Eight in the Box (7 page)

CHAPTER 17

S
ergeant Mooney’s silver Ford Taurus was parked on the street behind
a black SUV. Angel Alves parked behind them and made his way to the back door of the McCarthy house. He stepped through the small mudroom, its walls covered in old-fashioned bead board, and directly into the kitchen. Before he found Mooney, he could hear his voice.

“Mr. McCarthy,” Alves said, extending his hand to the man seated at the kitchen table with Mooney.

“Call me Walter.”

“Any luck?” Alves gestured to a pile of credit card statements.

“Nothing from New Balance,” Mooney said. “But we did find something strange. One of her suits is missing.”

“When I got here,” Walter McCarthy said, “Susan’s mother was upstairs going through her stuff.” The man looked as though he hadn’t slept since he’d gotten the news of his ex-wife’s disappearance. “She just wants to touch everything Susan wore, to smell her again.” He stopped talking for a moment, trying to control his own emotions. He took a breath. “As she’s going through the closet she notices that Susan’s favorite blue suit is missing. It was an expensive suit that she bought in New York last fall. Susan called it her money suit.”

“Are you sure it’s not in the house?” Alves asked.

“I’m sure,” McCarthy said. “We looked everywhere. My mother-in-law is upstairs now, taking another look.” He glanced at the ceiling above them. “It’s really getting to her.”

“What about Fidelity?” Alves asked. “Could she have left the suit at work?”

“I checked with her supervisor,” Mooney said. “She kept some clothes in a closet, but there was no suit.”

“Dry cleaners?” Alves asked.

“She’s gone to the same place for years. They keep track of everything by phone number. She had a few things that she dropped off on Saturday, but no suit.”

“Angel, let me talk to you outside for a minute. Could you excuse us, Walter?” Mooney said.

“I’ll go up and check on her.” He seemed relieved to have something to do.

They walked down the stairs and into the small, fenced yard. Mooney turned to Alves. “What about the list from New Balance?”

“A few of the guys had records. Nothing significant. Mostly drug possessions and motor vehicle stuff. It might be worth going out to see them in person.”

“Not now. Angel, I think our killer took the suit as a souvenir for himself. As if taking her body wasn’t enough. I want you to contact Michelle Hayes’s parents and see if any of her clothes are missing. I don’t know what this fuckin’ nut is up to, but I’m sure he did the same thing with Hayes. Call me if you need me.” Mooney walked back into the house.

Alves wasn’t looking forward to speaking with Michelle Hayes’s parents again. Nice, solid people. He didn’t want to raise their hopes. But if one of Michelle’s dresses was missing, maybe they’d all have the break they were praying for.

CHAPTER 18

A
ndi Norton needed to clear her head. The judge had only given them
a fifteen-minute recess, enough time for the lawyers and the jurors to stretch their legs and use the bathroom. She needed more time than that. Her case was falling apart.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Connie had come up behind her.

The disappointment in his voice stung. “I’m getting my ass kicked. I can’t even ask a question without that jerk objecting.”

“He’s playing games with you, like he did this morning by showing up late. He’s trying to throw you off.”

“It’s working.”

“No shit. He does this on every case. It’s his shtick. And he’s not going to let up unless you show him that it’s not bothering you. Right now he smells blood. You’d better get your head out of your ass if you plan on winning.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Start by showing a little confidence. What I saw in there was a person who didn’t even believe in her own case. If you don’t believe in it, why should the jury?”

“He keeps objecting. I can’t get any kind of rhythm going.”

“The thing is that you’ve responded to all his objections, and he’s been overruled. You’re winning those little battles. So the jury sees that you’re not doing anything wrong. You look like the better lawyer. But he’s got you rattled. If you regain your composure and keep crushing his objections you’ll be fine. But you have to get fired up before it’s too late.”

She felt beaten down, but there was no reason for it. Connie was right, she had been doing a good job with her arguments. Maybe the defense was coming at her harder because she was a woman. Well, she had to show him that he couldn’t mess with her. “Let’s go kick some ass,” she said as she turned back toward the courtroom.

