“Do you think he could be helped?”
Mr. Gallegly nodded. “As long as someone is breathing, there is hope.”
“I’m crammed next to him twenty-two hours a day,” Pete said thoughtfully. “Maybe the reason I’m in the isolation block is to help Cal.”
“You’re not starting out easy.” Mr. Gallegly smiled. “Cal reminds me of a hopeless case in the Bible. Everybody had given up on this man until he met Jesus.”
Mr. Gallegly read the story in Luke 8 of the demon-possessed man who lived among the tombs.
When he finished, Pete said, “That’s Cal all right.”
“Do you want to pray about it?” the older man suggested.
“Sure.”
So, with the simple faith of a young believer unspoiled by doubt or failure, Pete Thomason asked the Lord Jesus to do the same thing for Crazy Cal Musgrave that he did for another tortured soul two thousand years before.
When Pete returned to his cell, Cal was quiet. Pete sat down on the floor beside the opening in the door.
“Cal. Are you awake?”
“I’m awake now. Why don’t you shut up?”
“Hey, did you know Jesus could set you free from all the junk that’s driving you nuts?”
Cal spewed a long string of profanity, then said, “Does that answer you?”
“No. I’m not talking to that voice, I’m talking to Cal,” Pete said.
“Redhead, you’re crazier than I am. Go to sleep.”
“That’s the real you, isn’t it, Cal?”
“Who do you think is in here with me?”
“Cal, I read in the Bible about a man who was more tormented than you are. Jesus can set you free.”
“Okay. Why don’t you tell your friend Jesus to come by in a couple of hours and get me out of this stinking cell. That would be a big help.”
“It’s a different kind of freedom,” Pete persevered. “Something that happens on the inside so you can have it wherever you go.”
Cal delivered another string of profanity and started crying out in the weeping voice.
Pete tried to say a few more things, but it was no use. Cal’s body was in his cell, but the rest of him was in a place where Pete couldn’t and didn’t want to go.
Pete picked up his Bible and found several other passages that described the ministry of Jesus to people like Cal. Trying to reach Cal would be a goal. A goal would give him a reason for living—a reason to be behind bars, a purpose for each day.
41
Italia! O Italia!
LORD BYRON
Charles Gallegly and his volunteers had a special meeting with prisoners on Tuesday. Pete spoke for a couple of minutes to the group. After he finished, several inmates came up to him and asked questions. Charles Gallegly stood to the side and enjoyed watching the young disciple take his first steps. As the older man was leaving the jail, one of the deputies stopped him.
“Mr. Gallegly, the sheriff wants to see you before you leave.”
He followed the deputy to Leonard Bomar’s office.
“Have a seat, Charles,” the sheriff said. “Did you have a good meeting with the men?”
“Yes. Pete Thomason spoke for a few minutes.”
“Glad to hear it, and Thomason is the one I wanted to talk to you about. Normally, I would handle this myself, but the officers on duty tell me you’re visiting Thomason on a regular basis, and I wanted your input before I took any action.”
“How can I help?”
“I’m thinking about moving him back in with the general jail population. His lawyer has filed a motion for a new trial so he’s going to be here for a while during the appeal, and I don’t think he poses a threat to the other prisoners. There is only one problem.”
“What?”
“He says he doesn’t want to go, claims he has a plan to help Cal Musgrave. Do you know anything about this?”
“Yes. We talked about it.”
“Crazy Cal? Why?”
“Pete’s praying that Cal will be set free from whatever is tormenting him.”
Sheriff Bomar’s face went totally blank for a moment. “Did you put him up to this, Charles?”
“It wasn’t my idea, but I didn’t discourage him. Pete’s motivation is good, and who else cares about Cal?”
“Cal is a hopeless case,” the sheriff said matter-of-factly. “We’re expecting authorization any day from Atlanta to send him to Milledgeville for psychiatric detention.”
“Then, there is no harm in Pete praying for Cal until he leaves.”
