The Soapbox Man

By Thomas Bohl

With a history of social and political unrest as old as the city itself, the last thing that Boston needs is another crisis. But if Mayor Simon Hatch, the wealthy scion of one the city’s most powerful families and his cronies get their way that would be just what would happen. Using the police chief and a few like-minded officers, the men have found a creative way to rid the city of some of its most undesirable residents, preferably, in their words, “before they reproduce and pass their unworthy genes to another generation.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483520315

Book preview

9781483520315

Prologue

February 1978

If he was trying to go unnoticed, he was failing miserably. With each step Police Sergeant Patrick Flanagan took, he unconsciously let the heel of his shoe slap against the sidewalk. The rhythmic sound so permeated the otherwise silent neighborhood that more people noticed when it stopped than when it started. More often than not, Patrick’s eyes were turned toward the Hatch family’s Beacon Hill mansion as he paced. Inside resided three generations of one of Boston’s most powerful families, including the city’s current mayor, John Hatch.

With each step Patrick puffed on one of the thousands of unfiltered cigarettes he had smoked since his teens. He wore a heavy coat not only to protect himself from the cold February wind but also to conceal the fact that he was a policeman in uniform, although off duty. Sergeant Flanagan, the mayor’s security chief for the past two years, had recently learned something that he had yet to share with anyone else: the cancer that was devouring his lungs had metastasized to his brain. Just thirty-six hours earlier, his doctor had broken the news that Patrick would probably not live another three months. Based on the continual burning in his lungs and the non-stop migraine headaches he’d been experiencing, Patrick feared that the prognosis was optimistic.

The news had made Patrick frantic. His life, idyllic until his wife’s death two years ago, was deteriorating faster than he could comprehend. Even more than his own impending demise, Patrick was worried that his nine-year-old daughter Victoria would follow his footsteps into law enforcement because college would be too expensive. It was precisely this fear that brought him to the Hatch residence tonight.

When Patrick reached the end of his last cigarette he knew that it was time to do what he had come to do. He crushed the butt on the sidewalk with the toe of his shoe and turned toward the iron gate that protected the house. Patrick attempted to take in a long deep breath but coughed tremendously when the fresh air reached his lungs.

Aware of the Hatch family’s penchant for security, Patrick was not surprised that someone was waiting for him when he got to the front door. After greeting him with a smile and a nod, the long-time family butler Arthur, picked up a nearby phone, punched a few buttons and waited. Sergeant Flanagan to see you, Sir, he said into the receiver as he watched Patrick remove his coat. Very good, Sir, Arthur replied to whatever was told to him.

The butler took Patrick’s coat. Mr. Hatch will see you in his study. Please, come this way.

Patrick smiled. I’ve been down there often enough, I can find my way. He started down the hall without waiting for a reply.

Very good, Sir, Arthur called out from behind him.

Along the way, Patrick eyed the collection of portraits and photographs that were hung on the walls in a rough chronology. Attentive viewers could use the wall to trace the evolution of more than eight generations of the Hatch family since their arrival in Boston.

Patrick stopped by a nondescript door halfway down the hall on the left. He opened it, swallowed hard, then trotted down the stairs and through the door that led into the mayor’s study. John Hatch was sitting at his desk to Patrick’s left.

John spoke without looking up. Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.

Although several chairs were placed along the walls around the room, Patrick saw that none sat opposite the desk. No thanks, I prefer to stand.

Suit yourself, came the mumbled reply.

Patrick surveyed the oak paneled room until he caught his own reflection in a handsome full-length antique mirror hung from a stand in the corner. Though taller and more muscular than most men, Patrick noticed that he was starting to look frail. He turned to profile and sucked in his stomach. Though his body responded favorably, it was just seconds before yet another painful cough reminded Patrick how little his outside appearance mattered.

Patrick’s self-examination was interrupted by a throat clearing. He turned to find that John had looked up from his papers.

What can I do for you Sergeant? the mayor asked.

