by Rick Reed
“I’m not going to get zapped, am I?”
“Don’t press the switch on the side, Doc and you’ll be okay. Right there,” Walker said and showed Dr. John where the switch was located.
Dr. John held the metal nubs near a set of burn patterns on the chest. They matched.
“Where in the world did you get these?” Dr. John asked.
“Army Surplus store on First Avenue,” Walker answered.
Jack said, “Zack got his boots at the Army Surplus store. There’s only one in town, to my knowledge.”
“That’s interesting,” Liddell said.
Walker said, “Before you get too excited I talked to the manager at Army Surplus. If you’re thinking of finding the killer by getting sales records you’ll be disappointed. He said these are sold as fast as he can buy them and he doesn’t keep records. You can get them off the Internet or in just about any sporting goods store.”
“There’s something else interesting,” Dr. John said, and motioned for the men to follow him back to the light box.
“More interesting than spikes through the eyes?” Liddell asked.
“Well, let’s see.”
Dr. John selected another X-ray, clipped it in place and put a finger on a shadow almost hidden by the jaw. He clipped up a side view of the skull. The shadow became an object about one and a half to two inches by three quarters to an inch in size. It had a definite shape, but Jack had no idea what it was.
“What’s that?” Liddell asked.
“It’s too far back in the throat for it to have been accidentally ingested,” Dr. John answered. “It’s not food. Food has softer edges. This is something solid. I think someone shoved it down the victim’s throat.”
“Any ideas on a time of death, Doc?” Jack asked.
“When was the last time someone saw the victim?” Dr. John asked.
Chapter 15
Sam Knight had gone to Harvard Law School in Cambridge, Massachusetts. To pay for this, he’d burned up an inheritance, worked two jobs, and gave up any kind of life outside of study and more study. After graduation, he had turned down lucrative job offers with prestigious law firms in Boston, opting instead to become a deputy district attorney.
He soon gained a reputation as a tough but fair deputy district attorney, handling the toughest cases: drugs, organized crime, money laundering, etcetera, and he’d successfully prosecuted two death-penalty cases. If it was mob-related, Knight was the D.A.’s go-to guy.
Knight’s tenacity and success in prosecuting these types of cases brought him to the attention of Big Bobby Touhey. Touhey had reached out to him by sending four very large men who had asked Knight not so nicely to come with them. Knight was placed in the back seat of the limo between two of the men. Not a word was spoken until the car arrived at the Arlington Street entrance of the Boston Public Gardens. Knight was let out and one man asked him, “Do you know where the statue of George Washington is ridin’ that horse?” Knight had said, “Yes.” The man got back in the car and drove away.
That was seven years ago, but Knight remembered it like it was yesterday. Knight had walked east toward the sixteen-foot-tall stone pillar that held a twenty-two-foot statue of George Washington sitting atop a horse, sword drawn and held high over his head leading a charge. A few hundred yards further east was a manmade lake/lagoon where swan boats could be rented. A hundred yards north of that was the famous park bench where Robin Williams sat with Matt Damon in the movie Good Will Hunting.
Sitting on Robin Williams’s bench overlooking the lagoon was a slight man, dressed in faded brown corduroy pants, a beige button-down shirt and brown and beige two-tone wing tip shoes—the kind favored in the early 1920s. All the man was missing to make the outfit complete was a straw boater hat called a skimmer, a bow tie, and a bamboo cane.
Big Bobby Touhey was in his late sixties or early nineties. It was hard to tell; he had drooping earlobes but a head of thick, jet-black hair. He was around five foot two, one hundred twenty pounds, and no muscle tone. The only thing big about him was the enormous gold-and-diamond studded ring he wore on his right ring finger. Touhey had a reputation for making big money and big violence. He had more than a little interest in gaming, prostitution, money lending, trucking, protection, knock-off clothing, and even garbage collection. You wanted an Apple watch, a Mac computer, or a designer purse, you could get it from one of Touhey’s people cheaper than from the Apple store or off the rack at Nordstrom. It was well known that Big Bobby also had more than an interest in politics. It was said, “No one gets elected without Big Bobby’s blessing.”
