The Dead Soul (16 page)

Mo smiled a drunkard’s smirk, staring glassy-eyed at Dickie, wiping the his rain-soaked face off. “Shaughnessy, you are something. The shit-ass nerve you got telling me”—he pointed his right forefinger into Dickie’s chest—“what
I
was. I could quash you like a bug. Have you cut up into pieces by those same assholes I used to pinch—”

“Hey, now, none of that,” Jake said. Mo and Dickie moved toward each other, face-to-face. Dickie pushed Mo. “That’s enough!” Jake got in between, pulled Mo away, grabbing him by his shoulder. “It’s pouring out here, Mo. We got work to do. Murphy?” Jake caught the eye of a blue. “Get him home.”

“Right, Cooper.” The linebacker-size cop took Mo by the arm, led him away.

“Watch your back, Shaughnessy,” Mo mumbled, tripping over his own feet.

Dickie and Jake walked back toward Anastasia. “What happened to that guy, Jake? I’ve been quiet and stayed out of this long enough. I cannot stand to watch him bring you down.”

“Wish I knew, Dick. But I’ll fight my own battles on this one, got me.”

Dickie didn’t answer.

Anastasia bent down near the base of the mast, kneeling directly underneath Mary’s stubs. The rain had washed Mary clean of any trace, which had pooled into the rain water and drainage where the mast came out of the deck. There were hairs and what appeared to bits of flesh and gray duct tape. “I’m betting,” Anastasia said, picking something up off the ground with a pair of tweezers, staring at it, “this was mistakenly left here by our guy.”

“What’s that?” Jake walked closer. Dickie right behind.

“I don’t see any red, white and blue paint on this boat—at least none with this metallic texture.” She held up a small paint chip. It was the size of a fingernail clipping. Anastasia peered at it with a spyglass lens connected to one eye, like a jeweler. “Seems our guy got a little sloppy.”

“You wanna bet he left that paint chip here for us to find?” Dickie offered.

“Just get it to the lab, Rossi. And get me that damn report.” Jake rapped his partner on the shoulder, started walking away. “Dickie, let’s go.”

30

Tuesday, September 9, 6:19 P.M.

She had her blonde hair pulled back, set in a braided ponytail. She wore large, Clark Kent, black-framed glasses with thick lenses. “Coke bottles,” the high school kids called them, giggling. From behind, standing like she was, she looked to be about thirty-five. Yet that was a guess, since all he could see was the contour of her heart-shaped ass filling out that ankle-length denim skirt. She was bent over. Her head buried in a file drawer.

The mailman stopped at the Revere Public Library on Beach Street on his way home from work. Walking into the red-brick building, spotting the woman, he took a look side to side and started toward the counter. A plastic holder with different colored free bookmarks—red and yellow and orange and turquoise—noted the library’s address, website and hours of operation. Odd, he thought, that she was the only librarian around. The Info Desk was generally a busy place this time of the evening. Students studying for tests. Mothers and daughters and sons looking for SpongeBob and Stephenie Meyer books. Where was everyone?

What luck—
Alone in a library with a blonde?

He walked with a road-tested, smooth grace, not making a sound. He had practice at this, sneaking up to mailboxes while vicious dogs slept on the grass. She was focused on her Dewey Decimal system filing project. He had one shot at her.

Not three feet away, he stopped. Something told him no. But then he took another two steps. He was close enough to grab her by the throat and drag her down the stairs into the basement of the building. Nobody would see a thing.

“I called earlier today, ma’am,” he said. He took off his hat, twirled it in his hands. “About an article in the paper. Well, several, actually.”

His voice startled her. She turned quickly, put her hand over her chest, gasped. “Oh, my goodness! You scared me.” Then she laughed at herself.

“Sorry ‘bout that, ma’am. Didn’t mean to.”

She found the counter and sifted through a pile of Post-Its. “I remember the call, yes.” Her breath almost back, “It’s in here somewhere.” She lifted the little yellow papers, having trouble unsticking them, reading each one. “I remember you … hold on one minute, please.” Then, “Ah-hah, here we go.”

Looking at her, face-to-face, he could see the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She had another chin starting to form. “Take your time.”

She’s too old.
He heard the Teacher speak to him.
Choose carefully.

“I have it right here, yes.” She picked up the yellow paper. “Cooper. You called and asked about a Detective Cooper. Am I right?”

“You got it.” A smile. “That’s him.”

The mailman wanted to learn as much as he could about the man in charge of catching him. He had articles about Jake and D-15’s supposed “super squad” taped to the north wall in his living room. But he knew little about how Jake solved cases or his past.

“You were interested in any articles published in the
Globe
or
Herald
about Detective Cooper.” She blinked her eyes fast, thinking, titled her head to the right. “Something about putting together a scrapbook for him. He’s a friend, I assume?”

