any bets on whose DNA is on that tissue?” I say.

  He shrugs. “Donnie?”

  When I call the crime lab, the DNA examiner picks up on the first ring.

  “What do you got?” I say.

  “The tissue we collected at Wayne’s murder scene, in the Fens, came back as a match.”

  “Cut to the chase.”

  “Paul Tagala.”

  Kevin pulls at my arm. “Who is it?”

  I end the call. “It was Tags.”

  “The towel boy?”

  “Yup.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Unlike 99 percent of the people I interact with every day—lawyers, defendants, witnesses, even cops—DNA doesn’t lie. There’s no doubt Tags was involved in Wayne’s murder. We can prove he was at or near the crime scene, which gives us means and opportunity, but we still don’t have intent. The law doesn’t require us to prove motive; it’s not an element of the crime, but I want to know why Tags would want to kill Wayne—and the jury will want to know too.

  Still, Kevin is itching to make an arrest. I think that’d be jumping the gun. The Fens is practically within spitting distance of Fenway. A good defense attorney could raise reasonable doubt: he could argue Tags was in the area for another reason, or that he may have tossed the tissue out the window as he drove by, on his way home from work.

  “We need more: a witness, forensics, or a confession,” I say.

  “I know you think you’re playing it safe, but you’re not.”

  “I’d lose at trial.”

  “This guy is a dangerous son of a gun. While we’re wasting time, spinning our wheels, he could off someone else. You’d never forgive yourself.”

  There’s no right answer. We could arrest Tags and keep him off the street while we look for more evidence. But his lawyer will file a motion to dismiss, and as soon as we get to court, the charges won’t stick and we’ll be back to square one.

  “Let’s go talk to him,” Kevin says, “shake his tree.”

  When we get to Fenway, the Sox are playing the Yankees. Judging by the length of the beer line, the game is in the seventh-inning stretch. Not wanting to set off alarm bells, we go directly to the locker room.

  We slip into the room, unnoticed. Tags’s back is to us; he’s folding laundry, keeping one eye on the TV monitor that is showing the game.

  “Who’s winning?” Kevin says.

  Tags, startled, turns. He looks at us and winces slightly. “The Yankees are up by three.”

  I pretend to care. “That’s too bad.”

  “The good news is that Moe is back on the mound.”

  “The bad news is we need to take you in for questioning,” Kevin says.

  Tags looks at Kevin, then at me. We both stand in place, silent.

  “What? Why?”

  “We’ll tell you when we get to the station.” Kevin is not in the mood to give an explanation.

  Tags picks up an armful of towels, hurls them in our direction, as if that’s going to save him, and bolts toward the door. Perfect—he’s helping my case. I can argue to the judge that Tags’s running from the police shows consciousness of guilt. That’s the missing piece that gets me to probable cause. But first we have to catch him.

  As Tags races by me, I try to grab him by the shirt, but he whacks me in the eye with his forearm. I fall back on my butt and, for a brief moment, see a flash of stars. I get right back up. This is nothing—I’ve been hit harder, by more menacing felons.

  Kevin chases Tags out the door. I look down at my two-inch heels and wish I’d chosen different footwear. I tail behind, following them into the concessions area. Tags zigzags around the refreshment stands, with Kevin in hot pursuit. People jump out of their way, leaving them a path to navigate. No one is sure whom to root for; the men look like a couple of rowdy fans—until Kevin holds up his badge and shouts, “Boston Police.”

  A vigilant fan, with a cup full of sudsy Bud, chucks the beer at Tags—and misses. Unfortunately, most of it splashes on my suit jacket. Another fan sticks out her foot, catching Tags midstep, and he goes flying forward and falls on the cement.

  Kevin races over, puts his knee on Tags’s back, and holds him down. “Don’t even think about moving.”

  A couple of security guards and a police officer rush over. The fans are confused, shouting. He wasn’t doing nothing. Police brutality. Leave him alone. That was a waste of a perfectly good cup of beer.

  “Wait a minute,” someone says. “Is he the guy who killed Wayne and Rudy?”

  Hearing that, a dozen people, including a couple of cops, take out their phones and snap selfies.

  Kevin slaps the cuffs on Tags and yanks him to his feet. “Paul Tagala, you’re under arrest.”

  The cameramen who were covering the game follow as Kevin walks Tags out to the car—an unintended perp walk. Kevin protects the top of Tags’s head, puts him in the back of the car, and slams the door. As soon as I settle into the passenger seat, both of our phones light up. The Red Sox front office is calling Kevin. The DA’s press office is trying to reach me. We both send the calls to voice mail.

  Our first stop is the local police station, Area B-2 in Dudley Square, for booking and processing. At the counter, Tags surrenders his wallet and his watch.

  “Where do you live?” the booking officer says.

  “With my grandmother and two sisters, at Eight Thomas Street in Dorchester.”

  “Age?”

  “Eighteen.” His voice catches.

  “Too bad for you—you missed the cut off for juvie,” the officer says.

  Tags is breaking out in a rash: red blotches, the size of dimes, spread across his neck. He scratches at his wrists, where similar spots are starting to form. When we’re done with booking, we head over to Boston Police Headquarters for major-case prints and photographs. Then, Kevin takes him to the interrogation room.

  I go into the sergeant’s office to watch them on the TV monitor.

  “You smell like a brewery,” the sergeant says.

  In the interrogation room, Kevin gives Tags his Miranda rights. “You have the right to speak to an attorney.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you waive that right?”

  “Nope.”

  Kevin keeps an even tone as he masks his disappointment. “You want a lawyer?”

  “Yup.” Tags’s behavior is more confident, resolved, than I had anticipated. If it
weren’t for the ever-increasing splotches on his neck, I might have bought his act.

  “Can you afford to hire one?”

  “Nope.”

  That’s my cue—the interview is over. I call the Committee for Public Counsel Services, or the Committee as we mockingly refer to them. A woman tells me she already heard about the arrest and was expecting the call. In less than an hour, I go down to the lobby to greet public defender Tracey Miller.

  Tracey is a true believer, an aging hippie, with frizzy gray hair, unadorned lips, and comfortable shoes. “My client does not wish to make a statement.”

  “How can you say that? You haven’t even talked to him yet.”

  I’m annoyed, but not surprised. I’ve known Tracey for years, and she’s never let a client talk to us without immunity, and even then, it’s a struggle. Kevin lets her into the interrogation room, and as much as it hurts, we turn off the camera, allowing them their attorney-client privacy.

  A few minutes later, Tracey emerges, to tell us what we already know. “He’s exercising his right to remain silent.”

  “Can you do us a solid and ask him where he buried Rudy?” I say.

  “He says he doesn’t know because he didn’t kill him.”

  If it were up to me, I’d ask Kevin to arrest Tracey for obstruction of justice, but I know she’s just doing her job.

  “If Tags changes his mind and helps us locate the body,” I say, “we’ll cut him a break at sentencing.”

  Tracey smirks. “There’s not going to be a sentencing because you’ll never be able to prove your case.”

  This discussion isn’t going to be fruitful. I call the sheriff’s deputies, who come to transport Tags to the jail. When Tags stands and puts his arms behind his back, the rash is redder than ever, particularly in contrast to the white strip where his watch made a tan line.

  After Tags is gone, Kevin and I huddle in his cubicle.

  “Did you notice what kind of watch he was wearing?” I say.

  “Now’s not the time to talk fashion.”

  “Just check the booking sheet.”

  Kevin scans the property list. “The watch was a Pacer.” He looks at me. “Why are you smiling?”