THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller

by M. William Phelps

  Dawn smiled, got up, patted Father on the knee. “I’ll leave you two be. Brendan, Daddy needs to talk to Father. Go play in the back, okay, honey?”

  Brendan took off without argument.

  “What can I do for you?” Jake asked.

  Dawn walked into the house. “Stop by anytime, Father,” she said through the screen door.

  “Thanks.” To Jake: “I’m having some trouble at the parish again. I need you to stop by when you can.” He was referring to St. Paul’s in Southie, a church Jake had attended since his baptism, walked away from after confirmation, went back to in adulthood, but had totally given up on since the little-girl case. Then there was that last conversation he and Father John had, Jake’s faith once again in question, and he was sure he wasn’t going back.

  “Threats?”

  “Yeah, but maybe it’s more than that this time.”

  “What do you mean? I kinda got my hands full right now.”

  “That’s your case,” Father John commented, “the one in the papers?”

  “It is.”

  “Well, I don’t want to bother you, then.” Father John stood, took a good look at Jake, slapped him gingerly on the right shoulder. “I have a couple to meet in fifteen minutes, anyway.” The priest looked toward his car. “Young and eager to get married. You know the type. They live in the next neighborhood over. I’ll let you be.”

  “Father, you okay? You come all the way over here to just leave?” Jake sensed something. He noticed how the priest had looked away when he mentioned meeting the young couple. Jake was no kinesics expert, but had been to several conferences on the interpretation of body language and facial expressions. The priest was anxious. Jake had known Father John all his life—and he had never mentioned reading about one of Jake’s cases in the newspaper. Did he have information?

  “Fine, Jake. Fine. Just stop by the parish when you get a minute, promise me.” Father reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboros. He offered one to Jake (who refused), took it for himself, struck a match, and then took a long, powerful pull, exhaling slowly away from Jake.

  “Of course. But I’m here now. What’s going on?”

  The case of the Unknown DB was about to take its first major turn, as Jake Cooper knew it would.

  Father John said, “It’s Deacon Patrick O’Keefe, Jake. He’s—”

  “Hold on a minute, Father.” Jake’s attention was diverted by Dickie racing up in front of the house, chirping to stop. “What was that about the deacon, Father?”

  “Nothing, Jake. It can wait. Come by and see me when you have time.” Father took another drag, watched Dickie get out of his car, stubbed the cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe, put the unfinished butt back into the pack for later.

  Dickie must have something good. Jake had made it clear earlier not to call him unless it was important. Plus, that stakeout. Why was Dickie here?

  “I need to speak with my partner, Padre, sorry.” Jake stepped off the porch. He and Dickie shared eye contact.

  “I understand,” Father said.

  “What is it, Dick?”

  Dickie waited until the priest was out of earshot.

  “Well, Mr. Cooper, we were right.”

  Jake was impatient. Dickie liked to have fun when he had information. Jake hated it. “Let’s have it, Dickie? Spit it out. I’m busy here.”

  “Jake, our DB wasn’t the Northwestern girl, Alyssa ...”

  “What?” Jake said as Dickie flipped through pages in his notebook.

  “Alyssa … ah, here it is. Alyssa Bettencourt.”

  “That’s what you get when you use a damn missing-persons flyer to identify a corpse.” Jake waved to Father John as the priest got into his car and backed out of the driveway. Father made a gesture with his hand—thumb and pinky out, other fingers folded to make a pretend phone, and put it to his ear—to call him.

  Jake and Dickie had somewhat expected this development.

  “Tell me something I don’t know here, Dick? What’s the punch line?”

  “That corpse was frozen. And you were right. She was thawed and then her face beaten post-mortem.”

  Jake found himself staring at the weeds overtaking the cement walkway leading up to his porch, thinking, hands in his pockets.

  “The body is that of a young female,” Dickie continued. “She’s eighteen. She was, rather. Blond. Blue eyes. And get this, there was DNA—blood—found on her face that does not belong to her.”

  Silence from Jake. Then: “Male or female?”

  “Female.”

  “So we now have a positive ID on our Unknown, then? That what you’re telling me?”

