Mission Hill (9 page)

The bus driver pulls a lever, and the front door wheezes closed. A police escort guides the buses through the busy downtown streets, zipping through red lights and stop signs like a presidential motorcade. We drive through Kenmore Square, past Fenway's Green Monster, and I think about Tim's passion for the Yankees. I never asked him about why he rooted for the team, with no personal connection to New York; I suppose it was more about rebellion than fandom.

We park on Tremont Street, near Mission Church, a Romanesque basilica made of Roxbury pudding stone. When we get outside, black ribbons are distributed among the hundreds of mourners and everyone pins one onto their lapels. The temperature is in the thirties, but most of us have left our overcoats in the bus. The silence of anticipation looms.

Church bells chime twelve times, announcing high noon. An organizer speaks into an amplifier, his voice cutting in and out.

“Attention … every … please … groups, according to … office. Suffolk first … the ten other district … attorney general … United States attorney.”

Everyone falls into line. Max positions himself up front, ready to lead the procession. Owen is by his side. Owen is hypersensitive to Max's drinking, having given up booze after the birth of his oldest daughter eight years ago. He attends AA meetings daily, always during his lunch hour. Once I overheard him encouraging Max to go with him, an invitation that Max declined.

We march single file in silence, along Mission Hill, toward Leary's Funeral Home. Over a thousand strong, the line stretches back for what seems like a mile. State troopers in full dress, including boots and leather cross straps, form a long barrier along the curb, offering both pomp and protection. Cars slow to see the spectacle. Reporters document the pageantry from their designated area across the street.

Outside the funeral home, a kilted bagpiper serenades us with “Amazing Grace.” Inside, wooden tripods prop up poster boards that are covered with yellowing photographs. A hodgepodge of the various stages of Tim's life. Age six, in red plaid pajamas, unwrapping a yellow Tonka truck. Age twelve, in swim trunks, being knocked over by a wave at Nantasket Beach. Age thirty-three, in a tuxedo, in front of a wedding cake, kissing Julia. Her dress was rayon, her pearls were glass, but I have to admit, she was a beautiful bride.

Included in the collage is a picture of me and Tim at J.J. Foley's, a cop bar in the South End. We're mugging it up for the camera, arms slung around each other, trying just a little too hard to act like buddies. Chris Sarsfield, standing behind me in line, looks at the photograph, looks at me, and then quickly looks away. Chris knows. Everyone must know. My heart drops into my stomach, and my face heats up.

I fell in love with Tim long before we slept together. We were in the emergency room at Boston Medical Center. I had gone there to meet my first rape victim, and I was so nervous that I'd forgotten to take my badge. The nurses didn't know me yet; they wouldn't grant me access without proper identification. I called Tim, and he stopped what he was doing to drive over and deliver my ID. When I came out of the interview, he was in the waiting room pacing like an expectant father. It was a moment full of promise and romance, in spite of the gunshot victim swearing at us as he was wheeled by on a gurney.

When I reach Tim's casket, I pause for a split second and start to look inside. This isn't how I want to remember him. I turn away and focus on the tallest member of the Honor Guard, who stands next to the casket, expressionless, staring straight ahead. He reminds me of a member of the Queen's Guard at Buckingham Palace, which I'd visited with my ninth-grade class at Winsor. I imagine the man wearing a tall black fur hat with a strap under his chin.

A walk-by is just that. No talking. No stopping. No praying. No kneeling. Just walking. It's a show of support for the family and a show of respect for the deceased. Tim's family is bookended by two flags. His parents, his siblings, their spouses and children are all there. Julia looks exhausted as she desperately searches the faces of everyone, as though pleading for an explanation. She looks at me without offering recognition, just another sad face in the crowd. I'm grateful that I have to keep pace with the line.

Tim's mother and I exchange looks of shared sorrow. I touch her arm as I pass by. Up until Julia came into the picture, I enjoyed countless holiday meals with Tim's family; his mother was always so welcoming.

Outside Leary's, the cold air feels refreshing. I take in the Mission Church spires, reaching up toward the sun. We march back to the buses, still in line, retracing our steps. An endless stream of solemn faces continues to make its way to the funeral home.

