Bad Karma

by Dave Zeltserman

  “Then think of this as an interview for an internship. Why were Taylor Carver and Linda Gibson killed?”

  As Maguire thought about it, he started drumming on the steering wheel then nodding his head as if it were some kind of bobble head doll. Finally he became still. “How about this,” he said. “We know they were beaten to death and from what I heard it was pretty bad. I guess it could be drugs, but I just never saw any evidence of that. So why couldn’t it have been a crime of passion, someone close to them who just went nuts. I’d have to think it would take some pretty intense emotion to beat two people to death. So maybe it was a family member or a close friend. I think that’s the angle I’d look into. So how’d I do?”

  “I’ll grade you later. Any suspicious behavior before the murders? Any strangers hanging around the building? Anything odd, out of place?”

  “The police had already asked me about that. There was nothing I could think of.”

  “Did you see or hear anything the night they were killed?”

  Maguire shook his head. “We had a field trial at work scheduled the next day at a potential customer’s site and I couldn’t leave until I finished one of the features we’d promised. I didn’t get home until three in the morning and when I did everything was quiet and peaceful. They must’ve been killed before then. The next day a police detective banging on my door woke me up. I guess their door had been broken into and there was some blood outside of it, but I was too tired to have noticed it when I got home the night before.”

  “How about your wife?”

  “She didn’t hear anything.” Maguire’s round face seemed to shrink as he stared straight ahead. “My wife hadn’t been sleeping well for a while and was taking sleeping pills by then. She never got used to moving out here. Misses her family, friends, the ocean, lobster, the weather, foliage, Quincy Market, Newbury Street, the Boston Globe—you name it, she misses it. Anyway, she was sedated and out like a log that night.”

  “I’m sorry to hear she’s unhappy here.”

  “Thanks.” Maguire gave Shannon a quick glance. “How about you, you get used to it?”

  “It’s been a good change for me.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Divorced. But we’re reconciling, and it’s been a good change for her also.”

  “I guess it takes time.” He pulled onto the ramp for I-25 and flashed Shannon a wicked grin. “Only five minutes from the park, then that’s it for your grilling. Your interrogation will have to wait until the ride back.”

  “I only have a few more questions. Did they have problems with anyone that you knew of?”

  “I don’t think so, but you got to remember these were college kids, and like a lot of college kids, they weren’t the most considerate neighbors in the world. Kind of loud at times. But no, I can’t think of anything specific.”

  “But you had a problem with them.”

  Maguire made a face. “Because they woke me up a few times? As I said, they were kids, you’d have to expect that. You think because of that I’d break down their door and beat them to death? Jesus!”

  “Lesson one in being a detective, consider every possibility.”

  “Christ, I’ll remember that. But to answer your question—they could be annoying at times, but no, I had no real problems with them.”

  “How about your wife?”

  Maguire shook his head. “Not that I know of. Most nights she was doped up with sleeping pills, so when they made noise she slept through it.”

  “From the pictures I saw, Linda Gibson was quite a looker.”

  “Leave no stone unturned, huh?” Maguire said.

  “Lesson two.”

  “Alright, I asked for it, I’ll play. I didn’t see her much, maybe a dozen times while they lived there, but she was a good-looking kid. Operative word being ‘kid’. I don’t cheat on my wife, and if I were going to, it wouldn’t be with a kid half my age. Satisfied?”

  “Lesson three, you’re never satisfied until the case is closed.”

  “Committed to memory,” Maguire said, a grim smile tightening his lips. As he pulled into the Coors Field parking lot, his smile turned more upbeat. “And we’re at the ballpark,” he announced. “PI school is closed until further notice. Only thing I’m talking about from this point on is baseball, beer, and hotdogs.”

  As Maguire got out of the car he spotted a couple of guys wearing Red Sox jerseys hanging out by a van as they drank beer. He yelled to them with his fist raised in the air that the Sox would kick the Colorado Rockies into rubble. They yelled back that the Sox rule and the Yankees suck. A couple of Colorado Rockies fans walking by suggested to Maguire that he move back to Boston and quit adding to Denver’s pollution problem.

