The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller))

by Tom Lowe

  As the temperature dropped, the wind picked up, bringing a wall of rain across the river and through the thick limbs of old live oaks, soaking the gray beards of Spanish moss. Within a few seconds, moss hung from the limbs like the wet fleece of lamb’s wool caught in the rain and stained the shade of tarnished armor.

  O’Brien sipped a cup of black coffee and listened to the rain tap the tin roof over the porch. The old house was built in 1945, constructed from river rock, Florida cypress and pine. Wood too tough for termites, nails, or even hurricanes. The house sat high above the river on the shoulder of an ancient Indian mound.

  O’Brien bought the home after his wife died from ovarian cancer fifteen months ago. Following her death, he had a fleeting romance with the bottle and the genies it released in his subconscious.

  He sold his house in Miami, quit his job as a homicide detective, and moved to a remote section of the river about fifty miles west of Daytona Beach. It was here where he repaired the old home and his life. His closest neighbor was a half-mile away. The nearest town, DeLand, was more than twenty miles away.

  O’Brien looked at Sherri’s framed photograph standing on a wicker table near his porch chair. Her smile was still as intoxicating as a summer night, fresh, vibrant and so full of life. So full of hope. He deeply missed her. He set his cell phone by her picture.

  Max barked.

  O’Brien looked down at Max, his miniature dachshund. “I know you have to pee. We have two options, I can let you go out by yourself and risk an owl flying off with you, or I can grab an umbrella and try to keep us both dry while you do your thing.”

  Max sniffed and cracked a half bark. She trotted over to the screen door and looked back at O’Brien through eager brown eyes.

  “Okay, never delay a lady from her trip to the bathroom.” O’Brien reached for an umbrella in the corner, lifted Max under his arm like a football, and walked out the door. He set her down near the base of a large live oak in this yard. Sherri had bought the dog as a puppy when O’Brien was spending long days and nights on a particularly extreme murder investigation.

  She named the dog Maxine and allowed her to sleep in their bed, something O’Brien discovered after he had returned home one night, exhausted, awakening before dawn to find Maxine lying on her back, snuggled next to his side, snoring. In a dreamlike stupor, he sat up, momentarily thinking a big rodent had climbed onto the bed. But Max had looked at him too lovingly through chestnut brown eyes. They’d made their peace, and now it was only the two of them.

  O’Brien held the large umbrella over Max as she squatted, the rain thumping the umbrella, the frogs chanting competing choruses.

  A foreign sound sliced through the air like a bad note.

  O’Brien could hear his cell phone ringing from the table on his back porch. “Ignore it, Max. Go with the flow. No need getting a bladder infection. If it’s important, they’ll call back.”

  Max bolted from underneath the umbrella and sniffed fresh tracks left in the dirt near an orange tree O’Brien had recently planted. He watched rain pooling in the tracks. O’Brien knelt down and placed his hand over one imprint. He let out a low whistle. “Florida panther, Max, looks like it was running.” O’Brien’s eyes followed the tracks until they were lost in the black. Max growled.

  “That tough dog growl would certainly scare a panther. Not many of them left. But, boy, do we have the black bears in that old forest. That’s why you, young lady, have to eat the leftovers. We don’t need bears rummaging through the garbage cans. Coons are bad enough.”

  The cell phone rang again.

  O’Brien stood and looked up towards the house and porch. “Come on, Max, let’s see who is it that needs our immediate attention.”

  Max sniffed the damp air, sneezed, and followed O’Brien up the sloping yard. She climbed the wet steps and stood on the porch to shake the rainwater out of her fur.

  O’Brien picked up has cell at the last ring. “Hello.”

  Nothing.

  “Maybe it went to voice-mail, Max.” O’Brien looked at the caller ID.

  Not a good sign.

  The caller was a close friend of his. Father Callahan had been there for him when Sherri died.

  And now maybe the priest needed him.