CHAPTER 19

A
lves tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for Mooney
to answer his phone. Mooney picked up on the third ring. “What do you have for me?” he bellowed.

“I just left Michelle Hayes’s mother. One of Michelle’s dresses
is
missing. A black skirt-suit that she wore for important meetings,” Alves said. “Her parents are storing all of her stuff in their attic. We went through dozens of boxes.” There was a new energy running through Alves. Mooney’s predawn wake-up call was forgiven. It felt good to know something new about the killer. Now they had to figure out why he took the clothing.

Alves turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the sidewalk in front of the Hayes house. Michelle Hayes’s parents lived in White City, originally a couple of apartment buildings arising near Forest Hills, their pale stucco suggesting the glowing, ethereal beauty of the white buildings designed for the World’s Columbian Exposition held in Chicago at the turn of the century. Alves had seen photographs in his History of Architecture class in college.

“Did he take anything else?”

“Not sure,” Alves said. “Her mom didn’t know everything she owned, but she had seen Michelle in the missing suit a couple of times.”

“McCarthy’s mother thinks the killer may have taken some of her underwear too,” Mooney said. “According to her, Susan was very neat and her underwear drawer looked like it had been ransacked, but she couldn’t say for sure if anything was missing.”

Alves drove past Forest Hills onto South Street in Jamaica Plain. “I can’t stop wondering why he’s doing this.” He could hear Mooney breathing on the other end. “Talking to those two families today…do you ever get used to it, Sarge?”

“You get numb,” Mooney said, “which isn’t the same thing.” Then his booming voice was back, “It’s been a tough couple of days, but we’ve finally got something. Where are you now?”

“Almost to the monument in JP.”

“We need to sit down and figure out our next move.”

“Sarge, it’s Marcy’s thirtieth birthday, remember? Her parents are having a big party for her. They’ve invited all our friends from the old neighborhood. I told you about it last week.”

“Last week I didn’t know there was a serial killer in the city. I hate to spoil your time, but you’re going to have to cancel. We need to work tonight. This case is going cold quickly.”

“I can’t cancel. Why don’t I just go for a while and catch up with you later, Sarge?” Alves was begging. Marcy was not happy with him getting called out so early on her birthday. She would be livid if he missed the party with all their friends and family. “She’ll kill me if I’m not there. The kids will be crying if I don’t show up.”

“How are the twins doing?”

“They’re fine. Angel’s had a cold this week, but Iris is her usual self, bouncing off the walls.”

“The kids will get over their daddy missing a party. We are working this case
together.
This isn’t some assault or robbery case. It’s not even your typical murder investigation. You’d better be prepared to work sixteen-hour days until we get this guy. Your family has to accept it too. Don’t worry, though, I’ll be sure to sign your overtime slip,” Mooney said. “Marcy will be happy when she sees your paycheck next week.”

“I won’t be alive next week,” Alves muttered. No wonder the guy’s divorced, he thought.

“She did want you to make Homicide, didn’t she?”

“Yeah.” He knew where this was going.

“Welcome to Homicide. Do you want me to call her for you?”

“No thanks. I can handle that myself, but I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll see you when you get here. And pick up some dinner for us on the way. I don’t care what you get, surprise me,” Mooney said.

“You hungry, Sarge?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I have a great idea. How about we get some work done first. Then we can shoot over to the hall, get a quick bite and save my marriage at the same time. We have to eat anyway, and it’s only five minutes from headquarters. I guarantee the food will be excellent. We won’t stay more than an hour. You can be my excuse to leave, and then Marcy can be mad at you instead of me.”

“What do I get out of this?”

“A free meal and a happy detective, who will show his appreciation by busting his ass for you.”

