by Mike Pace
A quick nod, then Castro left the courtroom.
“So, you know Castro?” asked Eva.
“Yeah, my brother-in-law killed himself, and Castro was the detective in charge.”
“Sorry to hear that. Did he leave a note?”
Yeah, he left a note. One that was practically dictated to him by the guy standing in front of you. “Yes. Gino had beaten his wife to death in a jealous rage and faced life in prison. The note was asking forgiveness from his daughter.”
“Now I remember reading about it. Didn’t realize you were related. Sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“Good news for the family is you’ve got Percy Castro involved,” said Eva. “Best detective in the city. Any loose ends, he’ll find them.”
Yeah, good news unless one happened to be a loose end. Tom couldn’t stop his legs from shaking. His head pounded.
He had to talk to someone or he was going to burst.
CHAPTER 22
Tom patted John Carroll’s ass without breaking stride. The seated bronze statue of Georgetown’s founder, otherwise green with age, sported one shiny spot on its rear end. Over the years, countless superstitious students and faculty, perhaps on the way to a final exam, a tenure committee meeting, or a blind date, had rubbed John Carroll’s butt in search of good fortune.
The campus was crowded as undergrads hurried to reach a 5:00 p.m. class. Tom climbed the stone steps to Healy Hall. Healy reminded him of a huge medieval castle, and today its sharp spires and cold gray stone melded perfectly with the heavily overcast late afternoon sky.
He took the elevator to the third floor, then turned down the corridor toward the faculty offices. During law school, he’d spent little time on the main campus; the law school was located on New Jersey Avenue, a stone’s throw from the Capitol. But first-year law students were required to take a legal ethics class. Tom’s instructor had been Father Matthew Sheran, a Jesuit who’d written extensively about ethics in general and legal ethics in particular. While not an attorney, he was highly regarded as one of the top scholars on legal ethics in the country.
Tom had called ahead for an appointment, found the office, and knocked.
“Come in.” Father Sheran’s deep baritone voice could easily be heard from the other side of the door.
Tom entered and closed the door behind him. The priest stood up from behind his desk and greeted him with an easy smile.
In his mid-thirties, Matthew Sheran was an inch or so taller than Tom, fit, African-American, with close-cropped hair and soft, brown eyes. He had a strong grip, and Tom was reminded of a comment he’d heard his first days at Georgetown during orientation—the Jesuits were a muscular order of the church known as God’s Marines due to their founder’s military background. Nobody messed with the Jezzies.
“I’m sure you don’t remember me,” said Tom. “As I said on the phone, I was in your legal ethics class over four years ago.”
“You’re right, I don’t.” The Jezzies also had a reputation for being direct. “Please, take a seat.”
Father Sheran wore a tan corduroy sport coat over an oxford shirt, his Roman collar the only indication he was a man of the cloth. Tom recalled that the man’s movie-star good looks, combined with the novelty of a black priest bearing an Irish name, convinced many females in his class it was their duty to persuade him to break his vows of celibacy. As far as Tom knew, no one had ever been successful.
The small office was cluttered with stacks of books and papers, but Tom cleared the single chair and sat down.
“On the phone you mentioned a matter of life and death. Rather melodramatic,” said Father Sheran. “And if I might say, you appear rather anxious.”
Rather anxious? Rather no shit. The priest’s eyes bore into him.
“First, thank you for seeing me, Father. Before I go any further, I’d appreciate confirmation that anything I tell you would be covered by the priest-penitent privilege,” said Tom. “By the way, you should know I’m not Catholic. In fact, I’ve been away from the church for some time.”
“Doesn’t affect the privilege, and please call me Matt.”
Tom continued. “And confirmation that the privilege, unlike the atttorney-client privilege, covers admissions of intent to commit future crimes.”
The priest’s expression clouded and he leaned forward. “You said you weren’t a Catholic. Before you say another word, I strongly encourage you to seek counsel from a Protestant minister or rabbi or whoever represents—”
“Am I right?”
