52
By the time I made it to the Special Investigations Unit, the pain in my arm had subsided, but my sleeve and left hand were wet with blood. When I appeared in her doorway, Caroline jerked back in her chair.
‘Ben! Oh my God, what happened to you?’
‘I think I got shot.’
‘You think?’
‘I guess. It’s never happened before.’
She rushed off to get a first-aid kit, then we sat on her couch so she could clean the wound with alcohol and a gauze pad. She ordered me to strip off my jacket and the bloody shirt. I was still wearing the same PROPERTY OF BUFFALO SABRES T-shirt I’d worn the night before, when Caroline had come to my hotel room. If she noticed this, she didn’t mention it.
‘It just grazed you,’ she said, presumably to calm me down.
‘It grazed me? I got shot.’
‘Well, you didn’t really get shot shot. It’s a scrape.’
‘Excuse me, I was under the impression that when a bullet hits you, that means you’ve been shot.’
‘Okay, Ben,’ she said, ‘you got shot. I meant, you’re okay.’
‘Caroline, don’t do that.’
‘Do what?’
‘That thing you do, with getting your way.’
‘I just said you got shot. I’m agreeing with you.’
‘I know, but it was the way you said it.’
She frowned at me. ‘Sorry. Just trying to help. You’re right, you got shot.’ She dropped the gauze into the first-aid kit, then said, ‘I’m on your side, Ben. You know that.’ She gave me a look to reinforce the point, aiming her eyes at mine until I acknowledged that I did know it — she was without a doubt on my side. ‘Don’t forget it,’ she said.
‘Sorry, I’m a little freaked out here.’
We kissed, for no particular reason except something told us to, and I understood — in a way I had not quite until that moment — that as difficult as it was to get close to Caroline Kelly, she was one of those selective, ferociously loyal people who, once they have taken you in, will stand by you through the most desperate times. Such people have few acquaintances and many friends. They withhold their affection because it costs them so much to give it so completely, and because they never — ever — revoke it. If you are lucky, you may meet one or two of them in your life.
From a desk drawer, Caroline produced a sweatshirt and tossed it to me. Long strands of her dark hair clung to the sweatshirt, which had the Boston PD logo and the slogan AMERICA ’ S FIRST POLICE DEPARTMENT.
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s okay. I give one to everyone who shows up here with a gunshot wound.’
As I was putting on the sweatshirt, Caroline picked up the phone.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Calling the police.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, Chief Truman, don’t be ridiculous. We have to report this.’
‘Absolutely not.’
I gave her a look and she hung up the phone. ‘You’re being paranoid. Why would anyone want to shoot you?’
‘Maybe they don’t like hicks.’
‘You’re no hick.’ This she said in a dismissive voice, lest I mistake it for a compliment.
‘It’s the Trudell thing. Somebody doesn’t want me sniffing around that case. Is Franny here? I need to talk to Franny. He’s the only one left, and he’s been lying from the start.’
‘He’s in his office.’
I got to my feet.
‘Wait,’ Caroline said. She reached for the phone again.
‘I said no cops.’
‘I’m calling my father.’
‘Good. Okay, good. Get him in here.’
‘Ben, can I suggest one other thing? Call Kurth. Franny won’t try anything with Kurth there. He wouldn’t dare.’
‘Jesus, Caroline. Don’t you think that guy’s a little…?’
‘I know, he’s a little odd. But, Ben, if there’s one cop you can trust, it’s Kurth.’
53
Franny seemed to be waiting for us. He was horribly transformed in the few hours since I’d seen him. He slumped behind his desk looking exhausted and ill and desperately sad. I thought he might even have been crying — his face was glazed with damp sweat like tears — but tenderness was so far from Franny Boyle’s character that I presumed instead that he was simply drunk, which no doubt he was.
Franny did not stir when we appeared in the door. He gazed at each of us in turn: me, Caroline, John Kelly, and Kurth. ‘Looks like the gang’s all here,’ he said. A beer bottle was pinched between his thighs. He lifted it to take a swig. ‘You guys want one? Just don’t tell the boss — I don’t want to lose my raise.’ Then a shadow passed over his face and the kidding stopped. The bravado was just too much effort to keep up and, at this point, why bother? ‘I been wondering how long it was gonna take you.’
‘Franny,’ I said, ‘you want a lawyer here?’
‘Again with the lawyer. No, Opie, I don’t need a lawyer.’
His eyes drifted to the wall behind me. ‘I ever tell you about my first homicide, Opie? It was when we had real gangsters, the old North End types, not these Asian kids. The real goombahs. My victim, they found him chained to a pile under this pier down near the Red Falcon Terminal, on the waterfront there. They took him down under the pier at low tide and they tied him to the pole and left him there while the tide come up. That’s old school, baby. We never solved it. Nobody would talk. What the hell — I wouldn’t have talked either.’ He slumped further in his chair. ‘I think about that guy all the time: chained there, watching the water come up. Nothing he could do. Just sit there and watch it.’ He wiped an invisible tear from his cheek and looked at me as if I were very far away.
I turned away from his face.
On the desk was the picture that had been hanging in Danziger’s office, the Special Investigations Unit as it was composed in the mid-eighties — Assistant DAs Bob Danziger and Franny Boyle, Detectives Artie Trudell, Julio Vega, Martin Gittens, about a dozen others — hanging on each other, brimful of confidence. The bomber crew assembled on the airstrip for a snapshot before their last, doomed run.
I said, ‘Franny, Bob Danziger asked for your help, didn’t he? You were one of the only witnesses still out there, you and Julio Vega. Danziger wanted to go after Artie Trudell’s killer.’
Silence.
‘Did he ask you to help, Franny? Or was he going to subpoena you?’
‘He didn’t need a subpoena,’ Franny mumbled. ‘He told me I owed it to Artie. That was enough, after all that time. The thing was, Danziger didn’t know what he was getting into until we started talking. Now he knows.’ His eyes were drifting left and right as if he were watching a badminton match taking place somewhere behind me. ‘Maybe I’ll end up the same way. Got to be better than this.’
I should point out that, according to Caroline, in his day Franny Boyle was the most feared, most eloquent,