A text from Kevin makes my phone vibrate.
I'm behind you, on your left.

Carl Ostroff, reporter's notebook in hand, tries to intercept me as I cross the street. I wave him off.

“Not now, Carl.”

“Off the record?”

“Have some respect.”

As soon as I slam Kevin's car door closed, he hands me a silver flask.

“Can't have an Irish wake without Irish whiskey,” he says.

I take a swig. The liquid burns the back of my throat, and I cough. We sit and watch the line of mourners still making their way to Leary's.

“It's intense,” I say.

“The department is going to do ours tonight.”

The second sip of whiskey goes down easier.

“Where are we headed?”

“Ladies' choice: we can go to the Mission Bar for a few pints, or out to Logan to see Warren Winters.”

I hand him back the flask. “I need to occupy my mind. Let's go see Warren.”

The trial is days away, and we have only two eyewitnesses—Ezekiel Hogan, who may not cooperate, and Warren Winters, who has been cooperative in the past, but it's been a year since he testified in the grand jury.

We set out to East Boston, where Warren works as a baggage handler at the airport. It's three o'clock, I haven't had anything to eat yet today, and the alcohol is starting to make me feel woozy. I reach into my tote and pull out a small tinfoil package. I unfurl the wrapping to find burrata, tomato, and basil on a baguette. A glob of tomatoey cheese spills out onto Warren's form twenty-six, making a mess. I wipe tomato off my coat and take a bite. The cheese is soft, smooth, and delicate.

We drive into the mouth of the Ted Williams Tunnel, the subject of Tim's Big Dig investigation, where the teacher died when the slab of concrete came loose and crashed through the roof of his car.

“I hate this tunnel,” I say. “It reminds me of death.”

“Occupational hazard,” he says. “Everything reminds me of death.”

“This one creeps me out even more. It's like driving into a coffin.”

He flips on his siren, zipping past frustrated commuters.

“I'm not sure tunnel phobia would qualify as a blue-light emergency.”

“If the ceiling caves and puts us out of commission, the unsolved homicide rate will quadruple.”

Cars pull over, allowing us to pass.

“The Big Dig was Tim's case, right?” Kevin says.

“He spent over a year on it.”

It was a cluster. The U.S. attorney, the attorney general, and the DA all claimed jurisdiction and launched their own parallel investigations. Max appointed Tim to lead the probe in our office. He looked into the potential for an involuntary manslaughter charge, searched thousands of documents, issued hundreds of subpoenas, interviewed dozens of witnesses. He impaneled a special grand jury to consider the case.

“They turned up bubkes, right?” Kevin says.

“Tim was pushing to indict the company that installed the cement. Max didn't think there was enough to make a case. It drove a permanent wedge between them.”

Kevin navigates around a double line of cars, taxis, and buses, and pulls up to the curb, outside Terminal B. A state trooper blows her whistle and approaches the car, ready to shoo us away. State police has jurisdiction over airport roads, and she can order us to put the car in short-term parking like everyone else. But Kevin makes a compelling case.

He flashes his badge and his smile. “I promise we'll be quick.”

“Do you mind pulling up a little?” she says as though Kevin is doing her the favor.

We find Warren's boss, Lou Fenton, in his basement office, feet on the desk, sucking on a Marlboro. Kevin taps on the door.

“Boston police, can we talk to you for a minute?”

Lou exhales a cloud of smoke and bolts upright. His feet land on the floor so hard that it sounds like he might be wearing cement shoes. He stubs out the cigarette and bats at the smoke.

“Don't worry. We're homicide, not inspectional services,” Kevin says.

“How can I help youse?”

“We're looking for Warren Winters.”

“He didn't show up to work today.”

Kevin and I exchange looks. “Is he sick?” I say.

“Beats me. He didn't call.”

“Is that unusual?”

He nods. “Warren isn't exactly employee of the year, but he always lets me know when he's not coming in.”