The sheriff rubbed his chin. One thing about law enforcement— something new popped up every time he thought he’d seen and heard it all. “Oh, why not,” he said. “It can’t hurt anything.”
Dr. Newburn called Spencer. “I have a surprise for you.”
“What is it?”
“A trip to London this weekend. Doctor’s orders. I think you could use a break from all that’s been going on.”
“And stay at the Savoy?”
“Of course. I remember the junket you enjoyed so much last year. This one should be even better. A limo will take you to the airport at ten on Tuesday. I checked with the investment people, and I have an extra fifty grand to give you as spending money for the trip.”
“Sounds better and better,” Spencer said. “I need to get out of town and forget about all that’s happened.”
“And don’t give up on Alexander and Sarah,” Dr. Newburn added. “Leave that to me.”
Thursday morning Ray and the newest graduate of the Echota County Alcohol and Drug Abuse Program were on their way to Atlanta. Peggy had fixed breakfast for them, and they each had a fresh cup of coffee nestled in the drink holders in Ray’s truck.
“Now that we’re comrades in arms, I can give you a full report of my work on Pete’s case,” Ray said. He spent the next fifty miles telling Harry all he knew about the Thomason investigation.
Alberto’s Restaurant didn’t open until 11:00 A.M., and Ray gave Harry a quick tour of the places of interest to those involved in the case. They drove past the driveway that led to Alexander and Sarah’s mansion.
“The house is back there somewhere,” Ray said. “Old Mr. Hightower bought it and left it to Alexander after he died.”
Harry leaned forward and peered down the twisting, tree-lined drive. “What about the younger brother who testified at the trial?
Where does he live?”
“Spencer. That’s our next stop.”
They parked at the surveillance point across the street from the entrance to the neighborhood as a white limo drove through the gate.
“Spencer has a nice place but nothing like his brother,” Ray said. “I’ve seen it up close, but we won’t try to get past the guards today.”
“And you think Spencer is the one who arranged the murder?” Harry asked as Ray turned around in the parking lot and pulled back onto the roadway.
“Probably.”
“But other than anger at Angela for telling him to bug off and jealousy of his older brother, you don’t have a motive?”
“From what Mac told me about Spencer, either of those reasons would be enough. He’s got money to burn and could pay professional hit men. Based on the way Pete was set up, that’s what happened.”
Harry ate the last biscuit he’d been saving since they left Dennison Springs. “Too bad you couldn’t track down the car that ran the old man off the road,” he said.
“Yeah, Mac and I felt it would have blown the State’s case out of the water. We can still try to locate it, but testimony about the car was mentioned in one of the newspaper articles about the trial. If the real killer reads the article, the midnight purple Lincoln will be repainted or locked up in a garage somewhere by now.”
“What next?” Harry asked.
Ray checked his watch. “On to Alberto’s. We can beat the lunchtime crowd.”
A plain-looking, one-story red-brick building surrounded by an asphalt parking lot, Alberto’s was
an ugly duckling on the outside. A fluid neon sign, “Alberto’s Italian Restaurant,” burned in red at an angle above the darkly stained wooden front door. Inside, Ray felt as if he had stepped out of the United States into a café in Naples or Venice. White tablecloths, a bottle of imported wine on each table, original paintings of Italian scenes on the walls, waiters who spoke English as a second language—it was not the place for Chicago pizza or West Coast vegetable lasagna.
Ray asked the first busboy who walked by to take him to the manager and received a blank stare. On his second try, he was rewarded with a nod, and in a few minutes, a small, olive-skinned man with a thin mustache appeared from the back of the restaurant.
“Mr. Giovanelli?” Ray asked, using the name Vicki had given him.
“Yes. How may I help you?”
Ray introduced himself, then said, “I talked to you a couple of times on the phone, and I’m sorry to bother you again. But I was wondering—”
“Ray, come here,” Harry interrupted. “You need to see this.”
