by Ron Levitsky
“Do you have any idea who did? Has Dickerson told you?”
“No. He’s in some kind of catatonic state. When he comes out of it, I don’t think he’ll give us any trouble. His son was probably the only person he really loved. When Junior died, there was not much point going on.”
“Yes,” Simpson said softly, “I know. When Tad died in the war, I . . .”
“I asked Lt. Canary to come up here.” Simpson seemed not to hear, so Wilkes repeated the statement.
“What do you want Canary for?”
“The man who killed Nhi was connected with the police department—Dickerson did say that much. Someone who knew the Paddy, had been there before, who had known both Nguyens—Nhi and her brother Van.”
“You mean it had something to do with drugs—this Van was a drug dealer, wasn’t he?”
Wilkes stared at his boss.
“Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me that Canary’s involved in this, that he was working with the Senator? With Van and drugs?”
Again Wilkes remained silent. Simpson took the gun from the desk, turning it over in his hands while examining it closely. “Whose is this?”
“Dickerson’s. It could have been the murder weapon, but then I wouldn’t be here talking to you.”
“My God, Jimmy, I didn’t . . .” He stopped abruptly.
“Why don’t you say it, Edgar?”
Simpson looked down at the gun.
“It was you,” Wilkes said. “You killed Nguyen Thi Nhi.”
He waited for the other man’s angry denial, but Simpson sat quietly, his hands resting on the weapon. Only his eyes looked expectantly, almost eagerly, for Wilkes to continue.
“Dickerson told me the woman’s murder had nothing to do with her brother and drugs. It was a crime of passion. I guess a woman’s novel would call it ‘unrequited love.’ You loved Nhi, she rejected you, so you killed her, then shot her brother Van who happened to stumble in on the two of you. Is that the way it happened, Edgar?”
After a long moment Simpson nodded. “Funny the way life works. When Tad was killed in Vietnam, I hated those people—Gooks, Slants. When some of them moved here, it made my blood boil. I watched them closely, even got involved personally in prosecuting some cases. Van, for example, and his dope dealing. I was in the Paddy questioning him one day last year, when I met his sister. Never saw anything so pretty, so delicate like a little doll. He offered her to me right then and there, like she was a cigarette. I felt like killing him.” He stopped and smiled wryly. “Two nights later I did go see her. She made my blood boil all night, but in a different way. I know what you’re thinking—I’m some dirty old man who can’t act his age. Wait’ll you’re as old as me, with nothing to look forward to except fishing and rattling around a big house with an old woman still mourning her dead son after almost twenty years. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You were planning to run away with Nhi? Just abandon your wife and disappear?”
“The house is paid for. I was going to leave Florence half the money. She’d of had plenty.”
“You went to Nhi’s apartment that night with your suitcase and two plane tickets to Mexico, in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Simpson. Only the ticket wasn’t for the real Mrs. Simpson. Those soiled tissues in the wastebasket were yours; they matched your blood type. I remember you had a cold.”
“Nhi said she couldn’t leave her brother—he was her drug connection. I thought it was all set. I gave her travel brochures. She said she must’ve been high to have agreed to go away with me.”
“So you killed Nhi and used the ticket you bought for her to take your wife on a surprise vacation. How could you kill her, Edgar?”
Simpson’s face reddened. “She laughed at me. Said her brother would get a good laugh out of it too. I started thinking of Tad lying in the jungle with a bullet through his head. I just went crazy, took out the gun and . . .” He shrugged.
“Why’d you bring a gun?”
“I thought Van might give me trouble. When I saw him walk in, his sister’s laughter in my ears, I didn’t wait for him to laugh. I’m not sorry about him.”
“Where’d you get the gun?”
“From the police property room. Who’d miss one weapon out of a hundred? After I shot Van, I wiped the handle and dumped it in the trash. Guess it must’ve been Basehart’s gun, still had one of his prints from when the police first confiscated it. I didn’t mean to frame him.”
Wilkes looked at the gun resting in Simpson’s hands, then leaned forward and said, “No, you let Dickerson do that. You’ve been working with him all along, haven’t you?”
“One hand washes the other—that’s politics, Jimmy. Your daddy wasn’t above doing a favor or getting one in return from the Senator.”
“My father was never involved in murder.”
“No,” Simpson said quietly, “no, he wasn’t.”
“Dickerson covered for you, got rid of Van, and in return you helped him frame Basehart, so that Pelham could take over the Guardians and bring them more tightly under Dickerson’s control.”
“Help him frame Basehart . . . how?”
Wilkes shook his head. “You put me on the case.”
“Jimmy . . .”
“You wanted to make sure Basehart would be convicted quickly and quietly. With the Senator’s stooge Collinsby as defense counsel looking for a quick guilty plea, and me, inexperienced in this kind of case, seduced by the headlines and a chance for the job . . . Collinsby and I were even high school buddies. You really had everything going for you. Until Nate Rosen entered the case.”
Simpson almost smiled. “You’re the one who listened to him. Your daddy always said you were a smart kid.”