CHAPTER 20

M
itch Beaulieu thumbed through a stack of booking photos from the
previous days’ arrests. So many black faces, so many hollow lives destroyed by poor education, drug addiction and violence. He sat at his desk while everyone packed up work to take home. He wasn’t overly anxious to get to his empty apartment, the one he used to share with the woman he loved.

He’d met Sonya Jordan at Harvard Law in an advanced criminal procedure class. She was the first woman president of the Black Law Students Association and was perceived by many, especially the white males, as a militant, both for her feminist views and her opinions on racism in the United States. By the end of the first semester, Sonya had moved in with Mitch in his cramped apartment in Harvard Square. Their relationship was proof that opposites attract. Mitch had always wanted to be a prosecutor and Sonya was born to be the next great criminal-defense attorney.

Mitch was the only conservative voice on the BLSA, so he argued with Sonya over everything from affirmative action to the American criminal justice system and the prison industrial complex. They rarely agreed on anything. It was the passion in their arguments that led to the passion in their relationship. Mitch loved her. He was sure she loved him too. But in the end the philosophical differences that had brought them together tore them apart. It’d been almost six months since she’d left Boston, and he was having trouble accepting the breakup.

Looking at the booking photos served as a reminder of why Sonya had ended their relationship. She’d never bought into his view that he could help make neighborhoods safer places for people to live and raise their families. He remembered her saying that he was “persecuting his own people by helping racist cops put young black men in jail.” In the end she told him she couldn’t continue to live with him as long as he worked as a prosecutor.

As much as he loved her, his work was too important to give up. He did the job to make a difference. He was working for a cause greater than himself and Sonya, greater than the love they shared. It had been unfair for her to make him choose between the two things that made his life complete. He chose the job, hoping Sonya would eventually understand and come back. She never did. They hadn’t spoken in months. He heard that she’d accepted a job in the DC area.

Tonight he wanted to talk, to tell her he wasn’t so sure anymore. He
felt
as if he was helping his people. After all, his father had raised him well, teaching his only child what it meant to be a decent person. But his father didn’t understand what it meant to be black. All through his childhood, he’d felt the stigma of being a black child adopted by a white father. And now Mitch feared his upbringing had limited his understanding of what it meant to be black.

Staring at the booking photos, he felt guilty thinking he’d had a difficult childhood. But for him it was tough growing up not knowing who his real parents were. As a teenager, he’d pictured his birth mother as an upper-class white girl with long red hair, the color of the sun setting over Chesapeake Bay, and striking gray eyes, his eyes. Mitch envisioned his father as a young black man, maybe a college student who worked summers as a laborer, who met Mitch’s mother while working on her family’s estate. In Mitch’s young mind, his father was tall and handsome with a powerful jaw and black hair slightly darker than the color of his skin. After the two fell in love, they would sneak off into the woods surrounding the estate.

Mitch was sure his mother’s parents would never have approved of the relationship, pushing her even closer to her lover. Later that summer, when her parents learned she was pregnant, she was probably sent away to a home with other unwed pregnant girls so she could give birth to her child and give it up for adoption. When she returned home, Mitch’s father was gone. The two lovers never saw each other again and spent the rest of their lives dreaming of reuniting.

Mitch didn’t care if his story was true. It was unrealistic and sentimental, but he clung to it because what was the alternative? Sitting around thinking his real mother hadn’t wanted him?

The sky outside the courthouse was a soft pink as night began to fall on the cars, buses, and people
—his
people—passing through Dudley Square. He wished he could talk to Sonya. He needed to figure out if he was doing the right thing working as a prosecutor. As he looked down at the booking photos in front of him, then back at the people in the Square, he wondered if Sonya was right.

“Hey, Red.” Connie’s voice startled him. “I meant to tell you earlier. You left your gym bag in the trunk of the Response car last week. I can give it to you now or in the morning.”

“Tomorrow’s fine,” Mitch said, distracted. Connie and Nick were walking toward the door with their briefcases. Brendan had just stood up to put on his jacket. “Hey, guys,” said Mitch. “Tell me something. What do you think of when you see these mug shots every day?”