  Maguire gave Shannon a poke with his elbow. “This is going to be fucking great,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to this since February when the schedule came out. I bet you we get more Sox fans here than Rockies fans.”

  As they entered the stadium, Shannon had to admit there was a good chance of that. There seemed to be a sea of Red Sox jerseys and pennants, and only a scattering of fans wearing the Yankee pinstripe rip-off Colorado Jerseys. The Red Sox fans were loud and raucous and belligerent. The seemingly outnumbered Rockies fans acted subdued, only making occasional smartass comments about what the Sox fans could do to themselves. Sox fans countered by asking when the Rockies were going to field a major league team.

  Maguire poked Shannon again. “Section one forty, third row. Right by third base. You couldn’t get tickets like this in Boston if you donated a kidney for them.”

  As they made their way to their seats, Maguire wanted to stop off at the concession stands for some beer and hotdogs. Shannon told him he’d take care of it as payback for the tickets. He started off with two beers and three hotdogs for Maguire and a bottle of water for himself.

  “You don’t drink beer or eat hotdogs?” Maguire asked, eyeing Shannon suspiciously.

  “I’m not big on alcohol these days. And I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Sounds kind of un-American. Oh well, I guess that just means more beer for me,” Maguire said.

  They got to their seats about the time batting practice started, and Maguire had been right, there were moon shots being launched—balls that would’ve cleared Lansdowne Street in Boston. Near the end of batting practice, Shannon heard someone from behind yelling his name. He turned and saw a man standing in the aisle above him saluting him with a big shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

  “Holy shit,” the guy yelled. “It’s Bill ‘freakin’ Shannon, back from the dead.”

  Shannon stared back for a long moment before recognizing the man. Ed Poulet, one of the detectives Shannon had worked with back in Massachusetts. Next to him was Jimmy Mason, also grinning from ear to ear. Shannon never much cared for either of them when he was on the job. Poulet was a wiseass and Mason for the most part his sidekick. Several times over the years he and Poulet had come close to blows.

  Poulet was waving a hand at Shannon like a traffic cop directing a car through an intersection. “Come on, for Chrissakes,” Poulet was yelling, “you got a couple of Brothers in Blue waiting up here.”

  Shannon left his seat to meet them. When he got closer he could see that Poulet had put on some pounds and his hairline had receded a few more inches, making him look almost like a caricature of his former self. Mason was the same thin, wiry sort he always was. Both of them had a glazed sheen in their eyes indicating a day of heavy drinking. As Shannon got within a few feet, Poulet grabbed his hand and pulled him in for an embrace.

  “Damn, it’s good to see you,” he said. Next, Mason pumped Shannon’s hand and at the same time gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder. “Shit Bill, we were walking by when Ed here with his eagle eyes spotted you,” he said. “It’s been over five years, you can’t write or call anyone about how you’re doing?”

  “I’ve been good.”

  An intensity burned through the alcoholic haze in P
oulet’s eyes as he stared at Shannon’s damaged hand. “So that’s what that piece of human garbage did to you,” he said. “Jesus fucking Christ. And what he did to poor Joe. I hope he’s burning in hell for all eternity.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind that he is.”

  “I fucking hope so.” Poulet shook his head. The intensity in his eyes faded and his face seemed to sag. “I heard rumors that you were out west somewhere. Jesus, though, I never expected to run into you here. Jimmy and I booked a two-day package to come out here and tour some of the breweries around Denver and catch a Sox game.” His face sagged a bit more as his gaze shifted away from Shannon. “Bill, I feel lousy that I didn’t see you after what happened. The whole thing was so fucking bizarre, and with what he did to Joe, and Jesus, you leaving town as quick as you did after getting out of the hospital. But I should’ve visited you while you were laid up. It’s something that’s been bothering me.”

  Mason was nodding. “I’ve been feeling like shit about it too, Bill.”

