THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller

by M. William Phelps

  “Right, Lieutenant. Kidnapped and held hostage maybe?”

  “No one move her until I say so,” Matikas shouted. “Is Cooper on his way?”

  “We’re working on that, boss.”

  Blues and crime-scene techs walked the knoll in back of the vic in parallel lines, conducting a grid search for trace. The area was taped off. Surrounded by park security and day-shift blues eating up overtime. Matikas eyed the vic again. Over her head was a sign, gold lettering set on a bronze plaque—Freedom Trail Starts Here.

  There was a perfectly straight slice down the middle of the young woman’s torso. North to south. It extended from the center of her breasts to just above her crotch area, where her pubic hairline would have began if she hadn’t recently gotten a Telly Savalas, complete bikini wax. There was a small tattoo of a cross on her belly, split in two by the incision.

  “This doesn’t bother you?” Matikas asked a young detective standing next to him who had just joined the squad. They called him Rookie. He wore those gaudy, out-of-style tortoise-shell glasses, circa 1970s Elton John. Patrol officers liked to tease him. “B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets.” Rookie walked with a slight limp. He had gotten himself kicked off the force in Danvers, upstate, near Gloucester. Matikas got a call, decided to give the kid another chance.

  Matikas elbowed Rookie, nodded toward the vic. “See that?”

  “What, sir?” Rookie bent over. Pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  Clearing his throat, Matikas went into one of his exasperating forensic lectures his men hated. “The absence of clotting indicates our perp cut this leg off while this young lady here, well, while she was still alive.”

  Rookie winced. He did not want to look at the woman. He was agitated and uncomfortable being around her.

  Matikas enjoyed this part of the job. Made him feel in control of things. “There’s no central clotting. She bled out. You see it?”

  Rookie leaned in to make it look good. Nodded his head as if he understood.

  “Yet there’s no blood on the ground anywhere. Interesting, huh? Now, Rookie, look at the incision there on the chest.” Matikas pointed to it with a pen. “You see that?”

  “Yep.” Rookie had no idea what his new boss was talking about.

  “That’s clotting. She died between that leg”—he made a circular gesture with the pen—“and this incision in her chest.”

  It was obvious the girl had not been killed at this location. The Common was a dumpsite.

  Matikas wrote something in his notebook. Straightened himself. Stared at the vic. Then: “Has anyone found her legs?”

  “Not yet, Lieutenant,” Rookie said. He was pale, and looked as though he was about to upchuck dinner.

  The blues standing around all shrugged.

  The lieutenant walked over, put his arm around Rookie. “Welcome to Bawstin,” he said, overdoing Bean Town’s signature dialect on purpose. Then patted the newbie on the back. “You’re in the Big City now, kid. Home of murderers, rapists, and the Sawx.”

  3

  Wednesday, September 3 - 6:52 P.M.

  The man in the light blue and white pinstriped uniform leaned against the sink in his kitchen. Arms folded, he eyed the package on the table. Next to it was the Boston Globe, rolled up and stuffed inside a long clear plastic bag tied at the end like a loaf of bread. He had just picked it up from the front steps. The bag was covered in morning dew.

  The inside of his small Cape was dated. In need of a Home Depot makeover. The walls were maple paneling. The rug, once a white-toned shag, now had travel paths of grunge where it looked as if he had scrubbed and washed to no avail. Tag-sale knickknacks crowded the tops of tables and shelves. An RCA Victor console color TV on four legs with rabbit ears sat in the corner. A relic.

  To retrieve the parcel he had made a special trip to the marina after getting out of work. He was tired now. He needed a bath and some sleep. Still, he couldn’t leave the package as it was. Especially if he was going to use it.

  He took each one out of the bag and placed it on the table. As he removed the second one, a single blood droplet oozed from the knee joint, hit the linoleum floor, and spattered in a starfish pattern near his right foot.

  Damn it.

  He hated a mess.

  After folding the bubble wrap carefully over each leg, he taped the corners. Then slipped the packaged limbs into a brown paper shopping bag, all with a smile of satisfaction.

  The freezer was right behind him. He placed the bag of legs next to a box of frozen pizza, in between a stack of frost-burned aqua blue ice cube trays he never used.

