Buried Troubles Read online

  “Right—a good kid, and he did have a head of steam on him sometimes,” Rosaria said. “Not always a bad thing.” She was relieved to see Bridie’s blue eyes soften. The hiccups seemed to have gone away. Maybe being with friends, maybe the talk, maybe the dog.

  “Oh, he did, didn’t he?” Bridie said. “God, he was just burning with that study thing you were helping him on.” She turned to Rosaria, “but for the life of me I could never figure out what it was really about, could you? It seemed to change every time I talked to him.”

  “Well, maybe he was trying to figure it out as he learned more. That’s sometimes how a project goes,” Rosaria responded.

  “Yes,” Bridie said. “Well, it doesn’t really matter now does it?” She dropped back on the couch and closed her eyes.

  Rosaria put a comforting hand on Bridie’s arm. She remembered how circumspect Patrick had been when she’d tried to help him with contacts for his independent research project at the National University at Galway. He’d remained coy about the shifting focus of the work, almost as if she were another student or an academic plotting to steal his idea for a thesis. As if, she thought. Ridiculous. Now, he was dead. Heartbreaking. She shook her head sadly.

  “They’ll probably need to do an autopsy.” she said to Bridie.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we have to request one. I don’t know anything about all this, Ro. I don’t know what to do, what to ask for.”

  Bridie stopped and thought for a moment. Almost as if talking to herself, she continued, “I don’t think he fell.” She shook her head slowly, “No, he didn’t fall. Patrick didn’t fall.”

  Then, she faced Rosaria again, a plea in her eyes. “I thought maybe you and your friend Solly could help me. Maybe you could give him a call. See what’s going on, what we should do and all. And just tell them, just tell them this was no accident. We have to...”

  We? Did she say we? Rosaria caught her breath. I’m just healing from a bad, rough time and now this on my doorstep so soon. She glanced at Marguerite who was leaning, arms crossed, against the kitchen counter. Marguerite shook her head and closed her eyes briefly before shrugging her shoulders in sympathy. What can you do? What can you do?

  She had to manage this, nip it in the bud. She had to say no. She wanted to help Bridie with the initial contact, but she didn’t think she could handle more than that.

  Too many emotions swept through in these few moments after a distraught Bridie asked her for help, including a sudden wave of fury. Jesus Christ, how could Bridie have forgotten what I’ve just been through? Everyone thinks I’m so strong I’m not. Dammit, I’m not.

  But it passed. It always passed.

  In the end, without looking at Marguerite, Rosaria put her arm around Bridie’s shoulder, pulled her close, kissed the top of her head and said, “Of course, honey, I’ll call Solly. We can find out what the next steps are. Don’t worry.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Rosaria felt slightly off balance, a little dizzy, when she got up. She took a breath, straightened her shoulders and walked toward the kitchen. Bridie stayed on the couch, rhythmically stroking the small white dog and staring into the distance. Rosaria bit her lip as she passed Marguerite, who touched her shoulder briefly. Then, she picked up her cell from the counter and hit speed dial for Solly. He put her on hold for a couple of minutes while he finished another conversation.

  “What’s up?” he asked when he picked up her call again.

  Rosaria told him about Patrick’s death. Did he have any information on a drowning victim Patrick Keenan?

  “Yeah, we got a drop-in off Long Wharf this morning. I caught it on rotation.”

  Rosaria knew that a drop-in was shorthand for people who’d fallen into the harbor. Usually young people who’d had too much to drink on the night-time cruises or at the harbor-side bars and took a tumble into the harbor. Sometimes they were fished out quickly. Sometimes no one noticed until it was too late.

  “Solly.”

  “What?”

  “This boy was someone’s son, someone’s nephew. Don’t use that expression.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  Rosaria also knew that casual, seemingly heartless terms like drop-in helped police distance themselves emotionally from the hard things society expected them to deal with every day. Having learned the details of his workaday life over the past year, Rosaria had a new respect for Solly’s emotional stamina and that of his colleagues. But this time the use of the casual term drop-in was painful to hear.

