by David Hosp
“Exactly. Our basic argument is going to be that nothing Huron could have done would have stopped this guy from killing. He could have strapped the bombs to himself, or he could have gotten shoulder-fired missiles, or he could have sabotaged the tracks—each of which would have had roughly the same result.”
“Is it too simple an argument?”
“Not really,” said Williams, shaking his head. “To make it sing to the jury, we have to show how dedicated these bastards are. We have to take the panel through hundreds of thousands of documents that demonstrate just how careful Huron was, and all of the measures they took.” He paused, picking up a pen from Finn’s desk and twirling it around in his fingers. “We also have to take them through hundreds of thousands of State and Defense Department documents that prove even the CIA and the FBI haven’t been able to prevent attacks like this.”
Finn stopped taking notes and put down his pen. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“More than you can comprehend.” Nick scratched his chin as he looked across the desk. “This is a huge case for us. It’s a real opportunity to show the partnership what you’re made of. Are you ready for it?”
Finn took a deep breath. “I am.”
Williams’s eyes bored into him. “I hope you are,” he said finally, then paused as if deciding whether to say something more. “I don’t know if you know this, but you and I have something in common.”
“What’s that?” Finn asked.
“Well, like you, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and I never made it to an Ivy League school. I had to work my ass off in a state college, and then again in a city law school. I had to be better than everyone around me just to get a fair shake. Even though I never had Preston’s courtroom presence, I made sure I was smarter and better prepared than the other associates, and that was enough to make partner.”
He stopped fidgeting and leaned forward in his seat. “For guys like us, Finn, the big opportunities come around only once. I hope you take full advantage of it, because it would be nice to have another partner in the fold who came up the hard way.”
Finn looked across the desk at his colleague. He knew exactly what the man was talking about. Finn had fought bitterly for every morsel of praise he’d ever received at Howery, Black, even when he was outperforming his peers. It made the ultimate prize of partnership all the more enticing. “I’ll try not to let everyone down,” he said after a long moment.
“Don’t worry about everyone,” Williams replied. “Just don’t let yourself down.”
Chapter Ten
THE DOOR TO CAPTAIN WEIDEL’S office was closed, and there was a group of officious-looking people Flaherty didn’t recognize loitering outside. She was tempted to go to check her messages before she reported to the captain, but Weidel had been explicit on the phone earlier; he wanted to see her the second she got in. At least Kozlowski’s desk was on the way to the captain’s office, so she could drag him along for moral support. He looked up when she stooped over him.
“What’s going on in Weidel’s office?” she asked.
“Looks like some kind of weasel convention to me, but I wasn’t on the invite list, so I’m not sure.”
“Yeah, well, don’t feel too left out, because I’m bringing you as my date.”
“Shit. And me without my makeup.”
“It’s just as well. I wouldn’t want you looking prettier than me, Kozlowski.” She waved him over to the door. The sea of sycophants gathered there parted grudgingly. One young man in khakis and a blue blazer looked at the two detectives with particular disdain.
“Come in!” she heard Weidel bellow when she knocked. Flaherty opened the door and she and Kozlowski entered the room.
The first thing she noticed was that the office was crowded. She was used to dealing with Weidel one-on-one, as he chewed her out from behind his desk without the benefit of an audience. She wouldn’t be so lucky this time. Weidel was at his desk, all right, but he wasn’t alone. The room looked like a who’s who of Boston politics and law enforcement. Bill Moyer, the Suffolk County district attorney, was leaning against a filing cabinet in the corner, next to the police commissioner, Randy Backton. Jimmy Tribinio, the recently elected mayor of Boston, was slouched on the low sofa facing the captain’s desk. Also on the sofa was Rich Loring, the U.S. attorney for the District of Massachusetts, and sitting in the chair directly in front of Weidel was William Clarke, the governor of Massachusetts. It felt like an ambush.
“Lieutenant,” Weidel began, “I think you know everyone here.”
She stared at him, dumbstruck. “Not personally, no, but I believe I know everyone by reputation.”
The men in the room looked at her from their perches with expressions that conveyed nothing but skepticism and superiority. Only Clarke rose to greet her.
“Lieutenant Flaherty, it’s indeed a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” he said, standing up and taking her by the hand. It wasn’t as much a handshake as a hand press, the soft flesh of his right palm cradling her hand as he covered the grasp with his left hand, drawing her in toward his chest as he leaned in. It oozed of warmth, friendship, and trust, and it immediately put Flaherty on guard.
“You know, when this Little Jack unpleasantness started, I talked with Police Commissioner Backton, here, and I told him we needed the best investigator in the department leading the charge. He spoke to Captain Weidel, and they both agreed there was no one with more competence or a better record than you. I can’t tell you how happy we all are that you’re on the case.” As he finished, the governor looked around the room, nodding, drawing reluctant agreement from everyone.
Flaherty had no idea what to say. She’d never been politically adept. Fortunately, Kozlowski made her look like a UN diplomat as he responded for her.
