Sandy looked at me and puffed out her cheeks. Her hands were shaking. “You okay?” I said.
“Yeah. Sorry. Fire sort of freaks me out.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said. “But I guess you knew that already.”
Sandy smiled at me. “Well, all in all, I think that went just fine, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Textbook,” I said.
My phone rang and when I looked at the screen I saw it was Cora’s home number, and I thought, Jesus, what now?
“I know we talked about it a little,” Cora said. “But if I’m being honest with you, my head’s a little foggy this morning.”
“How was your evening, Cora?”
“It was, um, productive. That about sums it up, I think.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I know. Listen, did you see everything you needed to over at that dilapidated church in Broad Ripple?”
I took the phone away from my ear for a minute, picked up one of the chairs that had been knocked over and set it upright then sat down upon it before I spoke. “Yeah, pretty sure. Why?”
“Oh, no reason. I guess last night while you were sleeping and Elliott and I were…uh, well, while you were sleeping, it blew up and burned to the ground. I just got off the phone with the watch commander. Looks like there was some kind of explosion. He said it blew the steeple right off the top. It’s laying in the alley behind the church. He said it looks like the pictures of the cockpit of that Pan Am jet they blew out of the sky over Lockerbie. Remember that?”
“I’ll get over there as soon as I can.”
“Slow down, Slick. There’s more. The firemen found a body inside the church. Unidentified female, but the car in the lot belongs to Amy Frechette, so you can do the math. Crime scene is on the way to the Frechette residence as we speak. Didn’t you tell me that’s where Murton Wheeler lives?”
When we pulled up to Murton and Amy’s house, two crime scene tech’s were waiting for us. Sandy hopped out of my truck, and when she did both of the techs said something to her, first one, then the other. I didn’t hear what it was.
Sandy looked at them and shook her head. “Oh my God, how about we all just pull our dicks out and see whose is bigger?” She looked at each man individually for just a split second, then said, “I’d probably win. We may or may not need you boys. We’ll let you know. Why don’t you wait in your van? Go on now,” she said, as she gave them a little wave of her hand. Once they were gone, she looked at me and said, “you want the front or the back?”
“Front I guess.”
I had to pop one of the small glass panes in the front door to gain entry. Once we were inside I saw that Amy Frechette’s house was old, but in good shape. The walls were stucco instead of sheet-rocked, the ceiling was made of a biscuit colored stamped tin, and the walk-ways between rooms were all arched. The wall opposite the front door was covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, and each shelf was filled with row after row of both religious and psychology studies. For reasons I can not readily explain, I expected to find a good selection of fiction novels, the utilitarian surroundings suggestive of an individual who lived through someone else’s imagination, but clearly that was not the case. Instead, what I found was book after book whose titles were reflective of someone who sought greater understanding of the people she served. Amy Frechette’s home did not appear to be a place of sanctuary from her work, rather a place of continued study of the work to which she devoted her life.
A hinged, two photo frame sat at eye level on one of the shelves. One side of the frame held a sepia-toned picture of a young couple’s profile as they looked at each other, the opposite side held a color photo, yellowed with age, of a young man dressed in jungle fatigues standing next to an airplane somewhere in the tropics. Her father perhaps. But it was a single photo next to the others which caught my eye and reminded me of Cora’s comments about not being able to serve the State and my own personal agenda at the same time. The photo was one of Murton and me, taken just after we’d arrived home from basic training, before we were shipped out to fight in the gulf war. In the photo we stood side by side, our arms around each other, both of us smiling at the camera. Just off to the side, part of her face cut out of the frame of the photo, was my mother. She was looking at us and the flash of the camera caught the tears running down her cheek.
I left the photo untouched and continued to search the room. A February 2006 issue of Psychology Today lay face up on the sofa, open to an article entitled, ‘A Field Guide to Narcissism.’ I wasted a few minutes as I scanned the article, but I ultimately decided I was not narcissistic, and tossed it back on the couch.
The kitchen was extremely small, a nook really, with only one florescent light bulb that hummed above the kitchen sink. The flickering light against the dark paneled walls reminded me of the times I had spent as a child with my grandfather when I’d wake in the early morning to the smell of percolated coffee and toasted wheat bread before we would go out to fish on his neighbor’s pond.
We spent close to three hours searching Amy Frechette’s residence, but the truth was, I did not know what we were looking for. I did not expect to find a ledger in Murton’s handwriting that detailed a master plan to kill Franklin Dugan. In fact, the best I could hope for would be to find nothing at all. I searched every drawer, every closet, the attic, the crawl space and every inch in between. In the end, we had made a hell of a mess but turned up no evidence whatsoever.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and when I looked at the screen the number that showed was not one I had seen before. “Jones.”
“You’re not going to find anything,” Murton said. “There’s nothing there. There never was. I’m not the man you think I am, Jonesy.”
