2 Lost Legacy

by Annette Dashofy

  “I did.”

  Jackson swallowed. Hard. “Did Zoe?”

  “No.”

  Jackson seemed relieved. But his gaze darkened. “Why not?”

  Pete considered reminding the man about who was asking the questions here. But maybe a little honey was in order to catch this fly. “I didn’t think she should have to face that.”

  Jackson studied Pete in silence for a long moment before shifting in his chair. “I give you credit. You really do care for my daughter.”

  Pete knew where this was headed and let it ride.

  “So do I,” Jackson said. “And I cared for her—and her mother—when Zoe was eight. I knew how badly burned Gary’s body was. I didn’t want either of them to have to deal with that.”

  “How did you know?”

  “What?”

  “How did you know how badly burned Gary’s body was? Unless you saw it.”

  “No. Froats told me.”

  “Warren Froats?”

  “One and the same.”

  A knock at the door drew Pete’s attention. The door swung open and Baronick entered without invitation.

  The detective crossed to Pete’s side, kept his back to Jackson and Imperatore, and leaned down to whisper in Pete’s ear. “It’s a match.”

  Not that Pete had doubted the result for a minute, but now the lab had confirmed. One gun had been used in every one of the shootings in this forty-five-year crime spree. “Do me a favor.” Pete kept his voice low, but didn’t care whether his suspect heard or not. “Get Warren Froats in here.”

  Baronick slipped out, shutting the door behind him.

  Pete toyed with his pen. “I spoke with Marvin Kroll this afternoon.”

  Jackson gave a short laugh. “Then why am I still here if he told you I didn’t shoot him?”

  “Because he didn’t. He has no memory of the incident.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Jackson slammed both hands down on the table.

  Imperatore cleared his throat. “Not another word.” The lawyer pointed at Pete. “Time’s up.”

  Pete held up his watch. “I still have two minutes.”

  Imperatore made a production of removing his Rolex and setting it on the table in front of him. “Two minutes. Not a second longer.”

  So be it. “Kroll received a letter from James Engle, same as you did. In it he stated that Bernice Kroll had nothing to do with the Miller brothers’ deaths. Like you, Mr. Kroll went to talk to James. On Wednesday. The same day as you.” Pete didn’t mention Kroll had been there after Jackson. “Kroll believed James had killed the Millers and wanted him to admit it.”

  “Did he?” Jackson asked, his voice flat.

  “Admit to it? No.”

  Jackson studied his hands, still palm-down on the table. Silent moments ticked away, cutting into Pete’s remaining minute. But his gut told him to wait.

  Tom Jackson took a long breath. “I was at James’ house Wednesday.”

  “Mr. Jackson,” Imperatore scolded.

  “It’s all right. The chief already knows I was there. And I didn’t do anything.”

  “But—”

  Jackson cut off his attorney with a look. Then he sat back in his chair. “I’d opened his letter to Kimberly. I know. I shouldn’t have. But I did. And when I read it, I knew it would tear her apart. So I insisted we come north. I arranged things so I could come up a few days ahead of her and talk to Jim.”

  “Your two minutes are up,” Imperatore snapped.

  Jackson shook his head. “I acknowledge I have the right to remain silent. I’m waiving it.”

  Pete suppressed a smile. Under different circumstances, he might just like Zoe’s stepfather.

  “I wanted to find out what he knew about Gary’s accident,” Jackson said. “And—everything else, too. I don’t know what happened with the Miller brothers. But before that whole incident, Jim had been a father figure. My own father never had much to do with me, so Jim filled a big void. But after all that happened, and his sister died—”

  “Died?” Pete paused in his note taking. “Mae Engle is dead?”

  “She died in childbirth. They kept it all very hush hush.”

  “Any idea what happened to the baby?”

