Witch House

by Dana Donovan

  That made Ursula smile. “Come what come may, you say?”

  Lilith reached across my chest and brushed Ursula on the arm. “Come any way you can,” she said, and the two broke out in an uncontrollable fit.

  I got up from the table, grabbed my coat and headed out the door. I could still hear them laughing through the screened window, as I hopped into the car, started the motor and drove away. As far as I know, they were still laughing when I got to the Justice Center, parked the car and walked upstairs. I had just stepped onto the Detective’s floor when I heard Spinelli calling from across the room.

  “Tony! Tony, we got it!” I spotted him by the elevators, waving what I supposed was a warrant for the exhumation of John Davis’ grave.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I asked, after meeting him half way.

  “It is, and we already have a backhoe setting up at the cemetery. They’re just waiting to see the paperwork for themselves.”

  “Great. Where’s Carlos?”

  “Carlos went to the, ahem….” He hiked his thumb up over his shoulder.

  “The shitter?”

  “Yeah, and he took a magazine with him.”

  “Which one?”

  “Field and Stream.”

  “Ho boy. This could take a while.”

  “I know.”

  “You up for a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  We headed down to the cafeteria, certain that Carlos would know where to find us. I was glad for the opportunity, too. The one-on-one time it gave me with Dominic helped me to understand where his head and heart was these days. It was something I had wanted to do for some time, but never did. After paying for two coffees and a couple of muffins, I motioned that we should sit by the window overlooking the courtyard. It gave us a quiet spot to speak candidly.

  Soon, we were talking about his brush with death last year when he took a bullet for Lilith and Ursula back in Salem. The bullet had punched a hole in his chest the size of a quarter, and another in his back as big as a baseball when it exited. Doctors deemed it a miracle that he survived at all. Personally, I think it was Ursula. If not her magic, then surely her love for him and his for her had something to do with it.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked. “Is your physical therapy coming along okay?”

  He raised his wounded shoulder and dropped it lightly. “I guess. I’ve got almost full movement of my arm and shoulder again.” He demonstrated by moving his arm in windmill fashion, but the look on his face told me it was not easy.

  “Good, that’s good. You still have a lot of pain, though, don’t you?”

  “Some.” He turned his gaze down into his cup and began stirring his coffee with a stir stick. “I have good days and bad. You know.”

  “Sure, and I suppose the meds can only help so much, huh?”

  He said nothing.

  “Have you talked to your doctor about maybe getting you on some different pain medications?”

  “No.” He stopped stirring and watched the swirls melt into soft spirals like a phonograph winding down after the record is over. “I don’t want to get hooked on something else.”

  “You think you’re hooked on the Oxy?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Do you think you have a problem with it?”

  “No, I think I am in a lot of pain without it.”

  “I see.”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure.” I took a bite of muffin and a sip of coffee. “I saw Lilith and Ursula this morning. Your name came up.”

  That brought his attention back to me. “Yeah? What did she say?”

  I smiled. “Ursula? She called you her swain.”

  “Swain?”

  “Her beau.”

  He smiled back. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What else did she say?”

  I laughed faintly. What could I tell him, that Ursula was mildly disappointed after seeing his penis in a scattering of tea grinds on the bottom of a teacup? I took some liberty in my answer and said to him, “She just mentioned some things that told me she was thinking about you.”

  His gaze drifted off to a spot out the window where the shade from the building met the sun-splashed walkway ringing the courtyard. It was only then, as I watched him squint vaguely into the light, that I realized how much he reminded me of me. I don’t mean the me I am today, but the me of yesteryear, when I was new to the business like Dominic, married to my job and restless to make a name for myself. I remembered this girl, this young woman who might have loved me, and I never knew. My passion for police work blinded me to her subtle overtures; her shy attempts to woo me were no match for such a mistress of persuasion as this. Steely was the grip of the force on me since my days in the academy.

  I followed Dominic’s gaze out the window. All around were men and women walking the courtyard, enjoying the sun-shiny day, normal by all observations, but for one. Virtually all wore badges, gun, or both. Ours is a community of law enforcement, and we make of it what we will. I embraced that life for over forty years, a life I could have shared with those outside who cannot fully understand it, but I did not. I put the force before all else. Was it a mistake? I ask myself that every day. For some it is not. For others, like Dominic, it could be. I reached across the table and nudged his arm. “You all right?”

  He turned with a snap, as if awaking from a daydream. “Yeah, sure, I’m all right.”

  “Ursula is a fine woman, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.” His lips stretched thin and tight, and his gaze again found the stir stick in his coffee. He picked it up and began making slow but rhythmic swirls in elliptic fashion. “Do you think she knows that I am still a….”

  “A what?”

  “You know.”

  “No?”

  “Let us just say that I am not that popular with the girls, in case you hadn’t noticed. Most women find me a bit nerdy.”

  “Oh, I see. Well in case you hadn’t noticed, Ursula is not like most women.”

  He laughed. “I know that, but she is special. She deserves a man who is more….”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, worldly?”

