Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

Prescott shifted uncomfortably, his eyes wide and set toward Crawford.

  “Lieutenant, give me an update. I’ve got a swarm of reporters out there wondering why someone is dusting for fingerprints inside the home of a DA who killed himself.” Sandy’s eyes shifted to Fiscall’s cold, pale body. He shook his head remorsefully.

  “Sir, I think we have a homicide made to look like a suicide,” Crawford informed him.

  Sandy’s bulging eyes widened. “A homicide.” He glanced to the gunshot wound on the side of Fiscall’s head. “Don’t say it flippantly, Shep. If we’ve got a murdered DA here, things are going to go mad very quickly. You better be sure of what you’re saying.”

  June said, “There is something fishy about the bullet hole. As soon as I get him, I’ll be able to confirm it.”

  Sandy swallowed, glancing around the room. Crawford pointed to an 8-x-10 photograph of two black Labrador retrievers sitting on the edge of Fiscall’s desk in front of a picture of his family. “I saw two bowls of dog food and water in the kitchen. Where are those dogs?”

  The three other men standing around the body stared at the picture for several seconds.

  “Prescott, get another detective, and go search the property. Hurry.” Crawford made a strict gesture, and Prescott exited the room.

  One of the crime-scene technicians came through the door. “We’ve got a set of prints off the doorknob and an entire handprint off the front glass window. The rain was so heavy we didn’t get any footprints except—” the tech smiled—“across a patch of dirt on the front porch. A perfect imprint of a shoe. Size 12.”

  “Run the prints,” Crawford said.

  Sandy was shaking his head. “Our number-one suspect has an alibi.”

  “Can’t get a tighter alibi than being in police custody,” Crawford said. “We’ll see if the prints tell us anything.”

  “Do you think this is connected to the Franks case?”

  “I think we’re getting ready to start a whole new chapter,” Crawford said.

  Sandy blew out a tense sigh. “Okay. I’m going to put off the press conference for another hour. Nobody leaks a thing or heads will roll. Understood?” Sandy stared at Fiscall’s frozen face, turned, and walked out of the study.

  Crawford pointed to Fiscall’s arm. “Prescott made note of this. His forearm was marked with my blood when I cut my hand on that glass.”

  “Okay, I’ll make note of it in my files too,” June said.

  Prescott rushed through the door, his cheeks flushed and his hair tangled from the wind. “We found them.”

  “The dogs?”

  Prescott nodded, catching his breath. “Looks like they were killed near a large tree and then dragged underneath some heavy bushes near the outskirts of the front of the property. Their necks may have been broken.”

  “Why would someone break their necks instead of shooting them?” June asked.

  “To show they had control of the situation, control of the animals meant to guard Mr. Fiscall, I imagine.” Crawford rubbed his fingers against the stubble on his face and walked out of the study toward the front door.

  Stepping into the bright light, he watched law-enforcement personnel scrambling around the yard in haste. Aaron Kline stood by two other officers near the front porch. Crawford looked at the two uniformed officers and said, “Move the crime-scene tape out to the front-fence line where the dogs are before we lose whatever evidence there is.” When the two officers left, Crawford said to Aaron, “Looks like the law was on your brother’s side after all.”

  Bill Cassavo sat across from Mick in the early evening of his first day in jail. Mick felt weak but passed on the food offered so far. He doubted his appetite would return for a while. No one expected the judge to grant bail, which was contributing to his appetite loss as well.

  Bill was talking about the arraignment hearing, which was set for the end of the week. His words faded in and out as Mick studied the attorney. So much like Aaron. Pulled together, with peaceful, confident eyes. Mick wasn’t sure what people saw when they looked in his eyes, but he figured most of the time his eyes betrayed him. If they were indeed a window to his soul, there was no telling what looked back at others.

  “. . . and I’m keeping a close eye on the Fiscall case,” Bill said.

  Mick tuned back in. He’d heard the news soon after Aaron left. It was one more bizarre thing trying to insert itself into the mystery that had now overrun his life.

