Premeditated Murder (21 page)

A few years ago, Pastor Dunleavy had retired, but Pete hadn't heard anything about his replacement. “Sure, how can I help you, sir?”

“Actually, I'm calling with some news about Natalie Reggio. Apparently you were involved in bringing her to the hospital after she suffered a head injury in a fight at Rockets.”

The kid with the cracked skull who wouldn't make a statement until she had apologized to him? “Sure,” Pete said. “I remember her.”

“Unfortunately, Natalie's condition has taken a turn for the worse,” the pastor said, “and she had to return to the hospital. She's back in ICU, because last night she slipped into another coma. The doctors aren't quite sure what happened, but at least she's stable now, thank God, and they're listing her condition as ‘guarded.'”

Pete swallowed. That didn't make any sense. When he went to see the kid, she seemed like she was going to be fine. And why was her pastor calling him? “Doesn't she have any parents?” he asked.

“Actually, she does, but they haven't spoken to Natalie for years. I've left messages for them, but they haven't returned my calls.”

Parents who gave up on their kid. Pete could feel his blood pressure rising. “Well, I'm real sorry to hear about Natalie. I'll make a note of it in the report,” he said. If the kid died, and they learned that she had been hit, this thing would turn into a murder investigation.

“Thank you, Sergeant, but that's not really why I was trying to get in touch with you,” the voice said. “Just by chance I was over to see Natalie last night, before she went back into the coma, and she gave me a letter to give to you.” This whole thing wasn't making any sense at all. “She called me yesterday because she was very nervous. She said she wasn't feeling well, even though the doctors were telling her she was getting better. She was scared that something bad was going to happen to her, and she asked me to give you this letter if her condition deteriorated.”

ALL THE WAY TO THE CHURCH, PETE COULDN'T get the image of his daughter, Donna, out of his mind. This kid Natalie was seventeen, and hadn't spoken to her parents in years. Now she was in a coma thanks to a drunken barroom brawl. Who was Donna hanging out with? What was going to happen to her when she started drinking?

Pete pulled up to the front of the church office, got out of his cruiser, and went to the mailbox. Reverend Reid had left the letter there, because he had to leave for an appointment. The envelope was sealed, and was addressed in a loopy handwriting to “Police Sergeant Peter Vanderwall of the Worcester Police Department.” Pete got back into his cruiser and opened it.

Dear Sergeant Vanderwall,

     I asked Pastor Rick to give this letter to you only if I died or got a lot worse, so if it's not too much trouble, can you please check to see if I'm alright? If I am, you shouldn't read this letter, because that would be really embarrassing, okay?

What was it about this girl? Pete had seen kids hurt and even kill themselves, drinking and driving mostly, but in other ways, too. Why was this one getting to him so much? Why did it feel so wrong that at this very minute, she was lying unconscious in some hospital bed, with parents that wouldn't even return a phone call?

     I guess if you're still reading this, that means it's bad news for me. The doctors keep saying that there's nothing wrong, but I really don't feel right. I can't figure out what's wrong. All I know is that I'm really scared. But I'm writing this because there's something I needed to tell you which I didn't think of when you came to see me.

     Actually, that's not true. I'm sorry for lying. I did think of it when you were there. I was just so embarrassed about what I had done, and so totally embarrassed about crying all over the place and making a fool of myself, that I couldn't bring myself to talk to you about this. I could only answer your questions about what happened. (By the way, I hope your investigation is going all right.)

     I know that this is going to sound strange, because the first time you met me I was so drunk and out of control, but I have been leading this young person's alcohol awareness group at First Congregational for the past two years. (It's okay if you don't believe me, you can ask Pastor Rick.) And there's this girl named Julie Keenan that I am real worried about. She seems a lot like I was when I was about thirteen which is when I started drinking (she's actually only twelve but she talks like she's about twenty-five). She's been coming to the meetings and staying away from alcohol, but I think a lot of that might have been her having a kind of hero worship thing about me. (I know that sounds conceited, but I'm not saying it to make myself sound great. I just mean that she follows me around a lot, and stuff like that. I think she thought I was cool.)

     Anyway, if I die, or get brain damage, or something, I don't know what she's going to do. And she's really young. I mean she acts like she's done everything, but I think Julie's really inexperienced, and I wouldn't be surprised if she hears about me drinking and being taken to the hospital and all that and totally loses it. And then if she acts out, and starts drinking and going completely wild, I think she could really hurt herself.

     So I'm a little embarrassed to ask you to do this, because you're a sergeant and all, but I was wondering if you could look out for Julie if I die, or if I can't because I get worse or something. I mean, Pastor Rick's a great guy, and he really tries, but I think Julie might not be able to see that right now. And her parents are completely clueless. I just get the feeling that if nobody's there watching over her, she might do something stupid, and then I would really feel bad. (I know AA tells you that you're not responsible for anyone but yourself, but I can't help it. That's just the way I feel.)

