“No, no, no. You’re done with sports. You don’t seriously want to keep writing up those terrible games, do you?”
“Not really, but…”
“Look, Tommy. You aren’t the most ambitious guy who ever walked through that door. Not the most motivated. Frankly, you don’t really seem to know what you’re doing here at all.”
I stood. “Okay, well. Good talk.”
“Sit down, will ya? Let me finish. I’m building to something here. It’s the pyramid structure we talked about. I’m laying a base. Now I’m coming to the point.”
I sat back down. “Which is?”
“Which is that you’ve got something a lot of much more motivated, focused, ambitious people in this office are sorely lacking. You can actually write. That piece on the volleyball player, I’m not lying, it was really good. Once I forced you to bear down on it, apply a little discipline. That first draft was a little lazy, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well…”
“Come on. You know what I’m saying. You can do better than these Lions game stories. You’re capable of writing something that might really grab some eyeballs. Something you could put in your portfolio.”
“Like what?” I envisioned a muckraking expose of the college administration, which was in the process of trying to move the Emerson campus out of Boston and into Lawrence, a depressed North Shore mill town. Was there corruption involved? Bribery? Could I topple the current regime and become a hero to my schoolmates, who had no interest in decamping for East Bumfuck?
“You live in Charlesgate, right? You were there for that false alarm the other night?”
I straightened up in my seat. “Well…yeah…”
“And you know a little something about the history of the place? I mean, you’ve heard stories. Ouija boards and all that shit.”
“Sure, but—”
“So this is what I want. Something that’s never been done in the Berkeley Beacon. A comprehensive history of the Charlesgate. All the true stories as well as the tall tales. I want you to follow up on all these urban legends. Did Eugene O’Neill really kill himself in there? Was the architect a Satan worshipper? Does that little girl’s ghost really roam the halls in the dead of night? I want the ultimate Charlesgate story. A multi-parter. And quite frankly, you’re the only guy who can write it. This is gonna make your name and mine, too, just by association. You up for it?”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“Call it something like Mysteries of Charlesgate. No… Charlesgate Confidential. That’s it. Kind of that old-timey tabloid vibe, you know? I’m excited about this. I want you to get started right away.”
As I walked out of the Berkeley Beacon office that afternoon, I was pretty sure I’d figured out why they called him Mighty Rob. He’d convinced me I was about to write the In Cold Blood of haunted dorm stories. I think I floated the eight blocks back to Charlesgate. I slowed as I crossed Mass Ave, passing BosDeli and the happy hour crowd streaming into Crossroads. Dusk was settling over the city, and a cacophony of honking horns drifted from Storrow Drive as anxious commuters tried to squeeze in one last weekend on the Cape before the frost settled in, to admire the foliage or whatever the beautiful people did. I passed my parking space, the broken meter on Beacon Street. No one ever fixed it and my Buick never got a ticket.
Charlesgate now loomed above me. I craned my neck, trying to take in the whole building at once. I counted up seven stories. That was the all-female floor we called the Nunnery. The eighth floor could not be seen from the outside. It was only a half-floor. Not even that, really, just a short hallway with a few rooms on either side. I rarely went up there. The eighth floor crowd was tight-knit and standoffish, and rumors about them abounded. We thought of them as the crazy relatives locked in the attic.
At street level, I stood directly in front of the Beacon Street entrance, which wasn’t really an entrance because it was always locked. The doorway was surrounded by intricate carvings, whorls and patterns and cherubic faces. One night while really high on the Rev’s weed I’d stared at the faces, imagining they were the lost souls of Charlesgate, trapped in their efforts to escape, now forever part of the building. Maybe that would be a good way to introduce my first article. Probably not.
I rounded the corner to Charlesgate East. The building’s name was carved in marble over the front entrance. A halfdozen girls with big hair and small skirts were on their way out, no doubt headed to kick off the weekend at Narcissus or Lipstick or one of the other Kenmore Square dance clubs. I caught the door before it closed and went inside.