  He walked to the closet in the living room—making sure not to step on the floor molding between the kitchen and the carpet—to get his cleaning kit. He needed to remove the blood from the linoleum. Tossing and turning, it would bother him all night if he didn’t.

  Hanging on the closet door were the priestly vestments he had just gotten back from the cleaners—black cassock, white collar. He locked onto them as a memory flashed before him.

  The basement had cobwebs all the way down the stairs. I see them. No. Please. I will do what you say.

  To block out the recollection, he whistled as loud as he could, a kid on his way to a fishing hole. He straightened the Catholic vestments. Ran his forefinger over the collar. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.

  The cleaning supplies.

  Get that blood off the floor.

  He slammed the closet door shut.

  I must cry out …violence and outrage is my message.

  He knelt on the kitchen floor and scrubbed the small spot of blood over and over. He used a brush. Sprayed the stain with a bleach and water mixture, wiped it in a circular pattern with a paper towel until any sign of blood was gone.

  It was almost seven. Standing, he saw the newspapers on the table. Those articles in the Globe he wanted to clip and hang on the wall next to the others. They’d have to wait ‘til later. After all, he’d be making headlines for the next several weeks.

  4

  Wednesday, September 3 – 6:56 P.M.

  A slight drizzle fell. More of a cold mist, actually, rather November than early September, and clung to everything in its path. A lone crow, black and shiny as velvet, cawing loudly, landed on the iron gate leading down into the Garden. Squad cars lined Arlington, their red and blue lights reflecting off the glazed street, giving the scene a clear boundary, announcing to the neighborhood that something very bad had happened here.

  About one hundred yards east of where the legless blonde had been discovered, Jake Cooper drove over the Beacon Street curb by the iron fence. As if his city-issued Crown Vic had won a marathon, the yellow plastic crime-scene tape blocking off the entrance nearly snapped against the front bumper.

  As he changed from his suit coat into a windbreaker, BOSTON POLICE in bright gold letters scribed across the back, Jake took mental note of his surroundings. News crews in vans with satellite dishes pointed toward the darkened skies stood around, waiting. Nosy neighbors from the nearby townhouses and three-deckers jostled for position. Blues held them back against the yellow sawhorses set up as though a parade was coming.

  Jake spotted a photographer he knew. If this was his case, he needed to take charge immediately. “Get several shots of the crowd, would you, Paul?” Jake pointed. “Faces. Maybe our guy’s still hangin’ around.”

  “Sure thing, Detective. You alright?”

  Jake stopped. Turned. Squinted a nasty look. “Yeah! Why?”

  “Just asking. Gees, man. Don’t be such a wicked pissa. Relax.”

  Jake Cooper ignored the remark, pulled out his iPhone and tapped the desktop App marked CS. He was calling up the GPS tracking device he had downloaded a few nights back from the BPD’s encrypted tech support website. It was something new. Jake was told the program, given enough information, could spit out a person-of-interest profile. Jake zeroed in on the location the body had been found as two intersecting lines on the small screen crisscross
ed—a radar missile target locking. He saved the info to a chime. Then typed several notes to go along with the new file.

  “Sundance Cooper,” someone yelled.

  Paying no attention, Jake walked down the asphalt path toward his vic.

  A blue caught up to him and walked hurriedly by Jake’s side to keep up. “Cooper? Hey, man, the lieutenant’s looking for you. He’s down by the Lagoon. Sounds pissed.”

  Jake smiled off to the side of his mouth.

  At one time, Jake Cooper was the best detective Ray Matikas had on the squad. But Jake’s relationship with Mo Blackhall and the fiasco that last homicide turned into destroyed all those fuzzy feelings, and almost got Jake booted off the force. Didn’t matter how smart or tough a cop Jake Sundance Cooper had proven himself to be. Mo was poison. Jake had fumbled the last homicide. Matikas hated him for it. He wanted to see Jake out on his ass. Same as Mo. The sooner the better.

  “What’s the hurry, Lieutenant?” Jake asked. “Dead people won’t walk away.” He came up behind Matikas, who was explaining something to Rookie.

  Matikas turned. “Ah, that’s just great, Cooper. I’ve got the biggest homicide case of the year, and you’re out and about, yanking y’chain.”

  “I’m here now, Ramunas. What do we have?”

