This Wicked City

By Michael Walsh

Crime and corruption are rising in Ocean Park, a tired factory town in northern Massachusetts. The police and fire departments are no help—they're staging a work slowdown to protest a pay freeze caused by city budget cuts.
Police Detective Matt Conley is disgusted with the dereliction of duty, and when tasked with solving the murder of a young Haitian immigrant, he infuriates the force by teaming with the victim's friend Emmanuel to find the killer. They encounter an enterprising family of Voudou worshipers, a ruthless real estate magnate, and a clever, love-struck arsonist in their search for justice. This Wicked City is a mystery powered by its characters' struggles with love, loyalty, and sacrifice.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Dec 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781509252671

Michael Walsh

The author of seventeen novels and non-fiction books, Michael Walsh was the classical music critic and a foreign correspondent for Time Magazine, and received the 2004 American Book Awards prize for fiction for his gangster novel, And All the Saints. His books The Devil’s Pleasure Palace and The Fiery Angel examine the enemies, heroes, triumphs, and struggles of Western Civilization from the ancient past to the present, while Last Stands (2020) explores the reasons why men fight to end when all is lost. He divides his time between Connecticut and Ireland.

Book preview

Best to leave now. He knew from experience that at some point grief was best suffered alone. He left with the words he always hated, the ultimate dismissal, the too-easy farewell.

Good luck.

He was halfway to the staircase when Emmanuel yelled to him in a clear but jagged voice.

Joseph was nineteen.

Conley froze. Somewhere in the room, a chair leg scraped the floor. A newspaper rustled. A car backfired outside.

Nineteen years old, Emmanuel said loudly. He was hated by cops, they called him a scab. His own community called him a snitch.

The librarian stood, her face resolute. She started toward him.

Who gets justice for Joseph? Emmanuel shouted, his face shining in the sunbeam. Cops wouldn’t do their jobs because they want more money and Joseph worked for free because he believed in the law. He gave his life to this city, and it owes him. Who’s going to find his killer now, Chief Detective?

Conley turned. Most of the white hairs had lowered their newspapers and turned their bloodshot eyes toward the corner table. Students—the ones without earphones—did the same. The approaching librarian stopped and touched her throat. Something serious was going down, library entertainment that didn’t require reading. The room was silent for a ten count—until Conley nodded and answered softly.

I guess we are.

Emmanuel cupped his hands over his mouth and his eyes filled with tears that refused to fall.

Praise

A great read, a real page turner! ~Howie Carr, Boston columnist and New York Times bestselling author of The Brothers Bulger and Hitman.

Winner of the Jacksonville Writers’ Festival Short Story Contest for The Legend of Jackie Ginelli.

This Wicked City

by

Michael Walsh

Ocean Park Series

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

This Wicked City

COPYRIGHT © 2023 by Michael Walsh

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Lisa Dawn MacDonald

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2024

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-5266-4

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-5267-1

Ocean Park Series

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For Jean, my meticulous proofreader and the love of my life.

Chapter 1

Emmanuel Hillaire waved his long, skinny arms over his head like a marionette. A brilliant sunrise shone soft, golden light on those undulating arms—and on the body that lay at Emmanuel’s feet, between the tarnished rails of the Boston commuter train tracks.

Detective Matt Conley returned a one-handed wave from a hundred yards, caught his breath, and climbed. The steep berm that supported the railroad crumbled slowly and drew his footsteps into soft dirt and rocks until his thighs burned. The rails stretched south toward Boston skyscrapers that shimmered in the gray marine layer. No train in sight, but there’d be one soon. The commuter trains ran through Ocean Park regularly in the early morning.

He sprinted along the worn path next to the railroad. The sun grew hotter, and a breeze carried the stench of coal-tar creosote that coated the wooden ties under the rails. His partner had called in sick, as usual, which always made Conley’s double shift twice as hard. Thankfully, he was near the end of it, exhausted and anxious to get home to his fiancée Gina. She’d been alone too long lately. Far too long.

Still winded, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dictated.