  I reached out and tapped his arm again to get him to look up at me. When he did, I said, “Dominic, why don’t you let her decide what kind of man she deserves. Give yourself some credit. You’re special, too. You just need to work out a few demons. Listen, what do you say we go out this weekend on a double date, just you, me, Lilith and Ursula?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about Carlos?”

  “What about him?”

  “Yeah, what about me?” said Carlos. He had come up on us seemingly from nowhere. “Are you making plans without me?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We were about to head on down to the cemetery without you. What did you do, fall in?”

  He drew back with a sour grimace. “No. You know I can’t rush those things. I have a sensitive digestive system.”

  “Sensitive as a bear trap.”

  “Do we have time for breakfast?”

  “Breakfast? We ate breakfast already.”

  “That was midnight breakfast. It’s daylight now. I’m starving.”

  “We’ll eat after the cemetery.” I turned to Dominic. “You ready?”

  “Ready when you are.”

  “Hey.” Carlos pointed to the muffin that Dominic had not yet touched. “You gonna eat that?”

  Dominic slid out of his seat and grabbed his jacket. “You can have it.” He started across the cafeteria for the door.

  Carlos asked, “What’s eating him?”

  I grabbed my jacket and stood. “Love,” I said. “It’s a many splendid thing, ain’t it?”

  We arrived at the cemetery just in time to get stuck behind a fifty-two car funeral procession. The police escort held us up at the gate until the last car turned in. We fell in behind them
and followed the procession nearly to the end, turning off at a section in the park called Shady Grove. There, as Spinelli promised, sat a backhoe, awaiting our arrival. After showing the groundskeeper the warrant for the exhumation, he gave the signal, instructing the backhoe operator to dig. Inside of fifteen minutes, we were watching the shovel on the big rig hoisting John J. Davis’ casket up onto solid ground.

  “You ready for this?” I asked of no one in particular.

  “Let’s do it,” Carlos answered, and with the blessings of the groundskeeper, the two lifted the lid on the casket.

  “Holy shit!” I heard one of them say. I think it was the groundskeeper. Spinelli and I stepped in for a closer look.

  “Wow! That’s not Johnny Buck.”

  “That’s for sure,” I said.

  “How much you think is there?”

  I took a deep breath, puckered and blew. “Well, more or less, I’d have to say about six million.”

  “Dollars?” said the groundskeeper.

  “Yup, dollars.”

  Carlos said, “Do you suppose anyone is still looking for it?”

  “Forget it, Carlos, It’s going back where it came from.”

  A string of disappointing sighs made the rounds through the ranks all the way to the backhoe operator. I would like to think that my guys were sighing because they were disappointed we did not find Johnny Buck’s remains inside the casket. For the sake of argument, we will say that is the case.

  We spent the rest of the morning in the company of auditors, agents and representatives from Massachusetts Department of Law Enforcement, the F.B.I., the I.R.S., the U.S. Attorneys’ office, the U.S. Marshalls, Attorneys general, Secret Service and the Bureau of Indian Affairs, all wanting a piece of the action, and by action I mean money. Personally, I did not care who got it, just so long as Powell, Tarkowski and the rest of my laundry list of suspects did not get their hands on it. After signing custody of the money over to the Feds, Carlos, Spinelli and I headed for the Perc. It had been nearly twelve hours since we had eaten anything substantial, and for Carlos, that is monumental. And since, as Carlos pointed out, it was my fault we did not stop for breakfast, I offered to buy. Thinking back now, maybe it would not have been such a bad idea to pocket some of that money. I mean, it is not as if we did not work for it.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  We arrived at The Percolator at the height of the lunch rush, and consequently were unable to secure our usual booth in the corner by the window. We settled instead for a table that had just opened up by the kitchen door—great if you want to view all the dishes coming out to the floor, bad if do not like excessive noise, grill smoke or heavy foot traffic. I believe I can say with confidence that over the years I sat in virtually every seat in the house and sampled everything on the menu. The trick is to know what to order for the seat you are in. For instance, never get the fish when you are sitting by the restrooms. I will spare you the details, but trust me on that one. Another useful tidbit, when seated by the kitchen door, such as we were then, never order the soup of the day. It is like eating in a bumper car. You will get more on you than in you. I suppose when Spinelli ordered the soup, I could have told him that, and I may have if Carlos had not cleared his throat to stop me just as I was about to say something. Because it was my fault we were so late, I let Carlos have that one. He was not disappointed.

  “All right,” I said, after our server took our orders and brought us our drinks. “Do either of you have any idea where the hell we are in this investigation? I’m getting so confused I need a score card to keep track.”

  “Well, score one up for Johnny Buck Allis,” said Dominic. “He sure pulled one over on us convincing everyone he was dead.”

  Carlos agreed, adding, “He even fooled his own mother.”

  “But he was not smart enough,” I said. “Was he?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He never found the money.”

