Bad Thoughts (26 page)

      
He asked her if she knew about any of it.

      
“N-no.” Her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. “All I knew was that Bill’s parents had both died. About the way she was murdered . . . our neighbor, Rose Hartwell, was murdered the same way . . .”

      
“I know.”

      
“What—what do you think it means?”

      
Dornich tried to make his shrug look natural. He had been thinking about that question off and on since he found those articles. The obvious explanation was that Shannon was involved—that when he blacked out, he repeated his mother’s murder. That was the obvious explanation, but it didn’t ring true to him. He didn’t feel it in his gut and usually his massive gut was right on target. Except recently. Every gut feeling he’d had about Shannon had been wrong, so why not this one . . . ?

      
“I don’t know. It’s possible he’s involved. It’s also possible someone’s trying to frame him. Or it could all be a coincidence.”

      
“Do you think he’s involved?”

      
“I don’t think so.”

      
His answer didn’t seem to comfort her any. All her color seemed to bleed out of her. “The articles say Bill was hospitalized. They didn’t say what happened to him,” she said.

      
“Fingers on his right hand were badly broken. Repeatedly. I was able to speak to the doctor who treated him. He still remembers it. He thinks that the damage occurred over several hours. That the murderer, Herbert Winters, used those fingers to torture him.”

      
Susan put a hand over her eyes. “I can’t believe this.”

      
“There’s something else,” Dornich said. “His dad’s still alive.”

      
Susan took the hand away from her eyes. She stared blankly at Dornich.

      
“He’s living in California,” Dornich explained. “I’ve got his phone number. He’s willing to talk to you if you want.”

      
“I’d like to talk to him.”

      
Dornich hesitated. He took out a handkerchief and wiped some wetness from his neck. “I have to warn you. It’s going to be unpleasant. There’s some mental illness there.”

      
“Like father like son,” Susan muttered under her breath.

      
Dornich started to say something and then thought better of it. He didn’t want to discourage her from talking to Shannon’s father. He wanted to see her reaction to what the old man had to say. He reached over and redialed the number to California. “I’m going to put this on the speaker phone.”

      
After a few rings a voice picked up. It wanted to know who was calling. The voice was both strained and hostile.

      
“Hello, Mr. Shannon,” Dornich answered. “This is Phil Dornich calling back from Boston. I’ve got your daughter-in-law with me.”

      
The line seemed to go dead. Then, in a tight brutal voice, “Okay, I’ll speak to her.”

      
Susan had to clear her throat before she could talk. “Hello, Mr. Shannon,” she said. “I’m your daughter-in-law, Susan.”

      
There was a soft hiss over the line, something that could’ve been static but more likely was the old man breathing hard. Then, “You want to know about your husband?”

      
“Why, uh, yes—”

      
“I’ll tell you about him. First, though, let me tell you about his mother—my wife. About what was done to her.” He started to tell her about the murder, the brutal facts that the police had determined. At some point he shifted away from reality to a series of grotesque obscenities that he had convinced himself of over the years. They were hateful and irrational things. Monstrous things. His rantings spewed out over the speaker phone like blood from a burst artery. It was sickening to listen to. After only a few minutes of it Susan had to disconnect the line. By that time her face had turned a queasy white.

      
“You realize none of that makes any sense,” said Dornich.

      
Susan just shook her head.

      
“Winters had spent several hours breaking and rebreaking your husband’s fingers. Whatever your husband might’ve done, he had no choice.”

      
“How could he say those things?” Susan asked, her eyes wide open as she stared into the fat detective’s face.

      
Dornich shrugged, lowering his eyes.

      
“No wonder Bill told me his father was dead,” Susan said. She started laughing; a weak, tired laugh. “At least I know why he goes crazy every year.” The thought seemed to sober her up. She stood up quickly and then put a hand out and steadied herself to keep from falling back into her seat. “I have to get back to the office.”

      
Dornich watched quietly as she left, amazed at how small and frail she looked. How much older . . .
 
 

Chapter 27
 

      
Even the best laid plans, huh, Billy Boy?

      
But I’m not complaining. Because those plans weren’t worth shit. You see, Billy, even us gods can screw up occasionally. Especially when we’re reacting to the moment, when the adrenaline’s pumping so hot through our veins we don’t know what’s up or down. That’s when we’re vulnerable. You can just ask poor Herbie.

      
But, Billy Boy, there’s a providence watching out for me. You’re out on the street where I need you. It just wouldn’t do to have you locked up now. Not while there’s so much more that needs to be done. So much more doubt to sow. So much more blood to spill. And bodies to send to the morgue. God knows what I was thinking when I made that phone call . . .

* * * * *

      
As his consciousness seeped back into his body, Charlie Winters became aware of a sour taste in his mouth. He had been out for hours watching Shannon’s interrogation. Now that he was back in his physical body he could feel an ache spreading across his chest. He coughed and spat on the floor. With some disgust he realized the sour taste had been blood.

      
He probably had pneumonia. That goddamn cop from the night before. Making him stand out in the freezing rain. Winters forced himself to concentrate until he remembered the cop’s name. Podansky. Eddie Podansky. When the time was right he’d be dealt with. After Shannon.

      
Winters tried to sit up but found himself dizzy. He lay back down among the dirty sheets and soiled clothing. Right now it was time to get some rest. Time to make his plans. And not rush things now that everything was so close to working out.
 
 

Chapter 28
 

      
After Shannon was released he headed across the Boston University bridge and then to Brighton. Without really thinking about it he found a small biker bar and had three quick shots of scotch. As he held his fourth shot he looked at it, mildly surprised, realizing he had no taste for it.