Approaching Boston Transit tracks near Cottage Street—answering the call from Safety Officer Emmanuel Hillaire—standing guard over the victim he identified as Safety Officer Joseph Denard. He drew a quick breath. Joseph isn’t moving.

Conley stopped and took a picture from afar. Protocol must be served, the checklist must be followed, partner or no partner, or else some well-dressed defense lawyer would tear him a new one in court. Hell, they’d do that anyway, but no sense making it easy.

He ran. Seventy yards to go.

Something like this was bound to happen. The chaos had started four months earlier—February. City budget and pension shortfalls were being addressed with draconian cuts because a lousy economy had drained the pension fund and closed tax-paying businesses. Voters rejected tax increases. The city’s unions readied for war, and the rumor was the state of Massachusetts might take Ocean Park into receivership. If that were to happen, the city could look forward to even harsher austerity—and humiliation.

On a frigid Valentine’s Day, the mayor stood on the steps of City Hall and announced a salary freeze for police and firemen. A well-thrown snowball exploded against the side of his head, and the cheers and laughter of disgruntled officers served as clarion calls.

Twenty more yards to Emmanuel.

The police force fought the new austerity hard, lighting the powder keg of a long-standing feud with a mayor they despised and an electorate they needed to educate. The Blue Flu spread rapidly through the ranks, the Red Rash followed for EMTs and firefighters, and crime descended on the city like a pestilence. Most of Ocean Park’s safety force pledged their allegiance to the almighty dollar instead of the public. The city was primed for tragedy—or apocalypse—and the body in front of him might just be a sign of its commencement.

Joseph.

Dried blood caked Joseph’s swollen face and scalp. One eye was open with that still, faraway look cops knew all too well.

Is he dead, Matt? Emmanuel said softly. Is Joseph dead?

Conley crouched, fished a plastic glove out of his pocket, and worked it onto his hand. He placed two fingers against Joseph’s carotid artery and concentrated. Birds warbled, a dog barked in the neighborhood nearby, a truck downshifted and groaned in the distance. Heat radiated from the tracks.

Did you call 9-1-1, Emmanuel?

Yes. They didn’t answer, so I called you.

No pulse. Conley spoke into the two-way radio on his shoulder as he photographed the body and surroundings with his phone.

Ten fifty-four. Repeat, ten fifty-four at the intersection of Cottage Street and the Boston Transit tracks. Request assistance.

In more normal times, the code for a possible murder victim would have been answered with sirens, patrol cars, and ambulances. Today’s response was crackle and silence.

Didn’t matter. Time to go to work.

He pulled out his phone and dictated to Siri, his reliable partner and note-taker.

Clear blue sky.

Gina calls this sky color robin’s-egg blue.

The city was a surprising jewel today. Even the factories, warehouses, and tenements looked bright and clean.

Saugus River, approximately two hundred yards east, is calm, no boats, no activity.

The still water looks like summer ice—another of Gina’s descriptions.

On the other side of the tracks, ragweed and junk trees lined a ravine separated from tenements by a chain-link fence. The houses were faded and peeling, their sagging porches jammed with bikes, trash bins, old sofas. A crowd of spectators grew. Brown faces stared through the fence’s diamond-shaped openings.

He switched his phone to VIDEO, lifted it quickly, and panned the spectators. Several reacted. An old man hid his face with his hand, a woman pulled two boys away by their arms.

Should he ask Emmanuel to question the crowd? Emmanuel and Joseph, both nineteen and sons of Haitian immigrants, had stepped up during the police work stoppage to become unpaid traffic safety officers. When they voluntarily expanded those roles to monitor the police scanner and assist with emergencies, their reward was resentment from neighbors and Haitian gangs who considered the boys snitches, and from police union militants who called them scabs. Revenge seemed inevitable.

Who found him? Conley said.

I did. Joseph was late this morning, so I tracked his cell phone.

Emmanuel hovered, shuffling back and forth, destroying footprints. He needed a chore, and statements were needed from the crowd at the fence.