I need to speak with you about a personal matter.

John gestured down toward his cluttered desk. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?

No! Patrick snapped. It has to be tonight.

Ooh, this sounds serious, John said in a mocking tone. He then leaned back in his chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. What is it that I can do for you?

Patrick tried to remember the lines he had rehearsed. Actually, this is a case of what I can do for you.

And what is that? John responded, visibly annoyed by the accusatory inference.

Patrick smiled. I can keep you out of jail!

Though John hadn’t flinched, Patrick could sense that he now had the mayor’s complete attention.

You had better start making sense real soon Sergeant Flanagan, the mayor warned.

Trying not to show his trepidation, Patrick pressed on. I know all about your arrangement with Fisher over at HUD and with Meckler at his construction company. Those cost overruns on the new public housing developments aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, are they?

John broke eye contact as Patrick continued. I figure that since all of you have to sign off on them, you’re each getting a cut. He paused to let the words sink in. Am I right?

What the hell are talking about? John demanded as his face went white.

Patrick felt a surge of relief. The language of business was sometimes foreign to him and he had not been positive his suspicions were accurate until that moment. Does Island National Bank in the Cayman Islands mean anything to you?

John fumbled for something to occupy his hands, finally settled on the pen he had been using. After a moment he shrugged. No.

Patrick smiled. How about account number 1-7-4-2-8-0-0-7-2-4?"

John’s jaw began to tremble. How do you know that number? he asked, not caring that the statement certified his guilt.

Patrick smiled and took a few steps toward the door. How I know it does not matter. The newspapers are not going to care.

John moved to cut off Patrick’s exit. Wait! he pleaded. Let’s talk about this.

Patrick peered into the mayor’s eyes and for the first time felt his plan would succeed. I’ll tell you what. For $50,000 I’ll keep my mouth shut. Though he had estimated that it would cost about half that to provide for his daughter’s future, he wanted to give himself bargaining room.

A pattern of veins tracked across John’s forehead. That’s ridiculous. I don’t have that kind of money.

Don’t give me that crap and don’t tell me that it’s tied up in trust funds or some shit like that. Come up with the cash by ten a.m. tomorrow or every newspaper and television station in Boston will know what you’ve been up to.

The discussion was interrupted by the sudden pounding of footsteps on the same stairs that Patrick had descended. Moments later, the breathless and disheveled patriarch of the Hatch family, Charles, burst through the door and fired a shot that grazed Patrick’s shoulder.

Before Patrick could reach for his own weapon, Charles raised his pistol again, this time aiming it squarely at Patrick’s chest. Don’t move, he ordered. I missed you on purpose with the first shot. It won’t happen again.

The elder Hatch, though a grandfather several times over, was nonetheless an imposing figure. His shock of white hair showed no signs of thinning or receding and his arms were long and muscular. Yet it was his piercing, steel-blue eyes that signified he was a man to be reckoned with.

Dad, this has nothing to do with you. He reached to take the pistol from the old man.

Take your hand off of my gun, Charles shouted as he wriggled the pistol free of John’s grip. He waved it back and forth between Patrick and his son. I really don’t care which of you I shoot.

While his son partially retreated, Charles turned his attention back to Patrick. He poked the pistol into the Sergeant’s chest and resumed his tirade. How dare you come into my house and threaten my family!

John tried again to mollify his enraged father. For God’s sake Dad, he’s just trying to blackmail me. It happens all the time.

That’s not the point, Charles shouted back. He is just another degenerate trying to live off the hard work of others.

John couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes at his father’s oft-repeated words. Is it time for the Darwin speech again, dad?

Charles’ eyes bulged and his teeth clenched as if he was trying to contain an explosion. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

It means that you preach that ‘survival of the fittest’ shit like it’s a Goddamn religion, John shot back. I’m tired of it. I’ve been tired of it for twenty years.

