THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller

by M. William Phelps

  Jake sat behind his desk in a swivel chair facing the large window looking out onto the city of Boston. He had his feet up on the dusty sill, lost in the charming grace of the jagged skyline in front of him. Inside, a well of concern brewed.

  “What time will you be home tonight, honey?”

  The question startled Jake, who turned quickly, stood, kissed Dawn. “Sit. What is it? What’s wrong?” His frayed nerves were implicit in every question. Any unscheduled visit or unexpected telephone call was automatically bad news to Jake Cooper. His insides were in a constant twist of worry. The sky was always falling.

  “Relax, you. I’m running early for work. Just wanted to stop in and say hi on my way. Calm down.” It was a lie.

  “This is big, Dawn. My shot.” Jake made a fist. Clenched his teeth. Stared at an empty space on his desk.

  “What do you mean? Ray gave you the Garden case?” Dawn had heard the reports on the radio and figured it was the reason why her husband hadn’t come home the night before. Not that he’d call and let her know.

  “It’s mine, yeah. Here’s the thing. I think that body in the Garden is the first of several. Or the last of a collection we haven’t found.”

  Silence beat a tense pulse between them as they considered this.

  Dawn noted the I’m-back-in-the-game tone to her husband’s voice. She didn’t want to show it, but Dawn Cooper was worried sick. It was the reason for the visit. She knew a second chance for Jake was imminent. But had hoped for more time. She didn’t want it to be this case. Here it was, Jake’s first homicide since being back and he had been up all night already, a no-show at home. Dawn was there by Jake’s side, helping him through that last fiasco. The girl was eight years old. She was brutally raped for two days after being abducted from her bedroom in the middle of the night. If that wasn’t enough, the sonofabitch buried her alive underneath a neighbor’s porch. Jake had found the girl, but destroyed a crucial piece of evidence in the process. The subsequent outcome of the trial—along with orders from brass—sent Jake to the psych ward of Faulkner Hospital to get his head straight. He’d been back on the job six months. It was too much, too soon.

  “Oh my goodness,” Dawn said. “And Ray’s okay with this?”

  “Of course. He insisted.”

  Jake hadn’t spoken for days after the trial. The perp was freed because of that illegal search Jake had conducted. So Jake started stalking him until he finally left town. Why was Ray allowing Jake to jump back in now? And such a horrific case, with so much at stake. What if Jake’s old nemesis had returned and graduated from rape to murder?

  “Great, honey. I mean, that’s what you wanted, right—another shot?”

  Jake took a minute. “Yeah. Finally.” He paced by the window, looking out, uncertain of his answer.

  Dawn forced herself to say it. “We’ll celebrate when you’re done. I’ll pick Brendan up tonight, then, at aftercare. We’ll grab a pizza. See you at home later on?”

  Jake shrugged without turning around. “Depends …”

  Dawn looked over at the rumpled blanket and pillow on the couch in Jake’s office. Walked out the door.

  12:24 P.M.

  Fighting back tears on the way to work, in her office a half hour later, Dawn Cooper turned her attention toward the kid sitting on the floor underneath the chair.

  Denny Garcia. Such a cute twelve-year-old. Kinky light brown hair. Tiny sun spot on his right cheek blending perfectly with his olive skin. The bluest eyes.

  “Come on out, Denny,” Dawn said.

  Denny’s palms were white as chalk. Not from birth, but from a father who punished the kid by holding his hands over a lava red stove burner on high whenever he came home drunk and wanted to take out his frustrations for the personal failures of such a crappy life. Now Denny was with a foster family. And that was supposed to be better? It was Dawn’s job to try and clean up the mess left behind.

  Denny reluctantly sat in the chair. “Tell me about your week,” Dawn said.

  “Not good,” Denny answered. “Bad. Bad. Bad.” Earlier that day Denny took off all his clothes in class, complaining how hot he was.

  “You know it’s wrong to undress in public, right, Denny?”

  The boy stared at a Monet-ish painting Dawn hung in the office of a woman sitting alone on a park bench, looking out at an enormous field of blurry flowers.

  “I like that picture, Mrs. Cooper.”

