The Dead Soul (9 page)

“Kelsey found some sort of a mark, like lettering, on one of the legs. I don’t know. Talk to her yourself. She’ll tell you more. Just don’t bother her tonight. She’s at a wake. Her cousin. Or some uncle.”

A thought passed through Jake:
Death truly
is
her life
. Then: “You hear that, Dickie?” Jake hung up.

“She wants you at the morgue first thing tomorrow morning. But said to call her office, she might have to meet you in Chelsea.”

Two times in a week, Jake noted.

Jake turned to leave. Before walking out, he stopped at the door. “Rossi, you and Dickie leave tonight, not in the morning. I want you two up there banging on that Simmons professor’s door while he’s in the middle of a dream. Rustle his ass out of bed and get him working on that seedling.”

“What about the crime scene?” Rossi asked.

“Let someone else go through it again.”

“Cooper?” Matikas screamed. “What’s this about Simmons University?”

Jake was on his way to the elevator.

16

Saturday, September 6 – 7:45 A.M.

The soccer field was set against the backdrop of the old oil refinery tanks, rusted and unused, set along the Mystic River, west of the Tobin Bridge. Chelsea had changed since the days when the river was a means of industry. Now junkies and the unemployed loitered about, unafraid of corrupting Boston’s historical character.

A frustrated Dawn Cooper blew the whistle hanging from her neck. It was loud and piercing, especially to kids who’d had no discipline in their short lives. Yet Dawn was not a coach who put up with any backtalk from a group of twelve-year-olds. They had better appreciate her giving up a Saturday morning to practice for the game next week. That is, if they wanted to beat the Revere Shamrocks.

“Julio Ortega,” Dawn shouted, dropping her head, “you must pass the ball if you want to score. You are not Pelé, my little Latin soldier. Now pass-that-ball.” She clapped her hands on the beat of each word. “Or you will sit out the game next week.”

The boy looked at Dawn as if she were from another planet.

“Julio’s a ballhog, Mrs. Cooper,” Mantiqua Dawkins shouted from midfield.

“I’ll handle this, Mantiqua, okay. Let’s focus on what you’re doing.”

Brendan played with his Hot Wheels in a sandbox about twenty-five yards behind Dawn. He pushed the little cars through the sand, one by one, making
vrrrrrroom
sounds as he pretended he was part of the Daytona 500. At the basketball court nearby, a group of older kids traded Yu Gi Oh cards. Argued over who was a better superhero: Hell Boy or Batman. There was that autumn chill in the air, a cold, wet dampness generally reserved for late September.

Dawn glanced at Brendan every so often, smiled and waved her little fingers. She took a look around the area where Brendan sat. Just to make sure all was copacetic.

“Pass the ball, Hugo,” Dawn screamed. “We cannot win—how many times do I have to say this—if we do not pass … the … ball.” She stopped play. Walked out onto the middle of the field. Her white Nike cleats kicked up wet grass behind her. She called everyone around in a circle. “You need to set your sights on the perimeter of the field and look for open teammates. Those who can drive the ball to your opponents’ side and set up the best shot at goal.”

“What’s a perimeter, Mrs. Cooper?” Bertina Jackson really didn’t know. She twirled a lock of her hair. Snapped a piece of bubble gum.

“The white lines, Tina. The outside white lines.” Dawn pointed.

“Oh, sorry …
excuse
me.” Bertina twisted her neck and head. “And I’m supposed to know that, right?”

The kids were loud and obnoxious. Soccer practice was a way to get off the street for the morning. Get a free breakfast out of Mrs. Cooper, some Gatorade, and not worry about being bullied for a few hours or waking up to hung-over parents.

“Now, let’s try this again.” Dawn had the soccer ball in her hands, whistle in her mouth. “Everybody understand what I’m saying?”

None of the kids responded.

Dawn backed off the field.

Thirty seconds passed. They were getting it, Dawn thought. That was all they needed, a little kick in the ass. Some direction. “Yes, Hugo, that’s it,” she encouraged. “You got it, kiddo. Keep up the good work.”

Dawn realized she had not checked on Brendan. Whenever she got actively involved in hands-on coaching, Dawn told Valerie Murray, nursing a broken leg on the bench, to keep an eye on Brendan. Dawn looked over and spied Valerie staring down at her cellphone screen, tapping out a text.

Bren
?

Her stomach felt a kick as she turned.

The child was gone.

“No. Valerie, where is he?”

The girl looked up.

Dawn ran.

At the sandbox, Dawn saw his toys just sitting there. Large footprints—
a man’s—
marked the sand next to where she was certain Brendan had been grabbed by some pedophile who now had him in his car, speeding down the road, salivating over all of the perverted things he was going do to the boy.

“Brendan?” She surveyed the park in a circle.

Those kids trading cards looked at her. Went back to what they were doing.

“Brendan!” Play on the soccer field stopped. The kids realizing what was going on.

“Brendan, damn it, where are you?” Tears now. Dawn ran to the opposite end of the playground, which was blocked by several large maple trees and a large plastic playscape donated to the park by a man whose son died of cancer. “Adam’s Land,” that section of the park was called. The father was a doctor. A doctor who couldn’t save his own son.

