THE DEAD SOUL
by
M. William Phelps
Copyright © 2012 by M. William Phelps
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher/author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher/author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Email: [email protected]
Author’s Website: www.mwilliamphelps.com
WATCH M. WILLIAM PHELPS ON
INVESTIGATION DISCOVERY’S “Dark Minds.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. That means I changed some things to suit my own narrative needs. There is no D-15 or CSU-6 in the Boston Police Department, for example. Like a lot of things in this book, I made it up.
I want to thank John Paine and Jim Thomsen, two editors who truly made me look a helluva lot smarter than I am.
Lastly, I am grateful for my old friend, Lisa Sillitto, who truly inspired me with a story she told one day at lunch—a story that gave me the ideas surrounding the backstory of the serial killer in this book.
For
Those who appreciate how the mind
of a serial murderer truly works...
Surgeons must be very careful
When they take the knife!
Underneath their fine incisions
Stirs the culprit,—Life!
—Emily Dickinson, # XLII, Life
Note to reader …
DO NOT skip the prologue to this book (we know most of you have a habit of doing this!), for you will miss many important clues to the mystery.
Now, turn the lights out, strap yourself in, and begin this ride …
PROLOGUE
Monday, May 3 – 12:10 P.M.
He did not plan on killing her. As he entered Sam Adams Plaza, a Cessna purred overhead, trailing behind it a banner advertising a one-day sale at Shamrock’s, Boston’s #1 Automart. The mobile billboard fluttered in front of a myriad of puffy white clouds. He carried a bag in one hand, a camera in the other. Over his left shoulder, the noon bells on the Customs House clock tower chimed. Street performers entertained throngs of people in the square.
Where is she?
A lanky college kid dressed in bulky parachute pants and a black and white striped jailhouse T-shirt spun his unicycle in circles. He juggled three different-colored balls. Bongo music played, accompanied by tambourines and finger cymbals. The crowd clapped along to an a capella version of “Gimme Shelter.”
The most dramatic of the street performers was a team of gargoyles spread out around the square, skulking and crawling. Some were hidden in places no one expected. Others sat statuelike on park benches, never breaking character. They were not friendly-looking creatures. Concrete-gray from head to toe, they appeared to have walked off the stony plinth of a medieval cathedral somewhere. Their fingernails were pointed. Tapered. Thornlike. The wings of Satan’s angels strapped to their backs.
A hundred feet north of the Faneuil Hall entrance, he sat on the base of a water fountain, waiting for her. Impatiently, he checked his watch. It was hot in his uniform. He scanned the large crowd, using the telescopic lens on his Nikon as binoculars.
He stood up, frustrated. Walked toward Paul Revere Creamery. He had made sure to check his notebook before leaving the house. He was certain. She had purchased a plain vanilla cone every Monday for the past four weeks.
It was just after noon on a Monday. Where in the hell is she?
As he walked, a gargoyle followed him.
The man with the camera was determined to introduce himself to this woman who did not even know he existed. He wanted to show her the photos he had taken over the past several months; hundreds of black and white images of her.
A Northeastern student, Alyssa usually parked her orange VW Bug along a deserted alleyway between State and Milk streets. After volunteering at the soup kitchen nearby for a few hours, she liked to stroll about Quincy Market and shop.
He finally spotted her. Alyssa walked out from underneath a vendor’s tent. Amid the mass of people puttering about, she passed right by him, brushing his right shoulder.
He stopped. Took her in. A long, slow inhale. Her fragrance went through his senses in layers—lavender flowers, nutty baby powder, mango body wash—as he closed his eyes.
Yum.
She walked toward Chatham Street into the dense crowd, weaved in and out of pedestrians. He lost sight of her, and a feeling of panic came over him in a rush of sweat. He gripped his camera tighter. The blue vein running along his right temple exposed itself like an earthworm.
“Alyssa,” he yelled. “Alyssa?”
She turned. Scanned the crowd in puzzlement. Continued to walk.
Someone set off a pack of firecrackers nearby that startled everyone. It reminded him of watching the Mardi Gras on the Travel Channel.
He moved faster. More focused. Then, from knee level, a gargoyle bounced up in front of him and stuck out his barbed fingers.
Boo.
“Sonofabitch!” he shouted. The crowd nearby took delight in how well the gargoyle frightened him. “You scared the shit out of me.”
The gargoyle waved his cigar fingers as if he was performing some sort of ritualistic dance, casting a spell.
“Get the hell out of my way.” He watched Alyssa walk out of the square, onto Chatham Street. “Move,” he yelled. “Come on.”
He shoved the gargoyle to his left. Ran after her.
“May the Father of Lies keep us from the wiles and temptations of your Lord,” the gargoyle said in his best stage voice. He stood. Brushed himself off. “Jerk.”
The crowd cheered. What a performance.
He slipped out of the square. Turned the corner. Directly in front of him, fifty yards away, he watched the object of his desire as she walked down a side street. Alone.
He tore off after her.
