Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  It started on October 10, when I met a man named Shane Devlin at Pizza Pad in Kenmore Square. It was lunch hour and the place was crowded, so I wasn’t that surprised when he took a seat in the booth across from me. I was surprised when he told me he’d just been released from MCI Cedar Junction, and I was very surprised when he told me he had a juicy story about the Charlesgate.

  His story was incredible—literally, in the sense that it was not credible. He told me he was not responsible for the crime of which he’d been convicted because he’d been robbing the Gardner Museum at the time. What I didn’t know then was that the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist was one of the legendary unsolved crimes in Boston’s history. Many have been suspected, many have taken credit, but no one has ever been charged and the thirteen stolen works of art have never been recovered. Had I known all of this, I would have laughed off Devlin’s story on the spot. Instead I was intrigued, and as readers of this series know, I’m always up for a good Charlesgate story. Shane Devlin had a doozy.

  Devlin claimed that he and his brother Jacob, along with their cousin Patrick Egan, had robbed a poker game on the eighth floor of the Charlesgate a week prior to the Gardner heist. There is no way to verify this. The men at the poker game were professional criminals, according to Devlin, and they weren’t about to go to the police to report that their illegal game had been robbed. They were more inclined to mete out justice in their own fashion.

  The man who ran the poker game was known as Dave T, but his real name, unknown to any of his associates at the time, was Maurice Levine. This much is easily confirmed because Levine was found dead on the scene of the Gardner heist. According to Devlin, Levine coerced him and his brother to participate in the museum robbery after arranging to have their cousin executed. After the heist, during which Jacob killed both Levine and the getaway driver, Joseph Cahill, the Devlin brothers took the stolen paintings to the Charlesgate.

  It’s a matter of public record that Shane Devlin was arrested on June 16, 1946, the day after the Gardner heist, but not for that crime. Instead he was tried and convicted of the murder of two men whose bodies were found in the trunk of a car registered to his brother Jacob. One of the victims was Devlin’s cousin Patrick Egan. The other was a Metropolitan Transit Authority police officer named Edward Gould. Shane was sentenced to die in the electric chair and his brother was not seen again in Boston until more than a year after the Gardner robbery. Shane Devlin was saved from death when his brother resurfaced and confessed to the murders. Shane’s sentence was commuted to life and Jacob Devlin died in the electric chair at the Charlestown State Prison on March 22, 1948. By that time the Charlesgate, the last place either Jacob or Shane Devlin had seen the stolen Gardner paintings, had been sold to Boston University for use as a women’s dormitory.

  Shane Devlin believed the paintings were still somewhere in Charlesgate when he was released from prison earlier this year. I agreed to aid his search for them willingly at first, hoping the long shot would pay off with an incredible exclusive for the Berkeley Beacon. I soon came to distrust Shane Devlin, who increasingly resorted to intimidation and threats of violence to keep me in line. I never truly believed the stolen art was still in the building (if it had ever been there), but I did believe one of two things: either Shane Devlin’s story was true or he had convinced himself it was true.

  More than one Monday morning psychiatrist has theorized that the Devlins’ participation in the Gardner heist was a delusion brought on by Shane’s survivor’s guilt following his brother’s execution. I couldn’t say. The events of Saturday night have been capably reported by Beacon editor Robert McKim in the front page story. I can only add that the Boston police, in conjunction with the FBI, have conducted a thorough search of Charlesgate in recent days. As far as they are concerned, the Gardner heist remains an unsolved mystery.

  MAY 24, 2014

  Even twenty-five years later, I still dreamed about Charlesgate. In accordance with dream logic, it was never the same place twice. Sometimes it was still a dorm, and due to a clerical error I was forced to return and resume my academic career, living among students half my age. Sometimes it was a crumbling ruin I’d rediscovered in some post-apocalyptic landscape. At least once it was a decaying space station, drifting into a dying sun in some remote corner of the galaxy. Almost always I found new hallways, hidden passages, staircases without end. Charlesgate may not have been haunted, but it has always haunted me.

