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Authors: M. William Phelps
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Kenmore Square.
They walked into the Back Bay Pub, a little dive tucked in between a Star Market and Riley’s Laundromat. Branford was not what Jake had expected. A small man, five-foot-six, 120 pounds, skinny as a jockey. He wore a black blazer. Brown bolo tie. White dress shirt. Blue jeans. Cowboy boots. A ball cap with a large gold star on the front. He had a lazy eye that would not stop twitching.
Jake walked over, stuck out his hand. “This is my partner, Detective Shaughnessy.”
Dickie waved.
“I recognize you both from the Globe ,” the captain said as if he wanted Jake’s job or an autograph.
Jake forced a smile. Dickie leaned against a wooden beam with names and obscenities carved into it. There were black cigarette burns in the red carpet below his feet.
“I think I have an idea of maybe someone you need to take a serious look at. It all made sense to me when I found out why he requested a transfer.”
“So far you’re speaking a foreign language, Captain. Sorry.” Jake raised his eyebrows. “What do you have here?”
“He worked for me. Not a bad cop. Just wasn’t any good.” He laughed at his own turn of a phrase. “I did some checking. Found out he had a certain problem with young blondes. Also found out he got his self kicked off the Bangor force in Maine before coming to me, beggin’ for a job. Apparently, he waited outside the local high school up there and drove some of the girls home in his squad car. Said some creepy things.”
Jake wondered where this was going. A cop. Problem with blondes. It could fit. Then again, the guy sounded more like a loser rather than a killer.
Dickie watched a guy at the bar stirring his drink with a red plastic sizzle stick.
“We transferred him to your unit last May, a week or so before that Bettencourt kid went missing. Your lieutenant approved the transfer. Guess he knew the kid’s uncle or something.”
“Name?”
“He walks with a bum knee, kinda sliding it along. Name’s Mark Stanhope.”
Jake and Dickie looked at each other.
“Why did he ‘request’ a transfer?”
“He wanted to be,” Branford said, “closer to the action downtown. Truth is, though, he knew we were about to find out he was peeping on some young chick—a blonde, of course—every morning where he stopped for coffee at this diner. He’d follow her into the bathroom. She never knew until one day she happened to look up and caught him peering over the wall, underneath the ceiling tile.”
“Never liked Officer Stanhope,” Jake said.
“I heard you guys got a nickname for him?” Branford said.
“B-B-B-Benny,” Dickie said, laughing.
“We call him Rookie,” Jake said. “Appreciate this info.”
11
Friday, September 5 – 2:00 P.M.
Traffic was light for an early Friday afternoon downtown. Most everyone had their windows up, AC on. The digital temperature reading on the LCD clock over Copley Square read a balmy 97 degrees.
Driving into the city on the Mass Pike, eastbound, the Carmichaels were headed to Maine to spend the weekend with relatives. Jason Carmichael drove the family maroon Suburban. His wife sat shotgun. Their ten-year-old, Jeffrey, sat in back behind Dad. It was little Jeffrey’s job to keep Sergeant Bilko, their four-year-old Lab, occupied. Jason listened to talk radio, WRKO, disagreeing with just about everything.
“See that, Jeffrey?” Jason leaned down, pointed to his right, looked out the passengers-side window. “That’s the backside of the Green Monster, Fenway Park.”
“Cool!” Jeffrey said. He moved over to get a better look. Stared out the window. Buckled himself into the backseat on his mom’s side.
They drove under the Prudential Center and, as it got dark, the roar of a Harley echoed up along the left side, and the motorcyclist pulled in front of Jason.
“In about a half-mile,” Jason announced, “we’ll be coming up to the new Ted Williams Tunnel, part of the Big Dig project that cost the city
They walked into the Back Bay Pub, a little dive tucked in between a Star Market and Riley’s Laundromat. Branford was not what Jake had expected. A small man, five-foot-six, 120 pounds, skinny as a jockey. He wore a black blazer. Brown bolo tie. White dress shirt. Blue jeans. Cowboy boots. A ball cap with a large gold star on the front. He had a lazy eye that would not stop twitching.
Jake walked over, stuck out his hand. “This is my partner, Detective Shaughnessy.”
Dickie waved.
“I recognize you both from the Globe ,” the captain said as if he wanted Jake’s job or an autograph.
Jake forced a smile. Dickie leaned against a wooden beam with names and obscenities carved into it. There were black cigarette burns in the red carpet below his feet.
“I think I have an idea of maybe someone you need to take a serious look at. It all made sense to me when I found out why he requested a transfer.”
“So far you’re speaking a foreign language, Captain. Sorry.” Jake raised his eyebrows. “What do you have here?”
“He worked for me. Not a bad cop. Just wasn’t any good.” He laughed at his own turn of a phrase. “I did some checking. Found out he had a certain problem with young blondes. Also found out he got his self kicked off the Bangor force in Maine before coming to me, beggin’ for a job. Apparently, he waited outside the local high school up there and drove some of the girls home in his squad car. Said some creepy things.”
Jake wondered where this was going. A cop. Problem with blondes. It could fit. Then again, the guy sounded more like a loser rather than a killer.
Dickie watched a guy at the bar stirring his drink with a red plastic sizzle stick.
“We transferred him to your unit last May, a week or so before that Bettencourt kid went missing. Your lieutenant approved the transfer. Guess he knew the kid’s uncle or something.”
“Name?”
“He walks with a bum knee, kinda sliding it along. Name’s Mark Stanhope.”
Jake and Dickie looked at each other.
“Why did he ‘request’ a transfer?”
“He wanted to be,” Branford said, “closer to the action downtown. Truth is, though, he knew we were about to find out he was peeping on some young chick—a blonde, of course—every morning where he stopped for coffee at this diner. He’d follow her into the bathroom. She never knew until one day she happened to look up and caught him peering over the wall, underneath the ceiling tile.”
“Never liked Officer Stanhope,” Jake said.
“I heard you guys got a nickname for him?” Branford said.
“B-B-B-Benny,” Dickie said, laughing.
“We call him Rookie,” Jake said. “Appreciate this info.”
11
Friday, September 5 – 2:00 P.M.
Traffic was light for an early Friday afternoon downtown. Most everyone had their windows up, AC on. The digital temperature reading on the LCD clock over Copley Square read a balmy 97 degrees.
Driving into the city on the Mass Pike, eastbound, the Carmichaels were headed to Maine to spend the weekend with relatives. Jason Carmichael drove the family maroon Suburban. His wife sat shotgun. Their ten-year-old, Jeffrey, sat in back behind Dad. It was little Jeffrey’s job to keep Sergeant Bilko, their four-year-old Lab, occupied. Jason listened to talk radio, WRKO, disagreeing with just about everything.
“See that, Jeffrey?” Jason leaned down, pointed to his right, looked out the passengers-side window. “That’s the backside of the Green Monster, Fenway Park.”
“Cool!” Jeffrey said. He moved over to get a better look. Stared out the window. Buckled himself into the backseat on his mom’s side.
They drove under the Prudential Center and, as it got dark, the roar of a Harley echoed up along the left side, and the motorcyclist pulled in front of Jason.
“In about a half-mile,” Jason announced, “we’ll be coming up to the new Ted Williams Tunnel, part of the Big Dig project that cost the city
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