“Indeed, you have a great memory.” He looked down at the photocopier next to her desk. Taped to the top was a sign written in black Magic Marker on white copy paper: .25¢ PER PAGE. The tape was yellowed. The paper old and torn at the corners.

“We get this all the time. People want old newspaper clippings. Class or family reunion coming up, am I right?”

“Right again!” He looked around for more people. But couldn’t find anyone.

The librarian signaled for the mailman to follow her toward the microfiche area of the library. Soon, they arrived near a series of large cherrywood tables with green and gold desktop lamps. The mailman was overwhelmed to see that the librarian had pulled out all of the old newspapers containing the key words “Cooper, Detective, Boston Police,” and had them ready for him.

“You never gave me a first name for your friend. But I found a Jake Sundance Cooper.” She smiled, palmed the top of the stack of papers. “I hope that’s your friend’s name. I mean, how many Jake Sundance Coopers could there be on the Boston Police force, you know what I’m saying.”

“Good old Jakester,” the mailman said with a Grinch grin. “The Sundance man. I thought for certain I told you his name. Huh. Sorry ‘bout that. Jake and I, we go way back.”

“If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.” She looked down at a forefinger nail she’d chipped while tapping on the table.

“You’re the best. Thanks so much.”

“Just doin’ my job.”

Me, too
, he thought, sitting down at the table, a stack of newspapers in front of him.

The first article was dated early last year. Jake had hit a parked Mercedes as he chased a gang-related drive-by suspect. No pictures. No mention of anything personal. Yet it was clear to the mailman that the press did not like Jake Cooper. The headline accompanying the brief article giving that away.

The mailman had considered Googling Jake and his squad. But he wanted to smell the ink on the page, stare at the photos in their original context. The computer was overrated, he had told coworkers who asked him why he wasn’t interested. He didn’t keep one at home. He used the library’s whenever he absolutely needed to. A computer was a good way to get caught, he knew. One mistake online and the feds were banging on your door. Same with a cellphone. Technology was great. Sure. But when you didn’t want to be found, you had better have alternative ways of getting your information.

The next article showed a photo of Jake standing in front of several pounds of hashish. He and four DEA agents had confiscated the drug from an informant Jake was using while investigating the murder of a Korean grocery clerk. Jake stood with his broad shoulders and firm chest filling out his white dress shirt. He looked younger, happier. His eyes were slits, his cockiness still not yet squeezed from him by the loss of the little girl. His dark hair was slicked back around his ears, curling just below his jaw bone. He had that Crockett and Tubbs stubble.

BOSTON PD DETECTIVE BLOWS MURDER CASE

TO SOLVE LARGE-SCALE HASHISH RING.

This is fun.

The mailman looked through a series of articles that didn’t offer much. Jake’s name popped up because he either played on the BPD softball team when he was a patrol officer, or made some sort of real estate transaction for his parents. Then Lisa Marie’s killer turned the page of a recent newspaper and saw Jake standing, the Public Garden over his shoulder. Jake had that
no comment
look, his hands up in front of his face. There were microphones all around him. There was an air of defeat about him. Lisa Marie’s murder had shaken the color out of the guy.

BOSTON POLICE DETECTIVE WILL NOT COMMENT ON

DISFIGURED BODY FOUND IN PUBLIC GARDEN.

Interesting …

The mailman recognized the article and was sure he’d even cut it out and put it up on his wall. But at the time Detective Cooper was not part of the case, he believed. Staring at the detective now, the mailman never thought he would find himself tied to this cop in such a personal way.

Six degrees.

The article said something about Jake being given a “second chance” to “redeem a career that is up in the air,” outlining how it had been “hindered, some sources claimed ‘destroyed,’ by a stint in a mental hospital after solving the case of a Brighten girl who had been raped and buried underneath the porch of her neighbor’s home.” With a smile, he read how Jake had dug the girl’s fresh body out of the ground with his hands after “torturing” the burial location out of her killer. But Jake had failed to get to her in time. More than that, Jake had beaten the guy so badly, most of the important evidence he had collected throughout the investigation was tossed out of the trial. The guy walked.

The mailman got gooseflesh while reading the story. He felt a sense of satisfaction in being the one to bring Jake back into the game. Getting inside Jake’s head was going to be easy, the mailman now knew—especially with that history.

He turned the page of another newspaper and there was a photo of Jake, Dickie and Anastasia. They were crouched down, examining something on the ground near the bike path in the Garden.

The seedling.
He looked up, picturing himself placing it there, smiled.

Anastasia was looking toward the camera—the only cop credited with a quote. Jake’s name wasn’t mentioned.

“We have a feeling our victim and her killer knew each other. Beyond that, we’re not prepared to say anything more. But if anyone has information about this case, please contact the BPD immediately. We’ve set up a hotline.”

He wrote the hotline number down on the back of his hand.

