hought I had a pretty good grasp of the events. There were questions, still, but what I knew was pretty well ordered. I was sure that Ante Bukovats would be the key for law enforcement. I even allowed myself the luxury of a guess: Niko Matulich killed the woman whose body he claimed at the ME’s office. The cops, perhaps the New York cops, would mind that end.
My immediate task was to decide whether I was going to work for Bo Boban. I was leaning towards no. The puzzle for me was complete. All accounts were paid in full. Plus, I had a bag of money.
As I dressed to go get a paper my phone chirped. It was the ever well-dressed Mr. Boban in a state of emotional dishevelment.
“Fintan, you can come to my school.” It was a statement not a question.
“Why?”
“They have killed Ante. Right here. Down the hall. In his classroom. He is in pieces in his classroom. You can come here now.”
“Have you called Trooper Bevilaqua?”
The pause said no. Under this stress Bo was transported back to Croatia and the authorities were not first on the must call list.
“Listen, Bo, I’ll call him and then I’ll come.”
“OK. Call. And then come, yes.”
I called Bevilaqua at the South Boston barracks. By the time I got to Boylston St. the Staties and BPD had the building secured. Trooper Erika Frommer was in charge at ground level. She gave me a half smile half wince and waved me through.
Most of the activity was in the hallway outside of the classroom I surmised to be Bukovats’. In a moment when the crowd had thinned at the entrance I looked inside. There, on the mid-grade wall-to-wall was a body bag. It was occupied. Six feet away was an hour glass-shaped lagoon of blood. It was dark around the edges.
Armand and Bo sat in Bo’s office, although it now appeared to be much more Armand’s than Bo’s.
“Come in, Fintan,” Bevilaqua said.
“So, we’re sure it’s Bukovats?” I asked.
Bevilaqua said, “Oh yes. In his component parts, his disassembled state, his varied and sund…”
“I do not find that funny or in good taste, Trooper Bevilaqua,” said Boban without looking at him.
I wished I had said that.
“Right. It probably isn’t.”
My head was swiveling between the two men.
“May I ask what happened?”
“Let us get Mr. Boban downstairs and on his way to the ME. Then we’ll talk.”
“Bo?” It took a few seconds for him to focus his attention on me.
“Yes?”
“Call me when your interview is over. I’ll come get you.”
“I would be grateful.” He was nodding. “Thanks.”
As it was part of their on-going investigation the state police had jurisdiction. Frommer appeared in the doorway. She said they were ready downstairs.
Bo stepped towards her just as the body bag rolled by in the narrow hallway on a two-manned gurney. He retreated into the office asking softly to be excused: an involuntary response. Frommer, sensitive to the moment, stepped into the office. She suggested to Bo that they should wait a minute or two. Good police work. Better humanity. Then they were gone.
“Hope you haven’t eaten yet.” Bevilaqua handed me a Polaroid.
“Mother of God.”
The photo had been taken before Bukovats had been placed in the bag. Eyes open, he lay on his back. His trousers and his briefs were around his ankles. His hands palms up were outstretched. His tongue had been sliced, removed and replaced cut side out. There were lumps of something fleshy in each of his hands.
“Are those his testicles?” I asked. “In his hands I mean.”
“Probably, as his are not where we would expect to find them,” Bevilaqua answered.
“Man,” was all I could muster.
“Ante wasn’t just killed, he was made a poster boy for something, probably talking to the cops, but who knows?”
“Had Bukovats told you anything that might shed some light on who might do this?”
“Nope. Come with me Fintan. I got to get these guys out of here.”
I stood in the hallway as Bevilaqua checked in with each of his remaining team. Equipment was packed, samples were secured, and forms were signed. Bevilaqua asked the ranking Boston cop on scene to assign someone to stay after the doors were sealed.
“Somebody has to tell the students when they start showing up that they have a snow day.”
No comments:
Post a Comment