The Dead Room

‘Tell me more about Reynolds first.’

‘He worked for Sullivan from the time he was seventeen. Kevin was a bouncer at this local bar called McGee’s. Place is a real shithole. You only went there if you were looking to score bad coke or get stabbed. Mr Sullivan saw Kevin in action a few times and offered him a job as a bodyguard and chauffeur.’

‘Mr Sullivan?’

‘Sorry, old habit. You saw Sullivan on the street, or if he came up and said hello, that’s what you called him. Frank was big on respect. If you didn’t show it to him or Reynolds or any of his flunkies, you’d better have a good dental plan, ’cause you’d be crawling home with two black eyes and at least one missing tooth.’

‘Are you speaking from personal experience?’

‘I never had any run-ins with either of them. I kept my distance. Not that it was easy. When I was growing up, Frank and his boys owned every inch of these streets. You did what you were told.’

Coop moved to the grave. ‘I’m surprised Kevin’s mom didn’t smell these bodies. I wonder if they poured lime on them.’

‘Do you know who they are?’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘You grew up here.’

‘Your point?’

‘I’m sure you heard rumours about missing women.’

‘Sullivan and his crew had a merry-go-round of young ladies. If you had the IQ of a Tic Tac, he moved you to the front of the line. Too bad the guy isn’t still alive. You’d find him real interesting.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He was a serial killer. We’re talking numbers that surpass those of Ted Bundy.’

‘I don’t recall anything about Sullivan ever being arrested.’

‘He never was. The guy was untouchable. You can attain that status if you have inside help.’

‘Anyone we know?’

He shook his head.

‘Do you know the names of any of Sullivan’s female victims?’

‘No.’

‘You must know something. The guy lived in Charlestown, I’m sure you –’

‘Darby, I’m not a walking history book when it comes to all the shitheads who’ve lived here.’

‘What’s bothering you?’

‘Sullivan is a sore spot for me. The people who lived here when I was growing up – my parents included – viewed him as this Robin Hood character who, okay, while not a nice guy, was actually good for the city because he kept drugs out of here. Which was bullshit. Sullivan started selling heroin in Southie, making big money, and he’s walking around here telling people how he’s going to kill anyone he catches selling it. The man was a genius at playing both sides of the fence.’

It’s more than that, she thought.

‘The other thing is, you know how I feel about Charlestown. How it’s stuck with this townie reputation, that everyone living here is collecting welfare while planning to rob a bank or armoured car. Do we still have our fair share of yahoos and junkies? Absolutely. But name a place that doesn’t. Of course, the press would lead you to believe that that’s all we have living here. Charlestown’s different now. We’ve got a better class of people. The gentrification wave cleaned up most of the shit, but the press won’t report that. And when the news gets out that bones were found in Kevin Reynolds’s house, it’s going to resurrect all that Irish gangster bullshit again. It’s like a skid mark you can’t wash from your underwear.’

‘Thanks for the visual,’ she said.

‘You’re welcome. Now can we get to work?’

Darby didn’t answer. Coop was keeping something from her; she could feel it in her gut. ‘What is it about Kendra Sheppard that’s really bothering you?’

He rolled his eyes.

‘You’re not being honest with me, Coop.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’

‘You didn’t talk in the car, you didn’t –’

‘You didn’t say much of anything either.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Darby, I told you everything I know. Why are you turning this into a goddamn inquisition?’

Because you never were a good liar, Coop. I can see it in your eyes. And the more I keep pressing you, the more defensive you get.

‘I’m going to go upstairs, get the fingerprint card and call the ME’s office,’ he said, emphasizing each word. ‘You’re more than welcome to escort me, since I’m getting the feeling you don’t trust me.’

‘I never said I didn’t trust you.’

‘Then can I get off the witness stand and do some work? Or do you want to waste more time grilling me?’

‘Call ops and have them page Castonguay,’ Darby said. ‘I want him here taking the pictures. Tell him I think I found his HERF device.’

32

Jamie sat alone in the living room waiting for the TV commercial to end. She could hear Carter playing with his Spiderman figures upstairs in the bathtub. Michael was still in his room. When the kids came home from camp, Michael had marched straight upstairs and slammed his bedroom door shut. She went to talk to him. He had locked the door. He refused to talk to her and refused to come out for dinner.

She asked Carter what was bothering Michael and Carter just shrugged.

The answering machine provided a clue. She had forgotten to check it when she first returned home.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Russo, this is Tara French, the director of the Babson sports camp here in Wellesley.’ The woman’s polite voice carried a good amount of caution, as if she didn’t quite know how to broach a difficult topic. ‘Please give me a call at your earliest convenience. I’d like to speak to you about –’

Michael, Jamie had thought, deleting the message. Something had happened at camp today. She’d give Michael some time to cool down, then get his version of whatever had happened and speak to the camp director first thing tomorrow morning.

The second message was from Father Humphrey: ‘Jamie, please call me. I’m… I’m worried about you.’

The TV commercial ended. The newsreader for the New England Cable News channel, an ageing man with wiry grey hair and bright white teeth she suspected were dentures, started talking in a serious voice about the lead story, ‘a grisly homicide and shocking discovery in Charlestown at the childhood home of Kevin Reynolds, a former close associate of Boston’s notorious Irish mobster Francis Sullivan’.

Frank Sullivan. Jamie knew the name, of course, but she couldn’t recall anything specific about the man’s legacy beyond suspected murder, extortion and people who suddenly vanished into thin air. She had graduated from the police academy in February of ’92 – nearly a decade after Sullivan’s death. The Irish mob – and the Italian Mafia, for that matter – had been dismantled by the time she had started her first Boston patrols. A year later she had transferred to Wellesley, a town whose greatest threat was the occasional burglary. She met Dan during that year, got married and quit working when she was pregnant with Carter.

The horse-toothed newsreader disappeared as the screen switched to an Asian reporter who was broadcasting live from Charlestown. Jamie could see blinking blue and white police lights on the windows and wet pavement behind the reporter.

The reporter gave a brief rundown of what had happened early this afternoon: ‘Charlestown resident Andrea Fucilla, who lives in an apartment building across the street from the childhood home of Kevin Reynolds, heard gunshots and called the police.’