  FIVE

  O’Brien hit the number left behind on his phone’s received calls register. It rang four times and went into message mode, Father Callahan’s voice asking the caller to leave a message. “Father Callahan, this is Sean O’Brien. Looks like you were trying to reach me. I’m around, give me a call.”

  Max sat, her eyes following a mosquito that made it in before the door shut. O’Brien picked up a dry towel that he had hanging from a sixty-year-old nail driven half way into a white oak support beam. When O’Brien bought the house, an old horseshoe hung from the lone nail. He had painted the porch, painted around the nail, cleaned and polished the horseshoe, and hung it back in the same spot. He kept a clean towel there for rainy days and a little wet dog.

  O’Brien picked Max up, set her on the towel in the center of the porch, and dried her. “We have to head to the marina. Are you ready to visit Nick and Dave?”

  Max cocked her head.

  “Maybe Nick has some fresh fish. I have to replace the zincs on the props this weekend or Jupiter might be sitting on the bottom of the bay soon.”

  #

  O’BRIEN WAS ALMOST to the Ponce Marina when his cell rang. He pressed the receiver button. “Hello, Father.”

  “Sean, you’re either a psychic detective or you have caller ID.”

  “It’s all about technology.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You’ve always been exceptional at reading things in people that no machine can detect.”

  O’Brien drove through the heavy shower, the rain now falling in larger drops like schools of silver minnows pouring from the sky. “Storm’s moving on, Father. Good to hear your voice. It’s been awhile. How are you?”

  “You visited me more after Sherri’s death than in recent times. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, thanks. I don’t get out as much as I’d like to. Fixing up my old house and boat keeps me busy.”

  “Earlier today I was at Baptist Hospital where I heard a confession. It came from a prisoner who was shot as he was being transferred to testify in court this morning. After he was stabilized, he suffered a series of heart attacks. He underwent surgery.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “This poor chap believes he died on the emergency room table, and in the near clutch of the devil, he says he was resuscitated. Says he saw evil…absolute evil.”

  “Maybe it was just a bad dream.”

  “The man believes he’s been given a divine chance to make amends. He saw something, Sean, something that led him to confess.”

  “It may have more to do with the brain in an oxygen-deprived state than it does with good or evil.”

  “No,” Father Callahan lowered his voice, “he saw something eleven years ago.”

  “What?”

  “A murderer. Saw him leave the scene right after the devil’s work was done. And the man who did it was never caught.”

  “Why doesn’t he go to the police?”

  “He’s a convict. It’s complicated. Time’s running out, and he’s under the knife.”

  “Father, start from the beginning?”

  “The real killer is free, and the man accused of the murder is sitting on death row. The state is going to put him to death at 6:00 A.M. Friday. That about four days.”

  O’Brien could feel tightness in his chest. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “You might be the best man to free the condemned man and catch the real killer.”

  “Why me, Father?”

  “If it’s true, Sean, it was you who caught the wrong man, and he’s about to be executed.”

  SIX

  O’Brien pulled in the Oyster shell parking lot of Ponce Marina and shut off the Jeep’s engine. The rain stopped and he unzipp
ed the windows. “Wrong man? Who, Father?”

  “Charlie Williams.”

  “Williams? That was ten, maybe eleven years ago.” O’Brien’s thoughts raced. In his mind’s eye he saw the murder scene. Blood covered the victim’s bedroom. Young. Beautiful. Stabbed seven times in the chest and throat. Her blood was in the ex-boyfriend’s truck. His prints in her condo. His semen in her body. He was found drunk. Passed out in his pickup truck. He said they’d fought, but he didn’t kill her.

  Father Callahan said, “I remember the press coverage. You were at the top of your game as a homicide detective with Miami PD. It was followed closely in the media because the victim was an internationally-known celebrity.”

  O’Brien was silent. A dull pain started above his left eye. The adrenaline flowed, and he could almost hear his blood rushing through his temples. “This man—this inmate—what’s his name? What did he say?”

