by Liliana Hart
“We’ll listen to the tape later,” he said, holding out his hand and pulling me from the chair. Our bodies bumped briefly. Just an innocent touch that should have been over before it began. The feelings that rioted inside my body weren’t foreign. I’d felt attraction before. Lust. Desire. Need. All of those things that made up basic body chemistry when two people clicked. But those feelings I’d had before were like distant shadows.
I put my hand against his arm to catch my balance and push away, but I was frozen there in his arms. My blood pumped faster and my heart slammed against my chest as his hand rested lightly on my waist. I somehow found the courage to look up. Just to see if I was imagining the whole thing.
The heat in his eyes had turned them almost black, and my fingers clenched against his shirt at the sight of all that restrained power. I don’t know what it was he saw in my face, but it made him loosen the grip I had on his shirt and kiss my fingers softly before separating our bodies.
“Wait—Jack—”
“All in good time, Jaye.” He squeezed my hand once and then let go. “Let’s go hear what the good doctor has to say.”
Chapter Twelve
There was only one interview room in the King George County police station, and sometimes it doubled as storage if things were extra slow. They only boasted five jail cells, so the lack of interview space wasn’t terribly surprising. Most of the problems in this county could be solved without putting someone behind bars. It was an advantage of living in a place where you knew almost everyone.
I followed Jack down the hallway, the grey tile and mint green walls assaulting my eyes with every step. A uniform stood at attention outside a metal door, and he gave Jack a silent nod.
“Any trouble?” Jack asked.
“No, sir. He’s declined representation for the moment, and he asked for a glass of water. I gave him a bottle out of the fridge.”
Jack nodded and opened the door. He gestured for me to enter first, and I realized why as soon as I got my first glimpse of Doctor Gregory Vance. A woman was just another kind of minority to a man like him, and he barely gave me a glance before he turned his attention back to Jack.
Doctor Vance was the president of one of the largest hate groups in the entire country, so to say I was surprised at his appearance would have been an understatement of epic proportions. He could’ve been anybody’s grandfather. He wasn’t a large man, and his face was comfortably lined with age. His bald head was fringed with a half circle of silver hair that started just above the ears, and he wore round gold-framed glasses. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled to the elbow and an expensive watch gleamed at his wrist. The only sign of nerves I could see was the way he rolled his water bottle back and forth in his hands.
“Doctor Vance,” Jack said, taking the seat across from him. “Thanks for coming in to see us today. I’m hoping to clear up a few things.”
I took the seat next to Jack, and was already fidgeting to get out. There was something about the room that made me uneasy. Which I guess was its intention. But being enclosed in a 9x9 square room with painted concrete block walls wasn’t helping my anxiety. The table was metal and bolted to the floor, and the wooden chair I sat in had a short leg, so if I shifted in my seat it wobbled. The two-way mirror was nonexistent. Just walls that kept closing in.
“It’s important to maintain a good relationship with the police,” Doctor Vance said. His voice was higher than I’d expected it to be.
“That’s good,” Jack said, tossing the thick file he’d brought in on the table. “Then we’ll get right to it.”
Jack took out the little cassette recorder and placed it between them on the table. I knew Jack had been trying to get the council to increase the technology budget so they could go digital, but so far his requests had fallen on deaf ears.
“Interview with Doctor Gregory Vance,” Jack said after he’d hit the record button. “You’ve been read your rights and have declined representation at this time, correct?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Vance said.
“This is Doctor Graves,” Jack said. “She’s the coroner for King George County. She’ll sit in on the interview with your permission.”
“Sure, sure. Whatever you need,” he said, his cordial smile turning to a smirk. Dead doctors weren’t considered real doctors in most circles, and I’d gotten used to the condescension from colleagues over the past couple of years.
“State for the record your occupation,” Jack said.
“I’ve been a general practitioner in Gloucester going on twenty years now.”
“Do you have hospital access?”
If Vance was surprised by the question he didn’t show it. “Yes, I make morning rounds twice a week, sometimes more if I’ve got a patient that’s critical.”
Jack nudged my foot under the table and I realized it was my turn. We’d discussed our strategy briefly on the short walk to the interview room.
“Do you know the drug Diprivan?” I asked.
“Of course.” He turned back to Jack, trying to take control away from me. I leaned forward and got his attention again, and the corners of his mouth tightened in either anger or annoyance, I couldn’t be sure. I’d been known to bring out both emotions in the opposite sex.
“Did you sign for a ten milliliter vial two Mondays ago after your morning rounds?”
Vance’s brows rose, but his face was as pleasant and passive as ever. “Obviously I did if you have the record of it, Ms. Graves. Let’s not play games.” I decided to ignore the slight he gave me by not using my title. “It’s common enough during surgeries. But I’m not a surgeon, and I’m not an anesthesiologist, so I don’t often have use of it, if that’s what you’re asking. But that particular morning, one of the anesthesiologists was running late. He’d met a woman the night before and ended up at her place. Unfortunately, he was an hour and a half away and he had a nine o’clock surgery. He asked me to sign for the drugs, so I did. It’s not a usual practice, but hardly illegal.”