  “Back then I wasn’t much in the mood to see anyone,” Shannon said. “If you had come to my hospital room, I probably wouldn’t have let you or anyone else in.”

  “Yeah, well, still, I feel pretty lousy about it,” Poulet said, but relief showed on his face. “So what the hell are you up to? Just living the good life off your disability pension?”

  “Half-retired. I’ve been working part-time doing some private investigations.”

  “No shit?” Poulet said, his shit-eating grin back in place. “I should’ve guessed as much. Detective work is in your blood, Bill, one of the reasons you were one of the best cops I ever worked with.”

  “Never thought I’d hear those words, Ed.”

  “I mean it. That was probably the reason I was always giving you shit, just trying to get under your skin so I could level the playing field.” He turned his smart-alecky grin towards Mason. “Anyway, at least you were a hell of a better cop than this waste of space next to me.”

  “Fuck you,” Mason said, punching Poulet harder in the shoulder than he had punched Shannon.

  “How are things back in Cambridge?” Shannon asked.

  “Quiet,” Poulet said as he rubbed his shoulder and glared at Mason. Then his gaze wandered back to Shannon as he forgot about the punch thanks to an alcohol-shortened attention span. “We haven’t had anything major in years. Just the typical shit. Car thefts, domestic disputes, b and e’s, vandalism, drugs, punks trying to pretend they’re gang members, nothing big. I don’t know if you heard, but our old Captain captain found himself a new job. I guess the aftermath of that Charlie Winters’ business was too much for him.”

  “I hadn’t heard. What’s Martin doing?”

  “He took the same position with the Lynn police,” Poulet said, his smart-alecky grin stretching wider. Mason started laughing, said, “He stepped in it big-time.”

  “I don’t know if it made the news here,” Poulet added, “but a pretty messy bank robbery went down last summer with a couple of their customers killed. They still don’t know exactly what happened, but from what I hear our old captain, Martin Brady, was put through the ringer. Last I heard he’s hanging onto his job by a thread.”

  “Tough luck for Martin.”

  “Yeah, I almost feel sorry for him.”

  An announcement came over the PA system for people to stand during the national anthem. Poulet indicated to Shannon that they were going to go find their seats. “Bill, it was good seeing you. Stay safe, okay? And keep in touch, for Chrissakes!”

  “Hey, it was good seeing both of you too. And don’t worry, we’ll keep in touch.”

  As Shannon made his way back to his seat, he realized he’d meant what he’d said. It was cathartic in a way seeing the two of them. Putting old ghosts to rest. Although he doubted whether he’d contact either of them again.

  “Run into some friends?” Maguire peered at Shannon from above the rim of a cup raised to his mouth. Underneath his seat were two empty cups, and it looked like he’d bought a couple of more beers from a vendor.

  Shannon nodded towards the beer Maguire was in the process of finishing off. “You might want to slow down.”

  “Hey, I’m here to unwind and have some fun—something I haven’t had in months. You’re not drinking, so what the fuck, you can be the designated driver.”

  He handed Shannon the keys to his BMW. “Besides,” he added, “isn’t lesson four that PIs, other than you of course, are supposed to drink like fish? Basically be borderline alcoholics?”

  “Nope. Lesson four is don’t believe everything you read in books.”

  Maguire gave Shannon a wary eye as he finished his beer, but he slowed down his drinking after that and spent most of the game good-naturedly trading jibes and arguing statistics with Colorado fans sitting nearby. Instead of the game being the homerun derby he’d predicted, it turned out instead to be more of a pitchers duel and defensive showcase, one in which the Red Sox pulled ahead by a run in the top of the ninth thanks to a seeing-eye single, stolen base, bunt and sacrifice fly. Uncharacteristic for them. Normally it would’ve been the type of game Shannon enjoyed but he couldn’t focus on it, his thoughts circling back to what his next steps would be and to Poulet’s remark about detective work being in his blood. Maybe it was that simple for him. As much as he liked to think he was doing the work partly to keep busy and partly for purer, more altruistic reasons, maybe deep down inside he was driven simply because it was in his blood. Or worse, these cases allowed him to get close to the darkness without fully immersing himself in it. Maybe it was yet another way he was attached to Charlie Winters, and at some subconscious level he was trying to understand the evil that drove that psychopath. Because what was the altruism for this case? He could tell himself it was to provide a voice for the victims and to make sure that something as cruel as ending the lives of two young people didn’t go unpunished, but the bottom line was he was working to help a defendant in a civil case keep from having to pay out a large judgment.