  And now it loomed before me, big as life, in broad daylight on a Saturday afternoon in May 2014. From the outside, nothing had changed. I was suspended in time. I was living inside a dream. Beyond the front door, nothing would be the same. I took a deep breath, walked up the stairs, opened the front door and went inside.

  A temporary desk was set up in the lobby, with security guards standing on either side. A kid in a tie who looked about fourteen years old sat behind the desk, blinking at me expectantly.

  “Uh, hi,” I said. “Thomas Donnelly?”

  “Oh my God. They said you weren’t coming!”

  “Well, I guess I didn’t RSVP. Is that okay?”

  “Of course! Do you want a nametag?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Right. Why bother? Anyway, it’s right down the hall here to your left, first hallway on your right. It’s the Gold Room, the big ballroom, you can’t miss it.”

  “I sure can’t.”

  Everything I’d done in the past twenty-five years, all my accomplishments and accolades, all melted away as I made the long walk toward my rendezvous with destiny. As I approached, I heard music wafting into the hall: “Ship of Fools,” by World Party. My past was about to consume me whole.

  I stepped into the ballroom for the first time since that longago night the ball went between Buckner’s legs and Shane Devlin’s brains splattered all over Jackie St. John’s Keith Hernandez jersey.

  We’re setting sail

  For a place on the map

  From which no one has ever returned

  Tables, maybe twenty altogether. Eight to a table. Laughter, conversation. People standing, milling about, getting each other drinks. A couple approached me, the woman wide-eyed and laughing.

  “Tommy! You’re here!”

  “I am.”

  “Oh my God, you don’t recognize me!”

  It took a second. “Purple Debbie?”

  She laughed again and swatted her date on the arm. “I told you! I told you they called me Purple Debbie!”

  “I believed you!” Her date, a bespectacled Asian man with an easy grin, offered his hand. “George Wu. I’m Debbie’s husband.”

  I shook his hand. “Great to meet you, George.”

  “George is your biggest fan! He’s read all your books!”

  George reddened. “Well, I don’t know about that. I mean, I have read them all, but I think Debbie might be your biggest fan. When we were first dating she would always go on and on about how she and Tommy Donnelly were such great friends in college.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s true. We had a great group of friends.”

  I smiled at Debbie. She gave me a big hug. It was as if she had no recollection of how our friendship had come crashing down a quarter-century earlier. Why should she? She had George now, he seemed to be a nice guy, and whatever had happened between us was just something she’d packed away in an old suitcase of college experiences. This was probably the exact right attitude to have.

  “Well, great to see you again. Nice to meet you, George.” I shook his hand once more.

  “You too! Let’s get a photo later.”

  “Of course.”

  I waved goodbye to Debbie and made my way toward the bar. “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” blared from the sound system.

  “Can I get a beer?” I asked the bartender.

  “We’ve got Bombshell Blonde, Armadillo Amber and Charlesgate IPA.”

  “Really? Charlesgate IPA? Sounds like a winner.”

  He
poured my beer and I dropped a five in the tip jar. I scanned the room. I smiled when I spotted them. A balding Murtaugh and a woman who must have been his wife. A graying Brooks next to a man I didn’t recognize. The Rev, whose dreadlocks had evolved into massive tentacles running far down his back. Jules, a little heavier but seemingly not a day older. An empty seat. And Jackie St. John. I sipped my beer and weaved my way through the tables, past classmates long forgotten, stopping behind Murtaugh’s seat.

  “Who brought the Ouija board?” I said.

  My heart was in my throat. An eternity passed before they looked up, acknowledged my existence and started laughing.

  “Donnelly, you cocksucker!” said Murtaugh.

  “Hey!” said Brooks, shooting Murtaugh the stinkeye.

  “Sorry. I meant: Donnelly, you sack of shit! You flew all the way from Australia?”

