The Dorchester Five

by Peter Manus

  I watch Elliot Becker’s law firm mug shot appear on my screen. “Tax. Trusts. Criminal. Guy was diverse,” I say, handing the phone over for Harry to take a look. I watch the numbers above the door. “Let me guess,” I say. “Thirty-second floor is where he jumped.”

  “Coincidence—or was he the groom?” Harry’s always making “ball and chain” jokes. Used to grate on me before I got to know him. His wife’s pregnant with their first, and he’s walking on air. Claims not to know the sex, but he’s lying.

  “Look at that grin,” I say about Becker. “This is the type who thinks he’s God’s gift to womankind. You can’t lock a lover like that into a marriage.”

  Harry hands back my phone. “When’s marriage ever got in a guy’s way when he owes himself to womankind?”

  “When has suicide?” I mumble.

  “True enough,” Harry agrees. “True enough.”

  Upstairs, we emerge into a backstairs alcove. Walls papered in gold stripes. Restrooms straight ahead, then an unmarked door with a push panel. I ease it inward and see the kitchen, everything unpolished metal, sterile, silent. Then I have one of my “premmies”—those tingles that don’t quite blossom into vishies. This one is some muddled sensation about a bucket. I cross to yank the handle of the walk-in. A light goes on, and I run an eye around the empty shelves. The air carries that acrid odor of standing water. There’s a plastic drum near the back, and I lean in, drawn to it, my fingers stretched to hold the door. It’s empty except for a stainless steel ladle. None of this means anything, although it will in the future, as will the vishie of the gothic chick taking a dive. Never talk about my premmies or my vishies. Psychic cop—or maybe “spastic psychic” would be more accurate—equals crazy cop, even dangerous cop, to most people. You’re my confidante and my shrink, Zoey. Just don’t trust anyone else.

  Harry crosses the ballroom, his reflection broken in the hundred windowpanes. His footsteps echo. Place is empty except for stacks of pink-cushioned chairs and tables with their legs folded, leaning against the walls. Table linens on the floor, sheathed in opaque plastic. Five piles of them, lain flat to avoid wrinkles. As I glance over, they turn into five bodies—five men, on their backs, naked and ready for autopsy. I look away before I can even discern the age or race of any corpse, not wanting details because details don’t help. Never had vishies so on top of each other before tonight. It’s giving me a bruiser of a headache.

  “Across there is where he went over,” Harry says. “Far wall.”

  I study the scene through the floor-length windows. There’s a uniform outside, gazing at the surrounding buildings, smoking. If he notices us he gives no sign of it. The rain shifts, starts coming down with some muscle. The guy tosses his butt and hustles for cover.

  “Who’s that over there?”

  “Malloy,” he says.

  “What’s he doing dropping cigarettes around a crime scene?”

  I’m just feeling bitchy due to the headache. Harry shrugs and walks away.

  Out on the deck, I hunch against the cement rim and blink down at the lights below. There’s some movement, a reflection shifting off the meat wagon’s roof as someone backs up. The headlights catch the mist. Not much else. Wall is chest high on me. I squint at Harry, who’s busy turning up his collar.

  “Guy was, what, six foot one?” I talk loud to cut through the rattle of rain against tile.

  “Got that from the pile of parts downstairs, did you?” he calls back.

  “More or less. Big onions, big man.”

  “Huh. Good system. According to his license, Pop, he was six one.”

  “You’re what, six two? This wall still would be pretty high for you to hop up onto.”

  “Meaning…” he leads me.

  Malloy chimes in from behind us. “Meaning he didn’t just hitch himself up to use it as a bench while he enjoyed his cocktail.” Tension makes his voice thin. Guy’s gunning for detective. Well, I know how that feels.

  Harry doesn’t turn. “Don’t talk.”

  I take out the stinger and play the finger of yellow light along the wall’s edge. “Rough.”

  “Be tough to get up there without some sort of chair to step from, even for a fit guy. Not unless he vaulted himself over.”

  Something catches my eye. “What the hell?” I squint through the rain at what looks like a diaphanous flag billowing from the tip of some plasterwork that trims another area of the roof.

  Harry shines his flash at it. “Lady’s scarf?”