Harry was still in the foyer. On one wall were several framed newspaper articles praising the restaurant and a black-and-white picture of Mr. and Mrs. Giglio, the smiling owners of Alberto’s. On the opposite wall was a bulletin board covered with pictures of patrons eating at the restaurant. At the bottom left-hand corner of this pictorial collage was a Polaroid snapshot of a young couple sitting at a cozy table. It was Pete and Angela.
“This is the couple,” Ray said, pointing to the picture. “Who would have taken this photo?”
Mr. Giovanelli squinted at the picture. “That’s Luigi’s table. I’ll get him.”
Luigi was helping in the kitchen during lunch and understood only enough English to wait on tables where everything on the menu was in Italian.
“Ask him about the couple?” Ray asked.
Mr. Giovanelli translated, listened to the reply, then said, “Yes, he took the picture with a camera we keep at the restaurant. They were such a nice-looking couple, he thought about the bulletin board and wanted to include their photograph.”
“What else does he remember about them?”
Mr. Giovanelli asked the question, and Ray waited while Luigi told what sounded like a long, involved story.
“The girl had been to Milan, Luigi’s hometown, and knew a few words in Italian.”
“Is that all he said?”
Mr. Giovanelli smiled. “You have to understand. When Luigi talks about Milan, he is talking about a place he loves. He told me about every place the girl had visited and added his own comments and memories.”
Ray saw two half-full wineglasses and a tall bottle on the table in front of Pete and Angela. Pointing at the glasses, he asked, “Can you tell from the picture what they had to drink?”
Mr. Giovanelli asked the question and another long answer followed, complete with gestures and hand motions.
“Luigi says a couple of men in the restaurant called Luigi over and bought a very expensive bottle of wine that comes from Luigi’s home province. The grapes are unique to a small section of northern Italy and—”
“So two men bought a bottle of wine,” Ray interrupted. “What else does he remember?”
“Sir, I’m only translating for you.”
Ray apologized, “I’m sorry. Take your time. If I need a lesson on rare wines of northern Italy to find out what Luigi knows, I’m your student.”
The restaurant manager continued, “The men had a glass of wine themselves then asked Luigi to take a complimentary glass to the young man and woman. Luigi took over two glasses of wine and snapped the picture you see on the board.”
“Who poured the glasses of wine?”
In a moment, the manager said, “He doesn’t know. There have been a lot of bottles of wine opened here since then.”
Ray and Harry exchanged a look.
“Does he remember what the men looked like?”
Once again a long dialogue took place in Italian. Even Mr. Giovanelli seemed surprised by Luigi’s comments and asked several questions himself. Ray went past the point of frustration into a state of enforced calm.
Finally, Mr. Giovanelli turned toward him. “The police never talked to Luigi—he wasn’t working when they came to the restaurant asking questions. And I didn’t know the girl in the picture was the one who was murdered when you called before.”
“What did he say about the two men?” Ray said through slightly clenched teeth.
“Oh, the two men were in their late twenties or early thirties, both with blond hair cut very close to their heads. What do you call it? A buzz?”
“Yes.”
“The men went over to the table where the couple was sitting. Apparently the young people had too much to drink because the men helped them out of the restaurant. Luigi was concerned and looked out the window in the kitchen. They drove off in two cars. One was yellow and the other one was—” he asked Luigi a question.
“Did I hear the Italian word for purple?” Ray asked.
“That’s right,” Mr. Giovanelli said with a puzzled look. “He said it was a big, dark purple car. The couple sat in the backseat. One of the men drove the yellow car, and the other drove the purple car. Luigi guessed they all knew each other and were helping the couple get home safely.”
“Who paid for the couple’s meal?”
A brief exchange followed, and Mr. Giovanelli said, “He’s not sure.”
“Does he know that the girl was killed that night?” Ray asked.
“Should I ask him that?”
Ray studied Luigi’s face for a second. He couldn’t see the point of making the waiter regret that he should have done something else to avert a horrible murder.