  “Yep, twenty-two hours. Finally got the chance to watch the last season of Lost.”

  “My condolences.”

  I felt my legs disintegrate beneath me. “Jesus. Am I happy to see you guys.”

  “Yeah?” said Jules. “Is that why you’re so good at keeping in touch?”

  “I’m a dick,” I said. “You knew that, right?”

  “Hell, yeah,” said the Rev. “How you like that beer?”

  “It’s pretty fucking good.”

  “Glad to hear it. I made it.”

  “Of course you did.” I caught Jackie’s eye and gestured to the empty seat next to her. “Where’s your date?”

  “Back with his wife from what I hear.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. Have a seat, Tommy.”

  I sat down next to Jackie St. John. The DJ played “Don’t You Forget About Me.”

  “This guy really wants to make us feel ancient, huh?”

  “It’s Johnny Eighties,” said Jackie. “That’s his job.”

  “Great.” I glanced around the ballroom. “No Rodney?”

  “Our invitation apparently couldn’t pierce his tinfoil helmet.”

  “That’s too bad.” I locked eyes with Jules. “I didn’t expect to see you here. You were a year behind us, no?”

  “I only had a semester’s worth of credits to finish after junior year, so they let me pick my graduating class. I chose you guys!”

  “Excellent choice. Man, this is freaky. I was just thinking how I haven’t set foot in this room since the ball went through Buckner’s legs.”

  “Really?” said Jackie. “ That’s what you remember about that night?”

  “Oh my God. You must hate my guts.”

  “I did. I’m not gonna lie. I was such a wreck after that. I felt like they should have given me all A’s for the semester, you know, like they do when your roommate commits suicide.”

  “I think that was an urban legend.”

  “Whatever. The point is, my grades went in the crapper that semester. But I got over it. And you know, every baseball fan of a certain age has a story about where they were that night. But I have the best one. The most exciting, at least.”

  “I guess that’s true. I still can’t ever apologize to you enough.”

  “We all came up with the plan together,” said Murtaugh. “We all share some blame for what happened.”

  “Not me,” said Jules. “I didn’t even know anything about it until the next day. I hate sports.”

  “Anyway,” said Jackie. “We’ve been over this. It’s ancient history.”

  “Yeah, let’s get to current events,” I said, punching Murtaugh in the shoulder. “So, chief, you gonna introduce me to your wife anytime soon?”

  He gestured to the woman sitting next to him. “Who, her? I’ve never met this woman in my life.”

  She rolled her eyes and extended her hand, which I shook. “I’m Genevieve. Nice to finally meet you. David has all of your books but has never read any of them.”

  “I went to Emerson,” he said. “I’m functionally illiterate. I did see that miniseries of Deadsville on the Murder Channel.”

  “Hey, I just cashed the check.”

  “One of my clients was in that,” said Brooks. “She was Dismembered Girl in Van #3.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “She was great. Can I have her number?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “So Brooks, you brought a friend?”

  “This is my husband Greg.”

  “Your—husband? You mean you’re gay?”

  “Ha ha ha.”

  “Sorry, Greg,” I said. “He always took great pains to assure us he liked girls.”

  “I caught him with his dick in his hand one night,” said Murtaugh. “I didn’t care he was jerking off, I just wondered why he was watching Monday Night Football.”

  Greg laughed. “Hey, I took a girl to the junior prom. Ditched her for the backup quarterback and blew him behind the gym while they were dancing to Night Ranger inside.”

  “Motorin’! You’ve got a keeper here, Brooks.”

  We laughed. We drank. We danced. We watched a video montage of vintage camcorder clips from our college days, scored to “Young Americans.” Johnny Eighties cranked up the karaoke machine and after six or seven of the Rev’s Charlesgate IPAs, I took the mic for a stirring rendition of Men at Work’s “Down Under.” No time had passed. No grudges were held. No one wanted it to ever end.

