by Thomas Scott
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Then I’m happy for you. I really am. But let me tell you something, no matter the struggles my brother and I had to endure, we made it. We somehow managed to survive and do well for ourselves. Our mother passed when we weren’t yet legal adults but we have been taking care of each other ever since. If you hadn’t shot…” She cut herself off, visibly swallowed and then started over. “Had my father not made the choices he made that terrible day, had Nicky and I not been there to see it…had he survived, I think things would be very different for all of us, don’t you?”
“Yes, I’m sure they would. But you have to understand, even as we sit here right now, for me, it’s like time has stopped. You will always be that five-year-old girl who watched me shoot her father to death. I don’t know how I could possibly put that aside to help you now.”
“Maybe the way to do that, Jonesy, is to consider it a form of repayment. Let the death of my father go by helping me catch my brother’s killer. Can you do that?”
“I had a very good man tell me not long ago that no one ever gets to turn the lights back on and replay the last inning. I think he’s right.”
“Would that man’s name be Murton Wheeler?” she said.
Virgil looked over at Murton. Clearly Nichole Pope was not one to be underestimated.
__________
What exactly would you like us to do Nichole?” Murton asked.
“I’d like you to bring my brother’s killer to justice.”
“So even without a body, the police have told you your brother is dead?” Virgil asked.
He lower lip trembled when she spoke. “Yes. They say there’s no doubt. They’ve taken random samples of the blood from his apartment and matched it against my own. Every single sample they’ve taken is a perfect match. It’s his blood. All of it. He’s gone. I’ll pay you whatever you require, but please, find out who did this, won’t you? The police—I’ve been dealing with a Detective Miles—are saying that without a body, no matter the amount of blood, there isn’t anything they can really do. Quite honestly, I don’t think they’re trying all that hard. You’ve got to help me. Please.”
Virgil started to say something, but Murton beat him to the punch. “What makes you think they’re not trying very hard?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have put it that way. It’s probably not a question of effort. In fact, I think they’re trying extremely hard. I just don’t think they have any idea what’s going on. I mean, how could they? I was closer to Nicky than anybody in the entire world and I don’t have a clue.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Nichole,” Virgil said, “how did you happen to choose us?”
“It was Detective Miles. I had a very frank and honest discussion with him just this morning during which I let him know that I was not at all satisfied with his results. He suggested that I contact you.” Nichole seemed to think about what she’d just said for a few seconds, then added, “Actually his suggestion was to contact Murton. He did say that he thought the two of you might end up working together.”
Virgil shot Murton a look. Murton pretended not to notice. “What do you do for a living, Nichole?”
“Is that relevant to your investigation?”
“I’ve been in law enforcement my entire adult life. If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: Everything is relevant.”
She looked around the room and then adjusted herself in the chair. “I’m a collector, of sorts. I acquire things that people want and I get paid well for what I do. Money is not an object. I can afford your fee, I assure you.”
Virgil looked at Murton and said, “What is our fee, by the way?”
“So, I guess you guys are sort of new to this?” Nichole said.
“Only to the business. Not the work,” Murton said.
Delroy walked over to our table with a tray that held three tall glasses of fresh juice. He set them down without speaking, but there was no mistaking the look on his face. It was time to drink up.
“You guys are juicing?”
“I am,” Virgil said. “And if Delroy is right—Delroy here is our bar manager—I think you referred to him as ‘that nice Jamaican man.’ Anyway, if he’s right, half the city will be in here wanting his juice.”
Nichole looked up at Delroy. “I’ll bet you’re right. I love fresh organic juice.” Then she turned her attention back to Virgil and Murton. “Say, have you guys ever heard of the Gerson Therapy?”
__________
Virgil sidestepped the Gerson question by asking Nichole to tell them everything there was to know about her brother. She spent the next twenty minutes bringing them up to speed with her brother’s life and background. It was his place of employment that caught their attention. “That seems like it must have been an interesting job, being a programmer for the lottery,” Murton said.
“Boy, you wouldn’t want to let Nicky hear you call him a programmer. It was sort of a sore spot with him.”
“Why is that?”
“Hmm, pride I think. Nicky was a code guy. Real coders—I’m talking about the guys that go forty-eight hours or more at a keyboard—that was Nicky. When he got going on something, he wouldn’t let up.”
“Like what?” Virgil asked.
“I don’t know…work stuff. He could go into work at the lottery on a Monday morning and sometimes I wouldn’t see him until Wednesday night. He’d be wired up on Red Bull, smelled like one too—a bull—but he’d be done for the week with ten hours of overtime coming on his next check.”
“So, dedicated,” Virgil said.