  Dickie shuffled about. “Yes, yes. Hold it. … Her name is … Lisa Marie Taylor. Graduated from North Cambridge Catholic High in June. Spent part of the summer with relatives in Dover, New Hampshire. We’re on it, but that’s all we got right now, Kid.”

  “How’d you ID her?”

  “She was reported missing five days ago.”

  “The doc say anything else?” Jake keyed a note to himself into on his iPhone—Dover? A link? “Any connection yet, Dickie, between Bettencourt and Lisa Marie?”

  There was something else. Possibly the first major lead. But Dickie wasn’t giving it up. Not yet. He was still waiting to hear from the lab. Nothing worse than getting Jake’s hopes up only to let him down.

  “Doc Kelsey wants us there first thing in the morning, Jake. She’s still working things out.”

  “Alyssa’s body is nearby. We need to find her.”

  “I put Rookie and a blue on it.”

  “Find out where Rookie grew up—isn’t he from New Hampshire?”

  “Not sure.”

  “You know what this means, Dick,” Jake said. He looked to the left of Dickie. Stared off into the empty space between his house and the nearby woods. “Means we got ourselves a serial who favors young blondes.”

  8

  Friday, September 5 - 8:02 A.M.

  Mo Blackhall was in the squad room early, waiting for Jake to show up.

  At one time Mo was a church-going family man who treated his wife, Colleen, as if no other woman existed. They took cruises every year to Alaska or the Caribbean. Mo bought her expensive jewelry for birthdays, Christmas and anniversaries. He never missed a day of work. Out on the brick, there was not a smoother cop than Mo Blackhall. The guy knew Southie as well as the Irish ganstas running it. But his attitude had changed at some point. Mo got quiet. Then Colleen drifted as he started coming home late, disappearing on weekends. Three years ago, Colleen got fed up. Met an FBI agent. Took off. Thing about it was, Mo didn’t give a shit.

  Jake stopped before opening his office door. Tore off the note Mo had left. Crumpled it.

  I need this shit now.

  Mo was one of those old-fashioned cops. Bred from the traditional school of ill-tempered Irish law enforcement still hanging on from the sixties. Of Scottish descent, a touch of the accent still there, Mo had heard his share of Austin Powers-Fat Bastard jokes. The truth was, Mo had packed on a few pounds. With his crooked and caved-in nose, he could not escape his youth as a welterweight boxer. Mo became friends with former world champ Marvin Hagler, who grew up and lived in Brockton, after working a death threat case against the former champ. Mo didn’t talk about his boxing days and no one ever asked. But Jake knew Mo had thrown a few fights in his day when money was short.

  Jake’s former rabbi sat behind a mahogany desk. The dust was so thick you could write your name. Papers were scattered all over the place. Mo chewed on an unlit cigar. Stared at Jake as he pushed open the door angrily, walked in.

  It was time, Jake knew, that he and Mo got a few things out in the open. Jake had been stewing over their last conversation. He needed to be certain Mo was not about to destroy what was the last chance Jake had to prove himself.

  “What’s this?” Jake asked, throwing the note at Mo.

  Mo watched the balled-up paper fall to the floor. Righted his six-
foot-two, 230-pound frame, hitching up his trousers. Jake’s former mentor had developed a beer gut over the years. The flab protruded from his midsection, fell over his belt, tightened his shirt—a pillowcase full of sand.

  “Sit down, Jake. Good to see you.” Smugness. Jake had a short fuse for it.

  “What’s up with you, Mo?” A pang of the unknown smacked Jake’s comfort zone. He paced in front of Mo’s desk, feeling that angst well up. Here was his chance to show brass and all those naysayers he wasn’t some burned-out cop, and Mo was messing with it. As a young patrol officer, during the heyday of the Big Dig construction project downtown (a three-and-a-half-mile re-routing of Interstate 93, changing it into a $15 billion tunnel under the city), it wasn’t as if Jake knew what he was doing all those times Mo had asked him to deliver a package here, an envelope there. Favors. Every cop had debts. Was Jake a bit naïve about it? Sure. But back then he wanted what Mo had. And ignorance was a trait every great cop needed to master. The code of the successful: Never question. No one figured the Big Dig would go over budget by tens of millions and be the focus of a media frenzy and an internal investigation.