Matt held his gaze and spoke in an even tone. “Yes.”
Tom paused to exhale. “Do you believe in hell? I mean really believe? Not just in man’s capacity to do evil on earth, but an actual place with a head guy, and demons or dark angels or boogeymen who work for him?”
It was Matt’s turn to pause. “Perhaps at this point it would be helpful if you told me a little about yourself.”
Tom knew where the priest was heading, and he didn’t blame him. “I’m not crazy, although when I leave here you likely will disagree.” The priest held his gaze, and Tom suspected he was debating whether to continue the conversation.
“Yes, I believe in hell as a state of eternal punishment inhabited by those rejected by God.”
“A state? Not a place?”
“I had a professor say once, ‘Hell is as far away as the nothing beyond the farthest universe, and as close as the nose on your face.’”
“Poetic, but not helpful.”
“The Bible repeatedly attributes to Jesus the description of hell as a ‘fiery furnace,’ and St. Peter himself pictured demons, fallen angels, lions prowling among us, searching for someone to devour. But the church has been less than definitive on these matters. I’m not sure it makes any real difference, and the truth is, irrespective of what or how strongly we believe, no one really knows for sure. For the person, the soul involved, a state of being is a place, a place absent of God. Now, what it’s like, who staffs it, what they look like, I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
Tom bent forward, clasped his hands, and rested them on the edge of the priest’s desk. “By midnight tomorrow night, I have to murder a man to prevent my daughter or another innocent child from dying and going to hell.”
He was not surprised by Matt’s stunned expression, and proceeded to tell the priest his story.
Tom leaned back in the chair, emotionally spent. Matt hadn’t spoken a word throughout the telling.
“Tom, you can’t do this. No matter what crimes Mackey might have committed, you have no right legally or morally to take his life. The events you described on the bridge were obviously delusions resulting from trauma caused by the accident.”
“But there was no accident. Once I agreed to the deal, no crash occurred, so there couldn’t have been head trauma.”
“Okay, why you?”
“No idea. And what about the messages on my iPhone from Chad and Brit?”
“Anyone else see them?”
“No, but—”
“Do they appear on your phone’s call log?”
“Showing what number? 1-800-roast-4-eternity? Look, I expected if anyone would’ve had a mind open enough to believe me, it would’ve been a priest. I should’ve known better.” He stood and headed for the door.
“Wait.” Tom turned back to see Matthew was visibly troubled. “If you’re asking me whether your story is conceivably possible, to say anything other than ‘yes’ would betray my faith. But, I don’t know you. I don’t know whether you have any history of mental illness, any history of, shall we say, exaggeration. I do know that murder’s a sin, Tom.”
“Even in defense of an innocent child?”
“But Mackey hasn’t threatened your child.”
“I will protect my daughter,” said Tom, his voice barely above a whisper. “I appreciate your time, Father, I really do.” He opened the door.
“Tom—”
He left and closed the
door behind him, harder than he’d intended.
CHAPTER 23
As he drove down Alabama Avenue the next night, Tom couldn’t flush Father Sheran’s words from his mind.
Murder’s a sin, Tom.
Yeah, God, well, allowing the other team to take the life of an innocent child, doesn’t that count as a sin? Oh, guess you can’t sin against yourself, can you?
He felt his mind edging closer to…to what? Madness?
Concentrate on the mission. Think about Janie.
He turned right on 32nd Street, passed Naylor Gardens, then took a left on Polk. Deserted. No moon or stars; most all of the streetlamps shot out. A few dimly lit windows hinted at the location of several three-story garden apartments, which otherwise would’ve been camouflaged by the darkness.
When he’d asked for the street number, Mackey didn’t know. He’d said he lived in apartment 201. He thought the building was either the third or fourth on the left after he turned onto Polk, and the front door was broken.
After parking across the deserted street, Tom locked the car. He suspected any attempt to protect the vehicle from theft was likely futile, and if he emerged from the building—escaped the scene—and his car was gone, well, he could only worry about so much at one time. Maybe the demon twins would protect the Lexus. After all, what fun would it be if the star quarterback got knocked out of the game in the first quarter?