“No. It may be necessary later, but not now. May I have the picture?”
“Of course. We take them down from time to time and replace them with new ones. This one would have been thrown away in a few days anyway.”
Back in the truck, Ray said, “They put Rohypnol in one glass and GHB in the other. Then they watched. When the drugs began to take effect, they took Angela and Pete out to the parking lot and dumped them in the back of the Lincoln.”
“Let’s call Mac,” Harry said, delighted that he had participated in a major breakthrough in the case. “This real private detective stuff is better than what I’ve seen on TV.”
Ray, thinking about all the dead-end leads he’d followed over the past thirty years, rolled his eyes and didn’t respond.
After Ray gave his report to Mac, he asked, “Is there anything else you want us to do in Atlanta?”
“Not now. You’ve hit a home run already. Come home and we’ll decide what to do next.”
Later that evening, Mac and David met at the jail to talk with Pete. Their client listened intently to the summary of Ray’s conversation with the waiter at the restaurant.
“No, I can’t remember anybody,” he said. “Were the two men hired by Spencer Hightower?”
“It’s looking more and more that way,” Mac said. “They knew what they were doing and waited until the drugs took effect before approaching you and Angela.”
“Are you going to tell the police?”
“Not yet. They think they have the killer in this jail, and it will take more than theories to open the door to your cell.”
42
How are the mighty fallen!
2 SAMUEL 1:25 (KJV)
Alexander Hightower was a creature of habit. Three mornings a week he exercised at the Buckhead Fitness Club, but every Saturday he woke up at 5:00 A.M. for a five-mile run along the tree-lined streets where Atlanta’s richest inhabitants lived. By 5:10, his high-tech running shoes were hitting the sidewalk down a hill and around the corner from the entrance to his house.
Mike and Bart knew the route Alex followed and selected their spot with care. Near the three-mile point there was a break in the sidewalk as the street went up a steep hill and passed in front of a vacant lot that sloped abruptly away from the roadway. Mike parked t
he Lincoln around the corner. Bart waited behind a large tree in the center of the curve with his weapon of choice for the day, a thirty-two-inch metal baseball bat, tightly gripped in his black-gloved right hand. He peered around the tree, straining to see any movement coming up the hill.
Through the morning mist, he saw Alex’s head bowed down as he began the ascent up the hill, and in a few seconds he heard Alex’s labored breathing as he neared the spot where he waited.
The first blow smashed Alex’s right ankle and cut him down like a blade of grass underneath a lawn mower. The second, which followed so quickly that there was no time for a scream of pain to escape his lips, landed on the left side of his skull about two inches above his ear. Alex fell forward onto the pavement, and blood spurted from his head onto the roadway. Bart grunted and swung the bat twice more, striking Alex in the lower back.
Hearing the thud of the blows through the open window of the car, Mike put out his cigarette and drove around the corner. Bart jumped out of the way of the car, and his brother aimed the left front tire of the heavy vehicle at Alex’s head. In the predawn light, Mike misjudged the position of the wheel, and instead of hitting the unconscious man’s head, ran over his outstretched left arm. The bones in Alex’s wrist snapped like dry twigs.
Mike stuck his head out the window and hissed at Bart, “I missed him! I’ve got to back up and make another run at him.”
Bart opened the passenger door and got into the car. “Forget it! He’s dead! Let’s get outa here.”
“No!” Mike jerked the car in reverse and backed up several feet. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw headlights coming up the hill. “Someone’s coming!” Mike stopped the car. “Don’t move. The car will block the body from view,” he said.
A delivery truck for the Atlanta paper rumbled over the top of the hill and around the Lincoln.
Bart dropped the bat in the floorboard. “Let’s go! We don’t have time to do anything else!”
Mike pulled into the driveway of a large, three-story brick house located across the road from the vacant lot, quickly backed out into the street, and drove around the corner.
The Trial Page 36
