The Dead Soul (10 page)

18

Saturday, September 6 – 9:58 A.M.

Lisa Marie’s killer parked the 1972 American Motors Post Office Jeep he had bought at auction in a space nearest to the 1st Street entrance. How long had been since he attended Mass inside this European-looking stone construction here in the old Southie neighborhood? Let’s see … well, this was the first time since he left Bainbridge, where this same godforsaken establishment, St. Paul’s Church, had shipped him off to. In Maine, the sisters had made him go to Mass. So the last time he actually sat in the pew and wanted to be there, praising Jesus and the Holy Spirit, kneeling and standing and believing in the gift of grace, it was here, in this church. In fact, the day before he had eavesdropped and overheard Deacon Patrick O’Keefe and Father John O’Brien decide his fate.

“Bainbridge is the right place for him, John,” the deacon explained to the priest. “It’s not a bad place. We’ve had successes come out of there. Kids we’ve sent. Southie is not a place a kid can survive on his own. Look at the suicide rate. Anyway, this child will become a problem. Both his parents are not coming back. We know they’re dead.”

“I understand, Patrick. But this child is different. I don’t think he can make it in that environment.”

“Oh, come now, John. And living here is going to be better? This is not a decision for us to make. We cannot save everyone.”

A flash of nostalgia passed through him as he walked through the large wooden double doors. He dipped in the holy water font. After pausing, thinking about it, he crossed himself. Time stood still. That statue of Mary, the blue and white shawl hanging off her young shoulders, was a bit worn, but still greeted him as he walked underneath. The gold cross above the door into the nave, polished once a week by the sisters, had not aged a day. Just like that, he was sucked back into this world he had come from. He watched the altar boys rushing around, getting ready for Mass. Years past, he stood in the same narthex dreaming of wearing that red and white cassock, preparing the incense for the priest.

Faith, the ultimate justifier.

Strange to be on other side now, he thought, representing the Evil One.

He lived alone in that lice- and cockroach-infested Dorchester Heights apartment after his hooker mother left him to fend for himself. He accepted it, though, attending school and Mass and reading the Gospels at night.
Religiously
. He was stealing food from the local stores, getting by until he was old enough to get a job and take care of himself. It was God’s plan, after all. His dad’s miserable life was cut short by a “hot shot,” a lethal dose of coke and heroin a dealer provides when he’s sick of a customer not paying. That was followed by Mom’s vanishing act. Why hadn’t Father John and Deacon O’Keefe allowed him to live alone? What was so bad about it? He was better off. By sending him north, hadn’t they intervened with God’s work?

Sure they had.

“Good morning, sir,” a guttural voice intoned. The mailman realized he had blacked out for a moment and lost track of where he was. He and Father John stood between the narthex and the nave. “Welcome to St. Paul’s.”

Startled, he turned. “Thank you … good morning, Father.”

“Do I know you? You seem familiar.”

“No, Father. I was passing through town. I’m from the north, Malden, Somerville area. Heading home to the wife and family after a business trip. I wanted to stop and take in the Mass. I’ve heard of your work here.”

Lisa Marie’s killer wanted to hit himself in the head with his palm.
Stupid, stupid, stupid
. Way too much information.

Father John O’Brien didn’t pester the stranger. “Well, I do hope you enjoy Mass this morning, sir, and do join us again.” The priest bowed. His hands palm-to-palm in front of himself. Eyes closed.

Kneeling, the music began. The mailman watched as a procession—Deacon Patrick O’Keefe, Father John and the two altar servers—made that slow, devout walk down the center aisle of the nave. He had carried that same gold cross through that same aisle a thousand times. He dreamed back then of going to the seminary. He imagined himself dressed in friar’s brown garb, shaved head, bowing and praying all day long, saying rosaries until his throat was like sandpaper.

Then the Teacher came into his life—the man who changed his outlook about growing up without parents in an orphanage. He was also, later on, the same man who took his soul and gutted it, before explaining to him that life was about choices. You had to follow your heart until you found your true calling. The seminary maybe wasn’t for him. That was the day the doubt began. Spiritual desires seen through a mature lens, said the Teacher. He pronounced the word
matt-turr
, like a Brit.

