by Nene Adams
Cutshall appeared the epitome of the kindly old grandfather. He had the fluffy silver hair, the indulgent smile, the round-lensed spectacles perched on his nose. He wore tan Sansabelt slacks, a white button-down shirt and a forest green knitted vest in spite of the warm weather. The clothing didn’t quite disguise his body’s fragility.
He was slightly bent over, listening to a red-haired child in a pink princess gown sobbing some incoherent complaint. As Cynthia and Annalee approached, he patted the girl’s shoulder and held a pristine white handkerchief to her snot-streaked face. “Now, Amy, honey, blow your nose and stop crying. Robbie Harris may be yanking your pigtails today, but tomorrow he’ll be stealing kisses,” he said indulgently.
“Ew! That’s gross, Papaw!” Amy cried. She blew her nose and ran away screaming at the top of her lungs, “Robbie’s got cooties! Robbie’s got cooties!”
Cutshall shook his head and dropped the soiled handkerchief on the ground, where it was flicked up by a person in a monkey costume carrying a scoop and a bucket of trash and pony droppings. Spotting Cynthia and Annalee, Cutshall straightened, sucked in a wet-sounding breath and wheezed it out again. “Sheriff, what can I do for you?” He sounded cold and polite, a far cry from the doting granddaddy of a few moments ago.
“Do you have a minute to spare, Mr. Cutshall?” Annalee removed her hat as a gesture of the respect she did not feel. “I’d like to talk to you about Reverend Lassiter.”
He grunted, “About damned time. Come in the house, I can’t hear myself think with all the hoo-hah out here. Jesus Christ, I swear there was less consternation on Omaha Beach.”
Cutshall led the way to his home office, a cool space dominated by a big burl walnut desk. A portable oxygen tank sat nearby. Annalee had heard Cutshall was struggling with a pulmonary disease. Last year, he had also been diagnosed with Type II diabetes.
Money can’t buy happiness or good health, and that ain’t no lie.
French doors behind the desk let in a haze of sunlight as well as the muted roar of Amy’s party in full swing. Cutshall settled down at the desk and took off his glasses, gesturing toward a leather sofa pushed against the wall. “What can I do for you?” he repeated, his voice raspy and punctuated by heavy inhalations of breath. “You may want to bear in mind that I’m not inclined to do you any favors, Sheriff, not since your office denied my very reasonable request to be allowed custody of the reverend’s body.”
“I am sorry about that, sir,” Annalee said, forcing herself to maintain a façade of professional calm. She truly despised Cutshall. The man was a hypocrite, mouthing pieties in public while doing his greedy best behind the scenes to accumulate as much wealth as possible, no matter who he hurt along the way. “An autopsy was necessary, given the cause of death. Furthermore, we’re under no obligation to release the body to you,” she took some satisfaction in telling him. “His next-of-kin is his wife.”
Cutshall’s glance was sharp. He frowned. His lips had a bluish tinge. “I’m a sick old man and I have little time to waste. Cut to the chase.”
“We recently uncovered information that John Lassiter was an alias. The victim’s real name was Shadrach Rafferty, a known con man with quite a criminal record.” If Cutshall wanted blunt, Annalee would give it to him with both barrels.
He leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the desk blotter. His hands were liver spotted, the knuckles swollen with arthritis. “Is this a blackmail attempt?”
“Not at all, sir. That would be against the law, as I’m sure you know.” Trust Cutshall to make a wrong-headed assumption. “I take it you didn’t know Lassiter’s true identity?”
“No, I did not.” Cutshall sat back, grimacing. “Despite anything he may have done in his past, Sheriff, the reverend was a good man. He was strong in the Lord.”
“Ever heard of Dr. Alexander Dempsey?”
Cutshall hesitated a second too long before answering. Annalee knew he was lying when he replied, “Never heard of the fellow.”
Interesting. Why would Cutshall lie about that? “Are you sure?” she asked him. “He used to work at Transgenic in Augusta, one of those bio-tech companies.”
“I think I know my own mind,” Cutshall grumbled testily. “Is there anything else?”
