Voodoo Daddy vj-1

by Thomas L. Scott

  “What? What do you mean guilty of something again?” she said, the anger in her voice evident.

  “If you’ve lived with him for over a year, then I assume you know of his record. He spent some time at Westville for assault. He beat a man, almost to death.”

  She pointed her finger at me. “Murton carries images around in his head from the war that leave him little room for peace. The man he beat was a drug dealer who tried to steal from him. I make no excuses for his past behavior, Detective, but I don’t delude myself into thinking it was something it was not. He’s paid his debt to society. Why not leave him be?”

  I decided to try a different direction. “Tell me about Samuel Pate.”

  “What about him?”

  “You sold him your church. Why?”

  She pinched her lips together and shook her head the way a grade school teacher might if she were addressing the slow student at the back of the classroom. “First of all, Detective, you don’t sell a church. No one does. You might sell a building that once housed a church, but the church is never for sale. As far as the sale you’re speaking of, it was more of a merger.”

  “A merger?”

  “That’s right. The Pate Ministry wants to branch out. They’ve brought me on board as one of their staff ministers. The building we’re sitting in is scheduled for demolition in a few months. In time, it will be replaced with a modern ministry center designed for and around the children of our community.”

  “So you’re going to be an employee of Pate’s?”

  “I already am,” she said.

  “What about the money?”

  “What money?” she said. What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Franklin Dugan and Sunrise Bank handled the financing for your so called merger. Again, I’ve seen the paperwork. It was a multi-million dollar deal. Shortly after the paperwork was completed, Franklin Dugan was murdered at his home. He was shot to death, Ms. Frechette, and your boyfriend, Murton, has shown up out of nowhere and inserted himself into my investigation. He has a record for almost beating someone to death. By your own admission he’s a tormented war veteran. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  I watched her swallow then clench her hands together. It took her a few moments to speak, but when she did, I wasn’t all that surprised by what she said.

  “He’s been working security for the Pates,” she said. “This deal has been in the works for over a year now. That’s how we met.”

  When I got back out to the Safeway, I saw the manager of the store arguing with Donatti. He wanted to know when he was going to be allowed to open the store back up. Donatti walked away from him while he was still yelling and came over to me. “What’s going on?” I said.

  “Man wants to open his store. We should probably let him. Body’s gone, Crime Scene is done, witnesses are gone.”

  “So why don’t you let him open?”

  Donatti popped a stick of gum into his mouth and tossed the wrapper on the ground. “Because he’s been a dick, or at the very least, sort of dickish, all fucking day.”

  I picked up the wrapper and rolled it between my fingers. “Besides,” Donatti continued, “that would be what us underlings refer to as an executive decision.”

  Sandy walked up. “He’s right, we’re not authorized to make those kind of decisions.”

  I looked at Donatti. “Let him open.”

  “You got it, boss.

  I looked at Sandy. “Where’s Rosie?”

  “He left a little while ago. He said something about some follow up questions for someone at the bank. Margery somebody or other.”

  I shook my head.

  Sandy looked at me, her head tilted. “What?”

  “Aw, nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

  “That seems to be a habit of yours.”

  “Hey now…”

  “Hey now your own self.”

  “Listen, I’d like for you to go back to the shop, take everyone’s notes and get them into the computer. The victims, their families, their co-workers, friends, neighbors, witness statements, all of it. This is all connected somehow. You’re the one with the psychology degree. See if you can psychologize some sense out of it all.”

  “I don’t think that’s a real word. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  I gave her my best fake smile. “I know. I was trying to be charming.”

  “Keep trying. See you tonight?”

  I leaned in close, smelled her hair and whispered in her ear. “Count on it. I’ll let you psychologize me.”

  “Like we’ve got enough time for that.”

  “Hey…”

  I had a thought and punched Rosencrantz’s number into my phone. “Still at the bank?” I said when he answered.

  “Aw fuck, who ratted me out?”

  “No one. I’m psychic. Are you still there or not?”

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  I took the key that Murton left on the bar out of my pocket. “Let me talk to Margery for a minute, will you?”

  “She’s in the can, freshening up. We’re uh, gonna have a late lunch. Wait a minute, here she comes.”

  “Have her pull up the records for their safe deposit boxes. See if one of them belongs to Murton Wheeler.” I listened to Rosie repeat my instructions and then I heard the clacking of a computer keyboard. A few seconds later I had the answer.

  “No Murton Wheeler listed.”

  “How about anyone with the last name of Wheeler?”

  I listened again to the sounds of the keyboard before he told me there were no Wheelers listed at all. After thinking for a moment, I asked him to have her try Samuel Pate.

  “Sorry Jonesy. No Pate listed either.”

  I was about to hang up again when I thought of one more thing. “Ask her if she can identify a safe deposit box by the code stamped on the key.”

  A few seconds later he said, “She says the keys are code stamped to match the boxes. If you have a key she can match it to the box, then check the box against the owner to get a name.”

