Loose Change

The Case Files of a Homeless Investigator

by Sean Huxter

Copyright 2012

Loose Change Press 1101 Village Road E Norwood, MA 02062

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are products of the author's imagination. Not so the places. The places are real, though some may be somewhat altered or embellished to aid the stories. Some places have been renamed but the spirit remains faithful. Any resemblance to actual events except perhaps sports scores are entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2012 by Sean Huxter

All rights reserved, including right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form or media.

First Loose Change Press Edition, 2012.

Loose Change Press name and design are trademarks of Loose Change Press.

For information about this work, e-mail loosechange@huxter.org

Or visit loosechange.huxter.org

Text set in Times New Roman and STHeiti on a MacIntosh using Open Office Writer.

ISBN-13: 978-1467969314 ISBN-10: 1467969311

Special thanks go to my good friend John Brooks, a trained EMT who made sure I didn't make an ass of myself describing the behavior and terminology surrounding the Emergency Medical Technicians in this book. Also to my good friend Michelle Clay who edited early drafts of several of these case files. Thanks, Michelle!

file: Loose Change-9x6-2012-12-30

Cover photo by Charlotte Huxter

For Charlotte.

Your love of humanity and your global acceptance of all kinds of people should be an inspiration to all as it is to me.

For Carol. For everything.

Contents

1 • The Panhandler on Newbury Street

35 • The Adopted Daughter

65 • The Stalkers

93 • The Case Worker

111 • The Donors

139 • The Findling

163 • The Second Man

197 • The Ringleader

223 • Epilogue

227 • Afterword

2864 days sober

Chapter 1

It was getting dark on a warm July evening and I was headed down Public Alley 437 off Arlington, across from the Public Garden, to settle in for the night. Summers don't require much shelter apart from the rain that often comes at night this time of year. Just a plastic tarp which I had already stashed under one of the wheeled dumpsters. All a man needs. Sheer paradise. Four stars. Right behind the Ritz... Oh, sorry... the Taj. Fucking developers.

“Excuse me... sir.”

Boston is usually a fairly noisy place on a Saturday, but as the dusk settles in that noise usually shifts to the one or two bars we're known for having. So this rather hesitant voice got my attention and I turned, a bit wary. I've been on these streets long enough to know that that's often a good opening line for a mugging. As in, “Sir, do you have the time?” - POW! Right over the head. Except I don't have anything to steal, and I knew my way down the darkening alley better than most punks so I figured I could safely reply.

“Yes,” I said, equally tentatively.

“I'm looking for a boy.”

Jesus. This isn't that unusual for me either, but I'm long past those days. Hell, I'm even growing a little gray around the temples. But you see a lot of this on the street.

“Pervert.” I said, and continued towards the entrance to 437. “No, I'm sorry, perhaps I worded that badly. I'm in search of a particular boy, a runaway. His father has sent me to find him and talk to

him.”

I know a lot of the younger kids around here and most of them don't really want to hear from their daddy. Most of them are here because of their daddy.

“Ain't seen 'im.” I said.

The man was a rather neat dresser. Wouldn't surprise me one bit if he didn't buy that suit in the shop around the corner. It was quite expensive.

“Please. This boy's mother has recently passed away and his father is desperate to find him.”

Inheritance, I thought. Oh that may be a different story.

“Who's the kid?” I asked. “Is he in for some money?”

“Ah. Well, yes, if we can find him. His father just really wants to talk to him. Just talk. His intention is not to bring him home against his will or anything. He just wants to talk.”

“What's the kid's name?”

“Ah.” The man relaxed a bit, and produced a small color photograph. An old school picture. Kid must have been around 14. “Jeremy Brothers. His father is in construction. Runs a very old building and paving business in Norwood.”

Norwood is known for its contractors. If you see a man walking down a Norwood street, he can likely do your roof for you. Or your drains. Just ask him.

“Money, eh?”

“Look, sir, if it's a question of money, I can certainly...” he reached for his wallet.

“I'm not after your money. Put it away,” I said, and seconds later wondered just what the hell I was doing. But you see, I recognized the kid in the photo. I'd seen him around. Not selling Loose Change. He was usually thrashing on his deck on the Common with his stoner buddies. I didn't mention that.

“Sir,” he continued. “I really need to find Jeremy. Can you tell me if you've seen him?”

“I'll ask around,” I said.

He handed me a business card. “Please call me if you find out anything.”

“Sure, I'll just call you from my office,” I said.

“Ah. Yes. Where can we meet again? His father and I are very concerned about Jeremy and whatever you can do to help would be... well appreciated.” Hints of money again.

“Ok, you can meet me on the corner of Dartmouth and Boylston. That's my corner. Next to the ticket kiosk. I sell Loose Change during the day.”

He took a long glance at me, as if to commit my appearance to memory – it's not like I would be recognized easily in a lineup of people like me.

“Ok, I'll come by at 3:00 tomorrow. That sound ok?”

“3:00,” I said. Damn. 3:00 in Boston on a hot summer day is the worst. But I can hang on the benches in front of Trinity Church. Trees shade the benches, so I can bear that.

The man walked down to the corner of the Public Garden and hailed a cab on Boylston, got in and drove away. I looked at the card.

Jonathan Fennelly

Attorney At Law

An address in Dedham and a 781 number.

Not like I could phone it. Phone booths are like 8-track players around here. If you see one, you tend to stare at it kind of archaeologically, wondering what it once was, and it probably doesn't work.

Chapter 2

Turns out I missed some excitement three days ago. While I was on the Common selling copies of Loose Change a body was found down Public Alley 422. That was just up towards Beacon.

I asked around. Old Fernie told me he was there when the ambulances showed up, and all the men in blue rubber gloves lest they actually touch one of us took away a man. A young man. Cops didn't say much at the scene. They asked Fernie and a few more guys some questions. The cops didn't know the kid either.

But from the description Fernie gave me, the kid was very likely Jeremy Brothers. I'd have to do some more asking.

It was early morning on Sunday before the shops opened, and I went to get my bundle of Loose Change. I read through it as I usually do. Not much else to do sitting on a low concrete wall on the Common waiting for people to wander by.

There he was. The kid's photo was posted. Contact information for anyone who knew the whereabouts of one Jeremy Brothers of Norwood matched the card I got from the lawyer.

I showed that photo around and the story I got was that yeah, that looked like the kid. His skateboard was found next to him, and he was huddled between two dumpsters with drug paraphernalia nearby.

I wandered the Common asking some of my friends if they'd seen this kid and showed them the photo. Mostly I got that they'd seen him around, but not for a few days.

I don't wonder why people act like either we don't exist or they're scared to death of us. As I walked the steep Freedom Trail from the State House down to Tremont, parallel to Park, some street people were gathered against the wrought-iron wall. They were taking in some shade from the few tall trees there. I heard some angry shouting. And some laughing.

“Leave me alone, motherfucker! Leave me alone! I did two tours in Iraq, you sumbitch! Broke my back and now I'm here and you don't get to tell me the fuck where to go! I'll stay right god-damn here. Fuck you!”

New guy. Fairly new anyway. He wasn't here last year. Led me to believe he may be telling the truth about Iraq. Great country we're living in isn't it? We lie to the kids before they get out of high school and tell them we'll pay for their education and take good care of them as long as they join up and stay in the military five years after they graduate. We sell them with ads making war look like a video game – but guess what? You don't get five lives. And after these kids are used up, this is how we treat them. They go to war and come back to a real hero's welcome. And this is what a hero's welcome often looks like. Tossed to the street, no job, no healthcare except what the VA can provide, and usually addicted to drugs, even if they weren't addicted before they went in.

Eighteen months in Iraq or Afghanistan can get you hooked pretty solid. Not much else to do between volleys of AK-47 bullets and IEDs.

Shit, even I steered around New Guy. Never know if someone that unstable is carrying a blade. “And fuck you too!” he shouted directly at me as I passed.

It was Sunday so this crowd was probably hanging around the Episcopal Church, which frequently holds group lunches, handing out plastic-wrapped sandwiches, which are not bad at all. But the one thing they do that's even more useful to folks like me – they hand out clean socks. Stuck in these boots all day, socks get old pretty fast. And anyone who's come back from a war will tell you, you have to keep the feet healthy or you're screwed.

Life is particularly harsh in winter, but this was summertime, and you'd think the living would be easy. Sure, we have shade to protect us from the searing heat especially in July and August, but it's not so easy to get water, and without that, dehydration is a common cause of cold bodies found in the alleys.

So I turned right on Tremont and found a cop car parked and leaned my head in.

“Officer Turley,” I said. “Nice to see you.”

“Whaddya want? You need something?”

Turley's pretty good. He's done me right a few times. Taken care of my friends who fell to the heat, calling the ambulances for people I knew who needed a night's stay in a soft climate, and Turley calling the ambulance means my friend gets to stay overnight in a clean bed. Sometimes Turley would have a few spare cold bottles of water. He also has cigarettes but I don't smoke that shit.

“Hey, maybe. What you know about a kid found on Wednesday in Alley 422?”

“Sad case. Kid couldn't have been more than nineteen. OD'd. He was shooting heroin. But tests came back the shit was bad. Cut with something. Hey... you let your friends know to stay away from the heroin that's going around, will ya?”

“Thanks, Officer. I will. You know who sold the shit?”

“Nope. But you may see some more of our boys around than usual. A bit of help would be appreciated. We got no ID on the kid, but we're looking.”

Ok... so Lawyer Fennelly probably didn't know yet. Daddy Brothers in Norwood was probably still looking. I'd have some news for Fennelly when he showed at three. Not good news. But it could earn me some of that money he hinted at.

But before then I had a bit of time. Maybe I could get some info on the kid's last few days. I headed over to the Frog Pond to see if any of the kid's buds were thrashing.

Chapter 3

“Miko,” I yelled. One of the older kids cut short, picked up his savage skateboard with a heel kick and came my way. I'm not exactly in with Miko, but I knew him around.

“Sup?”

“You know Jeremy? Brothers?”

“Spinner? Yeah, what about 'im?”

“Seen him today?”

“Fuck no, ain't seen 'im all weekend.”

“Know who he deals with?”

“Fuck you want to know for? I ain't seen you at that shit.” “I just want to know who dealt to him.” I showed him the pic in

my copy of Loose Change. The kid scoffed. They don't sell the paper.

They see it as a step down. Too much like working. To me it's a godsend. I get to sell it to people walking by and they give me money. I get to keep the money. That's how it works. It's a good paper, and it gives us a way to get money without panhandling as such. I know, it's just a semantic difference, but really, it does lend us a bit of dignity you know? We're actually selling a service people can use. The paper has good stories sometimes.

Some people think it's selling out. Panhandling not good enough for us, all that shit. I usually laugh when they say that. I've panhandled longer than they been out of diapers, some of 'em. Selling the paper is better, we can tell ourselves.

I've seen the Brothers kid panhandling along Newbury Street before.

Most of these young twerps think that this time on the street is just a temporary delay in their path to ultimate fortune. They still have dreams of Ferraris and hot model chicks. All they gotta do is get famous, like Tony Hawk, so they thrash away, coming up with new tricks and hoping they can take that to fame and fortune.

So far I ain't seen it happen once.

In fact most of them end up on blow or heroin and then they start selling. Soon they're either in jail or dead. This is not the easiest path to the American Dream.

No matter how comforting, a delusion is still just a delusion. I know.

“Fuck off, man.” Miko grabbed his board and walked away.

“There might be some money in it, Miko.” That stopped him. “'Choo talkin' about?”

“Rich man's kid. I bet he didn't tell you that.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, if you help me find him, there may be a finder's fee for you.” “Look, I ain't seen him all weekend.”

“So you said. Who deals to him?”

“I ain't tellin' you shit about who deals. And damn sure he ain't in no mood to talk to his son-of-a-bitch dad. And if you rat the kid out, I'll make sure he knows who did it. Got me?”

I let Miko go. He was a very busy kid, what with his sophisticated experiments in some new Ollie with a triple flip or some shit that he hopes everyone will soon know as 'the Miko'. I watched him make one try and he ended up on his ass and was slow to get up. I think he hit his head.

Clearly Miko knew who was dealing to Spinner because whoever it was was was probably dealing to the whole pack. And he was scared.

Sometimes either by handing out papers or by panhandling we can make some fair coin. There was a Sherlock Holmes story called “The Man with the Twisted Lip” about a London banker who went missing. Turns out he would tell his wife he was going to work at the bank, but instead he went begging in the street, and he ended up making more than he did as a banker. This isn't as likely these days, but it's not unheard of. But once you're hooked by some dealer that's that. All the money you make that doesn't go to food and cigarettes goes to that shit. Not me. I had enough of that long, long ago.

So many people I know are out here because of mental problems. They try to fit into society, but eventually some relative can't handle it anymore, or the funding runs out and with nowhere to turn, and hospitals costing a fortune, they end up out here. Hooking them is easy. I had no idea whether or not Spinner had mental problems. Didn't seem like it to me. I never really talked to the kid, but he seemed ok. But they still hooked him.

That's not how I got out here. I'm here because I'm a god-damned coward.

And I know better than to get hooked on that shit. Not again.

Chapter 4

I was sitting in the shade of the trees next to the water feature at Copley Square between the Public Library and Trinity Church. Trinity Church was wearing its own Shroud of Turin while they were doing cleanup work on the ancient brick facade.

There's nowhere to park anywhere near here, so I watched my corner next to the ticket kiosk.

Sure enough, just about 3:00, Fennelly showed up, still in a suit despite 80-plus degree weather. He stood looking around as if to try to remember my face in case I was standing right next to him. I wasn't. I got up and walked over. He knew me.

“Did you manage to get word to Jeremy that his father wants to talk?”

“No.”

He paced around in frustration. “Really? I put an ad in that street paper too, and so far nothing. Are you sure? Did you even look?”

“Mr. Fennelly, I believe I have some bad news for you. I can't verify this of course, because, well, we don't always use real names and I wasn't there. I could only rely on what some of my friends told me. But...”

“What have you found?”

“Wednesday evening a kid was found dead in Alley 422. The coroner took his body. Cops don't know who the kid was and it's not really the kind of thing that makes the evening news. One of us ends up in a dumpster, it somehow escapes the sharp noses of the fine journalists of this city.”

Fennelly stopped breathing for a minute. I counted. He yammered a bit finally, and paced some more. He looked towards the Library. From the steps a man in a green Polo shirt crossed the busy street and stood before us. “What is it, Jon?”

“Jake, it may be nothing. But... it may be something.” He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “We only have this man's word, but someone matching Jeremy's description was... taken away by ambulance on Wednesday night.”

“Just who is this?” he demanded, indicating me.

“Knowing Jeremy must be somewhere on the streets, I did some asking around. This gentleman offered to do some digging. See what he could find out. But Jesus... I didn't expect...”

“This gentleman? He's a street bum for fucksake!”

For a second I thought he was going to hit me right there on the street. Don't kill the messenger.

“Look, Mister Brothers,” I started.

“Don't fucking talk to me!” he shouted. “Jon, what the fuck am I paying you for?”

“Look, Mister Brothers,” I persisted. “It should be a simple matter to contact Boston PD and ask if they found... someone matching your son's description. Without an ID they'd have no leads, and they wouldn't have come to you.”

Brothers was beside himself. He certainly didn't want to trust my word, or the word of anyone like me, even to tell him the time, but absolutely he had serious desire to doubt my story.

The two men turned and crossed the road back to the library. Brothers turned around. “Don't ever fucking talk to me!”

Like I was gonna...

Chapter 5

Two days later on a cooler day, after some rain came down (thank you, blue plastic tarp) I was sitting on the benches in the shade again watching some mothers lift their kids up onto the shiny, well-worn golden backs of the bronze sculptures of the tortoise and the hare, when I saw a man standing next to the ticket booth on the corner of Dartmouth and Boylston. My corner. It was Mr. Brothers. His Polo shirt was a different color today.

He was hopelessly scanning left and right, pacing back and forth. No sign of the lawyer.

Shit, I thought. I knew he was looking to talk to me, and I wasn't so sure I shouldn't just cover my face with a copy of Loose Change and saunter eastward down to Clarendon and hide.

Shit.

I got up and walked to the kiosk.

“Oh, Jesus. Thank god.” He said. “I never thought I'd find you.”

“Why would you want to?”

“Look, I'm sorry for my behavior on Sunday. I sent Fennelly out to find Jeremy, and well, I expected it to be difficult, but... I never expected it to be too late. I took it out on you.”

“Ok, so...”

“I called the Boston PD and they confirmed they had found a kid about Jeremy's age, and I came in for an ID and … well, as I said, it's too late now. But I wanted you to know that you were right, and I had no right to rip into you. I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I thought you were running an angle, trying to get some money or something. I don't know.”

I didn't want to bring up the fact that Fennelly did talk money...

“But... look, this sun is killing me. Can we sit somewhere?” The sun was out from the clouds, and it was heating up a bit. I suggested the Starbucks up by Back Bay Station. We walked. I checked to see how I smelled. I passed inspection. We entered the shop and sat at a table farther back along the wall. Brothers ordered two lattés.

“The police informed me that Jeremy overdosed. They said he was alone. No foul play suspected. He died in the alley with no one around him. They said the dope might have been bad.”

Likely true, I thought. Sad, too, I thought.

“You don't know me, and I don't know you, but let me tell you a story. Then I'm going to ask you a favor. Deal? You can say no and walk out now if you like.”

Free latté. I was staying.

“I run a contracting business in Norwood. We do rather well. Construction. Mostly pavement. Everyone has a driveway, it seems. We just made a killing on the new school.

“Jeremy was always a... shy boy. Didn't like football, didn't like baseball, hated basketball, wouldn't be caught dead …” he faltered momentarily. “He wouldn't wear a Bruins hat... none of that. Loved weird books, loved the movies, he and his mother used to go to New York and take in some of the Broadway musicals. Sounds so stereotypical, but that was just so... him.

“Look, I know he wasn't... normal, you know? He was... that way.”

I've heard it put many ways. Not knowing Jeremy, I could only nod to prod him onward.

“Well naturally we never saw eye to eye. And when I wanted him to get involved with the family business, he wanted nothing to do with it.

“His mother accepted him for what he was. I just couldn't. I know it was wrong of me, but dammit, he was my son, and he was... not all I had hoped for.

“But for the sake of his mother, I put up with him. Until one night on the Cape we came home from dinner early and found him... with ... a neighbor's kid from up the street. An older boy. 18 or so.

“I couldn't help myself. I blew my top. I mean I went ballistic. I can't even remember what I said, but I know I told him to pack his shit and leave and never contact us again. I wanted to have the neighbor kid arrested, charged with... god knows what... but that would only make things worse. Everyone would know.

“Marsha, god rest her, she hit me. She hit me so hard in the face I can still feel it.

“But still enraged, I told her to shut up – that Jeremy was no son of mine.

“I thought I had lost it all that night. But Marsha didn't leave me. I thought she would, but she didn't. And I haven't seen Jeremy since. To her credit, Marsha was sure she could make me see the error of my ways, but it never happened.

“And now it's too late.”

“I'm so sorry to hear it.”

“Yeah... me too. Marsha, God rest her, she's the reason I'm here. Damn me, but I thought if I kept up my hard line Jeremy would straighten himself out and come crawling back. I'd accept his apology and he'd start work in the business. Stupid...

“In the end it was Marsha made me see, but only because she was sick. She made me promise, see. She took out her Bible and made me swear an oath on it to find Jeremy and bring him home. She died clutching that book.”

The latté was cold by now and I sipped it anyway.

“That's the story. Sorry it was a bit long-winded.”

“It's ok. I understand,” I said. And I did.

He glanced at me, for a moment I could see that look again, like he couldn't care less if I understood or not, who the fuck was I anyway? But he was here, and he was talking, so I just let it slide.

“With Marsha gone, I realized I had pissed away a life with my son, and I was ready to make up for it. I mean a few years have passed, and I managed to learn a thing or two... it's just the way the kid is, isn't it? Why should that stop us from being a family?

“Hard as it was, I set out to find him. I swear I was going to face him and ask him for his forgiveness. I swear. I was going to hug him and tell him I accepted him no matter what he was.

“And I was late. Three fucking days late.”

Yeah. Life sucks that way.

He sat there, sipping his cold latté, quite quiet now. He sat and stared out the front window onto the street. He lowered his head and said this:

“So here comes the favor I mentioned.”

Here it comes, I thought.

“Would you please ask around and find out something about him? I mean from his friends. Whoever he hung around with. I want to know what happened to him after that night on the Cape. Where he went. Who he hung with. What he was like... on his own. I'd pay you. Fair amount of money too. See, Marsha left a trust in Jeremy's name, and I can't bring myself to empty it – not after what I've done. I'll give it to you if you can provide me with some details about Jeremy's life.”

“Why me? Why not just hire a P.I?”

“Look, I won't bullshit you. I could hire a private detective. Hell, I could hire an army of them. But how do you think it'll be if I sic them on the alleys of Boston? What information do you think they'd get asking you guys about some kid? You live here. You know people. You'd be far better at finding out what I want to know.”

I considered it. I knew a few of the people he hung with. I could do it. And everyone can use money.

“How will I get in contact with you?”

“Here.” He handed me a small, not-so-new cell phone. “It's yours. I'm on speed dial and you can call me at any time. With whatever you find out, no matter how trivial. Keep it off when you're not using it. It'll help save the battery charge.”

I looked at the phone, flipped it open, I mean it was an older model, and hit a few buttons. Yeah, I could figure it out.

“Ok, I'll ask around. I'll fill you in with what I find, but I am not promising a rosy story, and I don't know how you'll take what I find out.”

“It doesn't matter. No matter how good or bad, I want to know. You call me. Any time. Day or night.”

Chapter 6

I sometimes sleep in a shelter. Pine Tree Inn on Harrison. It's a first-come-first-serve facility a half-mile down from Chinatown, but it's not a long walk and I can get a good shower. I left there and walked up Stuart Street towards the Common. I wanted to talk to Miko some more.

Miko and his skater crew were there as usual. Taking a break from all the hard work. I called Miko over.

“So? You get some money for turnin' in Spinner? I want my share.”

“I didn't turn him in. He's dead.”

Miko just looked at me. “You shittin' me?”

“That's why you haven't seen him since Wednesday.”

“Shit.” He looked back at his buds, then turned back to me.

“I need to know something about him. What can you tell me?”

Miko sat down on a low concrete wall, holding his deck in front of him. “Shit, man. Shit. Kid was ok, you know? He wasn't gonna make it on the street though. Not the way he was going. Said this was just temporary. We all know that's bullshit. But he insisted. Temporary.

“The kid had plans. Was gonna find work, earn a degree, get somewhere, ya know? Was gonna open up a contracting business outside town. In the 'burbs somewhere. Newton, Norwell, Norwood, some place like that.

“'Miko,' he used to tell me, 'Living well is the best revenge.' Told me about how he was gonna show his dad who was the better man. He believed it. But as far as I knew, the kid had nothin'. No talent, no skill, nothin' but drive. He had me believin' he'd do it too. For a while.

“But I seen him at night with men. Men in suits. In alleys. He said he was making fair coin and was going to put it all together and go to BU or some shit. I don't know how he was gonna do it, he quit school just weeks before graduatin', and he didn't even have his high school diploma. But he said he knew people and they could get him in. Was always talkin' bullshit like that.

“But he always swore one day he'd walk into his father's office and throw down his business card and show him.

“Couple of months back, he seemed to shut up about it. No more pipe dream. Just sank back into the dope and men. Like he just gave up.

“I guess he'll never do it now.”

Miko got up, took his skateboard and went back to what he was doing before I interrupted.

“Oh, Miko. Who was his dealer? Was it you?”

“Hell no.” Miko came back, rather angrily, wielding his deck like a weapon. “You want to know who his dealer was, it was Marcus. Now fuck off.”

Marcus. Jesus...

Chapter 7

Officer Turley was standing next to his cruiser and I was sitting on a concrete pillar just outside the Common.

“Yeah, the father called HQ and asked about a kid fitting the description. It was his kid alright. Poor bastard. He had to do an ID at the morgue. And when he found out from the ME that the kid had HIV, he nearly lost it.”

“HIV?” I said. “You sure?”

“Yeah. But that's what you get for – doin' what he was doin'. For money in dark alleys. The kid wasn't even twenty yet.”

That would explain why the kid stopped talking about his future plans... no future as he saw it. Probably didn't know the strides made in HIV treatment over the last decade. It's not the death sentence it used to be. Not like it was before I got to the streets.

“You heard anything about Marcus lately?”

“Marcus? We haven't been able to take him down, if that's what you mean. That son of a bitch knows how to hook 'em young and string 'em along until there's nothing left. Bastard has no qualms about delivering tainted product, as long as it's not to those with the real money.”

“Thanks, Officer Turley.” I got up off the pillar and walked back into the Common where I took out the cell phone Brothers gave me and hit 1 on the speed dial.

I told him some of what Miko had told me. I told him that Jeremy had been collecting money with the hopes of getting back to school, and I told him that he kept talking about being a success, just like his old man. I even told him about wanting to go into the paving business. I just left out the part where he wanted to do it only as revenge against his old man. I felt no parent needs to know that.

I also left out the part about knowing the kid had HIV. No need for him to know that either.

“Thanks for calling. Thanks for telling me. It's not much consolation now, but it helps to know he had a plan at least, that he was trying, you know?”

“Sure.”

“Got one more for you.”

“Go ahead.” I wondered if I'd ever give Spinner's father enough information for him to leave me alone now. I wondered if I'd ever see a dime from him.

“I want to know who his dealer was.”

“Why?”

“Any information I can take to the police is worth paying for. Can you find out?”

“Sure. Meet me on my corner, and I'll have some info for you then. I think it's time I cashed out.”

Brothers hesitated for a moment, then sighed. “No, you're right. I'll bring the cash Marsha had in Jeremy's trust fund. It's not much, but you earned it.”

I walked and pondered. I cut across the street to the Gardens and walked up the bridge, looked down at the passengers in the swan boats, being paddled around a small pond for no damn good reason. I never understood the fascination. I kept going until I reached Arlington Street, crossed it and went down my alley, 437, glancing just briefly up to 422 where Jeremy's body was found.

Most people, as I've hinted, get from Arlington up to Dartmouth along Boylston or Newbury. I took the alley. I ended up at my corner where I sat in the shade of the Copley Square trees and waited, wondering how much to tell Brothers when he showed.

Chapter 8

Brothers walked up to the kiosk and, rather than getting up, I gestured him to come sit on a bench in the shade. He did.

He held out his hand, and for a moment I checked it for unexploded devices or sharp teeth. Finding none, I shook it. What? It's not often someone like me gets an offer of an open hand.

“You earned this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brown envelope that had what must have been a half-inch of bills in it. It was sealed.

“There's more than a couple thousand bucks in here. I just wanted to make sure you know how much I appreciate the time and effort you put in.”

I took the envelope and put it in my pocket. “Thanks. That's very generous.”

“No less than you earned.” He sat, looking around at all the tourists walking by. He saw a young family frolicking on the water feature and sighed. “You can't ever get it back, you know?”

I remained silent, simply nodding. Damn right.

“You raise them hoping for the best. You give them your love, your time, the sweat off your brow, and you expect you'll die before they do. And then you go and do something so stupid you can't ever take it back.

“Life's a bitch, Mr...” he looked at me as if I had just arrived. “You know, I have no idea even what your name is.”

I told him.

“I hope you'll keep in touch. If you find out more about Jeremy, I'd still love to hear more.”

“Sure.”

And then he got up. He stopped, turned and said, “Did you ever find out who his dealer was?”

This was the question I had been pondering. But if it helped the police find his son's murderer, why not?

“Name's Marcus. He deals to lots of homeless. The police know who he is, what he does, but they haven't been able to touch him. He holds people in terror. Not sure I'd like my chances if he knew I mentioned his name.”

“Marcus... ok. Thanks. I hope you'll stay in touch. And if I can do anything for you...”

I just smiled and patted the envelope.

“You know, you'd make a great P.I. yourself.”

“Yeah, that's me. The Homeless Private Eye. Just look me up on my corner. Any day. Nine to Five. No case too big. No case too small.” I hesitated to laugh too hard in the presence of a grieving man.

Brothers walked away.

Chapter 9

A month or so later I woke up on a misty morning, a bit chill, folded my blue plastic tarp and tucked it under the dumpster. An ambulance whipped past the Arlington end of the alley. Then another. Then a cop car and several more behind. The noise was getting loud.

I walked out to Arlington, up a few to Public Alley 422 where Turley stood, not letting anyone in who wasn't wearing a badge.

“Sorry. No way,” he said to me. “Crime scene.”

“What happened,” I asked.

“Another body.”

“Jesus. Another OD?”

“Not much info at the moment, but it's a wicket mess back there. About half-way down the alley, almost exactly the same spot that kid was found back in July. I can't say anything more.”

“Know who?”

He looked at me as if I had asked him if he could count to three. Then he glanced both ways, saw no one around, and leaned in and said in a low voice. “Might be Marcus.”

“Marcus? As in the dealer Marcus?”

“The same. No confirmation yet. As I said, it's a wicket mess back there. But to me it looks like Marcus. Still... Marcus was, you know, fat. This guy's emaciated, like he had anorexia or something. Skin drawn, what was left of it.”

“Jesus. Any ideas how he got it? He's not the type to OD on his own stock.”

Turley lowered his voice even more. “Not off-hand, but it was wasn't no OD. It was fucking brutal. What I saw, we're talking legs smashed, not just broken. Cuts all over. Hands cut off – I hope to hide his identity, but I think they were hacked off while he was alive. Eyes look like they were blowtorched. I ain't seen anything like this in all my years with the PD. But you didn't hear any of this from me.”

