Raffi Yessayan Read online

  Tracy Ward had been easy to locate for today’s testimony, since he was serving a jail sentence for a probation violation. He was one unlucky bastard. Not only did he get shot, but he was out past his court-ordered curfew when it happened. The curfew violation triggered a probation surrender that landed him back in jail.

  Ward’s attitude was pretty typical for a gang-related shooting victim. He hadn’t been overly cooperative with Connie and Mark Greene during their informal sit-down in one of the interview rooms. Connie was hoping to have more luck getting him to talk once he had him under oath, on the witness stand, in front of the grand jury.

  Connie signaled to Greene that it was okay to leave Ward on the witness stand. The detective stepped out of the room, leaving only Connie, the witness, the twenty-four-person jury and the court reporter—no judge, no defense lawyers, not in the grand jury. Connie stood and approached the witness.

  “Please raise your right hand, sir.”

  Ward reluctantly raised his hand a couple of inches above his waist, as high as he could, his cuffed left hand trailing close behind.

  “Do you swear that your testimony before this grand jury shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “There is no God.”

  Great. This was not going to be easy. “Fine, then do you affirm that your testimony shall be the truth and nothing but the truth?”

  Ward nodded.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I need you to verbalize all your answers so that the stenographer can record your testimony.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. Now, could you state your name for the record, spelling your last name?”

  “Fuck You. Last name is spelled Y-O-U.” Then Ward laughed.

  “That’s very funny, sir. I’m going to ask you one more time, then we’ll be going upstairs to see a judge who will hold you in contempt for not answering my questions. Do you know what will happen if the judge finds you in contempt?”

  “Yeah. Absolutely nothing. What are you going to do, send me back to jail? I’ve been in the hole for two months now. You can’t do shit to me.”

  “Please state your name for the record.”

  “I already did. Fuck Y-O-U.”

  Connie walked over and opened the door. “Detective, can you get him out of here? Just take him back to the interview room. I want to talk with him before we go to see the judge.”

  Ward, looking sickly in his baggy orange jumpsuit, said, “Sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance to your investigation, Mr. DA. I already told you, I ain’t no snitch. But thanks for bringing me to court anyway. It was nice to get out of the hole for the day.” He let out another burst of laughter as the door closed behind him.

  CHAPTER 8

  Alves maneuvered through the parking lot pocked with mortar-sized divots, the result of decades of poorly repaired potholes. He went in the rear entrance of the bakery and scanned the shop. Half the crowd had their newspapers held so high he couldn’t make out their faces. He went to the counter and ordered a coffee before walking over to the man at the corner table.

  “Anyone sitting here?” Alves asked.

  “Yeah,” the man said.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Alves took the seat across from him. “Good morning, Sarge.”

  “Morning, Angel.” Wayne Mooney folded his newspaper and placed it on the table. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Happened to be in the neighborhood on a Monday morning. Thought I’d stop for a cup of joe.” Alves took a sip of his coffee. “Saw my old boss tucked away in the corner and thought I’d come over and say hello.”

  Mooney shook his head. “What’s wrong with you? You don’t come into the Greenhills Irish Bakery and order a coffee.” Mooney stood and grabbed the full cup out of his hand and stuffed it into a trash barrel. Alves sat patiently until Mooney came back with two teas with milk and sugar and two raisin scones with butter and jam.

  “Irish breakfast?” Alves asked.

  “This is the light version. You should see what the painters and plasterers eat.” Mooney broke off a piece of his scone and chewed it. He stared at Alves long enough to make him uncomfortable. “Why are you here, Angel?”

  “Double murder last night.”

  “I heard. Two white kids murdered in Franklin Park. Not good for the city’s image. Drug deal gone bad?”

  Alves shook his head.

  “Funny thing. I heard that the bodies were discovered by a homicide-detective-turned-Pop-Warner-Football-coach. Angel, you’re not ready for Homicide if you have time for your family.”

  “This is what I miss about you,” Alves snapped. “You know how to lay on the guilt whenever I try to be a good father. We’ll talk later about my lack of a work ethic, or, what do you call it…Irish guilt.”

  “There has to be something more to you stopping in Adams Village for a cup of coffee.”

  “I didn’t find the bodies. Iris did. The kids were doing a lap after practice when she found the girl.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mooney said. The ruddiness of his face deepened and Alves knew he was angry. “How is she?”

  “Pretty shaken. The first full week of school starts today. She went in, but we’ve asked them to keep an eye on her. We deal with so many kids who witness things that no child should have to see. I tried to shelter the twins, and then last night …”

  “This wasn’t your fault,” Mooney waved him off. “You moved your family to a nice neighborhood in J.P., a safe neighborhood. But you can’t shelter them from the world.” Mooney took a long gulp of his tea. “How did the case end up getting assigned to you? Because you found the bodies?”

  “My squad was on call last night. I was on-scene, the case is mine.”

  “Why are you sitting here having breakfast with me? Shouldn’t you be meeting with your sergeant? I’m not your boss anymore.”