  I gave him the code and waited while he repeated it to Dugan’s assistant. When Rosencrantz came back on the line his voice sounded flat, like he was talking to me on the other side of a glass wall. “What the hell is going on, Jonesy?”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “That key code you gave me belongs to a box currently shown as being rented to you. You know those signature cards they make you sign so they know it’s your box? I’m looking at yours as we speak. It’s your signature, man.”

  When I arrived at Sunrise Bank, Rosencrantz was waiting for me at the entrance to the executive offices. He stood leaning against a marble tiled wall, a half eaten apple in his hand. When he saw me, he pulled the signature card out of his breast pocket and handed it to me without saying anything. I studied the card for a moment then looked back at him. “What do you think?” I said.

  He took another bite of the apple and thoroughly chewed, then swallowed before he answered me. “I think we should go see what’s in the box, Sherlock,” he said.

  I let the focus drain out of my eyes before responding. “As long as we’re on the same page, then.” I took the apple from his hand and took a bite before I gave it back. “After you,” I said.

  We found Margery, who introduced us to an account manager named Beth, a heavy breasted, dark haired woman who reminded me of my first grade teacher. She took us downstairs to the safe deposit box area and I had to sign the signature card to demonstrate that the box was mine, even though it was not. When she compared the signatures she looked at me, looked at the card again, then back at me. “You say you never rented this box?” she said.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Well, that is weird, isn’t it? I mean, your signature matches perfectly. I’m probably breaking some rule by allowing you access to this box, but you guys are the good guys, right? And with what’s happened to Franklin, I don’t think anyone would object, do you?”

  R
osencrantz dipped his chin and looked at me. I frowned at him, then gently took the bank’s master key from Beth’s hand and inserted it into the top lock on the box, turned it counter-clockwise and heard it’s tumblers ratchet into place. I then took the key Murton had left for me at the bar and placed it in the lower lock, but before I turned it, Rosencrantz’s hand clamped around my wrist like a pair of vise grips. “Tell me again where you got the key,” he said, the look on his face one of intention.

  “From Murton Wheeler. He’s the one I asked you guys to run the sheet on.”

  “Yeah, I just put that together,” he said. “This is the guy that almost got your bacon fried outside Kuwait, right?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “He also saved my life. I took some shrapnel. He pumped me full of morphine and blood expander until the medics arrived. I would have bled to death. You can let go of my wrist now.”

  “I will, but don’t turn that key.”

  “Why not?” I said.

  “What was Wheeler’s specialty in your unit?”

  It was one of those questions that make you doubt yourself and wonder if perhaps you might have chosen the wrong line of work, the way a surgeon must feel the first time he commands an operating theater and holds a scalpel in his hand, knowing he must slice into human flesh and explore the physical depths of the human body. “He was a demolitions expert,” I said. “It was his job to blow the Iraqi ammo dumps.” I felt myself swallow, then I let go of the key as carefully as I could.

  The three of us stood there and stared at the box in the wall. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beth put a hand to her throat then whisper ‘oh my God.’ I turned and looked at Rosencrantz and said, “Let’s clear this building and get the bomb squad down here.”

  But as I soon discovered, you do not clear an operating bank during business hours as quickly as you would like, no matter the reason. The bank’s in-house security had to be notified, the main vault locked down, the teller drawers locked, the computer’s had to be shut down, and all of that took most every employee in the building working together almost thirty minutes. I wondered what they would do if a fire broke out. When I asked the security chief that very question he looked at me with an expression that seemed to indicate I might not be operating at full speed. “We’d get the hell out,” he said. I stared at him until he shook his head and walked away.

  When the bomb squad technicians arrived, Rosencrantz and I showed them the safe deposit box, then we walked across the street and waited inside a coffee shop. I bought two large cups of coffee from a purple haired teen age boy who had enough piercings on his face to set off an airport metal detector. A college text book lay on the counter next to the cash register entitled ‘Ethical Issues of Molecular Nanotechnology.’ He saw me looking at the book and said, “Yeah, it’s pretty heavy stuff, man. Did you know that it won’t be long before they’ll have computers so small you’ll need a microscope to see them? They’ll put them inside little capsules you can swallow that’ll cure cancer and all kinds of shit. Isn’t that something? Say, you want cream or sugar for your joe?”

  I wasn’t sure which question to answer, so I handed him a ten dollar bill and told him to keep the change. When I handed Rosencrantz his coffee, he said “I almost forgot. Your boy Wheeler? He came up blank.”

  “You must have missed something then,” I said. “He’d be on record with the V.A. Plus, he was busted for assault. He did time in Westville.”

  Rosie shook his head. “I think you misunderstood what I said. Everybody’s got something, right? A traffic ticket, a divorce settlement, a beef with the IRS, whatever. I wasn’t saying he comes up with no record. I’m saying he doesn’t come up at all. We checked Federal, State, local, the service, everything. There’s nothing there, Jonesy. He doesn’t exist, at least on paper anyway. You know how hard that is these days?”

  “Yeah. It’s impossible,” I said.

