by Chris Mooney
Chadzynski wanted an update. It took Darby a moment to collect her thoughts. She spoke slowly, concentrating on her words. The commissioner listened without interruption.
Darby finished talking. A long silence followed. For a moment, she thought the connection had died.
‘Commissioner?’
‘I’m here. I was… I’m still trying to process what you’ve told me.’ Another pause. ‘You’re suggesting that the head of the Irish mafia, a man responsible for the deaths of countless numbers of people as well as the disappearances of several young women, was a Federal agent.’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just telling you what Ezekiel told me.’
‘But just the idea of it… it’s… Darby, Frank Sullivan was a vicious psychopath. He killed Boston cops, state troopers – he killed people from Boston and Charlestown and God only knows who else. I have stacks of files of unsolved homicides that are believed to be linked to Sullivan. I’ve always heard rumours about the FBI trying to place an undercover agent inside the Irish and Italian mafia, but if what Ezekiel said is true, it means the Federal government not only placed an undercover agent inside the Irish mob, they somehow made him the goddamn head of it. We’re talking about a man who’s a mass murderer. It means the Federal government is implicit in the murders and disappearances of, what, nearly a hundred people? Do you realize the magnitude of what you’re suggesting?’
Unfortunately, she did. Not only had the Boston FBI – maybe even the entire Federal organization – sanctioned Sullivan’s actions, they had also helped to cover them up.
Your father knew what he was up against, Ezekiel had told her. Big Red heard the tapes, knew what these Boston Feds were doing, the names of the cops and state troopers Sullivan had on his payroll.
‘Do you believe Ezekiel?’ Chadzynski asked.
‘I do. Even if I wanted to dismiss it as some sort of paranoid schizophrenic story, Kendra Sheppard did, in fact, visit him. Ezekiel knew her real name. Knew where she was living, knew about her son – he knows too many details for it to be some sort of made-up story. And why ask to speak to me after all this time?’
I didn’t call you to help me, Ezekiel had said. I called to warn you about these so-called Federal agents.
‘The timeline bothers me,’ Darby said. ‘Kendra Sheppard’s parents were murdered in April of 1983. She disappears, then my father is shot in May. Sullivan and these Federal agents – how many are these again?’
‘Four,’ Chadzynski said. ‘Here they are, on the Boston Globe’s website. Peter Alan, Jack King, Anthony Frissora and Steve White. There’s an interesting note in the article. They were all assigned to the Boston task force set up to dismantle both the Irish and Italian mafias. I’m starting to gather information from our files to see what we can find out.’
Sullivan and his Federal friends, they were Charlestown’s version of the Gestapo.
‘Ezekiel mentioned Jack King,’ Darby said.
‘Since we found Peter Alan’s fingerprints on the database, it makes me wonder if the FBI didn’t know what was occurring in their Boston office. If headquarters was involved with the cover-up, I’d assume they’d wipe the prints off the database. They could do it easily, since they own it.’
‘We won’t know anything for sure until we find those audiotapes and whatever else Kendra Sheppard had.’
‘And Mr Ezekiel didn’t give you any indication as to where this evidence might be?’
‘No. For all I know these… this group of dead Federal agents might already have it.’
‘We’ll have to go on the assumption that they don’t. I don’t know if Mr Warner told you, but he found a listening device mounted underneath your dash, right below the steering column. It’s the same model as the one he recovered from my office. He also found a GPS tracking unit. Are you coming back to work this afternoon?’
‘I’m heading back to the lab.’
‘Good. Mr Warner is going to sweep your office and the lab.’
‘I don’t see how these people could gain access.’
‘Most likely, they couldn’t. But I can’t dismiss the possibility that these men have inside help. We have to limit our circle of trust.’
Sullivan had plenty of your people on his payroll… I’m sure they’re still out there.
‘I agree,’ Darby said.
‘Now I have two matters to discuss with you. The first involves Michelle Baxter. She’s disappeared.’
