The Dead Detective

by William Heffernan

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Akashic Books

  ©2010 William Heffernan

  eISBN-13: 978-1-617-75000-7

  ISBN-13: 978-1-936070-61-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010922716

  Akashic Books

  PO Box 1456

  New York, NY 10009

  Akashic7@aol.com

  www.akashicbooks.com

  This book is for Karyna, Cheryl, Alisa, Taylor, Max, and Parker,

  young men and women who are always there for me. Love you guys.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Great liberties were taken in the portrayal of the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Department and the Tarpon Springs Police Department. Those liberties were needed to produce a certain dramatic effect and should not be taken as a condemnation of either police agency or the people who run them.

  PROLOGUE

  Tampa, Florida

  The mirrored ball rotating above the stage sent small patches of light spiraling about the room, and together with the grinding beat of the music it seemed to accent the faint film of sweat that covered the dancer’s body. She was a beautiful woman, young and lithe and erotically proportioned, and she was dressed in the skimpiest of thongs with a bikini top so small it failed to cover the aureoles of her breasts. Yet none of that staged eroticism found its way to her dancing, and the perspiration on her body came from the heat of the stage lights rather than any degree of exertion.

  Darlene Beckett studied the woman and tried to think of a single word that would describe her performance. Somnambulistic was the only one that came to mind, and she wished she could go up on the stage and push the woman aside; show her how to arouse the men who sat staring up at her; show her how to use her body, how to put that little pout in her lips, how to make her eyes call out with an open invitation, how to use all of it until she had them slipping their hands under the table and reaching for themselves.

  A faint smile played across Darlene’s lips as she thought of doing just that. But of course she couldn’t. The media would jump on any misstep she made, and the courts would be right behind, just waiting for a chance to slap her down. Darlene had been able to get rid of the ankle monitor she was supposed to wear. That was no longer a problem. She had bedded her probation officer within a month of her sentencing to house arrest, and he had helped her remove it on two conditions. First, that she always wear slacks to hide its absence, and second, that she keep it with her at all times, so she could claim it had just fallen off if she was ever questioned about it. She smiled again. She had ignored that second condition from the very start. The monitor sat atop her bedroom dresser, deactivated, and there it would stay. As far as the courts and the probation department were concerned she was home asleep in her bed.

  “Hello, there, pretty lady.”

  Darlene turned to the sound of the male voice. It was the man who had been watching her most of the evening, and she had been wondering when he would get up the courage to approach her. She had even asked one of the dancers about him, just to make sure he wasn’t a well-known creep. He was certainly young enough. He was also tall and lean and fairly good looking. He was wearing a cowboy hat, western-style boots, and a wide belt with a large silver buckle to hold up his jeans. There were a great many horse ranches scattered across the nearby counties, but he didn’t carry with him that always lingering smell of horse. Just a barroom cowboy, she decided.

  “Hi there,” she said, thinking that despite the costume this one just might do.

  “The name’s Clint. You who I think you are?” he asked.

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “That lady who was on TV all the time a few months back.”

  “You have a good memory for faces, Clint. My name’s Darlene in case you forgot that part.”

  “I didn’t forget.” He flashed a wide, very white smile. “I just never thought I’d get a chance to meet you.”

  Darlene put some sparkle in her eyes and allowed her lips to play with the idea of a smile. “And now you have.”

  He gave a long, slow nod of his head. “You like this place?” He raised his chin indicating the room.

  “I like to watch the dancers,” Darlene said. “The good ones anyway.” She let her eyes go to the woman on the stage and gave a small shake of her head, letting him know this one wasn’t one she enjoyed.

  “I like everything about it.” Clint drew a deep breath. “Place smells like sex.”

  Darlene took a long, slow, less obvious breath, filling her lungs with the intermingling odors of stale liquor and cigarettes and sweat. She let her playful smile return. “Hmm, it does,” she said.

  The cowboy leaned in close. “You wanna take a little ride? I could pick up whatever you’re drinkin’ and maybe we could head over toward the beach. How’s that sound?”

  Darlene’s hands began to tremble. She reached for her purse and squeezed it between them to hide that small display of fear. She drew a long breath; then hit him with the full force of her deep green eyes. “That might be nice,” she said. The smile that followed glittered under the rotating lights.

  Clint leaned in even closer. “Darlene, honey, I promise you it’s gonna be very, very nice.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Harry Doyle sat in his car outside the front gate of the Central Florida Women’s Correctional Facility. He remained nearly motionless except for the occasional rise of one hand to bring a cigarette to his lips. He seemed to be staring ahead at the white brick buildings as if studying them for flaws. The main building was a long, low, sprawling structure with a collection of smaller buildings off to one side, all of it surrounded by eighteen-foot chain-link fences, set in two rows with a twenty-foot no-man’s-land between them. Both rows of fences were topped with three additional feet of razor wire, the edges of which glistened in the bright Florida sun. Escape was possible, of course, as it was from any detention facility. But anyone who made it over those fences would carry the gift of that razor wire, and would leave a blood trail that pursuing dogs would easily follow.