He made his way up the steps to the third building. The front door’s lock had been ripped away, and the door offered no impediment to access.
The lobby was filthy. Trash, rolled-up dirty diapers, used condoms, and a few syringes littered the chipped tile floor. A panel of mailboxes along one wall had been partially pried from the wall, and the doors to all the individual boxes were either open or totally missing.
He climbed the steps to the second floor. Four doors, four apartments. Three of the doors displayed numbers: 202, 203, and 204. Tom knocked on the door without the number.
No answer.
He knocked harder and thought he heard the sound of movement on the other side of the door.
A muffled voice. “Yeah?”
“Looking for Reece Mackey.”
“Who lookin’?”
It sounded like Mackey. “Mr. Mackey, is that you? It’s Tom Booker.”
“Who?”
“CJA.”
No answer. Tom glanced at his watch: 11:10. He had less than an hour.
Tom was about to repeat himself when he heard the sound of a chain being unlocked. Two more clicks from other locks and his client opened the door. Mackey stepped back, allowing Tom to enter.
As he passed the man, Tom nearly choked from the overpowering stench of alcohol. He spotted a half-empty bottle of cheap gin sitting on a small Formica table that might have been white once but now was a smudgy gray. Clothes, including stained underwear, were strewn throughout the main space, including the kitchen counter and the old table. Cigarette burns peppered the frayed carpet.
Along with the gin and soiled clothing, a bag of potato chips, a tin of onion dip, and an ashtray overflowing with butts covered the table. Half of the butts were cigarettes, the rest were of the cannabis variety. An ancient TV with cables running through a ragged hole in the wall, presumably leading to a CATV connection in the adjoining apartment, sat on two stacks of magazines.
Tom glanced toward the bedroom. “So, are you alone?”
“La Chiqua comin’ over later after she get off work.”
“Oh, what kind of work does she do?”
Mackey gave him a curious look. “She a ho.”
Okay, no problem. Just trying to make conversation here. He sat at the table without being invited. Mackey took the seat opposite him and swigged a long swallow of gin, then passed the bottle to Tom. The gracious host.
For a moment, Tom stared at the bottle lip, wondering what kind of deadly bacteria had just been deposited there. What the hell? Hopefully the gin would kill the critters. He took the bottle, nodded his thanks, and quickly sipped the gin.
The liquid tasted like rubbing alcohol. Frank Custer’s Gin made in Akron, Ohio. Wonder if Frank was a descendent of George? No matter, scalping was too good for him.
At the last moment before leaving his apartment, Tom had decided to join his close friend Mr. Daniel’s for a little pre-game pep rally. Just a taste to soften the edges. There’d only been a couple of shots left in the bottle, so he’d drained it and hadn’t been surprised that his mind and reflexes remained unaffected. But sitting across from his soon-to-be-dead client, the previously softened edges had sharpened up again, so he took another swig of Frank Custer’s Gin. Really, not so bad.
“So, what you need to tell me, Booker?”
Mackey took an even longer swig, but before he could offer his guest the bottle again, Tom retrieved a quart of 101 proof Wild Turkey bourbon from his briefcase. He’d decided at the last minute it might be a good idea to bring a peace offering for his client, a gesture that, hopefully, might lessen Mackey’s natural suspicion of anybody associated with the District of Columbia criminal justice system.
“Little present for you.”
Mackey’s eyes lit up, and he snatched the bottle from Tom’s hand. After peeling off the aluminum seal, he pulled the cork and drank as if the bottle contained spring water. Guess when one’s used to Frank Custer’s Gin from Akron, Ohio, everything else tasted smooth as honey.
When Mackey was finished, he stared at Tom with a curious expression. Tom realized the man couldn’t remember why his lawyer was sitting across from him at his kitchen table.
Tom glanced at his watch: thirty-nine minutes. No use putting it off.
