Dead Ringer Page 3

  “Can Dixie actually feel that?” Cole asked.

  “Sure looks like it.” Carson looked as stunned as his brother sounded.

  “Guys, the house cleaners?” Ten said, sounding more impatient than he meant to.

  Carson turned away from his mother and Dixie and shook his head as if he were trying to remember the conversation. “We wanted to talk this over with you before we made any decisions about expanding the business. We figured we’d talk to the vacuum cleaner repair shop guy next door and see if he’s interested in selling the space to us. From what we’ve been able to tell, he isn’t getting much business. People just go out and buy a new vacuum rather than fixing their old one nowadays.”

  Ten had to agree there. “What would you put in that space if we could get it?”

  “Private reading space for each of us.” Cole pointed back and forth between himself and Ten. “Since the reading room here was Mom’s I thought Carson should keep it.”

  “No argument here!” Bertha called out from the floor where she was still playing with Dixie.

  “That goes double for me,” Ten agreed.

  “We’d also put a business office in there and any leftover space could be used for consultations for anyone else we brought onboard.” Carson shoved his hands into the front pocket of his jeans and seemed to be studying Tennyson.

  Ten knew Carson was reading him or was trying to anyway. He was smart enough to have shut himself down when Carson and Cole had been laying the plan out. “I’m assuming buying the space next door would require some kind of a business loan that the three of us would need to sign together, right?”

  Carson nodded.

  “I like this idea a lot, but I need to talk to Ronan about this now that we’re married.” Ten knew Ronan would support him in anything he wanted to do, but when it involved signing his name to a mortgage document and risking his credit, Ronan needed a vote in the matter.

  “Same goes for us. We haven’t mentioned this to Truman or Cassie yet. We wanted to hear what you thought first.” Carson grinned at Ten.

  Tennyson was all for expanding and bringing in additional talent. It would be especially helpful when things got crazy with Ronan and one of his cold cases that pulled him away from his work at the shop. Things were quiet now, but Ten didn’t need his sixth sense to know they wouldn’t stay that way for long.

  5

  Ronan

  Ronan was back at his desk reading Tank Hutchins’ letter for what had to be the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours. He could recite it by heart.

  He wanted to jump in the Mustang and hightail it to Walpole, but before he could do that, he needed more information. Pulling up a fresh Google Chrome browser on his computer, he surfed to The Boston Globe’s website and did a search for The Riverside Ripper. Opening a second browser, he did the same thing on The Boston Herald’s website.

  With his cup of expensive coffee sitting next to his left hand, he began to read.

  It took nearly two hours for him to get through all of the articles from The Globe. What Ronan found most disturbing of all was that dead serial killer, Rod Jacobson had written an expose on Thomas “Tank” Hutchins that ran on the front page of The Sunday Globe back in August of 2015. He’d shivered reading that asshole’s byline on the article. As much as Ronan hated that motherfucker, his article had been the most informative and well-researched of everything he’d read.

  Born in 1986 in Haverhill, Massachusetts, Thomas and his twin brother, Timothy, had grown up in nearby Methuen. They’d gone to Methuen High School where they’d been standout athletes, lettering in football, basketball, and track. Tank was a standout in the decathlon, while Tim had been a state champion pole vaulter and short distance runner. He still held a Methuen Rangers record in the 100 meters.

  The brothers had gone their own way after graduation. Tim had gone to a local technical college and had then apprenticed with Daly Brothers Construction out of Charlestown, Massachusetts. Tank had gone to UMass Lowell on a track scholarship and had majored in finance. He’d graduated near the top of his class and with honors.

  Life had gone on from there. Tim had married Michelle and had his three sons, while Tank had been married and divorced, with little drama. According to Jacobson’s interviews with the Hutchins family, Tank had doted on his nephews.

  Where had it all gone so wrong?

  Ronan finished off the rest of his high-test coffee while he read The Riverside Ripper articles in The Boston Herald. He didn’t learn anything in those articles that he hadn’t already read in the other paper. He hated to admit it, but the Jacobson article was the most informative one of them all. He wasn’t sure how he’d present that little nugget to Tennyson and Fitzgibbon when the time came. Carefully, he assumed.