As he stood in the pew, the organist played. He watched God’s chosen few walk toward the chancel. Father John kissed the altar. Sat down off to the right, in the south transept. The deacon sat beside him. As they did this, Lisa Marie’s killer couldn’t stop the thoughts and images this place evoked. He had no idea the horror of his past would be so magnified by just being in here. Yet it made him feel comfortable.

He saw the bandana go over his mouth. He couldn’t scream
.

Evil, he believed, was the main theme of Revelation.

Stop it … shut up
…

He wanted to cut himself. Just a little slit along the thigh. Draw some blood. Oh, to do it here, in this church. How magisterial that would feel. How freeing. How satanic.

Cathartic bliss—a pressure valve let loose.

Don’t make me do this
.

Deacon Patrick O’Keefe stood at the pulpit in the north transept and read the from the Scriptures. When he finished, he cleared his throat and gave the homily. Off to the right Father John O’Brien sat in the chair with the big pointed back, a relic given to St. Paul’s by an outgoing bishop.

The gospel reading was Matthew 5:1-12.
The Sermon on the Mount
. The Beatitudes. Jesus’ rules for living.

How appropriate.

Looking on, the mailman realized how long he had been away. Deacon O’Keefe looked old. Sagging skin. Gelled eyes, dripping a slimy clear fluid. The man walked with a slight curve in his back and had to a-hem several times before he found the right inflection to announce the Word.

The mailman thought of the article he pinned to his wall earlier that morning back at home. How the Boston archdiocese had uncovered an affair. O’Keefe confessed to Monsignor Belini, who confronted him with the matter. “I have a daughter, Your Excellency,” Deacon said. But they allowed him continue in his ministry.

Pathetic.

After reading the final beatitude, O’Keefe concluded with a simple bit of hypocritical advice: “To open your heart to the grace of our Lord, to partake in this reading and live these laws Jesus left to us,” he stabbed his bony finger into the page, “is a peace you will not be able to find anywhere else.”

The mailman smiled at the deacon, who looked at him several times.

A eureka moment hit Lisa Marie’s and Alyssa Bettencourt’s killer as the deacon concluded his homily. His next target was there before him. She had been within reach the entire time. “My fellow believers in Christ,” the deacon shouted, “I need to say something on a personal note. Something that ushers into my heart such a grand sense of fulfillment and love.” He smiled. “My daughter, please stand, Mary.” In the front pew, a young woman in a white sweater, her hair tied back in a matching bow, hesitated. Then stood and turned to face the congregation. “My lovely daughter, Mary, has decided to pursue a vocation in the Church. She is heading north, to Vermont, to study the Doctors of the Church at St. Faustina’s College.”

Mary took a bow as the parish erupted into applause.

The mailman stood and made single claps, slowly, out in front of himself—a  trained seal. Mary cried and bowed, over and over. Embarrassed, she didn’t know what to do.

Lisa Marie’s killer imagined how Mary’s neck was going feel in his hands. He relished in the sight of blood streaming from her legs after he cut them off with a hacksaw. He was going to tell her, as she screamed and pleaded with her god, that her father was nothing but a lying bastard sonofabitch who had cheated him out of a life.

An eye for an eye
, Mary O’Keefe.
Study your Bible
.

19

Saturday, September 6, 7:05 P.M.

A violent thunder and lightning storm rolled into the city, bringing with it torrential downpours that washed away the mini heat wave. As Jake walked out of his house, he could smell that after-rain aroma permeating the air, a mixture of sumac and pine, dead worms in the gutters, motor oil evaporating from the tar. The driveway steamed like a casserole, the red maple by the mailbox dripping perfect rainforest droplets of water.