  Before we can even consider the prospect of trying to fetch it, a gust rips it free, and it swoops off, silent as smoke.

  “Malloy,” Harry says, watching the scarf disappear. “Got a job for you.”

  Malloy leaves. Don’t know if he’s excited at the prospect of galloping through the alleys after a piece of lady’s headgear. In his shoes I would have been, but I’m dumb like that.

  “So, listen,” I say. “Were his pants ripped?”

  “Sure. Right off the guy. You saw.”

  “No, I mean were they actually torn up.”

  Harry pauses. “What, you think he took them off?”

  I shrug. “Took off his jacket. Lost his pants. Meanwhile his shoes are still on him. Makes me think he dropped trou before he took the fall.”

  Rainwater starts jetting out through a downspout in the corner, hitting the tiles with a smack. We stand there, watching whatever bits of evidence we might have scouted up eddying round the floor drain. Harry blinks through the rain at me; he knows I’m still in what we detectives call the bloodhound stage. It’s my call, his silence says. That’s Harry, Zoey, and that’s why they paired him with the newbie.

  Feeling the rain actually beginning to pool inside my jacket collar, I sigh and head for shelter. “We’ll want to get over here pretty damn early if they’re setting up for a wedding. That work for you?” Aware of what a twit I’m being, I still can’t help myself.

  “Sure enough,” he says, totally straight. “Sure enough.”

  THREE

  Marina Papanikitas’s Personal Journal

  LOVING the ginger echinacea, Zoey. What was your clue—my sneezing (I swear I tried not to wake you) or the sopping pile of clothes in the bathroom? People kept pausing by my desk all morning just to sniff the air near me—ever notice how a whiff of your home brew seems to get folks all flushed and breathy? Just might have a marketable aphrodisiac on our hands.

  So, m’luv, back to “the sharing thing.” My plans to play Sherlock at the Hampstead get pushed off till midday. Harry thinks we should hit the morgue for a gander at our vic sans the dramatic lighting, and I agree. Death doc pulls Harry aside for a little chat—they go back, and I’m still the new kid—but I’m plenty occupied marveling over how they’ve shoveled enough of Becker off the pavement to arrive at a near-recognizable jigsaw of a human. Can’t handle more than a glimpse of the pulverized half of his head, myself, but when the menfolk huddle I hip the drawer just enough to ease Elliot’s “face” out of sight. I find that cataloging my observations helps keep me lucid—stuff like the fact that Elliot manscaped. Elliot has decent—nay, excellent—abs. Elliot is missing a couple of fingernails and has some pebbly grime rubbed into the seams of his hands. Elliot has a mass of tiny, curved gouges on his thighs that seem out of place even amid the mashed knees and the pelvic bone piercing his flesh. Elliot has professionally manicured toenails, including the one with the tag.

  “Partner’s staving off a cold,” Harry interrupts. Slaps my back and rubs. I think it’s intended to keep me from fainting. Works. “Some storm last night, huh, Bernie?”

  Bernie agrees. For a guy on the generous end of obese, he’s a smoothie. Slides the unsightly body out of view. Shakes my hand gently as he peers at me over half-glasses. “Echinacea with ginger,” he says soothingly. “The wife and I swear by it.”

  “Me and mine too,” I say.

  I wait until we’re in the car. The area of Boston where the hospitals squat dwells under the curs
e of a permanent traffic snarl. I’m in no mood to jockey through the lane merges and blaring horns, so I’m glad to be shotgun. “What was so hush-hush back there?” I want to know.

  “Doc knew Becker.” Harry signals with his arm out the window like my grandpa used to. Weirdly, it works, and we swing into the traffic.

  “Let me guess,” I try. “To know Elliot was to love him not so much.”

  “True enough,” Harry concedes. “Hence the ‘just between us thieves’ approach.”

  “Why? Is the good doctor afraid that he could get a colleague in trouble for sharing his suspicions, or is it more a matter of gossip being bad manners in front of the corpse?”

  “Maybe a little of each. Apparently Becker took a do-it-yourself approach to home care plans for his clients. Most lawyers prefer the paint-by-number package—less chance for recriminations when the inevitable end occurs. The docs who sign off on some non-standard arrangement can be vulnerable as well. Nothing says litigious like a bereaved relative.”