Wilkes’s intercom buzzed loudly. Martha said, “Sorry to disturb you, but Mr. Simpson’s secretary wanted him to know that his nine o’clock appointment is here. Also, Lt. Canary called asking if he could wait to see you this afternoon.”
Pushing the button Wilkes replied, “Have Mr. Simpson’s appointments canceled for the day.”
“All of them?”
“Jimmy . . .” Simpson began.
“Yes, all of them. And tell Lt. Canary to come here immediately.”
Simpson’s forehead broke into beads of sweat. “What are you going to do?”
Wilkes leaned over the desk, his folded hands only a few inches from the gun. He had gone over the words many times that morning, not once being able to finish them. “I’m going to have Lt. Canary take you downstairs, read you your rights, and charge you with the murders of Nguyen Thi Nhi and her brother Van.”
“No, Jimmy, you can’t. You can’t do this to me. I was your daddy’s best friend. Christ, since his death I been like a daddy to you.”
“Stop it.”
“Remember who got you this job, who helped you get the down payment on your house. Why, your little girls call me uncle . . .”
“Stop it! Last night Dickerson said he was expecting me. There was only one person who knew I was going to his yacht. I left a message for you. You called Dickerson. You set me up to be killed. Now give me the gun.”
Shaking his head Simpson stood and pointed the weapon at Wilkes. He was gasping for air like a drowning man. “Just a few hours. Just give me a few hours head start, that’s all. In your daddy’s memory.”
Wilkes also stood. “What about justice?”
The gun shook in his hand. “Wh . . . What are you talking about? Two Slants—a whore and a drug-dealing pimp. All I’m asking for is a few hours.”
There was a knock on the door.
Wilkes walked around the desk to face Simpson. “I won’t let this office be used to subvert the law anymore.”
Another knock, more insistent. “Wilkes, you in there!” Canary shouted.
Simpson glanced at the door then said, “I’m not going to jail. I couldn’t face the . . . the . . .”
The face of another dead woman flashed before Wilkes. “The shame.”
As
the door opened Simpson sobbed loudly, pressed the gun barrel to his head and squeezed the trigger. It clicked loudly, the sound reverberating in the silence. Simpson brought the gun down and stared at it oddly, before Canary pulled it from his grasp.
Wilkes said, “I took the bullets out last night. I didn’t want the gun to go off accidentally. I’m not used to guns.”
“What’s going on here?” Canary asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Take Mr. Simpson downstairs and charge him with the murders of Nguyen Thi Nhi and her brother Van.”
Canary looked from one man to the other, the cigarette falling from his mouth. “You gotta be kidding.”
“I said book him!”
Furrowing his brow the policeman shook his head. “Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch. Y’know, Jimmy, we had Basehart’s bait and tackle shop staked out yesterday. Saw you and Rosen go in. When you left, I tailed you as far as Collinsby’s apartment. A little while later, the dispatcher called in a report of a dead man in the apartment. Who was it called the police?”
“My secretary.”
“Figures. When I went upstairs and found Burl’s body, I sure wondered where you disappeared, what you was up to. I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch.” He put his hand on Simpson’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Simpson let Canary lead him to the door then stopped. “Don’t think this is gonna do you any good. You’re not gonna become Commonwealth’s Attorney by walking over my grave. I know a lot of people, no matter what. They know this is no way to treat a friend.”
Wilkes checked his watch and knew he had to hurry. “A friend,” he repeated. “Yes.”
*
The bus had already pulled in front of the station, its door swung open and motor humming patiently. Parking his car around the corner, Wilkes walked back and saw that no one had boarded yet. Inside the terminal about a dozen people sat with suitcases or packages; a few were dozing quietly. One man looked up from a magazine. “Got about fifteen minutes before the bus leaves. Ticket counter’s in back.”
“I’m looking for someone who’s returning to Washington this morning.”
“Might try the coffee shop across the street. Just had breakfast there myself.”
Rosen was alone in a corner booth, drinking hot tea and sneezing into a series of paper napkins.
“So you caught a cold too,” Wilkes said, sitting across the table.
Rosen nodded and held up an envelope. “Birthday card for my daughter—her birthday’s the day after tomorrow. Always have trouble writing it. When I get to D.C., think I’ll turn in my report and fly to Chicago to help her celebrate. Easier to say things in person. At least, I hope it will be.”
“That’ll be nice. What about a present?”
Rosen looked away for a moment. “Trac helped me choose one last week.”
Wilkes wanted to say some words of comfort but in the awkward silence thought it best to get on with the business between them. “I had Edgar Simpson arrested.”
“That must’ve been tough.”
“Yes, our families go back a long way.” Shifting in his chair he said, “Guess I’m not much of a political animal. Both Simpson and Dickerson have a lot of friends. My daddy once told me politicians are like elephants—they never forget.”
Rosen said, “I’m surprised at you, such an aficionado of Thomas Jefferson, giving up on the good sense of the common man. You’re their champion, and they just may recognize it. After all, Jefferson was elected President.”
Wilkes said, “I don’t think I’m presidential material.”
“No, you’re not.” Rosen paused to take a long sip of tea. “You’re something much more. I think you’re a tzaddik, one of the thirty-six men of this world for whose goodness alone God spares the human race.”