  Thoughts of one of Susan’s homeopathic patients also kept buzzing in and out of his mind—the psychic who was stuck in two worlds, the dead and the present. In some ways he could argue the same about himself. He had moved to Boulder for a fresh start, to heal himself, to live a different life than the one he had submerged himself in Massachusetts. Yet here he was, back investigating the types of crimes he’d thought he wanted to leave far behind. Like Susan’s patient, he found himself floating between two worlds, unable to fully commit to either one.

  Focusing on his next steps, he decided he’d have to visit Linda Gibson’s family, which meant a trip to America’s Heartland. And he’d also have to find out how a college student was able to afford the purchases Taylor Carver had made for his mother. Especially if he wasn’t dealing drugs as Lieutenant Daniels claimed.

  The Rockies made the final out by popping up harmlessly to second base and Maguire exchanged high-fives with a couple of other Red Sox fans nearby and traded a few more jibes with the Colorado fans he’d been engaged with.

  “Another eighty-six years before they win another one,” one of them told him.

  “Ha, want to bet eighty-six years before your team has another whiff of the playoffs again?”

  “You’re still a bunch of chokers.”

  “Like the last four years, with three Super Bowls and one World Series Championship?”

  “And you won them personally, huh, asshole?”

  “Hey, they’re the teams I live and die for. How have your teams been doing?”

  That elicited a number of “Fuck you’s” and “Move back to Boston if its such a fucking paradise”. As they walked back to the car, Maguire acted animated, buoyant, but when he got into the passenger seat the life seemed to drain out of him, almost as if a switch had been thrown.

  “Oh man, I’m wiped,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Sorry, any more questions you’re going to have to wait. I’m fucking exhausted.”

  Sh
annon glanced over and saw Maguire’s chin moving slowly towards his chest, his eyelids mostly closed. “Lesson five, learn how to pace yourself.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Maguire mumbled as if he were talking in his sleep. “I’ll take notes later.”

  “I have a few more questions,” Shannon said without much hope of getting anything more out of his companion. “And I still need to talk to your wife.”

  “Tomorrow,” Maguire said, his voice slurred as if he were using the last bit of strength he had. “Give me a call tomorrow.”

  The traffic leaving the ballpark was bumper-to-bumper and it took a while to navigate to I-25 North, but once Shannon pulled onto US 36 West he seemed to have the highway to himself—as if he and Maguire were the only people from Boulder to attend the game. More likely than not that was true. There wasn’t much interest for professional sports in Boulder, outside of some of the college students and transplants like Shannon and Eli. While you could stop almost anyone on the street and discuss the Tour de France endlessly, it was a tough town to talk baseball or football in.

  As Shannon drove, he could hear heavy breathing coming from Maguire along with sporadic choking noises that would last for a few seconds before sputtering out, then Maguire’s heavy breathing again. There were moments where Shannon was afraid the guy was going to suffocate. At one point he glanced over and saw his passenger’s face dead still and lit up by the moonlight like something waxen, not quite alive. Then the heavy breathing and sputtering kicked in.

  When he arrived back at Maguire’s townhouse, he shook Maguire until he opened his eyes. At first there was only disorientation and confusion in those eyes, then a heaviness fell over his face as he realized where he was. “Shit,” he moaned. “No way I can climb those stairs tonight. Too fucking tired. I think I’ll sleep here.”

  “Your choice,” Shannon said. He folded the car keys into Maguire’s large pudgy hand. “If I left those in the ignition you could get picked up for DUI, even if you’re sitting in the passenger seat.”