Loose Change: The Case Files of a Homeless Investigator

by Sean Huxter

  “So here's how it goes down, mah man,” Tito strutted. Or as much as he could strut, propped up on two stilts like that. “Dice here he gonna shoot you once in each leg, and we gonna have a little picnic watchin' you worm around a bit. Got us a couple a hot dogs here. Ain't eaten proper since I posted bail.”

  I glanced at his car at the opening of the alley. There was a third man there, I swear, holding a trio of hot dogs purchased from a street trolley up on the Common.

  I didn't like my chances of getting out of this, but I had two very small advantages.

  One: I knew something about this alley that these guys did not.

  Two: I knew something about human psychology that these guys did not.

  “So what about Jen? You agreed she was out.” Keep 'em talking. That's the psychology part.

  “That ho. Naw, man, she be back on the street soon as she out.”

  I didn't doubt he'd have her turning tricks again long before she could heal up.

  “And the baby. Yours I assume?” I didn't mention the second baby, which might be considered a third advantage. He didn't know that I knew about the dead one. Or his involvement with her delivery and death.

  “Mine? Fuck, naw, man. She was knocked up when I met her. She hit the street like that.”

  “So who was the father?”

  Tito laughed. His bros laughed too.

  “Their daddy was her daddy, man.”

  What?

  “Why you think she left man? Her mom skipped two years ago. She couldn't handle the idea her hubby was diddlin' her kid but she was scared of him and she booked. But get this – she left the kid with him.”

  Oh my god.

  “Let's get down to biz, Tito,” Dice said, looking back to his boss. You gotta appreciate an eager employee.

  Because he turned, he was off his guard for just a second. Long enough. I rolled.

  Here's where I knew something about this alley that they didn't. There's a loose brick in the wall I was sleeping against.

  Knowing I couldn't get away, and wanting to play with me for a bit, Dice didn't shoot me. He probably should have. Rather, he just moved with me, and tried to hold me down. That gave me an opportunity to reach in behind the loose brick where I've been keeping an ancient French Lebel pistol I managed to snag during one of my previous investigations. It was old, rusted, but loaded. I kept it that way for just such an occasion.

  Knowing Dice was an experienced gunman, I took no chances. I didn't bother pointing the gun at the trio and saying “Hands up, pardners.” Instead, I rolled, and came up shooting.

  Bang! The rusty Lebel hurt my hand when I shot it.

  And I missed. But that didn't stop Dice from falling over, bleeding from his shoulder. There was a lot of shouting. More than seemed possible.

  “Freeze! Police!”

  Turley!

  Oh thank god! Turley!

  When I pushed Dice's couple-hundred-fifty-pounds off me, I could see the two detectives handcuffing Tito and the hot-dog butler at the end of the alley. Turley's gun was still smoking, aimed at Dice and me. He lowered his pistol, and got to cuffing Dice.

  “You ok?” he asked me.

  “I'm fine, Officer, thank you very much.”

  “When I heard Tito made bail I kept my eye on you.”

  Turley helped me up, and I was almost able to stand on my own. My shaking legs and hands barely affected my balance. Honest.

  “You got them, Detectives?” Turley asked.

  “Hard and fast, Officer.” This was the detective who had questioned me earlier. “Many thanks for the tipoff.”

  “You're welcome, Detectives.” Turley doffed his hat to them, and they did the same. He had just handed them Tito, a prize that was sure to get them noticed downtown.

  I stood, quaking like a leaf in the icy, late fall wind, leaning against the wall because I could not count on my legs holding me up.

  “You got him?”

  “Hard and fast like the detectives said.”

  “On what?”

  “His DNA and prints were all over the body of the second twin, the one who didn't make it.”

  “Damn. So you

  really got him?”

  “Yup. Infanticide

  “That gonna be enough?”

  “Easy. And we also got a statement out of Jen Walters. She confirmed that Tito was there when she birthed the twins, and get this – the bastard strangled one right in front of her.”

  “What? Jesus!”