  “I’m going to assume it’s related, Mick. It’s the only thing I can do. Rumors are running rampant that this is not a suicide. I know Aaron will keep us abreast of the situation.”

  Bill’s remarks vied for his attention, but his mind wandered back to Taylor. And the strange envelope of money that had turned up. Add that to the mysterious death of the DA, who was sure Mick had done it . . . it made his head spin.

  Aaron had told him of the flowers that were sent to Taylor before she disappeared, signed Sammy, even though Liz claimed he only used his initials and was usually too cheap to spend that kind of money on flowers. The details attached to how the flowers were paid for fascinated him as well.

  He tried to match all of Aaron’s information with what he knew about Sammy Earle. But there were no real links between the two sets of facts.

  He hoped that Fiscall’s death was somehow connected. All he could do now was sit. And wait. And think.

  And pray.

  Another two hours of paperwork begged for attention from Crawford’s desk. Night dissolved into the windows, and the squad room’s fluorescent lights were beginning to strain his eyes. A rare anxiousness tapped at his insides, causing his foot to bounce up and down.

  His phone rang and Crawford snatched it up.

  Prescott and the other detectives at their desks watched.

  “Yeah?”

  “Lieutenant, it’s Dr. June. You were right. The skull was crushed. Looks to be something smooth and round, but I can’t directly identify it. That didn’t kill him, though. It would’ve done some brain damage, but he died from the gunshot wound from his own gun.”

  Crawford wrote down notes. “When will you conclude?”

  “Probably within the next twenty-four hours, I’ll have my full report. It will take a couple more days to get the toxicology screen done.”

  On the television, Crawford watched the governor make a statement, presumably about what a fine assistant district attorney Stephen Fiscall had been.

  Prescott had answered another phone call and was nodding.

  “Okay. I’ll be waiting.” Crawford hung up the phone.

  Prescott scurried toward him. “They identified the prints,” he said. “They belong to Sammy Earle.”

  The room hushed.

  Crawford didn’t hesitate. “Okay. Call the judge; let’s get an arrest warrant and a search warrant. And contact the Dallas PD.”

  “I’m feeling better . . . ,” Sammy managed, pressing his lips into the phone’s receiver, rolling each word off his heavy tongue. He was lying on his couch, where he’d managed to crawl after redrowning himself in alcohol late last night. His throat burned like a roasting shish kebab. JoAnne’s mousy voice recited the details of his revised schedule for tomorrow. “Stop talking so loud,” he barked. He listened for her usual apology, but there was nothing but silence. “You there?”

  “Is there anything else you need?” Her tone was flat.

  Sammy rolled his bloodshot eyes. “See you tomorrow.” He threw the phone down and groaned, reaching for the whiskey bottle that was just a finger’s length out of his reach. “Come to Papa,” he muttered. Even the slightest movement caused his stomach to lurch.

  Something caught his eye out the window. The drapes were barely parted, and he thought he saw something black move against the window. Fright gripped him, and he fell off the couch, crawling to the other side of it, his pajama bottoms ripping at the seams in his haste.

  There was a loud thud. Then several in rapid succession, coming from the front door.r />
  “Sam Earle? Open up! It’s the police!”

  Earle froze, his hands clutching the fibers of the carpet beneath him. Whipping his head around, he could see an officer, dressed in black, sliding himself along the outside wall, toward the back door, a rifle standing straight up against his arm.

  Earle yelped, shivering as if he’d fallen into snow. Then gunfire. Tearing into his skin. He clutched his chest, his rib cage, his arms. Looking down, he expected to see himself settled into a pool of blood. Nothing.

  But he could hear the jungle. The hissing of animals that lived high in trees and deep in the earth. And the language of the devil. Chattering in his ear. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  A loud bang caused him to gasp, and he watched his back door slam open. Men paraded in, yelling at him to stay on the floor.

  Everything in the room spun, and Sammy’s head slammed against the floor. “I’m an American soldier. . . .” He felt his arms being stretched behind him and then cold metal against his wrists.

