Frank watched the empty and snow-covered streets go by as he sat back in his seat. The terrible weather and the paranoia over The Paean killer had obviously kept people indoors. Usually, buses would be full at this time on a Sunday morning with patrons finding their way home in a drunken stupor from a late-night club.
The bus journey took him past the gates of Madison University. He remembered the happy years he spent there as a student when life seemed so much easier. It was the place where he met Rose Ellen for the first time, he took a vacant seat next to her at a lecture. He still remembered that day clearly, even though it was over twenty years ago. They enjoyed a great love of reading and took a class together in 19th century American literature. Everything went fine for them until the twins came along. The financial strain forced Frank to leave university before he could graduate, which led to him taking up a series of jobs until he found his way back into education and trained to become a nurse.
Frank was jolted out of his musings when the bus stopped and the driver shouted, “Jefferson Street.” As he got up out of his seat and exited the bus he noticed that the other occupant, the individual with the hoodie, was also disembarking through the side door.
It would take Frank a further five minutes to reach his apartment building on foot, but the deepening snow was making walking challenging. The hooded figure followed him as he traversed his way up Jefferson street. His follower was younger, leaner and moving quicker. Frank stopped for a moment to get a grip on his bags and as he did he observed the figure walk past him and take a right onto Mount Vernon Avenue and then disappear from view.
By now, the main gate of the apartment building would have been locked and the night watchmen had probably gone home. In cases such as these, when the tenants arrived late at night, they were given the keys to the back door for quiet and easy access.
As Frank walked through the parking lot towards the back door, he felt someone watching him. He stopped and did a full sweep of the lot but saw no one. He had this niggling at the back of his neck that someone had followed him into the parking lot. Chalking it up to stress and paranoia, he turned towards the door and resumed walking. Suddenly a loud noise pierced the air and Frank froze. He turned again and scanned the area. As he had moved further inside the enclosure, it became more difficult for him to see clearly, in fact the low lighting and the falling snow made it difficult for him to see anything. He thought he saw a person sliding behind the pillars of the surrounding palisade, but it could easily have been a shadow of a tree. Now, his heart started to beat faster, and he was sweating profusely despite the freezing conditions. His gaze darted left and right, and he swore that he saw something move behind a car.
“Is anyone there?” Frank called out hesitantly but in a loud voice. “I don’t have any money or anything else, if that’s what you are looking for.”
No answer returned to him as he heaved an icy breath. Eventually, he reached the back door and gladly locked it behind him. The next challenge was climbing the five flights of stairs as the elevator was out of service for the last nine days. The adrenaline from his recent scare outside fueled his journey upwards.
Reaching the third floor he stopped to rest a moment. As he did so he imagined that he could hear the sound of someone else climbing the stairs behind him. Listening for a minute, the resonance appeared to silence and again, as had happened outside he put it down to foolish paranoia. Five flights up Frank was a few yards away from his apartment door and reached into his pocket to have his key ready. This time the steps could be heard again and this time there was no doubting their reality. Now he realized that he wasn’t simply imagining the sound, someone was indeed following him.
All that talk in the shop with the kid about the serial killer came back to him in a rush. He was imaging himself dying on the stairs and his sons discovering his body in the afternoon. Realising that he had to accelerate his pace to get to his door he broke into a stride and dropped the shopping bags he was carrying. As he did so a bottle of soda dropped to the floor, rolled back towards the staircase and began to rebound step after step downwards. Tripping over his own feet in panic he stumbled towards his apartment door, which was at the end of the corridor near the emergency exit. Pulling himself upwards he clawed his way up the door as his shaking hand tried on three unsuccessful occasions to get the key into the lock. He could feel the presence of another person bearing down on him. A hand closed in on his shoulder, which made him scream. He dropped his keys and cupped his hands to protect his face, as the strong hand pulled him up by his shoulder.
“Mr. Anderson, are you all right?” a male voice said.
Frank recognized the voice immediately. It was Ronald, the maintenance man who lived in the apartment beside him. Frank lowered his hands and stood there. He thought he was having a mini heart attack. His heart felt like it would rip through his chest as he gasped for air.
“I, I, I… I am.” Frank took a huge breath and tried to speak but his throat was all dried up. He bent over, placed his hands on his knees and took massive gulps of oxygen.
Ronald wound his hand around Frank’s shoulder and talked to him slowly. “Mr. Anderson, do you need me to get you a glass of water?”
Frank shook his head. Ronald unlocked his door and lugged Frank into his apartment. He lowered him gently on a chair at a small circular table and went to the sink to pour him a glass of water.
Frank grasped the glass in his shaking hands and took small sips.
“Thank you, for a minute there, I thought my heart was about to give out. You scared me, but it wasn’t your fault. I was all worked up, imagining all sorts of nonsense.”
“About the Paean killer, don’t worry, you aren’t the only one. I’ve seen bigger guys than you… no offence Frank, terrified tonight. Everybody is imagining that somebody is following them… It’s kind of funny when you think about it.” Ronald smiled.