     Pastor Rick just came in, so I'm going to give this to him now. But I really hope he doesn't have to give this letter to you. But just in case he does, thank you again for everything you did for me, and thank you for watching out for Julie, if you can.

Sincerely,
Natalie Reggio

FIFTEEN

SPEAKER #1:
… and with God's help our work continues.

SPEAKER #2:
I heard that you have obtained another method with automobiles.

SPEAKER #1:
I am sorry, but we were not able to. It is our greatest desire and objective. With the help of God we will find another way. Right now, our method is with an airplane.

SPEAKER #2:
Our brother has sent a package to you. Perhaps this will help your holy work.

SPEAKER #1:
Praise God. I pray that this summer, [inaudible] many newspapers from Boston. I will attend the biggest celebration on July 4.

SPEAKER #2:
Perhaps we will meet July 5, and you will show me [inaudible] of your airplane. [laughter, inaudible]

SPEAKER #5:
Our brother arrived yesterday, thanks always to God.

SPEAKER #6:
Did he bring you a gift?

SPEAKER #5:
He told me that there was going to be a great celebration this summer, and then there was going to be a loud cry from heaven, and then with God's help there would be another celebration even greater than the first.

SPEAKER #6:
Praise be to God.

SPEAKER #5:
And he said that fire and the praise of God would rain down from the summer skies …

SPEAKER #8:
Our sisters have created beautiful things which will make our work easier.

SPEAKER #9:
Have they been used?

SPEAKER #8:
We have used them and they work well. God is smiling on our holy work.

(Excerpts of transcripts of telephone conversations from [phone number and dates omitted])

May 2—Northampton, Massachusetts

TERRY TOSSED HIS COPY OF THE PHONE TRANSCRIPTS down on the table and said, “I should have asked that translator to make something up.” He started walking around Zack's office, clicking the pen he was carrying. “This stuff is so boring I want to kill myself, never mind anybody else. ‘With God's help, our holy work will continue.' ‘With God's help, my brother got here yesterday.' ‘With God's help, I wiped my nose.' Something tells me God's got better things to do. At least I hope so.”

Zack didn't answer. Something was cooking in his big brain. “Did you happen to notice whether any of the voices on the phone were female?”

“No,” Terry said. “Only men. Dr. Lanouche had mentioned that.”

“And what were the names of the male victims?”

Good question. “Uh, let's see. There were a couple of brothers, Nathenson, I think. And the other two … wait, I'll check.” He went over to the file and pulled out one of the police reports. “‘Marc and Mitchell Nathenson, Rudolf Lange, and John Bercher.' So what?”

“So if Cal hadn't told us these guys were terrorists, how many of them would you expect to speak Arabic?”

Holy shit. Nathenson, Lange, and Bercher. Not exactly the most common names in the Cairo telephone book. “So you're thinking aliases?”

“I don't know what I'm thinking,” Zack said, turning to his computer and keying something in. “But it seems a little unusual for every single phone conversation on that tape to be in Arabic, given the names of these guys.”

Of course, having non–Arabic-sounding names and speaking on the phone in Arabic didn't prove anything. And neither did spending half your time thanking God for this morning's Dunkaccino. But the situation was beginning to get a little stink on it. Terry looked over Zack's shoulder at his computer screen. “‘Al Qaeda telephone transcripts'?” he read out loud. “What the hell are you doing, Zack?”

“I thought I remembered reading something about some transcripts that came out after 9/11.” Zack was scrolling down a list of headings the search engine had listed. He clicked on one and said, “There was something really cryptic about the way these people were talking. I'm not sure if it was a code, or just some cultural thing, but I wanted to see if any of the stuff on our tape sounded like—whoa.” He grabbed his copy of the phone transcripts and flipped the pages frantically.

“What?” Terry said.

“Check this out,” Zack said, looking back to his computer screen. “In this Al Qaeda conversation intercepted in Italy, one of the terrorists said to another, ‘I hope, God willing, that I can bring you a window or a piece of an airplane the next time we see each other.' Then they laughed, like that was some kind of big joke. That was before 9/11.”

“And you're thinking that's a little like our conversation about cars where our guys said …” Terry looked at the page Zack had opened to. “‘Perhaps we will meet on July fifth, and you will show me whatever of your airplane.' And then they laughed.”

“Yeah.”

Not exactly the most compelling evidence, but the stink was getting a little stronger. “So here's a question,” Terry said. “If these guys were really Muslim fundamentalist terrorists, then what the hell were they doing hanging out with two women? Doesn't that violate Rule Number One in the ‘How to be an Islamic Whacko Freak' handbook? No women.”

“Yeah,” Zack said. “I don't know about that stuff. But I do know that the cops didn't bother doing a whole lot of checking up on these victims, because as far as they were concerned, this thing was open-and-shut from the time they showed up. Cal went nuts and blew the poor kids all away. Case closed.”