by Gary Parker
“Look, my dearest friend, I’m going to make it now. You helped me get a toehold last night. I had just about slipped away there for a few days, but what you said about the kids gave me the courage I needed to dig in. I know I’m not over this, not by a long shot. I won’t ever be over it, not really. But I can cope with it, at least for now. So, I want you to go on home to Tick. I don’t want to wear you out so much now that you won’t come the next time I need you. You understand what I’m saying?”
Tess stared back at her, her lips curling upward in a slight grin. “You’re throwing me out of here,” she said. “Throwing me out like a worn-out shoe.”
Connie grinned too. “You got it, kid. You’re done here. Now go home to your husband before he forgets your name.”
Tess’s face turned serious. Her eyes glistened. She squeezed Connie’s hands.
“Welcome back,” she said. “I knew the Lord would get you through this.”
“The Lord and a whole lot of friends.”
Tess let go of her hands and wrapped her arms around Connie. For several moments, the two embraced each other, neither of them wanting to let go. Connie relaxed and allowed herself to soak up the strength she felt in Tess, a strength that flowed as naturally from the good woman as water from a spring. A lot could go wrong with a life, but a good friend could provide enough comfort to survive it.
The phone rang, and the intimacy of the embrace ended. Tess and Connie stepped back from each other. The phone rang a second time.
“Call me if you need me,” said Tess, pulling off her apron.
“I’ll call you even if I don’t need you,” said Connie, reaching for the phone. “Like I always have. No reason to change that.”
“None at all.” Tess walked away to retrieve her things.
Connie focused on the phone. “Hello,” she said.
“Yes . . . Mrs. Brandon?”
“Yes, this is Connie.”
“Yeah, well . . . this is Johnson Mack, Mrs. Brandon. I’m sorry about your loss.”
Connie immediately recognized the man’s distinctive voice, the sound of sandpaper scratching on concrete. “Thank you, Mayor, it’s not easy but lots of people and our faith are getting us through it.”
“Good, I’m glad the community has stuck by you.”
“They really have, Mayor. You can be proud of Jefferson City.”
“I am, Mrs. Brandon, I am.” Mack cleared his throat. “Look, Mrs. Brandon, I know you’re still under a lot of stress and strain and probably haven’t had time to do much thinking about any of this, but I thought I needed to talk with you about something. Have you got a minute?”
Curious, Connie pulled a chair from the bar by the sink and sat down. “Sure, Mayor, I’m okay.”
“Good. Well . . . you see, Mrs. Brandon, your husband and I didn’t always agree with each other, especially not on this gambling project, but I always admired him, appreciated his honesty, the integrity with which he carried on his arguments.”
“Thank you, Mayor, Jack tried to treat people like he wanted them to treat him.”
“Yes, exactly. A good man for sure. Now . . . let me . . . well, I . . . um, want to ask you to consider something.”
“What’s that, Mayor?”
“Well, I want to make you an offer on your property.”
Connie swallowed hard, momentarily confused. What did he mean? Her home? That made no sense. He wanted to buy the store!“ You mean the bookstore?” she asked.
“Sure, that’s it. You see, I think that’s a good piece of real estate and I . . . I think I could do good things with it. I tried to get your husband to consider this a couple of times, but he wouldn’t talk about it.”
“You want to keep it a bookstore?”
Mack laughed quickly, then cut it off. “Oh, well, not . . . not really. You see, that’s . . . that’s not my business. I wouldn’t know what to do with a bookstore. No, I want to develop the property. I own the three properties to the left and the four to the right of Jack’s place. With his piece, I have the whole block. The block right where most folks think a convention center would fit best in Jefferson City.”
Connie took a minute to catch her breath. Mack had offered to buy the store from Jack? Jack never told her. Of course, if he never considered it, why should he tell her? She refocused on Mack.
“You want the store so you can build a convention center?”
“Sure, progress, you know . . . I mean we’ve tried to get a convention center here for years. Now, with gambling almost sure to come, a convention center will become quite a revenue source . . . for the city, of course.”
Her blood pressure rising, Connie’s face turned red. Selling the store might make all the sense in the world, but right now it made her angry to consider it. How dare Mack call her so soon after Jack’s death and offer to buy the business he had worked so hard to build? Worse, he did so based on the assumption that gambling was certain to come to Jefferson City, in spite of Jack’s best efforts. That infuriated her!
She opened her mouth to tell him what she thought of his offer, but then the image of the $25,000 loan and a poor statement of accounts at the store rose up before her eyes. She bit her tongue, realizing she couldn’t afford to burn a bridge she might one day need to cross.
“I’ll need to think about this,” she said, forcing herself to stay calm. “Did you have a figure in mind?”
Mack grunted, then spoke, his voice rock on rock. “Well, I . . . you see . . . I offered your husband $230,000. But I’m willing to increase that offer today. Offhand, I’d say . . . oh, I don’t know . . . I think three hundred and ten would make a tidy sum for you.”
Connie almost swallowed the phone. Jack had paid only $68,000 for the store fifteen years ago. Struggling to keep her composure, she forced herself to sound strong. “Like I said, I’ll need to think about this.”
