The Dead Soul (8 page)

14

Friday, September 5 - 6:11 P.M.

Ever since discovering the legs in the Taylor kid’s closet, a question nagged at Jake. How had this serial managed to transport Lisa’s body down into the park, either the night before or that day, without being seen? Getting into the Taylor house to leave those legs made the guy a pro, for sure. But how had he staged such a scene in the Garden? Had he cut her up to lighten the load, or were the legs the guy’s signature?

The answer was somewhere.

On his way home, Jake stopped by the Garden scene. He heard they were about to release it. He wanted one more crack.

The sun was still burning bright and hot, a fuzzy, unfocused ball of fire in an evening sky airbrushed with a perfect fusion of blue rouge and cranberry red.

Jake took off his jacket, left it in the car.

There was a safety-cone-orange outline spray-painted on the grass where Lisa had been found. White chalk lines were for Hollywood.

Lisa’s death shape looked odd without her lower half.

When the sun fell out of view and behind the staggered skyline around Boston Common, a chill kicked up and Jake wished he’d taken his jacket with him. He pulled up his collar, bent down—a baseball catcher behind the plate—and stared at the empty sketch on the grass. Leaves had fallen all around, broken branches littered about the area. Jake watched as people passed by the park going about their average lives. Talking. Laughing. Holding hands.

He looked through them, thinking.

Find his frame of mind.

He tapped on the side of his temple with a forefinger.

It wasn’t hard to picture the madman at work. Follow him walking around the scene, planning to stage Lisa’s corpse.

Where is she?

There were two types of killers, Jake knew. One enjoyed putting the rope around the woman’s neck, relishing in watching her face turn a zombielike hue of powder-blue. The other was more interested in the act itself. The technique. The methodical (and spiritual) nature of what went into taking a life. He was focused more on his own trauma while going about his business of torture, each moment a reflection of what he had gone through.

That’s my guy.

Jake stood. As it got darker and the sounds of city life disappeared, it occurred to him how his mother used to demand he be in the house by early afternoon. He played by Columbia Point Project in Southie. At night, the place was a war zone of junkies and thugs. The thing was, Jake walked to and from school with his metal lunch box in hand, ready to strike at the kids looking to take it. Heading up Broadway once, the main shopping district in the all-white section of Southie, a gang of older kids surrounded him. Made him take off his pants and run home naked. All those Southie inbreeds drinking on their stoops, hanging out on the corners, screaming at one another up to the windows of row apartments, laughed at him.

There was an indentation in the mud by the pond. It was off the beaten path. Jake noticed it as he walked toward the scummy water. It was small, but noticeable, and looked as though someone had dropped a basketball and the claylike earth had recorded its imprint. He wondered how SIX-U had missed it. Jake reached inside his back pocket, took out his iPhone and double-clicked the scanning option app. “
Teleforensics, Cooper
,” he heard the geek from tech say. “
It’s the latest thing. Give it a shot
.” The guy showed him how to operate the scanner option. “
An app and two screens, you’re done.” Easy as taking a photograph. “Only now, you can send the scanned image into a database and get results in minutes.”

Jake moved the lens of the phone over the ground. He hit SCAN and slowly ran the phone’s rays over the imprint as a fluorescent-green light glided over the outline of the shape.

He heard a chime. Hit the enter key. The image was now traveling through cyberspace, heading into the general database.

Jake copied Dickie and Anastasia on the send to keep them in the loop, with an added message to Anastasia, asking her how in the hell her team had missed this.

As Jake walked back up toward the body outline, the computer searched the system for a match, scrolling through thousands of images in seconds, much like it would for a fingerprint.

The hourglass turned as Jake stared at the screen.

Then came the e-report:

No data available.

Shit.

Then another chime. Jake looked at the screen again. No match, but there was a hit on the type of fabric. The scan had picked up on a crisscross pattern of material, fairly common. The main computer had compared its distinctive blueprint to thousands it had in storage.

Consistent with canvas. Military green in color.

Duffel bag.

Jake stood over the outline of Lisa. Checked his watch, pictured himself once again in the killer’s shoes.

Duffel bag in hand—no … bag on some sort of a cart—I stop here
. He stared back toward the indentation.
Drop my bag. Unzip it. Take a look around. Make sure the coast is clear. Take her out and stage the scene
.

He tapped the glass on his watch, then looked up.

Forty-five seconds
.

But where were his footprints? Anastasia would have found them.

