The Dead Detective

by William Heffernan

  “I’ll do my best not to make it worse,” Harry said. “But right now I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Sure. Fire away.”

  Harry took him through their activities on the night of Darlene’s murder, and the alibi he had already established. All of Hall’s answers squared with what he already knew.

  “At any time since this all began, did anyone ever say anything to you that made you feel they wanted to do harm to Darlene Beckett?”

  Hall shook his head. “No, never. The only people who really spouted off about her were the people at our church.” He let out a weary breath. “But they spout off about a lot of things. It wasn’t like they were ready to burn her at the stake or anything.”

  “What do they spout off about?” Harry asked, more to keep him going than to get any specific information.

  “Oh, you know, they’re anti stuff. They’re anti-gay, anti-abortion, anti-immigrants, anti the way kids dress today, especially girls, anti the music they listen to. It’s like they know just how the world should be, and anything less than that is sinful.”

  “So why go to the church if you find it offensive?” Harry asked.

  “I just never worried about it that much; I sort of tuned it all out. My wife liked the church. They had a really good youth program and she thought it was helpful for the kids to have that religious influence.” He shook his head. “I guess it didn’t take for my son. But God knows, I don’t know what I would have done if I’d faced that same situation at fourteen. I’m pretty sure I’d have been just as scared as he was.”

  “He was frightened?”

  “He told me he was,” Hall said. “And I believe him. But I don’t expect him to admit that to you. That would break the code. You know what I mean?”

  Harry thought of his gangsta friend Rubio Martí. “Yeah, I know what you mean. When was the last time you saw Darlene Beckett?” Harry asked, changing tack.

  “In court, the day the plea deal was approved by the judge.” Anger came to Mr. Hall’s eyes for the first time since they had started talking. “She walked out of that courtroom and she smiled at us. Can you believe it? She hurts my son like that, and she turns all of our lives to shit, and she smiles about it.” Hall drew a deep breath. “I’ll tell you, Detective Doyle. Right then I wanted to hurt that woman, and if I was ever gonna kill her I would have killed her right then and there. And I would have done it with my bare hands.”

  Billy Hall sat at the small outdoor table, flanked by each of his parents. Through the sliding glass doors Harry could see his six-year-old sister peaking out at them from far back in the house. Harry studied the boy closely. Because of his age, no photographs of him had ever run in area newspapers, so this was the first time Harry had seen him. He looked like a typical fifteen-year-old Florida teenager, thin and lanky with tanned skin and sunbleached hair. He had none of his father’s size, although his bone structure hinted that he might one day grow into it. His blue eyes came from his mother as did a longish nose and wide mouth. There was nothing exceptional about him. He was neither particularly attractive nor unattractive. Right now his eyes were wary, almost frightened, and his lips trembled slightly when he spoke.

  “Billy, when was the last time you saw Darlene Beckett?” Harry asked.

  “In court,” Billy said. “The last time she was in court.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  The boy shook his head vehemently.

  “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

  “In school.” The boy blushed deeply. “You know, just before the police got involved and arrested her.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “She told me we both had to deny everything, and that I had to get my cousin to take back the stuff he told the cops.”

  “Did you do that?”

  Another shake of the head. “My mom and dad told me I had to play it straight with the police, and that I’d just get Randy—that’s my cousin—in trouble if I got him to lie.”

  “And you never spoke to her again.”

  “No.”

  “Did she ever try to get in touch with you?”

  “No, not after that last time in school.”

  “Did you ever hear anyone make threats against Ms. Beckett?” Harry asked.

  The boy shrugged. “I heard some people say some bad things about her.” He glanced furtively at his mother. “But I never heard nobody say they were gonna kill her or beat her up or anything. Some people at the church said she’d burn in hell for what she did.” He twisted nervously in his chair. “They said I’d burn in hell too, if I didn’t repent. I told them I already had, but they said I had to do it publicly, like in front of the whole congregation. I told them, no way.”

  “Okay, Billy.” Harry handed him a business card. “That has my office phone and my cell numbers on it. If you think of anything else, I want you to call me. Straight?”

  Billy lowered his eyes and nodded. Harry doubted the boy would ever call, but he was certain he’d be seeing him again.

  Harry was alone in the conference room going over his notes and the reports filed by the other members of the team, when the door flew open and Vicky breezed in.

  “You missed one heck of an interview,” she said. “Morgan and I just finished up with Bennie Rolf, Darlene’s P.O. The man started peeing his pants so hard I thought we were gonna need a rowboat.”

  She was grinning; her eyes dancing with pleasure. Harry fought back his own smile. “Sounds like you had a chance to play Wicked Witch of the West. And it looks like you enjoyed it.”

  “Oh, I did indeed.”

  “Did you let Morgan play good cop to your bad cop?”

  Vicky took a chair opposite him. “Well, that was a little odd,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, he handled the interview just fine. But later …”

  “Later, what?” Harry asked.