  “Funny guy.” Matikas hated being called by his namesake. “What the hell. Where were you?” Matikas stepped closer to Jake, stopped what he was doing. Then called everyone to huddle up. “Oh, wait. Hey fellas, gather ‘round. Detective Cooper is going to now tell us he knew where Whitey Bulger was hiding out all those years.”

  The blues laughed. Rookie looked down at his shoes.

  Embarrassed, his blood pressure rising, Jake dropped his head. Clenched a fist. Felt the urge for a cigarette creep up the back of his throat.

  Walking toward the body, Jake locked on to a single maple leaf that had fallen from a tree above and landed on the vic’s stomach. He stopped, blocked everyone from his mind, taking in the grotesque nature of this scene. Then, in a low voice, not turning away from the girl: “Any info on who she is?”

  Matikas lit a cigarette with a silver Zippo that let off a faint aroma of kerosene. He clinked the cover back in place, blew the first drag into Jake’s face, then started toward his car. “You had better get me a positive ID by morning, Cooper. Listen, we think it might be that Bettencourt kid who’s been missing from Northeastern. The vic’s vitals match this flyer”—he gave it to Rookie to hand to Jake—“but her face is busted up and it’s hard to tell. Still, I don’t want her parents informed until we’re sure. You got me?”

  “You know what a Lithuanian is, Lieutenant?

  Matikas didn’t answer.

  “I didn’t think so—a poor Polack.”

  Matikas stroked his chin, then pointed at Jake: “You’re a frickin’ asshole, Cooper, you know that.”

  As Matikas walked up the path, mumbling obscenities in Lithuanian, Jake told the blues standing by to clear out. “Go watch the crowds, fellas, okay.”

  At the park’s entryway, standing by his vehicle, Matikas yelled down to Jake. “Oh, yeah. One more thing. You screw this up, you’ll be doing guard duty at Celtic games—that is, if IA doesn’t find something to bring you and that asshole mentor of yours up on charges before that.”

  Matikas stubbed out his cigarette, walked away.

  Jake knelt beside the girl, one hand over his knee, the other smoothing his stubble. The detective studied the vic’s position and posture. The empty look on the young woman’s face and how her killer had staged the scene. He thought about the girl’s last few moments. What a hell that must have been. Focusing, he heard the brittle leaves behind him crunch, a groan, then an “Oh, shit.”

  It had to be Dickie. No one else walked with such drama.

  “Long time no see,” Jake said without looking. “Almost lost your footing there.”

  Dickie Shaughnessy was an Irishman down to his dark orange hair and pockmarked pink face. He had an obsessive penchant for beer as dark as Coca-Cola, centuries-old overpriced whiskey, and colcannon. Dickie and Jake had known each other five years. They had worked homicides together, but spent most of their time chasing dope dealers, rapists, child abusers. Dickie supported Jake. He was unconvinced Jake was going down with Mo. Felt bad about the heat Jake had taken over that last case.

  “Where the hell is she?”

  “Over here, Dickie.” It wasn’t dark out yet, but with the oak trees casting umbrellalike shadows and the gloomy skies, it was hard to see anything until your eyes adjusted.

  “Jesus,” Dickie said, shining a flashlight on what was left of her legs, panning up toward her face. “What a frickin’ mess … Christ Almighty.”

  Jake made the sign of the cross, looked up into the sky. “Hey, I told you about saying that shit around me.”

  “Oops, sorry there, Mr. Catholic. Thought you’d given up on all that faith stuff.”

  Jake stood, rapped Dickie on the back. “Thanks for coming out.”

  Dickie looked back toward his car. “Tired, Jake. We had a search and seizure in Medford. Up and down stairs all day long. You forget I’m fatter and older.”

  Jake leveled his watch. “It’s not even eight o’clock yet.”

  “My Discovery Channel shows are on—what am I doin’ here?”

  They paused and shared a brief moment of camaraderie. Then Jake got serious. “Get a look at her face.” Bending down again, the lead detective took a hankie from his pocket and picked up a plastic bristle attached to her shoulder. “Check this out.” He held it up for Dickie to evaluate. “Piece of a broom?”