Jesus. Marcus. Who would have had the balls to take out Marcus and hope he could get away with it?

Oh shit.

“Wait, Turley, you say he was skinny?”

“Like anorexia.”

“And lots of other damage?”

“Tortured by the look of it.”

Shit.

Around that time some of the Coroner's people brought out a stretcher with a body bag on it. A couple of EMTs left the alley around the same time. No work here. No one to save. They prepared to pack up. I recognized one of the EMTs and walked his way.

“Halloran, right?” The EMT named Halloran recognized me too.

“Right.”

“I have a medical question for you.”

“So go see a doctor.”

“It's not about me. How long do you figure it would take a fat man to starve to death?”

“Depends. Three weeks. A month. Depends on a lot of things. Water, diet, stuff like that. Why?”

“Nothing. Intellectual curiosity.” Halloran rejoined his partner and they jumped back up into their rig and drove off, siren silent. Nothing to see here.

Shit.

I had to get to Norwood.

Chapter 10

The Franklin Line Commuter Train has three stops in Norwood: Norwood Depot, Norwood Central and Windsor Gardens. Norwood Depot was close to Brothers' offices on Washington Street. I hopped the train at Back Bay Station and got off at Norwood Depot. I walked up to Washington Street and entered the store front office of Brothers Construction and Paving. Nothing fancy, just a working contractor's office. It smelled of tar. Not surprising for a building and paving business.

A receptionist looked up and looked about ready to greet a potential customer until she got a load of me. Her nose turned pretty quickly, and what came out of her mouth was not as friendly as was probably originally planned.

“Can I... help you?”

“I'm here to see Jake Brothers.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“He'll see me. Give him this.” I handed her the cell phone he had

given me. She took it and went back to a brown door and opened it, disappearing within. Seconds later she came out and said “He'll see you.”

She pointed. I walked down the hall to the door and went in.

“This is unexpected. I thought you'd call if you had any more information on Jeremy.”

“No. No new info on Jeremy, but I do have an important question to ask you.”

“Intriguing... go ahead. Ask away. You looking for a job? Hard working man like yourself would be easy to train on paving machinery. And the pay is not too bad.”

“No. Not looking for a job, leastways out here. Too far from Boston for my tastes.”

“Then how can I help you?”

I shut the door.

“Marcus,” I said.

“Marcus who?”

“Marcus the drug dealer who sold your kid bad drugs which he later OD'd on. That Marcus. The one you asked me specifically about.”

“Ah. That Marcus. What about him?”

“Dead.”

“Pity.”

“So how do you expect me to play this, Mister Brothers? You got me to give you Marcus, and you paid me for my trouble. I'm not dumb enough to believe you paid me for the information on your son. What you really wanted was a name, and I gave it to you.”

“Good story,” he said.

“So you hired one of that army of detectives I mentioned, and he found out where Marcus could be found, and contacted you, probably through Fennelly.”

“Intriguing,” he said, tapping a pen on his desk.

“I know some facts, Mister Brothers, and I have some suppositions. The facts are that Marcus was a fat man. Not a nice character. Would slice you in half as soon as look at you. And he was found practically starved to death, battered and tortured, and left in the exact same spot your son Jeremy was found.”

“Go on...”

“You know a lot of able-bodied men with muscle who owe you their livelihood. I'm sure it wouldn't have been hard to put a few in a van and catch Marcus off-guard and take him. It's not like he'd be expecting such a thing, not when you're as shit-hot as he is, and thinks he's the king of god-damned Boston.”

Brothers sat still, listening. Very still.

“When I'm short of facts, I have to make guesses,” I said. “And my guess is that your crew incapacitated him, drove him to one of your buildings, probably where you house paving machinery, and you had him hand-cuffed to a gurney or something where you made sure he had enough water to prevent dehydration – that would be too fast. You can die in a few days without water. But without food? Usually a few weeks.

“So here's where I get a bit sick to my stomach... you used tools. Pliers. Hammers. Saws. Blowtorches.

“For weeks.”

Brothers even smiled.

I continued. “You kept him alive for as long as you could, and when he was about to die of starvation, you finished the job in some way I don't even want to imagine, and then had your crew dump him in the exact same spot your son was found.

“How far off am I?”

“Oh,” Jake Brothers said, “you're dead on.” His smile couldn't be contained. It was gleeful.

“So now what,” he said.

“Now what? Now I go to the police and tell them who did it. Like a real detective.”

“Yes, you could. But then I might have to tell some of my men about you too... Wouldn't it be nicer if I just gave you some money and you could go away?”

“I don't bribe easy.”

“Who'd believe you even if you told? Even if you had photos no one would believe a bum like you! That son-of-a-bitch killed my son! As if he stuck the needle into his arm himself! He cut dangerous dope and dealt it to my kid! That can't go unanswered! No father can let that go!

“I was doing a good thing! I was doing as my Marsha asked me to do! I was going to collect my son and let bygones be bygones! He was going to move back in with me and he'd help me run the business! I was ready to forgive him – rather to ask him to forgive me for how I treated him – my own flesh and blood.

“Flesh and blood mean something to me! You live in a family like mine and flesh and blood mean something! No one can take my kid and get away with his own flesh and blood intact. You get me?”

His voice had begun rising, and he stood. Spittle shot from his mouth as he spoke. I could see his eyes... his mad eyes...

“So what's it to be? Police? And then they find another anonymous nobody in Alley 422 in a week or so? Who does that benefit? I did the world a favor. I got rid of one parasitical drug pusher who likely is responsible for dozens of deaths, and I am proud of it! I'm not ashamed of what I did. I only regret that the bastard didn't last longer before I put it out of its misery.

“So... put yourself in my place. Your kid. Your only kid. Murdered. What would you do? What would being a man require you to do?”

Brothers reached for a drawer and pulled. I expected this was it. A gun.

Instead he pulled out another brown envelope. He turned around and opened a safe and pulled several stacks of bills from it and stuffed them into the envelope, sealing it with a lick of the flap.

“Fifty thousand dollars in this envelope. You can have it. Provided you never contact me again.”

I could breathe again now. There was no gun. Just money. And isn't that the difference between people like Brothers and people like me? They can afford for their problems to just … go away. Some of us don't have that.

My problems wouldn't go away with money.

But I thought about it, and I looked at the hefty thickness of that sealed envelope. People can always use money.

I looked Jake Brothers directly in the eye, and he looked directly into mine.

I reached down and took the envelope and walked out.

Chapter 11

A wise man once said: “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.” I couldn't think of much else as I took the Commuter Rail back into Back Bay Station. On the ride I had time to think, and when it came down to it, I remembered the question Brothers had asked me – what would I have done. What would being a man require me to do? What should I have done?

I got off at Back Bay and walked to the shelter I sometimes use. I borrowed a pen at the office and wrote on the envelope: “To the Pine Tree Inn: A Donation” and pushed it into a donation box just outside the door.

I walked out, down Tremont and up Alley 437 until I reached Dartmouth and Boylston where I took a seat under the shade of the trees in Copley Square near the Ticket Kiosk.

That's my corner.

2946 days sober

Chapter 1

The one problem with summer when you're living on the streets of Boston is that it ends. Fall is nice, but of course that ends too, and then comes winter. Winter on the streets of Boston can be deadly. I lost three friends last winter alone. The toll on the homeless was awful. It was a harsh winter, long and cold. And there are only so many beds in the shelters.

But for now it's fall and if you have to have fall you may as well have it in New England. Fall here is as beautiful as fall gets anywhere. The air gets crisp and tasty. The weather is still good, and the color is spectacular, but the nights start to get chill. I keep a blue plastic tarp under a dumpster in Public Alley 437. I'd need it tonight. Soon I'd need a thick blanket as well.

Sitting on the low walls on the walkways of Boston Common is a great place to sell copies of Loose Change, the biweekly newspaper published across the Charles in Cambridge. The paper is sold to vendors – homeless people – and we sell them to passersby for a buck and make a profit. It's called Loose Change because we accept almost any amount for it as long as it's near enough to a buck, the aim being that it allows people to pay for it with the loose change in their pockets. We pay a quarter a copy, so we still get a good margin. And it beats panhandling, I can tell myself. People get news, I get money; it's a winwin. I sell a service, I say confidently. Still, I've seen people take a copy, pay me a buck or more and then just drop it in the next trash can they pass. I still refuse to look at it as panhandling. Dignity is one of our last possessions, and we hold onto it dearly.

I passed St. Paul's Cathedral on Tremont, crossed the street and entered the Common past a lemonade cart. Tourists were lined up trying to get some respite from the sun. I looked up and to the west I saw tall clouds. Damn. Rain was coming. And if the height of those clouds meant anything, thunder and lightning too.

A few feet up the hill an Iraq vet was yelling loudly at Joanie Jones, a woman who claimed the Public Library steps were haunted with the ghosts of those slain during the Boston Massacre. He yelled “I did two tours in Iraq for people like you! Get the fuck out' my face!” He walked away but, undaunted, she followed him until he gave her a good shove and she got the message. “You crazy, woman! Stay the fuck away from me!” Mental illness is one of the main reasons these people are out here on the street.

Just down the wall from where I intended to set up shop, old Fernie sat with a Dunkin Donuts cup in front of him with some change in it, calling out the weather forecast and the local sports scores with that rich, baritone voice he has. It's a good gimmick. Old Fernie is one of the friends I didn't lose during the cold of last winter, thank god. When people walk past Fernie they usually have a smile on their faces, and usually Fernie ends up a few coins or a few bills richer. I'd call out the Red Sox scores too, but he kind of owns that. We have our rules. I sell the paper; old Fernie's our town crier.

I sat with Fernie for a few minutes, chatting about the weather he was calling out, gave him a free copy of the paper, which I know he likes to read, patted him on the back and walked up to Beacon to ply my wares there instead. Sunny fall Sunday usually means tourists walking through the Common, but I didn't see many yet. Perhaps after lunch.

Lots of tourists up there on Beacon though, checking out the Cheers pub then climbing the hill to bask in the glow of the golden dome of the State House and along the way admiring the brownstones, wondering how many millions each one was worth. Hint: The ones with the patina'd copper roofs are worth the most.

I began calling “Loose Change!” to all and sundry who walked up the hill. I sold three copies in under three minutes. I handed four singles in change back to a couple who, unprompted for such, cheerily declared they were from Florida and enjoying the weather.

That's when a Boston PD cruiser came flying around the corner up Park Street, sirens blaring, took the corner onto Spruce Street against the one-way and then onto Chestnut Street. I followed, sticking to the shadows cast by the tall buildings. Other cruisers showed up emitting officers who immediately started sealing off the street at both closest intersections. But by that time I was up there watching what was going on, one of the invisible homeless, blending in against the brown bricks.

There were a few people from the condos standing around, most looking shocked, disgusted, in pure horror.

Lying by the side of a recessed staircase leading up to an ornate wooden door lay a dead woman. African skin tone, dark hair, purple duffel coat and an orange skirt. Before more cops showed up and started shoving us back down the street, I noticed something odd... her hands. They were lying at odd angles to her arms. I couldn't get closer to see.

The Coroner's team was there now, setting up a tent around the body so they could work without interruption and without further disturbing the affluent dwellers of these streets behind Beacon Street.

Then the sky broke open with a loud crack and thick pea-sized drops of rain began to fall in earnest. I'm guessing they were glad they had the tent up in time. Rain can destroy a crime scene just as effectively as a tornado.

Chapter 2

When the ambulances had left and the cops began opening up the street, I saw Officer Turley, beat cop usually posted down on Tremont, and walked over. Turley's a friend, I guess. As much of a friend a guy like me can have, especially in a cop. He's done me some favors and I've done a few for him. He's a stand-up guy – the kind of cop who got into the work to do good and tries to do so on a daily basis. He even hands out bottles of water and cigarettes to those in need on occasion.

“Officer Turley. Horrible scene.”

“You said it,” Turley replied, removing his cap and wiping his brow. “Never seen anything quite like it.”

“Who was the woman?” I asked.

“Not a local. Not sure who she is, but I was talking to some of the Crime Unit bunch and they said she had no hands. Like they were cut off. But not recently. Gone for years, they said. She was wearing a matching pair of prosthetics. Made to look as much like real hands as possible, with some functionality.”

“I thought I saw that,” I said. “But I figured often killers dump bodies and cut their hands off to help prevent identification.”

“Yeah, not this time. She's been a double-amputee for years. I dunno, birth defect maybe. Thalidomide baby? She's a bit young for that. In her thirties'd be my guess.”

I remembered Thalidomide. Given to pregnant mothers in the sixties to calm morning sickness. Worked wonders, until they started giving birth to babies with flippers where their arms should be. I went to school in the seventies with one girl who was missing the lower part of one of her arms.

“What was she doing back here?”

“Not sure. Could have been dumped I s'pose.” Turley was stacking some traffic cones to clear the street and stowing them in the trunk of his cruiser.

“So you think it was murder?” I prodded.

“Definitely. Not just murder, the Coroner thinks.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He looked disgusted.

Shit. Rapist-murderer in downtown touristy Boston. That wouldn't make the Mayor happy.

Chapter 3

A few days later I picked up a new stack of Loose Change and like I always do, I read through it. There were some interesting details about the murdered woman. Apparently she was from Africa – Rwanda – a political refugee. She lived with an older couple in Brookline; apparently they had sponsored her travel to the US and her political asylum proceedings. A pair of truly charitable hearts, the paper wrote.

There were no details on her missing hands or why she was admitted into the US under asylum, but it happened in 1995, and she'd been living in Brookline ever since.

Compulsion, I guess, led me back up the hill and behind Beacon Street's facade to Chestnut Street. Not sure what was bothering me specifically, but there was something about the woman, something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

Perhaps something made me think I'd be the hero, I'd go check out the crime scene and find that vital clue the cops missed. I know how it sounds. Leave me alone.

When I turned onto Chestnut I saw a man and a woman laying a wreath next to the recessed staircase where the body had been discovered. They held each other arm in arm and just stood there. I think the woman was crying and the man was stroking her back hoping to provide some comfort.

I felt like an intruder so I turned away. Before I got to the corner of Spruce Street I heard a man's voice say “Excuse me, sir?”

I turned around and the man, in his fifties, perhaps early sixties, was talking. To me apparently.

“Uh... yes?” I said. People don't normally talk to us, so I was a bit hesitant.

“You wouldn't happen to know who lives at this address, would you? I only ask because you look like you're familiar with this street.” Yeah, I'm familiar with the street, I thought cleverly.

“No, sorry.” I turned again. Dammit... I turned back around

“Did you know the lady?” I asked.

“The lady?” the man repeated.

“The …” I hate the word. “...victim?” I said.

The woman spoke. She looked like a very strong woman, not physically, but she had that air about her that indicated an inner strength, a will, a purpose. But on top of it was a layer of grief that was very visible in her stooped stance - and her tears.

“Yes, she was our daughter.” She was white. So was the man. Adopted?

The woman seemed eager to open up and open up she did. She sat on the staircase and the man sat with her, rubbing his hands together helplessly. I came closer, but not too close.

“Your daughter?” I asked, tentatively.

“Her name was Rosine Uwera,” she said. “We adopted her as a teenager, and she wanted to keep her name. And rightfully so. Her name was important to her.

“Jonas and I were volunteering in Rwanda in the late '80s, you see, until 1994. We were there during the Rwandan civil war. We were helping out in the refugee camps. It was awful. The ethnic hatred between the Hutu and the Tutsis was like nothing I've ever imagined was possible.

“Rosine was not even fourteen when the civil war started. The Hutu began a campaign to wipe out the Tutsi once and for all.

“This started months of genocidal attacks throughout Rwanda, and the girls got the worst of it. Rape gangs would tear through refugee camps and villages killing the boys and men, raping and mutilating the Tutsi girls. I can't begin to describe what happened.”

I was alive in the 1990s. I had heard about the genocide, but I confess I didn't exactly go out of my way to learn the details. Wasn't on my list of priorities at that time in my life.

Jonas took over. “Rosine was raped by a gang of over twenty Hutus. They beat her senseless and left her for dead, and just because they could they hacked her hands off with machetes. This was their way of utterly destroying the Tutsi population, so they would be rid of what they saw as their problem forever.

“Anne and I met Rosine in a hospital and swore we would not leave there without her. That very day we began proceedings to bring her to the United States to live with us.”

Anne spoke. “There were so many, Mister... uh...”

I told them my name, then reverted to deferential silence, prompting her to continue her story.

“There were so many victims. And we could do nothing to help them. But we chose to do this one thing for this one girl. There was no way we could leave there without her.

“We got onto the consulate and within weeks we were flying back to the US with Rosine on a stretcher, arms bandaged but healing. I'm not sure how she found the strength to continue, but I think it was her determination not to let those bastards win. She knew their intention was to destroy her completely, and she refused to let them.

“She braved the legal proceedings, the interrogations here with lawyers for the State Department and told her story repeatedly and resolutely. She stood and told her story strongly over and over again until she was hoarse. The determination in her eyes was a sight to see.”

“And she's lived with you ever since,” I said.

“Yes. She began educating herself through the college system and when the internet became commonplace she took online courses. The child was amazing. She learned English fluently, she even took lessons in Spanish and German, she already knew French of course. She got her degree in education and has been working at Brookline high schools teaching ESL courses.”

Jonas said “She was an inspiration. When she wasn't teaching she was telling everyone she could about the Rwandan genocide and was instrumental in getting the UN to do something.

“But the UN response was a shambles. The peacekeepers completely ignored what was happening. Their only orders were to defend themselves and each other if their lives were threatened. One night orders came down for the UN Peacekeepers to concentrate on getting foreign nationals out, and that caused the Belgians to abandon the Don Bosco Technical School which was housing two thousand refugees inside. Meanwhile, outside, hundreds of Hutu were waiting, swilling back beer and chanting, waiting for their opportunity to strike. The Belgians left and they stormed the place, killing every last one of those two thousand. Hundreds of children.

“If it weren't for Rosine and her pleas to the UN that would have been it. But her continued pressure got the UN to deal with the situation directly, and thanks to the Canadians, Ghanians and Dutch, tens of thousands of Tutsi were saved.

“She's spent the last fifteen years making sure the world never forgets what happened in Rwanda, and to make sure it can't happen anywhere else.”

Anne said, “And now she's gone. All that work, all that inspiration...”

“...certainly will never be forgotten,” I suggested.

They smiled.

“Thank you for listening,” Anne said, calling me by my first name. “She was like our daughter. We took care of her, fed her, clothed her, supported her, almost coddled her, because, well, we felt she deserved never to have to fear anything ever again.”

“And then she's … cut down like a dog on the street,” Jonas interjected bitterly. “Raped and...” he faltered, sobbing.

“Jonas, don't...” Anne said, hugging her husband. “We can't dwell on the last moments of her life when she gave the world so much for so long.”

Jonas wiped tears from his eyes.

Raped and dumped on the streets of Boston after what she went through. Where is there justice?

“Thank you for listening,” Anne repeated. “You're a kind man, I can see it in your eyes. You have kind eyes. And you're so good to indulge a couple of old sentimentalists. But we've taken up enough of your time.”

They got up and walked towards a gray Volvo wagon parked on the opposite side of the street. Before they reached their car something made me say “I know some of the police around here.”

“Pardon me?” Jonas turned.

“I said I know some of the police. I can try to find out what happened...”

Jonas smiled, almost patronizingly and said “Thanks. We appreciate it.”

“Corner of Dartmouth and Boylston. Near the ticket kiosk. That's my corner. If you feel the need, you can sometimes find me there.”

“Well, we sure appreciate it,” said Jonas. He handed me a business card with a Brookline address and phone number on it. “Don't hesitate to phone if you find anything.” He got into the car with his wife and drove off down Chestnut Street.

“Yeah, that's me. Big help,” I said to a cat in a window. She agreed.

Chapter 4

“You seem to know a hell of a lot more about the vic than I do,” Turley said as he leaned against his cruiser on Tremont, just outside the Common next to Park Street T Station.

“Yeah. The old couple who adopted her needed a shoulder, and I had two, so...”

“Ain't you the man,” he said.

“No clues? Nothing?” I asked.

“Negative. Look, this is probably just some punk rapist. But we've put out alerts to all the colleges and schools telling women not to travel alone, not to turn down dark streets, the usual. Hopefully they'll take extra precautions until we catch this bastard.

“But let's face it. Random rapists are rarely caught, unless they're stupid enough to become serial rapists and then they always fuck something up and we nail them. Too bad it usually takes a handful of victims before they get so lazy that they do though.” “Amen, Officer,” I said.

We mimed clinking beer glasses in the air.

“Listen,” I said. “If you find out anything, would you let me know? I kinda told her parents that I'd keep them posted.”

“Sure. I'll just give you a photocopy of the report,” he said sarcastically.

Chapter 5

A week of beautiful fall weather had passed and it was a bit cooler now. Part-way down Alley 437, my place, I saw someone rifling around my dumpster.

I didn't know him. His skin was that very dark brown that's almost ebony, so dark he blended into the shadows very effectively, especially with that beige camo jacket.

I ran up to stop him. He had my blue tarp in his hands, and I said “That's mine. You can't have it.” Look, you have to have rules on the street, otherwise it would be anarchy.

The guy turned, and froze me with his eyes. Cold, dead eyes. Damn. A new guy. Didn't respect the rules probably because he didn't know the rules.

Without a word he had a blade in his hand, and he pointed it at me. “Ok, ok, you can have it,” I said, backing away.

He folded my tarp up noisily, took several steps back before turning and walking casually down the alley towards Berkeley Street without once looking back. I let him go.

Fucking new guys. You don't fuck with other people's shit. Period.

I knew two things. He would learn; and I would not be the one to teach him.

Damn. Now I had to go find a new plastic tarp. I checked my pockets. Twenty-three bucks and some change. I could buy a new tarp for less than ten. But shit, I shouldn't have had to.

I headed with resignation towards Downtown Crossing to see if I could buy a new tarp somewhere.

Chapter 6

Several days passed. It was a bit cooler in the morning when I picked up the next issue of Loose Change. I sat on a bench near my corner on Copley Plaza reading my first copy, as is my custom, before starting to sell some.

Flipping through the smaller news columns I saw a story that caught my attention. “Search For Missing Super”. Reading through I found that the building superintendent for a condo complex on Myrtle Street disappeared two weeks ago. They gave his name as Robert Batiste. Haitian immigrant. The report was flimsy but mentioned there was no sign of a break-in, and nothing was stolen from the condominiums under his care, so it's not likely he pulled a snatch and grab and took a runner. Police fear he may have met with violence. The public is asked to keep a lookout, and if anyone knows of Mr. Batiste's whereabouts, to call Boston PD tip line.

I kept my eye on the ticket kiosk expecting to see the Heimberg couple. Or perhaps a unicorn or two. Well look, you never know do you? One of those might show.

After getting to the end of the paper I started calling out “Loose Change”, holding the paper out to passersby. I sold five copies in the next hour which isn't bad.

I gave up on the ticket kiosk and wandered up to my alley and walked the length of it to Arlington, into the Public Garden, over the bridge, past the “Make Way For Ducklings” bronze statue installation – a place I visit often – across Charles and into the Common by the baseball field.

I was looking for Old Fernie, usually out crying out the scores, but sign of him I saw none. I asked the Duke, seated on a bench not far from Fernie's usual place, and he said Fernie was in hospital.

“What? What happened?” I asked.

“Fucking new guy got into a tussle with him. He fucking stole

Fernie's cup and its contents.”

“New guy?”

“Yeah, new guy. Camo jacket. Hit Fernie over the head with some

kinda metal rod. Stole his money and dashed, leaving Fernie on the ground bleeding.”

God dammit. Fernie's harmless. Fucking new guy again – doesn't know the rules. You do not fuck with one of us. Not if you ever want to be one of us.

“Turley was close by, so he called in the EMTs and they got Fernie into a truck and off to hospital. Didn't catch the guy.”

“Is he ok?”

“Turley said he's fine. He'll be in for a few days. Under observation in case of concussion.”

That was a relief. I didn't know whether to hunt down New Guy and hand him an education about the rules or to continue to diligently avoid him. For now I figured I'd choose the latter. The more I thought about it, the more I realized my decision was one of self-preservation. That guy looked dense. Like all muscle. I wouldn't like my chances if we ever got into it.

“Thanks,” I told the Duke. “If you see him first, tell him I was concerned about him.”

“Will do.”

I wandered for a bit, hawking the paper here and there. Sold about a dozen copies in a few hours. But I couldn't stop thinking about Rosine and the Heimbergs. What was she doing in behind Beacon Street?

I had to know.

Believe it or not, there are still one or two of those

archaeologically rare things mankind used to call telephone booths on the streets of Boston and I found one that was actually working just half-way down to Clarendon.

I dialed the number on the card Jonas Heimberg gave me and he answered after a couple of rings.

I re-introduced myself and he claimed to remember me.

“Mr. Heimberg, can you tell me what Rosine was doing on Branch Street?”

“Jonas, please. She was meeting Professor Richard Philips. He's an author researching a book on the Rwandan genocide. She was invaluable to him. She had so many first-hand accounts of what happened that they would spend at least two hours a week together. She knew places, names, faces. The book is supposed to come out next year.”

“Anything unusual happen the last time they met?”

“She never made it there on her last visit. I drove her in to Boston Common on my way to a meeting and she insisted on walking up to his condominium by herself. She refused my offer to drop her off any closer. She didn't want me to be late. Now I wish I had insisted. It was only a couple of minutes more.”

“Jonas, where does the professor live?”

Jonas gave me an address for a condominium on Revere Street.

“Jonas, I can't thank you enough. I'll keep in touch.” He thanked me and hung up.

Chapter 7

During a not very busy day I strolled up to Revere Street, found the residence of Professor Richard Philips, checked my appearance in the reflection of a nearby window, walked up one of the deeplyrecessed stairwells and knocked on the door. Not a very short time later the door was opened by a man in his fifties, maybe, white hair, tall, elegant-looking, wearing a very light colored casual suit.

“Sorry,” he said. “I usually donate to the shelters. I don't do donations at the door,” and began to close the door.

“It's about Rosine Uwera,” I said, which made him turn and reopen the door.

“Rosine? Did you know her?”

“Not personally. I know her parents, the Heimbergs.”

“And how can I help you, Mr...” I told him my name. Like most people, he was surprised to know a homeless guy had one. But I have to give him credit – he kept the door open.

“Can you tell me if anything unusual happened the day Rosine was supposed to meet you last?”

“Nothing really. She was scheduled to come by at 6:00pm. I was just cleaning up from dinner when I checked my clock and saw it was nearly 6:20 and she had not yet arrived. She's very punctual, so I got worried. I called the Heimbergs. Jonas was out at a meeting, but Anne said that Jonas had dropped her off on time. I hung up so she could call the police. She was terrified something had happened to Rosine.

“The next day the police found her body not a half-mile from here. News moves fast around here, and I heard about it not long after the police found her.”

I looked around. I saw a police detective Turley once introduced me to, walking up Anderson Street with a partner. Interesting...

“Looks like they're barking up the wrong street,” I said.

“Pardon me?” the Professor said.

“Detectives. Walking up Anderson. I would have thought they'd be interested in talking to you.”

“Oh, I talked to the detectives already. No, those are here to investigate the missing building superintendent over on Myrtle Street.”

“What?”

“Yeah, Haitian immigrant, building manager of a condo on Myrtle, up one street. He disappeared about two weeks ago. Different detectives than those investigating Rosine's murder.”

I thanked the professor and left. I walked down Anderson and onto Myrtle. I saw the detectives go inside the condo. It was pointless standing around, and these guys weren't going to tell me anything, so I headed back to the Common.

Chapter 8

I read and re-read the article about the missing super. “Haitian immigrant?” I thought immediately of New Guy. I wondered why his distinct skin tone seemed somehow familiar. I've met many Haitians at the Cathedral. They form a large part of the congregation. Very dark-skinned, many of them.

Haitian immigrant, has a decent job working in an upscale condo, doing handiwork. No evidence of theft, no reason to suspect he stole stuff and ran. I could think of no obvious reason he'd just leave.

Sure, it could be a coincidence, but he showed up on the Common a couple of weeks after Rosine was found.

So could he have raped and killed Rosine? She would have to have passed within eyesight of Batiste to get to Philips's condo. But something didn't seem to fit. Why risk such a cushy situation? Why wait almost a week to run? What spooked him?

I was making a lot of assumptions. The two incidents might be completely unrelated. Could be that police canvassed the streets around Branch where Rosine's body was found and naturally they would have interviewed Batiste. Maybe this particular Haitian immigrant was illegal? If police began poking around, he might book.

As I pondered this just a mile south of where it all went down, I heard a familiar voice.

“Patriots over the Buccaneers, 5 to 2! Weather's coming! Low pressure system's bringing thunder and heavy rain! Batten down the hatches!”

Fernie!

I hurried my steps until I saw Fernie on his spot on the wall. “Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes!” he said, upon seeing me.

“Fernie, how are you feeling?” I said, sitting next to him. “What the hell happened, man?”

“Some dude jacked me. Stole my cup.”

“Who was it?”

“Dunno. Ain't seen 'im before. Short, stocky, wore a camo jacket. Black guy. Black black. Not like me. Ebony.”

Shit. New guy.

“Yea, I've seen 'im. He stole my blue tarp.”

“Bastard. New guys don't know the rules.”

“I know, right? So what happened?”

“Wish I could tell you. I was just yellin' out the weather when New Guy comes up, pushes me over, grabs my cup. I start yellin' that he oughtn'ta do that and he cursed at me in some African accent. Then he hit me over the head with something.”