  Dominic said, “That seals it then, doesn’t it? The pieces fit now. The way I see it, Johnny Buck waited in hiding all these years for Landau to get out of prison so that they could finally split the loot. Fast forward to Monday night. The two meet up at Pete’s Place, by chance or by prearrangement, whichever, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Landau changed his mind. Maybe he felt that since he did the time, he deserved all the money. He tells Johnny Buck he’s cutting him out of the deal, but Johnny doesn’t take it so well and so he kills his old pal. With no lead on the money, he is left with only one option, and that is to slip out of town like the ghost people think he is.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why didn’t he know where the money was? The two were partners in crime.”

  “Yes,” said Carlos, “But remember there is no honor among thieves. I think it’s more likely that right from the get-go, Landau planned to cut old Johnny out of his share of the loot. That could explain the bank sack in the cellar, the one with real bills on top of a pile of worthless paper. Landau probably gave him that to buy him time to formulate his plan. The poor boy was just too stupid to look in the sack closely enough to see what was in it.”

  “No, I don’t buy it. Maybe the sack was not full of money, but there was some real money on top. Why didn’t Johnny Buck spend some of it?”

  “Suppose he thought it was traceable?”

  “All right then, why did everyone think Johnny Buck died in the cabin fire?”

  “Because that is what everyone believed. You don’t go looking for the answer when you think you already have it.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I am suggesting that René and Johnny Buck had a plan to split up after the robbery and to get together again up at the cabin later. In the meantime, on the night before John Davis’ funeral, Landau slipped into the funeral home, removed Davis’ body and placed the money in the casket. See, he knew that Johnny Buck shot Davis in the face and that he would have to have a closed-casket funeral, so the money was safe.”

  “I like it,” I said. “It sounds plausible. Go on.”

  “Careful, it’s hot.” Our server moved in and set Spinelli’s soup bowl down on the table in front of him. Carlos shot me a sly glance, his brow twitching covertly so that I might not miss the excitement. “I’ll have your sandwiches and fries out in minute guys.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Oh, and can you tell me if Trish is working this afternoon?”

  “Trish?”

  “Trish Rosado?”

  “Oh, Pat. Yeah, she has the dinner shift. She’ll be here in about an hour.”

  I thanked her again and then waited for her to leave before pressing Carlos further. I must admit, he had thought this thing all the way through. There were few holes in his theory, and even fewer reasons to poke at them, as I really wanted to make some sense of the case.

  “Okay,” he said. “Where was I? Oh yeah, René stashes the money in the coffin and then takes Davis’ body up to the cabin with intentions of torching the place with the body inside. His hope is that everyone will find the charred remains and think they are his and that all the money burned up with him.”

  “But there was a problem,” I said.

  “Yes, there was a problem. René torched the place, but before he could escape, Powell showed up. Naturally, he could not tell Powell that the body inside was Davis’. That would be a give-away to the money’s real location, and so he told Powell the body was Johnny Buck’s. He gives Powell this story about Johnny knocking over a lantern or whatever, setting the place ablaze with the money inside. What’s Powell to do? He checks Landau’s car for the money. It’s not there. It’s not buried somewhere about the cabin, so case solved.”

  “Right, and when Johnny Buck heard that the cops thought his was the body they found charred, he was all too happy to lay low and let them think it.”

  Spinelli asked, “Why didn’t Johnny Buck put one and one together? Knowing they weren’t his remains in the cabin, he had to figure they were Davis’.”

&nbs
p; “Because, he’s not that bright,” said Carlos. “Remember?”

  “Yes, but he was bright enough to believe that the money was still out there somewhere.”

  “Excuse me.” Our server returned. “Burger, well done, onion rings?”

  I raised my hand. “That’s mine.”

  “Burger medium with fries?”

  “Mine,” said Carlos.

  “Club?”

  Spinelli, “Here.”

  “Grilled cheese?”

  Carlos, “Mine.”

  “More onion rings?”

  Again Carlos, “Here.”

  “Extra fries?”

  “Yup.”

  “A side of pickles?”

  “Put `em here.”

  “Chips, coleslaw, potato salad?”

  “Here, here and here.”

  “Carlos!” I moved my glass and plate aside to give her more room. “You can’t be that hungry.”

  “I’m not taking any chances.”

  “What, so you are going to eat enough to hibernate for the winter?”

  He laughed. “Hibernate, that’s funny.”

  “Hey!” We both looked at Spinelli. Someone had bumped our table, causing his soup to spill on the tablecloth and onto his lap. “Did you see that?”

  Carlos looked at me and smiled. I do not know why it is that the little things in life bring him such great joy.

  We spent the next twenty minutes eating, talking about our food and guarding against more soup and soda spills. Eventually our conversation cycled back to the case. “So, Tony,” this from Carlos, while chomping on a pickle spear. “I get the sense that you don’t totally buy this Johnny Buck thing.”

  “Me? Oh, I don’t know. Your theory does tidy things up a bit.”

  “Yeah, but I can tell. You’re not buying it. Why?”

  I patted my mouth clean and tossed the napkin onto my plate. “It’s too tidy,” I said. “If we did not have so many other suspects to consider, I might feel better about it.”

  “What suspects? All we have is a dysfunctional group of cohorts who knew Landau and who wanted to get their hands on a ton of money that they knew he stashed somewhere. We have nothing concrete to suggest that any of them killed the man.”