“I think they’re criminals that broke the law and need to be punished,” Nick said.

“What about the ones who haven’t done anything all that bad?” Mitch asked.

“No matter how minor the crime, they should be held accountable,” Nick said. “I believe that whole ‘broken windows’ philosophy. If you don’t prosecute the quality-of-life crimes, you end up with drug dealing and shootings.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Mitch said. “Focus on the
people,
not the crimes. What do you think when you see all those black faces, day after day?”

“C’mon, Mitch,” Nick sighed, “don’t make it a race thing. People get arrested for the crimes they commit. It’s not about race.”

“Jesus, Nick, you’re so white-bread,” Connie said, putting down his briefcase and sitting on a corner of the nearest desk. “Of course it’s about race. Everything’s about race in this city.”

“What do you mean,
I’m
white-bread?”

“You’re a white kid who grew up in a white neighborhood and went to all-white private schools.”

“Are you calling me a racist?”

“No, but don’t tell Mitch it’s not about race. Most of the people arrested in this city are black. Our society has a history of persecuting
all
people of color.”

Mitch nodded his head, relieved that Connie understood.

“You’ve had such an isolated life you can’t see there’s racism everywhere.”

“And you’re an expert?” Nick asked.

“More of an expert than you’ll ever be. I went to the Boston Public Schools. I got bused all over the city. I went to an elementary school in Mattapan, where I was one of ten white kids in the whole building.”

“I know what that’s like,” Brendan said, fixing his collar and joining the argument. “They shipped me from Southie to Roxbury. The Condon School was only a block away from our apartment, but I got assigned to a school halfway across the city. Luckily, I know how to take care of myself. But it was tough for some of the smaller kids.”

For the first time Mitch realized that his educational experience was more like Nick’s than it was the people in the booking photos. Aside from black skin, Mitch had nothing in common with the people in the photos or those outside in Dudley Square.

“A lot of good kids ended up with criminal records,” Connie said. “They weren’t bad then and they’re not bad now. They’re good guys who got caught up in bad situations.”

“Knock it off, Connie,” Nick said. “You’re making excuses for them. A lot of people grow up in tough situations and don’t commit crimes.”

“Until you’ve seen the arrest photo of a kid you grew up with, you won’t understand what I’m talking about. One time I picked up a case file at a pretrial, and it was one of my best friends from second grade. He had a ten-page BOP. Mostly armed robberies.”

“So I’ve never seen a booking sheet for a kid I grew up with. So what?”

“How would you feel if a hundred Greek guys got arrested every day?”

“If they committed crimes, I’d have no problem with it.”

“What if the government arresting all these Greeks was a Turkish government?”

“Wouldn’t matter.”

“Give me a break,” Connie laughed. “If you saw booking photos of Greeks day after day in a society dominated by the Turks, you’d say that the Greeks were being persecuted and you know it.”

Nick shook his head as he headed toward the door. “Screw this. I’m not going to win a three-on-one argument. I’m out of here.” The door slammed behind him.

“Thanks for understanding,” Mitch said.

“Don’t mention it,” Brendan said as he tossed a bunch of color-coordinated files in his bag. He was notorious for highlighting his notes, using different colors for different witnesses. Despite all the teasing Brendan caught, Mitch envied his organizational skills.

“You’re the one that has to decide what you’re going to do about it,” Connie said. “Me, I think you’re doing the right thing. If the system is ever going to change, it’s going to change because of people like you fighting to make changes.”

“But is this the best way?”

“As a prosecutor, you’re in a position of power and you can change the system from the inside. If you see someone who’s being persecuted, you have the power to do something about it. You can give that person a second chance and make things right.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Nothing’s easy,” Connie said. He picked up his briefcase. “You should talk to Liz. She’s had to deal with the same things. She worked it out. She can help you do the same.”

Connie patted Mitch on the shoulder as he and Brendan walked past him and out the door. Mitch sat staring out the window as darkness set in on the streets of Dudley Square.