“JERRY O’BRIEN’S A BOMB THROWER. OR HE PLAYS ONE ON THE RADIO, anyway,” said Frost as they drove northwest into Middlesex County, Jane at the wheel. “On his show last week, he was ranting about the animal rights crowd. Compared them to grass-eating rodents, and wondered how dumb bunnies got to be so vicious.” Frost laughed as he pulled up the audio file on his laptop. “Here’s the part you’ve got to hear, about hunting.”
“You think he really believes the shit he says?” she asked.
“Who knows? It gets him an audience, anyway, ’cause he’s syndicated all the way to the moon.” Frost tapped on his keyboard. “Okay, this is last week’s show. Listen to this.”
Maybe you eat chicken or enjoy a steak once in a while. You pick it up at the grocery store, wrapped up nicely in plastic. What makes you think you’re morally superior to the hunter who hauls himself out of bed at four A.M., who endures the cold and exhaustion to hike through the woods with a heavy gun? Who waits patiently in the brush, maybe for hours? Who spends a lifetime honing his skill with a firearm—and trust me, people, it is a skill to be able to hit a target. Who on God’s green earth has the right to begrudge the hunter his right to engage in an ancient, honored occupation that has fed families since the beginning of human history? These metrosexual snobs who have no problem eating their steak frites in a fancy French restaurant have the audacity to tell us red-blooded hunters we’re cruel for killing a deer. Where do they think meat comes from?
And don’t get me started on wild-eyed vegetarians. Hey, animal lovers! You got a cat or a dog, right? What do you feed your beloved pooch or puss? Meat. M. E. A. T. You might as well take your anger out on Fluffy!
Frost paused the recording. “Which reminds me, I dropped by Gott’s house this morning. Didn’t see the white cat, but all the food I left last night was gone. I refilled the bowl and changed the litter box.”
“And Detective Frost gets the merit badge for pet care.”
“What’re we gonna do about him? You think Dr. Isles wants another cat?”
“I think she already regrets the one she has. Why don’t you adopt it?”
“I’m a guy.”
“So?”
“So it’d feel weird, having a cat.”
“What, do they steal your manhood?”
“It’s all about image, you know? If I bring home a girl, what’s she gonna think when she sees I have a fluffy white cat?”
“Oh yeah, like your goldfish gives a much better impression.” She nodded at his laptop. “So what else does O’Brien have to say?”
“Listen to this part,” said Frost, and clicked PLAY.
… but no, these grass-eating rodents, vicious bunnies who dine every day on lettuce, they’re more bloodthirsty than any carnivore. And believe me, friends, I hear from them. They threaten to string me up and gut me like a deer. Threaten to burn me, cut me, strangle me, crush me. Would you believe this comes from the lips of vegetarians? Friends, beware the lettuce eaters. There’s no one on earth more dangerous than your so-called animal lovers.
Jane looked at Frost. “Maybe they’re even more dangerous than he realizes,” she said.
WITH A WEEKLY SHOW syndicated to six hundred radio stations, reaching an audience of over twenty million listeners, Jerry “Big Mouth” O’Brien could afford the best, a fact made abundantly clear from the moment Jane and Frost drove past the guarded gatehouse onto O’Brien’s estate. The rolling pastures and grazing horses could be on a farm somewhere in Virginia or Kentucky; it was an unexpectedly bucolic setting only an hour outside Boston. They drove past a farm pond and up a grassy slope dotted with white sheep, to the massive log-built residence at the top of the hill. With its wide porches and massive timber posts, it looked more like a hunting lodge than a private home.
They had just pulled up to the building when they heard the first gunshots.
“What the hell?” said Frost as they both unsnapped their holsters.
More gunshots rang out in rapid succession, then silence. Too long a silence.
Jane and Frost lurched out of the car and were already bounding up the porch steps, guns drawn, when the front door suddenly swung open.
A chubby-cheeked man greeted them with a pasted-on smile so big it had to be fake. He saw the two Glocks pointed at his chest and said, with a laugh: “Whoa now, there’s no need for that. You must be Detectives Rizzoli and Frost.”
Jane kept her weapon level. “We heard gunshots.”
“It’s only target practice. Jerry’s got a nice shooting range downstairs. I’m his personal assistant, Rick Dolan. Come on in.”
Another burst of gunfire rang out. Jane and Frost glanced at each other, then simultaneously reholstered their weapons.
“Sounds like some major firepower,” said Jane.
“You’re welcome to check it out. Jerry loves to show off his arsenal.”
They stepped into a soaring entrance hall where the natural pine walls were hung with Native American rugs. Dolan reached into a hall cabinet and tossed ear protectors to his guests.
“Jerry’s rules,” he said, slipping a pair of protectors over his own head. “He went to a few too many rock concerts as a kid, and as he likes to say, Deafness is forever.”
Dolan swung open a door that was thickly padded with soundproofing. Jane and Frost hesitated as gunfire thundered up from the basement.
“Oh, it’s perfectly safe down there,” he said. “Jerry spared no expense when he designed it. Basement walls are sand-filled blocks, ceiling’s pre-stressed concrete, topped with four inches of steel. He’s got fully enclosed bullet traps, and the underground exhaust system vents all the smoke and residue to the outside. I’m telling you, it’s the best of the best. You gotta take a look.”
Jane and Frost put on the ear protectors and followed him down the stairs.
Under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, Jerry O’Brien stood with his back turned to them. He was dressed incongruously in blue jeans and a garish aloha shirt, which generously draped his barrel-shaped torso in flowered fabric. He did not immediately acknowledge his visitors, but kept his focus on the target of a human silhouette as he fired repeatedly. Only when he’d emptied his magazine did he turn to face Jane and Frost.
“Ah, Boston PD’s here.” O’Brien pulled off his ear protectors. “Welcome to my little corner of Paradise.”
Frost surveyed the array of handguns and rifles displayed on the table. “Wow. Quite a collection you have here.”
“Trust me, they’re all legal. No magazine with more than ten rounds. I keep them all in a fully secured storage locker, and I have a Class A CCW permit. You can check with my local police chief.” He picked up another handgun and held it out to Frost. “This one’s my favorite. Care to try it out, Detective?”
“Uh, no thanks.”
“Not even tempted? Probably won’t get another chance to fire one of these babies anytime soon.”
“We’re here to ask you about Leon Gott,” said Jane.
O’Brien turned his attention to her. “Detective Rizzoli, right? So are you into guns?”
“When I need them.”
“You hunt?”
“No sir.”
“Ever hunted?”
“Only people. It’s more exciting ’cause they shoot back.”