Darby closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
‘After I left the hospital, I sent a detective to go speak with her,’ Chadzynski said. ‘The door was unlocked. No sign of a struggle, although the detective told me it was impossible to tell, given the apartment’s state of disarray. The detective didn’t find a handbag, suitcase or any other sort of luggage, so it’s possible the Baxter woman decided to leave town.’
‘Does this detective have a name?’
‘It’s someone from Anti-Corruption.’
Chadzynski didn’t elaborate.
‘Please don’t take it personally, Darby. It’s not a matter of trust, it’s protocol. I have to safeguard their identities. Any information I receive will be forwarded to you through me or Mr Warner.’
‘I understand.’
‘What do you know about Detective Pine?’
‘I know he used to be my father’s partner. Then Artie passed the detective’s exam and went to Boston to work homicide.’
‘His territory was South Boston. Two officers from Anti-Corruption have just started sorting through Pine’s old police reports, but suffice to say that a good majority of the homicides Pine investigated have at least one thread that leads back to Frank Sullivan. Before that, Detective Pine was involved with TPF during the forced busing –’
‘Excuse me for interrupting, Commissioner, but what’s TPF?’
‘Tactical Patrol Force. The unit no longer exists. It was disbanded during the late seventies after repeated complaints of officers using excessive force. You’re probably much too young to remember this, but back in ’65 Massachusetts passed the Elimination of Racial Imbalance Law. The Boston school committee, comprised mostly of white Irish Catholics, had successfully blocked the law through a decade of litigation. Then, in ’74, a Federal court judge ordered the desegregation of Boston’s public schools. We had riots all over the city – President Ford delivered a TV speech urging Boston to cooperate.’
Darby knew about the riots – had read about them during a high school history class.
‘During the first few weeks of school, the TPF was asked to protect buses delivering African-Americans to Boston schools,’ Chadzynski said. ‘Crowds of white Irish men and women threw bricks, rocks, you name it, through bus windows, at the students and TPF officers. Add to that the number of African-American groups there protesting. Needless to say, tensions were high and several officers were a bit too liberal with their nightsticks. Arthur Pine allegedly kicked an African-American man to death. I say allegedly only because the witness who came forward claiming to have seen Pine do this suddenly disappeared.’
Ezekiel said Big Red had put him in a hotel. Alone.
He said he had someone watching the hotel – someone he trusted.
Had her father trusted Artie?
‘I’m not saying Pine is involved with what’s happening now,’ Chadzynski said, ‘but, given what I’ve uncovered, I want Anti-Corruption to take a closer look at him. Until he’s been properly vetted, I don’t want you feeding him any information about these cases.’
‘And when Artie calls me, what do you want me to tell him?’
‘Tell him the truth. Tell him Lieutenant Warner has taken over the investigation. If Detective Pine has any questions, he’s to contact Mr Warner. He’s the lead on this now. You’re to funnel all information through him. When are you planning on speaking with Mr Cooper?’
‘As soon as I get back to the lab.’ Darby felt a cold place in her stomach. ‘Do I need to bring Lieutenan
t Warner with me?’
‘No. I’ll have him question Mr Cooper at a later point here in my office. You’re to call me after you’ve spoken with him, then file a report and give it to Mr Warner.’
‘Understood.’
Chadzynski hung up. Darby handed the phone back to Warner. He slipped it inside his pocket without taking his eyes off the road. He didn’t speak, just kept driving. She could see the tall buildings of downtown Boston looming in the distance. She stared at them and for some reason was reminded of a quote from one of her father’s favourite baseball players, the great pitcher Satchel Paige: ‘Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.’
50
Jamie walked down the garage steps lugging her suitcase, a battered black monstrosity she had purchased shortly before her honeymoon. It had travelled with her to St Lucia and then later, throughout the States with Dan and the kids. She hoisted it into the back of the minivan and stared at it for some moments.
