Justice Buried

by Patricia Bradley

  The West Tennessee Forensic Center was only a few blocks from the CJC, and he was there in ten minutes, just in time to catch Rachel. “Leaving already?” he asked.

  She held up a paper bag. “Doc extracted a bullet from a rib—L7, he says, and I’m taking it to ballistics to see if there’s a match anywhere in the system.”

  “So it was murder,” he said.

  “Looks that way.”

  He looked past her to Dr. Caldwell. The medical examiner had the bones laid out on a flat table and was measuring what looked like a leg bone.

  The doctor looked over his glasses at Brad. “Good morning, Sergeant. This shouldn’t be nearly as bad as our last autopsy together.”

  Brad hoped not. The last time he was there, the doctor was autopsying a floater they’d dragged out of the Mississippi River. “Any other interesting finds?”

  The doctor wiggled his hand as if he were holding a cigar. “Just getting started, my boy, just getting started.”

  Brad laughed. “Doc, most people don’t even know who W. C. Fields is.”

  “All the more pity,” he said with a shake of his head. “Grab a pair of those gloves and help me out here.”

  The lab must have been short staffed. He pulled on the latex gloves as the doctor spoke into his microphone, identifying Brad. Then he reached and picked up another bone.

  “Can you tell if this is a male or female?”

  Dr. Caldwell looked up. “Oh, definitely male. See the pelvis, the streamlined opening. And how thick the skull is here behind the ear. Can’t tell the age yet, other than he’s an adult, or how long he’s been in the ground.”

  The medical examiner was good at reading Brad’s mind.

  The ME straightened up and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Would you check the crate and see that all the bones are out? Detective Sloan was helping until we found the bullet. Just examine the plastic, and when you’re done, fold and place it in the evidence box.”

  “Where’s your assistant?”

  “Called in sick, and there are five bodies waiting after this autopsy.”

  Brad took the plastic sheet from the crate and started at one end, rolling it as he went. “Nothing in it.”

  “Check the crate,” Caldwell said without looking up.

  He peered into the wooden crate, and something red in the bottom caught his eye. A ring, maybe? Using his pen, he nudged the stone, and it came loose from the crack that held it.

  “Here’s a ring,” he said and examined it. University of Pennsylvania 1971. Dread filled his stomach, and he tried to dismiss it. But how many people in Memphis graduated from the University of Pennsylvania the same year as Paul Carter? He tried to read what was on the inside, but dirt and the tiny engraving made it impossible.

  The ME laid the bone in his hands on the table. “Let me see.”

  Brad handed it to him, and Caldwell spoke into the mic again, describing the ring. When he finished, Brad said, “Does it have initials engraved on the inside?”

  His muscles tensed as the ME used a magnifying glass to examine the inside of the ring. “Yes. J . . . Hold on a minute.”

  As in John.

  Caldwell turned so he could catch the light. “JPC,” he said. “Tell you anything?”

  John Paul Carter. “Tells me I’m pretty sure I know who the victim is and that he’s been in the ground for twenty-eight years.” He took out his phone and dialed Rachel. “I think I know who our victim is here,” he said. “Paul Carter, former director of the Pink Palace Museum.”

  “What?”

  “I found a ring that could possibly belong to him.” He explained about the initials. “I believe his dental record will confirm it.”

  “Do you have the name of his dentist?”

  “Not yet. I thought I’d give Mrs. Allen a call.”

  “I have a couple of things for you too,” she said. “I just talked with Reggie. Hendrix was a CPA and worked with Rutherford on different projects, and he handled their taxes, so it’s a link we need to explore.”

  Could be a coincidence, but Brad and every cop he knew didn’t believe in coincidence. “You said two things. What was the other?”

  “That bullet? It matched the ones that came from Hendrix’s and Rutherford’s bodies, as well as the one I dug out of the tree yesterday. And they were all fired by a gun that was used in the 1954 House of Representatives shooting. Last place it was known to be was—”

  “The Pink Palace Museum,” he said. He’d seen it on the list Tomlinson had faxed over. The ring and now the bullet. The ring was positive proof the bones belonged to John Paul Carter, and the bullet connected the murder to the museum. “Why don’t we release the information to the news outlets that the two bullets from Hendrix and Rutherford match the 1954 shooting?” he said. “That might stir up someone.”

  “I like that idea. Do we want to release the information on Carter’s death once we get confirmation?”

  “Let’s hold off on that, at least until I can tell Kelsey.” He closed his eyes. She expected him to find her father alive, not dead. How was he going to tell her she’d actually been handling his body?

  27

  BRAD COULDN’T TELL KELSEY he thought the skeleton was her father’s remains until he knew for certain. There was no identification in the box with the ring. Evidently, his killer removed those items but forgot the ring.

  He had returned to his office to review Carter’s file, but it held no answers. Foul play evidently had not been on Sergeant Warren’s radar. When he had proof that the remains were Carter’s, Brad would contact Warren and see if the new information jarred his memory. Brad dialed Cynthia Allen’s number from his contacts. When she answered, he asked for the name of her ex-husband’s dentist.

  The line was silent, then she cleared her throat. “Are you telling me Paul is dead? That you’ve found remains that you think . . .”