That meeting took place seven years ago. The meeting was short and Big Bobby was deliberately vague, but his message was crystal clear. Knight had seen the wisdom in working for Big Bobby and not against him. He would continue to prosecute organized crime, just as in the past, with the exception that he would get the go-ahead nod from Touhey first. Touhey would throw one of his own people under the bus every now and then to make Knight appear legit.
In exchange, Big Bobby would give Knight firsthand information. Knight had stagnated at his current position with the D.A.’s office. This could be his ticket to bigger things. He had to decide if he wanted to be rich and successful, or dead. Knight had chosen rich and successful. The relationship had become mutually beneficial. Knight was on his way up. A judgeship. Maybe appellate court judge. Maybe Massachusetts Supreme Court.
There had been one hiccup in all of this, and more than one person was involved in the hiccup. He had handled it, just as he handled everything. Knight’s word was gold with the District Attorney. Coupled with Big Bobby’s clout, Knight made most of the decisions whether charges were filed and what cases the D.A. would pursue. He had made the hiccup go away. He had no choice in the matter, since the crux of the problem involved Touhey’s son and two of Boston’s finest. Knight had made the problem go away, but at great risk and cost to himself. Touhey’s kid wouldn’t go to prison. Wouldn’t even be a suspect.
Big Bobby had suggested to Sonny and Sully that they resign from Boston PD. But by that time Knight had had enough. He wanted to quit. Quitting wasn’t an option. Knight had been offered a position as a Circuit Court judge in Vanderburgh County, Evansville, Indiana.
Sonny was also offered a job in Evansville, similar to the one he’d held in Boston. Sonny had been accepted by the Evansville Police with open arms and allowed to keep the rank of sergeant when he transferred. Sonny wasn’t a problem for Knight. They had a good working relationship.
It was Vincent Sullis that had caused the problem for Little Bobby in the first place. If Sully had handled things differently and not made such a big mess, there wouldn’t have been as much fallout. Little Bobby brought a shitstorm down on his own head time and time again.
Knight thought it ironic that Sully would go to a private Jesuit Catholic research university, Boston College in Chestnut Hill, to study law. And now Sully was a lawyer working for one of Touhey’s casinos. Sully was an idiot. A retard. A wannabe gangster. He had even started touting himself as Touhey’s consigliere—counselor, advisor to a mob boss.
Instead of dumping Sully in the harbor, Big Bobby thought Sully was hilarious. Knight knew Sully didn’t know a legal brief from Michael Jordan’s underwear. It was Sully who had called him at work to give him the news that Sonny Caparelli was found murdered. Knight much preferred never to talk to Vincent Sullis again, but Sully said Big Bobby himself had ordered him to meet with Sully.
Knight felt a chill of unease run through him as he sat in his book-lined office in the City-County Courts Building. He couldn’t help but think of all the deaths around him. The judge he’d replaced was barely forty years old and had been killed during an attempted robbery. Knight had no doubt that Big Bobby was behind it.
When Little Bobby died—murdered, really—Knight had gone to the funeral in Boston because it was expected of him. He’d
told a small lie to his wife, telling her it was a business trip. At the service, he ran into Sonny and Sully. They appeared to be uneasy. Truth be told, he hadn’t thought they should be seen together, much less with Big Bobby. He didn’t see any sign of it, but the Feds were likely photographing everyone who showed up.
Little Bobby had been brutally murdered and now, from what Sully told him, Sonny Caparelli had been tortured. Who would be next?
The top of his desk was stacked with legal tomes covering precedents of decisions for cases like the one before him now. Knight made a neat pile of the folders, opened a side drawer of his desk and locked them inside. The petitioners, four families suing the plaintiff, were obviously motivated by twenty million dollars each. They were insignificant. Just working Joes. The plaintiff, however, was a close friend of the Indiana governor. He was going to decide in favor of the plaintiff. It was what Big Bobby wanted.