“Jesus. You hurt bad?”

“Well it wasn't exactly a kiss on the cheek. Hell yeah, it hurt. Was in the hospital last two days. They were worried about concussion. It was bad.”

“Haitian accent,” I said.

“What?”

“You said 'African accent'. You meant Haitian. Creole.”

“Nope. African. Even spoke some African language.”

“Not Creole?”

“Shit, no. I know some Creole. It's just a thick French.” “African?” I said.

“No doubt.”

Shit.

I had to get to the Public Library.

Chapter 9

I booked some time on one of the computers and went on Google and did some searching. I Googled Rosine Uwera, the Rwandan genocide, all manner of related searches.

Photos of Rosine teaching, lecturing. Not much detailed info. Just some names. Some very blurry photos of the aftermath of the genocide. Bunch of mass graves. Pic of the Don Bosco school.

I found out some disturbing facts including how the UN screwed the pooch at first. And what was really gut-wrenching is that in the months of the genocide nearly 500,000 machetes were imported into the country. Now it didn't say who sold them, but all I could think was

– someone knew what those machetes were going to be used for and sold them anyway. How do people live with themselves? I mean what's the likelihood that there was just so much brush to clear in Rwanda that they suddenly needed 500,000 machetes?

There is a famous mis-quote, often wrongly attributed to Joseph Stalin: “When we hang the capitalists, they will sell us the rope.”

Yay capitalism.

It took hours, but I did find one bad photo of a group of Hutu men with machetes They wore camo coats, mostly, and were smiling. Some holding up beer cans. Laughing. And that one, third from the left. His eyes. His dead eyes.

Under the photo was a list of names. The third from the left read Joseph Charamba. Most notably not Robert Batiste.

Chapter 10

I asked Officer Turley if he'd seen a new guy with a camo jacket around. He didn't know what I was talking about. I walked up the Freedom Trail along the wrought-iron fence. Nothing. I asked anyone I saw if they knew where I could find the new guy, and I didn't get any positive answers. Mostly I got curses about him. “Fucker took my water bottle,” or “Guy stole my stash,” et cetera.

I hoped he hadn't gotten wise and booked town. If he left Boston now, he'd probably melt into some other city and no one would ever be the wiser.

I crossed the Common, went down every path I could. I even went down into the parking complex under the Common. Nothing. Then I crossed Charles Street into the Public Garden where I did the same. I covered every corner.

The light was fading. I crossed Arlington and into 437. Fretting about my tarp, I pulled out the new one I bought and began to unfold it.

Fernie had called for rain.

It was too dark for those fireworks that I saw just around the time

my head exploded.

Chapter 11

When I woke up all I could hear was a loud hissing in my ears. There were two of every street light. Two dumpsters, two tarps. And two gun barrels.

I jumped. Mistake! Holy crap! My head was on fire – the source of the fireworks. Slowly the hissing cleared and I opened my eyes again.

Staring at me from the back end of an ancient, rusted Lebel revolver, were those eyes. Those dead eyes.

“My friend, why are you hunting me?” he said in a very thick African accent. Hard to distinguish some of his vowels. The consonants were all there, but the vowels were so very different.

“Who says I'm hunting you?”

“You've been asking questions about me, my friend. All over the place.”

“I was hoping you'd give me back my tarp if I asked nicely.”

He laughed. “Your tarp. I think not.”

I tried getting up. The Lebel waggled a bit, telling me to stay put. I listened to its advice.

“You've been snooping, my friend. Into things that you have no business in.”

“Like?”

“The girl. That sweet girl. You know I killed her. You and that police officer friend of yours have been looking for me for days. I've seen you talking.

“The police, they came around my building asking questions. At first I was sure I had convinced them I was just a simple Haitian handyman. But days later they came back with more questions. I knew they were onto me. I disappeared into the streets.”

“They're not that smart. They weren't there for you. Or at least they didn't know they were there for you. They had no leads. They think there's a random rapist on the loose. They were just doing routine canvassing of the area.”

“Well, I couldn't trust that. I didn't get to stay alive this long being stupid. And that includes leaving people alive who might make things difficult for me.”

He raised the gun. I knew I was dead, unless I kept him talking.

“So what now, Joseph?”

That stopped him.

“Now that was unexpected. How did you know my real name?”

“I did some research. You're Joseph Charamba. You're no more Haitian than I am. You're from Rwanda, and you're wanted internationally for crimes against humanity. You're a rapist and member of a death squad.”

I had to keep him off-guard.

“You are remarkably well-informed, my friend.”

“I am. I know what happened and I know why. Rosine went to Professor Philips's house on Revere Street twice a week but usually she was dropped off by her parents. This day, however, she was walking up from Beacon when she passed Myrtle Street and the condo you worked for.”

He didn't respond, but he didn't pull the trigger either.

“I know some facts, and I have some guesses. I'd say you were outside. Changing a light bulb, cleaning the drain gutters. Something. And then Rosine walked by and you recognized her.”

“Just as sweet as I remembered all those years ago,” he said, with a sick smile on his face. “You know, I gave the treatment to many, many Tutsi girls, but you never forget your first one, do you my friend?”

I thought I was going to be sick.

“So you arranged a little – reunion.”

“Of course. She recognized me immediately. She was stunned for a moment. How could it be? Then she started screaming and tried to run. But I grabbed her into one of my work rooms where – we relived old memories. And of course I couldn't let her tell anyone I was here.

“I carried her body as far as I could. I placed her next to a stairwell and dropped her plastic hands next to her. We had no use for them, so I removed them earlier in the evening.

“You know, it was easier than you would expect to enter the United States as a good Haitian citizen. We speak fluent French in Rwanda, and while the accent is very different, US immigration officials at the airports aren't exactly versed in the nuances. It was perfect.

“I ran ten thousand miles to get away from Rwanda and the people out to hunt us down after our war, and what happens? One of those filthy Tutsi girls walks up and recognizes me. What are the odds, my friend?”

“Not good, is my guess.” Imagine. Ten thousand miles, and two people end up within feet of each other for years, never meeting until one fateful day.

“And now, my good friend. It is time to move on again. No more chats. I must be going, and so must you.”

He raised his gun once more, and I knew it would be the last time. I had run out of delaying conversation. I had little more to say.

What I heard wasn't a gunshot, however. It was more like the metallic twang of iron on wood. Charamba fell forward on his face revealing Fernie standing over him with a metal pipe and a very satisfied look on his face.

“Fernie, I love you,” I said. Fernie helped me up and I hugged that man like I haven't hugged anyone in many years.

Chapter 12

The next morning, half-way down Public Alley 437, just feet from my dumpster, Officer Turley leaned over the prone form of Joseph Charamba trying to figure out how to untie the ridiculously complex series of knots binding the man's arms and legs so he could snap cuffs on. Charamba's eyes didn't look dead at the moment. Just about now his eyes had the look of a trapped rabbit.

Old Fernie and I were standing nearby. Turley did a cursory search of the body and found a crumpled piece of paper inside some of the ropes, and stood up to read it. It was written hastily in pencil on a scrap of paper probably found blowing around in the alley.

My name is Joseph Charamba. I am from Rwanda, living in the US illegally, posing as a Haitian citizen named Robert Batiste. I am not Haitian. In 1994 I raped, mutilated and murdered countless Tutsi girls in Rwanda, one of whom was Rosine Uwera. I raped her again three weeks ago. I murdered her and dumped her body on Branch Street. Please arrest me and convict me. Please put me away for life. My only regret is that Massachusetts is not a death penalty state. Perhaps I can be returned to Rwanda for more serious punishment for my crimes. Yours in all sincerity, Joseph Charamba, war criminal.

Well, it was uncharacteristically sporting of Mr. Charamba to confess in such detail and then tie himself up in ropes so the police could have an easier time arresting him.

“What the...” Turley looked at us. We just shrugged and stared down at the captive Mr. Charamba, shaking our heads and tut-tutting as if we had never seen anyone so screwed.

I said, “Looks like a solid collar, Officer Turley. You just apprehended an international war criminal wanted for crimes against humanity. This won't hurt your career much.”

“No, not likely,” he said.

A few minutes later backup arrived in the form of another patrol car. Two officers got out and proceeded to cut the ropes from Charamba's body and replaced them with cuffs. They hauled his ass down the alley and into the cruiser.

“Look fellas,” Turley started. “I had nothing to do with this. You guys should take the credit. This case was going nowhere. We had nothing.”

“Well, Officer, I guess we could claim the credit,” I said. “But it wouldn't do much to advance our careers in law enforcement.”

“I guess.”

“And as for having nothing... that's not what you have now...”

Turley looked towards the receding cruiser carrying his war criminal.

He turned and shook Fernie's hand, and then mine. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Thank you.”

Turley walked towards the Arlington end of the alley where his own cruiser was parked.

“Oh, Officer.” I ran to catch him up. “Here's a card for Rosine's parents. Could you please give them a call and tell them how you caught the bastard that did this to their daughter?”

He looked at me for a long time.

“I will,” he said.

I thanked him and went back to my dumpster and invited Fernie to come with me while I picked up more copies of last week's Loose Change.

21 days sober

Chapter 1

It was like someone had flipped the fall switch in Boston. The day before was 82 and sunny. That morning it was 42 and the air was no longer the air of summer. It was crisp and cold. Invigorating.

It was early October, 2001. Many years ago now.

I hadn't seen Old Fernie around, not since he punched the crap out of me and told me to straighten out my life and get on with living. I remember hating him for that. For a while. Then later loving him for it. Today I was 21 days sober and I was still hurting for a drink, a syringe, or something to take this gnawing off my bones. I tried thinking back to the previous year and I swear I couldn't. That's when I hit the street, and that time had been a stoned, drunken blur. I think I came very near death more than once, and I would have welcomed it. I wish I had had the luxury of religion – the luxury to believe that if I were dead I'd be with my family again and we'd spend eternity in one long group hug. But as comforting as a delusion is, it's still a delusion. And I, who had every reason to crave delusion, was tragically rational.

These last 20 days I had begun to see again. I began noticing the people around me, the other bums, the other winos, the other homeless burdens on society. And I had begun noticing myself. For the first time in years, and I hadn't liked what I was seeing.

So today I was looking for Old Fernie because I wanted to tell him he was right. I wanted to tell him I had found an AA meeting and had been attending. But I didn't find Fernie. What I found instead was a couple arguing near the Boston Common Gazebo. They were a bit older than me, and at this time I was in my late thirties.

He looked to be following her, and she was backing away, shouting at him. “Get away from me!” He tried putting something in her hand but she looked at it as if it was diseased and backed even further away. He wore an orange coat suitable for the upcoming fall weather.

“Please, take it,” he said, pleading with the woman.

“No! You go away! I don't know you!” she insisted. Her slightly slurred speech was a sign of something, but I didn't know what. Drunk? High? Sick?

“I don't take things from strangers!” she shouted. “Go away or I'll call the police!”

He put the small bag on the ground near her and stalked away, defeated.

I didn't know if I should intervene, or go ask the woman if she needed help. By the time I decided to go see if she was ok, she had picked up and moved on around the gazebo and I felt that if I had started following her I wouldn't get a much better reception.

I tried to see where Orange Coat had gone, but he was lost over the hill near the Soldiers' and Sailors' Monument. Gone.

Chapter 2

The next day I looked for Fernie again, to no avail. A police cruiser was parked on Tremont just outside the common, a young patrolman sitting inside watching his beat. Being a Sunday, there was a large contingent of homeless people gathered around as the St. Paul's Cathedral parishioners held a service. I wasn't much interested in what they had to say but I was interested in what they had to give. This was a well-meaning group of people, giving up their Sunday to hand out provisions to the homeless. I hadn't seen a single one who was there out of any reason other than real compassion. And I was not above accepting their help.

I stood around waiting for some of that help. It came in the form of a very tasty ham and cheese sandwich on a sourdough bread that was delicious and spot-hitting. It also came in the smiles of the people handing them out. There wasn't a cynic in the bunch.

I stood around chatting with some of the people I'd come to recognize over the last year, some I'd almost come to know. But since I dropped the drugs and booze some of their luster had been lost, and I'd already begun looking at them as those friends in college you don't like to admit you ever knew.

I looked for the woman I had seen earlier and sure enough she was there, standing next to a somewhat younger man. There was a strange look on her face, almost as if she were a teenager on a first date. You see some weird things out here...

He moved closer and she pushed him, yelling, “If my Thomas knew what you were doing!” She ran back into the Common. Thomas? Could Thomas have been the man in the orange coat I saw earlier?

The congregation slowly broke up and we all kind of dissolved back into the alleys and infrastructure of old historic Boston.

Chapter 3

It must have been around two o'clock that same sunny, cool afternoon when I decided to find out what was wrong with that woman, and why she was being stalked by two different men. I know, it was none of my damned business, but I had an instinct. Something wasn't right.

She was sitting on the edge of the Gazebo where I had seen her earlier that morning. She was chewing down on one of the sandwiches handed out by the Cathedral. She was singing to herself.

One of the main reasons people are homeless is mental illness. Family gets fed up, funding runs out, these people get tossed to the street to fend for themselves. Welcome to the world.

I'd been thinking thoughts like that a lot in the past month. On that day, just shy of a month ago, I looked up at a sky that had not one single jet plane contrail tracing across its vast blueness. There was not a single roar of a jet engine. By noon every plane in the sky over the United States and Canada had been forced to land at their nearest airports, some of which could barely shoulder the burden, but they did anyway. And that vast sky had been empty for the first time in my lifetime.

After taking such a blow it seemed to me people were looking inward and wondering just what we were doing to ourselves and each other in this society. And I have wondered ever since.

How can a society leave a woman like this, with obvious mental problems, to fend for herself? I had to wonder how long she'd done exactly that. She was older than I was and still alive, obviously. She was thin, had what looked to be prematurely gray hair, and had probably been quite attractive not that many years ago. But the last few years had wiped most of that beauty from her face. She was not in a great mental state, and while I had no idea of her physical condition, it didn't look good.

I was trying to get up the courage to approach her and talk to her when the man in the orange coat from this morning came around the Gazebo and stood near her.

“Aggie,” he said. “Aggie, I have some food for you.” The man was trying to hand her one of the sandwiches he had gotten from the congregation earlier.

“You go away! I told you! I don't know you!” She stood up defensively.

“But Aggie!”

“How do you know my name? I don't know you! You just wait

until my Thomas comes home! He'll give you such a punch in the face!”

She ran off, as fast as she could with a limp, and the man stood there, slowly lowering the arm that had been holding the sandwich out. He soon turned and walked back over the hill by the monument again.

So this wasn't Thomas either, then? Who was Thomas?

Chapter 4

I followed Aggie into the Public Garden, now filled with good citizens wandering around on this gorgeous day. I found her near the Make Way for Duckling statues trying to feed the baby ducks.

The bronze ones.

“Here, ducky...” she said, dropping crumbs of left-over bread on the ground. She seemed puzzled they weren't eating. “Had enough today, have you? Enough people feeding the ducks, I guess.” She said this with a smile and a child-like lilt in her voice. I'm not sure what age she thought she was.

She sat on the bench across from the ducklings, admiring them, seeing them not as statues at all. Mental illness can be ugly to watch.

I kept my distance as the second man, the one who stood next to her across from the Cathedral, came by and sat next to her. She acted like she knew him.

“Arthur!” she said, patting the bench next to her. He sat eagerly and they talked for a while, their voices lower now so I couldn't hear them. Weird, I thought. It was like watching a young girl on a first date. He, on the other hand, clearly was living in reality. He was calling her by name too. That much I could hear. He looked to be after something else.

What? We're human too you know. You think because we're homeless we don't get it on occasionally? Well, we do. Live with it.

Not long after, Orange Coat walked up the cobble pathway next to the ducklings and saw Aggie sitting with Arthur.

“You get away from her you bastard!” He ran at Arthur, pushing him off the bench. Arthur landed with a slick thud and rolled before he got up and faced his attacker.

Aggie was defensive now. She stood between Arthur and Orange Coat. “You go away! I keep telling you I don't know you! My Thomas, he'd deal with you if he knew you were following me! You're always following me! Go away!” she screamed. She put her hands to her ears and issued a long squeal that hurt my ears, even from my distant vantage point.

Orange Coat pleaded with her. “Aggie! You don't know what you're saying! Let me help you!” Through her continued squealing he turned and walked briskly away to the north, turning towards the Charles Street entrance of the Public Garden and crossed the street into the Common.

Arthur got up and stumbled away as well, brushing the muck off his clothes.

I had seen enough and tried to approach Aggie. Shaking, she had resumed her seat on the bench across from the ducklings.

“Excuse me,” I said, softly, hopefully disarmingly. “Are you alright?”

Aggie glanced at me, then away, crossing her arms in obvious frustration. “Those men won't go away. They aren't being very respectful of my Thomas! My lovely Thomas. He'd rescue me.”

“Aggie,” I said, softly. “Who is Thomas?”

She looked at me as if she just realized she didn't know me. “Thomas is my husband! For twenty years! He looks after me!”

Oh boy. I hadn't seen her with anyone other than these two men, or at least not that I could recall. Yet clearly she thought she was married to a man named Thomas. She probably was, or had been. And if she was alone out here, could he have died? Could she simply be remembering Thomas in a demented haze?

I didn't know how to ask her what her mental problem was. I really couldn't put it in words she would likely understand.

“And who are you?” she asked, suddenly. “I don't remember you.”

I told her my name. She didn't recognize it, nor should she. “I'm new here. I was just worried for you. I wanted to make sure you're ok.”

“Of course I'll be ok, when my Thomas comes home,” she said. “He's working, you know. He goes off in the morning and he comes home in the evening. We have such a good life,” she said, smiling broadly. Again, that face that must have been beautiful not that long ago, revealed itself briefly. “Until he comes home, I tend our garden,” she said, waving her arms around her.

“Your garden?”

“Yes, isn't it beautiful?”

I looked around the Public Garden.

“Sometimes we get ducks, especially in the fall,” she said, pointing to the bronze sculptures.

“Yes, I can see,” I said.

“I feed them, you know.”

“Yes, that's very nice of you.”

“But don't worry. It's almost five. My Thomas will be home any minute. In fact you should go, because Thomas can be a jealous man! I sure wouldn't want to be you if my Thomas caught you chatting me up on a sunny day in our garden. No sir.”

“Ok,” I said, slowly. “Can I come by and talk to you in your garden another time?”

“You may. As long as you do so before my Thomas comes home. Otherwise he'd be angry!”

I got up and walked back to the Common.

Chapter 5

I found Old Fernie a few days later. A beautiful Sunday. He was sitting on a low wall on the main path, his salt-and-pepper afro blowing in this new fall wind. He was wearing an old Viet Nam era drab army jacket he probably bought at an Army Surplus store. He was sitting with a torn Dunkin Donuts cup in front of him. His usual haunt.

“Patriots down by 5 in Miami!” he yelled in a rich baritone voice that I'm sure in another life could have put him on a stage somewhere. He usually carried a small radio with him tuned to live broadcasts of the game, calling out the plays as they happened like a town crier.

“Fernie!” I yelled as I approached.

“Well lookie here,” he said, calling me by name. “How the hell are ya?” He was examining me like a patient.

“I'm good,” I lied. I was itching, truth to tell. I needed, and I knew I wasn't ever going there again.

“You look good,” he lied in return.

We shot the shit for a while. He was telling me about the Patriots game, not that I was overly interested, but I was interested in any time I could spend with Fernie right now. He had pounded me pretty hard a few weeks back, got me to get my shit together, and for that I would one day be grateful, I knew. But for now it was still a bit awkward between us.

“Fernie, do you know a woman,” I began. I described her in detail. Her overcoat, her graying, fly-away hair, her confused look.

“Yeah, I know her. Aggie Frederick. Poor woman. She's not well.”

“So I gathered. What can you tell me about her?”

“Not much. She and her husband been on the street for about a year now. You seen 'em around too, not that you'd have noticed, likely.”

I nodded. “Probably not. You said husband?”

“Yeah, they're married. They were inseparable when they first come around. They kinda kept themselves to themselves so I never really got to know them well. Health problems, I heard. Medical bills. She was in some hospital or other. Money ran out, he lost his job, insurance refused to keep paying, bam, they're on the streets. Damn shame. That woman needs help.”

“No shit,” I said.

“Alzheimer's is the prevailing theory.”

“Alzheimer's? Really?”

“So I hear. Look, why you askin' about her?” Fernie looked at me strangely.

“Well I've kinda been following her.”

“Wow. I'd never'a pegged you as a sicko stalker of disadvantaged older ladies.”

“Funny... I'm a bit worried. She's being stalked for real. By two men. One's named Arthur...”

“Arthur, yeah, I know him. Used to be a doctor somewhere down south. We call him Arthur Bones. Not sure his real last name. Botched some surgery or other, ended up killing a young mother on the table. Found out he'd been drinking and that's all she wrote for him. Tried reviving his practice in Boston, that didn't take the second word got out, and now he's on the street.”

“He's been cozying up to her.”

“Not surprised.”

“There's this other man. He keeps offering her stuff. Bags. Some food. She refuses him and keeps telling him her husband would kick the crap out of him if he saw him stalking her, that sort of thing.”

“What's he look like?” Fernie asked.

I described the man. Fernie lowered his head and shook it slowly.

“Fucking Alzheimer's,” he said. “My uncle died of it. He'd forget some members of the family but remembered the others perfectly. Forgot his whole family before the end. Man, just fuckin' kill me if you ever find out I get diagnosed with Alzheimer's, ok? Promise me.”

I did.

“So what about this stalker?”

“That ain't no stalker. That's her husband, Thomas.”

Shit.

“Shut up!” Fernie shouted, putting his hand up to me. He leaned into his radio. “Jesus. It's started.”

“What's started?”

“The President just announced first strikes against Al Qaeda and the Taliban in Afghanistan!”

Jesus. It's started.

Bright and early the next morning I could barely believe what Fernie had told me. We were officially at war with Afghanistan. And with that country's history of fighting off invasion, including the powerful Soviet Union, I knew this wasn't going to end well for us, or quickly.

I went looking for Thomas as soon as the sun allowed. I felt I had to apologize for interfering, or to offer assistance, something. Not sure what I could do. Imagine being married to a woman and having her push you away because her husband will kick the crap out of you.

Alzheimer's is devastating. It ravages the brain. Turns it into Swiss cheese. You slowly lose chunks of your life, and eventually, inevitably, the rest of it.

One thing it usually leaves for last is the older memories. So you can remember your husband – but as he was twenty years ago, not as he is today. It's heart-breaking.

I didn't find Thomas after looking all over the Common. I didn't see any of them, Thomas, Aggie, or Arthur.

That is, until I walked up to the Soldiers and Sailors Monument.

The Solders' and Sailors' Monument in Boston Common is a tall, stone pillar with a statue at the top crowned by thirteen stars, holding an American flag, a laurel wreath and a sword. America the Beautiful! And today, at her base, covered in blood: the body of Arthur Bones!

I ran down the hill to Tremont Street hoping that the new beat cop was on duty this early. He was. I yelled to him to come quickly and ran back up the hill. He scrambled out of his car and ran up to the top of the hill where I was standing. Alerted by the commotion, Old Fernie ambled up as well.

I pointed, shaking, to the body at the base of the pillar. I had to kneel down and catch my breath before I fell over.

“Nobody moves,” the cop said. He bent down to check the body. He put two fingers on Arthur Bones's neck and waited. He stood up, wiped his fingers on his coat and pushed the talk button on his radio.

“Officer Turley, Boston Common, requesting a bus at the Soldiers' Monument on the Common! Body of a male, approximately forty, multiple stab wounds. No need to hurry. We need to set up a perimeter and get Homicide up here pronto.”

That was how I first met Officer Turley.

Everything he had asked for had arrived. A Coroner's van took Arthur Bones's body away, while we stood around being questioned by detectives and uniformed officers. Turley got me.

“Did you know the victim?”

“I seen him around, but I didn't know him.”

“What were you doing up here this early?”

“This is kinda where I live,” I said, gesturing all around me. “So you just happened by?”

“Just out for an early morning constitutional.”

“Look, just be straight with the answers, please. This is a murder investigation.”

“Sure. Sorry.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm the victim?”

“No, not really.”

“Not really?”

“No,” I said, more assertively.

“Ok, and your name?”

I gave him my name. “No address at present. I suppose that means you can take me in for vagrancy.”

“Leave it. I'm not here about you. Look, I may want to question you again. Where can I find you? Be specific, please.”

I said, “If I'm not somewhere on the main strip of the Common, you may find me in Public Alley 437. Dumpster about half-way up.” That's where I kept a blue plastic tarp to keep the rain off at night.

“Thank you.” He turned away, writing further notes in his notebook.

Fernie walked up to me. “You didn't mention Thomas, then?” he whispered.

“No. Not yet. Perhaps it'll come to me as a repressed memory later, if I need it.”

“You're too good, my man,” he said and walked back down the hill to his wall.

Chapter 8

With the excitement over I continued looking for Thomas and Aggie. I suspected Thomas had had another run-in with Arthur Bones. Maybe things had gotten out of hand and Thomas had knifed Arthur. Think about it for a moment. Your wife no longer remembers you, and she's taking a shine to someone like Arthur Bones, a drunk who had killed a young mother on the operating table. I think I'd be out for blood, myself.

They weren't at the Gazebo, so I looked around the rest of the Common. Then I crossed Charles Street into the Public Garden. The mother duck and her ducklings hadn't seen them either so I left the Gardens and walked back up Tremont to the Cathedral, pausing for a rest at the Park Street T-Station buildings. Officer Turley was standing near his car talking to more of the homeless, trying to find anyone who knew anything about Arthur Bones's brutal murder.

I had had second thoughts about keeping what I knew about Thomas to myself so I aimed myself towards Turley's cruiser. As I was walking Aggie came out from around the Inbound T-Station entrance crying “Murder! Murder!” She was coated in blood and held a bloody knife in one hand. She stumbled towards the police car and collapsed in a red-stained heap on the pavement.

The people standing around issued a collective gasp. Turley dropped his notepad and ran towards Aggie, shouting into his radio. He knelt by her sobbing body and just kept a hand on her, lest she rise up and make a break for it.

Minutes later another cruiser came to a halt next to us and a paramedic truck, its sirens slowing, pulled up and the techs got to work getting Aggie onto a stretcher and into the van.

“Bag and tag everything!” Turley shouted. “She's evidence! Everything she's wearing. Everything she's carrying. Evidence!” Turley was on the radio to detectives within seconds, recounting what had happened.

Turley eyed me as I slunk back into the Common. Now I really had to find Thomas.

Chapter 9

It took more than a day to find Thomas. He was in different clothes, a coat that didn't make him look like a traffic cone, his shoes shiny, he even looked showered. These are things us homeless people can get access to if we know the right shelters and charitable institutions. My discerning nose told me I was a bit overdue for a good scrubbing myself.

Thomas was sitting sullenly, head down. I imagine someone told him what had gone down with Arthur Bones, and with Aggie. “Thomas?” I said, tentatively.

“What do you want?”

I told him my name. “I saw you and your wife the other day. She

acted as if she didn't know you.”

“She didn't. She doesn't. Not anymore.”

“I know she has Alzheimer's.”

“So? Who are you anyway?”

“Let's just say I'm a friend. I know people who have been through

Alzheimer's. My friend's uncle went that way. It was brutal. I can't imagine what you've been going through.”

My sympathetic voice gradually got Thomas to lower his guard and he opened up to me.

“Aggie and I have been married a long time,” he said. “I had her in care for a while, until my insurance ran out. I lost my job, the money ran out, and the hospital just put her back out into my care. No money, we lost the house, had nowhere to go, but I was damned if I was going to let her go it alone. I've been out here fending for the both of us, feeding us, keeping us safe.

“And then, over the past few months, she just stopped remembering me.”

“I saw you handing her food, and she just yelled at you to go away. Said her Thomas wouldn't approve. You're her Thomas and she didn't even remember you. That has to be rough. And then this Arthur guy shows up.”

“Yeah. Fucker thought he could take advantage. But I was never far. I saw what he was up to and made sure I was there to put a stop to it. I had words with him. I told him to leave my Aggie alone. He said that she wasn't mine anymore – that she couldn't even remember me, and so she was fair game. Bastard! What kind of a sicko tries it on with someone that far gone in her mind?”

I nodded agreement.

“Poor Aggie,” he said. “I suppose Arthur tried to force himself on her and she lashed out. I didn't know she was carrying a knife or I'd have been more careful myself. What do you think will happen to her now? I mean it would be self defense, right?”

“Yeah, most likely.”

“Of course it was! She was probably being attacked!” At this point tears formed in his eyes and he began sobbing. I let him go for a while. The man'd been through hell. He deserved a break-down.

A few minutes later he said, “I love that woman. With all of my heart. Even if she doesn't remember me. What'll happen to her now?”

I considered.

“Well, I'm guessing they have enough evidence to convict a regular person for murder. But look, she's obviously not in her right mind. Even the most inexperienced public defender will see she never gets to trial on grounds of mental incapacity. No one can argue against that. She'll likely be institutionalized until she can be declared fit to stand trial, and we both know that's never going to happen.”

“But what happens if they force her to trial?”

“They won't.”

“Yeah, but I don't know that for certain! I need to know. And they won't let me see her or talk to her. We don't have any paperwork. We don't have our marriage license. They'll have to do some computer searches just to confirm we are who we say we are, and they're not about to let just anyone in to see her. I have to know. Is she going to be ok?”

“Look, I can ask Officer Turley, the cop who patrols the Common. He's likely to know.”