“You do that, Mrs. Brandon. I’ll be back in touch soon.”
The line went dead. Connie placed the phone in the receiver.
The second she did, it rang again. Connie jumped back, then stared at the phone for a second before picking it up.
“Mrs. Brandon, this is Luke Tyler. You doing okay? I heard you were under the weather.”
Connie took a deep breath. “Oh, I’m feeling better, just been real tired.”
“I can’t imagine how you’re making it.”
“Well, it’s not easy, but I’ve got a church full of friends, and their praying makes a difference.”
Tyler paused and Connie shifted her focus from Mack’s offer to the detective. She wondered about the man’s faith, if he had any. She considered how to ask him about his beliefs, but he spoke before she could say anything.
“I’m sure it does,” he said quickly. “Look, you said you wanted to see the autopsy when we got it. Well, I’ve got a copy here at the station. I called Monday, but some woman there said I shouldn’t disturb you with it. I thought I’d try again this morning. Glad I caught you. You still want to see this?”
Connie leaned against the counter. Reading an autopsy didn’t rank high on her favorite things to do today, and she didn’t know if she could face it quite yet. But, if she really believed someone else had written the suicide note, she needed to talk to Tyler anyway. Tell him about the Kate vs. Katie problem. See what he thought of that.
“Yes, I still want to see it,” she said, determined to move ahead with her original plans.
“You want me to come out there? I’ll gladly do it.”
Connie weighed his offer, then decided against it. “No, I’ll come downtown,” she said. “I need to run a few errands anyway. What time you want me to stop by?”
“You tell me.”
“An hour from now okay?”
“Sounds good to me.”
She started to hang up, but Tyler interrupted her. “Mrs. Brandon?”
“Yes.”
“Glad you’re feeling better. The Baptists at my church have been praying for you too.”
It actually took her twenty minutes longer than that to get showered, dressed, and drive downtown. When she stepped out of her van at the police station, she felt almost like a normal person— her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, her khaki slacks topped by a long-sleeved beige sweater, and her face made up for the first time in a week. Though not sure she should trust the feeling to last very long, she decided to ride it out as long as possible. She suspected she would go through a number of mood swings over the next few months as she dealt with the reality of Jack’s death. Surely, gloom would come again, and periods of normalcy would follow. For now, normalcy ruled, and she decided to rejoice and be glad in it.
Tyler stood and held out his hand when she entered his office. She took his hand and shook it firmly, her eyes again surveying the cramped quarters. His gray eyes studied her for several seconds as she sat down. He took a seat, too, his desk between them.
“You didn’t have to come down here,” he began, propping his hands behind his head. “I would have come to your house.”
She waved him off. “No, I needed to get out. I’ve been in the house too much lately. Time for me to stir again. This gave me a good excuse.”
Tyler nodded, then raised up, taking a blue folder from his top right desk drawer. “The autopsy,” he said, pushing it across the desk. “If you’re sure you want to see it.”
Connie inhaled sharply. For several days she had planned to read this file, to search it for some flaw, to find something in it to explain away the drugs. But now that it lay before her, she didn’t know if she could read it without breaking down.
Tyler apparently sensed her hesitation. “You want me to sum it up for you?” he asked kindly.
Connie almost accepted his offer. But then she thought of the suicide note. Someone else had written it. She knew that as surely as she knew she had red hair. If she wanted to catch the person who wrote the note, she needed to read this report, no matter how painful.
She shook her head. “No, I’ll read it myself.” She reached for the folder, pulling it to her lap. Opening it, she clenched her teeth and narrowed her eyes. Tyler perched forward in his seat, his eyes not leaving her face. Connie began to read, deliberately moving slowly so she could digest the information. Though unfamiliar with the forms, she knew it was standard stuff.
Name of deceased.
Name of examiner.
Date of examination.
Reason for autopsy.
Clinical and laboratory data.
Connie bit her upper lip and took a deep breath. This was Jack’s body she was reading about with such a clinical eye. The body that had held her close on cold winter nights, walked with her in the mornings while dew still hung on the grass, sat beside her in their pew at church. She stopped, wondering if she could continue. But then an encouraging Scripture came to her. The words of Paul to the church at Corinth.
The body is sown in corruption, it is raised inincorruption.
It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory.
It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.
It is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.
There is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body.
Thinking of the Scripture, a comforting realization hit Connie. Jack’s body, though important, no longer contained him. His essence, the center of what made him unique, had achieved another form by the power of God. She could look at this autopsy clinically because it told the story of what happened to the outer, temporary frame of Jack Brandon. No matter what happened to that frame, God now took care of the inner person, the eternal soul of the man she loved. A sense of peace washed through her and she refocused on the report.
Gross anatomical protocol.
Case summary.
In medical jargon, the summary spelled out the condition of Jack’s body at the time of the examination. Though ignorant of some of the terminology, Connie gathered the key points.
Time of death: best estimate: between ten P.M. and two A.M.
Cause of death: overdose of cocaine. A needle prick in his right arm at the left elbow joint, the obvious entry point of the deadly injection.