He wrapped a scarf around his neck, pulled on a heavy wool overcoat, made sure he had gloves in the pocket and exited his office into the hallway that separated the judge’s chambers from the back of the courtrooms. Sheriff’s deputies guarded the hallway, and this allowed the judges to enter and exit the courtroom without being accosted.
“Hello Judge,” the sheriff’s deputy working the metal detector said, and waved Sam through the door. “Hard day, Your Honor?”
Sam smiled and said, “Not as hard as yours, I’m sure.”
The deputy gave him a tired smile. “See you tomorrow.”
Sam exited into the Civic Center courtyard, strode down the marble steps, past the enormous winter-dormant water fountain, past the Evansville-Vanderburgh County School Corporation offices, to the pedestrian crossing on SE 8th Street, where traffic stopped for him.
He felt good. He’d made the right decision. Sully hadn’t said as much, but this sudden meeting had to involve Sonny Caparelli’s death. Knight would attend the meeting, fix whatever needed fixing, and by this time next year he’d be on his way to Indianapolis. He was a shoo-in for an appointment as a federal judge. He was already anticipating the next step. Anything was possible now. The world was his oyster. Evansville had been good to him, but it was just a pond and he was a very big fish.
He walked for what seemed like an hour before he spotted his car, a cream-colored 2017 BMW Z4 sport convertible. He got his key fob out and spotted a big glob of something white on his windshield and another glob on the driver’s window. Some bastard had spit on his car! No doubt just because it was new and expensive. He took a slow tour around the car to be sure there wasn’t any other vandalism. There wasn’t.
He muttered, Shit on a stick! He punched the trunk button on his key fob and the trunk lid popped up. He was fixated on cleaning off the mess and didn’t notice when a shadow fell over him.
Chapter 16
The purpose of an autopsy is to determine if natural conditions could have contributed to the person’s death. Autopsies also help police establish the identity of the deceased. Ultimately, the autopsy is performed to determine the cause and manner of death.
Cause of death is the most plausible reason the person died. In Sonny’s case, there were several plausible reasons. The manner of death is the method or methods that explain the type of death, be it asphyxiation, exsanguination, or, in Sonny’s case, two heavy railroad spikes shoved through the eyes and into the brain.
Dr. John made a Y-incision starting from high on each shoulder, cutting to midchest, and then down to the pubic area. Even wearing a surgical mask, Jack had to turn his head away at the smell of a stomach being opened. The intestines were empty. The heart was normal size and weight. The brain was normal—except for the metal spikes.
Dr. John examined the site in the throat, removed the object, and said, “Gentlemen, I think we have a possible cause of death. Asphyxia.” The shadowy object found in the victim’s throat turned out to be a figurine. An inch-and-a-half tall, less than one inch wide.
“What the hell is that thing?” Jack asked.
Dr. John gently removed the carving using a pair of Kelly forceps and held it up to the light. “It’s a carving of a monkey. Sitting with its legs crossed.” Dr. John rinsed it off and turned it different angles.
“See no evil,” Sergeant Walker said.
“I think you’re right,” Dr. John agreed.
* * * *
Jack and Liddell left the morgue. Sergeant Walker was still doing paperwork and talking to Dr. John.
“So, according to Dr. John, the time of death could be anywhere from seven last night to six this morning,” Liddell said. If a time of death couldn’t be proven as a fact, it became a legal guesstimate on the coroner’s part. Dr. John used the time Sonny was last seen by Jerry—seven-fifteen the previous evening—to the time his body was discovered this morning—around six. The extreme cold hadn’t helped.
“Off the record, Dr. John said he thought it was closer to midnight,” Jack said. “We have to work with what we’ve got, but it would be nice, just one time, for something to go our way.”
Jack’s phone rang. It was the chief’s secretary.
“Let me guess. Double Dick’s on the warpath again,” Jack said.