I nodded at the RA stationed at the front desk and walked past her into the lobby. The student mailboxes were on the right, directly behind the front desk area. I checked mine. Nothing but a flyer advertising a fraternity’s upcoming charity casino night. I continued down the hall, admiring the ornate tile mosaics. The Charlesgate lobby still carried a hint of faded glamour. Upstairs it was all chipped drywall and stained carpeting, but haunting remnants of the Gilded Age survived down here.
The office of the Resident Director, Gerald Torres, was on the right just past the mailboxes. On the wall opposite his door hung a framed poster of Uncle Sam. This was not the traditional “I Want You” pose, but a scarier, more ragged Sam holding a rifle over the legend DON’T WAIT FOR THE DRAFT: VOLUNTEER. It seemed out of place, an artifact of a different era in Charlesgate history. The mounted troops behind him suggested World War I, toward the end of the hotel’s status as an elite destination.
“Donnelly!”
I snapped out of my reverie and turned to see Murtaugh stomping down the hall toward me.
“Where the hell have you been? We’re ready to go!” He pressed a small laminated card into my hand. My fake ID. It looked…not that great. I had a real Maine license and could readily compare the two, which I did. It was immediately clear that the fake would never work in Maine. Anyone familiar with the real thing would never buy it. And if you looked really closely under a good light, you could see the outlines where the name, address, and signature had been pasted on the backdrop.
“Is this really gonna work?” I asked.
“The Rev went to Crossroads for lunch. He had three beers. No question.”
“We’re not going to Crossroads.”
“Why not?”
“Because everyone’s gonna go to Crossroads. Suddenly thirty people, young people the bouncer has never seen before, all show up at the same time. And they all have Maine IDs. No fucking way.”
“Okay, that makes sense. So where are we going?”
“The Fallout Shelter.”
Murtaugh stared at me liked I’d sprouted two extra heads. “Okay, but where are we really going?”
“What’s wrong with the Fallout Shelter?”
“Nothing, I guess, if our plan is to get stabbed and dumped in an alley tonight.”
Crossroads and the Fallout Shelter were separated by maybe twenty feet. Crossroads was on Beacon and the Fallout Shelter was on Marlborough, and they both rear-ended on the same alley—the alley that dead-ended behind Charlesgate. But in every other way, they were worlds apart. Crossroads was a college pub that gained a little hipster cachet from the fact that the author Richard Yates made his office in a booth at the back. The Fallout Shelter was a dive, pure and simple. It featured dollar Knickerbockers at Happy Hour, which stretched from 3 to 7 P.M., and offered free chicken wings from God knows where every Friday.
“We’ll be fine,” I said. “Dollar Knicks and free wings. What could go wrong?”
“Fine. But I’m gonna remind you that you said that every day for the rest of your life. Assuming you have one.”
We didn’t get stabbed and dumped in an alley, but it would be a night to remember. If only I could remember it.
APRIL 24, 2014
Martin Coleman was hunched over his desktop, wearing out his scroll button, when his partner Ed Carnahan peered over his cubicle wall.
“The fuck you doing, Coltrane? Playing Candy
Crush again? Get the fuck off Facebook and let’s hit the Tap.”
“It’s our vic’s Facebook page. She has 367 friends. Every one a suspect. You know the odds of a murder victim being killed by one of her own Facebook friends?”
“I do not.”
“I don’t either, but in most cases, it’s pretty fuckin’ good. If it’s personal. This case, though, I don’t think it is.”
“All the more reason to shut that shit down and join me at the Tap. Come on, Coltrane.” Carnahan always called Coleman “Coltrane,” or when he couldn’t be bothered with two syllables, “Trane.” It was part of their witty salt-and-pepper banter, as mandated in the Boston Detective’s Handbook.
“Can’t do it, Carny. The wife’s making meatloaf.”
“Oh, well. Wouldn’t want to get between a man and his meatloaf. So what’s the story on the dead chick? Any hot pics?”