  “It was put up for adoption is all I know. Anyway, after all that, Jim started drinking. A lot. He began avoiding me. Wouldn’t return my calls. If I stopped by, he was either blitzed or too busy to be bothered with me. One time I demanded to know what was going on. Told him I’d always wished he was my dad. He threw an empty whiskey bottle at me.” Anguish deepened the creases in Jackson’s forehead. “I’ll never forget what he said to me that day. ‘You’re better off staying the hell away from me and my family. Nothing good ever came from being an Engle.’”

  Jackson fell silent, his breath raspy. Pete waited for him to compose himself.

  After clearing his throat, Jackson continued. “Did I think he killed Denver or Vernon? Or both? Yeah. I did. I still do.”

  Pete peered up from his notes. “During the autopsy this evening, the M.E. pulled a bullet out of Gary Chambers’ body.”

  Jackson didn’t blink.

  “You knew.”

  He shook his head. “Not before I spoke with Jim last Wednesday. Up until then, I thought the same as Kimberly. That Gary had been killed by a drunk driver.”

  “Carl Loomis.”

  “Yeah. But after that letter from Jim, I demanded to know what he was talking about and he told me.”

  “That he’d shot Gary?”

  “Not exactly.”

  If Pete’s foot hadn’t been throbbing like a diesel engine, he’d have jumped up and gone over the table at Jackson. Instead, he struck the table with his closed fist. “What exactly did he say?”

  Jackson flinched, but recovered. “He said he felt responsible for Gary’s death, but he hadn’t been the one who killed him. He said he wasn’t free to tell me who had, but he needed to clear his conscience while he still could.”

  “But James Engle didn’t have cancer.”

  “I know that. Now. But he kept saying he didn’t have long for this earth.” Jackson rubbed his eyes, letting his fingers rest on the bridge of his nose. “That day, last Wednesday, he was as despondent a man as I’ve ever seen. I honestly believed he was dying. I can’t explain why he thought he had cancer. Or if he knew he didn’t, why he told everyone else that he did. But I can tell you this. If I were a gambler, I’d bet every cent I have that Jim committed suicide.”

  “You think Wilford Engle kidnapped Harry?” Patsy’s tone clearly indicated she thought Zoe was certifiable.

  Maybe she was.

  Zoe jogged through the hospital’s parking lot with Patsy on her heels. One of the good things about having a big old pickup was being able to spot it towering over the newer, smaller cars and SUVs. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s a possibility.” No one had been able to locate Harry anywhere inside the building. “Harry recognized Wilford. Sort of. He couldn’t place him, but told me he wasn’t nice.”

  “But why would old Wilford Engle kidnap Harry?”

  Reaching her truck, Zoe fumbled the key into the lock. “I guess he didn’t know Harry couldn’t remember who he was.”

  Patsy ducked around to the passenger door. Over the truck bed she raised her hands in exasperation. “So what?”

  Zoe yanked open the door, hit the button to unlock Patsy’s side, tossed her phone on the seat, and jumped in. “So Wilford thinks Harry has spotted him hanging around Mr. Kroll’s room.” She jammed the key in the ignition without telling Patsy she was figuring this story out as she went. “Wilford doesn’t want Harry—or more precisely, Pete—to know he was lurking around the ICU.”

  Patsy climbed in and reached for the seatbelt. “What
difference does it make if Wilford is showing concern for his neighbor?”

  “Nothing. Unless it’s not concern.” The sickening reality settled hard in Zoe’s gut. “Wilford was hanging around to find out if Mr. Kroll was going to pull through. And be able to identify him.”

  Patsy scowled. “Identify him?”

  Zoe twisted the ignition. Click.

  Nothing else. Just click.

  Frantically, she glanced at the dashboard’s gauges and buttons. To the left of the steering wheel, the toggle for the headlights was flipped.

  “Crap!” She pounded the steering wheel. The bad thing about having a big old pickup truck was the warning bell alerting her she’d left the lights on had quit working six months ago. “My battery’s dead.”

  “What were you saying about Mr. Kroll indentifying Wilford Engle?”

  In the silence, the pieces clicked just like her crippled truck. “Wilford Engle shot Mr. Kroll.”