“I'd appreciate that,” he said quietly. I left him alone with his thoughts, glad I didn't have to be him.

Chapter 10

When I next saw Turley's car on Tremont I approached. He remembered me from the crime scene so he was happy enough to talk to me again. He didn't seem to have the same prejudices about the homeless that a lot of cops I've dealt with had.

“So what's going to happen to her?”

“Mrs. Frederick?”

“Aggie, yes.”

“She was arraigned, the judge agreed she presented as not fit to

stand trial and ordered a psych evaluation. Doctor came back with an official diagnosis of severe dementia due to advanced Alzheimer's. She's been taken to a care facility. She'll be fine. They're taking good care of her. Not to mention there's plenty of eyewitness testimony to support a self-defense plea if it ever became necessary. Several people say this Arthur Bones was stalking her. But it won't come to that.”

“So, what, she's getting the care she needs now when before, the insurance companies and the hospitals just chucked her?”

“Looks like.”

“For how long? I mean will they keep her in care?”

“Well, her prognosis isn't good. It's advanced Alzheimer's. She's never going to recover. She has probably less than a year to live. And she'll spend that year getting good care.”

“So that's good at least,” I said.

Turley agreed, solemnly.

Chapter 11

I was strolling down the central path on the Common towards where Old Fernie had set up again, yelling out the weather and other news. He was calling out news from Afghanistan as well as the sports scores. His ear was glued to his small radio.

“Sup, my man?” he said.

“All's good, my man,” I replied. Things were getting less awkward between us.

“Any news on Aggie and Thomas?” he asked.

“Nothin' on the radio?”

“You kiddin'. What radio station's gonna report on the murder of a street bum?”

I hated to admit it, but he was probably right.

So I said, “It looks like Aggie Frederick is in care, and Thomas won't have to worry anymore.”

“That's some kind of relief anyway. He's been taking care of her since they got to the streets. Lately, though, she wasn't letting him. She pushed away his offers of food, his attempts to make sure she was safe. She completely shut him out. It's gotten worse over the last couple of weeks.

“I have no idea what I'd do if I had a sick wife to take care of, no money, and we was on the street. Hard enough to take care of yourself, know what I mean? Well, yeah, I know you do.”

I knew what Old Fernie was talking about. What would I do if I found myself taking care of a sick wife, and had a hard enough time fending just for myself? I was having a hard enough time as it was, so much so I hadn't even changed my clothes in over a week.

Of course I'm clever. I'd probably arrange...

Oh shit.

I had to find Thomas Frederick. Now.

Chapter 12

I found Thomas Frederick at the Common Gazebo as expected. He was eager to find out what I knew.

“I checked with Turley. He says she's been taken into care and will be cared for until... for as long as she lives.”

“Oh, thank god...” he said, breaking down again. He clearly loved his wife. I could see the relief in his shaking shoulders.

“Looks like your worries are over. You can relax now.”

“Thank god. Now I know she's safely in care, I think I can finally breathe again.”

“To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus.”

“Huh?”

“Macbeth.” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Macbeth. Murdering king of Scotland. From the play by Shakespeare.”

“Yes, I know the play. Aggie and I saw it once in New York.”

“You were worried because you weren't sure your plan would work. But now that you know, you can stand down. You are not only thus, but safely thus. Your plan was flawless.”

“Plan?”

“Nice clothes.”

“Yes, I got them a few days ago at the shelter.”

“So soon after the traumatic arrest of your wife on murder charges? New clothes were a priority?”

“Well, I really needed...”

“You needed to get rid of the blood evidence.”

He stopped, his mouth open.

“Well, you would have had to have been covered in blood. Even more than Aggie, since you would have gotten the original spray from the knife wounds you inflicted.”

He looked at me, his eyes narrowing. His mouth slowly closed.

I continued. “So I get the plan. You've cared for Aggie since the first onset of this disease, and you were secure, had a home, money and insurance. And over the next few years it all fell apart. The job, the insurance, her health, the hospital, tossed to the street. How could you get her the care she needed now? You could barely care for yourself.”

He remained silent.

“But she got worse. Worse than you could imagine. You thought she would always need you to care for her, but in the last few weeks she wouldn't even let you because she didn't even recognize you. She thought you were some stranger, a stalker.

“So you formulated the perfect plan. Get her arrested for a crime that would force the system to place her in a mental health facility where you knew she would receive care, probably better care than she ever had.

“But why murder? Why murder Arthur Bones? That part was pure jealousy, wasn't it?”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“She was taking a shine to him, and forgetting all about you. And you couldn't handle that. So you killed him. And you hugged her, probably one last time, and slipped the knife into her overcoat pocket. She probably didn't even know you were there. Hell, she probably didn't know she was there.

“But in the morning when she woke up and discovered a bloody knife in her pocket, and the blood all over herself, she did what her instinct told her to do – these things that form in the brain at such a young age that even Alzheimer's can't erase them. She went looking for a police officer, and in doing so she cemented her guilt in the eyes of the law.”

“Do you know what it's like to see your wife just fade out like this and not be able to take care of her anymore?”

I nodded real understanding. “But you committed a murder, Thomas. An innocent man died. Someone really does have to go down for that.”

“Ok, so what are you going to do? Turn me in?”

“I have to.”

“You know what'll happen then? They'll release Aggie. She'd be proven innocent. They'd put her right back out here, and know what the difference will be? She wouldn't have me to care for her anymore. She'd be helpless. Probably be dead in a week.

“You look like a decent guy. You don't want that on your conscience. Besides, the murder is solved now. And Aggie's not even likely to know why she is where she is, but she'll have three square meals a day and all the medication she needs and a soft, comfortable bed. And in a year or so she'll be gone. What good can come of turning me in except to doom an innocent woman to … this hell?” Dammit.

He had hit all the right buttons. He was right. In all but one thing. “Once a murderer...” I said.

“You won't have to worry about that,” he said. “I did what I set out to do. You won't ever have to worry about me committing another crime again.” He sounded final on the matter. And curse me but I believed him.

“So what are you going to do? Her life is in your hands.”

“I'll tell you what I'm going to do,” I said, and got up and walked away. I shouted over my shoulder, “As soon as I know.”

Chapter 13

“Patriots take San Diego 29-26 right here at home!” Fernie yelled in a deep voice, loud enough for people to hear for almost as far around as you could see.

Some days had passed, and it was Sunday again and I sat with Fernie on the low wall along the walkway of the Common. Fernie never sits on the benches. He leaves them for the couples walking by. Fernie would call out the current temperature and forecast for the afternoon weather. People were amused by Fernie's news and fed his cup aplenty, walking away smiling.

“So, my man, what happens next?” he asked as I recounted what had happened since we'd last spoken.

“I don't know what happens next,” I said. “I know Aggie's in care and if I ever let the police know what really happened she'd be out on her ass again, doomed to wither and die on the cold winter streets of Boston.”

“Man, ain't that some story,” he said, shaking his head.

At this point a well-dressed man in a lengthy duffel coat and white gloves sauntered by saying “Loose Change” to any tourist he encountered. He sold several of the small, folded newspapers just as he went past us.

“Concierge!” Fernie said.

“Fernie!” the man said. He looked like a hotel concierge. An elderly black man, not terribly tall, would not have been out of place hailing cabs outside the Ritz.

“That the latest issue?” Fernie asked.

“Hot off the presses, my man.”

“I'll take one,” Fernie said, proffering a buck from his cup.

“Free for you, my man,” the Concierge said. “You know that. Free for my good friends.”

“I thank you, my man,” Fernie said.

The Concierge smiled and walked happily along, shouting, “Loose Change!”

I had a glance at the cover and something caught my eye. I snatched the paper rudely from Fernie's hand and read one of the column headlines.

Homeless Man Found Dead

At first I thought it was just a newspaper being slow about reporting the death of Arthur Bones, but I read more. The man was found in the gazebo on the Common in the very early hours of Saturday

– yesterday - dead by his own hand. He was found clutching a photograph of a young couple on their wedding day. The photograph was rolled up in a tube and clutched tightly in his fist. He had apparently overdosed on pain killers. Probably ones he had left over from treating his wife's pain, I thought.

I sat there, stunned. Poor Thomas...

Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it...

3115 days sober

Chapter 1

I walked into the Stanley Day Center that Tuesday in March to chaos. Someone was shouting “Call 911!” At least two people were kneeling over a blood-covered body. Others were holding down a young man who was screaming and flailing like he was a crazy man. There was so much blood everywhere I froze in mid-stride, just staring.

Blood. Wine. It looks the same when it's fresh.

The sound of screaming began to recede to a white hissing noise as I just slumped down to the floor in order to make way for the uniformed Boston PD officers who rushed in past me from behind, guns drawn. I barely saw them take charge of the youth who until now was being frantically restrained by two male volunteers. The officers rolled him on his chest and cuffed him, one shouting into the mic strapped to his shoulder.

Seconds later paramedics rushed past me from behind and began working on the girl on the floor.

Purple sweater, gray jeans, thin, short dark hair, young. Dammit. Marnie.

That was it for me.

Chapter 2

Embarrassing to have to be revived by paramedics when they had more important things to do. The one called Halloran I knew around. He was checking me over, but now I was alert and he could see I wasn't going to need his help today. The coroner must have already removed the body. All that was left was an uneven carpet of blood on the floor and the thick smell of rusted iron in the rain.

Marnie's blood.

“You ok?” Halloran said.

I blinked, looked around. The crime unit team were scouring the

place, photographing everything, the blood smeared on the floor, the splatters all over the walls and ceiling, the knife embedded into one wall.

“Marnie!” I shouted.

“Sorry...” Halloran said. “Was she a friend of yours?” I looked in his eyes, understanding slowly.

“Multiple stab wounds. There wasn't anything we could do,” he

said, sympathetically. “Looks like you just suffered a shock. You'll be ok. Did you witness the attack?”

“No, I got here just after, I guess. They'd already grabbed the kid.”

“Ok, look, I gotta move, but the officers need to take witness statements. Sit here for a few minutes until you're steady. They'll come to you.”

I sat there, not sure any of this was real.

I looked towards the several uniformed officers who had shown up during my brief absence. No one I recognized.

One approached me when he saw the EMT stand, give him a thumbs-up and leave.

“Sir, can you tell me your name?”

Numbly, I gave it.

“I'm Officer Kendall. Sir, I need to ask you some questions about what you saw. Can we do that?”

“Sure,” I said unsteadily.

He helped me to my feet and indicated a side room which had some chairs and a table. A group therapy room I'd been in more than once. I was supposed to have an AA meeting in here tonight.

We sat. He took out a notepad and mechanical pencil, clicking the top twice.

“Did you witness the attack?”

I shook my head slowly. Words lagged behind the action. “Nope. I came in and it was... it was... my god... Marnie.”

He raised his head sharply.

“You knew the victim?” he asked.

“Marnie Steward. She's a volunteer from BU. Grad student. Doing a psych degree, wants to help the homeless.” I said.

“And how well did you know Ms. Steward,” he asked.

“She's an assistant case worker. She helped with the patients and the admin. As a student she was always supervised by a superior. She wasn't directly involved with me, but we were friendly.”

“Friendly?”

“Marnie was that. Friendly. She was young, idealistic. Still had that fresh-out-of-school smell,” I said.

It just struck me that Marnie was younger than my Lisa would have been...

“Was she as friendly to everyone?” he asked.

“Yeah, equal opportunity optimist,” I said. “The kind of kid who cares. You mattered to her, and that mattered to me.

“First day she met me I was sitting at the Pine Tree Inn having a meal at one of the tables. She sat directly opposite me and introduced herself. Late last year some time. I knew she wasn't one of those fly-byThanksgiving helpers who show up that one day thinking they did their part, cause it was at least a week later.

“She saw that I had eczema on my hand and took it in both of hers without as much as asking and turned it over. Said she had something for it that I could try. She said that she had it too when she was younger, and this stuff cleared it right up mostly. Kept a tube on her and she gave it to me.

“That's how she is. No pretense. Just a caring person. The stuff worked too.”

Kendall wrote.

“She's dead?” I asked, just to be sure.

“I'm sorry.”

We sat in silence for a moment or two.

“Did you know the attacker?”

I wasn't sure who he meant at first. I just remembered seeing flailing limbs. But then recognition set in.

“I see him around when I come in for AA meetings. Creepy kid. Young. Younger than Marnie. Teen, I think. I see him sometimes with Miko and his skateboarders up at the Frog Pond. But I haven't seen him here this early. He shouldn't have been here yet. He usually comes in at seven when evening therapy sessions start. Marnie had nothing to do with him.

“Marnie shouldn't have been here either. She's usually gone before six. From the days I come anyway... things may have changed. I only come in once a month or so. Me, I avoid that kid. He has these eyes. Like when he looks at you he sees you as already dead.”

The officer wrote more.

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Nothing. Just know him around. Enough to stay away if I can. What the hell was Marnie doing here?”

“We're trying to determine that, sir.”

After answering a few more questions it was clear to Kendall that I had told him all I knew, so he left me sitting at the table with dried tears on my face.

Chapter 3

I didn't stay around the Day Center long after the police left. I walked back along Huntington Avenue and back into Boston's historic section. I couldn't help think about Marnie and how her life had been all in front of her just hours ago, and now it was all behind her.

Cause of some kid who shouldn't have been out on the street, not by what I saw of him. Homeless kid. Hung around Tremont and Downtown Crossing. Didn't venture into the Common much, so I didn't see him often which was ok by me.

Mentally unstable, I guessed. But I didn't think he was this mentally unstable. Like so many homeless, the system doesn't work and he is failed at every level. I knew he was seeing Doctor Parmal though. Someone was trying.

Not hard enough.

Why was he early? Why was she late? Their paths weren't supposed to cross.

Chapter 4

“Officer Turley,” I said into the window of a Boston PD cruiser parked outside the Common the next morning.

“How goes?” he responded, jovially. Turley was a serious police officer, but he always had time for the homeless. “Need anything? I got water bottles.” He sometimes just handed out water bottles, filled fresh from his own tap. Especially on warm days. Dehydration was a serious issue with the homeless. As a show he wasn't lying he got out of his cruiser, opened the trunk and fetched one of the bottles, cracked the cap and drank deep, offering me one. I opened it and drank as well. Hot day.

“I was there yesterday. At the Day Center,” I said.

He did a spit take, closing the bottle off with the screw cap.

“Really? What the hell happened?”

“Got there just after it happened. Like by a minute.”

“Shit. You ok?”

“Yeah, I'll be ok. But the victim was a friend.”

“Marnie Steward.”

“Yeah.”

“Got caught up on it at briefing this morning,” he said.

“So you know about it?”

“A little.”

“What was the kid's deal?”

“Well, I probably can't tell you everything, but he was deeply disturbed. Been in and out of trouble. He's a messed up kid. Court ordered therapy at the Day Center. Supposed to keep him out of prison for breaking and entering. A plea bargain. First conviction.”

“Known to be violent?” I asked.

“From outbursts in court, yeah. No priors for violent crime other than the one B&E.”

“I don't even know the kid's name.”

“Trevor Billings. Lived in Dorchester with his sister until last year.”

“Sister got a name?”

“Sharon, I think.”

“Wow. When you get briefed,” I started.

“...we get briefed,” he finished for me.

Dorchester. Fuck. I hate Dorchester.

Chapter 5

I was walking down Draper Street in Dorchester looking for a particular house. Did some searching at the Boston Public Library computers and found a Sharon Billings on Draper. Isn't the internet wonderful? I walked right up to her house, right to her door and rang the bell.

I waited. Nothing. No sign of habitation. The house was run down, hinge off the front screen door, screen torn, windows filthy, cracked. The house hadn't been painted in years and was long overdue.

“She ain’t' here.”

I turned. An elderly woman was walking past on faulty hips. “Sorry?” I prompted.

“Sharon ain't here. She workin'.”

“Ah. Are you a neighbor?”

“Been livin' here since I was a kid,” said the woman. “That's a

long spell, let me tell you.”

“Any idea when she'll be back?”

“You a collections worker? Or a social worker?”

“Do I look like one?” I smiled.

She smiled back. “Not as I can tell,” she laughed.

Clearly I wasn't anyone official, not with my appearance. Hey, I

try, but sometimes it's hard out here on the street. At least I was relatively clean-shaven... as of two days ago.

“She be back after midnight. She work in a bar a few streets over.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure, handsome,” she said, her eye twinkling as she creaked away persistently on her hips.

Handsome. Me?

“I'm looking for her brother, actually.”

She stopped and turned.

“Poor kid. Poor kid,” she repeated. “Poor Trevor. Never had much of a chance, that one.”

“Oh?”

I knew a woman who liked to tell a story when I met one, and this woman was bursting at the seams.

“Yeah, their daddy went off before he was born. She was five I guess. He just disappeared one day. Their mother wasn't much for homin'. She was always out late herself. Left Sharon alone a lot of the time. I used to look in on her, make sure she was ok, fed, stuff like that.

“But when she turned eighteen and the boy was only twelve that woman went off herself. Just disappeared like her old man. Left Sharon with Trevor to look after and she couldn't even look after herself.”

“And Sharon had to play mother to Trevor?”

“Well, you might say that, but she wasn't right either. Had a hard time copin' with herself, let alone her brother. But he came to see her as his only mom and that was that.

“Social workers showed up, sure, but as she was family, and said they were doin' fine they left it at that.

“She was legal age, kid was alive and fed. Not much they could do. Puttin' him in the system when he had adult family sounded like a bad idea. Wish they would'a. He might have had a better shot.”

I stood there with the lady, trying not to look voracious for information. Turns out it wouldn't have mattered. She was a talker. And she went on...

Chapter 6

Doctor Parmal recognized me when I knocked on her office door. In her late forties like me, she was a lovely woman of Indian descent with that perfect mocha skin you only see in magazines after hours of Photoshopping. Hers was natural. She had a lilting accent that always calmed me.

“What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to know more about the kid – Trevor Billings.” “Oh, you know I can't tell you anything about him. Doctor-patient

confidentiality.”

“Well what about his sister?”

“Sorry... related to his case. I can't really talk about her. All I can

say is he was regular with his appointments and I think we were seeing real progress.”

“Until yesterday.”

“Until yesterday, yes. I'm as shocked as anyone.”

“And what about Marnie.”

“Poor, poor girl. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What a tragic loss.”

“Why was she at the wrong place at the wrong time? I know she wasn't usually here after six. She was here unsupervised. Some volunteers and case workers were coming in at six thirty to prep for their seven o-clocks when they walked in on the attack.”

“I know. She wasn't supposed to be here alone. Policy. I don't know why she was.”

I thanked Doctor Parmal. She smiled at me and closed her office door as I left.

I walked down the hall, passing an open door. “Hold up,” a voice said.

I stopped and turned. One of the volunteers from the other night – one of the burly men holding the kid down – was sitting in a dim room at a desk with a bright desk light, typing on a laptop.

“Come in,” he invited.

I walked in.

“Close the door,” he said.

I did. Warily.

He looked about, listened for noises in adjoining offices and finding none, spoke:

“I can tell you some things about Trevor Billings.”

“Isn't that breaking Doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“Not my patient. But I hear things.”

“Ah.” Blessed loophole.

“I came in just in time to see him slashing at Marnie with a longbladed kitchen knife. We do keep a kitchen but it's down the hall a ways. It's supposed to be locked, but people aren't always as diligent about things like that. No one could have predicted...”

“Sure,” I said, prompting him to continue.

“Trevor was abused as a kid.”

I wished that would have come as a surprise, but alas, no. It was in his eyes.

“First his mother beat him savagely. Social Workers were there couple times a year. Never found real proof so they couldn't remove him from the home.

“Then when his mother ran off he was left with his sister, just turned eighteen. Just old enough to be an adult, and being family and willing, was the best bet for his upbringing. Or so the conventional wisdom went.”

“Social Workers check in on them after that?”

“From time to time, yes. All looked well on the outside, but Trevor still had bruises. Broke a couple bones. Every time it was just excused as an active boy skateboarding, playing on the streets, getting into fights. Typical kid, you know?

“But I sometimes hear Doctor Parmal dictating her notes. When she's not with a patient she sometimes leaves the door open and not realizing anyone's around she talks into that recorder she has for later typing by one of the volunteers.”

He stopped, looking like an infantryman psyching himself up for the storming of the beaches. I let him. He charged.

“The sister was savage. Like she learned from the best. Beat him, starved him, yelled at him. He was just a kid, and this is how he saw parenting to be. Hell, she broke one of his forearms once by placing it between two wooden chairs and kneeling on it until it snapped. For coming home from school late. That one was a bike accident, apparently.”

“Jesus.” Why had the old neighbor lady not mentioned anything? She couldn't possibly be unaware. In almost any close neighborhood this stuff's never a secret.

“The kid's life was rough, but he grew up, you know? Got a bit older. He came to realize that what was going on wasn't right. He was also getting bigger.

“One day she went to stab him with a butter knife in the chest – enough to hurt, not enough to break the skin – and he snapped. Took her hand with knife in mid-stab and twisted it. Broke her wrist. Walked away from the house and never went back.”

I nodded. “So he hit the streets.”

“Yup. Felt safer on the streets, but man, he was fucked up beyond repair when he got out there.”

“Yeah, I seen him around but I avoided him. I could tell he was volatile.”

“But he'd been steadily keeping his court-mandated appointments with Doctor Parmal and I think they were really getting along. Until last night.”

“So what happened last night?”

“You tell me.” He looked at me.

Perhaps I would.

That meant another walk to Dorchester. Lovely.

Chapter 7

It was dusk by the time I got there not knowing if I had any hope of seeing Sharon Billings. I did see the elderly lady I had talked to earlier, sitting on her porch across the street. She waved.

“She'll be back. She ain't workin' tonight. She went to the store.” I thanked her and stood waiting.

“Some porch to spare, ya know,” she invited. Rather than standing around for who knew how long I took her up on her offer and sat next to her on her porch on a six dollar drug-store plastic patio chair.

“So she was abusing her kid brother,” I began. That sort of took the glory out of the sunset for the lady.

“You know then,” she said, with less of a smile in her voice now.

“I know. Why didn't you mention that earlier when I was here?”

“Nobody's business but theirs is how I see it. 'Sides. No proof. Just what ya hear, ya know?”

Not her fault, and here I was ready to take it out on her. Rather than do that, I started asking her about her life her on a Dorchester street. She had stories to tell and I listened. When it came time to tell mine, I left out the parts that were too painful to talk about and pretended none of it had happened. I answered all of her questions as if it were over a decade ago. If she'd guessed I was lying she didn't let on, bless her heart.

A bashed up car drove in to the driveway across the street and a woman got out with a few plastic bags of groceries and went inside her house before I could get up to intervene.

I said goodnight to my companion and she smiled a goodnight back at me.

I crossed the street and knocked on the door.

The door opened and I was staring at the face of Marnie Steward.

“Yes?” she said.

No. Not Marnie Steward. But she could be her twin. Not tall, slim, short dark hair. If I were to have met her on the street I would have mistaken her for Marnie. I didn't know what to say.

I stared at her for just that much too long until I finally muttered: “Sorry. Wrong address.”

I turned for my long walk back to Public Alley 437 off Arlington Street. I had nothing to say to this child abuser. Nothing that would ever help anyone.

Chapter 8

I sat on the low wall of the Common under the street lights that night thinking.

So no one would probably ever know for sure why Marnie was there late, but the Day Center was about a ten minute walk from the Green Line. Probably just forgot her purse and when she got to the stop she noticed it and returned.

As for Trevor, he probably just got an early train or had some time to spare so he just showed up early. Happens. No devious plot. No cunning plan.

Just two random paths that should never have crossed but cross they did.

And while he's hanging out maybe he goes to the kitchen to raid the fridge, maybe see if anyone didn't eat their lunch today.

Meanwhile Marnie comes in again to get her purse from the locker room and hears noises in the kitchen and goes to see what's going on. No one is supposed to be there except the custodial staff of one. She goes to make sure.

Maybe she sees Trevor in the kitchen and he turns and sees her.

Suddenly the kid is staring face to face with his sister, or so he would naturally think. The sister who had brutally beaten and abused him for years. The sister he ran away to the street to get away from.

And now suddenly she's here, maybe to force him to come back home. Here she is. His nightmare. Coming to reclaim him.

Maybe he reaches for a long-bladed knife on the counter and attacks.

Marnie runs. She makes it almost to the main entrance foyer but he's faster. He strikes. Over and over. And that's when the volunteers show up, see what's going on and tackle the kid.

Too late for Marnie.

Sometimes there is no plot. No plan.

Sometimes there are no winners. No victors. No crime to solve.

Sometimes things just happen.

Sometimes everyone just loses.

3274 days sober

Chapter 1

It was a beautiful August night on Boston Common. Old Fernie had his radio up to his ear listening to the Red Sox game, calling out the scores every few minutes and sometimes the more interesting plays as tourists wandered by. They loved it when he did that and filled his torn Dunkin Donuts cup with cash.

“Red Sox off to a bad start to the Rays. Again.” He shook his head as he called it. They'd lost last night and it didn't look good for tonight.

Joanie Jones sidled past us. A middle-aged woman who's been on the street for a long time. Mental illness. “Don't let go of the cablecar!” she shouted at us. She's known mostly for constantly yelling that the Boston Public Library steps are haunted by the ghosts of those killed in the Boston Massacre. She continued on past to the Tremont entrance.

We were sitting on a low wall around the middle of the Common, Fernie calling out the scores and me selling copies of Loose Change, the Boston-Cambridge newspaper published by the homeless. The sun was dusking behind the trees of the Public Garden and the magic light of golden hour hit the buildings surrounding us. The gleam of the State House was glaring in my eyes and I had to look away.

As I turned I saw T-Bill walking our way from the T Station buildings. T-Bill's been on the street since 2008, a casualty of war from when we almost entered the Second Great Depression. No jumping from a high building for T-Bill. He lost his job as a trader in the Financial District, tried to struggle along for a year or so, but without his lavish income he soon collapsed into insolvency and sure as I'm sitting here on cold stone, he was out on the street.

Old Fernie one might have sympathy for. He's been out here for well over a decade with no way to crawl his way up to success, whatever form that might take. But T-Bill, well, not many people were sympathetic to the cogs in the financial machine right now. Funny thing since Reagan gave so much to the rich with the vague idea that some of it may trickle down... nothing trickled down to us. And who wants to get trickled on anyway? Seems this country is all about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, except when you're down they take away your boots too.

“Isn't it a gorgeous day?” T-Bill shouted jovially. He seemed to be a few sheets to the wind. I've been sober for thirty two hundred and seventy four days. And still every time I see someone drunk I feel a deep, deep, itching envy.

“It is,” I said. “You ok, T-Bill?”

“Ok? I'm swimming in it!” he laughed. He looked like he had just run a marathon and was still on an adrenaline high. He sat hard on the stone. I moved a bit to make some room between Fernie and myself.

“Swimming in it!” he said, handing me a twenty dollar bill. “Just like the old days,” he said. He laughed, but I swear for a moment it sounded like he was crying. He quickly checked himself and started laughing again, patting me on the back.

I accepted the twenty graciously and asked, “What's this for?”

“For my friends,” he said. “All my friends gonna live high on the hog tonight!” He shoved a crisp twenty into Fernie's torn cup.

“Hold on, T-Bill. I ain't takin' yer money,” Fernie said, handing the twenty back.

“You're my friend, you're gonna take it!” he insisted. “I got plenty!” He showed us a paper bag filled with flat, crisp twenties. “Just came back from the bank. Certified check, baby. Can't fake those! I know!”

“Whoa!” I said, glancing around protectively. It wouldn't be good for certain eyes to see this stack of cash. Miko and his skateboard bunch were thrashing not far away. The mere scent of crisp bills would likely perk their noses up. And there's worse around too.

Fernie serioused up. “T-Bill. Where did you get this?”

“It's all legit if that's what you're asking.” He looked around, wondering who to give his next few twenties to. The way he was going he'd be at this a long time before that stack dwindled down to nothing.

“T-Bill,” I said. “Not that we don't appreciate it, bud, but think of yourself! You got some cash there. Use it wisely. Get yourself a room. Clean up. Get outta here.” I knew T-Bill's problems were mainly fortune-related, or rather, lack-of-fortune-related. He wasn't here for the same reasons I was, or Fernie. T-Bill could apply himself and get himself back in the game. It was far too late for Fernie and me.

“I'm having a big party first,” he said. “Then I'll take the rest and get myself a new job on Federal Street.”

His laughing slowed a bit as he stopped to breathe for the first time since he arrived. I heard some wheezing in his breathing. T-Bill was a bit overweight, maybe asthmatic, and probably should not be overdoing it. Sweat was pouring from his brow and his skin looked a bit gray for my liking.

“Yup. Gonna get straight, guys. Gonna leave all this,” he said, waving his arms majestically around him, “behind. And your sorry asses too!” He patted us both hard on the back and started laughing again.

The laughing stopped for a bit as he caught his breath again. His smile faded to a look of pain and he breathed hard in, then out. In, then out. He leaned over and held his chest a bit.

“Calm down, T-Bill. You'll have a heart attack,” I said.

No sooner had I said it than T-Bill was off the stone wall and on his knees. His two hands hit the cobbled walkway, his bag of bills falling to one side.

I got down next to him. “Hold on, T-Bill. What's wrong?”

He looked into my eyes with a fear I hadn't seen before. His eyes rolled, and he fell flat on his face. I tried rolling him over to apply CPR. He was heavy, but with Fernie's frantic help we got him on his back and I began compressing his chest.

“Fernie! Mouth-to-mouth!” I cried. Fernie looked a little lost... he'd never done this before. I had.