“He’s on the path to hell if you ask me. But, no, that’s not what I’m calling about,” Judy said. “You’ve got a visitor in the lobby. And before you ask, no, the man wouldn’t give a name or reason for the visit. He asked specifically for Detective Murphy.”
“Thanks, Judy. We’re on our way,” Jack said.
“I’ll drive,” Liddell said.
Jack got in and turned the blower off. It was cold air until the engine heated up anyway. “What do we have? Dr. John gave the cause of death as the spikes through the brain. The secondary cause of death was the monkey carving blocking his airway. See no evil. What’s it supposed to tell us, Bigfoot?”
“Maybe Sonny saw something he shouldn’t have.”
* * * *
The man waiting in the police lobby was somewhere in his late sixties and what you would call “well-preserved,” with a heavily tanned six-foot frame, ocean-blue eyes and white hair worn long and slicked back. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie and dark wool knee-length overcoat. He reminded Jack of George Clooney except for the hair.
“Marty Crispino,” the man in the police lobby said, and shook hands with Jack and Liddell.
Jack said by way of introduction, “Detective Murphy and Blanchard.”
“I know who you are,” Crispino said.
Jack didn’t know if this guy knowing who he was, was a good or bad thing. Crispino’s expression gave nothing away. “What can we do for you?” Jack asked.
“My nephew was Herbert Crispino. You knew him as Cubby. Cubby Crispino. That ring a bell?”
It did. Jack remembered Cubby Crispino as a hired gun from New York. Cubby had tried to carry out a contract on a guy in Shawneetown, Illinois, but got killed himself. In fact, that was how Jack ended up stuck with Cinderella, the mutt who was currently being tended by Jack’s sister-in-law, Moira Connelly. He hoped Marty Crispino wanted the dog, but he knew it was something else that had brought him downtown.
“I remember the case, Mr. Crispino. What can we do for you?” Marty and Cubby bore a clear family resemblance. He wondered if they shared the same occupation.
“Everyone calls me Uncle Marty,” Crispino said. He gave Jack and Liddell a disarming smile. “I always wanted to come here and thank you gentlemen personally for eliminating the guy who killed my nephew. Cubby’s father—God rest his soul—would be here himself if he could. Cubby’s mother thanks you, too.”
Uncle Marty gave the impression that he wasn’t someone you wanted to meet outside an Italian restaurant without a bulletproof hide and backup.
Liddell, being the sensitive one, said, “You and your family have our sincere condolences.”
Jack made a guess where he was fr
om based on the accent. “You came all the way from New York just to see us, Marty? Or do you have other business here? I hope not. Cubby’s death has been avenged. It’s over.”
Jack saw the corners of Marty’s mouth tilt up minutely. “I get it. That’s a good one, Detective Murphy. You joke. That’s good. Means you have a sense of humor. A sense of humor is important in your line of work.” He reached up and smoothed his hair back.
Jack noticed Marty had used his right hand. He could see the right side of Marty’s overcoat was wider at the hip.
“I won’t keep you long. I can see you’re busy, but I wanted to meet you,” Marty said, but he obviously had something on his mind.
Jack smiled and said, “Here’s some more cop humor for you, Marty. Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
Marty’s hand started inside his coat and Jack grabbed his wrist and said, “Let’s take it slow, why don’t we? May I?” Jack patted down the side of Marty’s waist and felt something hard under the coat.
Marty cracked a smile. “Another good one, Detective Murphy,” he said, and held his arms up, palms outward. “I got a permit for the banana. New York has a reciprocal handgun carry agreement with Indiana. I checked before I left home. I checked my gun at the airport and got it back when I arrived in this happy little city. All legal. I’ll be happy to show you my permit, and we can compare bananas if you like.” He chuckled. Jack didn’t.
“I like that idea,” Jack said, and relieved Marty of the semi-auto he carried in a holster on his waist. Jack said, “Here’s another oldie. Assume the position.”
Marty smiled but turned around and put his hands on the wall, spreading his legs. Jack patted his outer clothing down from his neck to his socks and felt nothing else that could be a weapon.