“Thank you, Governor, we’ve all been working hard to put an end to the ‘unpleasantness.’ ” What the hell did he care, he already had his twenty years in, and he was never going to make lieutenant anyway.
Clarke looked at Weidel, who nodded venomously at Kozlowski. “Governor, this is Detective Tom Kozlowski. He’s helping Lieutenant Flaherty with the investigation. For now.” The last part was added with emphasis.
Clarke turned back to Kozlowski. “You, too, have all of our confidence, Detective.”
Kozlowski shrugged.
The governor nodded as though a solemn pact had been reached between them, and sat back in his seat, spreading out like a king holding court. “Obviously, the last few days have brought a renewed urgency to this matter.” He paused dramatically, like he was delivering a stump speech. “The loss of any life is a great tragedy, no matter how the first six of these women earned their living. But I think we’re all even more greatly moved by the senseless killing of a young woman on the rise; a woman of promise who’d worked so closely with those of us in law enforcement. I never met Ms. Caldwell myself, but I’m told she was a top-notch lawyer and one hell of an investigator.”
Flaherty was shocked. She spun on Weidel. “We haven’t released the victim’s identity yet,” she said accusingly.
Weidel reddened just a little. “We haven’t released it to the press yet, Lieutenant. Obviously, it’s imperative the governor be kept in the loop with the most up-to-date information we have.”
“That’s pretty up-to-date. We only got a positive ID yesterday evening, and I don’t think I’ve even had the chance to confirm that with you, Captain.” A tone of accusation remained in Flaherty’s voice. As the officer in charge of the investigation, she should have been notified of any information given out, even to the governor.
Loring, the U.S. attorney, got up out of his seat. “Look, Detective, I worked with Ms. Caldwell for two years when I was in the FBI and she was at the Justice Department. Are you suggesting the people in this room shouldn’t be notified of events in the investigation as they develop? I thought we were all on the same team, but maybe I was misinformed.”
“And I
thought I was in charge of this investigation,” Flaherty shot back. “But maybe I was misinformed.”
“Just because you have jurisdiction here doesn’t mean we shouldn’t know what’s going on. We have a right to be kept in the loop.” Loring was raising his voice now, and clearly looking for a little turf in the investigation. Flaherty suspected he was more interested in furthering his own political fortunes than finding the killer of a junior colleague he probably didn’t even know well. It pissed her off.
“Oh sure. The feds are always so forthcoming with the local cops, right? I remember all the times we were consulted on the Whitey Bulger case.” Flaherty’s barb found its mark, and Loring’s ears went red with anger. Several years before, the FBI and the Justice Department had protected a number of informants high up in Boston’s Irish mob who went on killing sprees with impunity. The most notorious was James “Whitey” Bulger, the head of the Winter Hill Gang. The local cops were left chasing their tails as they tried to clean up the mess.
Ultimately, Bulger was indicted on a slew of charges, including eighteen counts of murder, but escaped when his FBI handlers tipped him off before the state police and DEA could arrest him. Several FBI agents resigned. One was convicted of aiding Bulger and was sent to jail. The fallout was still radioactive, and even though Loring hadn’t been directly implicated, he was the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Boston office at the time, and had signed off on the Bulger operation. The incident hadn’t done permanent damage to his career, but he was still defensive about it. The mere mention of it was enough to make him seethe at Flaherty, but he kept his mouth shut.
“That’s a pretty cheap shot at a guy who just lost a former colleague, don’t you think, Lieutenant?” chided Commissioner Backton.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Flaherty said to Loring, and the sincerity behind it took everyone in the room by surprise, defusing the tension that had been building. She took a deep breath. “Obviously I’m willing to keep people in the loop. But you’ve all run investigations, and you all know how important the control of information is to the success of the investigation. Everything must go through me.” She looked Weidel straight in the eyes. “Otherwise, you can reassign the case.”
“Now wait a minute. If you think you’re in any position to dictate terms, Lieutenant, think again,” Weidel began, but the governor cut him off.
“No, Captain, the lieutenant is right. It is her investigation.” He looked at Flaherty with a calculating smile. The message was clear: the case was hers to live or die with—alone. “I think Lieutenant Flaherty is quite aware of how important this investigation is to the entire city, and I’m sure she’ll use every means at her disposal to bring this sadistic butcher to justice. By the way, Lieutenant, where does the investigation actually stand at the moment?”
Flaherty was silent, caught off guard by the direction the conversation had taken. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t been quite so territorial. It might be nice to have some political backing in this situation. After all, the investigation was stalled; they had no leads and no significant clues.
Everyone in the room was looking at her, waiting for an answer. She had no answers to give, and they all knew it.
“I have to wait for the coroner’s official report before I can give you anything concrete,” she said. It was weak, but it was the best she could do, and she hoped it would at least buy her a little time. Looking around the room, though, it was clear everyone there saw through her.
“Is there anything you can tell us?” Clarke asked.
