The Dead Detective

by William Heffernan

  Pete Rourke sat behind his desk and listened to Harry’s plea for more time. Vicky sat next to Harry, uncharacteristically quiet.

  “Why don’t you buy it as a suicide, Harry? All the physical evidence fits.”

  “We don’t know that yet. We haven’t gotten a CSI report, and Mort Janlow still has the autopsy this afternoon.”

  “Harry, I haven’t talked to Mort or Marty LeBaron, but I gotta tell you, as of right now everything I’ve seen points straight at Nick. Plus, there’s the confession.”

  “Unsigned, just sitting on a computer,” Harry argued. “Nick was a good detective, Pete. He knew that type of confession wasn’t very solid. He could have easily printed it out and signed it. The printer was working and loaded with paper. But he didn’t.”

  “Maybe he just didn’t give a rat’s ass,” Rourke said. “Maybe he just wanted out of this world and didn’t give a damn what he left behind.”

  “Then why confess at all? Why rent a movie and watch half of it? Why blast gospel music to cover the sound of the shot?” It was Vicky, and hearing her suddenly list Harry’s concerns startled both men. “There’s even the question of a pillow that might have been used to help silence Nick’s Glock.”

  Rourke nodded slowly. “Who’s covering the autopsy?”

  “Jim Morgan,” Harry said.

  “Alright, if Mort has even the slightest doubt, I’ll hold the confession. Just keep your fingers crossed that somebody else doesn’t release it for me. What are you and Vicky doing in the meantime?”

  “I’m going to check in with Mort and then I want to take another look at Bobby Joe’s church.”

  “Why take another look at Waldo’s church? You still think there’s a tie between the killer and that church?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Harry said.

  “What makes sense, Harry, is that you just don’t like churches,” Rourke said.

  “Do I get the time I need, or not?”

  Rourke scratched his chin. “For once—and maybe the only time in your police career—the brass is on your side. They don’t like the idea of one of our own being tagged as a damn serial killer, so when I told them that you didn’t buy Nick for the murder, they told me to give you time to prove it.” He watched a smile form on Harry’s lips, then wiped it away with his next words. “You’ve got seventy-two hours, Harry, and not a minute more. And that’s straight from the top. When it’s up, no matter what Mort comes up with, Nick’s confession goes to the media.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Jim Morgan looked a bit queasy, his well-tanned face now showing a hint of gray.

  “First autopsy?” Harry asked as he stepped up beside him.

  Jim nodded, but didn’t speak, afraid his voice might crack if he did.

  “I don’t like them much myself,” Harry said. “I’ve seen dozens and each one is as bad as the first.”

  Mort Janlow was leaning over Nick Benevuto’s open body cavity preparing to remove the heart. He looked up at the two detectives. “No puking,” he said with a faint grin. “You have to puke, you go outside.” He looked at Harry and the grin widened. “That especially goes for you, Harry.”

  Janlow began removing each organ in turn, weighing it, examining it for abnormalities; then setting it aside for further examination later.

  “Anything?” Harry asked.

  Janlow nodded. “Nick had an enlarged heart. If his brain hadn’t been vaporized by that 9mm slug he probably would have dropped dead the next time he chased some kid down an alley. Even without that kind of strain, I doubt he would have lasted another five years.”

  “But no cause of death other than the head wound.”

  “No.”

  “And the feather we found in his hair?”

  “It doesn’t match with any of the pillows in the condo, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t pick it up somewhere else. Maybe he visited a lady friend in another condo and had a roll in her hayloft. But it also means a killer could have used a pillow to silence the shot, and then taken it with him. We just don’t know yet.”

  “Killer … Aren’t we talking about suicide here?” There was a look of complete bafflement on Jim Morgan’s face.

  Janlow threw Harry a look and Harry gave a small shake of his head in return. The medical examiner turned to Morgan. “We’re just exploring all the possibilities. It’s what we do here.”

  “I’d almost be relieved if it turned out to be murder,” Morgan said.

  “Why?” Janlow asked.

  “Because right now I feel like I hounded him into killing himself.”

  Harry looked at the concern etched into the young deputy’s face. There was nothing he could do about it. If Nick’s death turned out to be suicide, Morgan would have to live with it. And if Harry was right and Nick was innocent of the other murders, Jim would have to live with that as well. Homicide cops make mistakes. You just try not to make too many. He placed a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “Go get some fresh air. I’ll cover for you here.”

  When Morgan left Janlow gave Harry a questioning look.

  “Marty found some shoes hidden in Nick’s closet. There was blood on the soles and heels and Marty feels pretty certain they’ll match the blood footprint in Waldo’s apartment.”

  “Was there blood evidence on the floor of Nick’s car?”

  “No.”

  “So Marty thinks they were planted,” Janlow said.

  Harry nodded.

  “And you’re keeping a lid on it?”

  “I am for now. I need a few days to work this angle without the press climbing all over me.”

  “What about the knife? From the wounds I examined my guess is that the same blade was used on both Darlene and the Waldo kid. From the marks made on the spines I’d say you’re looking for a fairly substantial hunting knife with a nick in the blade.”

  “No sign of that either,” Harry said.