  “Anyway, what’s the read on the situation so far?”

  “Should I be talking to you about this, Ro? How are you involved? It’s really a matter for his family.”

  Rosaria could almost see Solly rolling his eyes and running his big hand over his bald head, about to tell his buttinsky significant other that this affair was none of her business. “Hold on, Solly,” Rosaria said as she walked over to the couch where Bridie sat watching her now, leaning forward, clasped hands on her knees.

  “Putting you on speaker, Solly. This is Bridie Callahan, Patrick’s aunt. She identified the body.” Rosaria sat on the couch, Archie between her and Bridie, and placed the cellphone on the coffee table.

  When Solly responded, Rosaria could hear the relief in his voice to have one of Patrick’s family on the line.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Callahan.”

  “Thank you, Detective Belkin,” Bridie whispered.

  “You’ve met Bridie before,” Rosaria inserted. “She’s a waitress at the French Connection Bistro in Malford Square. We’ve known each other for a long time.”

  “Ah, I remember now. I thought the name sounded familiar. Again, I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Callahan.”

  Bridie nodded as if the detective could see her acknowledgment of his condolences over the phone.

  “So, Bridie asked me to help her get a sense of the situation so far. She has her own thoughts.”

  “I’ll be interested to hear them.”

  Bridie started to respond, but Rosaria held her arm. “She’d like to hear what you have to say first.”

  “Okay.” Solly started slowly. “Well, at the outset we thought this was a case of a misstep on the wharf. After—forgive me, Ms. Callahan—after a little too much to drink.”

  “But...” Rosaria prodded.

  “I’m getting there, Ms. O’Reilly.” Solly took a moment’s pause. “The body had some wounds from being under the wharf and against the pilings when the tide came in.”

  Rosaria heard a small, strangled intake of breath beside her at Bridie’s vision again of Patrick’s body under Long Wharf. She leaned into Bridie for a moment in support.

  “But there is a gash on the side of the head toward the back that we don’t like.”

  Bridie sat up and came to life. “Right, Detective Belkin. I saw that too. Toward the back. I could see it even though Patrick was on his back when I saw him in that place.”

  Rosaria expected Bridie to break down at the thought of Patrick in the morgue. Instead she was suddenly animated to be confirmed in her suspicions.

  “It looks like the blow that killed him came from the edge of a heavy object— wooden.” Solly said. “We’re checking out a heavy wooden oar we found floating in the channel.”

  Bridie nodded numbly.

  “He had some bruises on his hand too, with a splinter. As if his hand had been hit with something like the oar.” Solly said this last part gently.

  “Mother of God,” Bridie whispered.

  “And, as for the drinking part,” Solly continued, “your nephew’s alcohol level was around .02%—about one beer. So, that’s not really a factor here.”

  “I told you,” Bridie said firmly, speaking directly to Rosaria, as if Rosaria had accused Patrick of being drunk and falling into the harbor. And maybe she sort of did, Rosaria thought, when she’d said earlier, Well, it happens.

  “We’ll know more after a full autopsy,” Solly said, “but this doesn’t look like an
accident.” He’d about finished when he added, “Oh, and he still had his wallet and passport—so we weren’t thinking robbery. Did he have a cellphone, Ms. Callahan?”

  “Oh yes. He was texting all the time.”

  “Wasn’t on him, so we’ll have to search for that—unless someone took it or it fell into the water.”

  “Okay,” Bridie said softly, her mind elsewhere. Rosaria could see that the satisfaction of being validated in her reading of the situation that had buoyed Bridie originally was dissipating just as suddenly. She could sense that Bridie once again saw her young nephew on the morgue’s stainless steel table, and her body slumped in despair.

  “Ms. Callahan, under these circumstances, I’d like you to come down to the Tremont Street station for an in-depth interview. We need to know more about Patrick—his friends, where he was living, what he was doing with his time—all that.”

  Again, Bridie nodded as if Solly could see her. “She says okay,” Rosaria inserted, nudging Bridie who was somewhere else in her mind.

