“See for yourself,” McAfee said.
Sanchez looked at the body. It was turned to the side, and both hands were underneath the torso. “Help me turn him,” she said to Stone.
The two of them reached down. She placed her palms flat underneath the shoulder, and he lifted from underneath the hip. Rigor had set in, so the body rolled easily, like a mannequin, and the arms shot upward once released from under the body.
Sanchez frowned. The skin on the hands had a ghostly white, fleshless tone to it below the wrists. Dark holes marred the palms, and looking closely, Sanchez could see that the injuries went all the way through the hands.
“Doc picked up some ligature marks on the wrists,” McAfee said. “Looks like they tied his hands together and shot him clean through the palms.”
“Why?” Stone asked.
“Who knows,” McAfee said. “Maybe just for kicks.”
“Padre Pio,” Sanchez said quietly.
“Padre Pio?” Stone replied.
“Padre Pio,” she repeated.
Stone looked at McAfee. “You know what Padre Pio means?” he asked.
McAfee shook his head. “Sorry, I’m not Mexican.”
Stone looked back at Sanchez. “What does Padre Pio mean?” he asked.
“It means you need to pay attention.” She moved to the other side of the body. “The message?”
McAfee pointed to the left of the head. “It’s up there. No one has any idea about it. It’s not gang-related as far as we know, and no one has seen anything like it before.”
She bent down. It was there, though it had faded as the blood had dried. “The Storm.” She looked at Stone. “You’re the local, you know what that means?”
Stone shook his head. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Anyone go by that nickname?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard.”
“Great.”
“Maybe it’s just some sort of psycho with a flair for drama.”
She stood up. “Maybe. It’s definitely a psycho. I don’t think it’s got anything to do with drama, though.”
“What, then?”
She took off her gloves and they snapped as she rolled them into a ball. She tossed them to McAfee. “That’s what I expect you to find out.”
Chapter Three
Back behind the wheel, Stone pulled out of the driveway to the Body Shop. “Where to, boss?” he asked Sanchez.
“Back to the station house,” she replied.
“What for?”
“I need to check something on a computer.” She looked out the passenger window as the Convention Center in South Boston drifted by, its huge front canopy hanging over the entranceway like some great homage to the 1960s television show The Flying Nun.
“Right. Check something out. Good idea. Me, too, I need to check something out, too. Maybe it’s the same thing.”
She turned to look at him. “I doubt it,” she said after a moment.
“Maybe not. Of course, there’s only one way to know, right?” He drove on, his frustration building through the silence. “So, are you gonna talk to me about that shit back there? We are partners, after all, right?”
She said nothing.
“Look, I know I’m the new guy, but how are you gonna know if I can contribute if you won’t even talk to me?”
“Fine,” she said, her tone challenging. “Why don’t you tell me about the scene back there?”
“Is this some sort of a test?”
“Yeah, it’s a test.”
“That’s fucked up. I don’t have to prove shit to you.”
“Suit yourself.” She lapsed back into silence.
He drove on, going over the scene in his head. He was determined not to give her the satisfaction of rising to her bait. Seventy-five percent clear rate or not, who the fuck was she? “McAfee was wrong about one thing,” he said after a while, trying to sound conversational.
She looked at him but said nothing.
“Whoever did that wasn’t just settling a score. It wasn’t some simple beef with the North End boys, or even with the Salvadorans in MS- 13.”
“What makes you so sure?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Too messy. Too involved. If the wops or a rival mick gang felt disrespected or was settling a score it would’ve been cleaner. They would’ve taken him out quickly and gotten the hell away. Double tap to the head-like they did to Bags-or maybe even a drive-by when he was out in the open. No way they’d spend the kind of time they needed to do the damage we saw back there. And if MS-13 wanted to make a point, they would have used machetes on him. It’s their thing.”
She shrugged, as though the observations were beneath acknowledgment.
“And Murphy knew the people who did it.”
“People? How do you know it was more than one?”
“Johnny Bags. It had to be more than one, and they had to know Murphy because of Bags.” He felt her lean toward him, and he continued. “Bags was Murphy’s bodyguard. That was his job for the past ten years. His only purpose in life. From what I hear he was no rocket scientist, but he was good at his job, and loyal to a fault. There’s no way someone gets that close to Murphy if they didn’t know him without Bags putting up one hell of a fight. Plus, whoever did this managed to get Johnny back into that corner of the garage voluntarily. The body wasn’t dragged-the blood pooled under his head where he fell, and there was no messy trail-so he died where he fell. He didn’t even get his gun out before he was shot. I can’t imagine Bags leaving Murphy alone and going back into that corner with someone he didn’t know. And once he was there, Murphy would have had time to run when he heard the gunshots, unless there was more than one guy there-so we know it wasn’t a single perp.”
“What’s that tell you about who did this?” Sanchez asked.
“Nothing for sure,” Stone admitted. “But I’d start by looking within Murphy’s own organization. Could either be someone above him who felt threatened for some reason-”
“Which could only mean Ballick,” she pointed out.
“Right, if the order came from above. But it could also be someone underneath him. Or maybe even someone on his level trying to move up. The organization’s been all fucked up for years. Ever since Bulger took off.”
“Why torture him, then?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe there was a personal aspect to it. Or maybe they were trying to make it look like something it wasn’t. I’m just guessin’, though.”
“And the message? ‘The Storm’? What’s your thought on that?”
“I got no idea. Maybe it’s just adolescent bullshit. Some of these guys never get past the comic book stage. But it’s taking a risk to leave something that distinctive behind. Seems like there should be a better reason. Guys who do shit like what we saw back there usually aren’t holding on to reason too tightly, though.”
She turned and looked out her window again. They had pulled past the Federal Courthouse down by the water and were crossing the Evelyn Moakley Bridge back into Boston, heading toward the Rose Kennedy Greenway, which wound through the city above the Big Dig. The bridge was named after the wife of Joe Moakley, a powerful congressman. The Greenway was named for Rose Kennedy, the mother of John, Bobby, and Teddy Kennedy. Only in Boston were public works named for the relatives of politicians. It said so much about the place.
“So, what do you think?” he asked.
“I think you’re right,” she said. “I think you’re just guessing.”
He shook his head bitterly. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”
“Like you said, it was a test.”
“So, what’d I get, like a C?”
“It was pass/fail.”
“And?”
She hesitated before she answered. “I’ll get back to you.”
Special Agent Robert Hewitt sat in his car, watching the activity at the Body Shop from across the street. Things had quieted down, and now those who remained were loitering, mainly. They stood around, smoking cigarettes or leaning against their cars, cracking jokes as they waited for the bodies to be rolled out. He’d watched as the detectives pulled away, and he was tempted to go back in to get another good look. He was sure that no one who remained would have the balls to force him out without Sanchez there, but his presence would draw too much attention, and too many people on the force would start to ask questions. That would make his life more difficult.