“Was anyone else there at the time?” asked the detective.
“Yes,” replied the Rabbi, “our custodian, Andre, who cleans out the trash basket in my office, checks all the rows in the Temple to make sure no one left anything from the prior service. He then locks the front doors, shuts all the lights and leaves out of my back door, where he also parks his car.”
“Which way did Mr. Green enter and leave your temple?” the detective continued.
The Rabbi replied with a perplexed look on his face, not understanding why all these questions were being asked. “Well, as I thought I already explained, he always enters through the front double doors of the synagogue and walks to my office in the rear if he doesn’t see me up on the bimah—that’s the altar from which I preach and is closest to the Torah.”
“Why did you leave through the rear door?” asked the detective.
“When I’m done in my office, I always leave through the rear door because that’s where I park my car, right next to Andre’s. After I leave, I also make sure to lock that back door to my office. Andre was still inside the synagogue cleaning up the aisles and he usually finishes with my office before he leaves. He locks the front doors from the inside. When he’s finished, he leaves through my office door and gets into his car. Jack must have left through the front doors. Did you catch the person who did the shooting?” he asked frowning, anxiously expecting that they did not.
“Not yet, sir,” responded the detective. “As I said before, we are still investigating. We found a bullet hole on the side of your synagogue, though, next to your doors. The other bullet hit Mr. Green. Oh yeah, one more thing. When we attempted to retrieve the bullet from the hole in the building so that we could identify the caliber gun that was used, the bullet was not there, and there were no shell casings anywhere near the building. We assume that the assailant returned that night and removed it to avoid leaving any traces of evidence. This guy knew what he was doing. This was obviously not his first rodeo.”
Ten
Years ago, after he started with the police, Detective Johnny Pratt asked all the other cops working in the department to “just call me Pratt.” They considered him to be the best cop in the county. Along with some uniformed police officers, he searched everywhere in and around the synagogue but only found one bullet hole next to the building’s closed front doors.
This detective was unusual for a man who is six-foot-four and weighed about 205 pounds. One would think that at one time he played basketball or football, yet he never showed any interest in sports. Not golf, softball, bowling, or any sports, nor did he care to watch any on television
The hobby he liked best was to investigate, search for, and apprehend the bad guys. His main interest was to protect people from criminals before they could be attacked or robbed. Sedona residents paid their taxes so that he could have the job he values so much. He was always serious and had the ambition to be the best in everything he does. He had met that goal often enough.
Marshal Whitaker, his boss, had sun-shower sprinkled raindrops on the window of his office. “I’m sick of these rain showers coming every few days even if they only last ten minutes,” he complained to Pratt. The detective always believed that Whitaker was a complete incompetent, stupid bigot. He couldn’t comprehend the only thing that was on the marshal’s mind that day was the rain and not the shootings in his town.
As the mayor of Sedona was soon to retire, Johnny Pratt couldn’t wait for the next election. He had at one time befriended councilman Albright Johnson, who was also totally disenchanted with Whitaker as marshal. Albright Johnson would be running for the mayoral seat next month and when he wins, since there is no opposition from either party, Pratt believes that Al, as he likes to be called by his friends, will establish the most important change in the administration to affect Johnny.
They had previously discussed that when he wins the mayoral election, he will fire the marshal and generate a new position called Chief of Police and give the post to Pratt.
But first, Johnny had to convince himself that he needed to resolve the predicament of the unidentified shooter. Until then, Pratt didn’t feel that he would have proven himself enough to become the new chief. He believed that though he had seniority over all other officers in the department, a friendship with Al wasn’t enough to get this coveted post when Al became mayor. When someone once asked Pratt what he thought of Albright Johnson, his response was “Al is the most honest, ethical, non-racially motivated, sincerest person I have ever met.” Johnny recognized the job must be earned, and in his mind, he’ll do all the earning real soon.
Whitaker faced Pratt, as if it agitated him to do so, and said “Fill me in on the progress we’re making regarding this shooter. We have an injured person who was shot at a synagogue, is that correct?”
Pratt considered replying “Yes, you moron.” Instead he answered the question, “Yes sir, we have one person who was shot at the synagogue. It doesn’t appear to be a hate crime since the shooter could have fired at the Rabbi first. Though he may have had Green in his sights.”
“Well, what the hell are you doing about it, Detective? Are you finished with your investigation? Have you caught the damn shooter or are you just going to sit here and drink coffee all day?” the indolent marshal asked humiliatingly.
“Marshal, I don’t appreciate you busting my balls over this issue. I think I’ve proven myself to you often enough over the last six years, I don’t need any of your snide comments.”
“Okay, then I’ll get off your back for a while, but remember the mayor and the community are counting on us to catch this son-of-a-bitch and they want it done yesterday, understand?”
Pratt wondered, What did the prick mean by ‘counting on us?’ What the hell was he doing to be a part of us?
“I believe I got that message loud and clear, Marshal, and I’m heading over to the hospital now to see Mr. Green,” Johnny answered, trying to steer clear of any more volatile subjects. The detective radioed his 10-20 to dispatch and reported that he was on his way to Jack Green’s house.