“Just breathe into his lungs! We have to keep him alive!”

Fernie did. Breath after breath. I compressed, hoping I was keeping his blood circulating. This wasn't good. If he was having a heart attack we'd need serious help.

“Fernie! I got it! Go get help! Find a cell phone! Find a cop! Just call 911!”

Fernie ran to the Tremont entrance to the Common. I knew Turley was off duty by now, so I was hoping he could find anyone to call 911. I kept up with the compressions, stopping every few to breathe into TBill's lungs.

When Fernie got back I could already hear sirens. I kept compressing but I was getting tired and I didn't see it was doing much good, but I wasn't going to give up on T-Bill so easily.

Fernie swiped up the bag of bills, stuffing it in his jacket.

“What? Just making sure they cops don't take it in as evidence. TBill would lose it for sure.” I knew Fernie was as honest as the day was long. He meant it. He was keeping it safe for when T-Bill came back around.

Miko and his crew came running too. “What happened? Is that TBill?”

“Yeah,” I said as the EMTs came along the cobbled path with a stretcher. They examined T-Bill and pulled out a portable defibrillator. They ripped at his clothing until they found bare chest and applied several charges. “Clear!” I heard, over and over. They really didn't give up on him.

As they loaded him onto the stretcher, police arrived and began questioning us. We told them what had happened, leaving out the bit about the money. The money was far from my mind, compared to what had just happened, but Fernie and I still weren't about to hand it over to the cops where it would sit in an evidence locker probably for years, or just conveniently disappear.

“He just collapsed?”

“Well,” I said, “he'd been drinking, partying kinda heavily, to be truthful.”

“Clearly,” said the EMT. He could smell the alcohol on T-Bill.

“And then he just started breathing hard. He turned gray and collapsed. I applied CPR until you arrived.”

“The whole time?” he asked, eyes suddenly looking straight at me.

“Yup.”

“He's a lucky guy. He'da been dead by now if not for you.”

I didn't feel much like a hero. T-Bill was bagged and the lead EMT was pumping air into his lungs. I looked at him, retreating down the cobbled path.

“Hold on!” I shouted and ran to the stretcher.

“Stop. Don't approach the patient,” the lead EMT said, holding out an arm to prevent me from getting too close. “We have to get him down to Emergency.”

“Look!” I said pointing to T-Bill's beige fall jacket.

There was blood oozing into the fabric.

“Shit!” said the lead EMT. He lifted the fabric of T-Bill's jacket up and saw a patch of blood spreading. He and his partner rolled T-Bill over on the stretcher.

“Jesus!” said the first EMT.

There was a healing surgical scar running down T-Bill's back, right over his right kidney. The wound was bleeding badly.

Chapter 2

Before Miko and his skateboarding crew went back to their hard work, I gestured him over. “Miko, a word?”

Miko waved his boys on, but stuck around.

“You seen T-Bill before this today?”

“Yeah, he was up by the Frog Pond handin' out twenties like a casino dealer hands out blackjack cards.”

“Did he say anything? Where he got the money?”

“Like we was askin',” he said.

“You weren't the least bit curious?”

“What the fuck I care? He was givin' out twenties.”

“Thanks,” I said. Miko grabbed his deck and followed his buds. Miko was an aspiring Tony Hawk. I seen him on his ass more times than on his deck.

“Fernie, you see that scar?”

“Yup. Kidney operation.”

“I know. Did you ever know T-Bill to have kidney troubles?” “Nope. He complained sometimes, but never anything specific.”

I bade Fernie a good night and bedded myself down near my dumpster in Public Alley 437, hoping T-Bill would be ok.

Chapter 3

The next morning I waited for Officer Turley's cruiser to show up for his beat duty. Turley patrolled the Common, Tremont, Downtown Crossing and this whole historic section of old Boston. Turley was a good guy. Really seemed to care for the homeless. Much more than most cops you see.

“Officer Turley,” I greeted the man as he got out of his car.

“Good morning,” he said. “Let me guess. You want to know the condition of William Burdeck, aka T-Bill.”

“Got it in one,” I said. “How is he?”

Turley settled against his car, crossing his arms. “It's not good. Turns out Burdeck had an operation to remove a kidney recently. Within the last seven days.”

“Really? Fernie mentioned he complained sometimes about general health but he never mentioned anything about his kidneys.”

“Ah,” Turley said, shaking his head. “The kidney that was removed was perfectly healthy, or so they determined at the hospital. And the real problem is that his other kidney is in bad shape. In fact it's in need of replacement and if he doesn't find a donor he may die.”

“What? How the hell did that happen?”

“Wish I knew. The doctors are furious. It looks like he donated a kidney. The problem is he should never have been allowed to do so. That's the kidney that was keeping him healthy, since his other one was losing the ability to function.”

“What the hell?” I remembered years ago hearing all sorts of urban legends about people waking up in a bathtub full of ice with a scar and a stolen kidney. “Organ theft?”

“Possibly,” Turley said. “But if so, it was done very professionally. The doctors said it had to have been done by a skilled surgeon.”

My mind snapped back to the bag of twenties T-Bill had been carrying.

“Is it legal to pay for organ donation in the US?” I asked. I suspected I wouldn't need an officer of the law to tell me what I was pretty sure I knew.

“Not a bit. There are strict laws against incentivizing donations with cash. There's nothing illegal in putting up cash to ask people to get tested, blood type, that sort of thing, but if any money changes hands to actually procure an organ, that's highly illegal.”

“And T-Bill?”

“Now desperately needs a new kidney.”

Chapter 4

The next afternoon I told Old Fernie what happened and he and I were both considering getting tested, just in case we could donate. What possessed T-Bill to sell a kidney if he knew his other one was on the way out? He's not stupid, despite what anyone might think watching him from day to day.

And what doctor would remove a kidney when he knew the other one was faulty? My nose for trouble was itching.

I found a rare working phone booth and called the hospital holding T-Bill. I put on my best professional Boston-accented Police Detective voice and perpetrated that I was Detective Thomas Best, a detective I'd encountered once or twice before.

I got some useful information from the attending physician on TBill's case. He had not known his kidney was failing, he was not on any donations list, he would not have been able to donate a kidney - not at any reputable hospital - due to the condition of his other kidney, the angry doctor didn't say as much but he certainly made it clear he'd like to have words with the surgeon who removed the kidney. A search of all area hospitals showed no one had donated a kidney in recent weeks. Oh. I also got that T-Bill's blood type was AB Negative. Very rare.

I thanked the good doctor and went back to talk to Fernie.

“I'm O Positive,” Fernie said. “Been tested so I could give blood.”

“Me too,” I said. Neither of us was going to be compatible. In fact it wasn't likely T-Bill was going to be able to get a donation with the rare AB Negative type. But that's probably why someone wanted his good kidney. Someone out there with a very rare blood type needed a kidney and had cash.

I went to find Turley to see if he had any news.

“Nope. The detectives I talked to checked all hospitals in New England and the search is spreading. So far no one matching Mr. Burdeck's description is on record donating a kidney. Had to have been done elsewhere, or by … freelance.”

Damn. Organs for money. Never thought I'd see the day.

Chapter 5

A few weeks later, about when the sun was low in the western sky, I was strolling the Charles River Esplanade.

I was thinking about T-Bill. He was stabilized on dialysis but fading, and due to his chronic use of alcohol, and other socio-economic factors, he wasn't exactly bolting to the top of the donor list.

It had been a sunny day, warm, pleasant breeze blowing off the river. Scullers were rowing up and down. It was now early September and summer was in full swing in Boston. Lots of people were out enjoying the day along the Charles. As they passed, people generally left me a lot of personal space, probably due to my appearance. Look, I try. It's hard out here for a good-looking fellow in his late forties like me. My clothes were fairly new, or at least new-to-me, and I was fairly clean and healthy. I was walking briskly, as if I had intent. Not a typical bum by appearance, I hoped.

I was passing a bushy patch of walkway sandwiched between Storrow Drive and a boat dock near the western end when I noticed a buzzing of flies. A swarm of insects is not an unusual sight down by the marshier borders of the Charles, but these weren't mosquitos, they were loud, buzzing blue-assed flies. The noise attracted my attention, so I walked closer to the swarm.

Joanie Jones was lying dead in the underbrush, her body on shore but her legs washing around in the Charles.

Chapter 6

Familiar scene: Me standing around a dead body, EMTs working frantically, police standing around cordoning off the area, Coroners on the scene, me being questioned. Again.

Yes, I knew the lady. Everyone knew the lady. Joanie Jones. Mentally ill. Often seen screaming at people to stay off the Public Library steps. Last seen a few days ago yelling at people to stop killing the frogs in the frog pond. No, she probably was talking about the toddlers who wade there daily. No, no one was killing them. No enemies I knew of. My association with her was casual and not much to speak of. No reason to know why she was dead on the marge of the Charles.

It was near dark when the Coroner took the body to the morgue. I was watching most of her examination of the body, so I paid particular attention when she noted the two surgical scars, left wide open, right around where poor Joanie's kidneys used to be.

Chapter 7

The next morning I was sitting next to Fernie on his wall. He was calling out the weather, since we were in one of those rare windows where no Boston sports team seemed to have a game going on.

“No shit?” he said after hearing the news. “Damn. Poor Joanie.

Never harmed a hair on anyone's head.”

“Yup.”

“Both kidneys?”

“Well, I only observed. But yeah, there were two gaping wounds

over her kidneys. T-Bill's wound was surgically sealed, and it was his own damn fault for not resting that it opened, but there looked to me to be not even an attempt to sew Joanie up. And both kidneys?

“If we had any doubt that the doctor who took out T-Bill's good kidney was committing attempted murder,” I said, “there's no doubt at all that he was flat-out murdering Joanie.”

“Tell me,” Fernie agreed. “But Joanie's never gonna be missed by anyone, right?”

“Yeah, not like she mattered or anything, homeless, crazy as a loon. It was like she had these kidneys that were just going to waste, so let's give them to a human being or something.

“If I ever get my hands on...” I shut up, fuming.

I took a small piece of paper from my pocket.

“I didn't mention to the police at the scene that I had my go at

examining Joanie's body first,” I said to Fernie. “This is all I found out of the ordinary.”

I showed him. It was a bright day-glo pink strip of paper about a half-inch wide and two inches long with a phone number on it in Times New Roman. Nothing else. Just a phone number. Common 617 Boston area code. It was a mobile number.

“Is that,” Fernie asked, “what you'd call a bona fide clew?”

“Tried it. Disconnected,” I said glumly. “Nothing points it out as a real clue anyway.”

“So what now?”

“Well, I feel bad about holding onto it, I'm gonna hand it over to Turley, explain it away as me being somewhat overwhelmed by all the questioning, perhaps play it off as an oversight, whatever. But the cops should have it.”

“Yeah, not a bad idea,” Fernie said, lowly, then switched into high gear as a young couple with a stroller came by the cobble path: “Seventy four degrees, sunny all day, no cloud in sight!” he shouted with a pleasant smile that made him look like Morgan Freeman. The couple put a fiver into his cup and thanked him for the weather report.

They even bought one of my copies of the latest Loose Change. Big day.

Chapter 8

I went looking for Officer Turley. He wasn't posted in his cruiser at the Tremont entrance, so I wandered down into Downtown Crossing, no longer the fine shopping district it had once been. Since Filene's went out of business, the building sold to developers who left it with a gaping hole in its center, this place has really slid downhill. Now the Mayor was in dispute with the current owners who defaulted on guarantees they would fix it up, Boston's once-admired center was now a well-hidden Dresden. The facade of the building now hides the gaping scar from the people, but deep down – we know. We can't see it, but we can feel it.

Turley's beat took him down here often, especially now that the homeless population use it as a base of sorts. Turley is well-suited to dealing with the troubles that brings. I asked a few familiar faces if they'd seen him and they all pointed in various directions.

I had almost given up when I noticed something bright from the corner of my eye. A plywood wall was up next to a shop being renovated. Stapled all over it were posters for concerts, lost dogs, poetry workshops, but one stood out. A bright sheet of pink day-glo paper, half-buried behind newer postings, declared, once I cleared away some of the later posters, that if you wanted to sell your blood or donate organs, you might get eighty dollars for a pint of blood, depending on blood type, almost as much for plasma, various amounts for tissue service, $20,000 for a spare cornea, and up to $15,000 for that extra kidney you don't really need. It wasn't worded like that of course, but that was the gist of the posting. The organization called themselves “Giving and Caring Donations LLC.”.

At the bottom of the poster were pre-cut strips with a phone number on them. Three of the strips were missing. I took out the strip I was trying to hand over to Turley and posed it next to the poster. It fit one of the missing strips perfectly and had the same now-disconnected phone number. I took the poster down so I could give the whole thing to Turley.

As I turned I saw another poster across Summer Street. This one was orange but had the same day-glo fluorescent intensity. On it was the same message in a different font, worded somewhat differently and had strips with a completely different phone number, and was called “Caritas, Veritas” - in English: “Love, Truth”. Clearly this was an operation that kept changing names, phone numbers and fliers, and worked fast. Never the same number twice, never the same poster twice, never the same name twice. Harder to tie them down this way. And they only needed one or two hits per incarnation.

I ripped this poster off the wall as well and took it with me. I decided I wasn't going to find Turley today, and he was almost off-duty anyway. Plus, I had a plan. A stupid, stupid plan.

Chapter 9

The next morning I called the number on the new poster from a pay phone. A woman's voice answered, a real professional receptionist by the sound.

“Caritas Veritas Donations, Carol speaking. How may I help you?” “Hello... I was... uh...”

“Are you calling about donations, sir?” Carol asked, prompting me

along, since I was a bit nervous.

“Yeah, donations. Donations, yeah.” I said, trying to sound a bit

out of it.

“Well, sir, we can certainly help you with that. Charitable work is

our cause and we're here to promote healthy giving to those in need.

What were you looking to donate?”

“Blood? Uh...” I said, hesitantly.

“Certainly, sir. As you probably know, the Red Cross takes blood

donations all the time, and while they don't pay the donors, they go on

to make large profits themselves at your expense. Why do that when

you can profit directly?”

“And what about... uh... a kidney?”

“A kidney? Sure. As you are surely aware, there are many

unfortunate people out there in need of a kidney, and most people can

get by on one for their whole lives, completely unaffected. And you'd

be giving the gift of life to someone now struggling. It's a generous donation, for sure, and for that we pay up to $15,000, depending on

blood type. Do you wish to donate a kidney, sir?”

“Yeah. A kidney. Act of kindness and all...” I made sure I sounded

like I was in serious need of the money.

“We can arrange that, sir. Please stay on the line.” She put me on

hold to some god-awful elevator music. I waited.

A man's voice came next. “Sir, you indicated to our receptionist

that you wished to donate a kidney. Can you tell me some information

about yourself? Age, blood type?”

No names, I see.

I told him my age truthfully, but I lied about my blood type. “AB

Negative,” I said, knowing a rare blood type would attract attention. “AB Negative? That's not very common. And, unfortunately, there

are a number of patients throughout the United States currently

awaiting kidneys who are AB Negative. Their chances were slim until

we found you,” he said, trying to sound kind-hearted and charitable. I

could tell, however, he was not. He was a salesman.

“So let me see... yes, we can do a kidney donation for, say, twelve

thousand.”

“Fifteen, your ad says,” I insisted.

“Well, fifteen is the top limit,” he began.

“For a rare blood type? My guess is I can ask higher than fifteen

and still get it.”

“Ah. Well... we offer only a maximum of fifteen, and that's

provided the donor is a non-smoker, is not a drug or alcohol abuser, and

lives a clean life.”

“That's me. No drugs, no alcohol, don't even smoke. Not for

almost 8 years.”

“Ah, that's fine then. I imagine we'll have no problem going the

full fifteen, provided your physical tests prove your information is

accurate.”

“So what now?” I asked.

“We'll have to have you come in for blood typing and testing,

show you're in good health and are mentally capable of making a

donation.”

Either this wasn't our quarry, or he was lying his ass off. Probably

the latter. He was smooth.

“So what now?” I repeated.

“You show up at our facility and we do the tests.” He gave me an

address in Cambridge. I recognized it. Mt. Auburn Street has a lot of

medical facilities in and around. Dammit, it started sounding legit. I agreed to the meeting and hung up.

So now what?

Chapter 10

I told Fernie all about the call, expressing my doubts that I was on the right track. I gave him the phone number as well as the address, scrawled on the back of one of the two sheets of poster paper I handed him for safekeeping. I guess it was like an insurance policy in case I was right.

“What's all this?” he said, concerned.

“Nothing to worry about, just wanted you to hold this stuff for me until I get back. I can't have it on me. I'm just getting a blood test.”

“Ok, but damn, man. Be careful. Look what happened to T-Bill and Joanie.”

I patted Fernie on the back and walked down to Downtown Crossing to catch a Red Line train over the bridge to Cambridge.

I got off at Harvard Square and walked south a block, then east a couple and found the address. It was a five storey building with rounded turrets on either side, almost like some architect was inspired by medieval castles... almost.

I was looking at the directory on the door and I saw no sign of “Caritas, Veritas” on the list. I walked into the foyer to get a closer look and, sure enough, there was no “Caritas, Veritas” on the larger directory board. Nor was there a “Caring and Giving Donations LLC.”

Resigned, I left, turning back towards Harvard Square when a man standing next to a large cube van approached. The white truck had a sign on the side reading “Caritas, Veritas”, but nothing else. No details, no phone number. A reassuring pale blue sign on an immaculately clean white delivery-type freezer van.

“Sir,” he asked as he approached. He was dressed in hospital scrubs and white sneakers. He had a stethoscope around his neck and a clip-board in his hand.

He asked if I was his appointment and I confirmed that I thought I was. “Excellent. Please step up. This is a mobile testing van. Like the Red Cross, to operate quickly we are highly mobile. Organ recipients are often lying in a hospital bed with only hours to live. We like to act fast, save lives.”

I recognized the voice from the phone.

“Sure,” I said, looking both ways, looking for a graceful way out. I saw none, so I climbed aboard up a small step in a side door towards the cab. After all, it's just a blood test. I'm not squeamish. I'd given blood plenty of times.

I sat in a small compartment with chairs, and a door leading rearward. A lovely young lady wearing a white nurse's uniform sat with me while the man went aft through the doorway, closing it behind him.

She was kind, gentle, talked me through the forms. I started getting nervous now, but tried not to show it. She had me remove my coat and my shirt so she could get a needle in to test my blood. There was testing equipment on a table nearby.

I reached for my shirt... “I think I'm not so sure about this,” I said.

“But sir, it's just a blood test, there's no obligation until we confirm your health, and you sign a mental health document claiming you are of stable mind and are giving willingly.”

I sat again, but when I saw the needle, I stood up.

“Sir!” she said, a little louder. She'd probably seen this kind of hesitation before.

“I have to go,” I said, gathering up my shirt and coat. “Dennis!” she called.

Dennis re-entered through the same door, leaving it open. I saw an amazingly cramped but fully-equipped operating table in there, with lots of blue cloths and silver instruments. Dennis pushed me down into the chair. He held my arm as the nurse shoved a needle into it. It wasn't a blood testing needle. Too fine a tip. And she wasn't removing blood, she was injecting something clear. I began feeling woozy almost at once, as a cold current washed through my arm and into my torso. I could feel it spreading. My eyes unfocused and went their own separate ways. Dennis slammed his palm against the wall next to the cab and shouted: “Drive!” and I felt the strength leave my knees.

The van began to move, or at least that's what I felt. How could I tell when the whole room was spinning? As the van rolled forward I felt I was on a roller coaster entering a corkscrew turn. I wasn't sure I was up or down.

I hugged my jacket close and as the nurse was trying to close the side door I pushed my way past her and out onto the street.

I wasn't in very good control of my feet, or my mind. But I hugged my coat and ran, topless, eastward along Mt. Auburn Street. I was just running blind. I heard the truck behind me do a three-point turn so it could follow me. Behind me I heard Dennis jump out of the truck and give chase.

I ran past several tall brick buildings with the same dull facade, and kept running until I saw a Bank of America ATM sign. I reached into my coat and pulled out a partial bank card, one I'd found on the street years ago. It was just enough of the card to retain the magnetic strip, which I sometimes use as a key to get into ATM kiosks to ward off bitter cold weather in winter. It's come in handy more than once and it might just come in handy again.

Struggling with brain fuzz, I slipped the sliver of a card into the reader. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing. Tried a third time, a bit slower. Dennis had almost caught up when the door clicked and I pushed it open. There was no one else in the small room and I leaned on the door, keeping it closed. Dennis pushed against it, but my weight was now just about dead-weight, and he had a hard time keeping it open. The door mechanism clicked and I gave one last shove, closing the door. Dennis was locked out.

Dennis checked his pockets for a wallet. But in his hospital scrubs he realized his wallet wasn't available. He slammed the glass of the door yelling “Open the door!”

I just lay there, breathing as best as I could, thankful he was on the other side of a secure door... at least until some ATM customer came along and opened my protective cage.

No one was about, it was a slow time on Mt. Auburn Street, which I knew when Dennis disappeared only to return with a large piece of cinderblock which he proceeded to smash into the door.

The glass cracked, but only barely. This stuff was bulletproof. But it wouldn't stand up forever.

“You should have just said yes!” Dennis cried through the glass. “But no, you decided to play it coy! Now we get the kidneys, and you get squat!”

Slam! Smash! He was making some headway. If he got through, I was done. The van was parked across the street, idling.

Then, just as I was losing consciousness to the sedative, I heard sirens. The sweet, sweet songs of the sirens, speeding their way here from Sirenum Scopuli.

Chapter 11

I came to to pain. Turley was slapping my face. “Wake up!” he yelled. He was looking askance at an EMT who was now kneeling over my body, his blue-gloved hands probing me.

“Drugged,” he said. He looked towards his partner who was handling the stretcher.

Turley looked me in the eyes, one, then the other. “Looks awake!” he said loudly.

“Yeah, I'm sure he'll be fine,” said the EMT, though his voice sounded less sure. Faces were lighting up red and blue in the dusk, and to me it was all a wonderful party. A party for me. And everyone showed up.

Chapter 12

I woke up again to much brighter light. Circular lights over my head, and I was covered shoulders to toes in a white blanket. Nurses and doctors were standing over me, I couldn't tell which was what, but they were all conversing in clear, loud tones. “Breathing seems normal. Blood pressure high but falling. Get me a CBC stat! Tox screen stat!”

Turley was standing outside the open doorway, his patrolman's cap in both hands. He was rocking back and forth on both legs, craning his neck to get a glimpse of me. I lifted a hand and waved. He waved back and seemed to relax a bit. He stopped swaying at least.

And I blacked out again.

Chapter 13

Turley was sitting by my bed when I came to. My mouth felt like cotton balls and I felt scraped out inside. My lungs felt like they had been filed down with a metal rasp. But I was ok, I think.

Standing beside Turley were two detectives I recognized. I'd seen them around at various crime scenes. I could never get their names straight, and who really cared anyway?

Turley spoke. “We lost them,” he said.

Quickly, though, one of the detectives spoke up. “But we've got an APB out for the van, and the State Police are on full alert. They're not going to get far. We're just waiting on word now.”

“We'll want you to come downtown for a full statement as soon as you're released,” said the senior detective. Both stood there for a moment or so. I nodded assent, and, seemingly satisfied, they left. Turley remained.

“Man, what were you thinking?” he said, sternly.

“What?”

“You're gonna get yourself killed one of these days!” he hissed. “I

know you like going around playing detective, but dammit, man, this is serious! You're dealing with people who would kill you for the loose change in your pocket. Hell, they'd probably kill you for a copy of Loose Change you're carrying around!”

I tried responding.

“It's lucky Fernie found me when he did,” he said, softer now. “I was able to put out an alert city-wide and when the ATM's alarms went off some Cambridge patrolmen responded and saw the van speeding off towards the Longfellow Bridge. I was on my way to the address Fernie gave me anyway, and coordinated with the Cambridge side cops and called in the detectives.”

“I can describe the van,” I said, feebly. “And at least two of the occupants.”

“Yeah, witnesses provided descriptions too. There weren't many people around, but a couple walking their Corgis took some shots of the van with their phones as it sped away.

“Finch and Davis were right,” he said. Must be the two detectives “The van won't get far. Not something that clumsy and obvious. The Staties'll have 'em any minute now is my guess.”

“Glad I could be of help,” I tried.

“Stop helping! Seriously!” Turley scolded. “You'll only get yourself killed.”

“Ok, Officer,” I said, saluting him groggily.

“I'll talk to you when you get out,” he said. He rose and left.

Chapter 14

I was signing my full statement in an interview room at Boston PD HQ when Turley walked in. “State Police picked the van up south on 95 down by North Attleboro,” he said. “Headed for Rhode Island and probably Connecticut or New York.”

“Well that's good, right?”

“Yeah, we got 'em dead to rights. The van's clean as a whistle. It's set up as a full operating theater. Man, they had everything in there. The freezer unit helped keep temperatures down, there were sterilization systems, clean-air filters, the lot. They weren't taking any chances on contaminating the organs. There was a stack of thermal organ carriers. The whole shebang. Dead to rights.”

“And Dennis? And that nurse?”

“Dennis is one Dennis Fromer, one-time surgeon sued out of the business by malpractice. The nurse is no one big. We got the driver and two assistants. No records on-board, but we'll be able to track them down and tie the money to the organs. My guess is we may not be able to get 'em for Ms. Jones's murder, but T-Bill at least was able to describe the perps...ah...”

“Ah, what?” I said.

“T-Bill. We have his statement, but I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

Shit.

“William Burdeck, aka T-Bill, died just an hour ago from a massive coronary, complications of serious infection. But he was able to identify the suspects in a photo lineup and swore out his affidavit before he died. It'll hold up in court.

“And of course I can rely on your testimony?”

I didn't have to say anything. Turley sat with me as I handed my statement over to the detectives. He drove me back to Boston Common. 3344 days sober

Chapter 1

It was a rough, cold day. There was no more denying that November had struck. Wrapped in my warm, new-to-me neoprene parka I was reluctantly heading back to Public Alley 437, one of the long alleys that run parallel to Boston's Newbury Street along the Back Bay. That's where my dumpster is. That is, that's the dumpster I keep my tarp and warm blanket under. They keep me warm and dry at night. I managed to snag an old roll-up mattress that I can hide in an out-ofthe-way place back there, lest someone come by and chuck it for junk. That would make sleeping somewhat less comfortable.

I unrolled the bedroll, unfolded the blanket, tucked away in under it and covered myself up with the blue plastic tarp in case of rain. I reached under the dumpster again to find the gnarled up paperback copy of Raymond Chandler's “The Simple Art of Murder” that I keep there. I could read by the lights left on in some of the shop back rooms, and a few street lights.

I was reading what has to be the silliest of Chandler's works, “Pearls Are A Nuisance”, in which a pair of drunken sots search for a lady's missing pearls, when I heard what might have been a stray cat yowling further down the alley. I turned the page. More alcohol. It seems the two characters couldn't function without several bottles of alcohol inside of them. I was about to give up on it and move on to the next story when I heard that cat again.

I tossed a piece of brick I found on the street, hoping it would inform the cat I wanted it to piss off to some other alley for its yowling session.

Reading usually never fails to put me to sleep, and more than once the book fell from my tired hands, jerking me awake. I'd resume my place, read a senseless paragraph, and it would fall again. After repeating several times I knew it was pointless and put the book away. The irony is that without a book, it's always harder to sleep.

I was nodding off, finally, when I heard that damned cat again. I couldn't help think it sounded like a baby crying. As I finally nodded off I jumped awake, nearly to my feet. That was no cat. I knew that sound. I got up and crept carefully down the alley, ears alert. The intermittent crying faded a bit, but I could still hear tiny peeps of it.

Hair standing on end, now, I approached a dumpster parked outside the back of a prominent art gallery on Newbury. I rounded one of the corners to the opposite side of the dumpster and there, on a cardboard box on the ground, wrapped in pages of newspaper, its grimy hands feebly grasping the air, a baby!

I was nearly knocked to my ass from surprise. I looked around desperately hoping to find someone – anyone – who might explain the presence of this baby. There was no one. Not even a yowling cat to claim parenthood. My blood ran cold. It's times like this I wished I had a cell phone.

Chapter 2

The ambulance arrived minutes after I was able to flag down a passing late-night taxi cab on Berkeley Street, and beseech the driver to call 911. Harder than it should have been, what with my appearance, but I managed to persuade a kindly taxi driver by shoving my body onto his hood as he tried to drive past me.

I was questioned, but it seemed obvious to the uniformed officers that I had nothing to do with the baby.

“When did you first enter the alley?” one asked.

“About midnight, I guess. I found the baby about 1:00, maybe? I don't wear a watch, so I'm not a hundred percent sure.”

“And you saw no suspicious activity in that time?”

“Nope. It was dead quiet down here. Not a creature was stirring, so to speak, not even a mouse. The baby had to have been dumped here before midnight, and some time before, if whoever did it were to get away without my noticing, well, not unless they went out the Berkeley side of the alley.”

“Ok, thanks. Listen, if we need more information, where can we find you?”

I pointed towards the Arlington Street entrance of the alley. “Up there a ways. That brown dumpster. Or you can find me on the Common selling Loose Change during most days. I also hang out near the ticket kiosk on Copley Plaza.”

“Ok, I got it.”

“Or you could just contact Officer Turley. I usually see him just about every day he's on duty.”

“Turley, ok. I know him. Thanks.” The cop turned to his colleagues and compared notes.