  “Do you think you’ll be up to coming to the station in the morning, Ms. Callahan?” Solly clearly wanted a direct answer from Bridie.

  Rosaria nudged Bridie again. “Yes, okay, okay,” Bridie came to with a start and responded. “I have to change my shift.” She shook her head, murmuring.

  “I’ll have to take time off for this anyway. Maybe I should take a leave. I’ll have to take the body home. This is so awful...” And then Bridie was lost in a well of deep grief again.

  “How about 10:30, after the traffic clears up?” Solly soldiered on. Rosaria was relieved he hadn’t said after the traffic dies down.

  Bridie came to and remembered where she was in the conversation. “Yes. I’ll be there,” she responded slowly. “Could I bring Rosaria with me?”

  Oh God, thought Rosaria, suddenly feeling a true wave of panic at getting involved further with another murder investigation. I’m not ready for this. I’m still a mess. Jesus.

  “As a friend of the family?” Solly asked cautiously

  “She’s a friend of mine, Detective, and I’m all the real family Patrick had over here.”

  “I see. Do you feel comfortable coming to the station with Ms. Callahan, Ms. O’Reilly?” Solly asked in a very deliberate tone. Rosaria could feel his willing her over the phone. You can’t handle this right now, sweetheart. You’re still a mess from everything that happened last year. Back out nicely, but back out now.

  Rosaria hesitated long enough that Bridie turned to her with a surprised, questioning look on her tear-streaked face.

  Dammit. “No problem, no problem,” Rosaria finally stuttered, giving Bridie a smile that was more wobbly than she would have liked. What is it with me? she thought. This could push me over the edge. It’s like I have an overdeveloped Get-Involved-in-Messy-Situations gene. I know where that comes from. My mentor—the old nun murdered last year. What a legacy.

  She heard Solly sigh at the other end of the phone. She may have heard a soft “Shit” under his breath and hoped Bridie hadn’t caught it as well.

  It took him a long time to respond. “Fine,” he said slowly, “then we’ll see you both in the morning. Thank you, Ms. Callahan.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” Bridie responded. Rosaria closed the call while Bridie dropped back in the couch in exhaustion.

  Rosaria had almost forgotten Marguerite was across the room, until the nun moved away from the kitchen counter and said, “Bridie, I’ll walk you to the Haymarket T stop if you like. It’s on my way. I have to catch the train at North Station to the Motherhouse in about an hour. Perhaps we can take the long way down the Greenway. Walking might help settle you a little.”

  Gathering her bag from a nearby chair, she added, “And maybe when you get home, Sister Josepha from The Immaculate in Everett might stop by, make a cup of tea, sit with you for a while. Would you like that? “

  “Yes, I would, thank you,” Bridie whispered before jerking herself into motion and responded in a firmer voice, “I’d like that. That would be good, Mother.” She turned to Rosaria before picking up her things and giving Archie a grateful goodbye squeeze. “Should I meet you here tomorrow and we'll go over together, Ro?”

  Here we go. Rosaria gave her a slow, thoughtful smile before responding,

  “Okay. Here about 9:00? We’ll have a chance to talk a little more and allow some time in case the T’s not on schedule.” Rosaria was still stunned at how fast the situation was moving, but starting to adjust. Maybe even getting into gear.

  “What would I have done without you?” Bridie hugged Rosaria tightly before walking out the door the nun held open. Marguerite stopped briefly behind Bridie and gazed back at Rosaria, giving the same shrug to her that she had earlier. What can you do? What can you do but help?

  ◆◆◆

  A cup of untouched and cold coffee sat in front of Bridie in Rosaria’s kitchen the next day. The morning sun showed no mercy on Bridie’s face, ravaged by a sleepless, grief-drenched night.

  Rosaria sat across from her friend at the granite island. “Patrick wasn’t close to anyone here other than you, was he, Bridie? I know he was in a sublet for a few weeks, and he and his roommates were probably all just like ships in the night anyway.”

  “Well, you know, he did go out on the town with his roommates a few times. They all got along. But, no, no, he really knew no one to start with. We have only my cousin Claire in Chelsea, and she’s off visiting her daughter in California for the summer. No one else to speak of.”