  His next step was to watch news footage from the beginning stages of the investigation through to the conviction and sentencing of Thomas Hutchins.

  Ronan sighed. He picked up Tank’s letter. My friends and family call me Tank… When had Ronan started thinking of himself as a friend?

  None of this made any sense. He was a member of the BPD’s Cold Case Unit. The Riverside Ripper case was closed. Tom “Tank” Hutchins had been convicted and sentenced. He had appeals left to wend their way through the court system. He had a new lawyer and some hotshot private investigator. What did he need Ronan for?

  For Tennyson. Obviously.

  Tennyson was the ace in the hole. Ten would be able to read Tank and know if he’d committed the murder. It was possible that he could connect with Lorraine McAlpin and find out if Tank killed her or not. Although the problem with this case was Tim Hutchins. He and Tank were identical twins.

  If Tank’s supposition that his twin was the killer was correct, how on earth would Lorraine know which brother had killed her?

  Knowing that he’d lost his mind, Ronan grabbed the keys to the Mustang. Fitzgibbon’s office door was closed. His boss would never know where he’d gone if he left now. As casually as he possibly could, he made toward the bank of elevators.

  ***

  Half an hour later, Ronan was pushing the Mustang past 85 M.P.H. down I-95 South toward Walpole, Massachusetts. Ronan had himself an appointment to meet with Tank Hutchins and his dream team at MCI-Cedar Junction.

  He’d called the lawyer’s office from the parking garage and had been shocked when his legal assistant had put him right through to the big guy himself, no lines, no waiting. Bradford Hicks said he’d see what he could do about getting Jude Byrne to be there for the meeting too. Jude was a busy man, after all with cheating husbands to photograph and totally able-bodied people claiming to be disabled to catch in the act of moving pianos, and all that jazz. Ronan had absolutely no doubt the P.I. would be there today.

  What was gnawing at Ronan was that he hadn’t told Tennyson about this little field trip. His husband had texted him earlier in the morning to let him know that his day was so overbooked with readings that he might not be home in time for dinner. The same went for Carson and Cole. Ronan would bet the house that their episode of Dateline had aired on some cable station last night. That always made appointments at West Side Magick book at lightspeed.

  It was the perfect day to make the thirty-mile trip down to the prison to see Hutchins and his dream team. Ten would never know he’d left the confines of the precinct house in South Boston. With a little luck, neither would Fitzgibbon. He would have an easier time explaining this to Ten than he would to Kevin at this stage of the game, although he had a bit of wiggle room now that his boss was also one of his best friends. He hoped. Either way, it was always easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission.

  Ronan saw the chain link fence and razor wire long before he saw the white-washed brick structure of the prison. Four guard towers were stationed around the property and he could see the officers manning them were well-armed. He shivered in the bright fall sunshine. It was the first time in his life that Ronan O’Mara had been to a maximum-security prison.


  After he parked the car, Ronan spent a few minutes getting himself together. He had spent the near hour-long drive figuring out just what it was he was hoping to get out of this meeting. As he climbed out of the Mustang, he still didn’t have a clear answer. The best he could do at this point was agree to sit and listen to what Tank and his people had to say. He’d use his gut instinct to figure out if he was being told the truth or being sold a line of bull.

  After he signed the visitor’s log and turned his gun over to the corrections officer in charge, Ronan was led out of the main office and down a sterile looking hall. Ronan didn’t know what he was expecting, but this pleasant hallway wasn’t it.

  His only experience with prison was what he saw on television or in the movies. Let’s face it, The Shawshank Redemption and Orange is the New Black didn’t really paint a realistic picture of what life was like in a modern-day men’s correctional facility.

  “This is it, Detective O’Mara.” The guard stopped outside a normal-looking door. There were no obvious locks on it. There were no bars and no alarm.

  “Where’s the security?” Ronan asked softly.

