The Dead Room

28

Darby sat behind the wheel of the crime scene vehicle waiting for the dozen or so Charlestown cops to clear the people crowding the streets. The afternoon’s pounding rain had finally stopped and the predominately Irish residents packed the streets and pavements. They watched from their windows and stoops, rooftops and decks. Some drank beer, and she saw more than one person passing a bottle wrapped in a brown-paper bag. Almost everyone was smoking.

Homicides in Charlestown, she knew, always produced a carnival-like atmosphere. The die-hard townies who had prised themselves away from their TV sets and bar stools had come here not so much to see if they knew the victim (chances were they did) but rather to find out who in the neighbourhood was out talking to the police. Charlestown still operated by a strict code of silence similar to the Italian Mafia’s omertà: your secrets and sins belonged to the town, and the town took care of its own. You didn’t go to the police, you didn’t talk to the police. This tribal value system had helped to confer upon Boston’s smallest and oldest neighbourhood the distinction of having the highest unsolved homicide rate in the city and the state year after year.

‘They’re acting like the police are here to hand out free scratch cards,’ Darby said.

Coop nodded, looking at the sea of faces passing by the windows. He had been unusually quiet during the ride. The moment he had entered the SUV, he had grown sullen and fidgety; he kept shifting his seat.

At first she had thought Coop might know the victim waiting for them in Charlestown. When he said he had no idea who lived there, she had told him about her conversation with Superintendent Skinner. Coop had answered in grunts and nods.

Clearly Kendra Sheppard was still on his mind, but Darby sensed it was more than that. He wasn’t ready to talk about what was really bothering him yet, so she dropped it. Over the years she had learned one thing about him: he couldn’t be pushed. Try it and he’d lock up and shut down. He’d talk to her when he was ready.

A patrolman tapped the Explorer’s hood and waved her through.

Darby parked the crime scene vehicle in the middle of the street. There was nowhere else to park. Cruisers had blocked off the surrounding streets slick with rain. Stepping out of the car into the grey evening light, she spotted several TV cameras pointed in her direction and wondered if the cameraman she’d seen in Belham had followed her here and was lurking somewhere close by.

When she opened the hatchback, Coop grabbed one of the vacuum-sealed packages holding a disposable Tyvek biohazard suit and headed for the house. The patrolman guarding the front door held it open for him.

‘Coop, you forgot your mask and face shield,’ Darby said.

He didn’t answer – or maybe he hadn’t heard her. He had already ducked inside the house. She stared after him, wondering why he was in such a rush.

Rummaging through the hatchback, she was relieved to find the new 3M respirator masks. In addition to its excellent particle filtration efficiency, this newer model had a cool-flow value that reduced heat and humidity build-up inside the mask. She grabbed two and an additional face shield. She tucked the bag for the biohazard suit under her arm and, kit in hand, lugged everything to the house.

Stepping inside was like stepping back through time, to the late sixties or early seventies – dark hardwood floors and shag carpeting, and in the kitchen one of the ugliest and most depressing wallpaper patterns she had ever seen.

She placed her kit on the kitchen floor. The young patrolman leaning against the worktop had a chubby face fresh with sunburn. His upper lip was shiny, greasy. She spotted the small jar of Vicks VapoRub on the table.

‘Help yourself,’ he said.

Darby held up her mask. ‘I’m looking for Detective Jennings.’

‘He’s downstairs.’ He jerked his thumb to the open door at the end of the tiny kitchen. ‘Stairwell is narrow so be careful of the evidence cones on the steps.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem. Enjoy the show.’

Dressed in her biohazard suit, she carried the equipment down the steps, eyeing the clumps of dirt next to the evidence cones. Where had the dirt come from? When she reached the cellar floor, she found her answer: the floor in the back part of the basement was made of dirt, common in old homes.

Coop, dressed in his biohazard suit and wearing his thick blue gloves, stood in front of a giant armoire that looked as if it belonged in the palace of a Chinese emperor. She saw several footwear impressions in the dirt.

A short and painfully thin older man wearing bifocals and a frumpy blue suit took the handkerchief away from his mouth and came over to introduce himself.

‘Stan Jennings.’

Darby shook his hand. The man’s shirt collar was at least two sizes too big and the dark circles under his eyes matched his black hair.

Jennings told her about the 911 call that had come from the neighbour across the street, an older Italian woman who babysat her three-year-old grandson while her daughter was at work.