As the argument escalated Patrick considered the drama unfolding before him. Most long-time residents of Boston were aware of the Hatch family’s obsession with success and perfection. In every activity, from sports to business to love, family members were expected to play not only to win, but to destroy their rivals. And because their businesses were run with the same fervor and ruthlessness, the family had built a huge fortune.

Another clamor of footsteps from the stairwell filled the room just before two teenage boys burst through the door.

That sounded like a gunshot, said the taller of the two boys.

John started to tell the boys to leave, but Charles’ voice was louder and carried more authority. No. Stay. This is important, he said.

Charles turned to the boys. Your father was about to tell us what’s wrong with how this family has used competition and intelligence to become successful.

That’s not what I said, John countered. I don’t have a problem with competition with sports or business, he said. But I don’t feel compelled to apply it to every single aspect of my life.

Charles shook his head. What do you think of that?

The two spoke at the same time. Everything is a competition, they said in unison. After a quick laugh at their unplanned duet, one teen demurred to the other and gestured for him to speak. "Life is competition, and only those who do the best…those who are the best, should survive to pass their genes on to a new generation."

The teen who had demurred then spoke up. The survival of humanity requires honest and hard work from everyone. Society should reject and punish those who turn to crime to fulfill their wants and needs.

John glared at his father. You son-of-a-bitch. I told you to keep that shit away from my boys.

Charles was unrepentant. Somebody had to teach them, and you sure as hell weren’t doing it.

If not for the gun still pointed at him Patrick might have found amusement in the mayor’s reaction. John’s whole body sagged while his jaw, clenched at the start of the discussion hung open. His eyes could only find the floor.

A smile enveloped Charles’ face and he brimmed with energy. Excellent, he said. You boys have made me very proud.

John looked toward his father. His eyes were tearing, but no words came forth.

Charles grinned mischievously as he delivered the knock-out punch. It’s ironic, he said to his son. That you just demonstrated one of the most important elements of evolution. He paused for emphasis. Sometimes it skips a generation.

While the boys giggled at the comment, the elder Hatch waved his gun inches from Patrick’s face. It is essential that people take responsibility for their actions. He looked Patrick square in the eye. Are you willing to take responsibility for your actions?

Though he did not know exactly what the man’s question implied, Patrick somehow knew that any answer other than ‘yes’ would be problematic. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

Good, Charles answered then turned back toward John.

What about you?

More aware of the significance of the question than Patrick had been, John chose not to answer. Instead he made his way to the door. As he passed Patrick he stopped and leaned toward him. I’m sorry that you had to get involved in this.

Charles shook his head with disgust at his son’s actions, then motioned for the teens to join him. As they huddled and talked in low tones, Patrick debated making a run for the door, but the pain where Charles’ first shot had grazed his shoulder reminded him that the old man was serious. He could not help wondering what price he was going to have to pay for his actions this night.

Chapter One / December, 2001

Ernie glanced up at the clock on the wall as the phone rang again. Seventeen minutes to midnight. He stabbed at a button, turning on the speaker phone. City Morgue, Pickett speaking.

This is Morgan, put me down for 42.

Morgan…42…Got it.

Before Ernie could disconnect the call another line rang. Ernie shook his head with disgust. He hated Thursdays. The pool had been interesting in the beginning but now he felt more like a bookie than a deputy medical examiner. He poked at the blinking light on the phone. City Morgue. Pickett speaking, he repeated.

This is Lewis. Anyone got 34 yet?

Ernie looked at the grease board on the wall to the right of his desk. Next to the number 34 was written ‘L.R.’.

Sorry Sarge, the captain’s got that one. How ‘bout 35?

There was a long pause before the voice was heard again. All right, gimme 35. But if we’re at 34 on Sunday night I swear to God I’m taking one of them sleazeballs out myself.

Thirty-five it is, Ernie said. By the way, you still owe twenty for last week and twenty for the week before. Quincy said to cut you off if you don’t pay up.

Christ, Ernie, you know I’m good for it. I just haven’t been down there lately. That fuckin’ place gives me the creeps.