  “So why take the risk?”

  Harry shrugs. “Sometimes the patient insists. Sometimes there’s a little kickback action. Some of these trust clients have a lot of cash to spray around, particularly when they sense the grim reaper penciling them into the date book.”

  I think about that. “Huh,” I conclude.

  Over at the Hampstead, the wedding crew is getting tetchy. It’s not just that they want to deck the terrace with Chinese lanterns. They want the crime scene tape gone. I can see their point. Police yellow might be on the bridal palate, but the tale that goes with it, not so much.

  The afternoon’s breezy. Cinder skitters playfully across the terrace, newly power-washed by last night’s downpour. I refuse to be discouraged. See, I got a thing in my head about the rim where Becker went over. Glimpsed something last night between the raindrops. Don’t know what that something is, but I’m plenty curious. I flip out my trusty stinger—sky’s glaringly bright, but the needle of light helps me train my eye. Takes a while, then I find what I’m after.

  “Here we go,” I say. “Notice Becker’s fingers?”

  Harry leans in to see, puts his hand over mine, cups it with his large fingers to keep the light steady. His hand’s warm, even on a cool day. His calluses tickle my knuckles. It’s not personal, an absent-minded gesture. He wouldn’t have done it with another male, though.

  “Grit in the seams,” he says. “Same stuff as this. Mean something to you?”

  “Maybe.” I move along with the light, beaming it slowly along the outside of the wall, in the area just between the cement rim and the top line of bricks. I go about five feet, then double back. That’s where I spot what I’m looking for: another indentation in the grainy cement—not really a gouge, but clearly a fresh, scratched disturbance. “See it?”

  Harry peers over my shoulder. “That’s a fingernail, stuck in the mortar.”

  I already got my tweezers out. “Snapped off below the skin line too.” I bag it carefully. “That’s going to match.”

  “Oh yeah," Harry agrees. "So where’s it taking us, Pop?”

  I step back to survey the wall. “Do something for me, H.P. Spread your hands along there, see if you can grip the rim in those two spots simultaneously.”

  He tries it. From across the way where the wedding crew is rolling tables around, it must look like I ordered Harry to position himself for a frisk. Harry’s hands spread quite a bit farther apart than the gouges. He stands up, brushing at his tie knot.

  “Huh,” I say. “I’d have figured you and Elliot to be about the same span.”

  “Still, there’s something going on there,” Harry says. “What’s the idea? Think Becker gripped the spot for a while, needing to talk himself into it, and then vaulted over? We know he did trusts. Maybe he swiped a bunch of assets. I hear it’s popular.”

  “Works for me,” I say slowly, making clear that it doesn’t. I look off for inspiration as a couple of birds flit by. They disappear into the glare, reminding me of the scarf tangled in the roof molding. The truth clicks into place. “Do the reach again,” I say. “This time face me.”

  “What, with my back to the thing?” Harry tries it, leaning his shoulders against the rim and stretching his arms. His legs are bent awkwardly, and he hitches himself up so that his back is arched, his shoulders extending well past the rounded edge, his arms spread. His coat falls back against the wall, his hands rest just wide of the two gouges Elliot made. I watch him think about this, his face staring up into the clouds. After a moment he raises his head.

  “Guy was being blown,” he says matter-of-factly. He tips his head at the stone cornice where the lady’s scarf had been caught. “By her. Malloy better have that thing.”

  Riding down, Harry checks his watch. “Bartender’s supposed to be in around now."

  Elevator opens, and I’m greeted with the sight of an empty bar. Nothing less exciting than a nightspot stripped of its mood. A slushy noise, ice against metal, draws my eye to the far end of the bar, where a beefy guy stands from where he’s been mucking around. He’s overweight and balding, with a major swatch of freckles covering his pate and a spongy patch of white-grey chest hair frothing out where he hasn’t buttoned his work shirt. Pre-tied bow tie dangles from his collar. Overall look: professional-grade weary. Somehow he’s here instead of pulling pints somewhere in Yorkshire. He beads a watery eye on me as Harry and I cross the room, and I watch him peg me as clearly as if he’d said the L-word aloud. Doesn’t mean much—most people pick it up and are perfectly cool with it, frankly. Harry and I don’t sit.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see us, Mr…”

  “Donovan,” he supplies. “Michael Francis. Go by McD.”