I’m really doing this, she thought. I’m just going to jump in my car with the kids and drive west until we find San Diego.
She had been fine at the bank. When she gave the teller the signed form to close her savings and chequing accounts, she had expected a moment of panic. Instead, she’d had a burst of clarity. The teller came back with an envelope holding a little over five grand in cash, and when she held it, she knew leaving was the only way she could protect her kids now. To do it right, she’d need to create new identities for them. She knew how to do it. Carter was too young to understand, but Michael would. First, she would have a long talk with him about Ben Masters. Not now. Later, once they got settled. She walked out of the back smiling at the thought of a fresh start, a brand-new slate for all of them.
That feeling changed when she went to the liquor store in Wellesley Hills.
The young-looking guy who worked behind the counter – tall and lanky with thick black hair and smooth tanned skin – had gone out of his way to find some larger boxes. He insisted on bringing them out to the car.
‘Are you Jamie Russo?’ he asked.
She stared at him, wondering how he had recognized her.
He blushed. ‘You sort of look like her. That’s why I was asking.’
She nodded. ‘I’m… ah… ah… Jamie.’
‘I sort of knew your husband. Dan would come in every other week or so and buy a bottle of Johnnie Walker. We’d talk about the Sox or whatever for a bit. Your husband was a real good guy, and I… I’m sorry about what happened to him and… everything else.’
Dan bought a bottle of booze once a week, she thought numbly as she drove home. How long had you been doing that, Dan? I never saw you drinking during the week – then again, how could I, since you were spending all of your time in the basement. What were you doing down there? Why were you drinking so much? And how come I never saw a single empty Johnnie Walker bottle in the recycling bin? Did you hide them in the rubbish?
Jamie felt a sudden rising tide of bitterness aimed at this liquor store clerk who owned some piece of her husband she didn’t know – would never know. A part of her wanted to turn around, drive back to the liquor store and interrogate him. Do you know why my husband was drinking so much? Did he seem upset? Did he tell you anything? How did he act? Tell me about every conversation you remember because I want to fill this goddamn hole I’ve been carrying inside my chest for the past five years.
She didn’t turn around, just kept driving, suddenly aware about how she would always be anchored to Wellesley. By leaving, she would never know why Dan was killed. Sure, she could take some satisfaction in knowing Ben Masters was dead, but Kevin Reynolds was still out there, Reynolds and this still unknown third man, Judas.
She kept checking her rear-view and side mirrors to see if anyone was tailing her. By leaving now, she realized that no matter where she went, this was how she would spend the rest of her life – always looking in her rear-view mirror, always looking over her shoulder.
Jamie slammed the hatchback shut, went inside the house and grabbed the keys from the kitchen drawer for the dead room.
Michael was helping Carter select which toys to pack. She had given each a single box; she wouldn’t have any more room inside the minivan with the clothes and boxes of documents and other paperwork she didn’t want to leave behind. She had expected some resistance to this whole sudden pack-up-and-leave plan, maybe even a change of heart. Michael went right to work without any argument. Carter kept asking if they were going to live at Disney World.
She opened the door to the dead room and closed it behind her. Bright sunlight flooded the room. The furniture was still here, washed of blood, and she had thrown out the old bedding. All that remained were the mattress and the dusty valance covering the box spring.
She grabbed the pictures from the walls and placed them inside the box, thinking about the minivan, how Kevin Reynolds had stood only a few feet from it this morning.
So close, she thought. He was so goddamn close, if only I had stepped out of the minivan more quickly…
She heard a car pull into her driveway. She went to the window and saw a black Honda.
Oh my Jesus, that looks like Kevin Reynolds’s car.
Jamie dropped the box, about to call out for the kids, when she saw a man in black trousers and matching short-sleeved shirt stepping outside. Father Humphrey.
She didn’t want to invite him inside the house, didn’t feel like fielding questions about her sudden move. She ran back downstairs and hit the button to open a garage bay.