Emmanuel, gather names and addresses from those people. Ask if they witnessed the attack or anything unusual. Write it all down. Don’t scare them, don’t answer questions. Stay on this side of the fence.

Emmanuel nodded and hurried down the gulley.

Joseph was still. Too still. Conley lowered his head, made the sign of the cross, and spoke on the two-way.

Cancel that ten fifty-four. We’ve got a ten fifty-five now at Cottage Street.

Coroner’s Case. I hope you’re all proud.

He surveyed the ground around Joseph for evidence and turned the camera on his cell phone back to PHOTO. An open baggie filled with white powder lay near the far rail.

Click.

Its contents were emptying slowly in the breeze. The bag turned once and rippled, threatening to blow away.

Click.

White film covered its outside. Dealers often coated bags with dish soap to hide the scent of drugs from police dogs, and the residue formed an excellent substrate for capturing fingerprints. He needed that bag.

A baseball bat lay near the top of the opposite berm, its barrel coated with pine tar.

Click.

But why would the attacker leave it?

A man from the crowd worked one of the fence poles back and forth in the dirt and yelled at Emmanuel in French. Conley couldn’t leave him alone now, even to get the crime scene kit in his car. Where the hell was backup?

Emmanuel answered the belligerent man.

"Arretez. Attendez."

Conley dialed 9-1-1. He needed help, EMTs, crime scene techs. The phone rang endlessly, a sound he was becoming used to.

A light shone in the distance. A commuter train was coming, rounding the curve before the straightaway. It wouldn’t have time to slow for a body on the tracks.

He ran his hand down his face and blinked.

Protocol was such a conceit, the idea that man could impose enough rules and regulations on God’s plan as to force chaos into order. And maybe that was the point. Maybe God was teaching a lesson.

Follow the checklist. What next?

The train wouldn’t be able to stop, so Joseph needed to be removed from the tracks. What does THE BOOK say about an oncoming train, a corpse on railroad tracks, and a young, unarmed string bean dealing with a dangerous crowd? And a guarantee, an absolute certainty that some lawyer—pronounced liar— would point to an omission, a perceived error, a BREACH OF PROTOCOL.

Figure it out.

So tired, so very tired. Getting punchy.

The radio crackled. He envisioned a hundred people—no, two hundred—listening quietly, morbidly curious as to how the emergency would end. Free entertainment, that open police channel. Better than TV.

And Gina? He needed to call her. Whenever the headaches came, tears of pain would course her cheeks, and she’d shut her eyes because he could read the pain in them, and he just wished she’d keep them open and let him share . . .

He could already hear the court voice of the slimebag defense attorney.

Why’d you move the body, Detective? Evidence was compromised, Your Honor.

Don’t worry about that, do your job. Like Emmanuel and Joseph always do. Like they did. Screw protocol, do what’s right. Ignore the incessant voice.

Ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, ask yourself why Detective Conley would respond alone, and then send an assistant away from the scene? Why didn’t he call for help? Was he hiding his incompetence? Or something worse? We’ll never know.

He was getting used to answering the twisted accusations of these criminal defenders. Today’s responses would be easy.

The Ocean Park Police force is broken these days, Your Honor. That’s why I carried him away. Standard operating procedures don’t work anymore. Help never comes.

You’re embarrassing your fellow police officers, Detective Conley.

I beg to differ, Your Honor. They’re embarrassing themselves.

A police cruiser appeared to his right, where the tracks crossed Cottage Street. Hope? Conley shaded his eyes and waved for them to come. The cruiser kept going.

The voices of the neighbors at the fence rose to a crescendo.

What next? Time to call Emmanuel back, screw the statements.

The white eye of the commuter train grew. The long, sleek, silver Cyclops advanced.

Success forgives all sins, his late partner Angelo always said. But then again Angelo said a lot of things. His voice visited at the strangest moments.

Movement at his feet. Movement?

Matt? Matt?

Conley froze. He dropped his phone and sat back hard on the ground. Joseph sat up and said his name through lips that looked too swollen to pass sound. Bloody saliva covered his teeth, and the open eye was tinged red.

