Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“I was working my route in Paradise. I remember that, and I think I was in the old part of town by Pilgrim Cove. Is that right? Was I?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I remember that Mrs. Cain was waiting for a package, but I’m not sure if I delivered it there. I think I did, but I’m not sure. Did I?”

Jesse patted Rudy’s shoulder again. “Listen, you just talk, and then afterward we can discuss things. I don’t want to color your answers. Understand?”

“I guess.”

“So...”

“I think I remember a guy with like a shirt over his face coming at me. He broke my fucking nose. He broke my — ow, my head.”

“It’s okay, Rudy. If you get too worked up I’m going to have to stop. So take it easy, please. Let me ask you some questions. Answer with the first thought that comes to mind. Don’t worry about it being right or wrong. Don’t think about your answers. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“The guy who broke your nose, was he white, black, Asian, or Hispan—”

“White.”

“Tall, short, average?”

“Average.”

“Hair color?”

“None... I mean he was mostly bald. Whatever hair he had was gray. He was older, but not old.”

“Fat, thin, medium?”

“Thin.”

“Anything else? Do you recall how he sounded or—”

“There were two of them? I heard them talking when I came to a little.”

“Can you remember what the other one looked like?”

“I think so. He was big and white. Ugly, too. The big guy called the older guy King. And the big guy was called Hump. That doesn’t make much sense, does it, Jesse? A guy called Hump.”

“You let me worry about that, Rudy.”

“Jesse, I don’t feel so good right now. My head is killing me and I’m feeling pretty sick. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve been a real help.”

Jesse pressed the call button and kept patting Rudy’s shoulder until a nurse arrived. He didn’t have to be told to leave. At the nurses’ station, he asked to have Dr. Marx give him a call when it was convenient. He’d done better with Walsh than he had expected, given the deliveryman’s injuries. Two names or nicknames and a partial description. He’d made cases on less. It was a start.

18

Jesse headed into Boston to speak with Roscoe Niles about Terry Jester and the mysterious album Stan White had alluded to. At least that’s what he told himself, though he knew when he was done talking to the DJ, he’d be making another stop before heading back to Paradise. That stop was the real reason he’d driven the fifteen miles south to Boston. He’d already spoken to Molly, relaying to her the descriptions Walsh had given him and telling her to see if the names King and Hump rang any bells with Lundquist. It was a long shot, but if they could get a jump on the forensics, it was worth it.

The offices and studios of WBMB-FM Boston’s Rock School Radio were in a faceless office park on the outskirts of town. It was strange, he thought, how distinctive-looking Boston was, but that these damned office parks with their stucco, concrete, steel, and glass were indistinguishable from one another. WBMB-FM was on the second floor, and as he rode the elevator up he went over the questions he’d have for Roscoe. Jesse knew who Terry Jester was, even had some of his CDs. Normally, when dealing with a homicide, Jesse wouldn’t have given something like this Terry Jester business a second thought, but he got the sense that with Mayor Walker on the warpath he’d better cover all his bases.

The woman at the reception desk gave Jesse a cursory smile and sent him back to the studio. As Jesse walked down the dimly lit hallway, he came upon two glass-paneled studios on either side of him. The one to his left was empty and completely dark, with the exception of small red and green lights flickering on the equipment. In the studio to his right, seated before a control panel and microphone slung from a spring-loaded arm, was a big man. He was thick around the arms, neck, and belly, and wearing a The Jam T-shirt that fit him twenty years and forty pounds ago. He seemed preoccupied with the magazine in front of him, but when he looked up and noticed Jesse, he waved him in.

“Jesse Stone, as I live and breathe,” said the DJ at the console when Jesse stepped into the studio. “Come in, sit down. Just give me a second here.” He pulled the mic close to his mouth and in a deep sonorous voice said, “This is Roscoe Niles, the Teacher and your afternoon headmaster at WBMB-FM, Rock School Radio, Boston. Here’s that new Eastern European sensation Bocaj Slivovice doing David Bowie’s ‘Starman.’” He turned to Jesse, pulling a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label off the floor and half filling a rocks glass. He leaned toward Jesse. “Technically, they should fire my fat ass for drinking in here, but everyone plays dumb.” He shook the bottle at Jesse. “Want one?”

“No, thanks, Roscoe.”

“On the wagon again?”

“On duty?”

“When’d that ever stop you?”

Jesse laughed without an ounce of joy in it, noticing his hands were a little less shaky today.