The EMTs had already unwrapped the baby, packed it in warm blankets, and had an IV running on it moments after they arrived. They were just now loading it onto the back of their truck. One of the EMTs held it as tenderly as a father would his new-born child. I knew it – he or she? - was in good hands.

As the truck drove off, I noticed that for no reason I could fathom, I was crying.

Chapter 3

It was now about three a.m and the officers had done their cursory look-round, wrapped the place up in Crime Scene tape, and posted a sentry for the rest of the morning until detectives could show up once they got on duty, probably at 9:00.

I had stopped shaking and was on my way back to my flop when I saw blood on the ground. In my earlier approach I hadn't noticed it, my focus being up near the dumpster. But here was a patch of blood. And not far along, towards the Arlington Street entrance, more. As I kept following the blood patches it turned into a clear trail. I looked back at the sentry officer, and started to call out. He was busy on his phone so I opted instead to pursue the matter myself, as I am sometimes known to do. I knew I wasn't going to get back to sleep this night.

The trail was straight for a while, but I noticed it faltered here and there as it approached the crosswalk into the Public Garden's Arlington Street Entrance. Bright streetlights allowed me to follow it into the Garden where it got so dark I lost the trail as it headed down towards the Swan Boat dock.

With no more trail to follow, I stood, stopped moving so my neoprene parka didn't make shiff-shiff noises. I perked up my ears and listened.

Nothing.

I kept doing this, moving from place to place around the Garden. I knew I couldn't see anything, but I hoped my ears at least could detect something. The wind was light, but even that interfered and I had to listen for long stretches at a time.

There was nothing going on, but I couldn't just give up. The trail clearly led to somewhere around here.

The statue of Edward Hale said he hadn't seen anyone, nor had the bronze Make Way for Ducklings. I was about to give up hope when I heard what might have been heavy breathing. I started running towards the Triton Babies fountain, one of several stone fountains in the Garden. This one featured a bronze statue of two young girls, joyfully playing, naked. The fountain was empty of water, and huddled up against the curved outer wall was a young woman. Her clothing was covered in drying blood.

I rushed to her side and checked her breathing. She was gasping for breath. She was not in good shape.

“Miss!” I said.

No response.

“Miss!” I shouted, shaking her.

She tilted her head and looked at me, but I doubt she was seeing me.

“Are you ok?”

“Tito?” she asked, pulling back.

“No,” I said, reassuringly. I told her my name. “I'm here to help. Please hold on.”

I knew I couldn't move her, and I was not likely to be able to pull the taxi-cab trick again, so I knew I had to run back to my alley and alert the sentry officer.

“Please don't try to move,” I said.

I ran like I hadn't run in a number of years.

Chapter 4

The ambulance came again. Same truck as before. Same EMTs. They loaded the girl onto a stretcher and attended to her. I stood close by.

The girl looked about sixteen. She had long blonde hair and I recognized her face.

I knew her. That is, I'd seen her around. I didn't know her in that way. Lots of guys had, though, judging by how I'd recognized her.

I'd seen her hanging around the corners of the Garden, usually at dusk or later, smoking cigarettes, wearing a fur coat and mini-skirt and tall heels. I knew her to score from Fat Marcus some time ago when he had been King of Boston. That is, until his untimely demise earlier this year. Can't say I miss him much.

She had a very pretty face before the streets, the drugs and the prostitution had been applied to it.

Turley had shown up early for his shift, having been contacted by the uniforms I had talked to in the wee hours. He walked up to me. He didn't have to ask.

“I tracked a blood trail to the fountain,” I said. “The girl was there. She'd lost a lot of blood.”

“Yeah, the EMTs tell me she might not have made it if you hadn't found her.”

“Listen, I know who did this to her.”

“Did what to her? She gave birth in an alley.”

“Yeah, but she's one of Tito's girls.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. I see her on the corner sometimes. You must too.” “Maybe, but I could hardly recognize her in this condition.”

“Not lookin' very hard if you don't mind my saying. Hell, she even hit me up once or twice.”

“Oh?” He eyed me.

“Jesus, she's young enough to be my daughter and then some. What do you think I am?”

“I know. Forget I said anything.”

“So you gonna go after Tito?”

“For what?”

“Hello... prostitution at least. Not sure you could do anything about him getting her pregnant.”

“Can't even get him for pimping. You know how it goes. She's not going to testify against him. He runs them with an iron fist.”

“Right. So that's that then.”

“Sadly, yes. We have her for child endangerment. That'll get her off the streets for a while at least, but it's not exactly going to help her any.

“Anyway, thanks for your help. You saved her life. Let that be enough for now, ok?”

“Ok. Thanks, Officer Turley.”

Tito. Damn.

Tito is a known pimp. He brutalizes his girls and has never been convicted of anything, not even simple drug possession. He's very careful. Very controlling. He's a big white guy with tattoos but talks street, knaw i'm sayin'?

I know I wouldn't want to be on his bad side, not if I wanted to live.

So this girl. The cops found her name from her ID. Jen. Jennifer Walters. From Somerville. She gave birth. It's November. I've seen her hooking on the streets for about six months. Before that, who knows, but she's been turning tricks while pregnant for at least the six months, and she's not likely even seventeen yet. Damn. That's sick. I guess there's a certain clientele that that caters to. Bunch of sick fucks.

And as for Tito... Jesus. That guy has got to go down. Down like Marcus.

Chapter 5

I didn't sleep well the next couple of days. For obvious reasons. Not just the lack of sleep that night, but, well, I couldn't help thinking about Jen, and how she reminded me of my own daughter, even though they looked nothing alike. What put her out on the street? What hell did she have to live at home to do this to herself?

Not that she had done it all to herself. She probably got to the streets clean, a little messed up, but completely vulnerable to the likes of that scumbag Tito, and after he got her hooked, that's all she wrote.

I read some Raymond Chandler, who was of no help at all. I guess I'd have to come up with something myself.

Then I did. I did a little preparation work before heading to the Common to sell copies of Loose Change to tourists and average Joe, then later, instead of heading down my alley for the night, I trolled the street corner where the girls sometimes hang out. These all work for Tito, so I had my pick.

Despite my appearance, I managed to convince one young lady to accompany me into one of the Public Alleys. She came without too much fear, so I knew my plan was working.

“Ok, whaddya want?” she asked.

“Just gimme a minute.”

“Your dime,” she said. Her slurred speech showed me she was as high as a kite. Probably didn't even know or care what she was about to do.

I turned and shoved her.

“What the fuck?” she said.

I shoved her again. Not hard, you understand. Just enough to intimidate.

“That's it, mothafucka, I'm gettin' Tito over here.” She pulled out her cell phone and hit speed dial. “Tito, this mothafucka tryin' it on me.”

She hung up after two seconds.

“You don't know who you fuckin' with, douchebag,” she said. I didn't touch her again, and she began walking to the Arlington Street entrance of Alley 422.

Within thirty seconds, Tito pulled up in a black Audi and stormed down the alley towards me. I guess he's used to people winnowing away with fear of him, because he hesitated when I didn't.

“What's your problem, muthafucka?” he shouted. “You gonna get messed up good,” he continued.

“I'm here to talk to you about Jen.”

“What about Jen? What you want with Jen? You want somethin' young and pregnant? Well that's not gonna happen, not no mo'.”

“No, I want her out. Out from under you.”

Tito paused for a second or two and then let out a long hearty laugh.

“Man, you shittin' me! Jen's mine. She's always gonna be mine.”

He was about to launch into me when I leaned back behind a garbage can and pulled out a three-foot long length of steel rebar I had found earlier and swung it at Tito's knee. It hit with a sick thud. I felt the knee cave in as he slumped to the ground, with hardly a leg to stand on.

I hit him again, on the other leg to make sure he wasn't going anywhere. He reached into his pocket and the rebar slammed down on his wrist. I took the gun and threw it down the alley.

I leaned over his face real close so he could smell my breath.

“Jen's out. Understand Tito? She's out!”

He simply shook his head in defiance. He could barely breathe from the pain. “Gonna fuck you up good! You dead!” he hissed out between clenched teeth.

“Lots of people have tried, Tito. Better men than you. Of course that's about all of them, isn't it?”

I reached into Tito's other pocket and got his cell phone. I dialed 911, told them someone had just tried to kill me and gave a location. I wiped it of prints and dropped it next to Tito's head, which I kicked for good measure before heading back out to the street.

Man, I was in the hornet's nest now.

I watched from afar as police and an ambulance showed up at the entrance to the alley and watched as they bound Tito's legs and put him up on a stretcher. I also enjoyed watching the cops arrest him for the drugs I had taken from his pocket and scattered around him, along with the gun I retrieved from up the alley. I had a couple of days peace at least until they let him out on bail for drug trafficking, and maybe more if his prior arrests held sway with a judge. But he'd be out soon and out to get me. Or he'd have one of his boys take me out.

This, I decided, was probably not my best laid plan.

Chapter 6

“Tito's probably gonna go down for the drugs,” Turley told me as we leaned against his Boston Police cruiser the next morning. “But we still can't get him for prostitution, and we have no proof he had anything to do with the girl's baby. The baby's in hospital now, in critical. Sorry to have to tell you.”

Damn. “What was it?”

“Huh?”

“I was in such a state I didn't even find out if the baby was a boy or a girl.”

“Oh. Girl. She was hypothermic when they brought her in, but she was otherwise a healthy baby girl.”

“Otherwise healthy...”

“Look, don't beat yourself up. She might pull through, and that's a hell of a lot better shot than she had if you hadn't come along.”

All I could think of was that hour I was lying there trying to read, pissed off at that damned cat. That precious hour might have made all the difference.

“Well, the girl, Jennifer Walters, isn't going to implicate Tito. She's scared out of her wits, not that she has much wits at the moment. She's in critical too. The nurses won't let us interview her much, and we don't want to distress her at this point anyway. She could go either way. She lost a lot more than blood. That birth tore her up inside. I'm surprised she had the wits to clean the baby off at all, and wrap her up in newspaper against the cold. I'm shocked she could even think straight at that point.”

“There's no way she wrapped that kid up, not in her condition. She had to have had help. Can you get to her, ask her some questions?”

“Not likely. The detectives on the case only get a few minutes with her a day, if that. I certainly can't get in there.”

“So ask them to ask her this when they get another few minutes: Who helped you, and why did you leave the baby?”

“Ok, I'll try. Why?”

“I have a hunch.”

“Good enough for me,” said Turley, who had been on the positive side of more than one of my hunches.

Chapter 7

Knowing Tito didn't know where I spent my nights, and suspecting he wouldn't be out for a few days at least, unless his high-priced lawyers could persuade a judge he was of no danger to himself or others, I continued to bed down for the night at my Alley 437 flop next to the dumpster. Tonight I had to be careful because tomorrow the truck would come and empty all the dumpsters in the alleys, so I would have to temporarily stash my stuff elsewhere.

The next story in “The Simple Art of Murder” was a far better one, and I was looking forward to settling in and reading it. I was passing Alley 422 on my way to 437 when the wind blew up from the Berkeley end of the alley. I smelled something awful. I stopped. The smell was gone, but so was the wind. Then it came up again and I could smell something terrible, rotting.

I walked down the alley. Like mine, this one was lined with dumpsters and plastic recycling bins. I went from one to another trying to find the source of the stench.

About a dozen down, I found it. Oh god. I had to put my hand over my nose. It was awful. It was a large metal dumpster, and I flipped the lid open. Finding nothing immediate, I had to begin digging through. My stomach was churning but I had a bad feeling.

About five minutes later I found it. A grocery store plastic bag tied at the handles holding the tiny body of a second human baby.

That's it. That's enough. I leaned over and threw up. I kept throwing up. I staggered back to the Arlington entrance desperately gasping for some fresh air.

Chapter 8

A detective named Davis was harassing me. He had me shoved up against a wall.

“Why is it you who keeps popping up in this case?” he yelled? His partner held back, hands in pockets, probably waiting for the opportunity to jump in and be good cop.

“Cause I live around here,” I said.

“Well it's a bit of a coincidence isn't it? That you found the abandoned child, that you then found the mother, that you find a second baby, dead, tossed in a dumpster one alley over?”

“Not really a coincidence, cause I live around here,” I said.

“Don't you be a smart-ass with me, shit-head. I'm this close to haulin' your ass in on suspicion!”

“Not so fast, Detective,” said a voice behind me.

Turley.

“I know this man. He had nothing to do with this,” he testified. “How do you know?”

“I've known him for years. He's alright. He didn't have anything to do with this. Let him go.”

“On your uniformed say-so, Officer?”

“On the fact that you have no evidence, circumstantial or otherwise linking this man to these events, except the fact that he lives one alley over, and I know that to be a fact.”

The two detectives let up on me and walked over to the ambulance, having a few words with the EMTs. The ambulance drove off and the Coroner's van left with the remains of the second baby.

After a heated discussion, during which Turley backed down not once, the two detectives got into their car and followed the Coroner. Turley stood there, shaking his head and eventually got back to where I was standing.

“You just got me in the shit,” he said.

“Sorry, Officer Turley, but you know I had nothing to do with this.”

“Do I? I know you're looking into this, and it's police business, not yours.”

I didn't reply to that.

“Look, I know you like to get involved in these things, and we've taken down a bad guy or two in the last little while, but don't let it make you think you're some god-damned private eye or something.”

“Oh, I know I'm not a private eye,” I said. “Private eyes are generally occupied finding some rich old lady's pearls, or so I've read.”

“Bullshit. Real private eyes are usually out spying on cheating couples with a camera and a tape recorder.”

“Well that ain't me either,” I said.

“I know. Look. Just be careful, ok? Stay the hell out of this.”

“But that baby,” I said.

“Yeah... damn. A second girl. Probably a twin. The girl must have delivered twice. That would explain her condition.”

And leave a lot more open to the imagination, I thought.

“You have that look again,” Turley said, eyeing me.

“No I don't,” I said, walking away. I turned. “Thanks. Thanks for getting those detectives offa me.”

“My pleasure.”

Turley walked down to his squad car, got in and drove off down Tremont.

Two babies. One alive. One dead. Two different alleys. And a woman who could barely drag herself over to the Public Garden, let alone clean up and swaddle a baby in paper, and bag a dead one and chuck it in a different alley completely.

She had had help.

Tito.

Chapter 9

A few days passed and snow was coming down, the first flakes of the winter. I woke up before the sun was making much of a show, and rolled over. Right into the barrel of a Glock.

“We meet again.” Tito was standing on crutches about ten feet away. Meanwhile one of his boys was kneeling down with his gun in my face.

“You remember I tole you I was gunna fuck you up? Today's the day.”

“Get up, muthafucka!” said the gunsel. I started to rise, pushing my blanket and tarp away.

Gunsel put a foot on my chest to keep me down. Without much effort. He was heavy, black, muscular, with shaved head and a meaty hand gripping a Glock with tape around the handle. This wasn't good. I looked around for a way out, finding none.

“So here's how it goes down, mah man,” Tito strutted. Or as much as he could strut, propped up on two stilts like that. “Dice here he gonna shoot you once in each leg, and we gonna have a little picnic watchin' you worm around a bit. Got us a couple a hot dogs here. Ain't eaten proper since I posted bail.”

I glanced at his car at the opening of the alley. There was a third man there, I swear, holding a trio of hot dogs purchased from a street trolley up on the Common.

I didn't like my chances of getting out of this, but I had two very small advantages.

One: I knew something about this alley that these guys did not.

Two: I knew something about human psychology that these guys did not.

“So what about Jen? You agreed she was out.” Keep 'em talking. That's the psychology part.

“That ho. Naw, man, she be back on the street soon as she out.”

I didn't doubt he'd have her turning tricks again long before she could heal up.

“And the baby. Yours I assume?” I didn't mention the second baby, which might be considered a third advantage. He didn't know that I knew about the dead one. Or his involvement with her delivery and death.

“Mine? Fuck, naw, man. She was knocked up when I met her. She hit the street like that.”

“So who was the father?”

Tito laughed. His bros laughed too.

“Their daddy was her daddy, man.”

What?

“Why you think she left man? Her mom skipped two years ago. She couldn't handle the idea her hubby was diddlin' her kid but she was scared of him and she booked. But get this – she left the kid with him.”

Oh my god.

“Let's get down to biz, Tito,” Dice said, looking back to his boss. You gotta appreciate an eager employee.

Because he turned, he was off his guard for just a second. Long enough. I rolled.

Here's where I knew something about this alley that they didn't. There's a loose brick in the wall I was sleeping against.

Knowing I couldn't get away, and wanting to play with me for a bit, Dice didn't shoot me. He probably should have. Rather, he just moved with me, and tried to hold me down. That gave me an opportunity to reach in behind the loose brick where I've been keeping an ancient French Lebel pistol I managed to snag during one of my previous investigations. It was old, rusted, but loaded. I kept it that way for just such an occasion.

Knowing Dice was an experienced gunman, I took no chances. I didn't bother pointing the gun at the trio and saying “Hands up, pardners.” Instead, I rolled, and came up shooting.

Bang! The rusty Lebel hurt my hand when I shot it.

And I missed. But that didn't stop Dice from falling over, bleeding from his shoulder. There was a lot of shouting. More than seemed possible.

“Freeze! Police!”

Turley!

Oh thank god! Turley!

When I pushed Dice's couple-hundred-fifty-pounds off me, I could see the two detectives handcuffing Tito and the hot-dog butler at the end of the alley. Turley's gun was still smoking, aimed at Dice and me. He lowered his pistol, and got to cuffing Dice.

“You ok?” he asked me.

“I'm fine, Officer, thank you very much.”

“When I heard Tito made bail I kept my eye on you.”

Turley helped me up, and I was almost able to stand on my own. My shaking legs and hands barely affected my balance. Honest.

“You got them, Detectives?” Turley asked.

“Hard and fast, Officer.” This was the detective who had questioned me earlier. “Many thanks for the tipoff.”

“You're welcome, Detectives.” Turley doffed his hat to them, and they did the same. He had just handed them Tito, a prize that was sure to get them noticed downtown.

I stood, quaking like a leaf in the icy, late fall wind, leaning against the wall because I could not count on my legs holding me up.

“You got him?”

“Hard and fast like the detectives said.”

“On what?”

“His DNA and prints were all over the body of the second twin, the one who didn't make it.”

“Damn. So you really got him?”

“Yup. Infanticide

“That gonna be enough?”

“Easy. And we also got a statement out of Jen Walters. She confirmed that Tito was there when she birthed the twins, and get this – the bastard strangled one right in front of her.”

“What? Jesus!”

“Said that if she ever thought of leaving, he'd kill the other one.”

I had to get away – go somewhere. Anywhere... I began to stumble out of the alley. I needed a drink. I needed to shoot up. I needed something to get this out of my mind.

“You ok?” Turley called.

I didn't reply. I just kept going.

Chapter 10

I walked for what seemed like days. In the confusion Turley had left me with the Lebel. I'm not even sure he knew I had it. It went off just as his did and I tucked it into my coat when I got up. The detectives didn't show any notion that they had heard a second shot either. If Turley had seen it, he didn't let on.

I wandered, senseless, or so I thought. I crossed over into Cambridge and just kept walking. Somewhere along the way I checked a phone book, one of those ancient archaeological tomes that you sometimes still find on disused street corners in something once called a 'phone booth'.

With some change in my pocket I made a few calls and circled an address on a page with a piece of pencil I found in the booth.

I ripped the page out of the book and kept walking, looking at streets. It felt like days, but by the time I turned the corner onto Quincy Street it was just past 5:30pm.

When I knocked a man answered. He was about my age, perhaps a bit younger. Clean-cut, five o'clock shadow, looked like a man who just got home from work.

His nose turned up at my appearance and he began to close the door again.

“Vic Walters?” I asked. He stopped closing the door.

“Yeah, who's asking?” he replied.

“You have a daughter named Jennifer?”

“Yes, why? What's this about? Is Jennifer ok?”

I pulled the gun out from my neoprene parka and shoved it against his head, pushing his body inside the house. I didn't even close the door.

I pushed the gun into his forehead, his head now hitting a wall by his kitchen. I pushed harder. The man didn't fight back. He was in shock.

“Whaddyou want? Leave me alone!” he said, finally regaining his ability to speak.

“Your own daughter!” I shouted.

“What?”

I searched his eyes for some hope that Tito had been lying. That I was wrongfully assaulting an innocent man, a loving father.

I didn't see it. I saw what I had feared. Now what was I going to do?

All along, on this trip, I knew I was going to kill this man for what he did to his own teenaged daughter. Now I couldn't go through with it.

My need for alcohol, heroin – anything – drained from me with a rush of adrenaline. The gun was still forming a small donut shaped divot on his forehead.

“Your own daughter!” I shouted again.

“What do you want?” he shouted, desperately.

“I want you to know that I know what you did!” I said, calmly but fiercely, my voice forming an unconscious growl.

“Ok, ok, ok, I did it. It was me! Don't kill me!” he pleaded, tears streaming down his face, he was trembling and lost control of his knees. He slumped to the floor, the gun staying exactly where it was. I slumped with him.

I moved the gun to that soft spot under his chin and shoved. Hard.

“I could fucking kill you right now,” I said. “Do you see that?”

He nodded, sobbing now.

“Say it!” I demanded.

“Ok, ok, I got my own daughter pregnant! Please don't kill me!” He was a melting puddle on his floor.

I stood up, turned around and walked out.

It took hours for me to get back to Boston and my alley.

Three thousand three hundred fifty three days sober. And not liking my chances of reaching three thousand three hundred fifty four. 3428 days sober

Chapter 1

Winter in Boston can be very dangerous to people like me. Life on the street has its hazards most seasons – too much heat in the summer, too much cold in the winter. You'd think winter would kill us easier, but they say more homeless people die in summer from dehydration and heat stroke. Winter can be borne easier by someone not too old. And the shelters are there if needed, even it they are often overfull. During the harsher cold snaps the shelter workers even prowl the streets looking for us, imploring us to take refuge inside. If you ever meet a shelter worker, shake their hand. They deserve it.

Me, I was fairly comfortable in my new-to-me parka. Neoprene shell, high-efficiency stuffing, hood. I bought it at a Thrift Store and it didn't exactly break the bank. I got it for just about eighteen dollars last month. With healthy late-fall sales of Loose Change, the bi-weekly newspaper sold by the homeless to passersby, I was easily able to get myself kitted up for winter. It was too cold today to pick up my bundle, I'd do it tomorrow.

Huddled in a v-shaped space between two small outbuildings in Boston Common, I saw Old Fernie, trying to stay out of the bitter cold wind.

“Fernie!” I called. He turned around, wind whipping his gray afro crazily about.

“Hola amigo,” he said.

“Hola,” I said. I could probably carry on part of a conversation in Spanish, but not easily. Fernie likely could. I've learned over the years he speaks several languages, thought I knew Spanish was not his native tongue.

“Turley's been looking for you,” he said.

I hadn't seen Turley in weeks. Which is weird because he's usually posted outside the Common on Tremont Street. Lately, the car's been occupied by an unfamiliar face. A not-so friendly face. We liked Officer Turley. He had our backs when necessary. He's been known to call a truck to get one of us into a clean bed for the night at one of the many hospitals. He sometimes keeps things in his car for street people. He's even given away some used clothes and stuff. Good guy, Turley.

“Ok,” I said.

“No, I mean he's looking for you. Official-like.”

“Really? Wonder why. He looking for information on something?”

“Didn't say. And it was how he didn't say it that perked up my ears.”

“Ok, thanks.”

We stood in the v-shaped hollow for a while as I pondered the news, but I was on my way to bed down for the night, so I bade Old Fernie adieu and walked westward across Charles Street and into the Public Garden.

Chapter 2

Wind was whipping walls of dry snow into Public Alley 437 where I spend my nights. I pulled my hood up against the blizzard-like winds as I went in. Far down, I could see a man in a suit and overcoat looking around my dumpster.

I slowed my approach. Not the first time someone's been poking around my stuff.

The man turned and called my name. His voice was familiar but I didn't recognize him.

You know how you see someone every day for years in a given context and then suddenly you see him outside the normal situation? Like seeing your postman in the grocery store in shorts and a tee-shirt. He recognizes you, probably, but you have no idea who he is. Recognition slowly dawned. This was Turley, a cop I've known for years. Hell, I've even seen him down my alley several times before but I've never seen him out of uniform. Until now.

“Officer Turley,” I said in greeting.

“Detective Turley,” he said. “Got a moment?”

“Absolutely. Anything for you, Off... Detective. Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks. Mind if I ask you where you were about midnight last night?”

“Huh?”

“Do you have an alibi for midnight last night?”

I didn't like where this was going.

“I was here. It was freezing. I was huddled under my blanket.”

“Anyone with you?”

“No.”

“I'm gonna have to ask you to come down to the station and answer a few questions.”

“You shittin' me?”

“Wish I was. I'm arresting you on suspicion of the the murder of one Derek Mosley at the Hatch Shell last night.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Turn around please.”

“I don't even know anyone named Derek Mosley.”

“His picture was in Loose Change. I know you read every issue, and you recognized his picture. We found his fingerprints in relation to an old cold case. And guess whose case it was?”

I looked at him, stunned. I hadn't seen Loose Change today.

“Look, let's not make a thing of it. Just turn around please.”

I turned around and put my hands behind my back. Turley got close, and as I heard the cuffs in his hands I knew he was standing just in front of a loose cinder block on the pavement. I pushed backward, knocking him over onto the snowy asphalt. I hated doing that.

Now, I'm not a young man anymore, but I've been in jail and I wasn't ever doing that again. And you'd be surprised how fast you can run in a lithe neoprene parka when the air is cool and fresh as you breathe it in. My lungs felt turbo-charged and I ran like a race car.

I'm sure Turley knows these streets but he doesn't know them like I do. I broke for the Public Garden where I was confident I could evade capture. I heard Turley struggling after me, calling into his radio for backup. I mean I really didn't like where this night was going. It was like a chapter out of Kafka, or a scene from an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

Chapter 3

I couldn't risk going back to my dumpster, and that meant no tarp, no warm blankets. I had to sleep under bushes near the Fens. I woke up shivering. This isn't good. Turley's been a friend for years, and now he's trying to take me in for murdering someone. And I didn't even have any idea who I was supposed to have murdered.

But I got a sick feeling in my stomach. An old cold case, and guess whose case it was? God, I hoped that didn't mean what I thought it meant.

I had to know. But I couldn't risk picking up my own batch of Loose Change. Turley would have the newspaper drop zones staked out.

Instead I prowled around the fringes of Downtown, hoping to see someone else selling the paper. It didn't take long. Wrapped in a long elegant duffel coat and wearing white gloves, the Concierge – that's his nickname – was hawking the paper not far outside the Prudential building. I offered him a buck for a copy. He said “Free for you, my man,” and gave me one. I gratefully accepted it and slinked back into an alley.

The cover story was about an art theft in behind Beacon Hill. There was a picture of what looked like a wealthy businessman, taken in his living room, with paintings on the wall. Another photo showed a minor Vermeer, a small sketch, but worth a small fortune. And a third photo was blurred beyond recognition. It showed a stocky man with short blonde hair. The caption said it was taken from the victim's home security cameras. I looked at the blurred image again. And slowly, recognition came and my legs lost all of their strength.

Grasping for anything nearby, and finding nothing, I fell to the cold, slushy pavement. I lost all control and started blithering like a baby. I think it went on for hours, the paper sogging in the wet snow.

Chapter 4

I could barely bring myself to open the paper again, and even though it was now thoroughly wet, I braved it and looked once more at that face. A face that I hadn't seen in over thirteen years, and I'd only seen it once. Once was enough to burn it into my brain forever.

Dead. The bastard was dead. Turley was right. He had every reason to suspect me, because had I seen this issue when I should have, a couple of days ago, I would have killed the bastard myself with my bare hands. I would have wrapped my hands around that neck and squeezed until there was no life left in his accursed body.

I looked at the other images again. A man identified as Martin Sprech, photographed in a fine living room with several paintings on the wall, with a noticeable empty space which, presumably, had held the Vermeer sketch until two thieves brazenly broke in and stole it about a week ago. During the invasion Sprech had been brutally beaten. His wife had also been beaten.

Wait. In the photo were several paintings including a small Rembrandt, but what caught my eye was the lower corner of the grouping – one that looked oddly familiar. The more I examined it the more I knew that painting. I knew it very well. It was an old friend I hadn't seen in over thirteen years.

I read the article thoroughly. I had to talk to Mr. Sprech. The article didn't mention an exact address, but he lived on Acorn Street, which is in behind Beacon Hill. Acorn wasn't a long street. It shouldn't be too hard to find Mr. Sprech.

It was dark by the time I got there, just after dinner time for those who have dinner. I surreptitiously checked some mail stuck out of mailboxes and found Sprech's door on the corner of Cedar and Acorn. I knocked.

At first I saw and heard nothing. Then I noticed a curtain move to my side, from a shuttered window. Then I saw a light turn on over my head and I saw a curtain move aside in a window in the door.

“What is it?” came a voice from within. He sounded frightened.

I yelled out my name, and I told Mr. Sprech that I was here about the stolen painting.

“My lawyers are handling the missing Vermeer,” he shouted. “Please leave.”

“Mr. Sprech, it's not the Vermeer I'm here to speak to you about, it's the Mathers. 'Public Garden Bridge'. Can I talk to you about it?”

“No. Please go away.”

“Mr Sprech, look behind it. On the bottom corner of the back canvas you'll find a pair of initials and a date.” I told him the initials, and the date. “There is a message that says 'On your wedding day'. Can I please talk to you about it?”

I got no response. The light went out.

I waited. And waited. I got the idea Sprech may be on the phone to the Boston PD so I started back up towards Beacon Hill. Before I got three houses down, I heard Sprech's door open.