“Murt, what the hell is going on? That was you in the cab, wasn’t it? If you’re not part of this, come in and we’ll-“
He laughed without humor into the phone. “We’ll what, figure everything out? Get me a lawyer? I don’t think so, Bud. We were going to be married, did you know that? Did she tell you that?
“Murt…”
“I left to protect her, Jonesy. I told them she didn’t know anything, that she was just a minister working with pre-school children. She was pregnant. We found out about a week ago. She died thinking I left her because she was pregnant. Jesus, what have I done?”
I picked up the phone from the kitchen while he spoke and dialed 911. “Murt, I’m sorry. Let me help you.” I could hear the 911 operator in the background asking if someone needed assistance.
“You know, I always sort of had it in my head that you and I might hook back up one day, but I guess that ship has sailed, but that’s not on you. Hey, what’s that we used to say? Pop ‘em and drop ‘em? That’s exactly what I’m gonna do. Tell your old man he’s the best, will you? And don’t bother trying to get a trace on this phone. It’s one of those pre-paid specials. It’s about to be road kill on the interstate. What a country, huh?”
Sandy came around the corner and saw me holding two phones. “What’s going on?” she said.
“I wish I knew.”
CHAPTER NINTEEN
Monday morning when I arrived at my office I discovered Amanda Pate sitting in one of the two chairs that front my desk. “Your assistant said I could wait in here,” she said.
I walked past her and sat down at my desk. ‘What do you want, Amanda?” I said.
“What do I want?” Then, as if she were either trying to digest my question, or make something clear to me, she repeated the question. “What do I want? For God’s sake, Jonesy, I want my husband released from that rat hole you’ve put him in. He’s been in there all weekend. What were you thinking?”
I looked at my watch. “Arraignment is in two hours. He can bond out afterwards.”
“Bond out? Have you lost your mind? I want the charges against him dropped and I want him released this instant.”
“That’s not going to happened, Amanda. It’s time to get a grip
on reality, here. Samuel is being held for assault on a police officer.”
“Oh, bullshit, Jonesy. That is pure bullshit, and you know it. You’re holding him because you think he’s somehow mixed up in Franklin’s death, and that just isn’t true. God, you piss me off.”
“If it’s not true, then convince him to talk to me so I can clear him and move on, otherwise, he’s our number one suspect.”
“Our attorney has advised us-”
I cut her off with a wave of my hand. “Yes, yes, your attorney has advised you not to speak with the police or answer any of our questions.” I shook my head at her. “That’s what attorneys do, Amanda. But the hard reality of the situation is this: The truth eventually comes out, and when it does, it’s one of two ways. Either a suspect talks to us and we clear their story, or we move forward with charges and the whole thing goes to trial. Which would you prefer?”
She rose from the chair and stood in front of my desk, her face and neck red with anger. “You’re wrong,” she said. “Those aren’t the only two choices.”
“I’m afraid that’s the way I see it, Amanda. If you or Samuel change your mind and want to get on the record, let me know. Otherwise, my office will be moving forward on the case with the evidence we’ve accumulated from both your home and your offices.”
“What evidence? There is no evidence.”
“We’re building our case, Amanda. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. If I were you, I’d advise Samuel that it’s time to get in front of this thing before it’s too late. Capital murder in the State of Indiana carries the death penalty. With a full confession, the D.A. might be willing to accept a plea deal of life without the possibility of parole, but I may be speaking out of turn here. I can check with him if you’d like.”
She pointed her finger at me and I watched as it trembled, the fear and rage evident when she spoke. “Fuck you, Jonesy. Fuck you times two, you son of a bitch.”
“Good bye, Amanda. Next time you want to speak with me, make an appointment.”
When she walked out of my office I was left with the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t the exchange we just had, as I have had countless ones with other suspect’s spouses just like it over the years. This was different. Visceral in a way I was unable to define. It was as if my office was not the same after Amanda had been in it. The feeling was so strong I moved around the room and viewed it from different angles in an attempt to put myself at ease. In the end, I shook the feeling away and walked back over to my desk. When I looked out my window at the street below I saw Amanda as she stood on the sidewalk waiting for the light to change so she could cross and make her way to the courthouse.
A well-dressed elderly man stood next to her, his small dog on a leash at his side. A city bus pulled up next to the curb just past where they stood as they waited on the light to change. When the bus started to pull away its airbrakes let out a blast of air and the dog jumped at the sound and managed to pull free from the man’s grasp where it darted out into the flow of traffic and was crushed under the wheels of a passing car that was unable to stop in time. The elderly man ran out into the traffic, his arms flailing at his sides like a bird that lumbers along in an effort to take flight. He scooped up the remains of his dog and I could see the animal’s head hung at an odd angle when he raised it from the street. It looked like a sack of furry triangles. He brought the animal up close to his face and buried his head in its fur, but the tragedy of the moment was lost on me when I looked at Amanda who still stood on the curb. She was bent forward at the waist, her hands over her face. She stood there like that for a minute or so, then turned and looked up at me in the window and shook her head as if she were unable to comprehend the twist of fate she just gave witness to, or perhaps it was an effort to communicate to me that I was somehow at fault for every tragedy that crossed her path. She stared at me until I moved away from the window and sat down in my chair.