He looked closely. Brush marks. The killer had used some sort of rake or tree branch to clear his footprints. How had the killer not seen the scallop?

Left it on purpose?

Jake keyed his radio ON. Called a blue standing guard at the entrance. “Don’t allow this scene to be released.”

“That you, Cooper? Shit, I didn’t even frickin’ see you go down there.”

Jake shook his head. “Just do what I said.”

“You got it.”

Jake sat in his car on Boylston. “Rossi,” he said into her voicemail. “I want the Garden scene reprocessed. We’re looking for a professional—FedEx or UPS driver. A delivery person of some sort. Maintenance man. Maybe a cop. Or some ex-military nut.” He paused. “Add security guard in there somewhere.”

Jake looked at the city of Boston before him. A taxi whizzed by, honking his horn. A woman jogger bounced along the sidewalk to the song in her earbuds. A guy behind her talked on his cellphone, using his hands to make points. A horse-and-buggy driver took a drag from a cigarette and read the
Globe
while waiting for a customer. Jake got lost in the swirling blue smoke hovering around the guy. He could taste the nicotine sting his throat, the tar burn his lungs as he inhaled. He popped a piece of nicotine gum. Chewed it once and then spit it out. A card Father John once gave him, congratulating Jake on his return to the church after getting out of the hospital, came in a wave as he drove away. The verse the card quoted was hard to forget.

“ ‘This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil.’ ”

Jake walked over to the horse-and-buggy guy. “You got an extra smoke?”

15

Friday, September 5 - 7:21 P.M.

CSI Anastasia Rossi sat behind her metal desk examining several photos spread out in front of her. It was late to be at work. But Anastasia had nowhere to go tonight. Cardio kickboxing class was on Mondays and Wednesdays. Her East Boston apartment, the one-bedroom overlooking Constitution Beach and Logan Airport, was not a place Anastasia wanted to be. Not tonight, with this case eating at her. What good was sitting home watching reruns of
Everybody Loves Raymond and Seinfeld?

The break-up from her boyfriend, Todd Sacks, was still bothering Anastasia. Yet something kept telling her it was for the best. Long-distance relationships were doomed. Todd had left her, but had been there when her father died. Todd was one of those hard-bodied FDNY firemen, “Mr. July.” When it came down to it, the guy was sincere, usually willing to drop everything and listen. Anastasia still called him once a week. Well, maybe a little more than that. Mostly on Sunday nights and Wednesday mornings before his shift. Last week they chatted for two hours. Talked about how Anastasia was faring in Boston. How she missed her father. How her goal was to make Grade One by the end of the year. Come to think of it, none of the conversation was about Todd.

Anastasia was promoted six months ago to Boston’s A-list forensic team, Crime Scene Unit Six (or, as the team called itself in-house, SIX-U). They worked out of D-15. By far, SIX-U was the unit with the most credibility. D-15’s unprecedented conviction rate among the precincts made it the squad to work for. Anastasia had testified in four trials already. Each led to a conviction.

Not bad.

“You don’t grow up in the Bronx,” Anastasia had told Lieutenant Ray Matikas one day when he asked where her edge had come from, “and not learn a few things.”

Anastasia stared at several close-ups of Lisa Marie’s face, finding herself lost in the bizarre nature of this crime.

“You still here, Rossi?” Jake asked, walking by her desk.

She looked up, her big brown eyes lonely and curious, following Jake as he made his way toward his office. “Taking one for the team, Detective.”

Jake halted before turning the corner. “I emailed you and Dickie something earlier, check it out. I need an explanation as to why you missed it. And, yeah, I need to speak with you, but not right now. Will you be around for a while?”

“Sure, Detective.”

“Give me ten.”

Snapping photos of dead bodies, tagging and bagging evidence, crawling around on all fours searching for fibers and hairs and chewed gum wasn’t what Anastasia Rossi saw herself doing after moving from New York a year ago. She had transferred from the NYPD’s hostage negotiation team. Coming to Boston, the twenty-nine-year-old had her heart set on wearing a gold shield like her dead father, Giuseppe Rossi. Crazy Joe was one of New York’s most aggressive, if not infamous detectives.

Anastasia wrote something in a notebook she kept hidden in her desk under lock and key. She looked around before reaching into the drawer, then scribbled:
Jake Cooper, 7:32 PM, says he needs to “talk.”