Frank nodded at Ronald and then asked, “Did you see anyone else when you were coming up?”
“No. Why? Did someone get inside the building?”
“I am sure it’s no one but I felt as if someone was following when I got out of the bus.”
“Do you want me to sweep the building?” Ronald suggested.
“No. It’s fine. I’ll go back to my apartment. Thanks, Ronald and good night.”
“Goodnight Mr. Anderson.”
Frank walked out of Ronald’s apartment towards his own door. He took out the key from his pocket and turned the lock. As he stepped over the threshold, he felt something crinkle under his feet. He looked down and discovered that there was an envelope with his name on it. It looked like someone had pushed it from underneath the door so that he could notice it when he entered his apartment.
He bent down and picked up the envelope. He flipped it over and saw that there was no address on the back. Tossing the key in the bowl on the side table nearby he walked over to an armchair in the corner of the small apartment. Taking off his shoes he sat with his feet on the ottoman.
He looked at the envelope and raised it towards the light. All that he could make out was that there was a single sheet of paper inside and there was something written on it. He slid his finger underneath the envelope and slowly tore open the flap. When he took out the paper, there were two lines written on it in bold, italic handwriting: Thus on the coffin loud and long, I strike the murmur sent.
Reading the words over and over again he realized that he had read them before. He quickly went to the kitchen table, flipped open his laptop and booted it up, cursing how slow it was. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, he was able to click on the server icon and open the search engine. Writing in the line from the note he froze when he discovered the search result.
He outstretched his shaking arm towards his phone. Picking up the receiver he dialed and waited for a reply.
“911. What’s your emergency?” a woman’s voice asked.
“This is Frank Anderson and I think that I have just receive
d a letter from A Paean Killer.”
“Sir, please lock your door and turn on the lights in the room. If you can call for help from your neighbour, then please do so but do not open the door to anyone else unless you trust them. Now, please give me your address and I will dispatch officers to your residence.”
***
Twenty minutes later Frank was sitting in Sam Harper’s office.
“Can I get you anything, Frank, water or another coffee?” Callaghan asked.
“No, no, I’m okay.”
“Mr. Anderson. You are safe now. You are under our protection. Please relax and tell us what happened,” Harper said softly.
Frank took a huge sigh and began to speak.
Chapter 17: The Evil that Men do
Sunday 6th December 2009
Mayfield Street Precinct
9:00 AM
“This is getting crazy and unmanageable,” Callaghan said to Harper, sitting at his desk with his head in his hands.
“I know,” he replied in a whisper.
“We have at this point twenty-six men who believe they received a note with a line from A Paean being held in Police Stations for their safety all across the city and it’s only friggin’ morning time, this is only going to get worse.”
“Donal Keane is under surveillance 24/7 for the last number of days. For Christ’s sake, if the guy takes a dump we know about it, how could he have physically delivered all of those letters?” Harper said and thumped the desk with frustration.
“If I can just interrupt here for a minute,” Logue said.
“Yes, Ray, anything would be helpful at this point,” Callaghan replied.
“If a murder does take place today it will be the killer’s eighth murder if we count the five that have taken place here in Boston since 1989 and the two that took place in Ireland in ‘79,” Logue outlined.
“Right… Yes, we have gathered that much,” Harper said sarcastically.
“So, the killer is working from verse eight of the poem: Thus, on the coffin loud and long
I strike the murmur sent. Through the gray chambers to my song,
Shall be the accompaniment,” Logue read aloud from the photocopy of the poem. “Out of the twenty-six men who have come forward and showed us that they received a line from A Paean, only five of them so far have given us a line from verse eight. The other twenty-one have given us a note with a line from verse six because the newspaper report only mentioned the five previous Boston victims. There was no mention of the two Irish victims. The report in the paper also did not print which killing in the past was associated with the corresponding line from a verse. So that tells us that either some of these guys coming forward are cranks who wrote the notes themselves, or else there are people going around the city with a very dark, sick and twisted sense of humour who want to scare the shit out of these poor fuckers.”
“So, what are you saying is we have to be more selective with the men who ring in claiming to have received a line from the poem?” Harper asked.
“Yes… Basically, yes. We only concentrate on the ones who have received a line from verse eight. That must have come from the killer. We analyse security cameras of those buildings to monitor who delivered the envelopes. The murderer is trying to confuse us. The leak to the press has helped him with this confusion because the entire Boston police force are running around like blue arsed flies, as my mother used to say. Unfortunately, in this mayhem he or she will strike,” Logue responded.
“Right, well it sounds like a good idea to me,” Callaghan replied.
“Okay, let’s do it. I’ll get officers to examine the security camera footage from the buildings where a line from verse eight was delivered. Hopefully, we might get the person who dropped off the envelopes on camera,” Harper said, rising from his chair and exiting his office.
