The Dorchester Five

by Peter Manus

  I nod agreeably. “Multiple wigs, I’d be willing to wager, and I have a theory about that. She assumes a persona that she knows will give her the siren touch for each victim.”

  “Siren touch?”

  “Elliot’s striking out with one-night stands, so he gets a strangers-in-the-night pick-up. Rocco wallows in lady flesh all day, so he gets the class act. Wilkie’s a middle-aged divorcée, for all intents and purposes, so he gets a lady casting about for a new beginning.”

  “Cool. So what do we warn Simon Love about? Lady cellist?”

  “It’s what he would fall for, not his female other. Homeless waif? Lost soul?”

  “Got it. For Brewster she invents a Mayflower descendant name of Lacy Tewksbury.”

  “Exactly.” Something niggles at my brain. “Why’d she send Brewster a crossbow?”

  “Maybe it’s supposed to mean something, symbolically, like your myth. Scare him.”

  “Didn’t seem to.”

  “Maybe he’s too thick to get the message.”

  “Didn’t seem thick.”

  “Maybe she’s better at reeling guys in than at sending messages. Maybe the message is like, ‘Remember my beau? I’m still very cross.’”

  I eyeball Harry while he holds back his smirk. Same doofy sense of humor as my father—oh snap, have I just figured out why Harry and I click? This is something I do not need to explore right now. “So you want to give the silence rule another try?” I offer.

  He nods. “For now.”

  We dig out our badges as we hit the turnoff for MCI Concord.

  One problem with talking to someone in prison is that it takes a lot of time to get at them, even for cops. Cops have gone haywire before, just like lawyers and social workers, and prisons have all these procedures when you enter to ensure that they’ll discourage you from trying to engineer a breakout. You go through quite a few layers of security. You shed a lot of your stuff—wallets, ties, belts, which, for the novice, can strip you of some dignity as well. They don’t mind that, though, the prison people. They want you to feel small when you’re in there.

  Once you’re in one of the little interview rooms, you get to wait some more while the inmate goes through the several phases of similar routine that they have set up between him and you. For understandable reasons, they don’t like the prisoners to be cooling their heels in an interview room while their lawyer or some cop is running late. None of this is news to me, although I can’t say I’ve been in the house as many times as Harry. Truth is I don’t think I’ll get comfortable with it no matter how many times I go through it.

  Guard brings Dylan in and Harry sits across from him at the little table. I prefer pacing around near the tiled walls, zoo animal style. Guard leaves, shutting the heavy door. My once-over on Dylan pegs him as your typical Irish playboy—got the green eyes decorated all around with deep dark lashes, the lips that make it look like he’s always just about to crack a grin, hair that brings the word “tousled” to mind. Even the tips of his ears suggest a bit of pointiness—could such a chimerical lad as he possibly do any harm? Nice pecs and biceps, too, even in the baggy jumpsuit. Runs his bright-eyed gaze down my body and gives me a little wink—probably an involuntary reflex, as his life isn’t filled with babes just lately—then turns his attention to Harry.

  “What am I gettin’?” he says. Voice deeper than I would have thought. Accent more Irish than his Ma’s, meaning he must like the affect. Presents as if he’s got a real sense of dominion over himself. Something tells me this boy is going to handle his term just fine, and when he hits the streets, the time inside’s going to be nothing more than a step up.

  “You know how it is,” says Harry. “You talk to us, we write it up. When it comes time to make room for more baddies, you get sprung for behavior.”

  “You calling that an offer?” he says in his polite quasi-brogue.

  “We’re not making an offer.”

  He snorts, amused. “There’s always an offer, scratch round a bit.”

  “Maybe we want to talk about something you happen to want to talk about too,” Harry says logically.

  This time he shows his teeth and chuckles silently for a while. Guy’s hoisting one huge Adam’s apple, particularly when he leans back. “Now that’s rich.”

  I decide to step on his patter. “Anyone tell you Jakey died?”

  That stops him. He considers it, then flips me a look. “All respect, ma’am, Jakey died eight years ago,” he says. “Just forgot to stop breathing.”

  “Well, he finally got there,” Harry says.

  “Sorry to break it to you this way,” I give him. “Figured your mother would have told you the news. Maybe she thinks you have enough on your mind.”