Annalee sat up and fixed him with a glare of her own. “You were on the Parole Board that took care of inmates at the prison farm in Baldwin, is that correct?”
“Sheriff, do we need to dance around here?” Cutshall sounded irritated. “I’d like to rejoin my granddaughter’s birthday party some time today.”
“Just answer the question, sir.”
“You know good and goddamned well that I was on the Parole Board. It’s part of my public record of service.”
“Then I’m surprised you never heard of Alexander Dempsey, since he gained early release from Baldwin on your recommendation. Do you recall him now, sir?”
Cutshall didn’t flinch. He slapped the flat of his hands on the desk top, looking angry. “Am I expected to know every two-bit criminal in Daredevil County?” He broke off and coughed, a thick and croupy sound.
Annalee waited for him to put the oxygen tank’s nasal cannula over his ears and adjust the prongs in his nostrils. Some color returned to his face. She said after his breathing steadied, “I doubt Dempsey would be classified as a two-bit criminal, Mr. Cutshall. He was a geneticist working on human longevity. Killed a couple of homeless men in Huntswell with his experiments. I figure he met Lassiter on the prison farm in Baldwin since they were there at the same time serving their sentences.”
“Am I being accused of something here?”
“No, sir. Not at all.” Annalee got to her feet, motioning for Cynthia to follow her lead. She had aggravated him long enough, but she couldn’t resist a parting shot. “I’m going to be asking the judge to issue a subpoena for the Church of the Honey in the Rock’s membership records. If I find Alexander Dempsey listed as a member…” She left the threat unuttered.
Cutshall glared at her a moment longer. She waited him out, wondering which way the man was going to jump. At last, he said slowly, reluctantly, as if every word were being dragged out of his mouth, “Yes, now that I’ve given the matter some thought, I do believe Dr. Dempsey is a member of our congregation.”
“I see. Thank you, sir.” Annalee was careful to keep any hint of triumph out of her tone. She paused on her way to the door. “Are you his sponsor, Mr. Cutshall? I just find it hard to understand how a man like Dempsey—a man who has been basically unemployed for six years—could afford membership in your church, which I understand has a very exclusive congregation.”
“The House of God is open to all those who seek the truth,” Cutshall said with such mock piousness, it made her itch to slap him.
“Were you aware that Lassiter was related to the Skinners?” Annalee asked, reining in her temper. “That he and Ezra Skinner fought over a girl in the past?”
“The reverend did not share that much of himself with us.”
Annalee noted the slight hesitation. Cutshall was lying again. She asked, “Was this fight the reason he often denounced the Skinners from the pulpit?”
Cutshall replied impatiently, “Our conversation is over, Sheriff.”
“I want to speak to Alexander Dempsey. Do you have his address? Phone number?”
“I do not.”
“Who’s your church secretary?”
“I’m tired of your interrogation tactics, Sheriff Crow. If you want to know anything else, get in touch with my lawyer. In the meantime, I’m telling you to get off my property.”
Annalee squared her shoulders. “Let’s be clear about this, Mr. Cutshall. Dr. Dempsey is wanted for questioning in a murder. I believe you have knowledge of his whereabouts. You may play golf with Judge Gill, but he can’t help when I arrest you for obstruction and interfering in a homicide investigation. I would not like to do that, sir. I would not like to have to put handcuffs on you and take you away from your sweet little gr
anddaughter’s party.”
Cutshall’s mouth worked spasmodically, as if he chewed on blasphemies. Finally he choked out, “I’ll have your badge.”
“I’m a legally elected county official, sir. You’re welcome to try.” Annalee was a good poker player. She knew when to up the ante. She turned to Cynthia. “Head on out to the car and get on the radio, see if you can raise somebody from the Daredevil Trumpet or the Huntswell Star. The arrest of Mr. Abner Cutshall is bound to be news.”
Cynthia wasn’t a bad poker player herself. She clearly understood the value of a bluff. “Yes, ma’am,” she said crisply. “You want me to contact the TV news people too?”
“The more the merrier, deputy.”
Cutshall let Cynthia almost reach the door before he said, “I won’t forget this, Sheriff.” His eyes were cold and gray and filled with frustrated fury.