Flaherty thought quickly. “Well, based on the wounds, we believe Little Jack may have had medical training. Because all of the victims have been white, he’s probably white, too; most serial killers hunt within their own race.” Great, she reflected. In Boston, with its dozens of leading hospitals, medical schools, and clinics, that narrowed the field of suspects to roughly fifty thousand individuals.
She took a deep breath and continued. “We also have reason to believe he may have met the latest victim, Ms. Caldwell, at a bar near Chinatown called the Kiss Club. Other than that, we’re just going to have to wait for the ME’s report.”
“Anything else?” Clarke pressed.
Flaherty glared at him. “That’s all we have right now.” Clarke looked at her for several seconds. The room was silent, and Flaherty could feel the walls closing in. Finally he spoke. “All right, gentlemen, let’s clear out of here and let these people get on with their investigation. I trust you’ll keep us informed, Lieutenant.”
With that, the entire upper echelon of Boston’s political and law enforcement communities got up and filed out of Weidel’s office. None said good-bye, or even so much as looked at Flaherty on their way out. Then the door closed and she was alone with Kozlowski and Weidel. The captain was rubbing his hands over his face nervously.
“I sure as hell hope you get something from the coroner we can use. I’m not prepared to burn on this cross with you,” he said.
“I think you’re mixing your historical references, Captain,” said Kozlowski.
“What?”
“A person either burns at the stake or hangs on a cross. You wouldn’t burn on a cross.” The detective kept a straight face as he said it.
“Kozlowski, I have no fucking idea how you ever made your twenty years without getting busted out of the department, but I’m not about to take your shit.” The captain was letting his anger show now. “And you,” he said, looking at Flaherty. “You’re not going to have a chance in hell of making your twenty if you don’t find this guy, and I mean fucking soon. I guarantee you that!” Weidel stormed out of his own office, slamming the door behind him.
“That went well,” Kozlowski said.
“Yeah, I take you on the best dates, don’t I? Sorry about putting us on the spot. You know you’re now on the hook for this right along with me, don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Chapter Eleven
Hallelujah!
Salvation and glory and power belong to our God,
for true and just are His judgments.
He has condemned the great prostitute
who corrupted the earth by her adulteries.
He has avenged on her the blood of His servants …
HE REPEATED THE WORDS over and over out loud. He no longer even realized he was doing it. It was one of his favorite passages, but there were so many others of equal power, and he could recall them all with such ease. They were the reason for his existence, and his existence would give rise to a new age of damnation for all but the chosen. That he was one of the chosen had been made clear to him years before, and now he’d been called to help clear the way for the plagues and the locusts and the great lake of fire. It made him important.
No one suspected. How could they? There was nothing to suggest the truth. And even if there were something, only the righteous would see it; and the truly righteous would understand, and would rejoice with him.
The house was unassuming; a small, freestanding wood-frame structure on the edge of the commercial district that spread between downtown and South Boston. His parents had left it to him. Their passing had been a painful blow, but in time it had given him clarity, and he knew they were watching him from their graves with pride, and waiting for judgment day to rise again.
The interior was sparse but clean, almost puritanical by bachelor standards. A few religious artifacts were spread around the rooms as the only decoration, but they weren’t so prevalent as to draw attention—just enough to suggest a healthy respect for his religion and his God. He was deliberate about that, so that there would be nothing on the first two floors of the little house that would suggest the truth.
The basement was a different story. Concrete, white paint, and bright lights had transformed the space into an odd sort of medical bunker. Against one wall, stainless steel shelves held a wide assortment of medical tools, supplies, and bottles. In the center of the room, underneath a
halogen light, a metal gurney was bolted to the floor, the mattress removed and replaced by a flat steel platform. It was less comfortable, but easier to clean, and he’d learned from experience that the latter was more important.
He was down there now, standing in front of the glass case at the far end of the room. It was his shrine. Six jars, lined up neatly, each filled with formaldehyde. This was his sanctuary, where he drew his strength and prepared to continue His work so that he’d be united with his parents again; so that they could all stand together among the trumpets in their white robes with the lamb of God as the others burned in an ocean of sulfur and acid.
Give her as much torture and grief
as the glory and luxury she gave herself.
In her heart she boasts,
“I sit as queen; I am not a widow,
and I will never mourn.”
Therefore in one day her plagues will overtake her:
death, mourning, and famine.
She will be consumed by fire,
for mighty is the Lord God who judges her.
It was another favorite passage, and he repeated it for nearly thirty minutes before he pulled himself away from the glass case and locked the basement up tight.
Chapter Twelve
“ROUGHLY TWELVE HOURS,” Farmalant said.
“Are you sure?” Flaherty asked. “As sure as I can be. One thing is absolutely clear—the Caldwell woman was dead for a long time before her heart was removed. She was strangled to death, and then her heart was taken out later. I could be an hour off, give or take, but not more than that. You can be sure it wasn’t near the time of her death.”
“Shit,” Flaherty muttered.
She was back in Farmalant’s posh office. He’d called her earlier in the morning with the news that the autopsy was finally finished. “Why won’t you just send the report over?” she’d asked. He’d been clear that she should come to his office.