It was a fifteen-minute ride from the Cooper’s house in Brookline to Beacon Hill. A little less with Jake behind the wheel. The case nagged at Jake as he maneuvered his way around the rotary connecting Brookline Avenue and Boylston Street. The fact that a second victim’s legs had been left in Lisa Marie’s closet was a portent, a warning.

Additional victims would follow.

“Nervous, honey?” Dawn asked Jake. She glanced over the seat back at Brendan. “Excited to see grandma and grandpa, Bren?”

Jake had made a deal with himself that he wasn’t going to talk about the case. Not tonight. He owed Dawn that much after scaring the shit out of her that morning at the park.

“I am, Mommy.” Brendon wore his favorite Red Sox T-shirt. His hair was messy, as usual. He was looking forward to the five-dollar bill he knew his grandfather would slip to him. As Jake drove, Brendan colored in a book of dinosaurs. Going to see his grandparents was a good diversion for Brendan from not seeing his father all that much anymore. But the kid still hurt.

Jake mulled over those crude markings Kelsey had recovered on both bodies. Was it a message? Or was their serial throwing off the scent, playing games? So far, Jake’s iPhone profiling program hadn’t come back with anything—Not enough data.

Worthless geeks and their ‘technology’!

What would Anastasia and Dickie find at Simmons? They must be there by now. Why the hell hadn’t Dickie called?

Anxiety flared. Jake realized his forearms hurt. He didn’t know it, but he was squeezing the steering wheel, allowing his thoughts to run away from him.

“Not going to answer me?” Dawn asked.

“Sorry,” Jake finally said. “Was thinking about things. Hey, unfoil me a piece of my nicotine gum, would you.” His hands shook.

Jake took a left. Drove down the ramp onto Storrow Drive. Brendan liked this part of the trip. He loved watching the Boston University Terriers scull team. They sat in a line on those skinny canoes. Worked in unison. Pulled themselves against the Charles River current. True teamwork.

“Like pirates,” Brendan said whenever they passed.

There were times—like this one—when Jake looked out at the water himself and could think of nothing but Martin Cooper, his father. They used to fish underneath the Boston University Bridge for pumpkinseed and smallmouth bass when Jake was in kindergarten. Martin would wear one of those white Fonzie T-shirts, the seams on the sleeves rolled up to expose his bicep muscles. Looking up at his dad, Jake felt an irreplaceable sense of safety.
The good years
. His most vivid memories now, however, were from years later, after Casey died. The death years. “Why would you ever want to be a cop?” Martin had asked after young Jake shared the news of being accepted into the state police academy. “Why not the service, like your brother? Like me! Military’s not good enough for you, son, huh?”

This made Jake feel rejected. He tried to resist commenting back.

“You’re probably not Army material, anyway,” Martin Cooper said after Jake refused to give in and placate the man with an answer.

Ever since then, Jake had wondered if he had become a cop because it was in his blood and who he was, or simply to spite his father.

“Hey, anybody in there?” Dawn said, snapping her fingers in front of Jake’s face as he drove.

“Sorry.”

“They’re excited to see you.”

“Do you know what the average family income is in Beacon Hill?” Jake said, quickly changing the subject, more for his benefit.

“What, bored again at work, honey? Reading Wikipedia?” Jake heard Brendan laugh from the backseat. “You cannot count on that info. You should know that—you’re a cop.” Dawn put the sun visor down, flipped the mirror flap up. The little dome light shone on her face as she checked her makeup, flexing her face in different positions, puckering her lips, making sure her lipstick wasn’t smudged. Dawn opened her mouth wide, then closed it, as though doing jaw exercises.

“Hear me out here for a minute. I’ll have you know,” Jake continued as he turned the corner onto Charles Street, looked down the block, found his way onto Joy. Dawn’s parents lived in a luxurious Beacon Hill redbrick townhouse next door to the Crumblers, whose great-granddaughter was the first Afro-American in the United States to receive a medical degree. “The combined income for a married couple in Beacon Hill is—drum roll, please, Brendan—five million dollars.”

“Not Mom and Dad,” Dawn said out of the corner of her mouth. “Please. Give me a break.” The house had been an inheritance from Minnie’s grandmother.