“I don’t expect you to,” Annalee replied.
There was something terrifyingly liberating about burning one’s bridges. Hell, she wasn’t just burning this particular bridge—she had soaked the struts in gasoline and nitroglycerin, strapped C4 and dynamite to the supports and dropped Fat Man and Little Boy on it for good measure.
Cutshall hadn’t supported her election campaign, but he hadn’t opposed it, either. He had remained planted firmly on the fence. Now she had made Cutshall her enemy and needed to watch her step. The first mistake she made, the first I left undotted or T left uncrossed, and he would lead the pack demanding her firing, if not an outright tar-and-feathering.
“Try the Sheridan Apartments on James Street,” Cutshall said. “And Sheriff Crow? I will be keeping my eye on you.”
“I expect no less from a tax-paying citizen,” Annalee said blandly. She collected Cynthia and chivvied her to the patrol car, moving at a not-quite trot. “Put the lights and siren on and get the lead out, Deputy,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat. “I’ll bet Cutshall is on the phone right now, warning Dempsey to get the hell out of Dodge.”
She had barely enough time to buckle her seatbelt before Cynthia revved the engine and sent the patrol car careening out of Cutshall’s driveway, the tires spewing gravel. A few moments later they were on the highway headed towards town.
“Outta my way, damn it,” Cynthia muttered, stomping on the accelerator and jerking the steering wheel at the same time so the patrol car just missed clipping the bumper of a station wagon. “Fool’s all ate up with dumb ass.”
Annalee held on for dear life. The patrol car swerved from lane to lane, passing slower vehicles. Scenes from the Dukes of Hazzard flashed through her mind, intercut with images from the classic Driver’s Ed scare flick, Blood on the Highway. Cynthia’s driving also brought back memories of hot pursuits, few of them pleasant.
With her free hand, Annalee snatched up the radio mic and called dispatch for back-up, asking for Noah’s unit to be sent to the location.
James Street was on the other side of Huntswell. Even with Cynthia doing her best NASCAR-race impersonation, it took a good half hour to arrive at the Sheridan Apartments. The last quarter-mile, Annalee flicked off the siren and lights, not wanting to spook Dempsey if by some miracle he was still at home.
Noah’s patrol car was parked in front of the manager’s office. Annalee went inside, wrinkling her nose at the strong smells of peppermint schnapps, stale cigarette smoke and the unmistakable sweet-sour stink of marijuana. No visible evidence of drug use, however, and the manager, Mrs. Davies—an irascible old lady who kept her portable television’s sound at full volume—was known to suffer from glaucoma. Not without compassion, she said nothing about the lingering, distinctive fragrance. As long as she didn’t actually catch Mrs. Davies smoking pot, she would ignore the evidence.
Noah waited for her and Cynthia to approach. “Dempsey’s in 408,” he said.
“Do we know if he’s to home?” Annalee asked, cursing when he shrugged.
Mrs. Davies sat at her desk with her slippered feet on a footstool. Her gaze was fixed on the television set’s flickering screen. She popped a bonbon into her mouth and mumbled around it, “He left about thirty minutes ago, you know.”
Annalee could barely hear the woman over the soap opera histrionics blasting from the portable set’s speakers. “Did you see Dempsey leave?” she asked, raising her voice.
“Mr. Dempsey’s car’s always parked right out there in front of the office so’s I can watch it through my window during the day,” Mrs. Davies explained, speaking around another bonbon. The bulk of her attention never wavered from the television set. “Drives one of them fancy BMW cars, though I’ve often said he ought to buy American. Boy’s always worried about thieves, bless his heart, and about dings and dents. Men and their love affairs with automobiles. I swear, if a man could procreate with a car, he would.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“I’m not his mother, Sheriff,” Mrs. Davies admonished. “I’m just the landlady. You want to know where he gets off to, I reckon you’d better ask him yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your help. If you see or hear from Dempsey, please don’t tell him anything, just call my office.”
Mrs. Davies flapped a hand in answer.