  Harry looked beyond the edge of the road where he had parked his car. The prison was set in a patch of Central Florida wilderness. In every direction thick scrub land and swamp met his eye. It would be hard territory to cross, filled with all manner of danger. A game warden had once told him that anyone walking through a patch of Florida wilderness would pass no less than one hundred venomous snakes per mile traveled, and while most would try to get out of the way, sooner or later you would meet one that could not or would not. There would also be countless gators in the deeper swamps, and while the patche
s of dry open land would hold scorpions and fire ants, the thicker woods would offer up a variety of creatures you wouldn’t care to meet unarmed, even the occasional Florida panther, black bear, or wild boar.

  Harry took a long drag on his unfiltered Camel and ground out the butt in an overflowing ashtray. It was his fourth cigarette since he’d arrived. He had given up smoking five years ago, and had only smoked on this one day every year since.

  When he looked back at the prison he noticed two guards standing just inside the main gate staring back at him. After a few minutes, the gate opened and one of the guards walked slowly toward Harry’s car. He was a tall, angular man with a large nose and thin, pinched lips. He looked to be about twenty-five and he walked a bit stiffly, as if he were tightly wound and ready to react. His hand was on the butt of his holstered Glock automatic. It was a touch of hoped for intimidation that almost made Harry smile.

  Harry lowered the window on the driver’s side. The guard stopped, his eyes scanning what he could see of the car’s interior. They settled on the police radio.

  “You a cop?” the guard asked.

  Harry raised his shield and credential case. The guard bent over to look at it more closely.

  “Pinellas County,” he said, a slight grin coming to his lips. “That don’t carry a lot of weight out here in the boonies.” There was a smirk on his face that Harry didn’t like; an unearned arrogance. Harry was six-one, with enough lean, well-conditioned muscle to fill out a fairly large frame, and he had little compunction about using it. People often misjudged him. He had craggy features that made him seem a bit older than his thirty-one years, wavy brown hair and soft green eyes that made him appear almost docile. It was a misconception that usually disappeared as soon as Harry opened his mouth.

  “I guess you didn’t hear me,” the guard snapped. He shifted his weight and tightened his grip on the butt of his weapon, clearly irritated by Harry’s lack of response. “I said that Pinellas County don’t carry a lot of weight out here.”

  Harry studied the man’s name tag. It said, L. Bottoms. “What’s the “L” stand for?” he asked.

  The guard hesitated, uncertain if an answer might cost him control of the situation. Finally, he gave in. “Leroy,” he said, accenting the second syllable of his name.

  Harry nodded. When he spoke it was in a slow, soft, well-modulated voice. “Well, Le-roy, how much weight would it carry if I got out of my car, took hold of that Glock you keep playing with, and shoved it eight inches up your ass?”

  Leroy’s jaw dropped, and his face paled. Then he began to stammer. “Now wait … now wait … a … a damn minute.”

  “No, you wait, Le-roy. Then you turn your skinny ass around and get back to work. I showed you my tin and that’s all you need to see. So, fuck off. And fuck off fast.”

  “Well … well … fuck you too,” Leroy snapped. He hesitated, trying to decide what to do. Then he cursed Harry once more, made a quick pivot, and headed back toward the main gate.

  Harry watched him walk away. Leroy seemed a little deflated at first. Then he stiffened his back and added a bit of swagger. Harry assumed it was a touch of bravado for the other guard who was still watching from inside the gate.

  Ten minutes later another figure emerged from the gate. He was tall and slightly overweight, the bulge of a belly hanging over his belt, and he wore lieutenant bars on his shirt collar. His name was Walter Lee Hollins and Harry had known him for more than ten years.

  “How ya doin’, Harry?” he offered as he reached the car window.

  “I’m good, Walter Lee, how about yourself?”

  “Tolerable. Better on days when I don’t have to put up with assholes like Leroy. He give you a hard time?”

  “He was just playing badass, and I just wasn’t in the mood.”

  “Shouldn’t have to be. Not once you showed him your tin. You did, right?”

  Harry nodded. “He saw the police radio and asked. So I showed him.”

  “That’s what I figured. Anyways, he’s makin’ a big stink.”

  “To you?”

  “Oh, no, he knows better’n that. He’s talkin’ to the captain. He’s new, and on the young side, and almost as stupid as Leroy. Just thought I’d warn you to expect to hear about it.”

  Harry nodded again. “Thanks, Walter Lee.”

  “Oh, and in case you were wonderin’, your mama’s still inside, still healthy. You ever change your mind about wantin’ to see her, I can arrange it to happen out of the way and real quiet.”

  Harry nodded but said nothing, and Walter Lee gave the top of the car a light rap and headed back toward the prison.