  “I need to make a confession,” Alves said. “I miss working with you. As much as I hated you breaking my chops and trying to destroy my marriage, I know you did it because you cared about the victims. You tried to make me a better homicide detective. And you always had my back.”

  “Your new sergeant doesn’t have your back?”

  Alves didn’t respond.

  “Who is he?”

  “Duncan Pratt.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Exactly,” Alves said. “He’s an okay guy, but his heart’s not in it. He doesn’t know anything about homicide investigations. I’m told he found some good places to hide and study for the sergeant’s exam. He had no trouble getting higher scores than the guys that were out working the streets. And he’s tight with the mayor.”

  “How does he know Dolan?”

  “Grew up together.”

  “Politics,” Mooney said. He shook his head and laughed, an angry laugh. “No one else up in Homicide you can talk to?”

  “It’s not an ordinary double murder.”

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing as an ordinary double murder.” Mooney took another bite of the scone, brushing the crumbs into a little heap on the sheet of waxed paper that served as a plate.

  “Two kids, high school or college-aged. We haven’t ID’d them yet. Maybe boyfriend and girlfriend. Dressed for a night on the town. Like they were going to a black tie affair at Symphony Hall or a prom.” Alves watched Mooney’s facial expression change as he stopped chewing. “The male’s got a bullet hole in the center of his chest. No exit wound. No signs of a struggle. Definitely a secondary crime scene. This scene was staged.”

  “What about the female?” Mooney asked.

  “She would have looked terrific in her white dress, hair done up, but for the fact that she had been strangled, most likely with bare hands.”

  Mooney deliberately set his green-and-white paper cup on the small tabletop. He looked away and then back at Alves. “It couldn’t be. After all these years.”

  “I rem
ember the case from when I was a patrolman. And I remember what you told me about your old investigation. Everything fits.”

  Mooney shook his head. “Has to be a copycat.”

  “I don’t think so.” Alves paused, letting the facts sink in. “It’s him, Sarge. The Prom Night Killer.”

  “Another stupid nickname the media came up with. They don’t know shit about the case. Yet they have no problem giving the killer a moniker that leads to a cult following.”

  “I need your help with this one. I’ve got Evidence Management pulling everything from the old cases. I need you to bring me up to speed with the initial investigation.”

  Alves waited as Mooney stared out the window at the morning rush on Adams Street, the cars speeding, trying to beat the next light, dodging jaywalking pedestrians. This was where Mooney grew up and where he was going to die.

  “I didn’t tell you everything about the case, Angel.”

  “You told me all the major details. And that you never caught him. The killings stopped. You assumed he was dead, or in prison. Maybe that he left the area.”

  “He left another clue,” Mooney lowered his voice. “Only a few of us close to the investigation knew about it. We can’t be sure it’s really him until we confirm one thing. When is the autopsy?”

  “Ten o’clock. But, Sarge, you can’t…”

  Mooney stood up and put on his jacket. “You drive.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Connie closed the door to the interview room. This was his last chance to get information out of Tracy Ward. Connie had already threatened to take him upstairs to the judge, but following through on the threat would only make things worse. The judge would appoint an attorney to represent him, and any good defense attorney would get him out of testifying by suggesting to the judge that he had a legitimate Fifth Amendment right not to testify. If the attorney was creative, he could probably find that Ward had committed some crime which led to him being shot. The court would then hold a private in camera hearing with the witness and his attorney, off the record, outside Connie’s presence, and would probably find that Ward did have a legitimate Fifth. And that would be the end of it.

  Connie surveyed the room. He had to play this right. Greene was standing by an open window smoking a cigarette, his attempt at hiding his nasty habit in the smoke-free building. Of course the smoke went everywhere except out the window. The cigarette smoke usually bothered Connie, but not today. Ward sat at the small table in the middle of the room staring at Greene, inhaling as much smoke as he could.

  “C’mon, man, just a couple of tokes?” he asked the detective. “This is what they call cruel and unusual punishment, ain’t it? Smoking in front of a man who’s been locked up with no privileges.”

  Greene smiled and blew some smoke in his direction.

  “Asshole.”

  Connie sat in the chair across from Ward. “Tracy, you want a smoke?”

  “What the fuck you think, Mr. DA? Yeah, I want a smoke. And don’t call me Tracy. I prefer T, or Mr. Ward from you.”

  “T, you know it’s against the rules for us to let a prisoner smoke. You’re technically in the custody of the sheriff’s department even though they passed you off to the detective here. The sheriff’s department doesn’t like it when we violate their rules. But maybe we can make an exception for you. You promise not to tell anyone if we hook you up?”

  “No problem. I already told you I ain’t no snitch.”

  “Okay, we’ll give you a smoke if you tell us what happened the night you got shot.”

  “What did I just tell you about not being a snitch? Why you try to play me? You just brought me into court and tried to put me on trial with no judge. That’s what they call a kangaroo court, right?” He looked toward Greene.

  “You weren’t on trial,” Connie said. “You’re the victim here. You’ve been shot and we’re trying to find out who did this so we can charge him with the crime.”

  “If I’m the victim, why you putting me through this shit, dragging me into a courtroom and threatening me with contempt.”