“Please... please come in,” he said.

Grateful to get out of the cold, I rushed inside the door.

The place was very beautiful, with a deep atrium-like foyer and a stairway leading up to the second floor. These houses look small from the outside, but they are incredibly spacious once you see them from the inside. He invited me into the living room where we could discuss the painting in its presence.

“I looked. I saw the initials.”

He went to a cabinet nearby. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“No thanks,” I said. “Three thousand four hundred twenty nine days sober.”

He nodded his understanding and continued to pour one for himself. Then we turned to the back wall. Look at us. Two sophisticated gentlemen conversing about art.

“This does indeed appear to be a wedding present, and from the date, it was a wedding that took place in 1980,” he said. “This painting, it was yours wasn't it?”

“Yes,” I said. I pointed out my initials and told him my name. I mentioned my wife's name. “We were married in 1980. The painting was commissioned for us by my wife's rather well-off parents. It was one of our favorite places, the bridge over the Public Garden.”

“I don't know what to say,” he stood looking at the painting. “I bought it just about three years ago in a shop on Newbury Street. And I'm not stupid enough to think that you'd be here if it wasn't stolen. It was stolen, wasn't it?”

“Yes. A home invasion back in 1998. Circumstances very similar to your own invasion last week. What can you tell me about it?”

“It was horrifying. A man knocked on the door claiming he was a courier. I opened it without thinking and the next thing I knew two men were storming in and I was out cold on the floor. I woke up and my wife was lying next to me, bruised and beaten. The Vermeer was gone.”

“Where is your wife now?”

“She's out with friends. She's ok, but she needed to see her friends. I imagine this whole thing was more traumatizing for her than it was for me.”

“I imagine.” I had to wonder if Mosley and his partner had followed his previous MO here. If so, I wasn't about to ask, and I doubt Sprech would be that candid with me.

“What can you tell me about the – perpetrators?”

“The one I saw clearest, the one who shows up on my security camera, was short, blonde, had a gruff voice and was very efficient. I mean he had me knocked down before I could even see that his courier uniform was a fake. He must have known his art, because he took the Vermeer but left your Mather, not a valueless piece but not on the level of the Vermeer, and didn't take the reproduction Rembrandt, even though it is a very very convincing copy. Registered of course. I'm not trying to pass it off as original, I just liked it and could afford a very accurate copy. I'm proud to own it.”

“The implication being that the blonde man either recognized it for the fake it was, or knew through some information he had received that it was a fake.”

“I assume so. Gillian, who was conscious during the theft, said he examined it closely but left it.”

“Really? That means he did an on-the-spot appraisal?”

“So she thought, yes.”

“Is there anything more you can tell me about him or his partner?”

“I'm afraid not. Gillian gave everything she knew to the police, and it wasn't much either. I'm afraid we were not very helpful with the police. Just physical descriptions mostly.” I had read those in Loose Change.

“Ok, Mr. Sprech. You've been good to give me this much of your time. I won't take up any more of it. But before I go can you tell me where you bought it?”

“Certainly. It was the Fresco Gallery on Newbury Street. I buy a lot of pieces there. They also arranged the commissioned Rembrandt copy through a reputable art restoration business in town.”

I turned to leave, but Sprech's hesitance stopped me.

“Look, I bought this Mather in good faith,” he said. “But it's clearly not mine to own. I'd like you to have it.” He walked toward the painting, a modern impressionistic view of the Public Garden bridge at sunset, and I have to admit it ached to see it again. He began to take it from the wall.

“Please. Mr. Sprech. You keep it.” I had last seen this painting on the wall of my own living room. “I can't bring myself to look at it anymore.”

Chapter 5

The next day I walked down Newbury until I found the steps leading up to Fresco Gallery. I opened the door, stepped inside and stomped some of the snow from my boots, shivering audibly. The cold rapidly disappeared in a very well-heated gallery. Before I could turn around a lovely young lady approached me asking if she could help me choose a beautiful work of art... until I did turn around. She recoiled almost instantly, but regained her composure.

“Actually, I was looking for some information about a painting sold here over three years ago.”

“Three years, look, Mister... uh...” I declined to offer my name. “Look, those records will have been moved to storage.”

“Sure. I understand. You'd know this painting. It was a Mather painted in 1980. 'Public Garden Bridge at Sunset', an impressionistic work.”

“I'm afraid I can't really talk about our inventory or our records. Now if you'll excuse me...” She turned to go, probably to phone Security.

“I just want some information about the painting.”

She pretended I had already walked out.

“Look, Miss, I'm not here to cause trouble. Really, I'm not. I just need to know where you acquired it.”

She picked up a desk phone near the counter.

I raised my voice. “Or should I just make sure everyone else knows it was a stolen painting?” The few patrons that were in the shop perked up their ears.

She froze. She glanced to each side and leaned forward, and spoke in a harsh whisper. “I don't know what you're playing at, sir, but I can assure you...”

“You can't assure me of anything. That painting was stolen and it was stolen from me, so don't tell me you can't help me.”

She was in a quandary now. Alerting Security may be the last thing she'd want to do. Well, the very last thing would be to involve the police when doing so may expose the shop to a devastating very public reputation-ruining accusation of art theft.

“What do you want?” she hissed.

“I would like to know where the painting was acquired, and when.”

“That painting was acquired through a reputable art restoration business on East Berkeley Street. Berkeley Restorations. Their restorers are top-notch. We use them frequently and recommend them liberally to our clientele. This is the first time I'm hearing about any stolen paintings coming from there. I guess anyone can purchase lost pieces if the works are lesser-known.”

I conceded that point. Still. The theft wasn't very secret.

“Miss Uh, I'd like to thank you for your cooperation.”

She seemed very eager to get rid of me, and sighed in an obvious exhalation of breath when I turned towards the door.

“Be seeing you,” I added, implying that I might further darken her door if I wasn't satisfied with the information.

Chapter 6

I walked down to East Berkeley, hugging the buildings as closely as I could. Now and then a police cruiser would come by and I'd just huddle in a doorway against the chill wind, lifting my parka hood up close.

When I got there the building was dark. Berkeley Restorations was an unassuming building made from an old car repair garage that was probably a bustling business back in the 1950s before the city densed up and garages moved out to the suburbs for the most part.

I stood on a corner watching. I'm not dumb, I told myself. I tried reasoning things out. If Turley's people had ID'd the guy through fingerprints, and Turley had run the prints through the databases and come up with a hit from an unidentified suspect connected to a case that has been cold since 2001, then Mosley was very good at hiding himself, or very careful about not leaving witnesses. And it was Mosley all those years ago. Mosley and his partner. I remembered the two men, and Mosley was not the ringleader. He was the muscle, the guy just following the leader.

And it certainly gave Turley a reason to suspect me, especially since the mug's mug was plastered all over Loose Change, which I'm well-known for selling. But I hadn't picked up the papers yet and didn't even know what had gone down until Turley tried to take me in.

Shit. I couldn't blame Turley. But he came at me with not a whole load of anything but circumstantial evidence.

I waited a good fifteen minutes, saw no activity, and approached the building. Before I got to within 50 feet of the place I heard patrolmen shouting: “Stop!” They began running at me from two different stake-out points, places I thought I had cleared in my watchful vigil. Nope.

That was it, I had to run. Again. I'm getting too old for this shit.

Luckily East Berkeley connects to Harrison, and what's on Harrison but the Pine Tree Inn, a homeless shelter I use sometimes. I often take meals there, and at one point I gave them quite a nice donation. I ran for all it was worth. One of the officers must have gone for his patrol car because I saw only one running behind me up the street. Sure enough, within seconds the cruiser took the corner, lights blaring, sirens screaming.

I made it to the shelter, ran in and immediately hid among the rest of the occupants. Slowly I made my way down a hallway past a group of workers in chef's garb and out the back door. From there I was easily able to make it back to my old haunts, but I knew I couldn't get back to my alley, my blankets. Was going to be another cold night unless I found something to help. Times like this I wish I could talk to Old Fernie for advice, but even getting to him was too much to risk.

Chapter 7

I booked some time on a computer at the Public Library and started browsing. I looked up the Vermeer that Sprech had had stolen, the Rembrandt he had had copied and my own Mathers piece. The news was all abuzz about the Vermeer. No mention of the Rembrandt. No reason there should be. And the only articles about my Mathers went back to before the internet was really a big thing, not long after it was stolen.

I was able to find out more about Berkeley Restorations too. Everything I read about it was positive. It started up a year or two after my case. My case. That certainly sanitizes it, makes it a nice convenient package doesn't it? It was anything but.

I found out that Mosley began by selling paintings he'd find at yard sales. He'd make sales through private individuals, which means it wouldn't have been difficult to push my Mathers off to an unsuspecting buyer. Later, he could buy it back from the same guy, still at a fraction of what it was worth, and then sell it for a decent profit to the Fresco Gallery. By now the painting had changed hands enough to introduce some plausible deniability. And so it goes.

My painting ended up on display minutes from where I spent the last ten years – Public Alley 437.

Now it hangs in the home of an unsuspecting man who, thanks to the connection between Fresco and Berkeley Restorations, was the victim of a home invasion, brutal beating and art theft himself. By the very men that did the same to me.

So Mosley steals some art, sells some and somehow gets into the legitimate business of restoration. Could be he used the money he got from my painting, as well as who knows how many others, and started up a legit business.

So why now? Why thirteen years later would he risk it all to steal again? Why risk getting caught and being put away? Especially getting connected to a cold case that looked to get him sent away likely for life?

I could only think of one thing. The other perp – his partner – must have been away. Jail? Thirteen years away, and comes back, looks up his buddy and like that embarrassing college roommate you're just trying to forget, coerces you back into his old habits? And you can't refuse, otherwise you'd be exposed. This guy had him right where he wanted him. I felt that this was indeed the dynamic between the two back then. It made sense.

And now one was dead and the other was in the wind, and I'd likely never find him.

I hadn't needed a drink this much in - three thousand four hundred thirty days.

Chapter 8

A couple of uncomfortable days later, having slept however I could during some very cold nights, I thought it might be safe to revisit Berkeley Restorations. When I arrived, and having endured a much longer, more careful scoping out of the place, I snuck around back and tried to see where I could get inside. Police crime scene tape was covering the exits, but other than that, the place looked completely abandoned.

The rear door was fitted with a very strong security lock. Which had been destroyed probably by police breaking in to investigate Mosley's murder. A replacement lock was holding it shut. Leave it to the police to think this lock would hold. The door was isolated from the streets so I just kicked it in.

There were no lights on inside but if I left the door open I could at least see my way around. This would be riskier if I had used the door facing the street.

It was a working art shop. There were statues standing next to tables with cleaning solvents, there were easels with paintings on them in various states of cleaning and repair. It looked legit. Of course I couldn't tell if there was any illegal reproduction going on. It would take an expert to determine if any fraudulent activity was being perpetrated here, just by eye.

It seemed a fairly unsecured place to restore and clean valuable art. They were dealing with lesser works, nothing too expensive. Otherwise there would have been extremely tight security measures.

I could see signs of a struggle, and blood, outlined by numbered chalk circles. The police had been thorough in their examination of the crime scene. Mosley had obviously been murdered here and his body moved to the Hatch Shell, probably to throw the police off the scent. Good plan. It had worked very well so far.

I had a good look around. I saw small Polaroids hung on a bulletin board labeled “Classic Work”. The Polaroids were of some very fine paintings, and it appeared they all had gone through this shop. A wrinkle fixed here, a rip repaired there, whole generations of cigarette smoke removed from the faces of paintings... the bulletin board looked like a trophy case displaying their proudest work.

I almost expected to see the Vermeer sketch, or the Mathers. Even the Rembrandt copy. Nothing. It all looked too legitimate to be run by an art thief – and worse. Much worse.

There was an office room behind a frosted glass door. I tried it but it was locked. I looked for another way in. Not hopeful, since these small buildings usually had rooms with only one entrance. I walked the perimeter of the room and met up with another wall. Something about this was peculiar. I ran outside.

I walked to one end of the building and began counting paces as I walked to the other end. I ran back inside and repeated the process. I started laughing and looking for the hidden panel or door that would open onto the secret work room.

I moved easels, cabinets, shelves. Nothing. I knew the entrance had to be inside that locked office, so fuck it, I just kicked until the door gave way and pushed my way in. I felt safe turning the lights on because it was a completely internal room with no window. I went back to close the back door. This way no passing police officer would be alerted.

And there it was. If you weren't looking for it it would have been invisible. But once you knew it was there, the single sheet of old pressboard paneling in lime green wood grain stuck out like a sore thumb. And the fact that it was screwed into place - not nailed - meant it was intended to be removed. I found a screwdriver on the desk and got to work.

The room was small, but here's where this company made its real money, I guessed. On the floor I saw several reproductions of famed works of art. There was even another Vermeer. And not a sketch – a full painting: two ladies, one playing an ornately painted grand piano or harpsichord, another standing, looking like she's singing from a song sheet or something, and a man with his back to the painter sitting in a chair listening to the concert. Why did this ring a bell with me? It wasn't the Vermeer Sprech had had stolen.

In the center of the room was a workbench made up of a metal grate, and a recessed space underneath it. There was a drill, and a number of other tools, chisels, files, things needed to restore and clean art. And not far from this stood a small apparatus for melting down metal. There were lead ingots next to the melting pot.

Next to the bench on the wall were Polaroids of a gold statuette standing about fourteen inches, on an ebony base. The statuette was of a dancing sprite or dryad. On a small desk nearby were some handwritten notes. The notes indicated the statuette was solid gold and indicated an exact weight in grams.

There was, however, no statuette.

There was a name and address on the notes. The client, one James Huntington, of an address on Beacon Hill, had picked the article up a few days ago. Not surprising. If you can afford to live on Beacon Hill, you can afford a solid gold cast statuette I guess.

Chapter 9

It was a good couple of days later and I felt it might be safe to venture back to my dumpster and at least retrieve my blanket and tarp. I was very careful. No one was around. I got the tarp and my blanket and headed back out the alley. As I was nearing the entrance a police cruiser slammed to a halt right in front of me. I turned and ran only to see Turley and two more beat cops behind him.

“Don't run,” Turley said. “There's no need.”

I was scanning the alley for a way around them. It was futile. I dropped my blanket and raised my hands.

“Put 'em down. We know it wasn't you. You can relax.”

“What?”

“We went to Mosley's restoration shop last week. We found signs of a struggle. The ME assures us the murder happened there.”

“Which lets me off how?”

“The body was dragged to a car and driven to the Esplanade where it was dragged to the Hatch Shell and deposited. Now unless you've been holding out on me and have a car stashed somewhere here...”

I slowly lowered my arms.

“Seriously. You're in the clear. I just wanted you to know.” He turned to the two officers behind him and the one that had blocked my exit. “It's ok, I got it. Thanks, officers.” The uniformed cops walked a circle around me and left the alley.

“So that's it?” I said.

“No, that's not it, but you're in the clear at least. We still don't know who did it, but we know where and we know how. That's a start.”

I slumped down to my knees and breathed.

“Sorry I suspected you, but look, I had every reason.”

He was right. I'da suspected me.

“Fingerprints taken at your house after you called the police in 1998 were definitely a match for the victim. We know he was one of two who broke into your house, beat and sexually assaulted your wife and your daughter, fourteen at the time, and stole some valuable art items.”

He knew it all. All these years on the street I never told a damn soul what happened that night. At least not all of it. I figured if I kept it inside it was like it never happened. Even Old Fernie doesn't know that my wife and child were raped in front of me while I was ratchetstrapped to the stair bannister. No one knew that except the Police, and they could never catch the bastards who did it. And now one was dead.

“Yeah. Look, I'm truly sorry... for what happened. And I want you to know I read the case file. The cops on the job at the time really did put in the effort. They just had so little to go on. They even kept an eye out nationally for the sale of any of the art that you reported missing. Eventually the case went cold. These things happen.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Turley stood with me for a long time. I eventually felt the adrenaline leave my body, and I was ready to collapse from exhaustion. Turley finally started walking away down the alley towards Arlington leaving me with a job to do.

“Turley!” I shouted.

He turned. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

“And...”

“Yeah?”

“You might want to go back to Berkeley Restorations and have another look 'round.

“Why?”

“'Night, Detective.”

I turned and went back to my dumpster, but not for the night. Not yet. I had somewhere to go.

Chapter 10

I dragged my exhausted carcass up to Beacon Hill, found the address of Mr. James Huntington and knocked on the door.

Some time later I could see through a draped glass door-front, a man approaching. He pulled aside the drape. He didn't like what he saw and began walking back to what he had been so rudely interrupted from.

“Mr. Huntington, it's about the statuette we cleaned for you!” He stopped abruptly, turned slowly, and came back to the door.

Now I like to think of myself as a basically honest man. I'm on the streets and sometimes it's hard to feed myself, but I never steal. I often walk through the open-air market in behind Faneuil Hall, which is full of fresh produce, but I have never swiped as much as an apple. I pay my way, thanks in part to my newspaper sales and an occasional influx of money from nosing around in other people's problems. But I have a confession to make. When I was poking through Berkeley Restorations I did steal something. A business card. But hey, it's like they want you to have those anyway, so it wasn't really stealing.

I held up the stolen card to the door's glass window and the man read it. He opened the door.

“Mr. Huntington?”

“Yes, I am he.”

“It's about the statuette. The golden dryad. We did a cleaning job for you.”

“Yes...” he said, hesitantly.

“I've come because I discovered a slight problem with the statuette, and I think I can clear it up.”

“Ok...”

“May I come in?”

He took another long look at me, and I confess that I didn't look much like a reputable art restorer, but then what does a reputable art restorer look like? If you've read the Lovejoy series by Jonathan Gash, the title character is an art divvy, a diviner, and he basically looks like a tramp. I could be cast to play him any day.

“Certainly.” He stood aside and I entered.

There in the corner of his living room stood the lovely dryad on its ebony base. Its gold luster was magnificent. It really was a beautiful work.

“Yes, you see,” I began, “my assistant did some of the cleaning and I am embarrassed to say that he did not as thorough a job with the polishing as I would have done, and I'm here to rectify the situation.” I glanced around the room hoping to see a clock. I didn't. Do people even have clocks on walls anymore? It's all smart phones these days. Do people even wear watches anymore?

“Mr. … Sorry, I didn't catch your name...”

“Dyson. Ted Dyson.” I told him the name on the card – one of Mosley's employees. So for now I was Ted Dyson, specialist in gold cleaning.

“Mr. Dyson. What can I do for you?”

“If you don't mind, I'd like to finish the job. It will only take a few minutes with my trusty cleaning solution,” I pulled from my pocket a cloth rag and a small bottle of minty breath spray that had a very generic looking label. What? It's not like we can all shop at name-brand stores.

“Uh... sure... I don't see the harm. But I wasn't... dissatisfied with the cleaning.”

He was acting somewhat suspicious, but then he was talking to a strange man he had never met before who had insinuated himself into his house containing some priceless art.

I examined the statue and pretended to appraise its lackadaisical polish. “Tut, tut, tut... Terence did a poor job on the shoulder and the underarms. Lazy man. I must apologize for his less-than-professional effort, Mr. Huntington. Still, I'll only be a few minutes...” I began whistling as I sprayed the golden statue with the minty breath spray and began rubbing it with the cloth rag.

I picked the statue up and it came clean off the base. I pretended that was natural. Of course it should have been fastened tightly to the base. Under the statuette I saw several cylindrical plugs that were most decidedly not gold. I put the statue back as if that was exactly how it should be. And I had discovered the motive.

“I think that more or less does it, Mr. Huntington. I appreciate your patience and your indulgence, and again I apologize for the unprofessional work of my colleague. I will certainly be having words with him tomorrow morning.”

I turned to leave and was confronted with a pistol inches from my face.

“How stupid do you think I am, Mr Dyson?”

“Pardon me?” I said, trying to look shocked and affronted.

“Shut up. You think you can pretend you don't know I killed your boss, but I already know you know, or you at least suspect. Well you're right. I killed the son-of-a-bitch. No one cheats me out of thousands of dollars and gets away with it! Oh, it was such a clean job, I almost didn't suspect, and I wouldn't have if I hadn't dropped the statuette trying to place it on its pedestal stand.”

“Look, Mr. Huntington, I'm not...”

“Shut up. Your boss was a crook, Mr. Dyson. I saw what he did to that statuette. Do you know that it's pure solid gold? Of course you do, you work in art restoration.

“I'm not stupid. I weighed the piece when I got it back. I'm wise to these tricks. And do you know what? It weighed exactly the same as when I brought it in for cleaning. So you see he almost got away with it.

“But then I dropped it and the base snapped off. That's when I saw the drill holes in the body of the statuette filled with cheap lead, and because lead weighs less than gold, some holes were drilled into the ebony base and filled with lead to compensate. I mean this statuette weighed exactly the same, but now contains thousands of dollars less gold! Fucking thief!”

I was looking for clocks again, desperately. How much time had passed since I saw Turley? I was really counting on Turley being as diligent as I always suspected he would be. It shouldn't take him long to find the hidden room, since I left the panel wide open, and the address... where the hell was he?

Before I could take another breath there was a knock on the door.

“Mr. Huntington! Detective Turley, Boston Homicide. Could you please open the door?”

Huntington shoved the pistol into my nose. “Don't make a fucking sound. I'm going to the door and I'm going to get rid of the cop.”

He turned and I reached back and toppled that precious gold statuette which hit the ground with a godawful racket with me close behind. Turley looked into the window and saw me on the floor.

“Mr. Huntington, I'm coming in!” He began to kick at the door. Huntington turned his pistol to the door and got a shot off before Turley burst in and shot Huntington clean in the chest.

Huntington fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Turley kicked the gun away from his dead hand and ran to me. He kneeled and said “You ok?”

“I am. Better get your boys in here.”

“Already on their way.”

“You'll find Mosley's fingerprints all over that statuette. That and a close examination of the statuette will provide your motive.”

“But you, you're not hurt?”

“I'm fine. What the hell took you so long?”

Chapter 11

I was sitting with Turley in his office which he shares with three other junior detectives. It was late at night and we were alone. Turley had opened a beer and offered one to me. I declined, regretfully.

“You're partly responsible for this badge,” he said, pointing to his new detective shield. “Sure, I passed the exam, but what really got me in was the serious collars I was bringing in. For a beat cop to bring in murderers, drug dealers, international war criminals, well... let's say that got their attention. I have you to thank for it.”

“Glad I could be of help,” I said.

“Doing a search on the vic's fingerprints led us directly to a cold case. There was no identification, but his prints were filed in the database. He's evaded identification for years. I found this in the locker.”

He pointed to an aged white file box with hand-printed Sharpie writing on the label. “Recognize the name?”

I did.

“I read through your case, and you can probably understand why I suspected you for this murder. And let me tell you straight up. Looking at this box, if I were in your shoes I'da fucking done it, and slept better at night knowing I did.”

“Sure, but you were wrong.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“I mean yes, I read Loose Change every chance I get, but I wouldn't have connected that bad, blurry photo. When I finally saw it, you helped put the photo into context and that's when I recognized the guy. By then he was already dead, and I think I'm glad he was, otherwise I'd be out there now tracking the bastard down so I could kill him myself.”

I stared at the box on Turley's desk. I bet I knew every slip of paper in there, and I knew what they all said.

Turley tapped the evidence box on the lid. “This isn't the whole story is it?”

“Not by a long shot.”

“So tell me the rest.”

“You know most of if, if you've read that file.”

“Yes, but it doesn't explain what happened after. There's no new information, nothing's been added to it since the case went cold back in early 2001 or so. But I know you, at least a little. I know that this can't be the only reason you're... you're where you are.”

“Yeah.”

“So you gonna tell me the rest?”

“Ok.”

I paused. Man, I hadn't done this in a long, long time. But I figured I'd just tell it like it was and it'd be out there. No emotion. Just facts.

“Lisa, my daughter, she was 14. She tried to pretend it never happened, you know? Just kept going. Or so we thought. Then one day I saw the cuts on her wrists. Light cuts, but cuts nonetheless. Tresa and I panicked a bit, and then we talked to the psychiatrist about putting her in care for a while, someone to watch her, and for her to get extensive therapy. Things were going fine, or so we thought. The doctors reported good progress. Then she came home and over a period of a few months we could see improvement in her demeanor. She smiled more. She started going to movies again, with us. Then one night she took a full month's supply of her tranquilizer. Tresa found her in her bed the next morning.”

“Damn.”

“I bet that's not in that file.”

“No it's not.”

“That's when the real marital troubles began. You probably know not many marriages survive the loss of a child, especially an only child. Tresa pulled away from me – away from her life. She pulled back from her friends, her parents had both died in the past few years, she had no family close. I suggested therapy and she just said 'That sure helped Lisa.' I let it go.

“Me, well, I don't know how I got through. Lisa was my delight. I used to take her everywhere. We'd laugh together, play together. Until she was about 12 a night didn't go by that I didn't read to her. She loved it. Sometimes we'd read alternating sentences or paragraphs to each other. Reading and laughing. That's what I remember most.

“We used to love the Egyptian wing of the MFA. She loved to play on the Make Way for Ducklings statues, and sit on the Tortoise and the Hare, even as she grew older. I couldn't imagine life without her. It never occurred to me that I would ever have to.

“But when she died, I grieved in my own way, which was not visibly. I'm sure from the outside it looked cold. But I didn't know of another way.

“One day I went to school as usual. I'm on the road by 6:30am. I had a normal day teaching and then came home. Tresa was in the bath. I opened the door and saw her in the tub, with a bottle of red wine on the edge, and hundreds of photos of Lisa taped to the walls. A huge mosaic of her beautiful, futile childhood in one gestalt image. Lisa at the Swan Boats, Lisa at the Duckling statues, Lisa at the playground. I guess Tresa had fallen asleep in the tub. She spilled some of her wine too. Clumsy of her. I tried to wake her, but the water was cold, and she was cold. And there was too much wine in the water. The bottle was only half-empty. But the tub was completely red.

“I called the paramedics and the police came and sealed off the room, the Crime Scene people pored over our house, looking for whatever. I was questioned as a person of interest. Naturally. Until they could confirm Tresa killed herself I was a suspect. It didn't take long to rule it a suicide.

“Then came the day of the funeral. The ceremony would be in an hour and I took my sweet time walking around my house having a look at it. One last look, I knew. I walked out the front door and never looked back. I didn't even go to the funeral. I walked street after street with no plan except one – never to look at that house again. It was paid for and it was nothing to me but an empty building.

“If you're looking for details of the next year, I'm going to have to disappoint you. I don't remember much of it, not until I met Old Fernie who knocked me about and told me to get the fuck on with it - that I had to live. He was right but I couldn't handle it. It was not far into September 2001 that life showed me that there were worse things. There were things people had to go through that were just as bad as what I had to, or worse. That Tuesday I got off the drugs, stopped drinking and just got on with it. And I've been getting on with it ever since.”

Turley was silent, his back to me.

“So...” I said, trying to fill the silence.

Nothing.

“Turley? You gonna add this to the file before you put it back in the cold case locker?”

He turned around and looked at me with a look I almost didn't recognize. It was as if he couldn't speak. Then he did.

“I think I'll keep this box in here with me for a while.” 3441 days sober

Chapter 1

Some days you just don't even want to get out of bed. For me that means a sodden bedroll that even my blanket and tarp can't keep dry. In Public Alley 437 behind Newbury Street, Boston winter days are to be endured, not enjoyed. Even propped up on a wooden palette which keeps the bedroll off the wet pavement, the snow and slush reaches it and it soaks through. There's very little to look forward to during days like this.

Except good coffee.

Keeping my feet dry is trying on these days but a smart purchase of a good pair of lightly-used waterproof boots from a thrift shop earlier in the winter helped. That and my neoprene parka were useful in keeping me fairly dry despite this miserable weather. You'd think being winter, this cold, it would have the decency to snow but no, not in Boston. Here it rains. Cold, cold rain that, if it had any integrity at all, would turn to snow. Instead it comes down as splashes of icy slush.

So I walked. I know where the best coffee is, and it's nowhere near Boston Common; it's in the North End, and that meant walking past the Common, past Government Center, around Faneuil Hall and through Quincy Market. Not that many years ago it would have been a challenge to navigate over to Cross Street, most of it being barred by plywood and rats, under the ugly green elevated highway.

The Big Dig. One of the most expensive urban renewal project in the country's history, and likely the most corrupt. Its aim, to get rid of that elevated eyesore and put it underground, replacing it with a strip of public park. It took more than a decade but now we finally reap the benefits. Crossing over to Hanover Street is now a pleasure, even on crap days like this.

My destination: Caffé Victoria. Best latté in Boston that I've found. And it doesn't cost you an expensive restaurant meal. About once a month I use my earnings from selling Loose Change to treat myself. You can walk into the place from two separate entrances in summer. Between the two entrances is a stairway down to a cigar shop. I mean this was old Boston. The café - or should I say caffé - was founded nearly a hundred years ago, and it looked like nothing had changed since then. Old copper espresso machines still decorate the place and they sell gelato and pastries to go with their coffee.

I shook the rain off myself and took a seat at a table. This one had a brass plaque with an Italian family name on it, and was in the middle of the older section. Sometimes I sit and wonder if some wiseguy's going to come in and stare at me until I move to a different table, but that's never happened - yet.

Three young, beautiful waitresses, all dressed in sleek black outfits, milled about taking customer orders. An older waitress served me. She knew me, and despite her sometimes gruff demeanor she was efficient and handed me my hot latté within minutes. It was perfect. It had that creamy mocha color that only the perfectly foamed latté could achieve, and the warm smell was something I could swim in.