“A few. She and her fiancé spent a week in Belize last month. Some bikini shots. But like I said, I don’t think this is personal, and it definitely wasn’t sexual. The killer took the keys and I think that’s all he wanted.”
“To what end?”
Coleman leaned back in his chair and cracked his knuckles. “Fuck do I know? All I know is, he had up to fifteen hours in that building before anyone was looking for our vic, and he had all the keys. Still has them, in fact, and it’s gonna take management a while to change all the locks. Not just to the condos, but all the offices, conference rooms, storage areas, whatever. So far, all the residents we’ve been able to contact, nothing is missing. Nothing reported stolen. But that’s still in progress.”
“A lot of these people must have been home last night. It’s not like he would have just let himself in and said, ‘Whoops, wrong apartment,’ right?”
“Which makes me think he wasn’t after anything in the residences. He was after something else.”
“Something worth killing for.”
“Indeed. So what would that be?”
“An excellent discussion topic for us and the boys down at the Tap.”
“No, I’m chasing down some leads here.” Coleman minimized his web browser. Facebook disappeared, replaced by a PDF of a typewritten document. Coleman tapped his monitor. “I found this online. It’s a thesis paper by an architecture student. Written in 1985.”
“Sounds fascinating, but my barstool’s getting cold.”
“It’s a feasibility study. The question is whether the Charlesgate, which was then a college dorm, could be turned back into a luxury hotel, which is what it was a hundred years ago.”
“And what’s the feasibility?”
“None, according to this guy. And yet, the building has since been converted to upscale condominiums. So I hope this dumbass flunked.”
“So this is a lead how?”
“Appendix A is a full set of blueprints for the building. Circa the mid-’80s, anyway. Could come in handy.”
“Great. Print ’em out and bring ’em on down to the Tap.”
“At that time, the building belonged to Emerson College. So I called the Emerson library to see if they had anything on the Charlesgate, might give me some clue. Turns out they’ve got a whole fuckin’ file on the place. They put it on hold for me.”
“So while I’m at the Tap, you’ll be at the library. Figures.”
“No. I told you, Donna’s making meatloaf. But first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll be at the library.”
True to his word, Detective Martin Coleman of the Boston homicide division skipped out on nightcaps at the Tap with his partner and the other cops who frequented the place. The Tap wasn’t really his speed: white boys watching hockey or listening to headbanging music. He went once in a while, just to keep up appearances, but sometimes the white boys forgot there was a brother in the joint and things got a little uncomfortable. Boston had changed a lot since Coleman had grown up in the Dorchester projects, but a black man could still be made to feel unwelcome now and then, even if he was a homicide detective surrounded by his brothers in blue.
What wasn’t true was that his wife Donna was making meatloaf. Or rather, it may have been true. Coleman had no real way of knowing, since Donna had thrown him out of the house three weeks earlier. And while it was undeniably true that she hated the Yankees, Coleman had gone to the ballgame alone the night before, using the empty seat beside him for beer storage. The clerk at the evidence room had given him a ration of shit when he turned the two Red Sox tickets in twelve hours after the game had ended. An oversight, he’d said. Fuck you, the reply.
Now, instead of going home to Medford or to the Econo Lodge in Saugus where he’d been holed up while trying to work things out with the missus, Coleman was on his way to the Emerson College library. It was a straight shot down Tremont Street from BPD headquarters to the library on Boylston Street. The temperature had dropped some twenty degrees since Coleman arrived at his office three hours earlier. As far as Coleman was concerned, once baseball season started, there was no excuse for the weather ever to dip below forty degrees, but for some reason, New England rarely cooperated with his philosophy. But whenever he was on a case, a big case like this one, long walks were essential to his process.
After forty-five minutes, he arrived at the Emerson library, flashed his badge at the entrance, and got directions to the research desk on the third floor. By the time he reached the third floor Coleman had completely forgotten the directions and ended up wandering aimlessly through the stacks for five minutes before finally spotting a likely candidate for his destination.
“Is this the research desk?”
The librarian smiled. “You must be Detective Coleman.”