Most everyone on the squad had gone home for the day. It was quiet. Anastasia heard the cleaning crew out in the lobby. Two guys were arguing about overtime, yelling at their foreman for being gypped a few hours in their last paycheck. Ignoring the commotion, Anastasia zeroed in on a few photos of the area surrounding Lisa Marie’s body. Lisa was placed on the edge of the Public Garden Lagoon. There was a slight hill in front of her. How had Lisa’s killer gotten her down that slope? Dead weight, Lisa weighed in at 115 pounds. No tire tracks were found anywhere on site. Did this mean the killer was a big man? A weightlifter type?

“Incredible case, huh, Rossi?” a blue from the front desk said as she walked by. She had her coat on, stopping to file a report in a nearby cabinet before leaving. “People can be so darn cruel. No legs. Incredible.” She turned away from the color image Anastasia held in her hand.

“Hi-ya, Collins.”

“Why don’t you go home? It’s late.”

“I know,” Anastasia said. “Cooper wants to speak to me, though. Can’t leave.”

Collins knew the real reason Anastasia worked so much overtime.

“Why don’t you just put in for the promotion?” Collins sat on the desk in front of Anastasia’s. “You’ll get that job. There’s a huge quota going on to fill a gender gap. Now’s the time.” Anastasia sat behind a small desk. This part of the office was set up like a school classroom. All the desks faced west, toward dispatch and the front counter. The offices were along the east wall, facing the city skyline. “You put too much pressure on yourself, Rossi. You’ll never be noticed unless you speak up. You’re a good cop. Good cops make Grade One. Take advantage of all the gender laws. They’re written for people like you.”

“That’s sweet. Thanks. I appreciate it.” Anastasia knew Collins was right, and meant well. All she ever thought about these days was finding that one piece of the puzzle in a big case that made her stand out.

Collins stood. “Think about it. I can make sure the paperwork gets into the right hands.” She started to walk away. “Rossi?”

“Yeah?” Anastasia looked up.

“Unhappiness is a temporary condition, you know. It always passes.”

“Good advice, Collins. Thanks.”

Anastasia half-smiled. Inside, she wondered if her melancholy was that obvious. She thought she was over Mr. July. Her girlfriend back home had warned Anastasia about firefighters.

Her pager went off.

Dickie
? At this hour? The guy was in bed by eight-thirty.

“What’s up, Detective? Just getting ready to leave.”

“Still hangin’ around? I like your spunk, Rossi. So young and determined.” Ever since Anastasia joined the team, Dickie had taken her under his wing.

“You know we got ourselves a hot case here. I want to do all I can to help.”

“Listen, I was just talking to Jake”—
big surprise
—“and, well, first let me ask, are you busy this weekend?”

“No, why? What’s up?” Anastasia bellied up to her desk, elbows on the large blotter with leather corners.

“Well, I spoke to a scientist at the Boston Science Museum. You know how they have that exotic, rare plant exhibit going on?” She didn’t, but that was okay. “He suggested a botanist in New York we need to go see.”

Anastasia was elated but confused. “Sorry, Detective, not following you. How is a botanist involved in our case?”

“His name is, oh, shoot, where is that piece of paper?” Anastasia heard Dickie shuffle papers around. He put the phone down. Cursed himself for losing everything. “I sometimes think I need to be tested for dementia, Rossi.”

“You know what they say, Detective. If you forget where you put your keys, no biggie. It’s when you forget what your keys are for—that’s when you need to worry.”

Dickie hadn’t heard that one before. Cute.

“You there?” Dickie said. “Here it is …”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“We need to speak with the associate professor of plant genetics at Simmons University, in upstate New York by Erie … Doctor Albert K. Shelton.”

“And again, Detective, this is for
what
purpose? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I’ll fill you in during the drive, but it involves that seedling you guys bagged from underneath the Taylor kid. It wasn’t connected to any plant or vegetation in the Garden. In fact, one scientist claims, not anywhere in the state. It’s definitely significant. Jake isn’t sold on it yet, but I have one of those feelings. We might be able to locate the origin of the seedling. You know, where it’s from. It’s a start.”

Jake walked around the corner. “Must have been Dickie, right?” He smiled. Anastasia stood. “No, please sit, Officer Rossi. This’ll only take a minute. I’m on my way home.” He looked down at his watch. “Late as it is.”

Anastasia had become Jake Cooper’s go-to. She was forever tagging along with Jake and Dickie during cases. It seemed just when they were about to throw up their hands on a case and send it to the cold case dust bin, she came up with a photo or piece of evidence everyone had missed. Never a smoking gun. But Anastasia seemed to always produce something that made a lead click. It was almost, Jake considered more than once, as if she held evidence back in order to make herself look good.

