by James Dobson
The woman shook her head deferentially while reaching for the bottle of brandy sitting strategically beside her now-empty glass. “Go ahead, Jennifer. I’ll be fine.”
Jennifer appeared grateful for the promotion from comforter to collaborator. She clearly disliked the thought of Tyler and Smitty discussing next steps without her input.
She joined them in the dining room, where Tyler still hoped to control the situation. He spoke first. “Smitty and I were just discussing the need to show this letter to the judge—”
“No!” she interrupted. “This is a very important case and he’s only a few days away from issuing an opinion. The judge would be very upset if we—”
“Come on!” Tyler said, too loudly. He hushed himself before continuing. “You can’t be serious. The man’s wife is sitting in the next room so alarmed she’s drowning her fears in booze. I think it’s about time you woke up to what’s happening here, Ms. McKay.”
“I know exactly what’s happening here, Mr. Cain! And I know exactly what Judge Santiago would want.”
“You’re just too stubborn to admit I was right!” Tyler added before Smitty raised a hand to silence the whispered spat.
“Ms. McKay is right,” he began.
Tyler’s head jerked in Smitty’s direction, then back toward Jennifer, who appeared equally startled.
“What?” Tyler said.
“I don’t think we need to show Judge Santiago this letter.”
Jennifer grinned in triumph as Tyler weighed his response. How to save face? More importantly, how to protect the judge? Then it struck him.
“We don’t have a choice,” he said. “His wife will tell him the second she sees him.”
“No, she won’t,” Jennifer said with surprising confidence. “I explained the situation. She knows the judge better than anyone. She knows he would want us to wait until after he issues an opinion.”
Tyler peered back around the corner toward the shaken woman. “Look at her, for Pete’s sake! Even if she managed to keep her mouth shut, which seems highly unlikely, the judge will know by looking at her that something’s up.” He turned toward Smitty. “Imagine the fallout if it gets out that the police knew about this threat and didn’t try to stop it.”
“I didn’t say we wouldn’t try to stop it,” Smitty said. “I said I don’t think the judge needs to see the letters. We can inform him of a threatening situation without specific details. If we do our job properly, there’s no reason we can’t let the man do his.”
If we do our job properly. A dig at Tyler’s failed investigation?
“We’ll tell the judge that we have evidence he may be the target of an assassination attempt,” Smitty continued. “Then we’ll tell him it’s related to a court case without saying which or what decision the suspect demands. The judge can make his own decision on whether he wants more detail or not.”
“He won’t,” Jennifer insisted as Tyler seethed.
“We’ll see,” Smitty replied. “But for now, tell me everything either of you knows so that we can determine the best course of action.”
Jennifer reminded Smitty that she had called the chief of police to request a recommendation for a private investigator. She sounded like a disappointed customer complaining to the store manager.
Then Tyler shared what little he had learned from the earlier letters. He decided to leave out the part where he called Evan Dimitri. No need to further sully his reputation by describing the blunder. A mistake that had gotten him nowhere and, he told himself, was probably irrelevant to the case.
Smitty sighed reflectively after listening to Tyler’s debrief. “So,” he began, “our only real clues are the postal facilities in which the letters were processed and an odd pseudonym.”
“A Manichean,” Tyler inserted in an attempt to prove useful.
“Right,” Smitty said without interest as he considered options. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Ms. McKay, I want you to inform the judge of a threat.”
“Of course,” she said, obviously pleased by Smitty’s wise tactic.
“Tyler, I want you to further analyze this new letter.”
Smitty handed the note to his former partner, who accepted it eagerly and with relief. “You got it, boss,” he said, grateful to still be on the team.
“I’ll assign an officer to guard the judge’s house and another to his chamber until he either resigns from the case or issues an opinion.”
“Only two officers?” Jennifer asked, like a still-disgruntled customer.
“It’s two more than I can afford, Ms. McKay,” Smitty explained.
She huffed. “We have security guards at the courthouse already. Would it be possible to assign both officers to the house? I’m sure it would make Mrs. Santiago feel much more secure.”
A single nod. “Done.”
Tyler joined Smitty in offering reassurance to Mrs. Santiago before heading to his car. He closed himself in and breathed deeply the sun-warmed air. As the engine engaged, the date and time appeared on the dashboard. September 1, 2043. Only three days until Judge Santiago was scheduled to issue an opinion on the wrongful death appeal initiated by NEXT Transition Services.
He had less than seventy-two hours to find the culprit. And, he hoped, to prove himself worthwhile to his former partner.
Chapter Forty
The bartender reached for the empty glass. “Another round?”
The question interrupted Tyler’s concentration. “What’s that?”
“I asked if you need a refill.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks. Diet cola.”
The man smirked at an order more suited to a fast-food joint than his establishment. “You sure you don’t want something stiffer? You look like you could use it.”
“Not tonight.” Tyler pointed to his open tablet. “Still on duty.”
The man went away for a moment and returned with a fresh glass of ice. He slid it forward along with an unopened can of soda. “Enjoy.”