He reached for the Glock as Mackey drank some more. The bottle was almost a quarter gone. If Mackey didn’t slow down he was going to drink himself to death.
Tom paused. Was that possible? Could someone drink themselves to death in thirty-nine minutes? While the man was a habitual drinker, he’d also consumed as much as a half bottle of rotgut gin. He remembered reading about a well-known singer dying of alcohol poisoning. Her death had focused attention on the subject, and while Tom recalled very few of the details, he knew time was critical—the more one consumed in a short period of time, the greater the likelihood the body couldn’t metabolize the alcohol, and death would result.
Tom released his grip on the Glock and studied the man sitting across the table. Mackey’s eyes were glassy and he swayed in his seat.
“Good stuff, right?” asked Tom.
Mackey responded with a lazy smile. “Real good.”
“Help yourself, help yourself.”
While Mackey took another swig, Tom got up from his chair and walked to the tiny kitchen. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, then opened one cabinet drawer after another until he found what he was looking for—a 20 oz. plastic Redskins cup. “Hey, Redskins fan. Me too.”
He returned to the table and filled the cup with bourbon.
“Here you go. Hail to the Redskins.”
“Thank you, brutha.” Mackey took the cup and drained a quarter of it in one swallow.
“Taste good? Have some more.”
“Better lay off for a bit, know what I’m sayin’? Shit’s got a bite.”
“I hear you, man. Your TV work?”
Mackey fumbled around, looking under a clump of damp t-shirts on the table. He found the remote and handed it to Tom. Fortunately, he was too far gone to notice the plastic gloves. Or maybe that’s what he thought the skin of white people looked like.
“Got to eat some grease to soak up the hooch.” He jammed a handful of chips into his mouth.
Tom wasn’t happy about the chips soaking up anything in Mackey’s stomach, but there was nothing he could do about it. Hopefully, the salt would make him thirsty. He turned on the TV and saw the Comcast logo appear on the screen. He flipped to ESPN. They were running a tape of Maryland’s win that afternoon over Penn State. In the lower right corner of the screen, Comcast showed the local ti
me and temperature. Tom compared the Comcast time to his watch; Comcast was two minutes faster. It was 11:48. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Comcast was right.
“You follow the Terps?” asked Tom.
“Oh, yeah. Got a second cousin, played tight end for them while back.”
Tom saw him take another long drink. Maybe the salty chips were working. Except the bag was now empty. Tom got up and found a jumbo bag of pretzels in the fridge next to a six-pack of Miller and three tins of onion dip. He quickly opened the bag and poured a pile of pretzels onto the table in front of his client.
Mackey’s movements were slow and uncoordinated, and he had to squint to focus on the pretzels. Something clicked and he put one in his mouth and swallowed, then immediately took a long swig from the Redskins cup.
“Did you see that catch?” asked Tom. Mackey was having trouble seeing anything. Comcast time: 11:54. Six minutes.
This wasn’t working. He’d have to use the gun. Would it be easier to pump a bullet into the brain of a man if he were drunk and would likely feel no pain?
Tom popped a pretzel into his mouth. “Damn, these pretzels are good.” He put a pretzel into Mackey’s hand. The man stared at it for a moment then ate it. Another long drink from the Redskins cup. Little less than two inches left in the bottom of the cup.
Tom grabbed the bottle of gin. “Touchdown! You see that?” A commercial for Bud ran on the screen, but Mackey couldn’t tell. Tom clinked the bottle against the Redskins cup.
A toast. It took Mackey a long moment to understand. Then he smiled.
“Tushdown.” He drained the cup.
Tom immediately poured more bourbon into the cup, but Mackey pushed it away. Tom did a quick calculation. Twenty ounces. Added on to the long swigs he’d taken from the bottle. Added on to Frank Custer’s Akron gin. Was that enough?
Tom again tipped the gin bottle against the cup. “Touchdown!”
Mackey reached out for the cup, then his eyes rolled back and his head flopped onto the table. He was out cold.