Annalee thanked the woman again and left the office. Outside in the parking lot, she said, “All right. Noah, you hook up with that assistant DA. What’s her name?”
“Terrill,” Noah said.
“Sherry Terrill, right, and get a search warrant for Dempsey’s place.”
“What are we looking for?”
“How ’bout the shotgun that killed Lassiter? There ought to be probable cause for a warrant, considering the link between the victim and Dempsey and Dempsey’s on the run.”
“Allegedly on the run,” Noah corrected. “It’s all circumstantial.”
Annalee rolled her eyes. “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. Let Terrill argue justification in front of a judge. Far as my office is concerned, Dempsey’s a homicide suspect wanted for questioning in connection with the death of John Lassiter.” To Cynthia, she said, “Go upstairs. Keep an eye on his door. I’ll call for CSU to come out.”
Assistant DA Terrill managed to procure the warrant in record time, having it couriered to them by a state police trooper. As soon as the paper was in her hand, Annalee led Noah upstairs to the fourth floor. Mrs. Davies had given them the master passkey, so there was no need to beat down the apartment door.
Annalee left the CSU team in the corridor while she and Noah cleared the scene.
The two-bedroom apartment was obsessively clean and tidy. Even a stack of magazines on the coffee table was neatly arranged with the corners aligned. She called out, “Police! We have a warrant!”
There was no answer.
She and Noah checked all the rooms. The décor was neutral throughout, off-white and tan. No personal touches visible—no photographs, no kitschy vacation souvenirs, no art, not even a stereo, but she found a sleek computer system that looked as if it had cost a few bucks.
Noah eyed the computer with clear envy. “Wish I could afford one of those.”
“Well, the county’s seizure of property law won’t cover it, I’m afraid. Maybe we could get the hard drive examined by our techs, see if it turns up any leads on Dempsey’s whereabouts from his files.” Annalee holstered her weapon. “Let’s get CSU in here to do their job.” She moved out of the apartment, letting the team take over the search for evidence.
No shotgun was found, but the investigators turned up an expensive, leather-bound Bible stamped with Church of the Honey in the Rock in gilt on the inside cover, which provided further confirmation that Dempsey was a member of the elite congregation. Since he wasn’t a millionaire, influential businessman or local political power broker, Annalee assumed he must have something of value to offer. His skills as a geneticist, perhaps? How the hell did that fit with the known facts? She shook her head. Speculation only went so far.
“The refrigerator’s not got much in it,” Noah reporte
d. “Couple of cans of Mountain Dew, piece of cheese, ketchup, coffee beans, leftover pizza from Pasquali’s. Kitchen trash has been emptied. There was a cheap lockbox in the bedroom closet.”
“Anything in it?” Annalee asked, knowing somebody would have picked the lock or pried the box’s lid open.
He shrugged. “Empty as a church on Monday, except for a .38 Beretta.”
Annalee nodded and considered her options. “Okay, send the Beretta to Ballistics, see if anything comes up in IBIS. Maybe we can scare up a lead. Say, is there a common area where the building residents dump their trash? Dumpster around the side? If so, somebody’s gonna have to find the bag that came from this apartment. Could be something in it that’ll help us find Dempsey or understand what the hell is going on around here.”
Noah snagged an investigator and passed on the message.
CSU departed the scene with the computer’s hard drive, an external drive, a collection of CDs and a handful of USB sticks and flash drives hidden in hollowed-out books. All the evidence was scheduled to be sent to the computer forensics lab in Huntswell. They also took with them a large collection of trash bags from the ground floor dumpster.
Annalee told Noah to put out a BOLO on Alexander Dempsey. She went on, “I want you and Jeeter to contact as many members of the church’s congregation as you can get hold of. See if they know where Dempsey might be hiding, the names of his associates, suppliers, sponsors, family or friends. You have my blessing to threaten the good people of the Honey in the Rock with an obstruction charge if they won’t talk. I’ll bet Assistant DA Terrill has arrest warrants just burning a hole in her pocket.”
“Anything else?”
“Flag Dempsey’s credit cards. Send an alert to the airport in Huntswell but also to all the private airfields, the train and bus stations.”