  Denny told Dawn this at every session.

  “It’s beautiful, Denny, I know.”

  Dawn had a long road ahead of her.

  3:14 P.M.

  The transition from stay-at-home mom to working mother had been rough on Dawn. Before Brendan started first grade, spooning Jake in bed at night, Dawn looked forward to the daily jogs around the neighborhood every morning, pushing Brendan in a blue, three-wheeled canvas stroller. She missed the social gatherings at the park on warm days. The mid-afternoon Lia Sophia and Pampered Chef parties. Naps. The Price Is Right and Guiding Light. Bonding with her son. Now Dawn was a career-minded woman. Out of the PTA, busy-body-neighbor loop.

  Leaving work, she drove to the Pocahontas After School Daycare—everything had to be Disney-fied these days, didn’t it, Dawn had told her too many times—to pick up seven-year-old Brendan, she and Jake’s only child. The daycare was two miles from their home in Brookline. An argument with Jake the day before still bothered Dawn. She didn’t want to bring it up at his office earlier, but she was upset by some of things Jake had said in anger. All she told him was that it might have been a mistake to take on coaching that soccer team on top of going back to work now that Brendan was in school full-time. Didn’t mean she second-guessed herself. “I’m just venting, babe,” Dawn had said. Her job as a school psychologist—her profession pre-Brendan—in Chelsea, was difficult. The school was in total disarray. Students fought. Threw feces at each other. Screamed obscenities at teachers. The stress on the family now that Dawn worked full-time and coached was getting to them both. She knew Jake hadn’t mentioned it earlier because he was preoccupied with his new case. But in time the resentment and I-knew-its would resurface. Probably when he was at an impasse in the investigation and fed up with not making any progress. Dawn would bear the brunt.

  “Can we get a Wii, Mommy?” Brendan asked. He sat in the backseat, his short legs not yet touching the floorboard.

  Dawn looked in the rearview mirror at her son. “Who has one, Brendan?” She took a right onto Woodycrest, headed toward home.

  “Nobody.”

  “Come on, fess up, kiddo?”

  Brendan smiled. “Tara.”

  “Is her last name Jones?” Dawn laughed at her own stupid joke. “We’ll have to discuss this, honey, okay.”

  “Car, Mommy,” Brendan said. He pointed to their driveway. Brendan had a perpetual look of just having woken up. His hair always tossed about, clothes wrinkled, fingers in his mouth. He liked to wear shorts all the time, winter or summer. He had a hard time separating himself from his favorite Red Sox T-shirt. There was a picture Brendan had colored in daycare on the seat next to him—a sunset, house, stick-figure mom holding the hand of a sad child, the dad standing off to the side.

  “I see, honey.” Dawn didn’t recognize the vehicle at first.

  As she drove by a heaping pile of dry copper-colored maple leaves in the gutter of the road, they blew away like confetti from the whoosh of the car. The neighbor, Mr. Groeshel, was clipping hedges. He waved as Dawn went by.

  “When is Daddy going to be home?” Brendan asked. He took one of his planes and pretend-flew it in front of him, making a buzzing sound, spittle spraying on the back of the headrest of the front seat.

  “Soon, I hope.” Dawn was puzzled by the presence of her guest after realizing who it was. Father John O’Brien stood, leaning on the trunk of his battered Ford Escort, reading the newspaper.

  When Dawn emerged from her green Accord, Father John walked over and hugged her. Brendan grabbed his book bag, said hello wi
th an embarrassed smirk. Being around clergy made the boy nervous.

  “Hi, Father. What brings you around?”

  “I need to speak with Jake, Dawn. Our last conversation ended on a bad note. Will he be home soon?” Father John’s cloud-white hair blew in the slight wind. “It’s chilly for this time of the year, eh?” He wore a knee-length black wool coat with a bat-wing collar, Russian spy-like. “I didn’t want to call and warn him, you know what I mean.”

  She did. “Smart, Father. You want some tea? Come inside.”

  “You ready for First Communion?” Father asked Brendan, rustling the top of the boy’s head. “Only a few years away, my son.” Father John was in his early seventies. One of those old-school Boston Irish Catholic priests with rosy-red, chubby cheeks, bulging belly, and gentle manner. “I should have called first.”