  “Sam Spelling. Said he saw the real killer hide the weapon—a knife. Spelling fished it out of a dumpster, and he then succumbed to temptation. Blackmailed the killer for a one-time payment of a hundred thousand. Spelling went through the money, bought a lot of cocaine, wound up in prison. He was supposed to testify in a big drug trial before

  someone shot him today. But his confession tonight with me, it related to your old case—the death of the supermodel and her ex-boyfriend on death row.”

  “I assume that whoever shot him on the courthouse steps wanted him dead before he could testify in a drug trial, a trial that has nothing to do with Charlie Williams on death row. Now, after a near death experience, he wants to clean the slate and confess…provide the identity of the person who killed Alexandria Cole, right?”

  “Amen,” said Father Callahan. That’s it.”

  “Who’d he say killed her?”

  “Didn’t say. Just told me the name of the victim. Soon as he gave me the victim’s name, I remembered the case, and I wanted to call you. I asked that he write out the full confession—name names. As you know, St. Francis is within walking distance to the hospital. I’m going back there after he’s out of recovery to pick up the statement.”

  “I need to see that statement.”

  O’Brien pinched the bridge of his nose. He never heard of Sam Spelling. Most jailhouse snitches were repeat losers. Habitual liars. Cons used by corrupt defense attorneys to say they heard someone, someone other than the attorney’s client, brag about committing the crime. O’Brien couldn’t remember one doing the opposite—confessing that another inmate, especially one on death row, was innocent.

  “Are you there, Sean?”

  “You said he was going under the knife, right?”

  “I spoke with the doctor. Spelling’s in bad shape. Bullet barely missed his heart.

  “Father, does anyone else know what Spelling told you? Does anyone know he’s going to sign his name to a statement that reveals the killer’s identity?”

  “Don’t think so. He whispered the details to me—the victim’s name, where he found the murder weapon.” Father Callahan paused. “I don’t know if it’s anything, but a reporter with the Sentinel approached me. He said his name was Brian Cook. Said he saw me speaking with Spelling. He wanted to know if Spelling knew who shot him.”

  “What did you tell the reporter?”

  “Nothing. I said what was shared with me remains confidential.”

  “Did Spelling tell you where the murder weapon, the knife, is now?”

  “He’s putting that in his statement, too.”

  “If the knife still has detectable traces of the victim’s blood, then we can tie it to the murder. If it has prints that match the identity of the person that Spelling says did it, we could have the killer.”

  “And the disbelievers say divine intervention isn’t real.” Father Callahan chuckled.

  “Assuming Spelling is not lying, if he makes it through surgery, when the story’s in the press whoever shot Spelling will know he didn’t kill him. If the guy who hit Spelling is a pro, and there’s a big payoff from taking Spelling out so he can’t testify in the trial, the hit man might come back. He may kill Spelling before he can write out the details of who killed Alexandria Cole. That’s if any of what he told you is true. I’ll meet you there.”

  “If you’re at the marina, you’re an hour from the hospital. I’ll call and see when Spelling’s out of recovery, give him time to write the statement, and get with you. It’ll probably be past dinner by then. Tell you what…you need to have the physical copy of

  this statement or letter. I’d like to see you. Meet me at St. Francis at eight o’ clock. That’s only in ninety minutes. I’ll give you whatever Spelling wrote. You can take it from there.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Good to hear your voice, Sean. I want to see you in mass more often.”

  “I’d like that, too, Father, I really would.”

  O’Brien set his phone on the table. He looked at Max who stood on her hind legs, nose testing the marina air through the Jeep’s open side windshield. The storm passed and the sky was clear, a golden light clung in the air like an aged photograph creating a temporary world without shadows. It was about forty-five minutes before sunset, and a three-quarter moon was already climbing above the marina bay.

  O’Brien thought about the man he sent to death row—Charlie Williams. Was he innocent, and would live long enough to see another full moon?