Every inch of space on Beacon Hill held historic value. Joy Street was indeed one of the wealthiest sections of the city. Besides the red-brick appearance and colonial feel, the town houses were known for their exaggerated brass door knockers. Residents insisted on keeping them polished to a glare. The brick sidewalks were spotless. Perpetually burning gas lanterns in place of streetlights. Pear trees. Hidden gardens situated around architecture from the Federal, Greek Revival, Colonial and Victorian periods. Jake felt out of place.

“Indeed, you all here on Beacon Hill may have money, status, even fame,” Jake held up a forefinger, “but we—and you’re now one of us, Mrs. Cooper—in Brookline, we have JFK. No one can take him away from us.”

“You’re incredible,” Dawn said. “Delusional.” She paused. Smiled. “Thanks for suggesting this dinner, honey. It’s a been a while since we’ve seen them.”

Jake parked. As he got out, he stopped, looked down the block. At the end of Joy was the edge of Boston Common. Just a half-mile away from Cleveland and Minnie Benedict’s town house was that Lisa Marie Taylor crime scene Jake Cooper could not let go of.

“Hi, Mother,” Dawn said after ringing the bell. Jake stood behind his wife with his hands on Brendan’s shoulders. As soon as Minnie opened the door, Brendan saw his grandfather and bolted into his open arms.

“Dawny, how are you? Jake, always good to see you.”

The smell of braised lamb, rosemary and fresh mint hit them as they walked into the foyer.

Dawn’s father, Cleveland, wore a beige three-piece suit, white ruffled shirt, bow tie, Italian shoes. He had his trusty gold pocket watch tucked away, the chain hanging a half circle, clipped to a belt loop. Jake Cooper couldn’t deny the man looked sharp whenever he saw him, but had a weird Sherlock Holmes vibe Jake never understood.

“Sir,” Jake stuck out his hand. “Always a pleasure.”

“Detective.” The old man enjoyed that greeting—calling Jake by what he did. “Any luck with the Garden case? Still cannot believe that happened
right
here.” He shook his head. “Brandy, Jake?”

“Just a Mountain Dew, sir.”

“Brendan, get your dad a soda pop.” Cleveland walked over to a makeshift bar on a small table by the stairs, poured himself a snifter of brandy, cleared his throat. “What’s the word on the case? Anything new?”

“Not much happening yet, sir. It’s early in the game.”

“I saw the Italian girl on New England News the other night. She said y’all think we’ve got a serial killer working in the city. How chilling to consider such a random, evil thing.”

They walked toward a large room with oak floors, walnut shelves, shiny lacquered cherry wood walls. Jake admired how in shape Cleveland kept himself. His was no fake Jack LaLanne, Juicer body. Cleveland had real muscles, hard and ripped.

Walking, Jake noticed a bandage on Cleveland’s right knuckle. “Cut yourself working in the garden again, Cleve?”

The old man lifted his hand, stared at the injury. “That, oh … well, you know, probably should have gotten stitches, but … What I did was, I smashed a glass accidentally while watching the Sox game the other night. Had serious money on it.”

Jake had a strange look about him. “Bad luck, Cleve, huh.”

“About the murders,” Cleveland said. Jake felt his father-in-law wanted off the subject of the cut knuckle. “What can you tell me about them?”

“Officer Rossi, she said something like that, but I’m not going there, sir.” The gruesome details of the case had not been released. Jake wasn’t about to share anything, family or not. “You and Minnie are going to Europe, I hear, in a few days.” Jake made a mental note to tell Anastasia to watch her tongue when speaking to the media.

“I’m getting too old for those trips. But you do what the wife wants long enough and she expects it. So I don’t argue. I pack a bag and tell her I’m in, then complain of being sick a day before.”

Dawn and Minnie sat by a window in two antique chairs near a large brick fireplace. A bookcase with volumes of leather-bound books no one read overlooked them. There was a rolltop desk, a family heirloom, nearby. Both chairs looked out into a courtyard flower garden.