“Brendan?”

“Over here,” a voice shouted, “Dawn. Over here, honey.”

She stopped. Dropped to bended knees. Let out a deep breath. Thank God.

“He ran over to me,” Jake said. He was sitting on the top of a picnic table under a tree. Brendan kneeled on the bench seat between his father’s legs.

Dawn grabbed Brendan and tucked his head into her chest. Her chin rested on his head. She rocked back and forth. Stared at Jake.

How dare you.

“We’ll talk about this later, Jake.”

“What did
I
do? I was just driving by, thought I’d stop. He saw me. Came running.”

“You could have said something earlier. You saw me panicking.”

“I did not, Dawn.” Jake shrugged. “Well, that might teach you to keep Brendan, like I’ve said, by your side when you’re out and about.” Under Mo, when he first came up, Jake worked a few years in the child abduction unit. He’d seen things he thought happened only in Third World countries. After Dawn had Brendan, Jake went on a stranger-danger kick. He became obsessed with the notion that someone was going to grab the kid. It was this same sort of behavior that had caused Jake a few relationships. The love of his life, Jenna Connors. They dated for four years, two in high school, two out. Jake’s insecurity came in between them.

“I had Valerie watching him,” Dawn explained, holding Brendan. “Or I thought she was. Maybe I need to keep him on a leash, Jake!”

Dawn wasn’t a bad mother. She was more liberal when it came to Brendan. If it were up to Jake, Brendan would still be riding in the front seat of the shopping carriage and tied to Dawn’s hip whenever they left the house. Dawn, on the other hand, wanted to teach the child that the world wasn’t a bad place. You couldn’t trust everyone. But you could certainly walk through life and not be afraid of every unfamiliar face you came in contact with. Jake was not a good judge of the real world. He lived inside that bubble of Boston’s criminal element. It corrupted his thinking. All cops thought this way to some extent.

“He’s not a prisoner, Jake. I’m so mad at you right now.”

Just then the soccer team ran up.

“I have to go to see Dr. Kelsey, Dawn—” but she wouldn’t let him finish.

“I’m sorry, Jake. I should not have trusted a thirteen-year-old. I know.”

“Hey,” Jake grabbed hold of his wife, “it’s okay now.”

Dawn shook. She went back and questioned every step of her morning. “I’m so sorry.” More tears. This was the effect Jake had on people. He could turn things around with a few words. Lay on the guilt subtly. Make Dawn feel like it
was
her fault.

“Hey, listen, call your parents. I’ll be done early today”—Jake looked at his watch—“probably ‘roun’ three. Let’s go over there for dinner tonight, okay?” He knew that would make her feel better.

The team stood in back of Dawn, a posse behind their leader. “Everything okay, Mrs. Cooper?” one of the kids asked.

Dawn got herself together. Stood. “Yeah. Yes. Of course.”

The team ran together back to the field. Dawn said she’d join them soon.

“Brendan, you go with them.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

“Tyisha,” Dawn told her oldest player, “keep an eye on him for me.” She stared at the girl.

“Sure thing, Mrs. Cooper.”

“This coaching thing,” they walked toward Jake’s car, “is too much. Work is draining you, Dawn. Me, too. What do you say we drop it all and move to New Hampshire.”

“Watching
On Golden Pond
again?” She paused. More serious and calm now, “Listen, Jake, you can never do that again.”

Jake kissed Dawn on the lips. Jumped into his car. Dawn stared at him. “I don’t even know why I don’t stay mad at you, Jake Cooper.”

“Because I’m the Sundance Man,” Jake said, mounting his sunglasses, “Boston’s finest superhero.” Dawn could see her reflection in those big blowfly mirror lenses. Alice Cooper-like, black mascara streaked down the channels of her eyes.

“Just don’t forget about your dinner idea for tonight,” Dawn reminded her husband. “Once I call mom, she’ll hold us to it. We’ll have to show up—or you’ll have more in common with that priest of yours than you think.”

Jake took off. The comment reminded him that he needed to get over to St. Paul’s within the next few days and see Father John about that problem with the deacon. He owed the priest that much.

17

Saturday, September 6 – 9:11 A.M.

The sun was blurry, as if positioned behind stained glass. The sky a soft, varicose-vein blue. It had turned uncomfortably humid after a chilly start. Still, this was the type of morning in late summer you take without complaining. Jake parked on Franklin Street in Chelsea, next to a dangerously slanted telephone pole and white-brick retaining wall that looked to be falling over. Up ahead were ramshackle brick tenement buildings across the street from a dozen three-deckers. Blues had a name for the neighborhood—“Welfare Row.”

Jake spied Dr. Kelsey as he walked around the corner of the U-Haul rental truck. It was situated at the base of a hill in front of the Miguel Village housing project. The pathologist stood on the tailgate. Handed out boxes and bags of food. Winter hats. Mittens and scarves. All donated by a local church.