  “No, Father. It’s quite all right.”

  As Dawn and Father John chatted, Brendan ran off with a neighborhood friend into the backyard. Dawn watched him and the other boy race around the corner, wishing life was as simple as a childhood game.

  “Last one there’s a rotten egg,” Brendan screamed.

  6

  Thursday, September 4 – 3:23 P.M.

  Jake Cooper grabbed his keys and Motorola. Before heading out of his office, the big man stopped. One hand on the door, hesitation saddled him. It was time to man up, Jake supposed. Prove all those bastards how wrong they were.

  Just as he was about to leave, Jake turned and caught a glimpse himself in the mirror on the opposite side of the room. He looked pale, pasty, and worn out. Six foot three, 210 pounds, all chest and arms, Jake hadn’t changed much physically since becoming a cop fifteen years ago. He once read that variety was for the weak-minded. The undecided. So he went out and bought five of the same dark blue Hager suits, FBI-certified. Five white Ralph Lauren dress shirts. A collection of pastel-colored ties. Today he wore fire-engine red against that familiar G-man uniform. Mixing it up, Jake clipped on one of those American flag pins politicians started attaching to their lapels post-9/11, with the exception that Jake wore his for far different reasons.

  Mo Blackhall was down the hall, getting ready to leave. He heard Jake’s door click shut, then footsteps. Back in the day, Mo was that cop. The one you smacked on the shoulder every morning after roll call so the other cops saw you do it. The guy you blew off your wife for on Saturday nights to sit next to at the poker table. Had beers with at Red Sox games while screaming obscenities at slumping players. If you needed something, even from brass, Mo got it done.

  As Jake made his way down the hallway, Mo came around the corner, stepped in front of him.

  Jake cut him off with raised hands. “Not now, Mo. I’m working a tip. Gotta run and meet Dickie.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Mo said. He sported a face full of salt-and-pepper stubble. Mo looked tired, raccoon bags under his eyes. Shaking his head, a cocky grin and smart-ass laugh Jake hated, he said: “This is your big chance, huh, kid?”

  That hurt. Kid. What a slap. But Jake had no time to get into this now. Anyway, Mo had his own demons to contend with. He was on his way out. Sure, Mo had carried Jake Cooper up through the force, showing him the ropes. In many ways, Mo rescued Jake from the streets of Southie. But he’d been the subject of rumors the past year. No one seemed to know what was going on. The only thing certain was that Mo was too damn drunk to care or notice.

  Standing, getting a good whiff of him, Jake could tell Mo had just hit his flask—and the drinking was, Jake knew, the least of Mo Blackhall’s problems. Definitely not the reason why the lieutenant wasn’t allowing him out of the office to investigate cases anymore.

  “Mo, listen. I don’t have time for this!” Jake pushed himself past his former mentor, made a beeline for the elevators.

  Mo followed, fidgeting with an unlit cigar stub in his mouth. “We need to talk, Jake. You’re part of this.” He paused. “Don’t forget where you’re from. You got debts, too, kiddo.”

  Those contemptuous threats rustled Jake, making the anxiety flow hot, like nicotine, through his veins. The guy had some nerve.

  “Jake, you on your way?” Dickie said over the radio. Jake was in the elevator, pushing the G button with the asterisk next to it.

  Mo stood in front of the elevator doors as they closed. “You can only break so many times without shattering, Jake.” He used his hands to mime an explosion.

  “Give me ten minutes,” Jake said to his partner, dropping his head as the elevator doors closed, and Mo disappeared from view.

  In the lobby downstairs, Jake kicked the door into the parking lot open, those words shaking him up.

  … You’re part of this. …

  There was that damn residue of ancient days, emerging like rust. Jake’s legs were heavy as stone. What else could Mo be referring to?

  “The past will always be there, Jake.” The conversation took place two weeks ago. Jake was walking away from Father John O’Brien, throwing up his hands, saying he was finished with the Church. He had no faith left. He had gone to the priest for guidance. Support. Jake still couldn’t reconcile with a God who could allow an innocent little girl to die the way she did? “We carry all our sins with us,” Father John continued as Jake stopped before heading out the rectory door. “You either face them, or allow them to destroy you.” Jake hadn’t seen Father John since.