While skimming through a newspaper four years old, the photo jumped off the middle of the page. She was stunning. Much more so than he would have imagined. So beautiful, in fact, the paper had printed her photo in color. Dirty-blonde hair, razor cut, stylishly on a serrated, biased pattern to the curve of her shoulders. She had those supermodel cheekbones, sharp and chiseled. Caribbean sea-green eyes. Above all that, her smile showed off her flawlessly aligned, white teeth. He thought she had the most gorgeous button nose a woman could ever hope to have without surgery.

DAWN COOPER, STANDING BESIDE HER HUSBAND, BPD DETECTIVE

JAKE SUNDANCE COOPER, SMILES AS THE COP DEDICATES

A MEMORIAL TO HIS FALLEN BROTHER.

Sundance and Dawn. Mr. and Mrs. Cooper. Lovely.

Reading the story, the mailman learned Jake had taken up a collection for three years. Then purchased a stone monument to celebrate the heroism his brother displayed in Desert Storm. The dedication was placed at the entrance to Thomas Telegraph Hill Park in Southie on Pacific.

The mailman tore the photo out of the newspaper. He could cut the jagged, ripped edges off when he got home. He stuffed it into his pocket, got up, started for the exit.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” The librarian yelled from behind the counter. She was reading a James Patterson novel. Her glasses down to the tip of her nose. Raised eyebrows, she looked at the mailman over the top edge of the frames.

“Oh, no. I have exactly what I need. I do thank you. Jake is going to
love
what I have planned for him and his wife.”

31

Wednesday, September 10, Noon.

Jake sat on the bench seat outside D-15. He stared down at the screen of his iPhone. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky. He scrolled through the notes he’d made the past few days. Several thoughts came as he ran the new program D-15’s tech support had raved about. “Operation Bull’s Eye” was the name the techies gave it. All you had to do was answer computer-generated questions—
Where was the body found? How? Clothing? Age? Known source of death?
Weather?—and add your own thoughts and theories as you developed them into an empty space box. When it was ready, the program spat out a profile of your killer. Jake had spent many sleepless nights going over things again and again. Writing notes. Deleting thoughts. Adding details he hoped would help move the program along. With everyone else on the squad laughing at him, Jake felt it certainly couldn’t hurt to give it a try.

He sat and watched the screen with anticipation.

Not enough information to project profile, the phone shot back.

“What’s missing? Damn it.”

Considering the Tea Party scene, an idea struck Jake that he needed to head out to Framingham. It was time to pay a visit to that sadomasochistic scumbag Bags Cane had told him about, and confront the dude head-up, poking a finger in his chest for information. Jake knew he wasn’t their man. But the guy could maybe point them in the direction of a cult, or some sort of underground society that got off on cutting up women.

Dawn pulled up in her Accord. Stepping out of the car, Dawn carried a plastic Stop & Shop bag. She had picked Jake up a salad and his favorite, mac and cheese, topped with bread crumbs.

Comfort food.

“What’s this?” Jake stood, kissed Dawn on the cheek.

“I can’t go out.” They had made plans to meet and sit by the Charles River and have a quiet lunch. It was a gorgeous end-of-the-summer day in Boston. The swans would be out in numbers. Those annoying, yet humorous, Duck Boat tours would motor by, tourists taking photos of the graceful fowl. It would have been fun. “I have an appointment with Denny Garcia. Something came up. He’s acting out. I don’t know why. I thought I was helping …” Dawn sounded stretched to her limit.

“Sit. I want to hear all about it.”

“I wish I could. But I can’t.” Dawn looked down at her watch. “I have fifteen minutes to get back.”

That freakin’ job
. Dawn needed to be home, working on her master’s, writing, doing research, taking care of Brendan, conversing with the neighborhood busybodies. Jake hated the idea that she was tied to a time clock. Things had been so calm when Brendan was home, before kindergarten. Dawn enjoyed her life then. All she did now was run from one place to another. The working soccer mom.

Jake walked over, kissed his wife on the mouth. After that, he held Dawn by the shoulders, stared down into her eyes. “Relax, honey. You can do this. We’ll figure it out.”

“Reminds me. I need to tell you about Denny Garcia—”

“I know, I know. That professional insight.” Jake stepped back, put his hands in his pockets, jiggled the loose change. A flock of pigeons fluttered down from the ledge of the building after a guy on the bench tossed some seed.

“Unless you want to rely on a cellphone to tell you what the make-up of your killer is. Jake, serials grow into the role through trauma. You know that. I studied Bundy in college. I’m telling you. Denny can help you glimpse into that world.”

“You’ve been OD-ing on DVR’d episodes of Dr. Phil again, haven’t you, Dawn? Anyway, my guy is nothing like Bundy.”

“Write me off, okay. I get it.”

“So I’ll keep me eye on Denny when he gets out of high school.”