  “Close the damn door before you speak, Jake, okay.” Mo turned serious. “Have I not taught you anything.”

  Jake slammed it shut with his foot. “Hot case here, Mo. I don’t need you fucking with it. Keep your damn nose out of this. Do your time. Leave with your pension. Be grateful for that, man. Whatever’s up between you and brass and Matikas, it’s not my thing. You and I, we’re even.”

  “That Public Garden vic was mine, Jake. I’m the senior in this unit! Don’t ever forget that.” Mo had thought Matikas was going to use him. At the last minute Matikas decided on Jake, telling Mo he was done for good out in the field. He would never investigate a case a again.

  “Come on. Give me a break. Ray was never going to allow you back out, Mo. You blew it. Accept that and be happy you still have a chance to get out of the department without being indicted.”

  Mo’s computer stared at both of them, the screen saver set on 3D Pipes. As he sat down on the couch in Mo’s office, Jake focused on the Etch-A-Sketch-like image of the pipes crawling around the screen.

  Mo took a breath, sat. “How ya been, Jake? How’s Dawn and Bren?”

  “Don’t go there. You lost that right to ask about them.” Jake noticed Mo’s hands shaking. “Haven’t hit it yet today, I see.”

  “I can help you with this case, Jake—”

  “No fucking way.” Jake stood. Stabbed a forefinger into the top of Mo’s desk, accenting each word. “No, Mo. Not in a million years. Don’t do this to me. Shit, man. Come on.”

  “That’s all I want. This one last dance. Forget all that bullshit about you showing brass you still got what it takes. You won’t be able to do this without me, Jake. I taught you what you know.”

  “Even if I wanted you in, Ray would never allow it.”

  “Well, my former student, I’m confident you’ll find a way to get around that little problem, won’t you?” Mo sat back in his chair. Smirked. Twirled his cigar. Squinted.

  Jake felt the juxtaposition of the past and present converging in front of him as if two blurry images had become one in the same. What am I doing? I’m in over my head. How long had it been? What, twelve years? No, fifteen, actually. He remembered meeting Mo that first time on Dorchester Street in Southie. Mo was working the Caddy’s Liquor Store beat. He was like a fun uncle. The one you waited all year to see at Thanksgiving. He took Jake under his wing. Jake was just a punk kid then. Running “errands” for Bulger soldiers as part of his initiation, trying to find his place in Southie. Almost ten years later, Jake stood at roll call next to Mo, who viewed him then as the kid who’d made it out of Southie and fought like hell to make something of his life. It was a time when Mo respected the good in people. Throughout the years, as Jake grew into his role as a cop and stirred up the waters, Mo kept brass off his back. Jake looked up to Mo then. Mo taught him that solving cases was about how those on the street viewed you. No one, including the crooks who paid them, gave a shit about dirty cops. “You don’t mess with things, most of all,” Mo once explained to Jake, “that are none of your business. Keep your nose out of where it doesn’t belong, no matter what you think.”

  “I’m in deep here, Jake,” Mo said. There was a beggar’s distress to his gravelly voice. His demeanor had changed. “You’re going to either make me part of this case, or I need a favor from you. Your choice.” He paused. Then: “But you’re doing one or the other.”

  Jake wanted to walk away. Slam the door in Mo’s face. But something kept him there, listening, thinking. He walked closer to Mo. Those 3D pipes. How they kept going and going. Some things were forever.

  You got debts.

  “Mo, don’t take me down with you. Please.”

  “Sit, Jake. Let me explain.”

  “I’ll stand, Mo. Thanks. I really need to get going. One body’s turned into two.”

  A sparkle came into Mo’s eyes. He beamed. “Serial killer. Ah. You see, that’s what I’m talking about. You were born for this shit. I saw it in you back in the day. That fire is still there. After all these years. Listen to you.” Getting up, Mo walked over and grabbed his ex-apprentice by the back of the neck. They were almost nose to nose. Jake wasn’t moving for some reason. He stared at the floor. “You need to solve this case or you won’t sleep. Am I right?” Mo picked Jake’s head up. Looked him in the eyes. Slapped him gently on his right cheek. Grabbed his chin as if he were a boy. “It’s not about catching a killer. It’s about reinventing Jake Cooper. Showing them who you are. Proving you’re not like me.”