  He just levels a look at me for that one. Sainted mother off-limits, or is Pruddie a sore topic for another reason? Having met her, I’m going with door number two.

  “Along with Jakey’s death, a string of murders have taken place. Terry D’Amante. Elliot Becker, your brother’s lawyer. Then Rocco Petrianni. Then Wilkie Morley. All men your brother might have had a reason to resent.”

  “Yeah, some people started wondering about you as a suspect,” Harry throws in, “before we figured out you’ve been hanging out here at the country club.”

  He lets his eyes slide back to Harry. “Lucky break for me, that,” he says.

  “We’re interested in the nurse,” I say.

  He lets his eyes wander the ceiling for a moment, like he’s considering. But I see that Adam’s apple of his do a little jerk. His nostrils go tight, too, for a tick.

  “The loyal Agnès,” he says with sarcasm.

  And so we learn that “Anya” was Pruddie’s attempt at pronouncing “Agnès” the French way. Dylan says “Ohn-yay,” like the French.

  “Loyal is an understatement,” I affirm. “Eight years is a long time to stick it out with a patient in your brother’s condition.”

  “Half-brother,” he says, kneejerk.

  “How’s that work?” Harry throws in. “You’re both Culligans. Your Ma take in some other woman’s kid after Pop strayed? Mighty big-hearted of the lady if she did.”

  Again the neck jerk. “No,” he says. “It weren’t that way.”

  “Not here to judge,” I say, brushing past it. “Point is, Agnès must have cared for Jakey a great deal to stay as long as she did.”

  He chuckles noiselessly. “You got a sweet way of putting things.”

  “Okay, how would you put it?”

  “Caught her rubbing his face in her cooch once. Barely flinches when she sees I’m watching, then gives me a look like I can go bugger myself.”

  “You report this to anyone?”

  “What, and spoil the fun?”

  “Did it seem like fun for Jakey? I’m not trying to be crude, here—I ask because I don’t know what his capabilities were.”

  Dylan snorts. “Jakey shat in a bag. He couldn’t talk so you could understand him. He weren’t watching any French art films or Hitchcock nonsense no matter how often she played them up there. I gather you think she’s the one been killing these fine gentlemen?”

  “Would the idea surprise you?”

  He almost smiles. “She’s just fucked up enough, that one.”

  “Kind of harsh,” Harry comments.

  “Sure, sure,” he agrees easily. “But reality’s harsh, ain’t it?”

  “So give us a dose of harsh reality,” I say. “You knew her just from her years with Jakey, or from way back?”

  “Never really knew her at all, ma’am, but I knew of her in some way or another from way back, as you put it,” he says politely. “And I’m beginning to see that you know even less of her, or perhaps nothing at all. So what’s in it for me to aid you?”

  “Got a lawyer friend I can get in to see you,” Harry says.

  He keeps his eyes on me, probably to display to Harry how uninteresting his offer sounds. “Mighty weak tea, that. Already got a lawyer,” he says.

&n
bsp; “Lawyer I got in mind comes to work sober,” Harry points out. “Hear you waived trial. So how’s the challenge to that brainy maneuver coming along?”

  He scratches at his whiskers, unimpressed, and goes to say something.

  “What if we’re thinking she killed Jakey,” I cut in. “Would that move you?”

  “Lad’s dead either way,” he says mildly.

  “Look,” Harry piles on. “You give us a hand, lawyer who can pass a breathalyzer comes to see you. You get to boast to your block-mates about how you had a chokehold on us in here—scoring some quality counseling while only helping us chase down whoever did in your own flesh and blood. Trust me, you’ll look good.”

  “Got a good rep as it stands,” he says. “Not sure I want to jeopardize it.”

  I’ve had it. “You know, Harry, he’s right, and we’re wasting our time. We’ve got more than enough for a warrant to search Pruddie’s house. Bound to be more fruitful than trying to do trade with this one.” Fortunately, I mean it, so I say it with conviction. Harry half-stands.

  “Hasty retreat, ma’am,” Dylan says. “Place make you jumpy?”