  Or was it? Two hours later, after the box had been sniffed by two dogs, a hand held chemical detection device, then finally x-rayed, the bomb squad technician walked out the front door of the bank and looked around until he saw me and Rosencrantz through the glass front of the coffee shop. He waved us over, but just as we crossed the street and were about to enter the building a black Crown Victoria slid to a stop behind us, it’s front tire bouncing off the curb. A young man who looked like he had just graduated from college got out of the car and approached the front entrance of the bank. He wore a dark blue suit under a light-weight tan trench coat and his hair looked as if had been cut just this morning. He walked over to where we were standing and identified himself as Agent Gibson with the FBI.

  “Is one of you Detective Donatti?” he asked.

  The relationship between Federal, State, and Local law enforcement is often portrayed on television or in fiction novels as strained, competitive, or tenuous at best. But in real life, particularly after the terrorist attacks of 9/11, there is an interdepartmental agency wide level of cooperation which works better than most people might imagine. But not always.

  Rosencrantz looked at Agent Gibson, then said, “I think what you meant to say was ‘ Are one of you Detective Donatti?’ You see, grammatically speaking, when asking-”

  I cut him off before he went any further. “I’m Detective Jones with the Indiana State Police. Donatti works for me. How may I help you?”

  Agent Gibson peeled his eyes off of Rosencrantz and looked at me. “A request was put in for information earlier today regarding Murton Wheeler. It had Donatti’s name attached. Wheeler is part of an on-going federal investigation. We’d like to know why.”

  “You’re federal agents and you’re asking us why Wheeler is part of an on-going federal investigation?” Rosencrantz said.

  “No,” Agent Gibson said, a look of exasperation on his face. “We’d like to know why you’re looking for information on Wheeler.”

  “That’s not what you said. You said-“

  “Rosie, why don’t you wait by the box with the bomb tech?” I said. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Sure thing, Jonesy,” he said. But before he walked away he turned and winked at Gibson then gave him a big smile and two thumbs up. “Keep up the great work, dude. I sleep better at night knowing you’re out there doing your job. I really do.”

  After Rosencrantz walked away I looked at Agent Gibson and tried a little diplomacy. “I’ll be honest with you, Murton Wheeler was a boyhood friend of mine. We grew up together and even served in the first Gulf war with each other. It has been a number of years since we’ve seen each other until just last night. He walked into a bar I own, gave me a key to a safe deposit box inside this bank then disappeared out the back. In addition, two men I’d never seen before until that very same day were following him. I don’t know what else I can tell you. Why are you looking at him?”

  “I didn’t say we were looking for him. I said he’s part of an ongoing investigation.”

  “What exactly do you want with him then?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

  So much for diplomacy. “Look, Agent Gibson, I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. The CEO of this financial institution was murdered yesterday, and we’ve had several other shootings which I now believe are somehow connected. Murton Wheeler ties in to it somehow. Anything you can give me would be a big help.”

  “Murder is not a federal offense, Detective, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Have a nice day, then,” I said, and turned to walk away.

  “We’re not done here, Detective,” Agent Gibson said.

  “Yes we are,” I said without turning around. But after a few steps I stopped and this time I did turn around. “I don’t know what’s going on with Wheeler. We were friends for a long time before he dropped out of my life. But I’ll tell you this, Federal Agent or not, you better watch your back. Murton is not someone you want for an enemy. I can probably help you, if you’ll let me.” But it’s hard to get over on a Fe
deral Agent and he had already lost interest in anything else I had to say, his back toward me as he climbed into his car. I don’t know if he heard me or not.

  When I got back inside, Rosencrantz and the bomb tech were looking at the x-ray picture of the inside of the safe deposit box. “It’s either a folded piece of paper, or an envelope or two. Won’t be able to tell until we turn the key.” When neither Rosencrantz or myself said anything, the tech shrugged his shoulders, turned the key and opened the door. Inside the box were two letter sized envelopes, one with my name hand written on the front. The tech picked up the envelope, ran the scanner over it, rolled his eyes before handing it to me, then said, “You got a case number for my report?”

  “I’ll send one over when I get back to the office,” I said.

  “Good enough then. Tell that Jamaican who cooks for you I like my sauce extra hot, will you? Man, that’s some good shit. I’ll be in tonight for supper.”

  After the bomb tech walked out I asked Rosencrantz why he was so hard on the FBI agent. “Aw, those guys just flat piss me off sometimes. They strut around like their shit doesn’t stink and every time you ask them for something they tell you they’re not at liberty to say, but what they’re really saying is we’re just small time, you know? Those kind of guys wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I applied twice to be an agent. They turned me down both times. You think it might be my attitude?”

  “I don’t see how that could be,” I said.

  I saw the corner of his mouth turn upwards, then he said, “You going to open that?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I said.

  Murton Wheeler and I had grown up together playing in backyards and ball fields in a time and place when parents still let children walk to school by themselves and most people didn’t bother to lock their doors at night. It was a time when you looked back at the past and used it as a guide to a better and brighter future because of the people in your life and the good and decent things they accomplished, not just for themselves, but for one another. But we are, I sometimes think, of a generation whose goals and accomplishments seem to take precedent over our moral obligations to those in need or sometimes even the ones we love.