  “I’m not trying to put you through anything. The people in that courtroom were grand jurors. Their job is to investigate crimes and indict the people who committed those crimes. That’s why there’s no judge. It’s a secret proceeding, and I’m the one that runs the show.”

  “I didn’t like it and I ain’t going back, not to testify, not for nothing.”

  “I’m not talking about testifying, and you don’t need to go back. I just want you to tell me and the detective what happened that night. It doesn’t leave this room. No grand jury minutes with your name on them floating around the neighborhood.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “I’m a man of my word. And I ain’t no snitch either. You don’t tell anyone I gave you a smoke and I don’t tell anyone about our conversation in this room.”

  “No tapes?”

  Connie shook his head.

  “No report with my name in it?”

  “No tapes. No reports. I just want to know who you were with that night, who shot you, and what your beef is with him.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “You get to nail the dude who left you crapping in a bag. And you get a smoke.”

  “Can you do anything with my sentence?”

  “No.”

  “Can you get me into some programs so I can earn more good time?”

  “I know a deputy superintendent at the jail. I can make a call for you. No guarantees. That’s it, a smoke and a phone call. And no one knows we talked.”

  “How about you take these cuffs off so I can enjoy the smoke.”

  “First we talk.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The feeling of anxiety was the same every time Alves stepped into the sterile room. He had witnessed dozens of autopsies, but he still felt the way he did before the first one. Death was not a pretty thing, especially unnatural death. It wasn’t like an elderly person dying in bed after a long life, a tired body giving out. There was something about the machinery that is the human body being stopped abruptly, unlawfully, violently, and the pathologist trying to determine which piece of the mechanism was toyed with, hindered, severed, obliterated.

  Besides him and Mooney, there were three people in the room. The medical examiner, Jacob Belsky, was all suited up and preparing his equipment and a BPD photographer taking some “before” shots of the John Doe corpse. Eunice Curran, the head of the BPD crime lab, stood by, waiting to examine the body for trace evidence. At his request, she had been at the crime scene the night before, too. Eunice was the best, and Alves couldn’t risk one of her newer criminalists missing an important piece of evidence.

  “Find anything yet?” Alves asked Eunice.

  “Nothing.” She was all business today. None of the usual harmless flirting, not during an autopsy, and certainly not in front of Belsky. She walked over to another metal table where she had laid out John Doe’s clothing on large individual sheets of brown paper torn from a roll. As always, she was careful to keep each item separate for further analysis and storage. “I gave these a visual inspection before I removed them. I’ll go over them more thoroughly with an alternate light source when I get back to headquarters.” She rested her hand on a duffel bag at the end of the table. “I brought a portable light to go over the bodies before Belsky starts cutting.”

  Alves watched as Mooney made his way to the autopsy table. The victim’s skin was discolored, taking on a greenish-black pattern, and his face and abdomen were swollen. He looked worse than he had the night before on the hill. Other than the damage caused by decay, Alves didn’t see any signs of trauma, except for the single bullet hole in the center of his chest. He hoped they’d recover a bullet inside him that wasn’t too damaged. A ballistics match could be another piece of evidence linking this case to the earlier homicides and eventually to a suspect.

  “Is this the kid from Franklin Park last night?” Mooney asked the obvious question,
not making any assumptions.

  The medical examiner nodded. “John Doe. Jane’s in the other room.”

  Alves’s BlackBerry vibrated. He removed it from his belt. “Alves,” he said. He mouthed the words “Sergeant Pratt” to Mooney and headed toward the window. Pratt did all the talking and Alves listened intently. It was news that he was hoping for, news that he needed to move forward in the investigation, but news that he dreaded. When Pratt was finished, he hung up on Alves without a good-bye.

  “What is it?” Mooney asked.

  “They think they’ve got an ID on the vics. Courtney Steadman and Josh Kipping. A couple of BC students who haven’t been seen since Saturday night. Their friends didn’t think anything at first. But when they saw the news reports this morning, calls started coming in. Pratt sent some cars out to their parents. They’re on the way to make a formal ID.” It was too bad IDs were made only through photos now. Parents were deprived of the opportunity to give their children a final hug, a kiss, the chance to run their fingers through their children’s hair one last time.

  “Where’s the girl?” Mooney asked.

  “What do you need from her?” Belsky asked, not much of his face visible beneath his safety glasses and mask.

  “We think these victims may be related to some homicides from ten years ago,” Alves said. “Sarge was involved with the original investigation. We need to see the female to confirm that we’re dealing with the same killer.”

  The ME led them into the adjoining autopsy room.

  “We’re going to need you guys, too,” Mooney said to Eunice and the photographer.

  The girl looked just as bad as the boy, her body showing signs of deterioration, her eyes open and covered with a cloudy, opaque film. He wondered if she really was Courtney Steadman. He prayed that she wasn’t, for her parents’ sake. But then, what did it matter? Someone’s parents were going to be devastated. For a moment Alves was back on the hill where he had seen her the night before, staring into his eyes, begging for help. She looked even worse now, lying naked on a cold steel table. A final indignity before being cut open, no longer human, just evidence.