  I turn, genuinely surprised that he’s acting like he’s biting, and ready to cut him off if he tries any more of his smarmy brogue stuff on me. “Yeah, it does, quite honestly. So make it worth my hanging around or stow it.”

  He plays it calm, contrasting my overt frustration. It occurs to me that I’m actually playing the “on the rag” card and it’s working. It also flits through my mind that the threat to invade Pruddie’s place struck home, and not due to filial instinct. Guy’s hidden something in Ma’s house he doesn’t want found. Classic Southie maneuver, sure, but not my hunt right now.

  “The good nurse Agnès.” He parks his feet, ankles crossed, on the chair across from him and clasps his hands behind his head. “What can I tell you?”

  Harry settles back into his chair, glancing at me. This is mine, he’s saying. I get that. I also get to not ask the obvious stuff I desperately want, like her last name. I need to come off like we know more than pure squat. “You knew her far back as high school?”

  “Didn’t attend high school all that religiously, myself. Nor did she, I’d wager. But I do recall her from then. Perhaps before, but that’d be stretching it.”

  “Any idea where her people were from originally?”

  “Don’t recall. Thinking Chicago, maybe Canada before that, but can’t tell you why.”

  “Had something going on with the high school janitor, according to rumor?”

  “That’d be me mam’s ballsch,” he kind of spits disgustedly before thinking. Then he shrugs. “Agnès was the poor fellow’s daughter, I recollect.”

  “Why are we pitying the janitor?”

  “Bit of a sad tale. Man killed himself on the high school premises. They covered it up but everyone knew. Pinning that one on her, too, are we?”

  “No, but I’m noticing that your memories of this woman are better than you thought.”

  “I was a young fellah on the make. She seemed like the type might give it up. Sullen sort. Loner. Nice enough to look at, sure. Had that accent, too. Worth a go, especially once the father was out of the picture.”

  “You ever get with her?”

  He chuckles, but I’m not buying that there’s nothing there. “Lot of last-call hookups o’er the years. Lot of moments a better man than myself might regret.”

  “You’re telling me you wouldn’t remember picking up some woman you half-knew growing up?”

  “Shameful, ain’t I?”

  “What about Jakey?”

  My second turn for the evil eyeball, leaving me wondering what he thinks I’m hinting at. “’Fraid I’m not following you, ma’am,” he says blandly.

  “Eight years indicates some sort of meaningful connection between her and Jakey. Did they go back?”

  “Kid was quite some years younger than me. Barely entering school when she’d have been drifting out the other end. As for her devoted years as a nurse, what can I say. It was a gig, and, like I told you, she was an odd duck. No sayin’ what she’d get for work if she walked.”

  “You don’t seem to have much respect for her.”

  “Neither did your mother, from our conversation with her,” Harry throws in. When there’s a button to press, H.P. thumbs it hard.

  Dylan throws his head back to study the ceiling, then lets out his breath. “Nursing Jakey was a step up from earning money on her knees behind the Claddagh. I’ll give her that much.”

  “Memory’s coming back stronger and stronger,” I note. “Is that a personal recollection or did she make little brother Jake a man, back behind the Claddagh one night?”

  “Big happy family, we Culligans, eh?” He shakes his head like he’s mildly disgusted. “Fact is, father walked out a quarter-century back. Never heard from the man again. Since that moment the place my mother lives wasn’t my home.”

  “Walked out?” I’m surprised. “I thought he died.”

  He lowers his gaze to meet my eye. “Mother likes to tell it her way,” he comments dryly. “Never had much success keeping track of her little spoofs.”

  “You went round, though,” I chide him. “You cared some for Jakey.”

  “Got my interests to protect, don’t I? Keep me needy mam from giving it all away to the next Canuck comes calling.”

  “Jakey must have looked up to you. Impressionable kid and you such a legend.”

  “Oh, he did, he did,” he says mildly. “Used to smoke like me, dress like me, hoist his plums just like me. Such a crush he had I started wondering if the kid was a bit of an ass man.”

  Harry’s done. “I don’t think you got a lot to give, Mr. Culligan. Then or now.”

  “Never claimed much to give,” he answers lightly.