Well, Quincy says pay up or you gonna be part of the count.

Fuck you and tell Quincy to keep her panties on. I’ll be down Sunday.

I’ll let her know, Ernie responded as he stood up and mashed the button to end the call. He went to the grease board and wrote down the new information. 35 S.L., 42 F.M. Surveying the board, Ernie noted that all of the regulars had placed their bets except Bubba Shearson who always waited until the last minute and then complained because all the numbers he wanted were taken.

Ernie liked most of the guys in the pool except Morgan, who never tipped him and Mahoney who always complained that it was rigged. How, Ernie wondered, could they rig it? The rules were written across the top of the board. The number of deaths by violence occurring within the Boston city limits from noon Friday to midnight Sunday. All bets placed by midnight Thursday. Murder, suicide, fire, joggers struck by cars, they all counted. The lower right corner of the board held a year to date total with a comparison of the previous years. By this marker, the city was ahead of last year violent death rate by more than 15 percent.

Ernie went to the back corner office where he found Patricdia Quincy Callahan reclined at her desk with her feet on top of a stack of files marked confidential. Her eyes were closed and she was idly tapping her pencil on her thigh. Lewis says he’ll be down Sunday to pay up.

He’d better be, she responded without opening her eyes. He’s almost a month behind.

Ernie returned to his desk and fielded two more phone calls before Bubba Shearson stalked in, a few minutes before midnight. Without a word he walked around the reception desk, ignoring the Morgue Staff Only sign, and into Ernie’s office. After a quick look at the board Bubba exclaimed, Shit! All the good numbers are gone.

************************

The howling wind that swirled between the buildings crept underneath Neil’s blanket as if it were looking specifically for him. He shivered. Goddamn it, it was cold, he thought. The dumpsters that separated Neil from the street were not much help when the wind came up. He didn’t mind the snow much because it at least made the alley look clean for a while. But the wind, the wind found its way into his soul. All day long the talk on the street had been about a Nor’easter. Jesus, that was all he needed.

Neil had spent most nights since the middle of summer in an alley at the edge of the financial district but knew that soon he would have to move to a more sheltered spot. Though the autumn and early winter months had been warmer than usual, the recent cold snap had brutally reminded him that his protection from the elements was minimal and he could ignore them for only so long.

When weather permitted Neil lingered near an ATM mounted on the side of a bank not far from the alley where he slept. The location was lucrative, and more importantly the locals hadn’t yet taken to shooing him away from their storefronts. On a good day the bankers, lawyers and stock traders who plied their trade in this part of town were good for thirty five or forty dollars, enough to keep him in food and booze.

During his first winter on the street, one that had nearly killed him, Neil befriended a man who had taught him to gaze, without staring, at his target’s entire face, as if he was trying to recognize an old friend. That strategy, combined with his cool blue eyes, somehow enabled Neil to look like he was truly needy and not simply begging. He was both amused and disturbed to notice that some of the people he counted on as regulars now brought something to do while they stood in line in order to avoid another donation.

Other than his eyes, everything else about Neil was considerably less appealing. He was short, balding and sported a ratty salt and pepper beard that added at least ten years to his forty-four year old physique. More than two years’ steady diet of alcohol and handouts had withered his once sturdy frame to its present state of utter disrepute. He was dirty, had long, stringy, filthy hair and he smelled only slightly better than the dumpster he usually slept next to.

Aside from an old black woman called Miss Annie who made her home in a cardboard box about thirty yards away, Neil had the alley and his life to himself. The storm kept out the students and sightseers who usually passed by on their way to party or eat at Quincy Market. Tourists were sometimes good for a couple of bucks, especially if they were not from another big city, but the students just looked right past him as if he didn’t exist. And if they did say something it was usually get a job or take a bath. He couldn’t blame them, Neil often thought, for he had usually treated the homeless the same way before he had joined their ranks.