  Harry watched him go; then turned his attention back to the surrounding landscape. Little had changed in all the years he had come here, which was exactly as he wanted it to be. He came once each year, always on the anniversary of his brother Jimmy’s murder. He never saw his mother on any of these visits. He only saw the place where she was caged. It was a necessary trip; one that only he could make. He had lived and Jimmy had not. On his way home he would stop at Jimmy’s grave and tell him that their mother was still behind bars.

  “I’ll make sure she stays there, Jimmy,” he would promise, as he did each year. “I’ll make sure she’s there until she’s dead.”

  Harry Santos and his brother Jimmy died on June 7, 1985, on a hot, humid Florida morning. The boys were ten and six years old and on the morning of their deaths they were seated in the kitchen of their home waiting for their mother to join them at the breakfast table. Jimmy, the youngest and the family clown, was imitating their three-year-old next-door neighbor who sang the same song day after day while playing in his backyard. It was a simple, childish song about a spider and a water spout, but Jimmy’s hand gestures and facial expressions perfectly mimicked the three-year-old and produced gales of laughter from his older brother Harry. Across the kitchen their mother Lucy smiled at their antics. Then she turned her back to them and began crushing four sleeping pills into a fine powder. She divided the powder, put equal amounts into two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice, and brought the glasses to the table. Twenty minutes later, when the boys were unconscious, Lucy dragged them into the garage and placed them on the floor side-by-side next to the exhaust pipe of her five-year-old Chevrolet. As both boys slept she carefully folded their hands across their chests, placed small silver crosses on their foreheads, and covered their eyes with hand towels, then stood quietly for a moment, viewing the scene she had created. Slowly, a look of pleasure crept into her eyes and she turned and walked quickly to the car, opened the driver’s-side door, slipped inside, and started the engine. Finished, she went back into the house and closed the door to the garage behind her. After placing a folded towel at the base of the door to confine the exhaust fumes, she smiled again, collected her Bible, and walked the two short blocks to the evangelical church she attended each Sunday. There, she prostrated herself on the floor of the altar, just below a large stained-glass window depicting the three crosses of Golgotha, and asked God to deliver her sons to His heavenly peace.

  While Lucy was praying an elderly neighbor walked past her house, heard the car running inside the garage, and became concerned. He knocked on the front door and after getting no response, hurried home and called 911. Two patrol cops arrived at the scene minutes later and forced their way into the garage. They found Harry and Jimmy just as their mother had left them and carried them outside. Both boys had stopped breathing and neither had a heartbeat. The two officers called for emergency service backup and immediately began CPR. Harry, who was big for his age, was brought back to life before the EMTs arrived. Jimmy, who was much smaller and quite frail, never regained consciousness.

  When she returned home from church, Lucy Santos was arrested and charged with the murder of her son Jimmy, and the attempted murder of her son Harry. Under questioning she admitted drugging the boys, placing them on the floor next to her car, and starting the engine. She told the arresting officers that
she was making sure her sons would be waiting for her in heaven. When asked why, she said that June 4 had been her thirty-third birthday, as if that alone explained her actions. A psychiatrist hired by Lucy’s court-appointed attorney theorized that Lucy, as a devout Christian, believed that Jesus Christ had been crucified, died, and was buried shortly after his thirty-third birthday, and then had risen from the dead and ascended into heaven three days later. He said Lucy believed that God had chosen her to follow that exact same path, and that she had not wanted to abandon her sons to the care of strangers.

  The state’s attorney, who was eyeing a future run for governor, told the press that he wasn’t buying any of it, and announced that he would seek the death penalty and would have ten-year-old Harry testify that his mother had been perfectly rational in the days—even the hours— leading up to the murder. Harry, who was now in state custody, became an instant media darling. Reporters swooped in like seagulls at a picnic, easily manipulating the child into a series of sensational quotes. The few child welfare workers who tried to intervene were pushed aside by the state’s attorney, who insisted that Harry was under the protective custody of his office. With that door opened wide, the media played its part and gave the state’s attorney just what he wanted. The initial headline in the St. Petersburg Times read: Ten-Year-Old Ready to Put Mom on Death Row, while the Tampa Tribune intoned: Harry Says Killer Mom Must Die.

  After the initial barrage of outrageous quotes and comments, the story made its way to the back pages and a year passed in relative quiet before the case was ready for trial. By that time, closely held psychiatric evidence had begun to build indicating that Lucy Santos was insane. Two days before the trial was set to begin, the state’s attorney held a press conference with Harry at his side. There, surrounded by the media, he announced that a plea bargain had been reached that would send Lucy to prison for the rest of her natural life. Harry, now eleven, was asked how he felt about the decision and the fact that he would not have to testify against his mother. The young boy, well coached by prosecutors, stared back at the reporters with very lost, very empty eyes and told them that he had been prepared to testify. Then he paused, and in words that had not been scripted for him, said: “I just want to be sure my mother never gets out of prison.”