“The doctor’s name?” Jack asked.
“Robert Goss. He’s a good doctor. Young and a little impulsive if his sexual habits are anything to go by, but we all know how it feels to be reeled in by a woman’s sexuality. It is, after all, why they were created. You can’t fault the man for falling to temptation. Women were born of sin.”
I rolled my eyes and pinched Jack’s leg under the table to get a move on. I suddenly felt very sorry for Mrs. Vance.
“Where were you the afternoon of Sunday, March 27th, between the hours of noon and six PM?” Jack asked.
“Well,” Vance said, his furrowed brow crinkling further. “Where I am every Sunday afternoon. Church services end around twelve-thirty or so. And then I took my wife, kids and grandkids to lunch. We headed back to the house around three where we watched the Knicks beat the 76ers. A fairly standard Sunday in our household.”
“What about Friday morning between the hours of midnight and four AM?”
“Asleep, of course. I have rounds early Friday mornings. I have to be at the hospital by six AM. My wife can verify if need be.”
“I’ll make sure to contact her,” Jack said, catching Vance off guard with the promise.
I could tell by looking at the good doctor that he felt completely in control of this interview. He was pleasant, but he was also very intelligent and he knew how to show patience and restraint. He’d have to know how as the leader of a group of men as volatile as those belonging to the Aryan Nation.
“How do the people of Gloucester feel about their doctor being involved in one of the most prominent hate groups in America?” Jack asked.
Vance leaned forward and linked his fingers. He was enjoying himself, being the center of attention. “Most don’t know.” One side of his mouth quirked in an amused smile.
I could see it now. The disdain for those who didn’t see things the same way he did. For those he considered inferior. Myself included. His eyes changed—hardening—to give us a glimpse at the man b
eneath the surface.
“And the ones who do know?”
“Most of them are like you. They don’t understand our purpose. They pass judgment without knowing what we do because that’s what the government or the media has told them.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs comfortably. “And then there are those who do know. And believe.”
He twisted the cap off his water and took a long, slow drink, watching us over the top while his throat worked to swallow.
“And what about your sons?” Jack asked. “Do they believe? Did you start training them young? So that hate festered as they grew to adulthood?”
Vance set his water down on the table very carefully. Very controlled. “My sons are good men. They have children. They have careers.”
I noticed he didn’t say wives.
“And are they members of your club? Do they spend their free time torturing and beating grown men to death? Raping women?”
“As I’m sure you know, our membership roster is private. My name is available through our website because I’m the liaison between people like you and our members, but the citizens of this state who’ve decided to follow the true path and dedicate themselves to purifying this country have a right to their privacy.”
Jack took the crime scene photo of Reverend Oglesby out of his folder and set it in front of Doctor Vance. “Look at it,” Jack said when Vance continued to stare straight ahead. “Do you recognize the work here? Is this your idea of purification?”
Vance looked down at the photo of the mutilated body of Daniel Oglesby, but there was no reaction to the horror that had been captured. “There are all kids of purification, Sheriff, but this is not our way. Our creed is that violence of this nature is unnecessary to our cause.”
“But there is violence?”
“I’m sure you know better than most that a group of testosterone driven men can’t always be controlled with the voice of reason. But we strive to be rational and use logic to get our point across.”
“I’m sure Reverend Oglesby would disagree that his torture and death were rational or justified. It’s a hate crime. And it’s still murder, no matter what spin you put on it.”
“It’s not my hate crime,” Vance said with a smile. “I’ve already given you my alibi for the nights in question. I’m intrigued by your case. It’s not often a man of the cloth is punished in a way like this. But it makes you wonder what it was he did to deserve such a punishment.”
“Do you believe anyone deserves a punishment like this?” I couldn’t help but ask.
His eyes met mine and I felt a chill work its way down my spine. “I believe God allows punishments like this for those who do deserve it.”
Vance’s gaze bored into mine, but the pleasant look on his face was at odds with those dead eyes when he started quoting scripture. “The fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and all liars shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire. Revelations is a powerful book of the Bible. Wouldn’t you say so, Ms. Graves?”
My palms were dry and cold and my mouth was like cotton. He’d spoken those words with power and condemnation, but I couldn’t let him see he’d affected me.
“I’m familiar enough with the Bible, Mr. Vance.”
Anger leapt into his eyes at my slight, and it took everything I could muster to hold still in my chair and not move away from him. I couldn’t let him see my fear. He might have an alibi, but he knew more than he was saying. I’d seen that evil glimpse into his soul, and I knew that Vaughn might not be as safe as he thought he was.
“You forgot to mention the part about murderers,” I said. “They belong in the fiery lake as well. Unless there’s a special place in hell for people like that?”
Vance leaned toward me, and I froze as I forgot how to breathe again.
“Do you know George Murphy?” Jack asked, drawing his attention away from me.
Vance gathered his composure and relaxed back in his chair. “I can’t say I recognize the name. Is he a suspect?”
“I just thought you might have some familiarity with those in your following.”
“Like I said, Sheriff, if he was a member I wouldn’t divulge his name. And just because I’m in a position of power doesn’t mean I know everyone in the organization. It’s a large group. Did you know our numbers have grown larger than all the police in the state combined?”