On a raised section in the back four men sat around a round table, each with a copy of the Boston Globe up in their faces. As the papers lowered to change pages and raised again I saw their faces. Connected for sure. One of the four was clearly someone important. He was talking to someone - not quite as important, but their business seemed important - and the other two were probably his guards.

They were talking quietly, with those thick Boston accents. Charlestown? Southie? Hard to tell. When the fourth one lowered his paper I dropped my cup on the floor. The coffee spilled, the mug shattered, and the waitress came over tut-tutting, grabbing a mop on the way.

“Hey!” she scolded. “If you can't keep the place clean, you can't come in here anymore!”

But I barely heard her. I was staring. Right into the face of my worst nightmare. He leaned to his left and said something to his boss. They all looked my way, and one shouted, “Hey, mind yer fuckin' business, asshole!”

I couldn't turn. I couldn't stop staring.

One of the men stood and started towards me. The man looked like Schwarzenegger, muscles bulging inside his suit jacket, making creases in the wrong places as he moved. A second man stood up and the two hovered over me at my table. The waitress made herself scarce.

“What the fuck you lookin' at, Rummy?” Yeah, by my appearance it's understandable he think I'm an alcoholic. Being homeless gains a person a certain appearance, despite one's best efforts. And the stereotypes die hard. I'm not a rummy. I'd hadn't had a drink for three thousand four hundred forty one days.

“Hit the street, Dad,” Arnie said menacingly. I still wasn't looking at them. I was still staring past them to the man sitting to the right of the obvious boss at the table. The boss was wearing a suit that probably cost more than I ever made in a year. The focus of my attention, however, was dressed in a leather bomber jacket with a hoodie underneath.

The two men lifted me bodily by my upper arms, dragged me through to the front of the caffé and threw me out onto the pavement.

“Don't fuckin' come back!”

I lay on the slush-covered sidewalk unable to move; unable to unglue my eyes from the darkened recesses of the caffé.

I knew that face.

It was a face I couldn't look away from. It was a face from a man I recognized, and he was a man I swore I would kill.

Chapter 2

I stood in a narrow almost street near Victoria, still shaking with rage. My mind was furiously working. I was pacing frantically and looking around for a weapon. I wasn't thinking, I was reacting. I had no plan, but my intent was to find something I could use, walk back in there and pummel the man in the bomber jacket until his body was a mass of pulp. But what little rational brain I had left was trying to make the rest of me see sense. This wasn't going to work. It wasn't going to help.

That man was the ringleader of a violent invasion of my home in 1998 that ultimately killed my wife and daughter.

Just a couple of weeks ago I had been a suspect in a murder. The man I was suspected of murdering was the second man in that home invasion. Derek Mosley. This was his partner, his until-nowunidentified boss. Fingerprints at the scene could not be matched to any known criminal at the time, and the case went cold until a month or so ago when Derek Mosley got very cold and the case got very hot.

There had been no clues to the identity of either man until a couple of weeks ago, then the two got together after more than a decade to strike again at the home of an art collector on Acorn Street behind Beacon Hill. Mosley was killed by a different art collector who had caught him stealing gold from one of his statues.

Suddenly, after over a decade, both surface. There must be a reason. And now by complete chance I find the man responsible for the vicious crime that destroyed my life.

This man was not going to live much longer, I made myself that oath. The problem was how to get to him and ensure he died before I did.

I could do it now. Attack him with a piece of steel fence or something I could find down this alley, but with two enforcers and a mob boss in his company I would hardly get a hit in before I was dead myself. I had to do better than this.

And yet if I walked away now I might never find this man again.

I had one thing to my benefit that I was both grateful for, and furious about:

He had not recognized me.

I peered through the set of corner windows through Victoria, hoping to keep my eyes on the ringleader. I was just in time to see the four men leave through the northern entrance of the café. They walked up to the next building and went into Michael's Pastries. They were in there for about ten minutes. Even they had to observe the lengthy line of customers.

If I acted fast, I could get him on the way out. I just needed something heavy. Something metal, like a length of rebar or something. I'd do it, even if his guys killed me. I'd be ok with that as long as I got him first.

When they left with string-tied Michael's boxes in-hand, they climbed aboard a large black Cadillac SUV. I couldn't follow but I did manage to scrawl the license plate number on a scrap of paper and a pencil stub I found in my pocket.

Now what?

That's the man who killed my family.

And he was driving away up Hanover Street, around the curve of the buildings towards Commercial Street until they were out of my sight.

I had to think. I had to stop breathing this hard. I had to get my heart rate down. I was about to pass out.

He had been one of four at a back table at Victoria. Two were clearly muscle. The third was clearly a boss. So where did that leave my guy? What was he doing there? And had he been going to Victoria all these years? Had I missed him so often?

Can't be. No way. Whatever he'd been doing for the past decade he'd not been doing it around here. And suddenly, just last month, when he had met up with his former partner and invaded the home of an art collector, he was announcing his return in a bold way.

Suddenly.

Why?

Why now?

Why here?

I could only think of one way to find out.

Chapter 3

I missed Officer Turley's almost constant presence on Tremont Street. He had held that beat for years. And now there was another cop in his place, one who wasn't as friendly. I couldn't go to him, he'd likely arrest me for staring at his car or something.

I walked along the deep, slushy walkway to the center of Boston Common where Old Fernie usually sat on better weather days than this. He was nowhere to be seen.

Even in this weather Miko's boys were thrashing on the Frog Pond. They'd had to clear some of the snow and slush away, but they were slamming their skateboards along anything railed or paved. I didn't see Miko.

“Sup, old timer?” one said.

“Seen Miko?” I asked. I hoped to use his cell phone. It seemed that no matter how down and out, the younger kids always had the latest cell phones.

“Miko? You ain't heard? He's goin' for the big time, man.” Steve-o, a tall blonde with dreads and a soul patch beamed with pride.

“What?”

“Yup. He's at the MASS competition down Fall River. Mid Atlantic Skate Shows? He's been winnin' the local comps lately. Now he's takin' his new moves to the big leagues.”

“Huh! You mean he actually did it?”

“Doin' it, man. Like he always said he would.”

“Phone!” I shouted.

“What?”

“Sorry. I need a phone. You happen to have one?” I think I sounded desperate. Steve-o pulled back a bit, but he saw my distress and handed over his iPhone. “Charge almost out. Be quick. Don't drop it, man. They break.”

I grabbed it like a starving man grabbing a bread roll.

“Thanks,” I said. I turned and pulled a card from my shirt pocket, where I've kept it ever since Detective Turley gave it to me.

I called his number but got his machine.

“Detective Turley! It's me! I have to talk to you. I saw him! I saw him! Look! Meet me at my corner at Copley!”

The phone made a harsh beep and I lost the connection.

Dammit! I yelled into it, but it was out of power.

“Easy, man, take it easy. I gotta go find a charger.” Steve-o took the phone back, picked up his board and walked down towards Tremont.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You got it...” he replied, without turning. His friends grabbed up their decks and followed him.

Chapter 4

Evening was falling and the rain was coming down when an unmarked car pulled up next to the minaret-like ticket kiosk on Copley Plaza at the corner of Boylston and Dartmouth. The window rolled down and Detective Turley said “Get in.”

I climbed into his passenger side and he pulled out into traffic and drove nowhere in particular.

“So you sounded desperate on the phone. What's up? Who did you see?”

“The man who broke into my house on February 8, 1998.”

“What?” He looked sharply at me, then slowly back at where he was aiming his car.

“It was him!”

“Where? How do you know?”

“Victoria's in the North End, and I know. That face is burned into my brain.”

“But after all this time...”

“Believe me, time has not softened those features. It was him.”

“But he's been impossible to find. Why now?”

“I don't know why now, but if you remember that photo in Loose Change when Derek Mosley broke into Martin Sprech's house... the photo showed Mosley fairly clearly, but the other man's picture was so blurry as to be unhelpful. It was him.

“He and Mosley were a team. I don't know how many houses they broke into, but I know of at least two, and over a dozen years apart. Mine, and Sprech's.

“He's been laying low, or in prison, or something, until he announced his return last month. And I saw him before noon today. Sitting at a table with two bodyguards and a boss at Victoria's.”

“Jesus. Mob?”

“Sure as I'm soaked to the skin sitting here,” I said.

“What the hell is he doing suddenly with the North End mob?” “No idea. But it was him.”

“I believe you. Look, let me do some asking around. I'll have to check the files. You're sure?”

He looked at me and judging by my look, he regretted that last question.

“Ok. Let me drop you somewhere. I'll go do some digging.”

Chapter 5

Some time later I was still soaked through, still walking, when the new cop outside the Common called me over. Huh. Who'da thought? He seemed to want nothing to do with us homeless types.

“What's up?” I asked.

Immediately he spun me around at his car, grabbed my arms and said, “You're under arrest for vagrancy.”

“What? What you talking about?” I turned.

“And resisting arrest,” he said, shoving my head onto the hood of the car, tightening the cuffs to the point where I could already feel my hands growing numb.

“Too tight, asshole!” I said. “I can't feel my hands.”

“Poor you,” he said. He read me my rights and shoved me into the back of his car. He drove us to Boston PD HQ and threw me into an interview room where I sat, wondering what the hell this guy's problem was. I hadn't done anything ever to him, or given him any inkling I might.

I waited for what seemed like an hour when the door finally opened and three detectives came in. Neither was Turley.

“So, what can I do for you fine detectives today?” I said, initiating the conversation, trying to maintain some kind of upper hand.

“Shut up,” the oldest said, and stood in a corner. He looked well over sixty, white hair, too old to be an active duty cop. The other two were Best and Davis. Davis I had had encounters with before. He wasn't overly friendly to me. Best I knew slightly. Enough to impersonate him on the phone once or twice to get information. I hoped he didn't know about that. How could he?

“I hear you been snoopin' around the North End,” said Davis. “Why you snoopin' around the North End? That ain't your area. You like the Common. That's a bit of a walk.”

“No walk is too far to get good coffee,” I said.

He grabbed my neoprene lapels and shoved me back onto my chair. “Don't be a wise ass. Tell me what you were doing at Victoria's this morning.”

“What the hell?” I said, regaining my balance. He let go of me. “Do you detectives have some kind of charge against me or something? What the hell is going on here?”

“I repeat. What were you doing at Victoria's this morning?”

“Getting a latté, and Victoria's is the best.”

“Wise ass again, eh?” Best kicked my chair hard.

“Listen, asshole. You're nobody. We could lock you up and no one would ever see you again. We don't even need a charge. We could stick you on a plane to Syria and you'd rot in some prison getting your tonsils replaced by pliers every month or so. Sound like we're kidding?”

I looked around the room. They did not sound like they were kidding. What the hell was this all supposed to mean?

“You're interfering in a very important case,” Davis said. “One that involves the FBI, the Feds, Homeland Security, everyone. And if you interfere, we have enough pull with Homeland that they will remove you from the situation – permanently. And we know enough about you to know no one would ever miss you. You're a bum. You live on the street. You people disappear all the time and there's not even a breeze to indicate you were ever there. Got me?”

I stared at him. I stared at the three. Other than “Shut up” earlier, the oldest detective never said another word.

“Tell me you'll stay away from the North End,” Best said. “Tell me now or you won't ever get out of here.”

I saw movement in a small window at the door. Without a knock the door opened and Detective Turley was standing there.

“What is this?” he demanded of the two detectives, his immediate superiors. He glanced at the oldest man. “What are you doing here Lieutenant Sullivan? You're retired. What's your concern with active police business?”

The oldest man took a long, hard stare at Turley and slowly walked out, his hands still in the pockets of his damp trench-coat He didn't look back.

“Sergeants... I'm waiting for an answer.”

“Vagrancy,” Best said.

“Bullshit,” Turley said. “Do I have to get the Captain in here?”

Best and Davis stood very close to Turley. “Stay the fuck out of it rookie.”

“The hell I will,” he said. He walked around to my chair, unlocked the cuffs and said, “You're free to go. I'll meet you at the entrance in five minutes.”

I didn't need to be told twice. I got up and left.

“Pleasure doing business with you gentlemen,” I said to Best and Davis, doffing a pretend cap as I left the room.

Behind me I heard shouting, and the door closing.

Chapter 6

Turley drove me back to the Common. During the drive we discussed what had happened, and he seemed puzzled. “Why you? Why now? Seems an odd coincidence that you may have found the perp in a decade-long cold case and suddenly one retired detective and his two stooges pick you up for no apparent reason.”

“Yeah. Been meaning to ask you about that. Who, other than me and you, knew about my call to you?”

He turned and looked at me. “Wait a minute... you think I had something to do with this?”

“Did you?”

“No. I only told the Captain about what you reported to me, and the rest of the afternoon I was poring through your file to see what I could find out about this guy. He's nowhere on the radar. I don't know a name, I certainly don't have a match for his fingerprints taken at the scene of your home invasion. The man doesn't exist in the system.

“So I did some more digging. I went out of the system. I thought, so what if this guy's in the system unofficially?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, maybe he's being protected.”

“Protected? By cops?”

“Been known to happen.”

“Why?”

“I'd only be speculating. Let me do some more digging. And I think I'd better talk to the Captain again. He's clearly the one who told Best and Davis.”

Shit... I was wondering if I shouldn't just make myself scarce for a few weeks.

“Look, I'm just looking out for you,” Turley said.

“Why?”

He drove for a block or so in silence. I could tell he was pondering.

“My great-uncle Ray was homeless on the streets of Toronto most of my life,” he said. “No one in the family ever talked about him. I only found out in my late teens. I heard snippets of conversation between my mother, my aunts and uncles. One uncle in particular lived outside Toronto and apparently liked to look in on him from time to time, make sure he was ok. Kind of like his father's brother's keeper. It's a long story, but when I was older I asked my mother about Ray and she told me that he was sent to Toronto to get treatment. This was the 1950s and things were different. Ray wasn't quite right in the head, and his mother, my great-grandmother, didn't know how to handle it. She sent him up there, supposedly to a mental facility where they could take care of him.

“It didn't stick. He wasn't there long before he ended up on the street.

“Years later Ray went home, wanting to see his mother again, hoping to be taken in like the Prodigal son. But she made it clear she didn't want to see him again. He left, dejected. Went back to the only home he knew – the streets of Toronto.

“When I found out, I couldn't believe it. Some of the things I had heard over the years suddenly hit home. Once I heard my uncle saying 'From behind, walking, he looks just like Dad.' That's my grandfather.

“I grew up knowing every member of my family, all my great uncles and great aunts – Ray's brothers and sisters - all my cousins, and there were many. We were a close family. And Ray was no part of it, and I felt that was wrong.

“It all came out when Ray died several years back. I flew to Toronto and went to the shelter he frequented to sort out his affairs. When some of the homeless there found out who I was they gathered around. They told me stories about Ray, and said that the one thing Ray always said was that one day he would go home. They handed me a coffee can with bills and coins in it.

“'We took up a collection to help send Ray home,' they told me. The can had over a hundred bucks in it. I spent the day with them. I gave the shelter a donation, asking that they serve up something special for Ray's friends in his honor. I left with a whole different perspective on the homeless than I had grown up with.

“There. Now you know.”

Wow. I sat there stunned.

“You opened up to me,” he said. “I figured I owed you that.”

I just gulped. Didn't know what to say.

Turley handed me a freshly charged cell phone.

“Use that if you need it. But lie low for a while,” Turley advised as he let me out of the car near the T-buildings at the Common.

Chapter 7

Lie low for a while. Yeah, that's me all over. What I did instead was pass a very cold, very wet night under my tarp, but not in my alley. I found a secure place not far away where no one would find me and endured a sleepless night before putting together a few provisions in a fanny pack and launching myself right into the fire again.

I was in the same alley-like street next to Victoria's watching. No reason four goombas would recognize me, a typical homeless guy, hanging outside their local. We had a habit of being invisible to most people. I hoped.

I was there for about two hours before a black SUV pulled up and parked just outside and four guys – the same four guys – got out and took their regular table inside. I could barely make them out because the angle only gave me a tiny sliver of view into the old section, but it was enough.

Times like this I wished I could lip-read. I had no idea what they were saying, but they were leaned over, elbows down, talking low and fast, the four of them. Planning something. I kept to the shadowed part of the street between Bona Vista and Victoria's. Up against the dark brick of Bona Vista I was nearly camouflaged. I held a cup as if panhandling. That would render me immediately un-noticeable.

I kept watching, wishing instead that I was sitting in the caffé myself enjoying one of their perfect lattés. They were oblivious to me.

Uh-oh. Some action. From my spot I could see a trench-coated man approach the table. White hair, older, stooped. He stayed for a few minutes, talked to my guy, and left. Ex-Lieutenant Detective Sullivan!

That's it. I picked up the phone Turley gave me, turned it on and noticed there was a text message on it. I pushed buttons hoping I could figure out how to retrieve the message and I finally got the tiny text to appear:

Did some digging. Found out perp was in witness protection after he turned on Russian mob in 2001. Been running a small shop in Vermont since. Got bored. Is now working with Feds to take down North End mob. Stay away from North End. Meet me at your corner.

Shit!

I turned to go and ended up staring into the face of my nemesis.

Chapter 8

“Why are you following me?” he hissed. In his hand was a pistol, held so people behind him on Hanover Street couldn't see. There was no one else with him. He indicated further down Wesley Place, which was a cul de sac leading behind Victoria's. I knew that if I let him lead me down there I was dead.

“Move!” he yelled. He gestured with his pistol. I knew I had to comply.

We went down the street and he shoved me behind Victoria's where no one on Hanover could see anything. I tried to secretly dial Turley on his cell phone. The ringleader batted it out of my hand where it skitted across the concrete.

“Do I know you?” he asked, inching closer to my face.

“Why would you?” I asked.

“No idea,” he said. But something nagged at the back of his mind, I could see it in his eyes, squinting, trying to put my face somewhere – anywhere. I needed him to know.

“Think,” I said. “Think back.”

“Back?”

“Back to 1998.”

He stood there, remembering. His head angling this way, that way, as if he could shake loose the memory of the time and place, and my face.

Suddenly it dawned on him, and his face cracked a surprised smile. Soon he was laughing.

“You're shittin' me! After all these years you found me and you're

– what? Seeking revenge?” He was buckling over, now, laughing. He was getting quite the kick out of the situation.

“It's been over a decade, man! What the hell? Look at you! You're nothing but a god-damned street bum! What the hell happened to you?”

It was too much. I didn't care what he would do to me, it was time. I pulled out my lebel revolver and shoved it in his face before he had time to react.

“Oh, you a tough guy, eh? I remember you weren't so tough back then, were you? You were a weak, sniveling man. I remember showing your wife what a real man was, and your daughter.”

I pushed the quivering gun into his face, and he just stood there, letting it push him. His confidence was worrying me, but in my rage, I hardly noticed anything but the trigger on my finger, and how little pressure it would take to permanently ease my long-suffering pain.

“Yeah? Go ahead. Go ahead, killer. I dare ya. That sweet daughter, she's the one I really remember. I bet she never forgot what a real man was like. How's she doin'? I should look her up.”

Rage filled me, and I could feel only my finger, and the hair's breadth between this man's gloating and this man's shattered head on the concrete. I pushed a little harder, but still not hard enough.

“You, you see, you're not a killer. You can't do it. Me, on the other hand, I can.”

He pulled his trigger, hitting me in the thigh. The pain seared my leg and I couldn't stand. I was on the ground, but I held onto the ancient Lebel revolver, kept it aimed roughly at my enemy.

“What? You gonna kill me tough guy? You can't kill me. You haven't got what it takes to be like me!”

Why is it you people always say that? At least they said it in every movie I ever saw. The villain of the piece always counts on the good guy being good, being too good to actually pull the trigger. And they're always right. But it never made sense to me. Pulling the trigger on this animal would make me nothing like him. He was a murdering rapist out for fun. I was exterminating an animal – a threat to the public.

Holding a nearby rail, and disregarding the agony, I lifted myself to my feet.

I tried to speak but nothing came out. Just then an unmarked car came around the cramped corner of Wesley Place, lights flashing in the grill, and Turley got out, gun at the ready.

“Stop! Police!” he yelled.

The ringleader barely reacted. His aim on me wavered not a degree.

“Stay where you are, Detective. You don't know who you're dealing with. I'm protected. Call your superiors. They'll tell you.”

“Don't count on it. Now drop the weapon and put your hands on your head!”

“Look, you're obviously not in the know, so why don't you just get back in your car and drive away. I have business to take care of.” He turned back to me, pointing his gun straight at my head. My gun was shaking. I was going into shock, my hands quivering.

“I'm not going anywhere, now drop the weapon,” Turley said, calmly. “Last warning!”

The ringleader turned casually and fired a shot. Turley went down, his gun clattering across the pavement.

He turned his gun back to me and I shot him straight through the forehead.

My rusty Lebel slipped from my hand and I collapsed, shaking like a leaf.

“I'm nothing like you, and I never will be,” I whispered to no one before passing out.

Chapter 9

Turley was standing over my hospital bed, his arm in a sling. He ushered the nurses out and closed the door to my private room.

“You're going to be charged,” he said. “But don't worry. No judge is going to convict you. You were acting clearly in self defense, and even though you had no license to carry a weapon that'll be a minor charge, probably a fine. But you acted in defense of yourself and an officer of the peace and said officer is going to testify to that fact. You'll be fine.”

I had known for over a decade that if I ever found the man responsible for what happened to me and my family I would gladly spend the rest of my life in prison or die if I could take the son-of-abitch out. But now it looked like I was going to get off.

“But you kicked over a hornet's nest for sure,” he said, almost laughing.

“Turns out the Captain took my report to my superiors, Davis and Best, and they must have tipped off their old boss, Lieutenant Sullivan. I contacted someone I know at the Feds and they confirmed our perp, one Manny Agostino, had turned State's Evidence to help convict some members of the Russian Mob back in late 2001. In return for his testimony he was put into witness protection.

“Sullivan was the Boston PD detective in charge for our side. But of course when Agostino was put through the system, fingerprinted, guess what happened? His prints turned out to match your case, which had gone cold for months.

“Rather than pursue him for the home invasion and the rape of your wife and daughter, they covered it up. Wiped his prints from the record completely and made sure nothing about him was ever connected to your case file. Your file was then stored away, cold. No new data was entered into the file.

“Sullivan and his partner, then-rookie Davis, took all the credit for the BPD when the Russians were convicted largely on Agostino's testimony as well as wired conversations he had had with them. And they made sure Agostino was given a new identity and stashed somewhere safe.

“But being the egotist he was, Agostino couldn't stay under. Sure, he stuck it out for a long time, but thought he could do better than running a small shop in Vermont. He had aims of ingratiating himself into the North End Italian mob. A far more lucrative life.

“And this is when Davis and Best nabbed him and forced him to go undercover again under the threat that he would be exposed for the cold case if he didn't cooperate, not to mention his recent invasion of Martin Sprech's house and the rape of his wife.

“Once he left witness protection he had exposed himself to prosecution since he broke the deal. So they used that as leverage to get him in with the North End mob but not as an enforcer – as an informant.”

I sat there listening, stunned at the lengths to which those three detectives went to ensure there would be no justice for my Tresa and Lisa.

“So what's going to happen to Davis, Best and Sullivan now?” I asked. “Slap on the wrist? Official department sanction? Or just nothing?”

“Ah...” Turley said, his head lowering. “Lieutenant Detective Charlie Sullivan was found dead in his apartment yesterday morning. Ate his gun. Laid out a full confession on paper first.

“Detectives Best and Davis were arrested at their homes the same day. Both are claiming they have immunity from prosecution because their actions helped take down members of the mob.

“My own Captain is furious. He had no idea what was going on under his nose and assured the Mayor and Commissioner that he would conduct a thorough investigation and that proper sanctions would be handed out to whoever participated in such wrongdoing.

“The Feds are just washing their hands of it claiming they only knew about the testimony and nothing about any coverup of other crimes that may have been committed by their witness, Manny Agostino.”

I didn't know what to say.

“What about you?” I ventured.

“Me? Oh, I'll probably get promoted early if Best and Davis are given the boot. Other than that, I'll get credit for taking Agostino down, but they're not likely to thank me too openly for exposing two of their own as dirty cops. Three of their own,” he amended.

“Damn.”

“What about you?” he asked. “What you gonna do now that both of the men responsible for your case are dead and gone?”

I didn't know what to say to that. I never expected this day to come.

As if in response to my silence, Turley put something in my hand. I looked at it. It was a keyring with several keys on it. “Found this in your file.” Tresa's set, from her personal effects, taken into evidence.

We sat together in silence for a long time.

Now what?

EPILOGUE

3448 days sober

I walked around Boston Common on an unusually warm, sunny Saturday in mid February. It was now almost exactly thirteen years and two weeks since my life was destroyed by two random men. Now both lay dead and I was wandering the Common looking for my friends and trying to count the number I had lost over the years.

I took a walk up to the Frog Pond. I saw Steve-o and his buds testing their latest moves. I asked Steve-o how Miko did in the MASS competition.

“Took it all, man! Like he said he would! Took it all! And now he's on his way to the big-time!”

I smiled inside. I remember seeing Miko trying that one move over and over and ending up on his ass.

“I assume he tried out the Miko?”

“The Miko? Naw, man, his move's the Spinner. Named it after Spinner... you remember?”

“Oh my god, Spinner. Yeah.” Spinner was Jeremy Brothers. His father had hired me once to find him, only to find out he'd died just days before of an overdose of tainted drugs. Spinner's father had eked out his own revenge on the dealer in ways I don't even want to remember.

Well son-of-a-bitch! Miko named his new move after Jeremy Brothers. You could knock me over with a feather, even if my thigh had been 100%.

It was such a shock, such a surprise, that Miko had called his new signature move not after himself but after his fallen comrade. I just hadn't seen that quality in Miko.

“Yup. Said he had all the time in the world to develop the Miko. This one was for Spinner.”

Good for him.

*

I noticed the cop at the Tremont entrance was new. The other “new guy” hadn't lasted. I have to say I wasn't unhappy about that. I wondered if he got caught up in the conspiracy since he had arrested me on bogus charges just so the detectives could work on me. I hoped this guy was friendlier to the homeless. But I wouldn't be around to find out.

*

I found Old Fernie on his wall. I didn't say much. Asked him how he'd been since I'd seen him last, over a week ago now. He said all was well, and gave me the score of the Boston game against the Ottawa Senators the night before. Bruins over the Senators 4-2.

Fernie looked into my eyes and suddenly looked sad and nodded wisely.

“You don't belong here no more, do you?” he said. I patted Fernie on the back and sat with him for a while, talking.

Then I got up, shook his hand and left him there.

*

A couple of days later I was standing outside my old house in Dedham. The place looked exactly like it had when I walked away from it in September of 2000. I had talked to the Real Estate management company yesterday. My wife's parents had purchased it for us outright, and the trust fund they had set up for us kept the house maintained for the past dozen years. It was still in my name and despite my lengthy absence it looked exactly as I remembered it. The lawn was up-kept, the hedges trimmed, the roof updated... the maintenance company had taken its responsibilities seriously.

I stood outside, knowing what was facing me inside – the emptiness that I had run away from all those years ago. But now I felt I had earned the right to return. I had left this house a broken man and was returning a healing man.

And now I have some stories I have to tell, and if I have to tell them I may as well tell them here.

Afterword

Loose Change is a book I've wanted to write for a long time. Rather, it was a short story I've wanted to write for a long time.

Walking around Boston over the last fifteen years I'm always taken aback by the number of homeless people congregated around Boston Common.

I originally thought of the idea for The Panhandler on Newbury Street because of the extreme difference in the fortunes of many of the people walking around Newbury Street, Boston's richest shopping street, and panhandlers asking them for money. I had to write this story.

But it sat in my head for a long time.

One night, driving my daughter home from music lessons she told me she wanted to work with the homeless. She had attended Church events with her mother and I on Boston Common, existing amid the crowd of homeless, singing hymns, handing out food, generally enjoying the giving.

And though we had safety concerns (there is a great deal of mental illness and instability among the homeless population) I expressed that I would support her in that work if she decided to do it, as long as she had adequate supervision.

I spent some of that ride home telling her of my great-uncle Ray, what little I knew of him. Ray was homeless in Toronto. He was my grandfather's brother, sent away to Toronto in the 1940s or 1950s and had been on the streets there almost ever since until he died a few years ago.

I think telling my daughter that story caused the dam to burst and Panhandler came flooding out of my head into one of my computers almost as a single, complete image.

I thought I was done. But apparently I wasn't.

Right behind the flood of words was another wave pouring out. Adopted Daughter filled the pages almost as fast. As I wrote another story and another I began to conceive of my hero's back story. I needed a reason for him to be on the street.

While mental illness is one of the main reasons people end up on the street, there are many more including foreclosure, job loss, homosexuality, and some are there because of family trauma that they can't deal with.

Fairly quickly a back story arose that I began hinting at in the stories.

I wanted this story to come out over the course of a number of individual short investigations.

I also wanted the characters around my hero to advance as well, and readers can see that happen as these short stories progress.

I felt as if I were writing more of a TV series than a novel. A novel wouldn't be as episodic. A novel wouldn't remind the reader in one story of events of previous ones.

So I came up with the idea of an anthology of short stories that advanced a greater story arc, the way many TV series work these days.

I hope you enjoy Loose Change and I hope my portrayal of the homeless does them justice, not harm.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

2864 days sober

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

2946 days sober

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

21 days sober

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

3115 days sober

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

3274 days sober

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

3344 days sober

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

3428 days sober

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

3441 days sober

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

EPILOGUE 3448 days sober

Afterword