  “Well, it was pretty clear to us that all those visits Bennie made to Darlene’s crib weren’t completely kosher. When we pushed him on it and hinted that he might have helped lose her monitor, he really freaked out. I mean the man just oozed guilt. By the time we walked out of his office we were pretty convinced that old Bennie had helped Darlene out in exchange for some very serious nookie. But his alibi for the night she died checks out. He was with his mother, if you can believe it.”

  “He was visiting her?”

  “No, he lives with her,” Vicky said. “The same house he grew up in. Seems old Bennie never left home and hearth.”

  “And I bet he doesn’t want Mama to know about his little tryst with Darlene.”

  “You bet your bippy. When I told him we’d have to confirm his alibi with her, well, like the song says, he turned a lighter shade of pale.”

  Vicky paused and Harry thought she seemed suddenly reluctant to say more. “So what about Morgan?”

  Vicky wished she hadn’t brought it up; she hadn’t anticipated Harry’s reaction. But it was too late to backtrack. “Well, when we got to the car I could see he was pissed off. He didn’t like the idea of Rolf giving in to her—Darlene being able to use sex to get around the restrictions the court had placed on her. What can I say, he’s a real by-the-book cop.” She smiled at Harry and added: “Just like we’re all supposed to be. I think it just ticked him off that Rolf let himself be used that way and he wanted to know if we were going to report it to anyone. He was pretty adamant that we should.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him it would be noted in my report, but that someone else would decide whether to pursue it or not. I also told him I didn’t think the chances were very good.” She paused. “That didn’t make him a happy camper, but he knows he has to live with it.” She watched Harry think that over, then quickly added, “Look, Harry, this guy’s just very intense about his job. And he’s very good. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. He’s just like most patrol cops. He doesn’t see gray. He’s a black-and-white kind of guy.”

&n
bsp; Harry stared at her. “It still concerns me,” he said. “Not a lot yet, but it concerns me. I don’t want this investigation tainted by anyone’s preconceived notions about morality. We have to remain above that or we’ll end up going down a lot of wrong paths. So I want you to keep working with him and keep a close eye on what he does. At least for a while. What’s he doing now?”

  Vicky’s jaw tightened. Her anger was directed more at herself than at Harry. She should have just kept her mouth shut. “He’s trying to find any deleted information in the department’s motor pool records. And he seems to know what he’s doing. Like I said, I’m not worried about him at all. He may be a little straight-laced, but from what I’ve seen he’s got good instincts as an investigator.” She paused, then pressed on. “Harry, I’ve got to be up front with you. If I was running this case I’d be more concerned about your personal hang-ups than I would be about his.”

  Harry was jolted by the comment, but fought not to let it show. “Your concern’s noted. I promise you I’ll keep my hang-ups in check.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dr. Lola Morofsky was a seventy-year-old psychiatrist who refused to retire. After a forty-year career as a therapist she no longer accepted private patients; now she devoted her efforts strictly to law enforcement, working exclusively with the various police agencies in Pinellas and Hillsborough counties. When Harry called seeking an appointment, she agreed to see him immediately.

  “So you’ve got the big one,” she said, peering up at him from the large executive desk chair that enveloped her body like a cocoon.

  She was a tiny woman, no more than five feet tall and well under one hundred pounds. She had short, kinky brown hair, obviously dyed, a long nose, and thick lips. Heavy makeup did its best to cover the sea of wrinkles on her face. She had never married, and had no children, and although she’d lived in Florida most of her adult life, she still carried with her the Brooklyn accent of her childhood.

  “So you’re coming to me with Darlene Beckett?” she asked as Harry slipped into a visitor’s chair.

  “I am. I need a psychological profile on the woman and, if possible, on the type of men she would attract. Plus, if you can tell me something about the killer—like his name, address, and Social Security number, it would be good.” Harry’s face broke into a grin. He had worked with her many times and both liked and respected the woman.

  Lola brought her tiny hands together with pleasure. “So you need me. Even with Harry Doyle’s famous intuition, his ability to hear the whispered words of the dead, he needs an old lady to help him.” She laughed at herself, at both of them. “In any event, I’m delighted. Ever since this woman appeared on the scene, I’ve been dying to study her.” She leaned forward. “This, I think we will find, is a complex lady, Harry. Not the simple bimbo the media has made her out to be. Understanding her, understanding how her mind worked, will be a challenge.” She waved her small hands as if dismissing what she had just said. “As far as your other questions go, I can tell you right off that any heterosexual man with a living member between his legs would be attracted to her. Not every one would act on that attraction, but they would all desire her. This, Harry, was a very alluring woman, and one who worked hard at being so. Regarding your killer, I think I can help you. Not a name and address, of course, but at least a strong profile. But for that I’ll have to see your entire case file. Darlene’s as well, of course.”

  Harry placed the two folders he had brought with him on her desk. “The top one is a copy of the entire murder file,” he said. “I really need you to look at that first, and tell me anything you can about the killer. The other folder is the child abuse case file. I just got it from the Hillsborough County state’s attorney last night and had it copied for you.”

  “So it’s a copy I can keep?”