  Patsy gasped. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. But if Wilford thought he’d killed Mr. Kroll and then found out Mr. Kroll had survived, it makes sense he’d want to keep tabs on whether he pulled through or not. And if he regained consciousness, Wilford might have been waiting for an opportunity for a second chance.”

  Patsy fixed her with a skeptical glare. “You’ve been watching too many crime shows on TV.”

  Zoe ignored Patsy as her train of thought picked up speed. The bullet that had been used to shoot Mr. Kroll matched the one that had killed Denver Miller. And Carl Loomis.

  And most likely Zoe’s father as well. A chill skittered across her shoulders. Was Wilford the killer? Not Tom. But Wilford Engle. And now he had Harry.

  Zoe turned to Patsy. “If it’s true that Wilford is trying to get rid of Mr. Kroll because he can ID him, he might intend to get rid of Harry, too.”

  “I can’t believe that.” But Patsy’s voice wavered.

  “Why else would Wilford take Harry?”

  Patsy frowned and twisted a strand of her hair.

  Zoe didn’t have time for Patsy to puzzle this out. “Harry’s in danger. If I’m wrong, I’ll owe Wilford Engle an apology. If I’m right...”

  Patsy’s hand dropped to her lap. “Come on. We’ll take my truck.”

  They dove out of the Chevy. Zoe fell into step with Patsy as they pounded down the row toward Patsy’s white Toyota Tundra. She chirped it open as Zoe circled to the passenger side. Patsy had the big truck fired up before Zoe clicked her seatbelt.

  “Where to?” Patsy asked.

  Zoe froze. Where to? Where would Wilford take Harry? His house? James’ farm? Somewhere else entirely? There were too many possibilities. “Just start back to Vance Township. I need to call Pete.” She’d hoped to have Harry safely back home without bothering Pete, but things had gone awry.

  Patsy jammed the Tundra into reverse and screeched out of the space. Zoe reached in her pocket for her phone.

  Nothing. Her mind raced back. She’d had the phone in her hand as they left the hospital. She’d tossed it on the seat of her truck as she climbed in. “Crap. I left my cell phone in my truck.”

  “Use mine. It’s in the console.”

  Zoe flipped open the lid of the center cubby. She dug through a jumble of power cords and pulled out Patsy’s phone. Except Patsy didn’t have Pete’s number on speed dial. Or in her address book. Zoe rubbed her forehead, trying to massage her memory into action. Was it...? Yes. She keyed in the number. Hoped it was right.

  After one ring, her call went to voicemail. At least it was Pete’s voice on the recording, so the number was right. “Pete, it’s Zoe,” she said after the beep. “I have a problem...”

  Pete sat alone in the conference room, staring at the white board.

  Tom and Kimberly Jackson were once again on their way to the airport. Pete wished they’d have stuck around and smoothed things over with Zoe—if that were possible.

  Ignoring his throbbing foot, Pete pushed up from his chair and made his way across the room to the board with one crutch. He thumbed the cap from the dry-erase marker and drew lines through both Jacksons’ names.

  From his pocket, his phone chirped. He set down the marker and dug out the phone. The screen showed a number he didn’t recognize.

  Someone pounded on the door, and it swung open before Pete had a chance to say anything. Warren Froats stormed in with Baronick right behind. Pete pressed the key to silence his phone and slipped it back in his pocket.

  “Dammit, Pete, you could’ve just called and invited me to come in,” Froats said, hoisting a thumb at Baronick. “You didn’t have to send the goddamn Boy Scouts.”

  “I wanted to make sure you got here,” Pete said.

  Baronick snorted. “Yeah. Old codgers like you might forget where the police station is.”

  Froats grumbled something and looked around. “First time I been in the station since you young punks moved it.”

  Pete braced the one crutch in front of him, resting his crossed arms on it. “What do you think?”

  Froats grunted. “Too fancy schmancy. Lacks the charm of the old digs.”

  “At least the police department actually works cases now,” Baronick said. “Unlike in your day when you just went through the motions and spent most of your time keeping the bars in business.”