“I have to go. We’ll talk about this later.”

Jake knew Dawn only wanted to help. She yearned to dig into something and come out of it with an
ah-hah
moment.
Look, Jake. Look what I found
! It would make all of that time away from home worth something.

As they walked toward Dawn’s car, Jake’s phone buzzed. “Hold on,” he said. “Don’t leave. … Yo, Dick. What’s up?” Jake didn’t take his eyes off Dawn as he listened.

“We got ourselves a hot lead, Detective.” Dickie sounded excited for the first time since the case began.

“The seedling?”

“Well, sort of still working that out. No, this is bigger. Come on. Hurry. We’re heading out now. I’m in the back parking lot.”

“What is it?”

“Couple of blues were questioning a friend of Lisa Marie’s and scored.”

Jake put his iPhone away. “Gotta run, Dawn. Don’t worry about Denny. Do your best. That’s all you can do, right?”

“I won’t give up on this kid, Jake.”

“Of course not.”

Jake leaned in through the window and pecked his wife on the cheek. She watched him run toward his car around the corner. He turned before disappearing, “Eat that mac and cheese, okay.”

12:25 P.M.

Across from D-15, on the opposite side of Harrington Street, he sat on a park bench near a fountain. The small stone-lined garden housed a granite statue of Lady Justice. On a plaque in front of the lady were the names of Boston’s dead police officers.

The mailman had some time to spare for lunch. So he decided to sit outside the precinct and get a better look at the man in charge of investigating him. Not for a moment did he consider that he would run into to Dawn, too.

Watching Dawn get out of her car and approach Jake, he held up the photo. It was then he realized the picture in the newspaper had not done the woman any justice.

Wow
.

Dawn Cooper was a true hottie. An eleven!

While waiting for Dawn, Jake spied the mailman sitting there. But considered him to be just another city worker enjoying one of the last few warm days of the year. It had rained so much over the past few days, it seemed everyone was outdoors.

After Dawn drove away, the man the
Boston Globe
had dubbed the Optimist walked into D-15. He went up to an officer sitting at a chest-high desk inside a cage, asked if he could use the bathroom.

The officer pointed to the left. There was a sign—a funny cartoon picture of a keystone cop sitting on the toilet eating a donut—on a door marked THE LOO.

“It’s really not for public use, but since you’re a quasi-government employee, what the hell.”

“Thanks for nothing.” 

Inside the bathroom stall, the Optimist unzipped his pants. In the process of relieving himself, he thought of how much he had accomplished thus far. Here he was, inside Detective Jake Cooper’s world, having stalked Jake and his wife, and no one suspected a thing. It was such a simple pleasure. Such a wonderful way to enjoy the game. The next murder had to be personal, he knew. Jake needed to feel it.

His mood changed as he went to zip up. It happened this way sometimes. Going to the bathroom forced him to look down. Once in a while, those grotesque scars carved on his shins stood out and spoke. On each leg were the marks left behind from that moment in the basement with the Teacher when life went from bad to worse. Those two letters, so grossly stamped—skin welds—by that man, were a reminder of what he had been made to feel like all these years.

The human stain.

That’s why he wore the handcuff key around his neck as a pendant—to remind himself that he could escape from anything. Any time. The Teacher could no longer hold him hostage.

He flushed the urinal. Buckling his pants, he couldn’t stop his mind from spinning backwards in time. This was when hurting himself meant the most. When he cut, it stopped the pain. The memories stayed, but fogged over. Yet he couldn’t chance it here. Not the restroom. He had to let the recollections flood him.

That knife. The fire in the furnace. The Teacher had him by the throat, forcing him down the stairs.

“It’s time. You resist, you’re dead.”

But just like that he was back inside the bathroom. Looking at himself in the mirror. Washing his hands with that foamy soap, drying them under the hot air.

But the screaming in his head was too loud.

He stared at himself, through the reflection in the mirror.

“Leave me alone … Stop touching me like that. I don’t like it.”

Total recall. The Teacher walked over to a table set up amid the cobwebs hanging from the dirty pipes in the basement of Bainbridge. In his mind it was a movie. He watched the Teacher pick up a soldering iron that looked an awful lot like the hair curling iron he remembered his mother once using on him. The Teacher bent down. Rolled up the boy’s pant legs. Then he screamed as the Teacher carved the letters into his shins, branding him for good.

“No … no … please …”

“I would cut your legs off,” he heard the Teacher whisper in his ear, “but I cannot keep you alive at the same time. I need to teach you to have control if you are to carry out my plans.”

The Optimist was back in real time. Walking out of the bathroom, he realized how gratifying this game he had begun months ago with Alyssa Bettencourt at Quincy Market now was. The past and present had juxtaposed so well. With each victim, a small part of that moment in the basement was erased. And soon, with this next victim he had planned, every tear would be wiped away.