  Harry nodded, and again Lola brought her tiny hands together. “A treasure, a virtual treasure trove.” She shook her head. “It will be difficult to concentrate on the murder file with this sitting here waiting for me.”

  “Please,” Harry said.

  Lola raised her hand like a traffic cop. “I will. I will.”

  As Harry watched, Lola began poring over the murder file. The office was designed to provide a soothing, relaxed atmosphere. The lighting was subdued; the furniture—a sofa and two chairs—was oversized and covered in soft, plush fabric. Even Lola’s desk was not intimidating, a Queen Anne style, something more suited to a home than an office. There were no diplomas or certificates on the walls—those had been relegated to the reception area—only soothing pastels. It was a place designed to make frightened, insecure people feel safe. It was something that didn’t work for Harry. Instead he felt a lingering inner tension that he knew would stay with him until Darlene’s murder was solved. It was something he lived with on every complex case, something that drove him to find the answers that eluded him, or so he believed.

  Lola was studying the in situ photographs of Darlene’s body. She glanced up at Harry. “Implants?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting. A woman so beautiful and still she had to offer herself up to the surgeon’s knife to become even more appealing.” She opened the other file and found an earlier photograph of Darlene in a cheerleader’s costume. “Look here,” she said. “She didn’t have a flat chest as a child. She was perfectly normal, absolutely lovely.” She shook her head. “There was a deep psychological need here. I would bet my license that this woman’s psyche was severely brutalized at a very young age—something that made her obsessive about her looks and her desirability as a woman. She would also want to be desirable to other women,” she added. “I’m not saying she was a lesbian, or bisexual. This was an obsession, and the need to be wanted would not be limited to one sex.” She shook her head again. “But that’s only a guess for now. Give me time and I’ll find more. This was a complex woman, a very disturbed woman. Your case will undoubtedly be solved before I understand her completely … if I ever do.”

  “Any initial sense about the killer?” Harry asked.

  “Well, here we obviously have obsessive behavior of a different kind. I would guess that our killer is young. No more than late twenties, early thirties. Very religious to the point of obsession. Intelligent, but blinded by his own convictions. Not willing to question those beliefs, or be tolerant of anyone who doesn’t accept them with the fervor that he does. Without question, a true believer in every meaning of that phrase.” She raised her hands and let them fall back to the desk. “This business of carving the word evil on his victim’s forehead, then covering it up with a mask, is so direct it’s a bit unnerving. There is no subtlety in this man. He believes and therefore he acts. His mind is organized and yet it isn’t.” She nodded to herself. “It shows me someone who is not quite as smart as he thinks he is; someone who has convinced himself that other people are so unable to grasp what he sees that he must give them a message that is blatantly simplistic. This is someone who has no respect or tolerance for his fellow man; someone with no feeling of moral responsibility other than to himself, although he believes he has great moral responsibility to everyone, even to the world at large, perhaps even to the point of having a savior complex, if you will … Harry, my friend, you are dealing with a pure sociopath. And he may be very hard to spot, because he is extremely good at hiding. He has practiced that art for years. He has had to.”

  “Could he have been the victim of abuse himself?” Harry asked.

  “Very possibly. But if so, I think he would believe that he—himself— had sinned. He may believe that he was led into sin by someone even more evil than himself, but he would still carry great guilt for his part in it.”

  “And deliver us from evil,” Harry said.

  “Exactly.” Lola nodded her head emphatically. “That is exactly how he would now feel.”

  “You haven’t gotten to it yet in the file, but we found a gold cross at the murder scene with that quote from the Lord’s Prayer engraved on it.”r />
  “I would be surprised if that cross had not been torn from the killer’s neck,” she said.

  “The young boy who was abused by Darlene, he and his family belonged to an evangelical church that shunned them when his family refused to let him testify. The minister also urged the parishioners to do everything they could to bring Darlene to justice.” Harry stared at her. “It was an unqualified statement, as far as I’ve been able to determine, almost an invitation for someone to take the law into his own hands.”

  “An invitation our killer would not have needed, but one he would have taken very, very seriously.” She paused and stared into Harry’s eyes. “Did you get anything from the victim … anything about religion?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was a strong … sensation?”

  “Very.”

  Lola paused again, considering what Harry had said. Then she nodded to herself. “I would look at this church closely, Harry. Very closely indeed.”

  As Harry began to rise from his chair, Lola leaned forward and studied him closely. “What’s new with you, Harry? You seem very tense. Any personal problems you’d like to talk about?”

  Harry hesitated, then shook his head. He had talked to Lola in the past about his mother, and whenever they met she inquired without specifically asking about her.

  “Nothing?” Lola persisted.

  “My mother’s coming up for parole,” Harry finally conceded. “But I don’t need to talk about it.” She smiled up at him. “You probably do. But I won’t press the matter. I will ask you to consider one thing: consider that this case may not be right for you; that perhaps someone else should investigate this woman’s murder.” She waved off any objection before it came and continued, “I don’t mean you won’t be able to do a good job. You’re probably the best homicide detective in the state. I mean this case may not be right for you.”