Sometimes you learn to trust your gut after it’s too late. A few minutes later when I got up, Amanda was gone, but the man still stood at the curb, his arms wrapped firmly around his dead dog, his shoulders rounded, his back to the world around him as a means to protect his pet even though fate had ensured it no longer mattered. Looking back though, I discovered that fate belongs to us all, and the event I witnessed out my window that day and the feelings I had were ones I should have given more thought. Had I done so, things may have turned out much different than they eventually did.
An hour or so later I was still at my desk when Agent Gibson knocked on the door jamb and walked into my office. He sat down in front of my desk, bit into the bottom corner of his lip then raised his eyebrows at me.
“So maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he said.
“Heard you tried to brace the Governor,” I said. “How’d that work out for you?”
“Hey, I’m trying here. You want my help, or not?”
Good question, I thought. “What exactly do you want, Agent Gibson?”
“Bottom line? I want you to drop the charges against Pate. His arraignment is less than an hour from now.”
“You asked me if I wanted your help,” I said. “How exactly does my dropping charges against Pate help me?”
“Look, Detective. You’ve managed to drop a turd in the punch bowl and now I’m the one who has to clean it up. We’ve been monitoring Pate’s activities for months trying to put our case together. You’re getting in the way. And this penny ante charge of assault you’ve got hanging over him is going to hurt our chances. And while you’re doing that, I have to wonder, Detective, is it helping your case at all? Is it putting you any closer to solving the murders you’re working on?”
“Nice speech,” I said. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
“How sure are you of Pate’s involvement in Dugan’s death?” he said.
“He’s our primary suspect.”
“Based on what?” When I didn’t answer, he went on. “Okay, here it is. I work out of the Houston office, but I guess you know that. It’s the Texas Department of Insurance that’s under investigation by our office for fraud. Not Pate. Pate torched his church in Houston and when the company who underwrote his policy started making waves about writing the check, the Texas DOI got involved and Pate walked away with a wad of cash before the building had stopped smoldering.”
“So what?” I said. “File charges on the Commissioner of the Texas DOI.”
“Oh, we did. But his lawyer cut a hell of a deal and now the commissioner is part of witness protection.”
“Witness protection? What for?”
Gibson half laughed at my questions. “You Midwestern guys are something, you know that?
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“Let me put it this way,” he said. “You think the Catholic priests are the only ones tweaking the twangers on little boys?”
“How about you take the corn dog out of your mouth and tell me the whole story?” I said.
“Hey, great choice of words. When we took the commissioner down for fraud we discovered his personal computer was full of pictures of little kids with no clothes on. He cut a deal and put us onto Pate, who the commissioner says was supplying the photos. Our analysts compared the background of the photos to ones we could find of Pate’s church before he torched it. We think they match up. In any event, the Commissioner says Pate blackmailed him and had him lean on the insurance company to write the check or he’d start to squeal about the photos.”
“You’re saying Samuel Pate is a pedophile?”
“You tell me,” Gibson said. “I read your report on that dilapidated church he bought for five million bucks. What was he going to do with it? Knock it down and build a learning center for pre-school kids or something like that? But let me guess, when you searched the Pate complex and his home you didn’t find one scrap of evidence that ties him to your case or mine. And in the meantime, that old broken down building, the one that wasn’t
included in your search warrant burns to a crisp along with any evidence that may or may not have been material to your case, let alone mine.” He stood from his chair and turned to leave. Then, as if I were slow and unable to make the connections he’d just laid out for me he added, “Someone is leading you around by your nose, Detective. Take the corn dog out of my mouth. I love it.”
I walked over to Cora’s office to fill her in on my conversation with Amanda Pate and the meeting I just had with Agent Gibson. She sat quietly and listened, but when I got to the part of Pate’s alleged involvement as a pedophile, her expression was one you might associate with someone staring out the window of an airliner at thirty thousand feet as they watch the rivets pop one at a time from the wing of a plane.
“What is it?” I asked.
“So we’ve got a suspected murderer and pedophile in custody and Gibson wants us to let him skate?”
“He’s going to get out anyway,” I said. “Besides, I think Gibson may be right. Someone is pulling our strings behind the curtain. I just don’t know who it is, or why. But I don’t think it has anything to do with Pate.”
Cora looked at me for a moment, then said something that made me think we were having two different conversations. “Is there something you’d like to tell me regarding the nature of your relationship with Detective Small?”
When I did not answer her right away, she said, “I see. What about Wheeler? What did Gibson tell you about him? You did ask, didn’t you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Your personal life is interfering with your job, Jonesy. Clean it up.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying, Cora.”
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