  “I like it,” I say.

  The barman checks a tap, which coughs air. “Long as you don’t tell me you’re lovin’ it.”

  Harry snorts. “She don’t get that, buddy. Eats twigs and berries exclusively.”

  He brushes off the patter. “I got a shift starts five this afternoon, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get through this.” He slaps down the tap, letting the beer sputter forth. We watch it with him. He cocks it when the stuff starts gurgling out gold, moves to the next.

  “Keep it quick, sure,” I say agreeably. I flash a picture of Elliot, but the guy’s apparently been forewarned and barely glances at it. “You served this gentleman last night?”

  “Johnnie Walker, rocks. 9:30, maybe 9:35.”

  “How do you remember the time so well?”

  He shrugs. “You do this job, you remember the shift. Paid cash. They got the receipts out back, you want the exact time.”

  “Just the one drink?”

  “Yeah, plus the Irish. He didn’t stick around for a second round.”

  “Irish whiskey?”

  “Coffee. Double. Splash of Bailey’s. Dash of cream.”

  “Johnnie Walker with an Irish chaser. I’ll have to try that.”

  He eyes me like I’m dumb. “The Irish was for the lady.”

  “Ah,” I say, happy to be educated. If I play it truly dense, I might ease him past the monosyllables. “You know this lady?”

  He shrugs. “Seen her couple of times this past week or so. Comes in alone. Doesn’t talk to no one except in passing.”

  “Was Johnnie Walker meeting her, you think? Or did he pick her up?”

  McD wriggles a knuckle around his nostril, considering. “Neither one, you ask me.”

  “Oh? Not the pick-up type?”

  McD lets beer slough into the drain below, considering. “Him or her?”

  “Either,” Harry says. Harry’s less patient with witnesses.

  McD slaps the cock closed, in his element. “Neither one of them was wearing a ring.”

  “You notice rings while serving a single round at the height of your shift?”

  “Like I says, you do the job a while, you notice. No rings means they might want to settle up quick. You keep your eye out.”

  Harry chuckle
s. “Everyone’s in a hurry to scratch the itch, huh?”

  “Works both ways. Sometimes the lady wants to settle up to get away from some guy comin’ on. Anyway, it wasn’t just one round for her. She had a couple before the guy showed.”

  “Yeah? How long had she been there when Johnnie Walker homed in on her?”

  He thinks. “Two vodka bitter lemons. But she nursed them. So I’m thinking an hour, maybe an hour and a quarter.”

  “Two drinks an hour?” Harry’s surprised. “So she was waiting for someone.”

  McD moves his head back and forth like he can’t decide. “You’d figure, but she didn’t never look round or nothing. Just sat there sipping.”

  “Was it like that the other nights she was in? She just sat there, not looking for anyone?”

  He nods. “Pretty much. She’d drink a couple, sometimes guys would talk to her. Then she’d leave. Not all that unusual. It ain’t only men who might need some air after work.”

  “Let’s talk about her,” Harry says. “Can you give us an approximate age?”

  He thinks. “Kind of ageless,” he says, gesturing artily.

  I cut Harry off before he can respond. “Hey, everyone’s got a couple of tells,” I coax him. “Can I get a range? Twenties? Forties?”

  He doesn’t want to.

  I push ahead. “Want to take a stab at height, eyes, hair color?”

  Sigh. “Tallish, eyes maybe green, maybe grey or blue, hair kind of an ash-blonde.”

  I flash on my vishie—the falling goth chick. “What was her hairstyle?”

  “Maybe chin length or a little longer. Heavy down into her eyes.”

  Didn’t match up. I’m not disappointed for long, though.

  “She had a thing over her head,” he volunteers. “What do you call it—a kerchief.”

  I’m interested. “No kidding? Like for the rain?”

  “No, no,” he said. “More just for looks.”

  “Color? Pattern?”

  “I want to say spots,” he says.

  “One lady’s spotted scarf,” Harry says to himself, writing.

  “What about other characteristics?” I ask. “Anything strike you?”