  He was yanked to his feet in a matter of seconds, and he threw up. Collective groans filled his ears, then an unfamiliar male voice. “Mr. Earle, you are under arrest for the murder of Stephen Fiscall. You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

  “No, no, no, no . . .” Sammy tried other words, but nothing else would come out. Two strong arms ushered him through his front door, where he was met by a dark night. Bright, flashing police lights assaulted his eyes, and he looked away, squinting. “No . . . no . . . this is a mistake. . . .”

  Running down the front porch steps, Sammy felt like he wasn’t even in control of his own feet. He turned his head to the right, trying to shield his face and eyes. Near a tree at the corner of his yard, a man stood, silhouetted by streetlights, his face darkened in places by shadows. When Sammy was whisked toward a patrol car, he could swear he saw the man smile at him.

  “Watch your head,” an officer said, pushing him down and into the backseat.

  Sammy looked back to where the man was standing, but he had vanished. Blinking rapidly, he tried to decide what part of all this was real.

  Surely any moment he would wake up screaming like he did from all his other nightmares.

  “Wake up . . . please. . . .”

  At four in the morning, Aaron’s shift ended. Back at the police station, he and Jarrod continued on in silence, as they had for most of their shift. Jarrod had tried to make small talk, but Aaron’s mind was too full to have room for it.

  Jarrod grabbed his things from his locker and left, giving Aaron a short, apprehensive wave. Aaron waved back.

  Forty minutes later, Aaron still couldn’t leave. He’d sat at his desk, filling out the final paperwork, his mind drenched in the chaos of all that had transpired.

  “Hey, Aaron.” Ian Lewis, an investigative assistant, a short man with youthful eyes and thick glasses, smiled down at him.

  “It’s kind of late for you, isn’t it?”

  “This bank-scam deal is killing me.” Ian sighed. “I can’t wait for them to catch this guy so I can get some sleep. Here.” Ian handed him three papers.

  “What’s this?”

  “That information you requested.”

  “What information?”

  “You wanted me to print out all the credit-card activity on a Mr. Peter Walker?”

  “Oh yeah, right. The guy from Maine.” Aaron took the pages from Ian.

  “That’s just a few days’ worth of purchases,” Ian said, shaking his head. “Looks like the guy travels a lot.”

  Aaron scanned the papers. “Puts all his business expenses on here.” He raised an eyebrow. “Including some interesting hotel television-viewing habits.”

  Ian made a face. “Anyway, sorry about the delay.”

  “No problem.” Aaron put the papers on his desk and methodically went through each line. Peter Walker was a frequent traveler; his credit card was filled with purchases from airlines, hotels, and restaurants. In the past seven days, the man had traveled to Chicago, San Jose, Phoenix, and Detroit.

  Then something caught his eye. A bus ticket. From Irving to Wichita. Aaron stood up. The dates matched the dates that Mr. Walker was obviously in Chicago!

  Aaron circled the line and gathered his things.

  Two hours into the search of Sammy Earle’s house, Crawford stood outside on the porch with his favorite flashlight.

  Detective Mitchell walked out the front door. “Lieutenant, you better look at this.” He handed Crawford a crumpled white note that looked to be partially burned. “We found it at the back of one of the drawers in his bedroom.”

  Crawford stepped into the light of the doorway.

  Mr. Earle,

  I have some information about you concerning the Taylor Franks case. Information that is neither helpful to you nor to me in my prosecution of the suspect of this case. I need to meet with you privately. Do not bring any lawyers or anybody else. This stays between you and me. Come to my house tonight between 10:30 and 11:00. 11898 Blaine Street. And whatever you do, destroy this letter.

  S. Fiscall

  “Bag it,” Crawford said, and the detective nodded. Crawford smiled. “Guess you should’ve destroyed it, Mr. Earle.”

  Chief Howard came up beside him. “If that’s not a motive, I don’t know what is.”

  Crawford nodded, his flashlight scanning the rock bed next to the porch.