I felt Jack go rigid beside me as Vance stared him down and the threat became clear, but Jack wasn’t one to be intimidated. There was a reason Jack was a damned good poker player, but him in a temper was never a good thing, so I reached under the table and put my hand on his knee, hoping he wouldn’t give Vance the satisfaction of a response. Jack’s muscles relaxed beneath my hand, and he took another photograph out of the folder and put it face up in front of the doctor.
“What can you tell me about this?” Jack asked.
The photo was a close up of the brand that had been burned into Reverend Oglesby’s hip—of the flesh that had been charred black around the edge with the symbol of hatred. Jack took out another photo and laid it beside the first. I recognized the body of Julie Lawrence, the victim from Westmoreland County. She had a similar brand, but hers had been on the inner thigh. I could tell by looking at her photo that they’d given it to her pre-mortem, and I clenched my fists in my lap to keep from launching myself across the table at the smug little bastard in front of me.
Doctor Vance adjusted his glasses and leaned over the photographs, studying them intently. “Why should I be able to tell you anything about this symbol?” he asked, looking up.
“Doesn’t it look familiar? Like the symbol of the organization you represent?” Jack said.
“There are similarities, certainly,” Dr. Vance said. “But this is not our symbol.” He bent down and pulled up his trouser leg, pushing down his sock so his ankle was exposed. No bigger than the size of a thumbprint was the exact same tattoo I’d seen on George Murphy.
“This is our symbol, Sheriff Lawson. What you have there is the same except for the crown. Our crown only has three points. The one on your victims has five.”
“And that makes a difference?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. A significant difference. That’s not our symbol. Now,” he said, fixing his pants leg and pushing back his chair. “I’ve given you all the time I can spare for the day.”
There was a knock at the door, and we all turned to face Detective Lewis as he stepped inside. His face was grim as he leaned down and whispered in Jack’s ear, but I couldn’t hear what was being said. I watched Doctor Vance instead and saw the smile curl at the corner of his lips.
Detective Lewis left, and Jack stood up, gathering the photographs in front of Vance and slipping them back in the folder.
He hit the stop button on the recorder. “We appreciate your cooperation, Doctor Vance. We’ll talk again soon.” He motioned to me and opened the door before he turned back and added, “Don’t plan any trips out of the state.”
I followed Jack at a fast clip down the hallway to where Detective Lewis was waiting. “What’s happened?” I asked, all but running to keep up with Jack’s longer strides.
“I found George Murphy,” Lewis said.
“Did you bring him in for questioning?” I asked.
“I’m going to leave that to you, Doc Graves. I found him down in Newcastle in his pickup truck. Had a bullet in the side of his head. I don’t think he’s going to do us much good in interview.”
Chapter Thirteen
By the time Jack and I arrived, the area had already been cordoned off and the crime scene team had finished documenting the scene surrounding the truck. But they’d left the inside intact for me.
I recognized George Murphy’s truck immediately. To think I’d ridden in it only a few short hours before gave me the creeps. Especially now that the inside was decorated with George’s blood.
A scene like this was going to get messier the more I waded in, so I
pulled my kit and a pair of coveralls out of the back of the Suburban. I snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves and watched Jack out of the corner of my eye, tossing his leather jacket into the trunk so it wouldn’t get ruined, and donning his own coveralls. I slung my camera around my neck and headed to the truck.
“Made a hell of a mess,” Jack said. “I didn’t realize George had that many brains.”
I snorted out a laugh, but quickly turned it into a cough when heads turned our way. We circled the truck, and I took a dozen or so pictures of the blood spatter.
“Looks like a bullet up close and personal to the left temple,” I said. “No chance of missing when you’re that close. Anyone been inside the truck yet?
“I had them save it just for you.”
“Must be my lucky day. Let’s open it up.”
Jack did the honors of opening the driver’s side door. The side of George’s body that faced us looked exactly the way I remembered him from earlier. Same white t-shirt and stained jeans. The only thing different was the tiny round hole in his temple.
“It’s pretty handy how the gun ended up still in his hand after he fired the shot,” Jack said. “Looks like a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver.”
“Yeah, crazy how that works. Especially since he was right handed.” I remembered George writing the ticket out for the Suburban repair. Definitely right handed. I took a photograph of the entry wound and swabbed a sample of the powder residue left around the wound.
“The killer held it right up to the skin. See the tattooing of the powder around the entry hole?”
Jack moved in closer so he could take a look. “Whoever did it didn’t bother to try very hard to cover it up. ”
“He’s still in primary flaccidity.” George’s muscles had relaxed completely, making his jaw hang open and his eyelids droop closed. His hand was so limp I was amazed they’d managed to get his fingers wrapped around the gun.
I pulled it out of his hand, and Jack held up an evidence bag so I could drop the gun inside. “I don’t see powder marks on his hand. At least not enough that would indicate he’s the shooter.” I took measurements of the entrance wound and called out numbers to Jack. “You know, something’s been bothering me ever since I asked George about that tattoo.”