As Neil waited for sleep to come, his mind began to drift back over the past few years, before he lost control of his life. One particular day remained crystal clear in his memory. The beginning of the end, he considered it. Neil could remember every little detail about it - every sound, every smell, even every taste.

It was Thanksgiving day, just a few years ago. Neil had been relaxing in his favorite recliner and the television was tuned to the Cowboys game while the kids were playing street hockey out front. His wife Martha was cooking enough food to feed an army and Neil was sipping a good stiff drink. He had yet to tell everyone that he had been laid off. The defense company that employed him as an accountant for the past ten years had lost a big contract and was now letting almost 1,500 people go. The dinner progressed slowly as Neil heard about his son’s new girlfriend and his daughter’s new job. Neil waited until the pumpkin pie was being dished out before telling his family the news. Neil would never forget the rattling echo of his wife’s dropped fork hitting her plate.

Fortunately for Neil, the following twelve months were considerably hazier. Like his father, Neil had a special taste for the bottle and when things went bad alcohol quickly turned from a crutch to a life-support system. Though Martha was able to find work and almost completely replace the income he had lost, Neil’s pride had been shattered. During a particularly fearsome weekend of drinking and arguing with his wife he left his house and had never returned.

Suddenly Neil was shaken awake by the gloved hand of a well-dressed man. The usually quiet alley was full of the sounds of many people. A bright flashlight shone in Neil’s eyes and without warning his blanket was pulled down from his face, exposing him to the bitter cold.

How about this one? the man said to someone standing nearby.

Another man leaned over Neil and examined his face. Neil had seen this man before but couldn’t remember where.

No, he looks like shit. We don’t need to be scaring people, the familiar man said with a laugh.

A third voice called from the vicinity of Miss Annie’s box. Mayor Hatch, check this one out.

Neil pulled the blanket back up, but watched as Miss Annie was rousted from her box.

The three men looked Miss Annie over before one finally made a decision. Yes, she’s the one. Get the camera crew over here and let’s get the fuck out of here. I’m freezin’.

Someone ran back to the mouth of the alley and spoke to the folks gathered there. Neil strained to hear what he said. Okay, people, get your camera ready. We want to do this in one take. Set up over there and make sure you get a good shot of the mayor’s face.

Neil turned back to see another man speaking very quietly to Miss Annie who was nodding her head in response. After a few minutes the camera lights came on and a pretty young reporter began her interview. Mayor Hatch what are you doing out on a miserable night like this?

Well, Julie, someone has to do something to take care of those less fortunate than ourselves. People like Miss Annie here are being left behind by society and the uncaring policies of the federal government. The least we can do is give them a warm bed and a hot meal.

What can citizens do to help?

On behalf of the Pine Street Inn, my office will be accepting donations of food, clothing and money all night. Please call with your pledges or stop by with donations.

The mayor began to escort Miss Annie out of the alley and toward the street. After they passed the dumpsters the cameraman panned back to the reporter who had stayed next to Miss Annie’s box. Neil listened as she continued. We are now talking with the Mayor’s Chief of Staff, Mickey Sterling. Mickey, what do you think about the Simon Hatch being out here on a night like this?

Julie, Simon Hatch is the greatest mayor in the history of Boston. What these homeless people need as much as your food and money is for you to vote to re-elect him next November. Only your votes will bring permanent change to this city.

With that Mickey Sterling wiped a tear from his eye and walked away.

The reporter turned back to the camera. You have just seen live footage of Boston Mayor Simon Hatch helping with the efforts to get the homeless into shelters on this stormy night. Back to you, Chet.

The camera lights dimmed and everyone began to pack up.

A minute or so later, Miss Annie passed by Neil as she returned to her box.

What the hell was that all about? Neil called out.

Miss Annie grinned toothlessly and waved the piece of paper in her hand. Easiest fifty bucks I ever made.