  “I’m not sure, ma’am. Yes, we have found remains, but I would prefer you not relay that information to anyone until we’re certain one way or the other. Especially not to Kelsey.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t. But yes, he did see a dentist here in Memphis. Dr. Gilbert.”

  “Is he still practicing?” Brad opened a browser and typed in the dentist’s name and waited. His computer was slow.

  “I, uh, I don’t know. He wasn’t my dentist, so I haven’t kept up with him. He was right next to the library on South Highland. I believe the library is closed, and he’s probably not there any longer. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  His search yielded a list of dentists in the Memphis area and two with a last name of Gilbert. “Do you know what his first name was?”

  “I don’t remember . . .”

  “How about Franklin? Or Clayton?”

  “Clayton. I believe that was it.”

  “Thanks. It looks as though he may still be practicing.” Brad glanced at the address. “But he’s on Poplar now.”

  “I’d like to be there when you tell Kelsey,” Cynthia said. “She already feels terrible about Sabra and Lily having to leave their home. I’m not sure how she’ll react when she learns her father is dead.”

  He remembered her reaction when he told her about finding the file. “That would be a good idea.”

  Brad had been so focused on Kelsey and the remains that he forgot about her sister and niece. “Did Sabra and Lily get settled in without any problems?”

  “Yes. They’re out by the pool with a couple of security people.” There was a hesitation on the line again. “Brad, you keep my daughter safe, you hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But she’s a hard one to rein in.”

  “I know. So I’m depending on you to watch after her.”

  He thought about Kelsey dangling from the roof of the building on Front Street. Nothing like more pressure. “I’ll do my best.”

  He said good-bye to Cynthia and then dialed the number for the dentist. The blurb on the website said they were open Monday through Friday, eight t
o five. It would be easier to get the information he wanted in person, possibly using his badge—it went a lot further than saying over the phone that he was a sergeant with the MPD.

  Twenty minutes later, he found the dentist’s office and parked in the only space left. The man must be good. When he approached the reception window, the receptionist’s eyes widened and focused on the gun on his belt. “M-may I help you?”

  He held out his badge. “I’m Sergeant Hollister with the Memphis Police Department. Is there any way I can speak with Dr. Gilbert?”

  “He’s with a patient right now. Can you wait until he’s finished?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Brad found an empty seat in the crowded room beside a young mother with a boy who looked to be Lily’s age. He smiled at the towheaded child when he peeked around his mother’s arm. Then he noticed the abundance of small chairs. A pediatric dentist. His hopes crashed, and he debated whether he should even wait. Just as he was about to leave, a nurse opened the door and called his name.

  “Dr. Gilbert said to bring you to his office and he’ll be with you momentarily,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He followed her to the dentist’s office, and she closed the door behind her when she left. Guess the gun was bad for business. He perused the diplomas on the wall, quickly realizing this was not the dentist he was looking for. The door opened, and Brad turned as a man his age entered the office. He held out his hand. “Sorry to have bothered you, Dr. Gilbert, but I was looking for a much older man.”

  “Probably my father, but may I ask why?”

  “I have remains that I believe belong to a patient of Dr. Clayton Gilbert—Paul Carter.”

  “Yes, Clayton Gilbert is my father, but he’s retired. However—”

  “Then he’s still living?” Hope rose in Brad’s chest.

  “Yes. And all his records are stored at his house.” Gilbert grinned. “He’s an armchair detective now and actually dreamed of the day someone would need them.”

  Brad couldn’t believe his luck. “Do you think he could see me this afternoon?”

  “Let me give him a call.”

  A few minutes later, Brad left the dentist’s office with an address in Germantown and a retired dentist anxious to see him.

  Dr. Clayton Gilbert met him at his front door, his faded blue eyes dancing. “Come in,” he said. “As soon as we hung up, I searched for Paul Carter’s records, and they’re on the kitchen table.”

  He followed the older man down a hallway lined with framed photos. One, a sunset over water, caught his eye. Somehow the photographer had caught a sailboat in the setting sun. “Did you take these photos?” he asked.

  “Yes. After I retired, I discovered I had a little talent for photography.”

  Little? These photos were professional quality. Then he realized he’d fallen behind the dentist, who moved faster than a lot of detectives he knew. In fact, as agile and young-looking as Gilbert was, Brad wondered why he had retired.

  X-rays attached to a metal clip and dental charts were spread out on the island workstation in a kitchen that would be a chef’s dream. Gleaming cookware hung from the ceiling over an island that held a prep sink. His mother would love this kitchen. “Your wife must love to cook,” he said.

  A shadow crossed the older man’s face. “She did.”

  A tender subject. Brad turned his attention to the X-rays. “In the skull we have, there’s a gold crown on the bottom right jaw. Is that consistent with your files?”

  Gilbert held the clip to the light and pointed to the third X-ray from the top. “See this one? That’s a gold crown.” He set it on the table and picked up a larger panorama X-ray. “And here it is again. There should be several large fillings in the bottom teeth, as well.”