  “Could be.” Dickie moaned as he bent over and his gut rubbed against his belt buckle. He slipped on his Benjamin Franklin half-moon glasses. Studied the corpse they were now referring to as the “Unknown DB.” Dickie focused on her eyes, noting how dull and glassy they were. The blood vessels mapping through the whites were clear, however. Not a spot in either one.

  “You see that?”

  “Clear conjunctiva,” Jake pointed out. “I did.” Dickie wrote it down in his pocket notebook. “She definitely wasn’t strangled before the sonofabitch cut her open.”

  Jake snapped on a pair of latex gloves he took out of his pocket. Bending over the vic’s head, he slid his cigar flashlight into his mouth, pointed it down—a coal miner’s view—at her lips. Then pried open her mouth. He had learned from Mo years ago that with every homicide you checked the inside the vic’s mouth. Light or dark, you could tell, within a respectable window, how long a person had been dead. The darker the skin tone, the longer. The lighter, the shorter.

  “Months,” Jake said out of the corner of his mouth.

  Despite being stained with spots of blood, her teeth gleamed white. “A bleacher.” Her tongue was purple, as if she’d had a grape Blow Pop before meeting her maker. Her cheeks were pallid, dry, flaky, dark, and cold to the touch.

  Jake spat the flashlight out onto the ground beside him. “Get a look at this.” He leaned back so Dickie could go in for a closer view. “Odd, huh? Come here,” Jake yelled to the crime-scene photographer snapping photos around them. “Get me a shot of this.” He pointed inside her mouth. “There’s some scarring on her right cheek.”

  A series of quick flashes lit up the night. The photographer, Jake noticed, seemed to be taking more photos of the vic than necessary.

  “Hey, enough already, huh. Head over to that pond. Snap the shoreline for me.” Jake watched the photag walk away.

  “They seem to think she might be that Bettencourt kid,” Dickie said without much confidence.

  “She looks pretty damn good to me for a four-month-old corpse.”

  “Kidnapped? Held hostage? Killed later?”

  Jake stood. “No way. There’s no bruising on her wrists. No yellowing of the skin besides her face.” They stared at her again. It was obvious she had never been tied up. “She could have been frozen. There, on her thigh, looks like freezer burn. The inside of her mouth indica
tes the same thing.”

  “Just when you think you’ve seen everything. Frickin’ incredible.”

  The crime-scene tape fencing off the area around the body fluttered against a blustery gust of Northeast wind. Jake and Dickie stood and looked down at Miss Unknown DB. Lights flashed against the corrugated bark on the trees around them, illuminating their faces in red and blue pulses. Several cops stood by. Sipped coffee. Talked Boston sports. They were waiting for the go-ahead to leave and get back to their cozy patrol cars. These were the smart cops, Jake thought. Do twenty in a uniform. Keep your trap shut. Collect a pension. That never worked for Jake. He needed the riddle a crime presented. Mr. Problem Solver, Jake Cooper. Finding the answers made him feel like it all actually mattered. That people gave a shit.

  Jake popped a piece of nicotine gum out of a plastic foil sleeve. He had quit smoking six months ago. It had been a rough road. He’d been tar-free for thirty days and counting.

  “There’s something missing, Dickie.”

  “You mean, besides her legs?”

  Jake ignored the wisecrack. “It’s her face. Look closely. Since when are we using missing-persons fliers to ID DBs, anyway? The bruising on her face is fresh.” Jake panned the beam of his flashlight over her chin and cheeks. Then down the length of her torso. “Look at the rest of her body. Doesn’t add up.”

  “You think our guy froze her, thawed her out, then beat her?”

  Jake looked down. “Maybe. But I know one thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nobody leaves a scene like this, or commits murder on this level, for the first time.”

  5

  Thursday, September 4 – 12:02 P.M.

  Dawn Cooper stopped at the District-15 squad room on her way to work. Jake’s office inside D-15 was located along the west wall of the Patriot Building. It pained Dawn that the empty room lacked any serious decorating. The white-washed walls were naked, save for a few photographs Jake couldn’t bring himself to remove until he was actually walking out the door for good. There was a framed motivational photo—TEAMWORK—of two rowing squads moving in unison up an unnamed river at sunrise. The smaller photo next to it was of Jake and his big (late) brother, Casey. But that was it. You walk into this cop’s office and think, Here’s a guy in-between two lives.