The Son of John Devlin (32 page)

“Actually, ma’am, it’s quite important and I was wondering
whether it would be possible to speak with him now. I’m calling from the Boston Police Department.”

“Is something the matter?” the woman asked. “Is Lawrence all right?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Our grandson Lawrence goes to college in Boston,” the woman said. “It’s not about Lawrence, is it? Has something happened?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Robinson,” Jack said. “Please, let me assure you this has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with your grandson. I’m calling about an old police matter, and, it seems silly, I know, but we’re trying to set our records straight. That’s really all it is, but the problem is, I’m supposed to have it done today, so speaking with Dr. Robinson now would be a huge help. And it will take no more than five minutes.”

“All right, then,” she said. “Hold on.”

She set the phone down and was gone for four to five minutes. Finally, Dr. Robinson picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Sir, this is Detective Jones from the Boston Police Department calling,” Jack said, “and I wanted to reach Dr. Robinson. Dr. Francis D. Robinson.”

“Speaking.”

“Sir, you are the Francis D. Robinson who for a period of time in the early 1970s was an assistant medical examiner in Suffolk County, is that correct, Doctor?”

“Oh, yes, that was quite a while ago, wasn’t it,” the old man said. “Yes, I was in the Pathology Department at New England Medical Center, and the state, and the county, I guess, too, were having all sorts of budget problems and they were short of people. And so a number of us were asked to pitch in on an interim basis and that’s
what we did. We each did a week or so every other month. You’re calling about a particular case?”

“Actually, I am, Doctor,” Jack said. “I’m interested in a case from 1972. We’re actually doing a retrospective study here in the department, Doctor, concerning the decision to perform an autopsy. It’s a topic of some debate now, as you surely know. And so what we are trying to do is analyze what we have done in the past and perhaps use that as a guide to help us determine future policies.”

“I see,” the old man said. “So how may I help?”

“We’ve selected several hundred cases—deaths of various kinds—and pulled the files. Randomly chosen. And we’re going back and looking into the decision in some cases to perform an autopsy and in other cases not to do so.”

Robinson chuckled. “Well, I’ll help if I’m able, but I must tell you my memory isn’t the best.”

“This is a case from 1972,” Jack said. “It’s—”

“Pardon me, but what did you say your name was, again?” the doctor asked.

“Detective Jones,” Jack said.

“Detective Jones, fine,” Robinson said.

“It’s a case involving the death of a Boston officer,” Jack continued, working to keep his voice steady and calm. “There was a suicide. A man named Devlin …”

“Oh, my God, I remember it well,” Robinson said. “How could I forget that one. That was such a terrible thing, I remember.”

“So you do recall?” Jack asked.

“Of course,” the doctor said. “He shot himself at some fraternal organization of some kind, I don’t recall exactly where, but he killed himself because he didn’t want to face trial. He’d been charged with some horrendous
corruption charge of some kind. Stealing from nightclubs, I think. Something like that.

“I remember going out there that night and one of the men was quite drunk and he was shouting and swearing and everyone was just shocked by it. He had been disgraced in the newspapers and evidently he couldn’t face the trial, so that was it.”

“And you, sir, pronounced him dead,” Jack said, his cadence slower, his voice softer.

“Yes,” Robinson said.

“And then the decision was made to forgo an autopsy, is that correct, Doctor?”

“It was somewhat unusual,” Robinson said. “Typically, with a suicide, we would do an autopsy to confirm. But in this case the circumstances were such that, I don’t know, I guess you’d say based on humanitarian grounds, we decided not to.”

“Humanitarian grounds?”

“Well, in the sense that here was the department under siege in a way, everyone suffering enough from the corruption charges. It was quite humiliating and I take it quite bad for morale. And then on top of it this man takes his own life. It was almost too much. And you know, these decisions are subjective. They aren’t made in a vacuum. There are various considerations.

“And in this matter, naturally, I discussed it with the police. A couple of detectives came to meet with me that day, you know, within hours after the death. Two good men. And they said basically, ‘Look, the department is in turmoil, there is terrible grief, and let’s just put this to rest as quickly as we can. For the sake of the city and the department and the family.’

“I remember one of the men, in particular, was close to
tears talking about the officer’s family. Evidently he was a widower and had a small son. And the leaders of the detectives’ association came to me and said, essentially, ‘Look, the department has suffered enough trauma. Let’s put it behind us and ease the pain. And an autopsy will only prolong it.’ So on the basis of that, you know, the appeal from the two officers and considerations for the family, we decided to forgo the autopsy. I know today that they do this at the drop of a hat, but I think that presented with the same set of circumstances today I would make the identical decision. I really do.”

Jack Devlin’s breathing was rhythmic, intense. His heart was beating hard, his hands shaking.

There was a prolonged silence.

“You there?” the doctor finally asked.

“Yes,” Jack said. “I’m here, I’m sorry, I was distracted for the moment.”

“So was there anything else?” the doctor asked.

“The two officers who came to see you to talk about the autopsy, would you happen to recall who they were?”

“Oh, Jeez,” the doctor said. “They were a couple of tall fellows, one quite tall. I’m six-two and he was a good three or four inches taller than me. Basketball tall, I call it. And the other fellow was tall, as well, but, no, I don’t think I do recall … though the very tall one had a name like … let me think. Jeez, I just don’t remember.”