  But end it did. The clock struck midnight and Johnny Eighties packed up his gear and I hugged Murtaugh and Jules and Brooks and the Rev and we exchanged phone numbers and assured each other we’d stay in touch and get together again soon. And then it was just me and Jackie, sitting alone in the ballroom where I’d managed to put her life in danger all those years ago.

  “I need to show you something,” she said. “A video I found.”

  “Two girls, one cup? I’ve seen it.”

  She swatted my arm, got up and walked over to the podium where a laptop was rigged to an overhead projector. “That Charlesgate video montage we watched earlier? I left something out. It freaked me the fuck out. Maybe you can explain it.”

  She cued up a clip and an image filled the projection screen: a tracking shot of the Charlesgate basement as it had been in its dormitory days. Two male voices whispered on the soundtrack. A hand turned the knob of the stable door, which opened. A flashlight illuminated the familiar-looking junk piled inside. The camera spun to find a hooded figure standing in the stables. The image went to black, by which point I realized what I’d been watching.

  “What are you laughing at?” Jackie asked. “This is some Blair Witch shit!”

  “Yes and no.”

  “You’ve seen this before?”

  I nodded. “My first published piece in the Beacon. End of freshman year, before I was on staff, I reviewed the Emerson short film festival. This was my pick to click. Remember Paul Seitz, he was two years ahead of us? This was his short, or part of it, anyway. It was all shot on VHS, and the conceit was that the tape had been found in an empty Charlesgate dorm after classes ended for the summer. So you’re right to mention Blair Witch. Paul Seitz beat ’em to it—this is like the first foundfootage horror movie.”

  “Well, it fooled me.”

  “I’d forgotten all about it. I didn’t realize they’d filmed in the stables. This was months before Shane and I went down there.”

  “Huh.” Jackie sat back down at the table. “Just another Charlesgate hoax.” She picked up a bottle of Cabernet and tried to refill her glass, but the bottle was empty.

  “Well,” I said. “I better get going. I’m driving up to Maine in the morning to see my parents.”

  “It’s been a long time, huh?”

  “Yeah, they visited me in Sydney…jeez, eight years ago? I mean, we Skype and all that, but it’s been way too long.”

  “Sure you don’t want to come up for a nightcap?”

  “Up where?”

  “Upstairs. I live here.”

  “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

  “I shit you not.
I live on the sixth floor.”

  “Seriously? Well…of course. How could I say no?”

  ***

  And as if in one of my recurring dreams, I was riding the elevator to the sixth floor and walking down the hall and into Jackie’s condo. I went to the nearest window and looked down at what used to be the Pit and realized I was standing right where the head of my bed used to be. Same space, another time.

  She led me out to her rooftop deck and handed me a glass of wine.

  “I was out here once before,” I said. “The Rev and I decided to have a beer on the roof. We made it almost thirty seconds before an RA on the fourth floor yelled across the Pit at us to get the fuck back inside.”

  We sat and clinked glasses.

  “I have to say, I really didn’t think you’d show.”

  “That makes two of us. I didn’t think I’d ever come back here. For one thing, as I may have mentioned, it’s a long fucking flight from Australia.”

  “Come on. First class. Good drugs. No problem for you.”

  “Yeah. Well, to tell you the truth, I was on the fence. But about a week ago I saw something online…well, I’m egotistical enough to have a Google Alert for my name. And it popped when this couple was arrested for murder. Three murders, one in this building. And one of the victims was Nicholas Woodward. You know, I tried to talk to him back in ’86 when I was researching that piece for the Beacon. He’d moved back to England, though, and I couldn’t afford an international call. And putting two and two together. I figured this had to be about the Gardner heist and my article and…that’s why I had to come back.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “I’m responsible. In some way I am. All these years later, those psychos wind up reading my article, they think those paintings might still be here somewhere. They kill Woodward and the girl here and that other guy from the alumni office…”

  “You’re not responsible. No more than I am,” Jackie said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  And she told me the whole story about Coleman and White and Wendy Tucker and…well, you already read it here.