“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.”