A few days later, Jack was discharged from the hospital but before he left, he said good-bye to Phil and promised to visit him every week.
Just after nurse Jimmy brought him the doctor’s signed discharge papers, he slipped Jimmy a twenty-dollar bill and said, “Thanks, Jimmy, for the care you’ve given me. You’ve been a great nurse and I really appreciate it.”
Jimmy refused to take gratuity and politely said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Green, I can’t accept this. I am an R.N. and we’re not permitted to accept tips, though I’m flattered by your offer. I’m just doing my job to get you out of here because we need the bed for other patients,” he said with a broad smile, even though he was aware the hospital was more than half empty.
Thereafter, Jack visited Phil two weeks in a row. On the third week, when he saw Phil apparently sleeping on his side, he thought, Thank God. But when he walked around Phil to face him, he was stunned with disbelief. The patient was a different person. All he could think was, Shit. Why, God, did you have to take him before the time the doctors said he had left to live?
As Jack was leaving this “great get-no-sleep medical institution,” an orderly was required to wheel him down to the exit doors in a wheelchair even though he could have walked it himself. Brenda was going to be driving them home. She arrived with the car, double parked, and rushed inside to greet him. The orderly helped Brenda get her husband into the car and finally they were on their way home.
As Brenda pulled into their driveway and stopped the car, they agreed as to how today would’ve been a great time for a garage, instead of a semi-circular driveway leading to their front door. Both she and Jack turned their heads every which way inside the car to assure themselves the coast was clear from any possible shooter. After inspecting all around them, the two of them roared with laughter when he suggested, “Let’s serpentine to the front door; as the good guys do in the movies while trying to ev
ade bullets.” They exited the car and made it to their front door as quickly as his injury allowed him to move.
The twins were doing much better now and back in school. And wow, did they have stories to tell their friends. They met three friends inside the door of the school, and within minutes they were surrounded by at least five more.
“When our dad got shot in the kidney, the surgeons had to remove it and replace it with a pig’s kidney. Yeah, really! Pigs have similar kidneys to humans. The doctors don’t believe that his body will reject the transplanted kidney and say that he’ll be okay.”
By now there were fifteen or twenty kids surrounding the girls. One boy posed a question, “Really, they transplanted a pig’s kidney into him?”
The twins answered in unison just as they had prearranged. “The doctors say he’ll be back to normal, being able to pee, you know? They just aren’t sure that they can get our dad to ever stop oinking and rolling in mud.”
This got a boisterous laugh from everyone, so spirited that some of the teachers down the hallway stuck their heads out of their classroom doors to see what was happening. They shushed them and reminded them that they are in school and ordered them to get to class. Before everyone dispersed, the twins said, “Seriously, thanks for all your prayers and get-well cards and for supporting both of us through this horrible nightmare. We love you all!”
Eleven
“I’m investigating the shooting of your husband,” Johnny told Brenda, flashing his badge as she opened the door. He didn’t take out a gun or ask for her husband, which eased her apprehension.
“Mrs. Green, do you have any idea who might be angry enough to want to shoot or possibly kill your husband?”
The word kill sent shivers down her spine, giving her goose bumps, and rebooting her anxiety. “Absolutely not. If I had, I certainly would have told the police to go and look for that person,” she replied critically. “My husband is a good man, and everyone loves him. He wouldn’t step on an ant. He’s an actuary for heaven’s sake, not a mob boss. He works for The McFarland Accounting and Insurance Company. He’s an expert in predicting the likelihood of future financial events for his company’s clients by using numbers, not crystal balls. He designs innovative ways to reduce risk for the insurance company, not for himself personally.”
Pratt tried a new approach to his questioning. “Do you know where your husband eats his lunch during the week?”
“Well, yes, he often eats at the synagogue with Rabbi Bloom,” she replied.
“The Rabbi might have been the real target,” Pratt continued. “Do you believe someone might have thought it was the Rabbi exiting the building and confused your husband for him as he was shot?”
“Absolutely not,” she answered concretely. “My husband has a full head of hair on his head and if you’ve seen the Rabbi, he’s mostly bald, with hair only on the sides. There’s no way anyone could have confused the two.”
“Then your husband must have been the target. Now, I need to find out why.”
This statement caused bumps to appear on her arms again, as she realized that someone might be trying to murder her Jackie.
“Was there anything about the day of the shooting that was unusual? Perhaps where he parked his car, or something he told you about one of his clients or coworkers?”
Jack’s voice called down from upstairs, “Brenda who are you talking to?”
“I’m speaking to Detective John Pratt, Dear.”
“Johnny, please,” said Pratt.
“Sorry, Detective.” Brenda yelled back upstairs, “I’m being interviewed by Detective Johnny Pratt about your shooting.”
“Hold on, I’ll be right down,” Jack replied.
“Be careful on the steps, Darling,” she said.
“Don’t worry, I’m okay. I’ve got my crutches and I’ll come down slowly.” Johnny heard the stomping of the crutches followed by soft footfalls on the steps. Pratt stood up from his chair and offered it to Jack, who declined. “No thank you, I’ll just sit over here on my favorite easy chair facing you, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, please relax and let me continue with your wife. I may have some additional questions for you later. Feel free to jump in at any time you want to add or correct anything,” the detective told him.