  Sadness tempered Brad’s satisfaction of knowing the identity of the victim. It was hard enough giving bad news to families he didn’t know. In spite of her seeming indifference to her dad, his news would shake Kelsey. “Do you have a folder to put these in?”

  He didn’t need Dr. Gilbert’s help to deliver the X-rays to the medical examiner, but one glance at Dr. Gilbert’s wistful eyes, and he said, “Do you have time to come with me to the West Tennessee Forensic Center and show these to Dr. Caldwell? I’ll be glad to bring you back home.”

  “You bet. Other than playing a little golf and tinkering around with my camera, I don’t do that much. Not since my wife died. She was the only reason I retired. Edith wanted to travel, and I was always too busy with the practice.” He sighed. “At least we had two years.”

  In the car Brad said, “Have you thought about going back to your practice?”

  Gilbert fastened his seat belt. “No, but I am thinking about doing mission work. There are people right here in Memphis who need dental work and can’t afford it.”

  Brad knew a few of them. “If you ever have time, I help out at a youth center. There are kids there who have never been to the dentist. And it’d be great if you could teach a photography class. We’re always looking for something to get the kids involved in.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  Brad didn’t want to give him too long to think—inertia would set in. “How about going with me this Saturday?”

  “Let me check on something first.” Gilbert took out his phone and scrolled through it. “I can do it,” he said. “I couldn’t remember when my granddaughter’s birthday was, but it’s next weekend. This will give me something to look forward to.”

  Rachel was with the medical examiner when they arrived, and after Brad made the introductions, he said, “I thought it’d be to our advantage for Dr. Gilbert to match the teeth to the X-rays.”

  “Good thinking,” Dr. Caldwell said.

  When the dentist finished his examination, he nodded. “The X-rays definitely match these teeth, and in my professional opinion, they belong to my patient, Paul Carter.”

  Brad hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he exhaled. “Now the hard part begins—who killed him and why.”

  “Yeah,” Rachel echoed. “And how does a twenty-eight-year-old murder relate to the two murders last week?”

  He picked up the ring on the table. “I have another question for you. Who sent the bones to the museum and why? Obviously, the sender knew the remains were Paul Carter’s. Why not just come forward with them?”

  “If I might add my two cents,” Caldwell said, “it sounds like two people are involved and one turned on the other.”

  “Or,” Brad said, “the sender, whether the killer or an accomplice, wanted the family to have closure but didn’t want to be implicated.”

  “A killer with a conscience? That would be a twist,” Rachel said. “But why now?”

  Why indeed? “Until we know, I suggest we keep the identity of the bones under wraps,” Brad said. “In fact, I suggest we don’t reveal any information on the bones. See who that shakes up.”

  28

  KELSEY SCANNED THE SHEET listing the artifacts stolen over the past ten years. Forty-eight pieces of varying value and composition. She looked at the two men across from her in the director’s office. “You’re saying there was no inventory of the artifacts after my father left until the date on this first line? Ten years ago?”

  Robert Tomlinson glanced at Jackson King, then shifted his gaze back to her and nodded. “Of course, that was before my time as director here. We have conducted inventories every year that I’ve been in charge.”

  “Why didn’t you do something about the thefts once you knew they were happening?” she asked.

  “We quietly conducted inquiries.” A red blotch crept into Tomlinson’s face, and he fingered the knot on his tie. “If the thefts became public knowledge, it would affect donations.”

  “The stamp taken Saturday night was worth twenty thousand,” Kelsey said. “Would you have reported it if Rutherford hadn’t been killed?”

  “Of course. It’s the most valuable piece taken,” Tomlinson said. “As far as the other articles tha
t have been taken, I attributed them to employee theft—someone saw something and took it home. We held in-service training focusing on the thefts to encourage employees to keep a watch for anyone taking the artifacts. And the number of pieces missing went down for the last two years.”

  “But you never involved the police?” Kelsey asked.

  “No.” The director nodded toward Jackson. “When we hired Rutherford Security, I advised them to report any thefts to MPD, but—”

  “Mr. Rutherford didn’t want to,” Jackson said, “thinking it would tip our hand that we knew the thefts were occurring. He hoped the thief would get overconfident.”

  “But that didn’t happen,” Kelsey said. Her phone vibrated and she checked it. Brad? “Excuse me a minute, gentlemen.”

  She stepped outside in the hallway and answered. “Hello?”

  “Can you spare me an hour?”

  “I’m in a meeting with Jackson King and the director right now.”

  “Give me a second.”

  She heard him tell someone that she was with King and Tomlinson, and then it sounded as though he were arguing about something.

  “I need to talk with them as well,” he said when he returned to her, “but you don’t have to be there.”

  “We’re in the middle of a meeting, and I can’t very well leave. Does it concern me?”

  He hesitated, and she knew it did.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen,” he said.

  After she disconnected, she returned to the men. “Brad is joining us. He has news of some sort.”

  “Sergeant Hollister?” Tomlinson said. “Does it have anything to do with this case?”

  “He didn’t say, but he definitely wants to discuss something with you,” she said. Different reasons for Brad wanting to see her whipped through her mind—reasons that included the museum. Maybe they’d found the shooter. Or some of the artifacts that had been stolen?