  “This is a family visitor’s room. Inmates with the best behavior records and those with their attorney present are allowed to have visits in these rooms, rather than in the cubicles with inches of plexiglass and the connecting telephones. Mr. Hutchins is one of our best inmates. When your visit is over just come back to the main desk. I’ll sign you out and return your firearm.” The officer opened the door for Ronan by twisting the knob. No key was necessary.

  Ronan had never seen anything like this on Law and Order, that was for sure. The visitor’s room had a large rectangular table in the center of it. Off to the side was a lumpy looking sofa and next to that was a bin with some toys.

  Ronan wasn’t focused on the toys or the furniture though, he was looking at the trio of men sitting at the table. To his left was a man in what he’d guess was a five-hundred-dollar suit. That must be Bradford Hicks. The lawyer was clean shaven with close-set dark eyes and a receding hairline. The man in the center wore an orange jumpsuit. A dead giveaway for Tank Hutchins. The man sitting to his right, by default, must be the P.I.

  “Bradford Hicks. You must be Detective O’Mara.” He held out his hand.

  Ronan shook it, instantly noticing what a weak grip the man had. He hoped for Tank’s sake he was a better lawyer than his hand shake indicated. “I am. It’s good to meet you.”

  “I’m Tom Hutchins.” Tank stood up and held out his hand.

  He shook the offered hand. Ronan noticed he wasn’t handcuffed or shackled at all. He remembered the corrections officer saying that Hutchins was one of the best-behaved inmates at Walpole, but he still wished he had his gun clipped to his hip.

  “Jude Byrne,” The last man said in a deep voice, making no move to stand or shake Ronan’s hand. His eyes were an odd hazel color. When he turned his head a certain way, they blazed golden. His hair was so dark it was ebony. He was, in a word, stunning.

  Nodding curtly at the rude bastard, Ronan sat down at the opposite end of the table. He took a minute to study Tank. The man no longer lived up to his nickname. He was still tall, Ronan would guess he stood around 6’2” but gone was the bulk that had made him a state champion shot putter and discus thrower. His skin seemed to hang on his now lankier frame and his skin was sallow, having that dusky institutionalized pallor. This was not a man that saw much sunshine. “I got your letter, Mr. Hutchins.”

  Tom nodded. “Thank you for coming to see me. I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “Why did you come, Ronan? And where is your psychic? Or do you prefer to call him your husband?” Jude Byrne asked. His leonine eyes betrayed no hint of emotion. He leaned forward in his seat as if he were suddenly more interested in the Boston detective.

  Ronan grinned at the private investigator. In his nearly thirteen years on the police force he’d learned that most guys who ended up doing P.I. work were the ones who’d washed out of the police academy, usually because they’d failed the psych exam. He’d bet a month’s pay that Byrne fell into that category. “As I’m sure you can imagine, Mr. Hutchins,” Ronan turned his attention back to the convicted killer, “my husband and I get a lot of letters asking for help in matters that require his particular skill set. To be perfectly honest with you, yours was the first letter that I’ve gotten from a convicted felon.”

  “I told you I’m innocent,” Tank said simply. There was no heat behind his words.

  “If I polled the other eight hundred cons in this building they’d all tell me the same thing, right?” Ronan kept his tone level.

  Hutchins nodded. “I suppose they would.”

  “I read your letter and then I read every newspaper article about your case that I could get my hands on. It’s obvious that you know who Tennyson is and what his gift has done to aid in other investigations I’ve been a part of.”

  Tom nodded. “I believe in his gift enough to know that he’d see right through me if I was lying. If I were a guilty man, Detective O’Mara, I wouldn’t be wasting your time.”

  Ronan raised an eyebrow at the con. “Here’s what I find interesting, Mr. Hutchins. You and your twin share the same DNA. There will always be room for reasonable doubt if you win an appeal and are granted a new trial. There was no fingerprint evidence found with the victim’s body, which really could have saved your bacon.”

  The P.I. snorted. “And how exactly would that have saved his bacon, detective?”