“That’s right, Ms.…”
“I’m Sheila. We spoke earlier.”
“Right. Sheila. Sorry, I was picturing more of a librarian.”
“I am a librarian.”
“I know, but…you look like a Hollywood librarian. You know, a hot redhead in nerd glasses. Only in the movies.”
“Apparently not. Do you want to see my library sciences degree?”
“Uh…naw, naw. I’ll just take the Charlesgate file if you’ve got it handy.”
Sheila smiled tightly, reached under the counter and brought up a thick file jammed with newspaper clippings. “As I explained, this file can’t leave the premises. Unless you have a warrant.”
“No, I don’t have a warrant. And that’s fine. I’ve got all night. And look, I’m sorry if I offended you. I guess I’m a little old school. I haven’t been to the library in a long time, and Mrs. Anderson, my high school librarian, well, she looked like Shrek with a bad weave.”
Sheila laughed. “Well, my high school librarian was Mr. Linscott and he looked like Beetlejuice. So this works both ways, you know.”
Coleman picked up the file and winked. Then he winced. “I just winked, didn’t I?”
Sheila laughed again. “You did. But it wasn’t that creepy.”
“Well, I’m…I was about to say I’m a happily married man, but I think my wife would disagree with that.”
“Your wife, huh? Well, you know, if you were single…”
Sheila had Coleman’s full attention.
“…I’d still have a boyfriend. So sucks to be you.”
Coleman laughed, tucked the file under his arm, and set off to find a quiet place to read. He found a couch on the second floor near the film studies section and settled in with the folder. It was arranged roughly chronologically, from most recent to oldest. The newer articles were fluff pieces from the real estate section about the rebirth of the Back Bay as a high-end residential community. Any references to the history of the Charlesgate were brief and unenlightening. Coleman flipped back through the stack, pausing on a yellowing article from the Emerson newspaper, the Berkeley Beacon, dated October 10, 1986.
The headline read: Charlesgate Confidential, Part I: Myth vs. Reality.
The byline read: Tommy Donnelly.
The Berkeley Beacon
OCTOBER 10,
1986
Charlesgate Confidential, Part I: Myth vs. Reality
BY TOMMY DONNELLY, Beacon STAFF
Even if you don’t live there, you’ve probably heard the stories about Charlesgate, the Emerson dormitory that houses nearly 400 students at the corner of Charlesgate East and Beacon Street. The architect who designed the building practiced black magic and committed suicide in the building. The famous playwright Eugene O’Neill also died within its walls. A little girl fell down an elevator shaft and her ghost still haunts the sixth floor. Ouija boards are strictly forbidden by the Emerson administration.
Welcome to Charlesgate Confidential, a multi-part series that will attempt to unravel fact from fiction and set the record straight about the history of this notorious building. This first installment deals with some of the best-known urban legends from Charlesgate’s nearly 100-year history.
MYTH: The Charlesgate’s architect killed himself in the building he’d designed.
REALITY: J. Pickering Putnam did die in the Charlesgate Hotel, but it was not by his own hand. Born in Boston in 1847, Putnam studied at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris and the Royal Academy of Architecture in Berlin before returning to the United States in 1872. Putnam designed a number of buildings in the Back Bay, including several brownstones on Marlborough Street, but the Charlesgate Hotel was his crowning achievement. Built in 1891 at a cost of $170,000, the Charlesgate was described as Boston’s crown jewel upon opening, catering to the most exclusive clientele on the Eastern seaboard. Putnam himself was one of its permanent residents, living in the building until his death in 1917. There is no indication that Putnam died by other than natural causes. Nor is there any reason to believe Putnam’s design for the Charlesgate incorporated building materials specifically chosen to attract or entrap paranormal entities, like something out of Ghostbusters. Putnam died before he could see his dream project lose its luster with the onset of the Great Depression. One thing seems certain: If Putnam could see what was going on in the Charlesgate today, he’d never stop rolling in his grave.
Charlesgate Confidential Page 5