“You get that text on the scallop I found in the mud near the Common Lagoon?”

“Uh …”

“Check your email, Rossi. I won’t even get into the fact that you missed that during your first sweep of the scene.”

“I will, Detective. Sorry.”

“Get back down there and process it again in the morning for me.”

“Sure thing.”

“I need you to do something else.” Jake looked around to see if anyone was in earshot. “Needs to be kept quiet, though. You up for it?”

“Sure, Detective. Whatever I can do?” Anastasia knew what it was.

Simmons U.

“When you return from New York with Dickie,” Jake whispered. This was strange to Anastasia. “I need you to go downtown and pull a case for me.” File storage at HQ was off limits to just anyone.

Anastasia was absorbed. “Sure, but—”

“I don’t care how you get in. The name’s Carmichael. Marjorie and Jeffrey Carmichael were killed inside the Ted Williams Tunnel by falling debris. Probably a closed case already, written off as an accident, but I need your opinion on something. Also check to see which law firm is representing Mr. Carmichael. I heard he’s already lawyered up. And what construction company was hired for work on that quadrant of the tunnel.”

“Is there anything I should know about it beforehand, Detective?”

“No. I don’t want to taint your opinion. You heard of the case?”

“That would be affirmative, Detective. All over the news these past couple days. Poor woman and her son … that dog even.” Anastasia looked over Jake’s shoulder. She saw the elevator doors pop open and heard the floor number ding. A man walked out. He was dressed in sweatpants. A windbreaker. Boston Red Sox ball cap.

“Lieutenant Matikas, Coop.”

Jake turned.
Shit
.

“What is he doing here at this hour?” Anastasia wondered out loud.

“You two in my office,” Matikas said, walking by them. “Now.”

Jake dropped his shoulders. Followed. Waved Anastasia on.

Inside his office, Matikas folded his arms chest-high. Shook his head side to side. He could tell Jake wanted no part of this sudden meeting. Matikas’s office was as messy as his car. Papers strewn all over the desk. Garbage can overflowing. Dust as thick as pollen on the tops of his cabinets. Cobwebs in the corners. Greasy fingerprint smudges on his computer screen.

“Why don’t you leave your door unlocked, Ray,” Jake said, “so the cleaning crew can get in here? Place is a shithole.”

“Shut up for a minute, would you, Cooper. Oh, wait. I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” Matikas tossed his keys on the desk. Medals, citations and accommodations donned the walls behind his large burgundy leather chair, studded with gold buttons. The stuffed swordfish Matikas had bagged during a trip to the Grand Banks overlooked the three of them. Its marble eye followed Jake wherever he walked in the room.

“My dinner is getting cold, Ray.”

“Why in the hell do you not answer your pager when it’s important, Cooper? Can you tell me that, please?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You know, Rossi, this detective
really
thinks he’s something. Some hotshot who doesn’t have to live by the same rules the rest of us do. I’ve had it, Cooper, with your attitude and bullshit. I should not have given you this case—you’re not ready for it.” Sweat rolled off Matikas’s forehead. He hadn’t taken off his windbreaker, an old softball jacket from his days of playing in the FBI’s summer league. He stunk like stale cigarettes and cabbage.

That remark smacked Jake. He was serious now. “Well, sir, I was here and I, well, you don’t want to hear my problems, now do you?”

“The only reason I’m here now—believe me, I’d rather be home watching the
World Series of Poker
—is because Officer Collins had the decency to answer her damn telephone and let me know you were still here. It’s the pathologist, Cooper. Kelsey has been trying to reach you for the past hour.”

This sparked Jake’s attention. “I’m all ears, Ray.”

“Has to do with those legs you found in the Taylor closet. By the way, the father is pissed. Says you should have warned him there might have been something of a ‘grotesque’—his word—nature in his daughter’s room.”

“What about those legs?”

Anastasia watched the exchange like a tennis match. She was curious, but did not want to get in between them.

“They’re not Lisa Marie’s legs, Cooper. Kelsey just confirmed that preliminary DNA does not match.”

Jake had his iPhone out, dialing Dickie before Matikas even finished.

“I’m not done here. There’s more. But you obviously have a few calls to make, so I’ll wait.” Matikas sat down.

Jake told Dickie to hold on. “What else, Ray? Come on.”