Dawn and Minnie drank tall, skinny flutes of a 1995 Krug, Clos du Mesnil champagne from a bottle resting in an ice bucket between them.

“I don’t know about your father, Dawn. He leaves at all hours of the night, never says where he’s going.”

“Probably to the club to play bridge, Mother.”

“I don’t know.” Minnie was perplexed, seemed worried.

They chatted for a brief time. The oven timer went off. Dinner was done.

They sat at the dining table. “How are your mother and father, Jake?” Cleveland asked, snapping out his cloth napkin as of it were a tiny bedsheet, placing it on his lap. “We have not seen them in, oh, what has it been, Min, three, four years now?”

“They’re good. Thanks. I’ll tell’em you asked. They’ll like that. They adore Deserts Winds, Arizona. It’s hot. They stay indoors a lot and read. Once in a while they hit the early bird at the local Applebee’s.”

It was a lie. Jake’s father was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. Most days the man didn’t know his own name. Jake’s mother took care of him. Jake and Dawn sent money at times and Dawn agreed her parents didn’t need to know.

Jake took a pull from his Mountain Dew. As the green fizz burned his throat, he felt the buzz of his iPhone against his hip and looked down.

“I have to take this.” He stood, pushed out his chair with the back of his knees, walked into the study for privacy. Cleveland followed him with his eyes. “You’re interrupting family time,” Jake said roughly to the caller. “Better be good.”

“We have something with that seedling, Jake. I spoke to this doctor at Simmons who thinks he can help us. We emailed him a digital photo before we left, so he could get started. But now that’s he’s tested the actual seedling, he’s certain it’s from a rare flower that does not grow in the states. Means that the source of the flower could have ordered it.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. We’re meeting up with him again in the morning.”

“Text me a brief report before you leave.”

Dickie sighed. “I’ll have Rossi do that.”

9:57 P.M.

Brendan fell asleep as soon as Jake hit Storrow Drive. Leaning over the seat, putting a blanket over him, Dawn said, “Take the long way home.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. It was the last night with his Chevelle. The Crown Vic was going to be ready in the morning.

They passed a U.S Army billboard on Commonwealth. Holding an M-16, a fresh-faced young man sat on the edge of an Army helicopter. He looked serious.

Be all you can be.

“Still jolts you every time you see something like that,” Dawn said. She moseyed over next to her husband as if they were teenagers at the drive-in.

“It’s hard to forget. I often wonder what Casey’d be doing if he’d lived. He’d probably be a cop too.” Jack scowled as he looked out the front windshield. “He would have been ten times the cop I am.”

Casey Milton Cooper was a decorated marine pilot in Kuwait during the Gulf War. “I had wanted, and we joked about it as kids,” Jake said, “so badly for my children to call him Uncle Milty.”

Jake’s older brother joined the military to get out of Southie. He was hanging with those scally cap-wearing corner-dwellers of the Lower End in Old Colony Project. Got tired of running. Chasing a future in prison or a casket. Those Southie symbols—the shamrocks and claddaghs painted on the sides of buildings around the neighborhood—were said to represent “friendship, loyalty and love.” What a load of shit that was.

Jake was younger then. Looking at photos mailed to the house from Kuwait once a month made Jake proud to be Casey’s brother. Envy eventually turned into respect. Jake realized he wanted to join the military, too. It was Father John O’Brien who talked Jake into the state police academy instead. Jake went to the priest one day to discuss how he felt about losing Casey. Explained that he wanted to pick up where his brother left off. He knew his father would want him to. Father John knew Jake wasn’t built for military life. Plus, Casey wrote to the priest and made him promise to talk Jake out of it. It was almost, Father John admitted to Jake years later, as if Casey knew his time was limited. That he wasn’t coming back. Mo Blackhall liked to take the credit for rescuing Jake out of Southie. But it was Father John. Mo was just the recruiter, so to speak. The priest changed Jake’s heart. Turned his life around. Then one day it all fell apart.