Wilkes laughed. “Aren’t you laying it on a little thick. I was just doing my job.”
Rosen shook his head. “Your job was to take the easy way out. Make a quick deal with Collinsby, get a conviction, run for Commonwealth’s Attorney, Governor, etc. What you did was to surprise everyone, including me. You dealt justice.”
“And what about you? Aren’t you a just man, a . . . tzaddik?”
“No, I was just doing my job.”
He stood and paid the check. Wilkes lifted Rosen’s suitcase, and the two men walked into the street.
Rosen said, “One tends to become cynical seeing what I’ve seen the last few years. Lies and deception become truth, and truth becomes . . . a stranger. Like this case. From the day I arrived to last night on the yacht.” Reaching the sidewalk he stopped. “I even tried to convince myself about Trac—that she was struggling with Junior for the gun and not the needle.”
“She was.”
They looked each other in the eye, Rosen staring hard for a hint of weakness, that Wilkes too was engaging in a lie. Finally he softened his gaze and whispered, “‘. . . the mirror of your soul is clean of all the dust of the world.’”
People brushed past them on their way to board the bus. Wilkes handed the suitcase to the driver who loaded it into the luggage compartment.
“Well,” Rosen said, “guess it’s time.”
Hesitating momentarily like bashful schoolboys, the two men shook hands, each reluctant to let go. The bus’s motor revved.
“Thanks for everything,” Wilkes said.
“I told you, it’s for me to give thanks.”
Wilkes watched the bus disappear into the gray morning and continued staring for a long time after. Walking to his car he found himself smiling without quite knowing why, only that he would allow himself the luxury of taking a short drive before returning to work. The road that would take him along the coast, past the weathered bust of his old friend, Thomas Jefferson.
THE TRUTH THAT KILLS
For my mother and father on their fiftieth anniversary
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
THE FIRST WEEK
Chapter One
friday evening
The wooden box lay beside the pulpit. It was long with two metal clasps, and across the front someone had painted in black letters, “Mark 16:17–18.” As the congregants filed in around him, Jesse Compton sat silently in the third row of folding chairs and watched the box, while sweat trickled under his collar. He wore a two-year-old gray suit, with lapels conveniently out of fashion, to blend with the congregation. Even so, he was overdressed, his sartorial error making him as uncomfortable as the heat. How different this service was, even from the poor Church of Christ he’d visited earlier that week.
Bathsheba sat beside him; the dress smoothed over her knees clung tightly to her long legs. They were beautiful—did she realize how beautiful they were? His own legs were sparrow-thin in comparison. He wanted to gaze into her face, but that would never do—not in church. Besides, he kept glancing at the box. God, he needed a cigarette.
Clapping loudly to the rhythm of an electric guitar, the people sang “Amazing Grace” without songbooks, eyes closed as if reading words written into their souls. The guitar player, standing near the podium, was the only black in the church. His long legs turned inward, like a collapsing marionette, while his hands carefully strummed the hymn. Jesse almost smiled. What would his own friends up at the First Baptist say when he mentioned attending an “integrated” church. He relished the thought like the first sip of an after-dinner cordial.
Looking across the aisle, he recognized one of the congregation, young Claire Hobbes. Her husband had donated a new industrial arts building to the university, the largest such facility in middle Tennessee. She was a pretty slip of a woman with her honey-blond hair, upturned nose, and green cat’s eyes, but like the others she wore a long simple dress and no makeup. Ben Hobbes was rich enough to buy into any big old church downtown. Why would his wife mix with these poor folk?
The guitar player put down his instrument and sat in the first row as a man stepped up to the pulpit. Like others in the church, he wore a blue work shirt and dark cotton trousers. He looked about fifty, pale-complexioned, with thick black hair combed straight back. Maybe that’s what made his face seem a bit large for his body, or maybe it was the square jaw and dark piercing eyes. Of medium build but with large shoulders and biceps, he was the kind of man whose handshake you’d feel a long time afterward.
Bathsheba whispered, “That’s our preacher, Gideon McCrae—my daddy.”
From his suitcoat Jesse took a tape recorder, which he balanced on his thigh and switched on.
McCrae lifted a Bible over his head. “John fourteen:six. ‘Jesus said unto them, I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life; no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.’” His voice resonated through the room. Resting the Bible on the pulpit, he surveyed the congregation. “You folks know Clark Roberts ’n’ his family back there in the last row. Come forty miles to pray with us tonight. Praise Jesus! Clark he tells me the bridge ’tween here ’n’ Mayfield been washed out by that awful rain yesterday. Said he had to go downriver ’n’ cross, though it took another thirty minutes. I ask why he didn’t just try to take his ol’ car through the water to save time. Clark says, ‘Why, Gideon, only a plumb fool’d do that.’ Brothers ’n’ Sisters, ain’t that the truth!”
Shouts of “Yes, Reverend!” and “That’s so!”
“And what did Jesus say? ‘I am the Way, the Truth, an’ the Life. No man cometh unto the Father but by me.’ Did Jesus say that His way was the easy way?”
“No!”
“That it was the quickest?”