  “Watch it, sonny. I’ll take Pete’s crutch there and break your leg to match his.” Froats nodded at Pete’s foot. “When are you gonna get that thing fixed up proper?”

  “When I solve this case. I had a long chat with Tom Jackson.”

  Froats pulled out a chair, sat down, and propped one work-booted foot, then the other on the table, crossing his ankles. “Jackson didn’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Anything you were accusing him of.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Because I’m an excellent judge of human nature.”

  Baronick barked a laugh. “Which is why your history of solving murders is so good.”

  “What murders?”

  “Let’s start with Gary Chambers,” Pete said.

  Froats waved a hand as if shooing a fly. “That was no murder. That was an accidental death. Drunk driver. You know that.”

  Pete shut up Baronick with a look. He wanted the pleasure of this revelation for himself. “Except it wasn’t. We exhumed Chambers’ body this afternoon and Franklin Marshall performed an autopsy. The autopsy that should have been done twenty-seven years ago. On your watch.”

  Froats’ cocky attitude faded.

  “Marshall dug a .38 caliber slug out of the body.” Pete watched Froats as the words sank in. “It matches the one that killed Denver Miller forty-five years ago and Carl Loomis yesterday. Not to mention the one they dug out of Marvin Kroll.”

  Froats’ summer-fishing-on-the-creek tan paled. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Baronick huffed. “You said it. I didn’t.”

  Pete recounted what they’d learned about Marvin and Bernice Kroll and Mae Engle. “Both Jackson and Kroll seem to think James Engle killed the Miller boys. And if Gary Chambers was asking a lot of questions about them before his death, it makes sense that James might have wanted to shut him up, too. That being the case, guilt combined with going off his depression meds could very well have driven James Engle to commit suicide.” He paused and looked at Baronick, a six-foot sentry stationed by the door. Then back at Froats. “The problem with that otherwise perfectly reasonable scenario is there’s no way James Engle shot Marvin Kroll or killed Carl Loomis.”

  Froats wheezed. “If we’re going along with your theory, we could make a case that he had motive, though. He might’ve been afraid that Loomis was gonna talk after all these years.”

  Baronick shifted from standing soldier straight to leaning
back against the wall. “But Loomis had no memory of that night.”

  “Engle could have been afraid Loomis might start remembering shit,” Froats said.

  Baronick smirked. “Except Engle was already dead. And I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  Pete stuck the crutch under his right arm and leaned hard on it as he stared at the white board. There was one name on the board that was only there once—in the column under James Engle’s homicide. Pete had become more and more convinced James’ hanging had indeed been the suicide it first appeared to be, so he hadn’t paid much attention to that list. He hobbled over to it, picked up the marker again and, using it as a pointer, pressed the cap to that one name. “What do we know about the brother? Wilford.”

  Behind Pete, Froats and Baronick fell silent. Pete looked over his shoulder, raising a questioning eyebrow at his “team.”

  Baronick shrugged. “From what I’ve seen of him, he’s too frail to be much of a threat to anyone.”

  “It doesn’t take much strength to pull a trigger,” Pete said.

  Froats rubbed the stubble on his chin. “As I recall, Wilford was always the quiet one. Had all the charm of a diamondback rattler. But he stayed out of trouble. And out of the spotlight.”

  “What kind of relationship did he have with James?”

  “They were tight.”

  “Yet Wilford didn’t know James’ cancer was a ruse.”

  Baronick came away from the wall. “And why the ruse in the first place?”

  Pete nodded to Froats.

  “Why claim to have cancer when he didn’t?” Froats appeared to contemplate the question. “How the hell should I know? But I will tell you this much. Now that I think about it, I always thought Wilford was the smart one and James was his puppet. Wilford stayed in the shadows. James did as he was told.”

  A sickening thought started to form in Pete’s mind. “So James was afraid of his brother?”

  “Maybe more than afraid.” Froats grunted. “Something else that’s odd, now that I’m thinking about it—”