  Before taking off in his Crown Vic, Jake took a deep breath.

  One death at a time.

  7

  Thursday, September 4 – 3:46 P.M.

  Jake sat with Dickie inside his Crown Vic, talking. D-15’s lead detective was preoccupied. Mo had got him thinking. Then the anxiety problem he had battled all his life took over from there. They were parked on Crest Hill Road in Somerville, the edge of the Mystic River, a putrid, skunky stank of oil and sewage infiltrating the car. Dickie was on stakeout. Couple of meth heads, a CI reported, lived in a nearby row house and cooked the drug in a mobile home parked in the back. Jake was there because a lead had come in from a couple of kids walking in the Garden the night before Miss Unknown DB had been discovered. The guards claimed to have seen a guy with a bag slung over his shoulder, walking toward the pond. Jake checked with park security who happened to note that one of its officers—he hated when security guards called themselves “officers”—had just been fired. The disgruntled employee warned his boss on the way out that payback was definitely going to be a bitch. “The guy had those serial killer eyes,” the guard had told Rookie. “Weird dude. Lives alone. Keeps to himself.” Another guard added, “Yeah, and, well, he liked his porn. I caught him checking out those Asian websites. Young girls in blond wigs.”

  Jake had heard his share of security guard theories throughout his career and knew it was probably nothing, but it needed to be checked out nonetheless.

  “I’ll take a ride over there this afternoon.”

  “You know, this case could be as easy as a whacko security guard,” Dickie said. “I’ll be tied up here”—he checked his watch—“until about three.”

  Jake made a point to tell Dickie he wanted D-15’s top tech on the Garden job, adding, “Make sure Anastasia is ready for me. We need to go through anything she found at the crime scene.” Anastasia Rossi was the Sports Illustrated swimsuit-hot Italian CSI in Jake’s Crimes Against Persons unit. She had swept the Public Garden scene after Miss Unknown DB was taken to the morgue. Snapped photos. Collected trace. Poured molds of footprints.

  Jake had not seen her report yet. “I need to get that info into my iPhone as soon as possible.”

  Dickie closed his eyes, gave a slow head-shake.

  They were making some ground. Jake was eager to head out and begin digging into the case himself, hands-on. But then Dawn called. Father John was at the house. “He said it was important.”

  Now Jake was on his way home.

  He drove by a woman pushing a stroller, her husband walking by her side. Watching them, it reminded Jake of the life he’d once had with Da
wn. No matter how he felt about it, he knew the YMCA coaching gig Dawn had taken on this past spring was good for her. All those clichéd feelings that go along with giving back. It was an all-girls soccer team, composed of kids on welfare, abused, in all sorts of social situations many middleclass Bostonians never had to deal with. Jake had encouraged Dawn to do it. “Get out, make a difference.”

  Jake pulled into the driveway. Father John stood with Dawn on the porch.

  Before getting out of the car, Jake hit the app on his iPhone and zeroed in on the location where Rookie had said he interviewed those security guards. He tapped out a brief note—check Rookie’s log—and hit save.

  The chime rang. He looked up. Sighed.

  Father.

  Jake walked up the path toward the house, noticing the spider-web cracks in the cement. Father John and Dawn sat on the porch swing. Brendan came around from the backyard after hearing his father’s car, jumped into Jake’s arms.

  “Hey, how you doing, buddy?”

  “Can we go to Buster’s for ice cream tonight, Daddy?”

  “We’ll see, Bren. Let me talk to Father and Mommy first.”

  Jake made the stairs and leaned against the porch railing, folded his arms in front of himself. He looked above the bench seat at the tin star he had put on the house when they moved in. It was as big as one of those along the Hollywood Walk Of Fame. Jake wondered why he bought it. He had picked the thing up one day while trolling the aisles of the Christmas Tree Shops with Dawn.

  “Always good to see you, Jake.”

  “You, too, Father. What’s up? I have something going on right now.” The tension of their last conversation buzzed between them like a family secret.