by Rick Reed
“It might have been an inheritance,” Mindy said with little conviction.
“Mindy, I have to be honest with you. Sonny would want me to take care of you if I could. Don’t take what I’m going to say now as a threat. I wouldn’t harm you for a million dollars.”
“I know you wouldn’t. You’re a good man, Detective Murphy. A real straight shooter…” she snorted like something was funny. “I didn’t mean a shooter. That came out by accident.”
“Yeah,” Jack said and forced a chuckle. Not funny, bitch.
“Here’s the bad news, Mindy,” Jack said. “We know about the bank accounts. All of the accounts will be frozen. There will be a Federal investigation including theft, money laundering, and a bunch of other stuff I’d rather not burden you with. Until the investigation is over, they won’t release any of it. The government will most likely take your house and any other valuables as proceeds of illegal acts. That includes Sonny’s treasures and the jewelry, which I assume is yours.”
“Sully told me that I could go back and get my stuff, that lying bastard. But I didn’t have anything to do with any of this. I’m not a criminal. Sully said the money was the least of our worries. He was afraid of Big Bobby. He was a little afraid of you too. Not scared exactly, but you worried him.”
“He should have been worried,” Jack said.
“You and Sonny would have made a good team.”
Jack didn’t think so. He said, “Was Sonny still working for Big Bobby? Was Big Bobby the one giving him tips for the big drug busts?”
The line went dead. She’d hung up.
“Shit!” Jack said.
Liddell turned the recorder off and called police dispatch. He said to Jack, “They couldn’t get anything on the cell phone number. It must be Sully’s burner. Or maybe it was Sonny’s burner. Oh hell, this just never ends.”
“I think she took Sully’s car and hightailed it out of town,” Jack said. “That’s why we can’t get a fix with the GPS. At least we know she’s still alive and we’re not going to find her body somewhere. The bad thing is she might have several hundreds of thousands of dollars originally seized by the Feds. She was lying about the money.”
“Unless Big Bobby sent more people than Sully and Uncle Marty. She didn’t seem all that broke up about leaving a ton of jewelry behind, or losing the house and bank accounts. She might have four or five hundred grand in cash. Kind of a rags-to-riches story,” Liddell said. “Where do you think she’s going?”
“If she’s smart, she’ll use the money to get out of the country,” Jack said. “We’ve still got the BOLO out on her and Sully’s car. We may find her yet, but she’s not really our target.”
“What next?” Liddell asked.
“Donuts,” Jack said.
“Now you’re talking. That’s why I love you, pod’na. Will you be little Jack’s godparent?”
“Donuts in the office,” Jack said.
“Sometimes you’re just downright mean.” Liddell pulled back onto the highway.
Chapter 43
Jack and Liddell pulled in behind police headquarters, and Jack saw Double Dick marching into the parking lot.
“Shit! What’s he want?” Jack said.
Double Dick scowled as he approached. He was wearing a blue wool trench coat over his dress blue uniform. His cab driver’s cap with gold braiding on the brim was cocked jauntily over one eye like an airline pilot. Jack didn’t know whether to salute or give the man a boarding pass.
This is your captain speaking. Get your seat belts on. It’s going to be a bumpy ride, folks.
“Deputy Chief,” Jack said.
“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours, Murphy. Oh, never mind. Come inside. I’m freezing out here. I want to know what you’ve found out. You hear me? I’m tired of hearing everything on the grapevine. I know you hate the news media, but you really should make friends with those people. They can be very helpful.”
Jack took his cell phone from his pocket and said to Liddell, “Do you remember the chief’s home phone number, Bigfoot? He goes to bed late. He’ll probably be up.”
“What are you doing, Murphy?” Deputy Chief Dick asked, pulling the collar of his coat tighter around his face.
“Chief Pope gave me direct orders, Deputy Chief. He said he was not to be left out of any briefings, sir,” Jack said. “I have to call him and tell him you want a meeting.”
“But I’m the Commander of the Detectives’ Unit,” Dick protested. “You don’t need permission…Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t bother the chief right now. I want you here bright and early. I’ll call Chief Pope in the morning. You and Blanchard will fill me in completely. Is that understood?” He stomped off toward the Executive Office parking spaces.