  “Said that if she ever thought of leaving, he'd kill the other one.”

  I had to get away – go somewhere. Anywhere... I began to stumble out of the alley. I needed a drink. I needed to shoot up. I needed something to get this out of my mind.

  “You ok?” Turley called.

  I didn't reply. I just kept going.

  Chapter 10 I walked for what seemed like days. In the confusion Turley had left me with the Lebel. I'm not even sure he knew I had it. It went off just as his did and I tucked it into my coat when I got up. The detectives didn't show any notion that they had heard a second shot either. If Turley had seen it, he didn't let on.

  I wandered, senseless, or so I thought. I crossed over into Cambridge and just kept walking. Somewhere along the way I checked a phone book, one of those ancient archaeological tomes that you sometimes still find on disused street corners in something once called a 'phone booth'.

  With some change in my pocket I made a few calls and circled an address on a page with a piece of pencil I found in the booth.

  I ripped the page out of the book and kept walking, looking at streets. It felt like days, but by the time I turned the corner onto Quincy Street it was just past 5:30pm.

  When I knocked a man answered. He was about my age, perhaps a bit younger. Clean-cut, five o'clock shadow, looked like a man who just got home from work.

  His nose turned up at my appearance and he began to close the door again.

  “Vic Walters?” I asked. He stopped closing the door.

  “Yeah, who's asking?” he replied.

  “You have a daughter named Jennifer?”

  “Yes, why? What's this about? Is Jennifer ok?”

  I pulled the gun out from my neoprene parka and shoved it against his head, pushing his body inside the house. I didn't even close the door.

  I pushed the gun into his forehead, his head now hitting a wall by his kitchen. I pushed harder. The man didn't fight back. He was in shock.

  “Whaddyou want? Leave me alone!” he said, finally regaining his ability to speak.

  “Your own daughter!” I shouted.

  “What?”

  I searched his eyes for some hope that Tito had been lying. That I was wrongfully assaulting an innocent man, a loving father.

  I didn't see it. I saw what I had feared. Now what was I going to do?

  All along, on this trip, I knew I was going to kill this man for what he did to his own teenaged daughter. Now I couldn't go through with it.

  My need for alcohol, heroin – anything – drained from me with a rush of adrenaline. The gun was still forming a small donut shaped divot on his forehead.

  “Your own daughter!” I shouted again.

  “What do you want?” he shouted, desperately.

  “

  I want you to know that I know what you did! ” I said, calmly but fiercely, my voice forming an unconscious growl.

  “Ok, ok, ok, I did it. It was me! Don't kill me!” he pleaded, tears streaming down his face, he was trembling and lost control of his knees. He slumped to the floor, the gun staying exactly where it was. I slumped with him.

  I moved the gun to that soft spot under his chin and shoved. Hard.

  “I could fucking kill you right now,” I said. “Do you see that?”

  He nodded, sobbing now.

  “Say it!” I demanded.

  “Ok, ok, I got my own daughter pregnant! Please don't kill me!” He was a melting puddle on his floor.

  I stood up, turned ar
ound and walked out.

  It took hours for me to get back to Boston and my alley.

  Three thousand three hundred fifty three days sober. And not liking my chances of reaching three thousand three hundred fifty four. 3428 days sober

  Chapter 1 Winter in Boston can be very dangerous to people like me. Life on the street has its hazards most seasons – too much heat in the summer, too much cold in the winter. You'd think winter would kill us easier, but they say more homeless people die in summer from dehydration and heat stroke. Winter can be borne easier by someone not too old. And the shelters are there if needed, even it they are often overfull. During the harsher cold snaps the shelter workers even prowl the streets looking for us, imploring us to take refuge inside. If you ever meet a shelter worker, shake their hand. They deserve it.

  Me, I was fairly comfortable in my new-to-me parka. Neoprene shell, high-efficiency stuffing, hood. I bought it at a Thrift Store and it didn't exactly break the bank. I got it for just about eighteen dollars last month. With healthy late-fall sales of Loose Change, the bi-weekly newspaper sold by the homeless to passersby, I was easily able to get myself kitted up for winter. It was too cold today to pick up my bundle, I'd do it tomorrow.