  “It doesn’t make sense to get rid of the knife and leave blood-soaked shoes in your closet.” Janlow thought about what he had said for a moment, then added: “So who’s in the know about what you have and don’t have?”

  “You, Marty, Vicky, and me.” Janlow’s eyebrows went up. “That’s it? Not even Rourke?”

  “Not even Rourke,” Harry said.

  Emily Moore was still working on Bobby Joe’s funeral arrangements when Harry and Vicky returned to the church.

  “Reverend Waldo wants to see you. He told me to send you over to the sacristy if you came back.”

  “I’ll see him before I leave,” Harry said. “First tell me if you came up with any copies of that church bulletin.”

  “No, I didn’t, and I don’t understand it. They just disappeared. This has all been one ongoing tragedy. And it started with that evil woman abusing that poor boy.”

  Vicky’s head snapped toward the woman. “Why did you use that word?”

  “What word?”

  “Evil,” Vicky said. “Why did you describe her as evil?”

  Emily Moore looked confused. “Well, that’s what she was. And it wasn’t just Reverend Waldo who said so. Even that poor boy’s father said she was. He said she was the most evil woman he’d ever met. And he wanted her punished just like Reverend Waldo did. I heard him say so myself. He said his son had been badly hurt and he wanted that woman to be hurt just as bad. It was his wife who wanted it all to end without that Beckett woman getting what she deserved, not the father. I felt sorry for him. He’d been a volunteer youth minister here for about a year, and he always seemed like such a kind man.”

  Harry was jolted by the information. He thought back to his interview with the boy’s father, Joe Hall. He pictured him in his mind, a big, burly construction supervisor with a surprisingly gentle voice and demeanor. The man had said he’d only come to the church because of his wife. Now he was being told the man had volunteered as a youth minister. He had also said he’d only been tempted to harm Darlene on one occasion—when she smiled at his family as she h
ad left the courthouse. But according to the church secretary there had been at least one other time as well.

  “I need you to give me the name of the printer,” Harry said. “I want to see if he still has a copy of that bulletin.”

  The secretary opened her Rolodex and copied an address and phone number. “And please don’t forget that Reverend Waldo wants to see you.”

  “I’ll see him before I leave,” Harry said.

  Outside, Harry searched his notebook until he found his notes on his interview with Joe Hall, then told Vicky exactly what Hall had said. “I want you to interview him again. Brace him on what this church secretary said, and if he admits it, press him on why he told me he had only thought about hurting her that one time in court. Also ask him why he never told us he volunteered as a youth minister.”

  “What if he denies it?” Vicky asked.

  “He’s a suspect as far as we’re concerned. He’s not just the father of a sex crimes victim. Go after him like you would any other suspect.”

  “That’s all I wanted to know,” Vicky replied. “And you’re headed for the printer, right?”

  “As soon as I see what Reverend Waldo wants.”

  The sacristy was empty, the only light coming through the large stained-glass window behind the stage. The two massive projection screens that hung above the stage displayed the image of a slender, young woman pushing a small boy on a swing. Reverend Waldo was seated alone in the first pew, but his head was bowed, his eyes staring at the floor. As Harry approached him he could see that the man’s cheeks were stained by recent tears. On the seat next to him was an electronic device.

  “Reverend?”

  The minister raised his head at the sound of Harry’s voice. He did not look well. His eyes seemed to have sunk into his heavy cheeks, and he had the look of a man greatly in need of sleep. “Thank you for coming.” Reverend Waldo’s voice was barely above a whisper, and it made Harry feel as though he was the first guest to arrive for his son’s funeral.

  “Your secretary said you wanted to see me.”

  Reverend Waldo raised his eyes to one of the screens above the stage and began to weep again. “Bobby Joe was four then,” he whispered. “That’s his mother pushing him. She joined our Lord in heaven seven years ago— cancer.”

  He touched a button on the electronic device on the seat next to him and the little boy and the woman began to move. Harry watched the home movie along with the weeping man. The child and the woman were both laughing, the little boy calling out that he wanted to go higher.

  “He was always a good child, precocious but good. It was only later, as a teenager, that he got mixed up with a group of kids who were doing things they shouldn’t—drugs and liquor, even stealing on occasion. And there were, of course, always the loose young women hanging around them. It was the time right after his mother died, a time when he needed guidance most, a time when I had thrown myself into my work. You see, all I could feel was my own pain over my wife’s death, and to free myself of it I became consumed with my work. I told myself I had to make this church bigger, more influential in the faith community, and I worked at it night and day; brought it to the point it’s at now. But what I really needed to do was take care of my son. He was suffering then, but I was too busy with my own suffering to see it.”

  “A lot of kids get into trouble as teenagers, reverend. Most of them work their way out of it.”

  John Waldo began to slowly shake his head. “No, my son went far astray, and I helped lead him there.” He turned and looked up at Harry. “Do you think Bobby Joe killed that woman?”

  Harry took a moment to decide how much he wanted to say. “No, I don’t. But I think he knew the killer, and I think that person scared the hell out of him, scared him so much he was afraid the tell anyone what he did know. And I think that person killed him to make sure he never would.”