Kevin and I thank Lou, hand him our business cards, and ask him to call if he sees or hears from Warren. When we return to the car, the trooper looks like she applied a fresh coat of scarlet lipstick.

“Hope you found what you were looking for,” she says.

Kevin uses his remote to unlock the car doors. “Thanks,” he says. “I owe you one.”

Her face falls as we get in and drive off.

“Seems like she was expecting something more than your heartfelt gratitude,” I say.

“Like what?”

“A date.”

“My wife might have something to say about that.”

I try Warren's cell. After the second ring, a recording comes on.
The number you have reached is no longer in service.
When we get out of the tunnel, my cell beeps—a missed call from Nestor. I hit redial, and he picks up.

“Hey, Nestor, we're on our way to Warren Winters's house.”

“Don't bother. I just got off the phone with his girlfriend. She hasn't seen him since yesterday.”

Kevin is approaching the Southeast Expressway. I signal him to pull over before he gets on the ramp.

“Why did she wait so long to call you?” I say to Nestor.

“She thought she had to give it twenty-four hours before filing a missing persons,” Nestor says.

“Not when you're a witness to a murder.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We'll meet you back at HQ.” I look over at Kevin, who nods in agreement.

“You'll sign my overtime?” Nestor says.

“See you in a few.” I hang up.

“Where is Warren?” Kevin says.

“In the wind—someone got to him before we did.”

 

Chapter Sixteen

Boston police headquarters is on Tremont Street in Roxbury, less than a mile from the lot where Tim's body was discovered. The building's official address is One Schroeder Plaza, named after Officer Walter Schroeder, who was gunned down when he responded to a bank robbery thirty-five years ago. The sleek, high-tech building offers one-stop shopping; it houses the homicide unit, the crime lab, the ballistics lab, the identification unit, and the fugitive squad. It's kind of like a Neiman Marcus for prosecutors.

We set up shop inside, using the cafeteria on the first floor as our makeshift war room. Kevin orders a bowl of beef stew, and I opt for a turkey dinner with all the fixings.

“At least you're getting your three squares.” He sets down his tray.

“My body isn't used to all this—”

“Nutrition?”

I dig my fork into a heap of creamy mashed potatoes. “I'm going to get fat, and when I do, I'm holding you personally responsible.”

“There's this thing you might want to look into—it's called exercise. I saw some top-of-the-line ellipticals in your building. Can't you get that boyfriend of yours to teach you how to use them?”

“I get enough of a workout on the job. If I continue to eat like this, I may have to reconsider.”

We each grab a banker's box and flip through files as we eat dinner, careful not to spill food on the reports. Nestor comes out of the kitchen area with a bowl of American chop suey and joins us. He opens the Jones box that I rescued from the archive stacks.

“These files aren't for Orlando,” Nestor says. “This is Melvin Jones's file.”

Kevin doesn't like to be out of the loop. “Who's Melvin Jones?” he says.

“Why does Melvin Jones have a file?” I say.

Nestor takes a couple of bites of macaroni and chews slowly. “It's an old investigation.”

“What kind of investigation?” I say.

“Can someone tell me—who is Melvin Jones?” Kevin puts down his fork and exhales loudly, about to boil over.

“Melvin is Orlando's father,” I say.

Kevin looks at Nestor. “Why didn't you tell us he was the subject of an investigation?”

“You guys ran off on your secret squirrel mission,” Nestor says. “The information highway is a two-way street.”

“Look, this isn't the time for a turf war,” I say.

We eat in silence for a couple of minutes. I finish my last bite of stuffing and push the carrots and peas around on my plate. We clear our trays, and I grab a slice of Boston cream pie on my way back to the table.

“So, what's the deal with Melvin?” I say.

“He was part of that Big Dig cluster,” Nestor says. “He owned Zelco, the company that installed the cheap cement in the tunnel.”

“I didn't know Melvin was being looked at during the Big Dig invest.”

“He was an unnamed target. Tim wanted to charge him with negligent manslaughter, but Max put the kibosh on it.”

“Tim never mentioned anything about a tie-in with Orlando's family,” I say.

“Seems like Tim had all sorts of secrets,” Kevin says.