  Huddled in a v-shaped space between two small outbuildings in Boston Common, I saw Old Fernie, trying to stay out of the bitter cold wind. “Fernie!” I called. He turned around, wind whipping his gray afro crazily about.

  “Hola amigo,” he said.

  “Hola,” I said. I could probably carry on part of a conversation in Spanish, but not easily. Fernie likely could. I've learned over the years he speaks several languages, thought I knew Spanish was not his native tongue.

  “Turley's been looking for you,” he said.

  I hadn't seen Turley in weeks. Which is weird because he's usually posted outside the Common on Tremont Street. Lately, the car's been occupied by an unfamiliar face. A not-so friendly face. We liked Officer Turley. He had our backs when necessary. He's been known to call a truck to get one of us into a clean bed for the night at one of the many hospitals. He sometimes keeps things in his car for street people. He's even given away some used clothes and stuff. Good guy, Turley.

  “Ok,” I said.

  “No, I mean he's looking for you. Official-like.”

  “Really? Wonder why. He looking for information on something?”

  “Didn't say. And it was how he didn't say it that perked up

  my ears.”

  “Ok, thanks.”

  We stood in the v-shaped hollow for a while as I pondered the news, but I was on my way to bed down for the night, so I bade Old Fernie adieu and walked westward across Charles Street and into the Public Garden.

  Chapter 2 Wind was whipping walls of dry snow into Public Alley 437 where I spend my nights. I pulled my hood up against the blizzard-like winds as I went in. Far down, I could see a man in a suit and overcoat looking around my dumpster.

  I slowed my approach. Not the first time someone's been poking around my stuff.

  The man turned and called my name. His voice was familiar but I didn't recognize him.

  You know how you see someone every day for years in a given context and then suddenly you see him outside the normal situation? Like seeing your postman in the grocery store in shorts and a tee-shirt. He recognizes you, probably, but you have no idea who he is. Recognition slowly dawned. This was Turley, a cop I've known for years. Hell, I've even seen him down my alley several times before but I've never seen him out of uniform. Until now.

  “Officer Turley,” I said in greeting.

  “Detective Turley,” he said. “Got a moment?”

  “Absolutely. Anything for you, Off... Detective. Congratulations, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Mind if I ask you where you were about midnight last night?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you have an alibi for midnight last night?”

  I didn't like where this was going.

  “I was here. It was freezing. I was huddled under my blanket.”

  “Anyone with you?”

  “No.”

  “I'm gonna have to ask you to come down to the station and answer a few questions.”

  “You shittin' me?”

  “Wish I was. I'm arresting you on suspicion of the the murder of one Derek Mosley at the Hatch Shell last night.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Turn around please.”

  “I don't even know anyone named Derek Mosley.”

  “His picture was in Loose Change. I know you read every issue, and you recognized his picture. We found his fingerprints in relation to an old cold case. And guess whose case it was?”

  I looked at him, stunned. I hadn't seen Loose Change today.

  “Look, let's not make a thing of it. Just turn around please.”

  I turned around and put my hands behind my back. Turley got close, and as I heard the cuffs in his hands I knew he was standing just in front of a loose cinder block on the pavement. I pushed backward, knocking him over onto the snowy asphalt. I hated doing that.

  Now, I'm not a young man anymore, but I've been in jail and I wasn't ever doing that again. And you'd be surprised how fast you can run in a lithe neoprene parka when the air is cool and fresh as you breathe it in. My lungs felt turbo-charged and I ran like a race car.

  I'm sure Turley knows these streets but he doesn't know them like I do. I broke for the Public Garden where I was confident I could evade capture. I heard Turley struggling after me, calling into his radio for backup. I mean I

  really didn't like where this night was going. It was like a chapter out of Kafka, or a scene from an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

  Chapter 3 I couldn't risk going back to my dumpster, and that meant no tarp, no warm blankets. I had to sleep under bushes near the Fens. I woke up shivering. This isn't good. Turley's been a friend for years, and now he's trying to take me in for murdering someone. And I didn't even have any idea who I was supposed to have murdered.