“So, Mrs. Green, let me repeat the question I asked you before your husband came downstairs. Was there anything about the day he was shot that was unusual? Something in the date perhaps, where he or you parked the car, maybe something he told you, that happened with one of his clients at work?”
Brenda was first to answer, “I don’t remember a thing in answer to any of your questions, Detective.”
“There was one thing,” Green added. “I remember one of our firm’s clients whose taxes I had prepared. It was for the Anderson-Watermayne Corporation. Mr. Alan Watermayne, the CEO, came into the office terribly upset and told my boss that my accounting certification of his books cost his firm over a quarter of a million dollars in taxes for last year. Watermayne’s expectation was that his taxes would not reach six figures, but he forgot to include his firm’s additional income from its foreign investments and offshore accounts. The guy’s a real asshole. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had somebody take a couple of shots at me out of malice.”
Pratt was pleased to hear of a possible lead. “I’ll follow up with Mr. Watermayne. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Green.” Leaving their home, he wished Mr. Green a quick recovery.
After Johnny got in his car, he radioed the marshal. “Hey, Marshal, I’m checking with a Mr. Alan Watermayne at the Anderson-Watermayne Corporation. He was identified by Jack Green as a possible disgruntled client. Tomorrow, I plan to interview Andre the custodian who works at the synagogue. He was the one who saved Mr. Green with immediate trauma first aid ”
“Ten-four,” the marshal replied, but then added, referring to Andre, “Why are you going to that beaner’s place?”
That was enough to trigger Pratt into running his mic up and down on his inner shirt zipper to make it sound like static interference. It was either that or drive over to the marshal’s office and deck him for his obnoxiously stupid bigotry. He was used to it by now and started faking a breakup in service: “Marsh ... you ... ar ... brea ... up ... I ... can ... uner ... sta ... u ... tok ... later.”
Settling himself, Pratt called the Anderson-Watermayne Corporation.
“Hello, Anderson-Watermayne, this is Lucinda. How may I help you?” chirped the receptionist.
“This is Detective Johnny Pratt, Sedona Police Department, for Mr. Alan Watermayne.”
“Please hold,” she told him. After a few minutes of holding, he received a radio call from the station.
“Hey Pratt, I just got a phone call from a Lucinda at Anderson-Watermayne asking if you are a detective here. I confirmed that you are.”
“Thanks, Bill,” Pratt said. Lucinda immediately got back online and said, “I can connect you now.”
“Detective Pratt, this is Alan Watermayne, I understand you need to speak with me.”
“Yes, I do. Mr. Watermayne. Can you tell me where you were between February eleventh to the thirteenth this year?” he asked.
Watermayne sounded relieved by the question, “Yes, I can and very easily. I was in London from February sixth through the eighteenth.”
“Can you document your visit with either your passport, flight tickets or London hotel receipts?” Pratt inquired gingerly.
“I have all three if you care to stop by my office tomorrow, I’ll be glad to bring them all from home,” replied Watermayne with an accomplished air.
The next day, Pratt walked into Watermayne’s lobby. After announcing himself to the receptionist she said, “Hold on a minute, I have a package for you. Mr. Watermayne was expecting you.” She handed Pratt an envelope. After opening it he found the three items he had asked for and decided that was enough evidence to rule out Watermayne as a suspect.
Twel
ve
After receiving the evidence of Watermayne’s alibi Detective Pratt stopped by Andre’s as he had told the marshal he would. Andre’s house was on the other side of town in a predominantly lower income HUD housing neighborhood with a diverse mix of poor Whites, Mexican Americans, Black families and a few Asians.
Andre was a five-foot-ten Hispanic born in the U.S. As Pratt approached his home, he noticed neighbors of Andre’s sitting on the stoops in front of their homes staring at him driving by. Obviously, the word got out that Andre saved a guy who got shot and now the street was on the watch for a possible gunman who may want to shoot Andre, believing that he witnessed the shooting.
Pratt placed his police globe light on the dashboard of the unmarked car and turned it on without the siren as a signal to the neighbors that he’s a cop. He notified dispatch of his ten-twenty, police code for location.
He parked near a tree, three car lengths from Andre’s house, turned off the rotating police light, removed it from the dashboard and got out of the car. As he approached the front door, he turned to look behind him and discovered the neighbors still eyeing him. He knocked on the front door and Andre answered. Pratt immediately flashed his badge and introduced himself as being the detective investigating the shooting. He suggested to Andre that he be forthright when answering his questions. Andre invited him in.
“Andre, can you tell me what you saw the day you saved Jack Green?”
Before Andre could respond, Pratt was interrupted by his two-way radio, with the dispatcher saying, “All units near 1515 McGuire in Flagstaff, we have a ten-seventy-one,” the code for shots fired.
Pratt was the first to respond to the call. “Ten-four, this is Pratt, I’m on my way. Isn’t that across town from where I’m at now?”
The dispatcher asked, “What’s your twenty?”
“I’m at 112 Sedona Blvd. in the Fairhaven section of town.”
A Hole In One Page 6