  Did the private dick even realize he snorted like a pig? It took all of his willpower for Ronan not to roll his eyes. “While identical twins share DNA, they don’t have the same fingerprints.”

  Jude didn’t respond verbally, but Ronan saw his jaw visibly tighten. Touché, asshole! Ronan was glad he’d done a little research on twins while he’d been stuck in traffic on I-95.

  “You’re saying one fingerprint could have set me free?” Tank shook his head. “If it weren’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all here.”

  “You do realize that even if Tennyson and I agree to work on this case there might not be anything we can do to help you.” This had been the one sticking point Ronan couldn’t seem to overcome. He was going to need to discuss this case with Ten and with Fitzgibbon at some point in time and this was the one reason both men were going to latch onto as why they should leave this one alone.

  “Story of my life, Detective O’Mara.” Tank crossed his arms over his thin chest.

  “Typical psychic bullshit.” Byrne clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You have to couch your bets in case the spirits aren’t speaking that day.” He made air quotes over “the spirits.”

  Ronan burst out laughing. He couldn’t help himself. This guy was such an asshole. Byrne also reminded him of himself on the day he and Tennyson met.

  “My client is looking at twenty-five years to life for a crime he didn’t commit, detective. What could possibly be funny at a time like this?” Bradford Hicks asked.

  “You’re obviously at the end of your evidence here, Mr. Hicks. That, or one of you really believes in psychics. I’m guessing it’s you, since Tank probably isn’t getting a lot of opportunities to watch Long Island Medium here at Cedar Junction. As I said earlier, your letter is the first one we’ve gotten from a convicted felon. Usually, we’re getting requests for help from bereaved family members of the victim in cases like this. I wanted to come here today to hear not only what you all had to say, but to look Mr. Hutchins in the eye and see if his story held up to my years of gut instinct.

  “This isn’t a cold case. It’s been fully prosecuted and you’ve been convicted. It’s going to take a hell of a lot to convince Tennyson to come here and for my captain to agree to give us time to look into it. One member of your team thinks what we do is total bullshit and I get that. I was in his exact position a year ago. To answer your question, Mr. Hicks, there is nothing funny about this situation. Courts don’t like to overturn murde
r convictions, especially ones with iron-clad DNA. It takes a mountain of new evidence or a grievous mistake in the first trial for an appellate judge to even consider making that move. As I said, there might not be anything Tennyson and I can do to help.”

  “What do you mean? All Tennyson needs to do is talk to Lorraine McAlpin. She will be able to tell you I didn’t kill her.” Tank looked confused.

  “How, Mr. Hutchins? I told you that I read every newspaper article I could find on this case. I also watched news footage. I’ve seen so many pictures of you and Tim together and I’ll be damned if I could tell you who was who. If Lorraine saw her killer, she saw your face.”

  Tank’s eyes narrowed on Ronan. His eyebrows knit together. Dawning slowly lit in his eyes as if he hadn’t thought of that possibility before.

  Ronan watched as all of the fight seemed to pass right out of Tank Hutchins. For some reason that made him want to pick up the baton and fight for him. The question was how to get Tennyson and Fitzgibbon to agree to help him.

  6

  Tennyson

  Tennyson was worn to the bone. He’d done five in-person readings and seven more phone readings. He hadn’t gotten home until after 7pm. Thankfully, Truman had been able to stop by and pick up Dixie at the shop, otherwise his little lady would have had to go without her dinner until he’d been able to get away.

  It wasn’t until Ten had gotten home and settled with Dixie that he realized Ronan wasn’t home either. He checked his phone for messages and saw there weren’t any. It wasn’t like Ronan not text him or leave a voicemail at some point during the day. So far as Ten knew, Ronan was going to spend the day in the office going through his caseload trying to figure out which cold case would be the next one the two of them would investigate together.

  He dug into his back pocket for his phone when he heard Dixie bark and Ronan’s key turning in the lock. Seconds later, the house alarm started its set of warning beeps letting them know they had fifteen seconds to key the code before the real alarm started to wail.