His heart thrummed. A single bead of sweat met his eyebrow. He watched her shapely calves, flexing and bouncing. Mounted his camera. Zoomed in.
The shutter went wild. Clicking over and over.
Do it now, he told himself. “All these photos.” He slapped the side of his duffel bag.
“Hi,” he said, coming up on Alyssa, out of breath, catching her off-guard.
Stunned, she turned to look at the stranger. Then quickly headed for her VW parked up ahead.
“I wanted to give you these.” The stranger dug in his bag. Alyssa looked around, unsure of what to make of him. “I took them for you and, well”—this was a lot harder than he thought—“maybe we could, you know, do something together.”
“Do I know you?” She rummaged through her handbag quickly.
Keys.
“No, you don’t understand. These are pictures I took of you.” He fanned out the photos as if they were playing cards, magicianlike. He pointed to one in particular. “I took them to show you, Alyssa.”
“I need to get going.” She stopped looking. “Thanks … but I need to get back to the dorm.”
Alyssa was frozen by the driver’s-side door of her car. He held a collection of photos in her face. He knew she would recognize the small tattoo of an angel on her left ankle in one c
lose-up shot.
The look on her face told him she realized most of the photos had been taken from a distance. “Please, I don’t want any trouble … I need to get going.”
He rubbed his face as if he just woke up. “You don’t understand.”
Alyssa pushed the photos away. Knocked them out of his hand. They fell on the ground in front of him.
A burst of wind kicked up.
“Please, don’t do that. Don’t you do that to me. I took these for you.”
He realized he was not stuttering anymore. It was wonderful and cathartic.
Shaking, Alyssa found her key, slipped it into the lock, turned to the right.
Several of the photos took flight with a burst of wind, carried down the alley, flying up and away.
He grabbed Alyssa by the arm. “No, listen. Let me start over.”
Alyssa tried to shake off his arm. His grip was too tight.
“Let me go.” She screamed, “I beg you. Please. Let me go.”
“Don’t yell. Please don’t yell.” He put a hand over her mouth.
“I’ll do whatever you want.” She had trouble getting the words out.
He didn’t like her this way.
She broke free. But he grabbed her pocketbook and pulled. Then wrapped her in a bear hug. They were face to face. With her fists, she pounded his chest.
What am I doing, grabbing this woman?
As they struggled, he felt a comforting sense of power rise in him. The harder he worked at controlling her, the deeper the feeling of content. This soothed him.
He grasped Alyssa by the wrists. She gave him a knee in his side and he let go.
Then she slipped inside the car. He yanked her back out by her hips. They fell to the ground.
“Help …” she yelled. “Somebody help me …”
He cupped her mouth.
Shh …
Without realizing it, he put her in a headlock. Her right breast was cupped in one hand. It felt warm. Firm. Her head was tucked beneath his chin. He could smell her—lavender, dry baby powder. The aroma set him off. Reminded him of his mother when she got out of the shower. Not thinking about it, he twisted Alyssa’s neck. It was not a conscious decision, but more of a reaction.
Her lower lip twitched. Her head stood mannequin-still as the lower half of her body squirmed. Then she went limp and collapsed to the ground.
“Hey?” he said in a loud whisper, his eyes darting from side to side. He turned. Nobody had seen what happened. Down the alley, a kid in a greasy apron tossed boxes in a Dumpster. Not paying attention, he bobbed his head to the beat of his iPod.
“Hey?” He slapped Alyssa on the face lightly.
Nothing.
He pushed her into the car, over the shifter, and she plopped onto the passenger seat. He hopped into the driver’s seat and started the car. Put the shifter in DRIVE. Hit the gas.
Alyssa came to. Groggy, but awake. “What’s going on?” Realizing where she was and what had happened, she banged on the dashboard. Kicked. Grabbed the door handle.
He pulled up alongside a building wall, blocking her in.
They struggled again. She was weaker, the fight in her just about gone.
Still, she managed to scratch one of his eyes.
It burned. He felt a trickle of warm blood run down his cheek.
Please help me. No, I don’t like the furnace.
With that thought a towering rage grew inside him. He grabbed the nylon shoulder strap of his duffel bag, wrapped it around Alyssa’s neck, then pulled both ends as hard as he could, as if tying a knot.
She pawed at his forearms, gasped for air. The inside of the windows fogged.
He put his thumbs together. His hands around her neck. Then crushed her windpipe. The sound reminded him of breaking a Saltine. He had called on a strength he did not know existed inside him. White foam and saliva sputtered from her mouth like hot popping grease.
He stared into Alyssa’s blue eyes. Her retinal veins burst before him.
He squeezed tighter, with more force, and felt an erection throb. The entire ordeal was intoxicating. He’d had no idea how gratifying this was. How much it calmed him.
Alyssa went quiet, flaccid. He watched her essence drift into eternal sleep. What a sense of authority. Life and death, all in his hands.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. He kissed Alyssa on the lips.
In the struggle her skirt had raised above her knees, exposing her smooth legs. The sight of them overtook him. And just then, staring at her bare skin, an idea hit him.