  Jake didn’t respond. The exchange reminded him of the last time he had spoken to his father—that tension between them, an uncomfortable uncertainty. Like Jake was talking to someone he didn’t know.

  “You need them to like you,” Mo said quietly. “You always needed people to like you, Jake.”

  Jake broke away. “I’m leaving, Mo. You’re not part of this case. Forget it.”

  Mo walked back behind his desk. Jake could hear him laughing under his breath.

  The idea that Mo needed his help made Jake’s insides burn. His temples throb. The teacher had become the student. How could a guy change so much? Fall so far from grace. What happened to Mo must have been the part of the movie Jake had slept through. Why was the guy drinking like this? Talking crazy? What had Jake missed?

  “I need to catch this sick bastard who cut the legs off this girl. And get him off the street, Mo. Don’t come in between that. This is about nailing a killer, not me owing you anything. Think of these girls.”

  Jake walked into the hallway.

  Mo relit his cigar, took a puff, then blew on the head to get it red hot. Ashes fluttered in the air around him like dust particles floating in a beam of sunshine. He looked at Jake. “You just keep an eye on that partner of yours, Detective Shaughnessy.” Mo was as serious as Jake had ever heard him. Dickie and Mo had a history, Jake understood. Neither would say much about it. They were partners once. Had a falling-out. That was the public side of it. Jake knew there was more—much more. “Make sure he keeps his Irish nose out of what’s none of his damn business,” Mo said. “You tell him that. He’ll know what I’m talking about. Don’t give me that bullshit you don’t know, either, Jake.”

  Jake turned. It was too much. Mo’s life was in stage-four turmoil.

  “And that favor, Detective Cooper,” Mo yelled from behind his desk, getting up. “I need you to do that for me and we’ll consider ourselves even.”

  Jake looked in both directions, walked inside Mo’s doorway. “What favor, Mo? Make it quick.”

  “Take a peek for me in a file downtown. Mancini Construction. See if I’m tied to that investigation.”

  Jake rubbed his temples, paused. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Come on, Jake. It’s not so bad.”

  “Not doing it, Mo. Forget it.”

  “Okay.” Mo took a
breath, walked toward the door. “But hey, you might want to check if your name is part of it, too, son.”

  Mo slammed the door in Jake’s face.

  9

  Friday, September 5 - 9:11 A.M.

  As it normally did in Massachusetts during early September, the weather turned. This morning the sun was brutal, bright, and glaring. Fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk hot. The humidity no help, heading off the charts at an unbreathable intensity. The kids near the Mission Hill Playground skipping school danced around an open fire hydrant.

  Taking a right on Albany Street in Roxbury, Jake tried clearing his mind of Mo.

  … that partner of yours, Detective Shaughnessy. ….

  The stressed cop wore a pair of Fear and Loathing mirror sunglasses. Jake drove the candy apple red Chevelle he and Casey had restored together as kids. The car still had an 8-track deck, Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours sticking out of it like a pop tart. The Crown Vic was in the garage getting tuned-up. It hurt to drive the old car. Jake could see Casey sitting next to him, smiling, laughing at some stupid joke of his. Always the big brother.

  Jake pulled into the entrance, stopping at the guard shack. The wooden parking garage gate lever was down, a director’s clapboard, prohibiting Jake from passing. To his left stood the towering Officer of the Chief Medical Examiner Building. Not Jake’s favorite place.

  Howard Tiegs was one of those routine professionals Jake Cooper crossed paths with throughout his work day. Like many of the others, Tiegs saw Jake as a liability to himself. His own worse enemy. “You’re one of those ‘half-empty’ guys, Cooper, huh?” Tiegs had said the last time Jake came to the CME building.

  Jake wondered what cop wasn’t.

  “How are you, Howard?” Jake flashed his ID toward the kiosk. Sweat fell from his brow behind his sunglasses. “How’s Tyler? Still hitting those boards like Reggie Lewis, I bet.”

  Tiegs laughed. Looked up from his clipboard. Shook his head. Signed Jake in. “Ain’t no matter how long I seen you, Coop, you always remember my boy. Ty is great.” A smile. “Thanks for asking.”