Kelsey looked a lot better out in the real world. She was dressed in jeans, a tanktop, white denim ball cap with a silver star made out of glitter on the front. She wore those white, nameless, nondescript tennis shoes made for housewives. Kelsey’s nails were Goth black. She had make-up on, a Bahaman blue rouge above her eyes (borderline circus clown), cherry red cheeks, rock star black eyeliner. Large silver and gold bracelets clanked on her wrists. A gold skull pendant hung from her neck.

Nice touch
, Jake thought, staring at the skeleton head.

Kelsey spotted the detective. “Get your butt up here, Cooper. Help us out.”

“I need to talk to you,” Jake yelled over the crowd, his hands cupped in a megaphone on the sides of his mouth. “Ray said you have something for me.”

“Detective Cooper, this is Marilyn.” Kelsey could throw her voice. “Marilyn, Sundance Cooper.”

Jake walked over, shook the woman’s strong, rough hand. She nodded without speaking.

“Marilyn’s my sister.” 

“Nice to meet you.” 

Marilyn wore her gray hair in a military buzz cut. She did not smile.

“Don’t mind my sister,” Kelsey said, looking over at her. “Mad at the world—that woman.”

Jake nodded as if to say he understood. “About those legs? Is it always this busy?”

The poor were huddled around the back of the truck as though Doctors Without Borders backed up to some Third World country village to hand out medical supplies and sacks of rice.

“This city is not into helping its people, Cooper. But that conversation is for another time.” Kelsey said something to her sister Jake couldn’t hear. Then jumped down off the tailgate, addressing Jake, “My car’s over there.”

They reached Kelsey’s black Malibu. It was parked next to a red and yellow fire hydrant. They sat down inside. Kelsey took out her notes and read. Jake scoped out the inside of the vehicle. Clean. Tidy. He appreciated that.

“Right … yes, here we are,” Kelsey said. She took off her librarian bifocals. Squinted one eye in thought. “I found what I believe to be the letter m underneath the ankle bone of the right leg.”

“An m, you say?”

“Yes. Not a tattoo or anything like that. It’s a crude marking of some sort, as if it was burned into the skin—after death—on purpose.”

A cipher?

Jake had a hard time with this notion. “Wait a minute, Doctor. Whose legs are we talking about here?”

“The new set. The set you found under the Taylor kid’s bed?”

“You mean in her closet?”

“Right, sorry,” she said, checking her notes again. “The Taylor closet.”

“Yes, whose legs are those? Matikas said something about them not being the Taylor kid’s. Are they Lisa Marie Taylor’s legs or not?”

“Those legs are definitely
not
from your Lisa Marie. Who names their kid after a Presley, anyway?” The doctor shook her head.

“I’ll ask the dad about the name next time I see him. Whose legs are they, then?”

“I need to run a few more tests, but I am ninety-nine percent certain, you can bet on this one, Cooper, that”—she winked—“those legs belong to the same DNA donor we pulled off the Taylor kid’s face.”

Alyssa Bettencourt
. Jake saw all that blood on Lisa’s face at the crime scene. It did not belong to her. Whoever beat her, slathered someone else’s blood on her face and pummeled the girl after she was already dead.

“Go on.”

“Beyond the prelim blood tests I ran, I know the legs had been previously frozen, likely in the same locale as the Taylor body. I found the same ice crystal residue. We determine this by analyzing the frozen air particles left behind. Sort of in the same fashion archeologists check layers of the Arctic for carbons. You know what I mean.”

“I guess, yeah.” Jake didn’t care about science. He sat back. Considered the barbarity of these crimes. Took a breath. “Thanks, Doctor.” He stepped out of the Malibu. Leveled his iPhone, hit speaker.

After one buzz:
“The Verizon customer you are trying to reach is out of a serviceable area.”

Simmons.

At the beep: “Dickie, call me when you have service back.”

Kelsey tapped Jake on the back. “That’s all for now. I’ll have more soon. Gotta run. I need to get back to my sister and the civic duty she takes so much pride in. Not enough to be a lesbian, you know. She has to save the world, too.”

“Yep, sure …” Jake hung up the line.

“Come see me on Monday. I’ll should have more detail.”

“One question, Doctor.”

“What is it, Cooper? I really need to get back.”

“Sure. But that marking inside Lisa’s mouth, the one you thought wasn’t a bite mark or a skin defect, what type of shape is that in?”

The doctor went back into the car, rummaged through the photographs, stopping on a close-up. “Look for yourself.”

Jake took the color photo in hand, stared at it in puzzlement. “I don’t see anything.”

“You’ve got it upside down.” It was hard to interpret if you didn’t know what you were looking at. The skin, after a good washing, was a whitish pink, like chewed gum. The marking, all blown up like this in the photo, looked as if it could be anything.

Kelsey straightened the photo.

There it was in plain view.

“An i?”

“Yes. The letter
i
. Appears someone is sending you a message, Detective.”

“Can I have this photo? You have one of the
m
on the ankle I can take, too?”

She handed it to him.

In his mind, Jake Cooper put the two letters together: “
i-m.”

I-M.

I’m … what?