FOUR MONTHS LATER
1
Wednesday, September 3 – 6:28 P.M.
The smell of rotting flesh should have alerted someone. She had been lying on the ground in front of the Public Garden rose patch adjacent to Beacon Street for God knows how long. Her emerald green eyes were wide open and cloudy, like a fish in supermarket snow. Her face had been beaten and bloodied; but, astonishingly, her features were easily distinguishable. Beyond killing her, someone had savagely pummeled the young woman over certain sections of her body. Shadows covered part of her body. Yet there was no mistaking the fact that her legs had been—some would later use the term “surgically”—removed. Just below the hip.
Stubs.
On late summer nights, the glow of Boston’s Park Street Station around the Common took on a monotonous sense of surrealism. It felt lonely. Deserted. Gone was the steely taste of car exhaust from rush hour and the concrete dust from all the new construction going on near Charles and Boylston streets. In the magical twilight of dusk, steam floated out of the manhole covers in ghostly ribbons. Leaves, bursting with fall’s early shades of plum purple and schoolbus orange, floated in graceful eddies onto a line of parked cars. And there was this young female, on her back, staring at the stars. Not hidden, or buried, but out in the open, amid this amiable, quaint cityscape. Waiting, essentially, to reveal the secrets of her murder.
2
Wednesday, September 3 – 6:44 P.M.
His heart pounding, Jake Cooper paced. The static-filled call came in over the Motorola as he was getting ready to leave. A jogger had stumbled over the girl. Jake was inside his office on the tenth floor of the Patriot Building, a stone and glass structure poking fifty-six stories into Boston’s skyline, several blocks west of the Prudential Center. The Charles River and Mass Pike were at Jake’s back. On his walnut desk, in a brass frame next to the telephone, a $19.95 Wal-Mart family photo package of Jake, his wife and son stared up at him.
Stunned by the gruesome description of the girl, the detective froze.
“Cooper?” the lieutenant shouted over the radio. “Come on, answer me.”
This was it, Jake knew. His last chance. They’d call it Sundance’s swan song behind his back. The next major homicide case, the lieutenant had announced weeks ago, was Jake’s. Only Jake wasn’t sure he wanted it. All that locker room gossip and water cooler talk by his colleagues. The constant mocking and guilt trips ladled on by his former rabbi, Detective Mo Blackhall. Yes, Jake had fumbled that last homicide case, allowing the bastard to walk. Hell, he could still see the expression on the face of the little girl’s mother. The color draining from her cheeks as the jury foreman stood … “not guilty.” How she doubled over. Stared daggers of hatred at Jake, screaming, “It’s your fault, Detective Cooper! You let my little girl die TWICE.”
It had been two years. Now Jake was gazing down the barrel of that second chance they say everyone deserves, those around him holding a collective finger on the trigger. He felt his stomach tighten. Those butterflies reminding the seasoned cop that there was nothing worse than a man unsure of himself.
“Answer me, Cooper!” the lieutenant screamed.
Jake sat. Put the heels of his hands over his eyes, elbows on his desk, his long fingers curling over his forehead.
This is your game, he told himself. Get up … go!
“Cooper … I know you can hear me. Get your ass over to the Garden—now.
I’m on my way there.”
It was a setup. Jake was certain the lieutenant wanted him on the case only to watch him fall. Then they could all laugh at him. Kick dirt from that little girl’s grave in his face while shouting a chorus of I-told-you-so’s.
6:49 P.M.
A damp chill hung in the air, thick and heavy, like the humidity following a soaking thunderstorm. When Lieutenant Ramunas “Ray” Matikas—the Loudmouth Lithuanian—arrived at the scene shortly after calling Jake, he stood stock still, shaking his head, caught in the aura of death on the young woman’s face. In all his years, Matikas could not recall ever seeing anything like this.
As the lieutenant focused on the vic’s purple lips and Goth-white torso, his thought was interrupted.
“I can’t get ovah how much she resembles the Northeastern student who’s been missing since spring, Lieutenant,” a uniform blue said. The young cop handed Matikas a missing-persons flyer someone had brought out to the scene. “If you look at Alyssa Bettencourt’s photo here, sized up against her vitals,” the blue added, tapping the paper, “you’ll see wicked similarities. Height, weight, hair. All the same.”
Alyssa’s boyfriend had reported that she’d gone to Quincy Market one afternoon in May and never returned to the dorm. No one had seen her since.
“Why isn’t Cooper answering his radio? This is his problem.”
“Dunno, sir.”
Matikas wanted positive ID before anyone called Alyssa’s family for dentals or DNA. “The press is going to run with this. Her father is supposed to be some sort of shit-ass ‘politician,’ ” Matikas said. “I don’t need brass up my ass if we’re wrong. Sure, it looks a lot like her.” The lieutenant stood over the vic holding the flyer, going back and forth with his eyes. “Damn, if it is, you’d think she would have shown up months ago.”
THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller Page 1