  But I got a sick feeling in my stomach. An old cold case, and guess whose case it was? God, I hoped that didn't mean what I thought it meant.

  I had to know. But I couldn't risk picking up my own batch of Loose Change. Turley would have the newspaper drop zones staked out.

  Instead I prowled around the fringes of Downtown, hoping to see someone else selling the paper. It didn't take long. Wrapped in a long elegant duffel coat and wearing white gloves, the Concierge – that's his nickname – was hawking the paper not far outside the Prudential building. I offered him a buck for a copy. He said “Free for you, my man,” and gave me one. I gratefully accepted it and slinked back into an alley.

  The cover story was about an art theft in behind Beacon Hill. There was a picture of what looked like a wealthy businessman, taken in his living room, with paintings on the wall. Another photo showed a minor Vermeer, a small sketch, but worth a small fortune. And a third photo was blurred beyond recognition. It showed a stocky man with short blonde hair. The caption said it was taken from the victim's home security cameras. I looked at the blurred image again. And slowly, recognition came and my legs lost all of their strength.

  Grasping for anything nearby, and finding nothing, I fell to the cold, slushy pavement. I lost all control and started blithering like a baby. I think it went on for hours, the paper sogging in the wet snow.

  Chapter 4 I could barely bring myself to open the paper again, and even though it was now thoroughly wet, I braved it and looked once more at that face. A face that I hadn't seen in over thirteen years, and I'd only seen it once. Once was enough to burn it into my brain forever.

  Dead. The bastard was dead. Turley was right. He had every reason to suspect me, because had I seen this issue when I should have, a couple of days ago, I would have killed the bastard myself with my bare hands. I would have wrapped my hands around that neck and squeezed until there was no life left in his accursed body.

  I looked at the other images again. A man identified as Mar
tin Sprech, photographed in a fine living room with several paintings on the wall, with a noticeable empty space which, presumably, had held the Vermeer sketch until two thieves brazenly broke in and stole it about a week ago. During the invasion Sprech had been brutally beaten. His wife had also been beaten.

  Wait. In the photo were several paintings including a small Rembrandt, but what caught my eye was the lower corner of the grouping – one that looked oddly familiar. The more I examined it the more I knew that painting. I knew it very well. It was an old friend I hadn't seen in over thirteen years.

  I read the article thoroughly. I had to talk to Mr. Sprech. The article didn't mention an exact address, but he lived on Acorn Street, which is in behind Beacon Hill. Acorn wasn't a long street. It shouldn't be too hard to find Mr. Sprech.

  It was dark by the time I got there, just after dinner time for those who have dinner. I surreptitiously checked some mail stuck out of mailboxes and found Sprech's door on the corner of Cedar and Acorn. I knocked.

  At first I saw and heard nothing. Then I noticed a curtain move to my side, from a shuttered window. Then I saw a light turn on over my head and I saw a curtain move aside in a window in the door.

  “What is it?” came a voice from within. He sounded frightened.

  I yelled out my name, and I told Mr. Sprech that I was here about the stolen painting.

  “My lawyers are handling the missing Vermeer,” he shouted. “Please leave.”

  “Mr. Sprech, it's not the Vermeer I'm here to speak to you about, it's the Mathers. 'Public Garden Bridge'. Can I talk to you about it?”

  “No. Please go away.”

  “Mr Sprech, look behind it. On the bottom corner of the back canvas you'll find a pair of initials and a date.” I told him the initials, and the date. “There is a message that says 'On your wedding day'. Can I please talk to you about it?”

  I got no response. The light went out.

  I waited. And waited. I got the idea Sprech may be on the phone to the Boston PD so I started back up towards Beacon Hill. Before I got three houses down, I heard Sprech's door open.

  “Please... please come in,” he said.