Tyler nodded, then resumed his digital doodling, jotting down each new clue found in the latest letter.
WANTS NEXT INC. TO WIN THEIR APPEAL
CLEAR DEATH THREAT
DIFFERENT HANDWRITING?
Tyler deleted the last line when he realized the differences were too slight to suggest another author. It was probably the same hand more nervous due to rising stakes. He continued reviewing the list.
SENT BY COURIER VS. POST
The first three letters had been sent from the Boulder area. The fourth from Denver. This one had no origination postal code or any other mark suggesting a location. It had come on a delivery truck Rebecca Santiago hadn’t been able to describe.
VERY RESPECTFUL TONE
As in the earlier letters.
WRITER KNOWS WIFE’S FIRST NAME
Easy enough to find with a simple online search of news clippings.
In short, nothing useful.
Tyler took a sip of his soda to cool a rising anger at Smitty’s decision. At this very moment Jennifer McKay was informing the judge of a vague threat rather than insisting that he correspond with the writer or resign from the case.
He scanned the letter again, resting his eyes on the postscript.
P.S. Kindly post your response at the following private forum address: ANON.CHAT.4398
Why not send a short note promising to decide in favor of NEXT? It would neutralize the threat and, perhaps, provide a few additional clues. The judge could ignore the promise and decide the case as he saw fit. By then they might even have caught the culprit.
But Tyler knew the suggestion would fall on deaf ears. Judge Santiago would rather risk his life than undermine his integrity, a fact Tyler found both exasperating and laudable. He wondered what, if anything, he himself would risk his own life to protect. Certainly not his integrity. That was already in the toilet.
Tyler glanced again at the signature line.
A MANICHEAN
It must mean something. But what?
He quickly typ
ed the name into a search field for what must have been the tenth time since taking the case. The same useless list of results appeared.
That’s when it struck him. Maybe the words weren’t a pseudonym at all. Maybe they were a description. Not a first initial and last name, but a title, like A CANADIAN or A DENVER BRONCOS FAN.
He looked at the list of links again to spot any group or organization that might accept members. Perhaps a religious order, or a club, or an online chat association with dues. Nothing fit.
He narrowed the search criteria to anything near Boulder. Twenty results: two of the top five included the name Dr. Thomas Vincent, chairman of the Religious Studies department at the University of Colorado.
“Bingo!” Tyler said aloud.
“Nope,” the bartender responded while wiping the counter. “But we host a poker match every Monday night.”
Tyler chuckled at the misunderstanding, then tapped the first link. Apparently this Dr. Vincent fellow taught a course on ancient religious controversies in the very city from which the first letters had been sent.
He tapped the second link and learned Dr. Vincent had also written a book about Manichaeism. The author’s biography said he was a leading authority on a wide range of philosophies that had been largely rejected by the early Christian church.
Tyler launched another search, this time typing the name Thomas Vincent in conjunction with Boulder, Colorado. A long list of results surfaced: video highlights from prior lectures, free downloads from an upcoming book about something called Gnosticism, and a whole string of spicy photos posted by college-age girls to his personal attention. Tyler pulled up several of the pictures before ordering himself to focus on the task at hand.
He dialed the number listed on the university’s website. A recorded female voice answered, accompanied by a pleasant musical selection. He glanced at the time. Past office hours.
He tapped Smitty’s image to ask for help. Within ten minutes he had Dr. Vincent’s private number compliments of a citizen-watch database law enforcement agencies could access with a proper warrant. A warrant Jennifer McKay had gladly procured from the judge.
He dialed the number. A voice answered. “Thomas Vincent.”
Tyler found himself at a loss for words. What to say? He couldn’t mention the letters. After all, the professor was a possible suspect.
“Hello,” Tyler began hesitantly. “Forgive me for the intrusion, but is this the same Dr. Vincent who wrote the famous book on a religious movement known as Manichaeism?”
A brief laugh from the other end of the line. “I’d hardly call it famous. Academic works don’t sell many downloads. But yes, I’m the author. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
A nice-sounding man. Very respectful. Just like the letters.
“Tyler Cain. I’m doing research on a project and was encouraged to call you for help. I’m told you’re the most respected voice in your field.”
A bit of flattery couldn’t hurt, especially when talking to an academic who seemed more distinguished than famous.
“Well, I’m happy to do what I can,” Dr. Vincent said. “Who recommended me?”
Tyler felt a slight panic. What to say? “I’m embarrassed to say it, but I forgot the person’s name. We met on a plane and struck up a conversation.”
“A student of mine?”
“I think so.”
“Hmm. A young woman?”
Tyler thought for a second. Play the odds. Other than in the movies, killers tend to be male. “A man.”
“Really?”
“Is that surprising?” Tyler asked.
“I don’t give this number out to many of my male students.”
Tyler glanced back at the spicy pictures. What a life! he mused.
“Well, no matter,” the professor continued. “How can I help?”
“I was hoping you could point me in the right direction on something.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Should he risk mentioning the signatures? Without eye contact Tyler would have no way of sensing the professor’s reaction. What if Dr. Vincent had written the letters? Or delivered them? Would this call ruin any hope of cornering the culprit? Maybe. But Tyler was running out of time and options. He decided to chance it.