Father Humphrey rushed inside, face flushed.
‘Good, I’m glad I caught you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been calling you all afternoon.’
‘I… ah… stepped… ah –’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Humphrey brushed past her, knees cracking, and walked across the garage. He hit the button for the bay door.
‘What… ah… ah…’ She couldn’t get the words out, watching Humphrey dart around the minivan to look through a window.
‘Has anyone come by the house?’ he asked. ‘Anyone you haven’t recognized?’
Every muscle in her body tensed.
Humphrey moved away from the window. ‘How do you know a man named Kevin Reynolds?’
Jamie opened her mouth but couldn’t speak. The dread she’d been carrying wrapped its tentacles around her throat.
‘His sister lives in Wellesley, not far from here,’ Humphrey said. ‘You might’ve seen her in church. She’s a good woman, but I can’t say the same about Kevin. A mean bastard, that one.’
‘How… ah… ah… how… how…’
‘Just listen to me,’ he said. ‘Just listen and let me do the talking.’
Humphrey’s wrinkled face and bloodshot eyes kept disappearing behind the hot, bright stars exploding across her vision.
‘Kevin comes to me for confession every now and then. He came to confession about an hour ago. Afterwards, I found him sitting inside the pew. He wanted to have a friendly chit-chat about the church, fundraisers and so forth. Then he worked his way into asking questions about you. He knows what happened here and asked if I knew you, if you still lived in the area.’
Get the kids, she thought. Get them and leave.
‘Being the good Catholic you are,’ he said, ‘I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you the seal on confession. How a priest cannot break it even under the threat of death. I’m a man of God, but I’m also a man – wait, Jamie, come back!’
She ran for the stairs.
Father Humphrey caught up with her inside the foyer. He grabbed her by the arm, pulled her back.
‘Calm down.’ He shook her. ‘Calm down and listen!’
She screamed and tried to push him away.
‘I have people who can help you, Jamie. These people have helped women like yourself, victims of crime – they’ve helped entire families start new lives in places where men like Kevin Reynolds can never find you. I’m going to call these people. They’ll be here in under an hour.�
�
‘L-l-l-l-l-leave.’
‘A man like Kevin Reynolds has the resources to find you. These people will make sure he can’t. And you don’t have to worry about money. They’ll help you until you get established, okay? I’ll help you pack until they arrive.’
She pushed him away and ran for the stairs.
Jamie opened her mouth to speak, to tell the kids to get downstairs right now, they were leaving. The words died in her throat as a clear plastic bag was wrapped over her head.
51
Darby stepped out of the elevator with Lieutenant Warner and saw two men dressed in suits and ties waiting outside the doors for the crime lab. They saw Warner and reached for the bulky plastic briefcases sitting on the floor near their legs. Must be the men here to sweep the offices for bugs, she thought.
Warner didn’t introduce the men to her. She didn’t care. She was sick of talking and now she had to talk to Coop.
The lab was eerily quiet, the offices she passed by empty. The staff had most likely been called out to Charlestown to help assist the bomb squad in the collection of evidence and to help search for bodies and remains.
Coop wasn’t in his office. She checked the fingerprint database. IAFIS had come up with a match on one of the prints.
She opened the screen. It was the fingerprint from the blister pack of nicotine gum. The print had a 96.4 per cent match to a man named Jack King.
That was one of the names Ezekiel told me – one of the dead Feds.
Sure enough, it was. The information on the screen said that Special Agent King had died on July 2, 1983 – the same day Sullivan had died. All the notes were listed.
Coop had been here this morning. Surely he had checked the database. Why hadn’t he called her?
Darby didn’t find him in any of the other exam rooms, but she found Randy and Mark in serology examining Kendra Sheppard’s bloody clothing and the personal items she had removed from the body yesterday at the morgue – a black plastic watch, a sterling silver Claddagh ring and a plain, thin gold necklace.