  Sandy continued. “But what in the world did Fiscall have on Earle? Nothing was said to me about it. As far as I knew, the prosecutor’s office was solely focused on Mick Kline.”

  Crawford shrugged. “Fiscall never said anything to me about it, and he had ample opportunity.”

  “We’re going to have to get into some deep investigation on this one.”

  “Whatever Fiscall had on Earle, Earle felt it was worth killing for.”

  Sandy shook his head. “Sloppy murder. ’Course, Sammy was so drunk he didn’t know which end was up.”

  Crawford squatted and pulled on a latex glove.

  “What is it?” Sandy asked.

  Carefully, Crawford reached for a smooth, oval stone, a little smaller than his hand. He held it up in the light and shone his flashlight on it.

  “Whatcha got?”

  Crawford turned the stone over and held it toward Sandy. “Do you see what I see?”

  Sandy squinted, and then his eyes lit up. “That looks like blood.”

  “With two strands of hair matted to it. Prescott! Bring me a bag!”

  Sandy’s face showed nothing less than shock. “You probably just found the other half of the murder weapon.”

  Crawford smiled. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

  “Kline! Wake up!”

  Mick turned over, sat up, and grabbed at the pain stabbing through his back. His body had not gotten used to the sleeping conditions here.

  “You have a visitor,” the guard said.

  “What time is it?” Mick asked as the guard opened the door.

  “Just after five.”

  “In the morning? Is it my attorney?”

  The guard didn’t answer. He led Mick down the corridor to a small conference-like room, identical to the one he’d met his brother and Bill in yesterday. As another guard opened the door, Bill Cassova stood and greeted Mick.

  “What’s going on?” Mick asked, his eyes still swollen from fitful sleep.

  “They arrested Sammy Earle, Mick. For Fiscall’s murder.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  Bill shook his head, a grin sweeping across his tired face. “Aaron said they found a note, a note that gives a motive and proves a lot more.”

  “A motive? Why would Sammy Earle kill the prosecutor who thinks he didn’t do it?”

  “It’s unclear right now. Aaron doesn’t know the entire content of the note, as it is being kept under tight wraps. But apparently Fiscall had some bit of information on Sammy. One can only guess that it’s damaging. Tried to pass it off as a suicide while leaving two dead dog
s in the yard. Sammy was drunk out of his mind, from reports.”

  Mick swept his hand over his face. “This is unbelievable.”

  “And that’s not even why I’m here.”

  “You have something else?”

  Bill nodded eagerly. “Your brother thinks Taylor Franks might still be alive.”

  “Alive?”

  “Yes. On the same credit card that bought those flowers that she received is a purchase for a ticket from Irving to Wichita.”

  Mick fell back into his chair, shaking his head. “What’s he going to do?”

  “He wants to know if you have a credit card.”

  Mick frowned. “Um . . . yeah. One. But it’s maxed out right now.”

  Bill was nodding and dialing his phone at the same time.

  As fast as his fingers could flip through the envelopes, Aaron raced through the stack of mail that he’d gotten out of Mick’s mailbox. The morning sun was just peeking over the horizon, but the sky was still dark and the air cold.

  “There,” Aaron said, pulling an envelope out of the stack. He thought he’d seen this when he’d quickly rummaged through the mail on Saturday. There was a Visa logo on the envelope, but it didn’t look like a credit-card statement, as a computer-typed label addressed the outside.

  Tearing open the envelope, he pulled out what looked like a form letter that had parts filled in with darker ink.

  Dear Mr. Michael Kline,

  This letter is to inform you that you have reached your credit limit with this account. Unfortunately, we were unable to process the request from Beauveaux Furniture on 9-14-95. We thank you for your business and if you have any questions, please feel free to call our customer service number.

  Aaron snatched his telephone and dialed information.

  “What city please?”

  “Wichita, Kansas.”

  “Hold, please.”

  “Information, what city?”

  “Wichita.”

  “Yes?”

  “Beauveaux Furniture.”

  He heard typing in the background. “Yes, please hold for the number.”

  Aaron grabbed a pen.