************************

Kevin Conklin settled into his most comfortable chair just in time for the start of his favorite talk-radio program. The host of the program, Stan Perkins, was an anachronism in modern Boston. Although he and his followers espoused conservative and reactionary opinions, it was the most popular call-in show in the traditionally liberal city. The thoughts expressed were almost always right-wing extremist, fearful of change and rarely original. Nevertheless, Stan managed to weave them into a tapestry of slogans and anthems that Boston’s less-educated and working class populations could rally around. Stan referred to his followers as the city’s ‘nervous underbelly’ and often preached open revolt against anything that threatened what he considered their unalienable rights: the right to life, the right to bear arms, and the right to hate government on every level.

Callers, many of whom phoned in every night, waited for a chance to speak their minds. For them the wait was a small price. Depending on the subject at hand, Stan chose who to put on the air based on what he expected them to say. This was made possible by a combination of carefully screening each caller before he or she was allowed to opine on the air and Stan’s uncanny ability to guess what veteran callers would say. In this manner the show drifted each night to a predictable and yet somewhat pedestrian conclusion; like a river that continued to flow through the channel it had cut a million years prior.

While the introduction and a few commercials played, Kevin reached for one of the three pint bottles of whiskey that he had purchased earlier that day, twisted off the cap, took a long sip and leaned back, his eyes closed. The fluid, warm to his throat and belly, temporarily satiated a craving that haunted him most of the time. Like others that suffered similarly, Kevin did not consider his desire a problem, let alone an addiction.

Talk to me, came the familiar patter from the radio when Stan returned to the air.

Hi, this is Peter from Brookline.

Kevin loved it when people from Brookline called into the show. They were usually liberal college professors who believed that their daily jousting with undergraduates prepared them to take on the show’s host. They were almost always wrong.

Peter tried to start off on the right foot. Thanks for talking my call.

You can thank me when you’re done, answered Stan tartly. Avid listeners of the program understood the irony of Stan’s stock answer. His predilection for disconnecting callers mid-sentence was one of his trademarks and he employed it with little sense of etiquette and even less regard for his caller’s feelings. Usually the only people who he let stay on the air long enough to thank him were those who echoed his own opinions.

Kevin took another sip as the caller continued. When I was growing up thirty years ago, the most I ever had to worry about was getting a fat lip from the bully at school. Nowadays kids risk getting sent to the hospital or worse just for wearing the wrong color clothes into the wrong neighborhood or for looking at someone the wrong way.

Kevin rolled his eyes. He was already pretty sure where the conversation was headed. Much to Kevin’s delight, Stan led his caller into a trap. And what do you think is the cause of the problem?

Along with Stan and most of the regular listeners throughout the city, Kevin spoke the expected answer along with Peter. Guns.

Kevin chuckled to himself and raised the bottle as if toasting. He took another sip as Stan lambasted Peter’s ignorance of the historic and special role that guns played not only in the settling of the west but of the country as a whole. As usual, Stan used his patented we need more guns, not less spiel.

Peter’s fatal mistake came in interrupting the host during this soliloquy. He hadn’t gotten out more than a half dozen words before the audience was treated to a loud click followed by a dial tone. Kevin cheered for his hero.

Stan came back on the air immediately. "If any of you whiny bleeding heart liberals has anything intelligent to say I’d love to hear from you, he challenged. And while you’re trying to figure out how to dial the phone, I’ve got a treat for my real fans - Charlie is back and on the line. We’ll be right with him after these messages."

************************

In his studio, Stan Perkins could barely contain himself as he waited for the last advertisement to wind down. When the lead out began, he put his headphones back on and flipped on his microphone. Hello, Charlie. How are you doing? We haven’t heard from you in a while.

Yeah, I’ve been a little busy lately, answered Charlie.

What’s on your mind tonight?

As usual Charlie got right to the point. I was wondering if anybody out there can tell me why our society goes to the trouble of using selective breeding to create healthy livestock, fast racehorses and cute puppies, while at the same time we allow any idiot with a pecker to breed at will, he asked. We allow the poorest, dumbest and least successful people have as many children as they want. And if they can’t afford to feed, clothe and take care of them, the rest of us pick up the bill.

