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HEATHER BRYANT LIVED with her parents in a two-family home in East Boston. The neighborhood was a prime location if you enjoyed watching planes take off and land at Logan Airport. The sound of jets roaring overhead probably went largely unnoticed by long-time residents.
I rang the doorbell for the Bryant's first-floor unit. I had spoken to Heather on the phone, so she was expecting me.
A redheaded young woman in her late teens or early twenties answered the door. She had on a Bunker Hill Community College t-shirt and athletic shorts. She wore her hair in a ponytail and her freckled face had pleasing soft features. As a little girl, she could have passed for a Strawberry Shortcake doll.
“Heather Bryant?” I said. “I'm Drew Patrick.” I handed her my business card. She took it in her left hand while opening the door with her right.
“Come on in,” she said.
I stepped into the small foyer. A framed photo of Pope Francis was on the wall next to a similarly framed photo of John F. Kennedy.
“Would you like some coffee?” Heather said. “I just brewed a pot.”
“Yes. Thank you,” I said.
I followed Heather down a narrow hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. A metal fan clacked as it moved side-to-side. I caught the passing breeze when it swung my way. A dog barked in the neighbor's yard and another plane passed overhead.
The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was small. It had standard white GE appliances and the walls were painted a color somewhere between pink and peach. Magnets of Boston, Cape Cod, a local bank, an automotive shop, and a pharmacy secured family photos, a shopping list, and coupons on the fridge.
Heather poured two cups of coffee and placed the mugs on the kitchen table. She took a carton of milk out of the fridge and placed it on the table next to a container of sugar. She waited a moment for me to sweeten my coffee.
“Please, don't wait on me,” I said. “I take my coffee black.”
She nodded and added a splash of milk and a spoonful of sugar to her coffee. She stirred and took a sip. I recognized the look of pleasure that came with the first cup of coffee for the day.
“I was up late studying,” Heather said.
“You're at Bunker Hill?” I said.
“Yes. I'm studying to be a paralegal.”
“That's a good profession,” I said. I took a sip of coffee of what was my second cup of the day. Cup number one had been downed on the ride over. I'll also confess to having a blueberry muffin.
“I like the courses so far,” Heather said. “The law is interesting. But it has been difficult the past few days to concentrate.”
“I understand,” I said. “I'm sorry about Brad.”
“It doesn't make any sense,” Heather said. “He hadn't used drugs in a year. I can't understand why he would have relapsed. And enough to overdose.” Her eyes glistened with tears as she looked across the table at me. “He was upset about the recent death of a family friend, but his sobriety meant everything to him. And we talked about it. He planned to talk about it at last night's NA meeting. It upset him, but he seemed to handle it.”
“So there were no signs Brad either wanted to harm himself or was looking to drugs?” I said.
“No. Not at all. In fact, he said the best way he could honor Jack's memory was to find a way to still open the record store. They were going into business together.”
“Jack?” I said. “So his friend who died was going to be his business partner in the record store? Any chance his friend was Jack Murphy?”
Heather held her gaze at me. “Yeah,” she said. “You probably saw it on the news. Someone killed him in the alley behind the Snake Pit.”
Well what do you know, I thought. Brad Whitcomb and Jack Murphy were friends. Potential business partners. Now they were both dead. Someone definitely murdered Jack Murphy. It was looking just as likely that Brad was murdered as well.
“This may be equally hard to hear,” I said, “but there is reason to believe Brad didn't die of an accidental overdose.”
“What do you mean? Are you saying Brad did it on purpose? The police didn't mention a suicide note. They said it was accidental.”
“Not suicide,” I said. “I've spoken with a State Police detective. We both think it was murder.”
“Murdered?” Heather's hands shook as she placed her coffee mug on the table. “I don't,...” her voice trailed off. After a moment she said, “Who would kill Brad?”
Heather buried her face in her hands and sobbed. It was enough dealing with Brad's death. Now she was trying to process it was murder.
I retrieved a box of tissues from the counter and placed them on the table. She wiped her eyes. “You don't think it had anything to do with Jack, do you?”
“It might,” I said. “Heather, I understand this is difficult, but I'd like to ask you some questions. You may have information which will help the investigation.”
“Okay,” Heather said as she wiped more tears away.
“Brad's NA sponsor mentioned the record store. He had no idea Brad's friend and partner was Jack Murphy. What more can you tell me about their plans?”
“Oh my gosh! They weren’t killed over a record shop, were they?”
“I don't know,” I said. “There are three known connections between Brad and Jack: family friends, the Snake Pit, and plans to open the record shop. Any of those three, or any combination, could be a factor. It could also be something completely different we aren't aware of."
Heather took all that in. She let out a breath. Then she said, “That record store was his dream. He talked about it endlessly. Brad always preferred records. He collected them. Jack shared the same passion. His collection was even bigger than Brad's.”
Heather smiled as she spoke about Brad and his passion. She felt steady enough to handle another sip of coffee.
“When did they decide to open a store?” I said.
“Oh, about six months ago,” Heather said. She smiled a wide smile full of teeth. “Jack told Brad that if he could make it to his one year of sobriety, they could start looking for a place to rent for the store.”
“So they had enough money to at least sign a lease?” I said.
“Yeah,” Heather said. “Enough for rent and to place their first order of records.”
“Did they have a business loan from a bank?”
“No. Jack raised the money. Investors or something. I don't know the details. Jack was an accountant, so he understood all about money and business.”
“Did Jack work for himself or a company?”
“Some accounting firm in Brockton,” Heather said. “That's where he lived.”
“What about the Snake Pit?” I said. “Brad worked there. Did Jack go there often?”
“Brad hated working at the Snake Pit. He couldn't wait to quit. Too many druggies and drunks in that place. And his manager was a jerk.”
“Pete?” I said.
“Yeah,” Heather said. “Guy gave me the creeps.”
“I've met Pete,” I said. “He's not on my list of favorite people, either. So what about Jack?”
“Oh, right. He would visit Brad there every now and again. But he wasn't a regular or anything like that.”
“Did Brad ever mention the name Aaron Hurley?”
“They were friends in high school. Before Brad got expelled. I don't know if he ever saw Aaron after that.”
“How long were you and Brad together?”
“We've known each other since we were kids. We met at summer camp one year. I received a scholarship for lower-income city kids. It's kinda funny. He was this rich WASPy kid from Chestnut Hill and I'm a working-class Irish Roman Catholic girl. But we became fast friends. We started dating in high school.”
“So you were with him when he used drugs?”
“Yes. He had trouble at home. Brad's dad is an even bigger jerk than Pete. Brad got into drugs. But I stayed with him. Got him to go to NA and get a sponsor.”
“Good for you,” I said.
“I loved him. He loved me. We got him through it.” She paused and looked down at her hands. “We just celebrated his first year of sobriety. We had plans for the future. The record store, my becoming a paralegal, marriage. We weren't engaged, but we were talking about it.” She wiped away the new tears forming in her eyes.
“You've been a big help,” I said. “I will out find who did this.”
Heather looked at me and managed a slight smile through a stream of tears. “Thank you,” she said.
I left East Boston and called Captain Burke. After filling him on what I had learned, he provided me with Jack Murphy's home address.