Joseph? Conley said, surprised at the temerity of his own voice.

The train reached the straightaway, brakes screeching. A long horn blast cut the morning stillness and echoed.

Conley squatted and cradled Joseph in his arms. Moving him out of the train’s path was a necessity, but he might regret transporting him to the car. If his neck were broken, he could kill him. How would he carry him down the berm? How heavy would he be? Joseph was skinny like Emmanuel, but he had a rangy muscularity. Conley lifted him, left arm under his torso, right arm and hand lifting his legs from under the knees. Conley’s back complained. A different kind of shouting rose from the crowd at the fence—gasps and cries. He stepped to the dirt path next to the tracks and headed for his car.

Conley’s legs were stiff from squatting. He leaned forward and placed his mouth next to Joseph’s ear.

Who did this to you, Joseph? Tell me his name.

No answer.

The train’s brakes squealed, and the vibration of the behemoth made the tracks hum. The acrid smell of diesel smoke grew stronger.

Where’s Emmanuel? Joseph whispered. Is he okay?

Yes. Listen to me. Who did this?

Joseph’s mouth was open, and his hands were frozen as if reaching for something in the air in front of him. His eyelids fluttered, and his fingers twitched. He exhaled a warm, dank breath that smelled like sour apples.

The engine had started to pass when Conley realized his mistake. He should have crossed to the other side of the tracks because now the long, slow train had trapped him. He stopped, tired and accepting. Passengers huddled at the windows, hands pressed against the glass, and watched them with wide eyes. Cell phone cameras pointed, and lights flashed behind the grimy glass. He straightened his back and posed for their curiosity as Joseph drew quick breaths, the slow-moving train wheels clacked, and a cicada screamed its warbling chirp somewhere down the line.

Chapter 2

What happened next? Gina said.

She stood behind the couch and massaged Conley’s shoulders, and he looked back at her upside-down face. An instructor at the police academy told him the human brain recognized facial features when they were right-side up, and that other orientations would never be familiar. A quirk of human evolution.

Bullshit. Her big brown eyes were unforgettable at any angle. His ghostly reflection showed in them, his lips moving as he spoke.

I climbed down the berm with Joseph in my arms, and when I laid him in my car he was quiet and still.

Her hands stopped. Her voice quickened.

But you said he lived. You said he was alive when you arrived at the hospital.

Yes, that’s right.

Her hands started kneading again.

How is he now?

Stable. Doctors put him in a coma to reduce brain swelling.

Her lips tightened with concern, her brow wrinkled, and Conley thought it would be best for both of them if he fell asleep. When she worried, the migraines started. Besides, his next shift started in four hours.

He drifted off to peaceful sleep. When he awoke, he was sweating and breathing hard. Gina was gone, but he sensed a presence. The sensation was foreign, unnerving. Gina was the one who sensed such things, not him. He threw his blanket off and searched the kitchen, bedroom, and bath. All empty, but the eerie presence remained.

He found her on the sun porch, in front of an open window and a warm, salty breeze, gluing seashells onto the frame of an oval mirror. He put his hand on her shoulder.

Was someone here, hon?

She raised an eyebrow and pecked him on the cheek. No. Maybe in your dreams.

He returned the kiss and hugged her, and suddenly the feeling of dread was gone. Her touch was the antidote for all bad things.

He checked his phone—time to get ready for his shift. He read a text message from an unfamiliar number as he headed for the shower. Captain Marano, the Chief of Police, wanted to see him—alone—right away. Not good. Detectives never met alone with Marano. The invite should have come from and included Chief of Detectives Sullivan.

Not good at all.

****

Conley drove past City Hall and the new courthouse. The grand Victorian public buildings of Ocean Park had been razed and replaced with antiseptic squares of granite and glass. They shared a large mall with a modern Minuteman statue made of durable synthetic polymer. Conley pulled into the lot behind police headquarters. A distorted voice echoed off the flat buildings.

Brothers, we have a new contract offer, but there’s not much to tell. It’s another insult. Remember, united we bargain, divided we beg.

Patrolmen were coming off shift, gathering