“Obsessed, is more like it.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“Nicky? God, no.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a picture of her brother. “I mean, look at him. He looks like a younger version of Brad Pitt. He was smart as a whip, kind to everyone he met and when he told one of his jokes people would literally wet themselves with laughter. That’s not an exaggeration. I’ve seen it happen. Everybody loved him. People wanted to be him.”
Murton took the photograph of Nicholas Pope. “But still,” he said, “everybody usually has somebody in their life that…”
Nichole was insistent. “Not Nicky and you know what? Not me either. I think what you have to understand, guys, is this…the kind of life Nicky and I had? After what we saw happen to our father, then losing our mother and being on our own? We learned to keep our heads down and our mouths shut. We went along to get along, if you know what I mean. It became a way of life for us. We lived it. We breathed it. Everyone loved him. No one would hurt my Nicky. We had plans. We were going to make it.”
“I’m sure you would have,” Murton said.
Virgil noticed that Nichole was consistently referring to her brother in the past tense. A small step toward acceptance, but still a ways to go. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, Nichole, but you’re wrong. Somebody wanted your brother dead.” The words landed on her as if Virgil had just slapped her in the face.
Murton reached across the table and took her hand, but he looked at Virgil when he spoke. “I think losing someone to violence is one of the most difficult things anyone has to endure. Most of the time there are no easy answers. Sometimes there are no answers at all. Ever.”
Virgil watched as Nichole squeezed Murton’s hand tight. She sort of bounced it on the table as she spoke. “But you’ll try, won’t you? You’ll help bring justice to my family?” Then she sat back in her chair. “Listen to me…justice to my family. I don’t have any family.”
“You can count on us,” Murton said. “Leave your contact information. Jonesy is close to the lead investigator handling your brother’s murder. Let us talk with him and we’ll see what we can find out.”
Virgil thought about how the last few days had gone so far, in particular his trips to the MCU headquarters and the conversations he’d had with Ron Miles and Bradley Pearson. “Well, maybe close isn’t exactly the right word.”
Murton shot him a
look.
“You might not be entirely correct with your last statement, Jonesy,” Nichole said as she dug through her purse. “I don’t have anything to write on…wait never mind, I’ll use this.” She pulled out her rental car contract and wrote her name and cell number on the back, ripped it off and set it on the table. “I want justice,” she said, hissing it through her teeth. Then she got up and walked out of the bar.
A few seconds later Murton stood from the table. “Where are you going?” Virgil asked.
“I have to go find a bigger stick,” he said.
__________
After Nichole left, Virgil thought about what she’d said about her brother and his position at the lottery, wondering if his death was somehow connected to his employment, but there was also something else that he remembered. He went upstairs and sat down at the ancient computer Murton had on his desk and typed PTEK into the Google search box. After paging through a number of results he eventually found what the information he wanted. Not long ago, a company called PTEK had been hired to assume day-to-day administration of the state’s lottery operations. The move by the state was one that in effect privatized the lottery and was highly criticized by left leaning politicians and the media alike, but in the end, the passage of the bill was inevitable, mainly because PTEK promised the state close to two billion dollars in revenue over the first five years of their contract. Proponents of the bill noted that the lottery only took in an average of two hundred million per year and that PTEK would essentially be doubling that amount for a small percentage of sales as their fee.
Detractors voiced concerns that lottery earnings were supposed to go toward state funded programs—chief among them, education—and anything that PTEK took would be coming out of those funds.
The proponents argued right back that any fee due to PTEK would be minuscule and, over and above what the lottery was currently earning. And so it went, on and on for weeks…
But two billion dollars is two billion dollars and the individuals on the committee charged with putting the deal together assured the Governor that it was doable, so the bill was passed, the Governor signed and the deal was done. But the most interesting aspect was something not widely known. The individual that chaired the committee and pushed the bill through the state’s legislative body was none other than Bradley Pearson.
Virgil also discovered that PTEK was a subsidiary of a holding company called API. A search on API turned up a number of different companies that used those initials; the American Petroleum Institute, American Professional Institute and oddly enough, a now defunct Indiana company by the name of American Pet Insurance that had once sold veterinary medical insurance to pet owners. Virgil was about to abandon his search, but when he clicked on the next page of the results found a listing near the bottom that identified a company with the API initials. When he clicked on the link he wasn’t sure if he wanted to congratulate himself or pound his head on the desk.
He took out his phone and called Becky, the researcher over at the Major Crimes Unit. “How would you like to have dinner at the most popular bar in the city tonight on my tab?”
“I don’t think you can call it your tab if you own the bar. How’s it going, Jonesy?”
“It’s going well.”
“How are you, uh, feeling?”
“I’m off the meds, if that’s what you’re asking, and I feel great. Listen, I’m serious about dinner.”