“Do you know anyone who would call himself a Manichean?”
“A Manichean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, yes. Of course.”
“Really? Who?”
“Well, the most notable would be Augustine.”
Tyler quickly grabbed his tablet. “Could you spell that name?”
The professor laughed at the request. “Certainly you’re familiar with Saint Augustine.”
“Saint?”
“Fourth century. Bishop of Hippo.” Dr. Vincent’s voice sounded suspicious; he had been tipped off by Tyler’s appalling ignorance.
“Truth is,” Tyler began, “I don’t know much about ancient religions or philosophy or anything of the sort.”
A brief silence. “What’s this about? Who gave you this number?”
“The police.”
“The police?” Dr. Vincent said with alarm. “Why would the police give you my private number? Come to think of it, why do they even have my private number?”
Tyler couldn’t see the professor’s eyes, but his voice carried no hint of guilty avoidance. Tyler decided to come clean by telling Dr. Vincent about the letters.
“I see,” the professor responded after listening in silence.
“Do you have any idea who would be eager for NEXT to win its appeal and describe himself as a Manichean?”
Dr. Vincent thought for a moment before mumbling something beneath his breath. Possibly a name.
“What’s that?” Tyler asked.
“I had a student this past year who seemed particularly interested in Manichean philosophy. As it happens, he also has a transition inheritance tied up with his late mother’s estate. I think he might have mentioned something about the NEXT lawsuit, but I couldn’t say for sure.”
“What’s the student’s name?”
The professor hesitated. “I can’t imagine this young man doing anything so stupid. He wants to be a teacher. And he’s worked very hard.”
“You’d be surprised what people will do when they get desperate,” Tyler said. “I just want to ask the guy a few questions. Can you please tell me his name?”
Another pause. “His name is Matthew. Matthew Adams.”
“Thank you, Dr. Vincent. Does Matthew Adams live in student housing on campus?”
“He’s no longer a student. He plans to return to school next year if he can—” The professor stopped short.
“If he can what?” Tyler pushed, sensing the professor knew more than he wanted to reveal. “If he can get the money?”
“Yes.”
Double bingo!
“Which will happen if the transition inheritance is released?”
“I suppose,” Dr. Vincent agreed grudgingly.
“Do you have any idea where we might find Mr. Adams now?” Tyler asked. “Please, Dr. Vincent, this could be a matter of life and death.”
The professor explained that Matthew had left Boulder to take an elder-care job in the Denver area.
“And when did you last speak to Mr. Adams?”
“Last week. He came to me for advice on dealing with his client.”
“Did he mention an address? Give you a phone number? Anything like that?”
“I’m afraid not,” Dr. Vincent replied, as if relieved by his own ignorance. “Like I said. Somewhere in the Denver area.”
Tyler thanked the professor and left the door open for a follow-up inquiry before ending the call.
He had a name.
He had a general location.
And he still had two days.
Tyler smiled in self-congratulation as he reached for the soda can to refill his glass. Then he paused, motioning toward the bartender, who was refilli
ng a collection of empty nut bowls.
“I think I’ll have that stiff drink now,” he said. “I’m suddenly in the mood to celebrate.”
Chapter Forty-One
It felt good to receive Maria’s long embrace, the sorrow Julia had managed to conceal from Troy for the past thirty-six hours finally erupting into her sister’s nurturing arms. It had only taken three gently spoken words.
“I’m sorry, Sis.”
Despite her embarrassment, Julia thanked Maria for listening, for caring, and for promising not to say anything to Troy.
The two now sat on a large rock in silence, holding hands as they had when they were little girls during a thunderstorm. A streak of early-morning sunlight peered over the nearby mountains, brightening the stony trail they intended to hike.
Maria spoke first. “Are they certain? No chance at all?”
“Not much. The doctor mentioned a surgical option. But that rarely helps.” Julia paused to swallow back another flood of tears. Then she continued. “She said most couples in our situation use a sperm bank.”
“Would Troy be open to that?”
“He wants a child badly.” Julia wiped her nose with a tissue she had retrieved from her jogging suit pocket. “But he wants our child. How would he feel about a baby that was half me and half some other guy? Could he love that child like he would his own flesh and blood?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. And I’m afraid to ask.”
Maria placed her hand on Julia’s shoulder. “What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid he’ll say yes. You know Troy. He’ll do whatever he thinks would make me happy. But would it make him happy? I’m afraid I’d never really know how he felt about a child that his wife had with a complete stranger.”
“Julia!” Maria said sternly. “You make it sound like you’re contemplating a one-night stand. It’s not like that. Couples use sperm donors all the time.”
Julia laughed self-consciously. “I know, I know,” she said with a sigh. “I’m probably being silly. Of course it’s not wrong. But it still doesn’t feel quite right. At least not for Troy. Or for me.”
Maria nodded quietly, waiting a few seconds, then stood up. “Do you still want to go?”