  SEVEN

  O’Brien locked his Jeep and started toward gate 7-F, the dock that led to where he kept his old boat moored. Max ran behind him, stopping to investigate the world with her nose. He walked by the Tiki Hut, an open-air bar disguised as a restaurant, which was adjacent to Ponce Marina. He could smell the scent of blackened grouper, garlic shrimp, and beer. A dozen tourists sat at the wooden tables, ate fish sandwiches, sipped from longneck bottles of beer, and watched seagulls fight for pieces of bread tossed in the marina water. The isinglass, which was lowered on rainy days, was rolled up allowing a cross-breeze to carry the scent of seafood over the marina.

  “Well, hello stranger,” said Kim Davis, an attractive brunette who worked the bar. She was in her early forties, radiant smile, deep tan, and jeans that hugged every pore from her navel down. She smiled at O’Brien. “You look like you could use a beer.”

  “I’d like that, Kim, but I don’t have time right now.”

  She wiped her hands on a towel, stepped out from behind the bar, and knelt down to greet Max, handing her a tiny piece of fried fish. “You are so darn cute!” Max’s tail blurred, gulping down the fish in a single bite. Kim stood, her eyes searching O’Brien’s face. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, did you attend a funeral?”

  “An old case of mine has resurrected. I’m just tying to make sense of it.”

  “You want to talk about it? I’ll be off in an hour.”

  O’Brien managed a smile. “I appreciate that, but I have to run. Come on, Max.”

  “If you get thirsty, I’ll deliver to your boat.” She smiled.

  O’Brien smiled and stepped to the gate. He worked the combination lock and waited for Max to trot by him. As they walked down the long dock, O’Brien watched the charter fishing fleet churn through the pass. The party boats were filled with sunburned tourists who would soon be posing next to their catches.

  O’Brien’s boat, Jupiter, a thirty-eight foot Bayliner, was a boat he’d bought for ten cents on the dollar in a Miami DEA auction. It was twenty years old when he bought it. He’d restored the boat, doing much of the work himself.

  Docked two boats up from Jupiter was Gibraltar, a 42 Grand Banks trawler. Its owner, Dave Collins, bought the boat new and spent half his time on it, while spending the rest of the time in a beachside condo, the property he retained from his ex-wife during a territorial divorce war.

  Collins was in his mid sixties, thick chest, and knotted arms from decades of exercise, full head of white air, inquisitive blue-gray pewter eyes, and always a four-day stubble on his face. He was choppin
g a large Vidalia onion in the galley when he saw O’Brien coming down the dock. Collins stepped onto his cockpit.

  “Who’s following whom? Miss Max and Sean, just in time for dinner. Is this the weekend you’re replacing the zincs on Jupiter?”

  “Jupiter needs some quality time. But now something’s come up, and Max needs a dogsitter.”

  Collins chuckled. “You don’t even have to ask. Hi, Max.”

  Max leaned in toward Collins, her nose quivering.

  Dave said, “She smells the sauce I’m brewing. Nick Cronus gave me his special, Old World, recipe when he was in with a catch last week. I’ve got some fresh grouper to ladle it on. Come aboard. We’ll eat and drink. Not necessarily in that order.”

  “I can’t drink. I have to meet a priest in a few minutes. Booze probably wouldn’t go over too well, although I have plenty of reasons to get hammered.” O’Brien knelt down by Max and scratched her behind the ears. He looked straight at Collins, his eyes searching his friend’s face. “Dave, what’s the biggest mistake you’ve ever made?”

  “You want the top-ten list or just the one enormous fuck up I’ve thought about for the last few years?”

  “Yeah, that one sounds like a qualifier.”

  “Staying too long at a job I didn’t believe in anymore. Everybody is dealt the same deck of time, twenty-four—seven. If you’re real dumb, you waste that deck, holding the cards too close, afraid to really gamble and do what you should. So you stay in the game too long, and in the end you’ve only cheated yourself.” Collins sipped his glass of red wine and added, “All right. Since we’re fessin’ up. Let’s hear your mistake of a lifetime, although I’ve had considerably more time to screw up things than you.”