“Jack was right-handed,” she said, looking up from the printout. “Wouldn’t it make sense for him to have used his right hand to inject the drug, put it into his left arm?”
Tyler arched his eyebrows, his gray eyes puzzled. “Makes sense,” he agreed. “But people don’t always follow normal patterns when they’re suicidal.”
Feeling she had won the point, Connie turned back to the report.
“A lump on the back of his head,” she said, talking out loud. “What caused that?”
Tyler shrugged, then pulled a toothpick from his denim shirt and popped it into his mouth. “Don’t know. Maybe a piece of driftwood. Or maybe he jumped from the bridge, hit his head as he entered the water. Either is possible.”
“Or someone knocked him out from behind, injected the drugs into his veins, then threw him in the river.”
“Yeah, that’s possible too.”
Connie studied the report another moment. “It says he had river water in his nose, mouth, and throat. But none in the lungs or stomach. Like you said, he didn’t drown.”
Disturbed by another notion, Connie lay the report in her lap and sat up straighter.
“I can’t see it,” she said. “Why there’s absolutely no river water in his lungs and stomach.”
“Like I told you, the drugs killed him, he didn’t drown. No reason for water in the lungs or stomach.”
“But that makes no sense. Think about it. For the sake of argument, let’s assume Jack did commit suicide. At what point did he take the drugs? Before he left his truck? Then why not just sit there and die?”
Tyler shrugged. Connie pressed ahead. “Did you find the needle in the truck?”
“No, we haven’t found the needle anywhere.”
Connie nodded, then continued. “If he took the drugs in the truck, planning to walk to the river, how did he know he’d even make it? He could have died at any point or someone could have seen him. Did you get any report that anyone did?”
“It was late, not that many people on the road.”
Connie shrugged as if to give him the benefit of the doubt, but she knew lots of people crossed the bridge, at all hours of the night.
“Okay,” she continued, “your scenario says Jack parked the truck, took the drugs with him and walked to the water, unseen by anybody because it’s late and few people are out. Then, he injected the drugs and jumped into the river, probably from the bridge. Is that it?”
Tyler nodded. “Something like that, yes.”
“Then he should definitely have some Missouri River water in his system.”
Tyler leaned forward, his chair squeaking, his toothpick gripped in the center of his teeth. “I see what you’re saying,” he agreed. “Unless he was completely, totally, stone-cold dead when he entered the water, he would’ve swallowed at least a little water as the drug took effect. He would have involuntarily tried to survive even though he wanted to commit suicide.”
“Exactly!” said Connie, slapping the folder onto Tyler’s desk. “Water should be there!”
“Unless we see it another way,” said Tyler, considering the options. “One, he did the drugs in the truck, then moved to the river, taking the needle with him. There he stood, literally until his heart stopped and he fell in. Two, he waited until he reached the water, then he took the drugs, waited until the dosage killed him, then fell into the river.”
“If it was a suicide, it had to happen in one of those two ways.”
“And if it wasn’t?” Tyler asked.
“Simple. Someone knocked him out, injected the drugs, waited until he died, then carried him to the river and threw him in.”
Tyler tickled the underside of his toothpick with his tongue. “You paint an interesting picture,” he said. “But it’s all conjecture. No proof of
anything you suggest. Some evidence does, however, point to a suicide.”
“The note,” said Connie.
“And bad finances.”
Connie had to agree. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s accept your assumption for the moment. Finances were tough. But that’s not enough to make a man like Jack kill himself. A man with as many friends as he had, in spite of this gambling fight. He loved life too much, other people too much, his family too much—”
She stopped, realizing she had already given him this speech. “Okay, back to my point. Even with a bad quarter at the store, Jack wouldn’t do it, no way.”
Tyler shrugged, then nibbled again on his toothpick. “So,” he said, his voice softer. “Who’s your suspect?”
Connie’s brown eyes widened, and she perched higher in her seat. “You really want me to tell you?”
“Sure, you’re full of ideas. Tell me what you think.”
Sucking in a deep breath, Connie thought a few moments. Surely, Tyler knew what she would say. But he did ask.
“The gambling people,” she said. “They hated Jack. Knew they might lose because of him.”
“You suggesting Cedric Blacker had something to do with this?”
“Not directly, of course. But his people have connections . . . the Mob . . . Have you talked to him?”
Tyler chewed his toothpick. “Sure I have, over a week ago. It seemed obvious I should talk to him. But, as I’m sure you expect, he claimed no knowledge of any of this, and three people gave him an alibi. Seems he had late drinks at the Capital City Club.”
“But you are checking the possibility of the gambling interests?” “Absolutely, I’m checking every possibility.”
The room fell silent for a moment. Another idea occurred to Connie. Johnson Mack. He wanted the store so he could develop the property for a convention center. Though she didn’t know the finances, she suspected he stood to make a couple of million dollars or more from such a deal. Jack had turned him down flat when he made his offer to buy the property. Could Mack have paid a killer to get rid of Jack so he could make an offer to his desperate-for-cash widow? Connie started to tell Tyler about Mack’s call but then remembered she had no proof of her suspicions and decided to keep quiet. Spreading unsubstantiated stories cut against her beliefs.
