The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3), Brian Shea [best non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

“Okay. Are we looking at more or less time?”

“Less. Lividity was clear and visible. Rigor mortis had extended to the arms and legs.”

Kelly thought of the cracking sound when Charles had manipulated the dead man’s arm to show him the mark on the hand. Part of the snapping noise was a byproduct of the ice. The other contributing factor was the rigor.

“That stage of rigor typically occurs between eight to twelve hours postmortem. Because of the submersion in the cold water, I’m sliding the number closer to the eight-hour mark.”

Kelly scribbled the numbers.

“Taking the variables into consideration, I’m giving you a wider window for the time of death than I normally would.”

“And that is?”

“Between six and twelve hours.”

Kelly blew out a sigh.

“I know it doesn’t give you much to go on. But it’s the best I can do under the circumstances. Narrowing it further would be purely conjecture. And I’ll leave that to you.”

“Thanks, Ithaca.”

“I’ll be in touch once the formal autopsy is scheduled. We’re flooded right now. Not sure when your guy will be up on the slab.”

“Keep me posted. And thanks for breaking it down for me.”

“Any time,” Best said coyly.

Kelly ignored the innuendo and returned the phone to its cradle, then walked into The Depot and added the timeline notes to the whiteboard, marking the estimated time of death as occurring between 4:30 to 10:30 p.m. the night before the body was found.

Kelly was tired. The late night followed by the early rise, and those first few hours in the cold while his brain recovered from the night before, had proven exhausting. It took until mid-day before the dull, throbbing ache of the hangover dissipated enough so he could clearly function and think. And the all-consuming thought that came to mind was he was facing another red card on the board. But what he couldn't wrap his mind around was the victim. Why O'Toole? Why had The Penitent One come back three months later to put two bullets into Walsh's number two man?

He knew somebody who might have an answer to that question. He looked down at his watch. It was 6:00 p.m., and Bobby McDonough hadn't returned his phone call. Kelly was feeling sluggish, that end-of-the-day feeling when all of the effort, mental and otherwise, was put into a new case. With few leads, except for the cross on the hand, he was staring at nothing usable. Instead of cutting out early and getting a good night's rest, he decided the best thing for his brain and body was to head over to Pops'. He’d almost forgotten it was Thursday. Tradition won out, trumping fatigue.

He was up to spar with Bobby tonight. Kelly held out hope, even though his friend-turned-mob-enforcer hadn't been around in a while. He thought it might be a good time for them to catch up. Maybe he'd show since Kelly had called. Or maybe he wouldn’t for the very same reason. McDonough was unpredictable at best. Kelly crossed his fingers as he shut down his computer and headed for the door.

It didn't matter how tired Michael Kelly was. The moment he set foot in Pops' gym, the energy of the place, the buzz of the ring bells, the thwack and hammering of heavy bags, the smell of sweat and blood refilled his depleted tanks. The gym had its own life force. And on his worst times, his best times, and everything in between, it fed Kelly and gave him a boost when he needed it most. And right now, he temporarily put O’Toole’s body out of his mind, as well as the fact he was facing off for another round with The Penitent One. He suddenly felt refreshed.

Leaving his mental baggage at the door, Kelly stepped in. Edmond Brown and Donny O'Brien were warming up. They waved and smiled at him as he made his way over.

"It looks like your partner's not here," Brown said.

"He's been hit-and-miss, with more of it being misses lately," Kelly said.

"Well, you can jump in with one of us if you want," O'Brien offered.

"No thanks. If he doesn't show, you guys do your match. I'll just work the bag for a while. Blow off a little steam."

They knew not to ask unless Kelly offered, kind of an unspoken pact among the men. His cases and his work life had a tendency to take Kelly to dark places, and they knew the gym, his ring time, and his workouts carried him away from it. Pops’s gym lifted him above the darkness for those moments, and they learned long ago not to drag him down unless he opened the door to that conversation, which he rarely did.

Kelly did want to talk to O'Brien and let him know he hadn’t stopped searching for Father Tomlin’s murderer. O’Brien had stopped asking after a month had passed without any progression. Since then, there’d been an uneasy awkwardness between the two. Kelly felt he’d let his friend down by not catching the person responsible.

Brown followed O’Brien as the two climbed into the ring. Kelly finished wrapping his hands. The wraps stabilized his wrists and added padding to his knuckles, essential in keeping his hands aligned when hitting the heavy bag. His wraps, no matter how he laid them out and dried them, immediately moistened as soon as he donned them. His years of sweat lived within the fibers. The familiar smell, repugnant to an outsider, carried an air of nostalgia. Like pancakes on Saturday morning, it brought him back to his youth, to his childhood. And it completely invigorated him.

Kelly warmed up, facing the 180-pound bag they had affectionately named Bessie because of its size and black-and-white coloring.

He dipped low, bobbing from side to side, warming up his hips. He twisted a little more each time, ducking a little deeper with each pass. Few knew true power came from the hips. The biggest man in the world couldn’t deliver the full effect of his mass