‘This old gal smokes by the window on account of her grandson’s asthma,’ he said, his tone loud and excited, like that of a man who’d just discovered he had inherited a windfall. ‘She heard what she thought were gunshots. Next thing she sees is some guy dressed in a Red Sox windbreaker exiting the house. Guy was wearing a cap and had his head tilted down on account of the rain so she couldn’t see his face.’

‘Who owns the house?’

‘Kevin Reynolds.’ Jennings searched her eyes and a grin crept across his face. ‘You don’t know who he is, do you?’

‘No. Should I?’

‘Where you from?’

‘I grew up in Belham.’

‘Then you must know who Frank Sullivan is.’

‘The head of the Irish mob?’

‘That’s who I’m talking about.’

She knew the name, of course – everyone who lived in and around Boston carried stories about the man that ranged somewhere between ruthless gangster to some sort of modern-day Robin Hood character who kept their streets safe by either murdering drug dealers or making them magically disappear.

But Sullivan and all the other big-time mafiosos – that period of time had occurred during her junior high school years back in the early eighties. She had no idea what Sullivan looked like, and what she knew about the man could fit inside a thimble. Son of a poor Irish immigrant couple who died shortly after arriving in Charlestown. Started out his career delivering cars to chop-shops and then later introduced Charlestown and South Boston to heroin while running guns to Ireland through Chelsea Pier. She remembered something about Sullivan dying in a botched raid involving two boats in Boston Harbor.

‘Kevin Reynolds was Frank’s right-hand man, his personal pit bull,’ Jennings said. ‘Kevin’s mother kicked the bucket about two weeks ago – nothing suspicious, just passed away in her sleep. He’s putting the house up for sale, which explains why he’s digging up these bodies. Not a good selling point.’

‘You have him in custody?’

‘Not yet. He’s probably split town. The son of a bitch is real crafty. I’m sure he’s –’

‘Excuse me for a moment,’ Darby said, eyeing the spent shell casings.

She carefully navigated her way around the sets of footwear impressions zigzagging their way across the dirt, not wanting to disturb them, and arrived at the nearest casing. Crouching, she examined it.

‘This is the same round we found in Belham two days ago,’ Darby said, cocking her head in Jennings’s direction. ‘I’m sure you heard about it on the news: the home invasion involving a woman and her son.’

‘Woman was murdered and her kid shot himself at the hospital.’

She nodded and stood up.

‘Do you know a woman named Kendra Sheppard? She’s from Charlestown.’

‘Her family was murdered in ’83,’ Jennings said. ‘Shot to death in their sleep by two different kinds of ammo. I helped work the case. Kendra disappeared before the funeral. I helped work that case too. Nobody knew what happened to her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was one of the bodies buried down here.’

‘She’s not. The murdered woman we found in the house was going by the name of Amy Hallcox. We checked her prints against Kendra Sheppard’s. They match.’

Jennings’s eyebrows arched. ‘How long has she been living in Belham?’

‘She was living in Vermont. According to her son, she came here for some job interviews. Did you know she was arrested for prostitution in Charlestown?’

‘I remember something about that.’

‘Any idea why? She was nineteen.’

‘Sullivan wasn’t into prostitution, if that’s where you’re heading. His big thing was extortion. The cocaine and heroin came later.’

‘Why were her parents murdered, do you know?’

‘I’m sure Sullivan was behind it. When he was alive, you couldn’t piss on these streets without his permission. Either Sullivan killed the Sheppard family or he commissioned someone to do it. Do I have proof? No. But you can bet Sullivan was somehow behind it.’

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Coop moving the beam of his flashlight inside a cardboard box splattered with blood.

‘When Sullivan moved into Charlestown,’ Jennings said, ‘half the people here were murdered or disappeared without a trace. And that doesn’t include the victims who lived in and around Boston. The guy was as evil as Hitler and just as thorough. Ran Charlestown like it was a goddamn concentration camp. By the time he died, this place was like Auschwitz, a ghost town.’

She turned her attention to the body sprawled against the dirt floor. She could see only the navy-blue trouser legs and shoes; the rest was hidden behind Jennings.

‘For that to happen,’ Jennings said, ‘you’ve got to have some very important people on your payroll – people on the inside who can manipulate things, people in the know. People –’

‘Hold that thought.’

Darby had stepped aside to get a clear look at the body. White male dressed in a suit jacket. The majority of gunshots had hit him in the chest. Two shots had hit the man’s right leg. One had hit the femoral artery and he had bled out.

That shot hadn’t killed the man who had used the name of Special Agent Phillips. The single shot to the side of the forehead had done the job.