      
That part of his life was back to normal. He didn’t have any desire for alcohol. He didn’t really have any need for it. The three shots he poured down were wasted on him.

      
But the rest of it. The murders. The articles hidden in his walls . . . Liza Keenan . . .

      
He lifted the shot glass to the window and studied it, studied the way the light filtered through its yellow murkiness. As he stared through the liquid a resolve tightened the muscles along his jaw. A coolness cleared his mind. He put the shot glass back on the bar and got up.

      
He first called Susan. She confirmed that he had gotten home around eleven-thirty. Her voice sounded brittle, distant. She asked if he had been drinking. When he told her he hadn’t she hung up on him. He had a sickening feeling in his stomach that she had been told about Liza Keenan. For a moment he lost his resolve but then called Elaine Horwitz. She was positive he left her at eleven-ten. That left only twenty minutes for him to have driven to East Boston, pick out Liza Keenan, butcher her, and drive back to Cambridge. It would’ve taken more than twenty minutes to have just driven to East Boston, which meant that he had nothing to do with the murder.

      
At first he felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Then, just as quickly, a hot flush of anger. When Shannon next called Joe DiGrazia, his hands were shaking.

* * * * *

      
The old man looked first at Liza Keenan’s photograph and then back at Shannon. “Cops were showing me her picture,” he said suspiciously. “And yours, too. Why should I be talking to you?”

      
Shannon showed him his police badge.

      
“This says you’re a Cambridge cop. This is Boston. I don’t have to talk to you. Not unless I have a reason.”

      
He had been pushing a grocery cart filled with cans and newspapers when Shannon had stopped him. He brushed past Shannon and started to push his cart away.

      
“Is ten dollars enough of a reason?”

      
“Maybe.” He stopped and waited for Shannon to hand him the money. When he had it shoved into his pants pocket he gave Shannon an accusatory scowl. “Why those cops showing your picture around?”

      
“I don’t know. Have you ever seen me around here before?”

      
“No, I’ve never seen you. That what you want me to say?”

      
“I want you to say the truth.”

      
“Okay, I’ve never seen you before.”

      
“But you were here last night?”

      
“Yeah, I was here last night. Where else am I going to be?”

      
“You didn’t tell the police that.”

      
The old man showed a sly, toothless smile. “They didn’t give me any reason to,” he said.

      
“And you saw what happened to that girl.”

      
“No, I didn’t!” the old man protested. His face went slack. “At least,” he added, “not until after it had happened.” Then, very quietly, “I saw him when he was leaving.”

      
Shannon felt his heart skip a beat. “You saw him?”

      
“Not enough to get a good look,” the old man said apologetically. “I was sleeping in that alley behind some crates. I saw him when he walked by. Then I saw what he had done to that girl. And then I found myself another place to sleep.”

      
“All right,” Shannon exhaled, “let’s go talk to some people—”

      
“No, you don’t! I ain’t going nowhere. They’ll steal my cart if I go. Anyway, I don’t want to go nowhere.” The old man started to push off.

      
Shannon dragged his cart away from him. “You’ll lose your cart either way.”

      
The old man struggled briefly and then turned, resigned, to face Shannon.

      
“It wouldn’t help if I went with you,” he said. “My eyes aren’t that good anymore and it was dark and add to that, I was just waking up. I didn’t get a good enough look at him. At least not so I could describe him.” The old man shuddered involuntarily, his gnarled face relaxing. “I don’t think I wanted to get a good look at him.

      
“There was something about him that made me look away,” he continued, smiling sadly. “I guess I’m just too old to want to face death. At least before it’s time.”

      
“Is there anything about him you remember?”

      
“I’m sorry. There really isn’t. Except he seemed evil. That’s all I can picture in my mind. Just pure evil. It made my skin crawl when he walked by. And then I saw what he did to that poor girl.”

      
Shannon tried to question him, but the old man wouldn’t budge. If he had to guess on it, he’d say Liza Keenan’s murderer was big, but he couldn’t say for sure. He couldn’t narrow down the man’s age or what he was wearing. Only that he was white and that he was evil and that he smelled bad. Smelled bad enough that even he could notice.

      
Shannon sighed. “I need your name.”

      
That got the old man cackling. “What you need my name for?” he asked, showing a wide, toothless grin. “Nobody’s used it for over twenty years.”

      
“I still need your name.”

      
“Wouldn’t do you or anyone else any good. I don’t leave this block much, if you need to find me. Although, I don’t know what for. Since I already forgot everything I told you.”

* * * * *

      
Shannon met with Joe DiGrazia and filled him in on what he found. DiGrazia looked skeptical.

      
“You just left him?” DiGrazia asked.

      
“It wouldn’t have done any good bringing him in. He would’ve denied witnessing anything. Besides, he really didn’t. At least not so he could’ve given us a reliable description.”

      
“It was still sloppy police work.”

      
“Yeah, well, at this moment I’m not really a cop. And if we want to look at sloppy police work, let’s look at me being brought in for Liza Keenan’s murder. A couple of phone calls would’ve cleared me.”

      
DiGrazia looked thoughtful. “I’m not convinced you shouldn’t have been brought in,” he said at last. “I believe Susie about when you arrived home. I’m not sure if your therapist is being completely honest. I got a feeling she’s covering for you.”

      
“That’s ridiculous.” Shannon couldn’t tell whether DiGrazia was only trying to get a rise out of him. “There was no evidence I was involved with Keenan’s murder. If I was, from the photos I was shown, there should’ve been some blood evidence. A few minutes of real police work would’ve cleared me.”