  She paused. “I wonder now if Patrick might have had words with someone at The Point, that bar he went to a few times down there on the waterfront. Maybe a person followed him to the wharf. Do you think that could have happened?”

  “Well, it certainly does happen that people get into arguments at bars and the tiff gets carried outside. But, Patrick didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d look for conflict. I mean, he might go on for a bit, but he seemed like more of a...” Rosaria searched for a description here, “more of a just walk-away kind of guy, rather than a brawler.”

  “Yes, that’s right. He’d say his piece but just walk away, you know, if there was some kind of fuss. He was friendly-like, good company.” Bridie’s eyes reddened. “He loved the craic, to chat and have a good laugh with people. Didn’t matter if they were friends or strangers.”

  Rosaria glanced over at Archie, sleeping in the sun, and thought for a moment. “Anybody at home ever have an issue with him, Bridie?”

  “God, no. Why would you think that? Everyone loved Patrick at home, not an enemy in the world. I’m sorry, Ro, I know you’re a smart lady—worlds smarter than I am—but that’s daft.”

  “Yeah, probably daft,” Rosaria agreed as she looked at the time on her cellphone and leaned over to pick up her bag. “Well, let’s be going then. The Orange line to Ruggles is usually on time, but you never know.”

  ◆◆◆

  Rosaria had prepared herself for a bare interview room with a metal table and chairs at Boston Police Headquarters for Solly’s conversation with Bridie. Now, she mouthed an affectionate “thanks” to Solly as she and Bridie were ushered into a temporarily unused conference room with a wooden table, blue fabric-covered seats, and a window with full natural light looking out on Tremont Street.

  Solly gave Rosaria a lift of his chin in acknowledgment and gestured to Bridie to take a seat. “Would you like a glass of water or a cup of coffee or tea, Ms. Callahan?”

  “A glass of water would be great, Thanks.”

  Rosaria shook her head when Solly looked at her with the same question. He walked across the room and was pouring a glass of water from a pitcher on the sideboard when Bridie surprised them both. She suddenly exploded with a loud and aggressive, “He didn’t just fall in, Detective, and he wasn’t drunk. I just want to say that up front.” Her eyes were wet and her trembling jaw thrust forward.

  Rosaria moved her arm to embrace Bridie around the shoulders. “We know that, hone
y.”

  “Well, I want him to say it. I want him to say it.” Bridie looked at Solly intently. “I want to tell my sister that.” She wiped her eyes. “I want to tell my sister that,” she repeated.

  Solly put the glass of water in front of Bridie and leaned forward, his palms flat on the table. “No, Ms. Callahan, it doesn’t look as if your nephew just fell into the harbor, and we know he wasn’t drunk.”

  “That’s good,” Bridie responded shakily, not looking at Solly but at her hands clasped around the glass of water. “I wanted to hear you say that.”

  “Well, you just did.” He sat down, pulled an iPad across the table in front of him, and posed it to take notes. Rosaria knew that Solly used small, black spiraled notebooks in the field, but was trying to adjust to electronic note-taking—at least when he was in the station. It was not an altogether comfortable transition for him. “Now, let’s get to work. Let’s start with who Patrick was, what he was doing over here, who he was seeing, where he lived.”

  And so it began. Patrick’s parents’ contact information and some history. An only child from the small village of Ballyconneely outside Clifden, County Galway. Excellent health, athletic, a football player, no substance abuse issues, a good student, a wide circle of friends. Matriculated student at the National University Galway due to get his degree this year, pending completion of his independent study project. Nice girlfriend, Sarah Glynn from Tuam, at university with him.

  “How about his address here in Cambridge?”

  “Off River Street, near Central Square.” Bridie pushed an index card over the table to the detective with Patrick’s address.

  “You know the names of any other kids in the apartment?”

  “I just remember one, Paul Malloy, I think.” She frowned. “I don’t have his phone number.”

  “That’s okay, we’ll find a way to be in touch with him,” Solly assured her. “Any issues with his roommates?”