“It can’t be Keane who is delivering the envelopes if we have him under surveillance. Does that mean we rule him out, have we been wasting time barking up the wrong tree all this time while the real killer is roaming free?” Callaghan pondered.
“I suppose it’s unlikely, unless he can be in two places at the one time… or else he has paid somebody to deliver the envelopes.”
“Yeah, that’s also a possibility.”
“Anyway, I can’t think straight on an empty stomach, come on, you can treat me to breakfast,” Logue said.
“How the hell have you an appetite, Ray? I feel sick with nerves.”
“You got to keep your strength up, Callaghan.”
***
Three hours later Harper had called a meeting in the conference room. Logue, Callaghan, Woods and twenty other detectives were crammed in. Harper stood up to address the gathering.
“Right, it’s midday, we are half way through December sixth, and so far no reports of a murder in the city. That’s good news at least, we took our colleague from Ireland’s advice and we are only bringing in individuals who have received a note with a line from verse eight of the poem. So far, the number of men, because remember if the killer follows his pattern it’s always a man murdered on December sixth, is thirteen across the city in police stations for their own protection. They will not be allowed to go home until midday tomorrow. The number of people ringing in claiming to have received a note from the killer seems to be levelling off now. It was hectic earlier, but it has reduced considerably so that’s a positive development also. Our chief suspect, Donal Keane, is being closely observed by our surveillance team and there is nothing to report from them. We are continuing to monitor the security footage from the buildings of the thirteen men who received notes containing a line from the poem. Some of the footage from the buildings is useless because the cameras are not directed towards the doors of the apartments where these men live. We have managed to capture footage of individuals delivering envelopes to five of the apartments. In each case they appear to be youths, their heads and faces covered with hoods, scarves and sunglasses. We are trying to locate those youths. Perhaps they were hired by the killer to deliver the envelopes. If we can locate one of them at least that would be a major development. That’s all I can tell you so far. We have to keep our eyes and ears open, be proactive not reactive, folks.”
Logue looked sideways at Callaghan and raised his eyebrows in amusement as he whispered, “Cliché, cliché, cliché.”
“Ray, did anybody ever tell you that you are a smart ass?” Callaghan responded.
“Now that you come to mention it… yes.”
As Harper was preparing to finish off his speech the door to the conference room opened and a female officer entered and beckoned towards him.
“Ehhh… Just hold on a minute. Yes, Officer Tomlinson, what is it?”
“It’s Donal Keane. The surveillance team can’t find him. He was in a restaurant having lunch, he went to the restroom and he… disappeared.”
“He what… he disappeared, how the hell could he just disappear?”
“He must have got out a window, the surveillance team said.”
“Did the assholes not think of covering the rear of the building, for Christ’s sake?”
“Sorry, Inspector Harper, I’m just passing on the information, I thought that you needed to know.”
“Right, let’s put out an APB, we have to get the bastard.”
Chapter 18: Dark Energy
Monday 7th December 2009
Bellevue Hill, Boston
11:00 AM
Logue and Callaghan were on route to Donal Keane’s residence in the Bellevue Hill district in West Roxbury. Harper and Woods had gone back to Madison College to talk to the staff there to see if they could shed any light on his whereabouts. As Callaghan drove, Logue postulated on all that had happened over the previous twenty-four hours.
“So far, no murder victims have shown up, that’s something I suppose. Do you think Keane got scared and has gone into hiding?”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t be too sure about no murder victims turning up yet though,” Callagh
an responded as she swung her car around a tight S-bend.
“This is Keane’s place here just up ahead, you can pull in above that silver CR-V,” Logue said as Callaghan took his advice and brought her car to a stop.
“Ooooh fancy place… I like it, don’t think I will ever afford a house like this on my friggin’ salary,” Callaghan said as she opened her door and got out.
“Your place isn’t too bad, Olivia. Well, the bed is a bit fucked.”
“Whose fault is that?” Callaghan said and gave Logue a wry smile.
As they reached the top of the steps the front door was open. Inside in the hallway two uniformed officers stood guard. They acknowledged Callaghan and Logue as they walked by.
“I thought yourself and Harper searched this place upside down before, what do you think we will find today that you couldn’t find the last time?” Callaghan asked.
“Who knows, even a brilliant detective like me misses important clues sometimes. You start in the living room, I’m going to try the master bedroom.”
“Yes, sir,” Callaghan said and saluted the Irishman.
After two hours the search was again proving tiresome and seeming pointless as Logue sat on a Queen Anne chair in the hallway outside a guest bedroom and looked around him. Callaghan came out onto the hallway below him and looked up. “Are you slacking again on the job, Logue?”
“Why don’t you come up here, Callaghan and we can look around the master bedroom again. There is one hell of a bed in there.”
“Logue you’re such a…”
“Such a what?”
“Such a friggin’ slime ball.”
“Ah, but you’re mad about me, Callaghan, I can tell by the way you stare at me.”
“What?”
“I caught you a good few times, don’t try to deny it.”
Nine Lives Page 12