Stan laughed out loud. Well that certainly is an interesting point.

Although he didn’t agree with everything Charlie said it never failed to light up the switchboard and in Stan’s business that was all that really mattered. Stan looked to his producer for a clue as to who was waiting on the blinking phone lines. Unfortunately the young man was having trouble with the onslaught of calls and could offer no help. Stan decided to let Charlie continue.

Well Charlie it looks as though no one is man enough to answer your question. Why don’t you elaborate?

There was no hesitation before Charlie continued. I believe that our society, through philanthropy, good-will, social spending, charity and any number of other guises, is thwarting the natural order by allowing inferior humans to not only survive but to reproduce, thus passing their below-adequate genes to children of equal or lower quality.

What do you mean? Stan asked, though he was pretty sure he understood.

Well, anytime we use social conventions to let someone survive who normally wouldn’t, we are defeating nature. And when we allow that person to pass their unfit genes to subsequent generations we hurt humanity as a whole. No other species on the planet allows that to happen.

Stan smiled as he noted that every light on the switchboard was lit. Charlie rarely failed to stir trouble.

And I’m not talking about just issues of life and death, Charlie elaborated. I am saying that every dollar we spend on jails for people who commit crimes and every dollar we spend sweeping litter off the street is a dollar that could be spent for more productive uses."

Or even better - never taken from Mr. or Mrs. Taxpayer in the first place, Stan interjected, trying to bring the topic back to something all his listeners could relate to.

That’s right, Charlie agreed.

************************

Tory Flanagan was tired. Despite putting in a full day as the head of the mayor’s security staff she had volunteered to stay on to help deal with the snowstorm and consequently had spent much of the past eight hours dealing with minor accidents, traffic jams and irate drivers. Why, she wondered, didn’t these people ever go home early when it snowed? This storm was predicted almost 48 hours ago, yet it seemed everyone waited until there were six inches of snow on the ground before they hit the roads home. Boston’s drivers already had a well-deserved reputation as aggressive, and putting them in heavy traffic on slippery roads was a recipe for disaster.

Tory sipped a beer as she watched the local news on the television. Most of the stories centered on the snow storm with reports on traffic, downed power lines and the closing of Logan airport. Before going to a station break, the news camera focused back on anchorwoman Natalie Jacobsen who told her audience, Right after these messages we’ll be back with Julie Simmons and her report on Mayor Simon Hatch’s stirring efforts to help the homeless during the worst storm of the year.

Tory felt every muscle in her body tighten as the video feed switched to an image of a well dressed man assisting an elderly woman through the snow. What the hell is going on? she said out loud. Before the first commercial began she was on the phone.

Boston P.D. May I help you?

This is Lieutenant Flanagan. Get me Cap’n Willis.

Hey Tory, came a cheerful reply. This is Tim. The captain is in interrogation. We’ve got a suspect in that Poole rape.

Hey Tim, Tory answered, then got to the point of her call. What’s going on with the mayor? I thought we put him to bed at six o’clock.

Yeah, well, you know Simon Hatch – he can’t miss an opportunity to get in front of the camera. Some fool decided that he’d look good helping the homeless to shelters so they called Channel 5 and went downtown looking for a victim.

Tory sighed audibly. Why didn’t anyone call me?

Well, it was all last minute and the last we heard you were pushing cars out on the turnpike. There wasn’t time to find the regular staff so we got a few uniforms together. Nuthin’ to get steamed about.

I ain’t steamed. I just wish I wasn’t always the last to know. Shit, I gotta hear this stuff on the news.

Go to bed, Tory. We’ll see you tomorrow.

Goodnight, Tim.

Tory hung up the phone just as the commercial break came to an end. She sat back down on the edge of her easy chair and leaned forward. On the screen was a close-up of Mayor Simon Hatch with a microphone in his face. She listened intently to the all too