  Harry stands to leave just as something clicks for me—Terence D’Amante screaming through the windshield at Jakey Culligan: no Chopin disco, ass man, and then Janai explaining to me that ass man was slang for guys who are into other guys. But I looked it up in my handy online dictionary of slang and it doesn’t only mean that—ass man also means gopher, delivery boy, as in assistant. The rest of it tumbles into place: chop is dope and code is ZIP code. No chop in this code, ass man! Terence was yelling at the driver of the faded blue VW to get his dope out of Dorchester. And he claimed he’d told him as much before. I hollered you! But it was Dylan’s car. Dylan’s dope. Dylan’s delivery. I swing round—this is not a time to think out my next move.

  “How’s the guilt, now he’s dead? Better or worse?”

  Harry stops as Dylan shifts his sleepy-eyed gaze to me.

  “I mean the guilt over sending Jakey into that neighborhood where you knew you were infiltrating the turf of a guy like Terence D’Amante,” I explain.

  Dylan shakes his head like he’s not going to honor me with an answer, but I’ve got more.

  “Why’d you send him that day?” I say. “Getting a little hot for you over there? Might as well let little brother test the waters, see if anyone makes good on the threats you’d received?”

  Dylan stands abruptly, his chair clattering over.

  “Steady, friend,” Harry says.

  I got more, though. “I get it now. That’s why Bruno was going at the back window with a brick. He realized there was dope to be scored from the blue bug. Bruno was your old customer, I’m guessing, but he’d be drug-tested while on probation, so my guess is he was getting off on helping you recruit some new users. Heck, maybe that’s why the old lady herself ran into the street—she recognized your car. She was one of those clean-up-the-hood types. What a day to send your kid brother in your place. Excuse me—I mean the half-brother you resented for being born to your ma and driving off your dear da all those years earlier.”

  Dylan trains a fiery eye on me that I won’t be forgetting for a long time. Then he strides across and raps on the door. Inches from Harry, who doesn’t move a muscle.

  I speak at Dylan’s back. “Yo
u weren’t all bad, though, were you, Dylan? You forced Pruddie to let Agnès stay on, even live in, after the court case. You didn’t like her much, or Jakey for that matter, but you owed him, and Pruddie owed you both, your way of thinking.”

  Dylan gets cuffed and walks down the corridor. He doesn’t look back.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I am Nightingale—

  I ride the subway to Cambridge. I have thrown over Sister Julia in favor of a raw Jeanne Moreau knockoff—brunette jaw-length wig, deep red lipstick, black leather jacket and matching hiked skirt, dark patterned stockings, and of course, the loaded gun in my purse. They check you, these days, getting on the subway, but these are random checks, usually performed by male officers, and so I suggère my way through quite handily. I stare through my reflection in the dark window across from me, watching the tunnel lights slash my face, again and again. I play my Vivaldi but when I draw near my stop, I turn it off. I need to be sharp with this one.

  The Cambridge neighborhood is dead, the autos packed end to end against the narrow sidewalks. My heels click quietly with the occasional strum across an off-kilter brick. The Van Ness storefront is dark, although I can make out a vague red glow that seeps from behind a curtained doorway in the back of the shop. I am reluctant to fourrage carelessly after my prior experience here. Instead I push two fingers against the front door that sits slightly ajar and sniff the air from inside, deeply, like an animal. Like an animal, I smell blood.

  All is silent, or so it seems for the first few moments I stand there, listening. Then I hear a thudding noise and perhaps a distant call. It repeats quite regularly, almost is if someone is singing while hammering and just happened to be taking a bit of a rest when I first began listening. There is another long pause, and then the noises resume. It is not hammering and singing, in fact. It is pounding and shouting. Someone is in the back, calling for assistance.

  I am not here to help, and feel no compulsion to do so. But I am drawn forward, into the dark shop, to explore this muffled bedlam. Of course I realize—realized immediately upon receiving Brewster’s invitation—that no one awaits Sister Julia here tonight. Nevertheless, mine is not a mission that covets safety and predictability, so I allow myself to be lured forward. Whatever is happening, there is plenty of space for retreat. And, also, the noises are those of a victim, and a victim who can make so much noise does not fear that his attacker lurks near. Mostly I am drawn forward because I must learn what has become of Brewster Van Ness. After all, this is my victim. I have a responsibility to him.