Jack waited.

“Mahoney, maybe was the other one,” the doctor said. “The quieter one.”

“Might it have been Moloney?” Jack asked.

“It could well have been,” the doctor said. “Big beefy fellow. Tough-looking customer.”

“Are you sure that—”

“I know,” Dr. Robinson said all of a sudden. “When he introduced himself he said like the senator. I remember that. Kennedy, like the senator. Tom Kennedy, maybe? He was a very close friend of the family.”

Jack closed his eyes and buried his face in his left hand while he grasped the receiver with his right. He felt a confused mix of emotions, but more than anything else, he felt a sense of relief. Of triumph. He knew now. He knew what he’d longed for so many years to know.

“Did he say anything to you about discussing the decision or not discussing the decision?” Jack asked.

“Well, I remember he was very concerned that the family be protected. That was his overriding concern. And he said to me that undoubtedly reporters would come to me and badger me about the decision and why and how it was made and that sort of thing. And he advised me strongly to avoid talking with any of them. He said that they would twist what I said out of context and who knew how it would appear. And I thought that was sensible advice, so I said nothing to anyone.”

“Doctor, I want to thank you for your help,” Jack said.

“Certainly, any time,” Robinson said. “You know, there was something about that case. It got to everyone involved. You know that cop, the crooked cop, he was a widower, and when that was all said and done, my wife told me she felt so sorry for that man’s son. She harped on it for a week. She said to me: ‘What do you think will become of that poor child?’ ”

It had gone too far.

Devlin had to be stopped.

When he was dead, there would be indications of some
vague connection between him and organized crime figures. Fabricated, but believable enough to the feds, or anyone else who cared to examine it. There would be allusions to narcotics, perhaps weapons. There would be nothing definitive, but there would be indications. From sources. Confidential, for the most part. And Devlin would be dead and it would all be over. And they could get on with life.

Two men were sent.

Late, close to midnight, they met at the Rathskeller, a Kenmore Square bar more commonly known as the Rat. They sat together at the far end of the bar, one drinking Coke, the other coffee. They would drink no alcohol this night, for they needed to be sharp. They would need their wits about them. Anything that slowed or in any way impaired their reflexes or reaction times could not be tolerated.

One man was of average height with short black hair combed straight back. His was the physique of a bodybuilder, bulging shoulders, arms, and chest. His neck was so thick it seemed more square than round. He wore gray slacks, a light blue shirt open at the collar, and a ribbed down parka. The other man was thin, wiry. He was an inch over six feet tall with a chiseled face and very long black frizzy hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore black jeans, a black turtleneck, and a black Planet Hollywood jacket.

These were men of experience, men who had performed such tasks before. This was how they earned their living: by taking action where other men were cowed; action that left lesser men shaken. And then by saying nothing to anyone ever. Anyone could kill. Only a true professional could kill and remain silent.

They reviewed the plan. They would remain at the Rat until one-thirty. Then they would drive out to West Roxbury and park a block away, up on Dwinell Street. They would approach the house from the rear. At the back entrance, they would disable the alarm system. That would take fifteen seconds. They would use a master key to open the back door. Because they had studied the layout of the house, they knew they would then walk through the kitchen into the hallway, up the stairs, and right into Devlin’s bedroom. One man would enter, his silencer fixed in place, and immediately begin firing into the body on the bed. While the first man entered Devlin’s bedroom, the second would hang back on the chance that Devlin was ready and fired first. In that case, it would be the job of the second man to take Devlin out.

Their plan was to enter Devlin’s home at two
A.M.
If all went according to plan, by 2:01
A.M.
, Jack Devlin would be dead.

J
ack Devlin sat in the living room of his home shortly after eleven o’clock at night. The streets of West Roxbury were quiet and most houses were dark.

Jack spread the letter out and began to read. He had taken to sitting back in a quiet moment every few days and reading the letter slowly, carefully, savoring the sense of connection to his father that it brought.

The greatest reassurance Jack had was the tone of the letter, a tone that gave no indication at all that his father might be a desperate man, a man on the verge of taking his own life. There was not a hint of it.

Jack paused as he read this line, and he drew a deep breath, for he believed that the truth was at hand. He
believed the time had come when the truth would be revealed to him. He was not yet sure how, precisely, the final pieces would be snapped into place. But he would read the letter and then sit up through the night, if necessary, to complete his plan.

And Jack believed it; believed it was true, and the thought of it, of his father being the benevolent, fair-minded protector, brought a smile to his face.

His expression became more serious as he read on, read through the progression of corruption in which his father had engaged. And his heart yearned for the line he knew was coming, and as he read it, he felt great pride in his father.

Cut me out, Jack thought. To do the right thing in normal circumstances required little in the way of courage, he knew, but to try and do the right thing when it meant a change of course, when it meant going against the grain—that required real fortitude.

Jack shut his eyes tightly against the sting. He shut them so tight, he fought back the tears, for he did not wish to cry. He wanted, instead, to stay focused on the task at hand. He folded the letter carefully and held it in his hands.

Yes, he thought, I know you’re out there, Dad. I know that you are, and what’s more, I know that you do love me, for I can feel it. I can feel it at this very moment, and it gives me strength.