  “How would he even know such a person? I know he had gone astray, but not that far, never that far.”

  Harry wanted to tell the man what he believed—that the killer was someone connected to his church, that the killer was a sick son of a bitch, a walking religious time bomb who had only needed the right situation and the right person to set him off, and that Darlene Beckett with her flagrant immorality, and the Reverend John Waldo with his righteous, God-fearing indignation had provided him with everything he needed all wrapped up in one tight little package. Instead, he looked the minister in the eye and said: “I don’t know.”

  The minister stared at the floor for several long moments before he began to speak again. “I talked to the sheriff about you. This was before my son died, when I thought you were persecuting him. He told me what a good detective you are, and what happened to you as a child. He also told me there are some people in the department who think the dead speak to you because they recognize you as one of them. Is that true? Do the dead speak to you?”

  “It’s more an intuition about what they felt just before they died,” Harry said.

  “I believe that’s a form of speaking.” Reverend Waldo paused, almost as if he were afraid to ask more. Finally he seemed to gather his courage. “Did my son speak to you after his death?”

  Harry slowly nodded his head. “In the sense you and I are talking about, yes, he did.”

  The minister’s lips began to tremble. “What did he say to you? Please tell me.”

  “He told me about his murderer.” Harry stared at the man, wondering if he’d understand. “When the dead speak to me, reverend—if that’s what they in fact do—that’s all they ever tell me … things about the person who took their life from them.”

  “Do they tell you who that person was?”

  Harry smiled faintly. “I wish they would, reverend. They only tell me what their killers made them feel in those last moments.”

  The minister’s lips kept trembling as he prepared to ask the question Harry did not want to answer. “What did Bobby Joe feel?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  Harry nodded in resignation. “He felt terror … terror that what he had feared for so long was finally happening.” Waldo sat shocked for several moments. “So that’s why you think he knew his killer.”

  “Yes, reverend. That’s the primary reason why.”

  Waldo looked up with beseeching eyes. “Please catch him,” he whispered. “Catch the person who killed my son.”

  “I will,” Harry said.

  Vicky sat on the small lanai where Harry had first interviewed Joe Hall. She stared at the burly construction supervisor contrasting his size to the soft, gentle demeanor he presented. Then his eyes lingered on her legs longer than necessary and she decided to give him a quick dose of reality.

  “How badly did you want to hurt Darlene Beckett for what she did to your son?” she began, jolting him.

  He hesitated, deciding how he should answer. “Real bad,” he said at length. “You know, there were these people at work who used to joke about it. They had seen her on TV, seen how beautiful she was, and all they could talk about was how lucky the kid was who had gotten into her pants. Then, when they found out it was my kid she was having it off with, well, then it got real personal. The suck-ups would say he was a chip off the old block, and the others … the others asked if he ever told me whether she was good in bed, as if some fourteen-year-old kid would know the difference. But none of those clowns ever had to come home with me and see a kid who used to be full of fun sitting in his room not wanting to come out, a kid who was afraid to turn on the TV or the radio because he might hear something about it. They never heard him crying through his door when the goddamn school system said he had to go to a different school, had to leave all his friends behind, had to go someplace where he didn’t know anybody, just because some parents thought he’d be a bad influence on their kids, or that the school could hide what had happened by getting him out of sight. So, yeah, I wanted to hurt her for all that, for what she did to my son, for what she d
id to my wife and me.” He drew a deep breath. “It just wouldn’t end, not once the newspapers and the TV people got ahold of it. And she seemed to love it. She seemed to glow every time a camera was pointed at her.”

  Vicky marveled at the fact that the man’s voice never rose in anger, that his breathing never increased, his face never flushed. Throughout it all he seemed calm and controlled.

  “You told my partner, Detective Doyle, that you wanted to hurt her that one time in court when she smiled at your family. Do you remember saying that?”

  Hall folded his arms across his chest, creating a barrier between them. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “It was after she’d been given that slap-on-the-wrist sentence and she just walks by us and looks down at us sitting there, and she just smiles like she’s looking at a collection of fools. And yes, right then and there I wanted to put my hands around her throat and choke her until her eyes popped out of her head. But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything then, and I didn’t do anything later. She hurt my son and she got away with it, and I didn’t do anything to make her pay for what she’d done.”

  Vicky stared across at him. “Somebody made her pay big time, Mr. Hall.”

  He nodded slowly, almost absently. “Yeah, but not me. I gave her a pass. Somebody hurts your kid you’re supposed to make them pay. But I didn’t do that. And my wife didn’t either. She didn’t even want the courts to go after that damn woman. The only people who wanted that woman to pay for her crimes were that fat minister whose church we went to, and some of the people who worked for him, and a whole bunch of people in the congregation. They all wanted her hung out to dry. And they put a lot of pressure on us. But my wife and son didn’t want that. They just wanted it over with. So we stopped going to the damn church.” He offered up a bitter smile, almost in resignation. “Now how’s that? What that damn woman did even took my family’s church away from us.”

  Vicky let a few moments pass, again taking time to study the man. The church had clearly been more important to Joe Hall than he was willing to admit.

  “How active were you in the church?”