“Uh huh. What do you need?”
“Something that probably only you can give me.”
“Jonesy…I thought you were happily involved with Small.”
“I am. That’s not what I meant. Are you done yanking my chain now?”
“Almost. What about Murton? Will he be there? He’s yummy.”
Murton? “Listen, Becky…”
“Okay, okay. What are you after? I might be able to help. The key word in that last sentence was might.”
“I need everything you can get me on a company called API and its owner, a guy by the name of—”
“I already have it, Jonesy. API stands for Augustus Pate International. Ron had me look that up a couple of days ago.”
“Can you send it to me?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are no longer an employee of the state and that would be a breach of protocol which would go entirely against my personal moral code of ethics and sense of civic responsibility.”
“Huh.”
“Don’t ‘huh’ me. That only works with civilians. I’d like to send it to you, but I can’t. There’d be a record of the transmission. I don’t think you’d want that.”
“No, I guess I wouldn’t.”
“How about a printed copy?”
“Even better.”
“Won’t be until tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine. Bring it by the bar. I might not be here, but Murton will.”
“Mmm, Murton. Excellent.”
__________
Ron Miles walked down the hall, turned the corner and stepped into Becky’s office. She was on the phone, but had just hung up as he walked in. He heard her say, ‘excellent.’ He sat down and pulled one of the crime scene photos from a manila folder. “How are you with puzzles, Becky?”
“Hmm, not too good, really. Why?”
“I thought that was sort of your thing.”
She rolled her eyes without trying to hide it. “I’m a researcher, Ron, not a mystery solver. That’s more of your job, unless of course, you’re trying to offer me a promotion. Are you?”
“Afraid not.” He handed her the photo—the one with the series of numbers written in blood from Pope’s apartment—and let her look at it a moment. “What you’re holding is a copy of a photo from the crime scene. It looks like the victim was trying to tell somebody something. It’s Pope’s blood.”
Becky looked at the photo for a few more seconds and shrugged before she held it back out to Ron.
“Keep it. I want you to spend some time with it. See if you can figure out what it means.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know. Research it, I guess.”
Becky thought about that for a minute. “You’re positive that it’s the victim’s blood?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know. Just seems like a logical question. Here’s something, though. If you don’t have a body, how do you know that the victim was the one who wrote the message?”
“If you look closely at the photo, you can see that in a number of places in the message the victim’s fingerprints are visible. We matched them to his other prints in the apartment. It’s his blood and he was the one who wrote the message. But that’s a good question, Becky. Maybe we should promote you.”
“Could I just have a raise instead?”
“No, but I don’t have anything else for you, so you could take off early. Work on the code tomorrow.”
“Excellent.”
17
__________
The next morning Virgil slept late and by the time he was up, Sandy had left already left for work. He felt good. The drugs were out of his system, the buzzing in his head was gone, his leg didn’t hurt and his friends—including his girl—had once again overlooked his inadequacies and placed their love and affection for him over the hurt he had managed to inflict on everyone.
He made himself a glass of juice and then walked down the slope of the backyard and over to the pond. He sat in one of the chairs near the edge of the water and tried without success to focus on things other than the Pope family and how, like it or not, he had remained connected to their grief beyond the boundaries of casual circumstance. It had been just over twenty years since he’d shot and killed James Pope and no matter how often he thought back on that day, Virgil was always surprised at his own lack of recollection regarding the specifics of the only man he’d ever killed in the line of duty as a police officer. He could not remember what James Po
pe looked like, how tall he was, or even the color of his hair or eyes. While Virgil knew the basic facts of that day, he didn’t know what kind of man Pope was, what his childhood may have been like, or what events he may have endured in life that ultimately led to his death by Virgil’s own hand.
The limitations regarding matters of recollection of that day were not due to age or simple forgetfulness. They were due to a lack of concentration. Virgil had positioned his chair with purpose, near the water’s edge, his back to the willow tree. The sky had turned cloudy and dark with the possibility of a summer rain shower and the longer he sat by the pond, his mood began to darken along with the sky. He refused to look at the willow tree, not out of mulishness, but fear. He was afraid that the visions he’d experienced of his father and the conversations between them had not been real…nothing more than a product of his chemically altered imagination. He’d told Sandy that his fear of being free of the medication meant facing the possibility that he would never again see or speak with his father. The sagacity of her answer was something Virgil wasn’t ready to address. Regardless, he had to ask himself, was she right? If he never saw or spoke to his dad again, did that mean he had never really been there at all? Or did it mean that he had always been there and the medication had somehow enabled him to communicate with his father outside the boundaries that define the laws of science and mortality? Neither answer seemed acceptable.