“Yes, sir. We’re clear,” Jack called after him.
Liddell said, “I heard Double Dick wants to be buried twenty feet deep when he dies.” When Jack didn’t bite, he said, “Because—way down deep he’s really a nice guy. Get it?”
Jack ignored him and said, “We need to finish going through the file Yankowski sent, Bigfoot.”
“Did the chief really give you an order?”
“No.”
“You are one cool dude, pod’na.”
“I’m one freezing dude.”
They stepped inside the detectives’ office and Jack said, “I never thought I’d say this, but Double Dick had a good thought out there.”
Liddell put the back of his hand against Jack’s forehead. “You’re not feverish, and I haven’t seen you imbibe.”
“No. Really. The news media might be our friend and we didn’t know it,” Jack said.
Jack made a call. “Angelina,” he said, and his side of the conversation went, “Yeah. I know what time it is. You wouldn’t have talked to me that way when you worked for me. No. I don’t want to explain anything to Mark. Quit busting my balls, Angelina. Remember when I asked you to get any news footage of the murders Detective Yankowski told us about? Yeah. You sent it? Well, we didn’t get it. No, I didn’t screw it up. Can you send the files to Liddell’s email?” He listened and said, “Now would be good. We’re in the office.” He hung up.
A few minutes later Liddell’s cell phone dinged. The message said, “Check your work email.”
“Angelina?” Jack asked.
“That was quick,” Liddell said. “Can you print all of it? I can’t see anything on those tiny screens.”
Liddell was already logging onto his system account. He pulled up a file and opened it.
“There’s a dozen pictures here at least. We’ve got the Washington Times, Baltimore Sun and some other local Boston rags,” Liddell said.
While Liddell printed the pictures, Jack called Sergeant Walker and asked him to send any crime scene photos that had civilians in the background. He then called Posey County Deputy Stevens.
Jack said, “Deputy Stevens, this is Murphy. I need to know what you found out on those guns.”
Stevens said, “The 9mm came back registered to Martin Crispino. One of the .45s is registered to the Evansville Police Department. The other .45 is registered to a Vincent Sullis. Crime scene said the Jeep has been wiped clean of prints. I called the sheriff and he said to let your guys take the Jeep and anything else they thought would help. I’ve been watching the GPS tracker and there’s nothing to report. It’s all copacetic.”
“Good job, Deputy,” Jack said. “I’ll let you know when the autopsy is scheduled.”
Stevens responded, “I’ll be ten-eight at the station for a few hours if you need me.”
“Ten-four,” Jack said and hung up.
Ten-eight is outdated police radio-speak meaning the officer is available for dispatched runs. Apparently, Posey law enforcement hadn’t made the switch from police secret radio codes to plain language. The only code lingo you
heard on the radio now might be a Signal-S, which means the officer is headed to the toilet. A Code-Three Signal-S is self-explanatory.
Liddell pulled a stack of pictures off the printer and they split them up while Jack told him what Stevens said about the handguns. Jack was flipping through pictures from news stories when Special Agent Frank Tunney walked in.
“I hear we’ve had more excitement. Did you forget I’m on the team?” Tunney asked.
“Sorry, Frank,” Jack said. “I didn’t forget, but things have changed.”
Liddell walked over and sniffed Tunney’s hair. “You smell like some girly shampoo, Frank. You got a girl in your room? Is that what the “meeting” was about?”
“You smell like barbeque and donuts,” Tunney retorted.
“Touché. We just left another murder scene with a burned body. Not exactly BBQ, but close.”
“Can we talk business, please?” Jack asked.
“I heard it might be Vincent Sullis,” Tunney said. “That changes things a bit, doesn’t it?”
“We thought the killer was Sully, but he got kidnapped by the real killer,” Liddell said.
Tunney held up a finger. “Unless Sully was working with someone else, and they turned on each other like we discussed.”
“We talked to Mindy Middleton. She told us that Sully kidnapped the kids and was going to kill them. That’s nothing like the killer’s M.O. The real killer saved the kids from Sully. Dispatch got an anonymous tip where the kids were. Another pay phone.”
“Did Mindy see anyone? Another car?” Tunney asked.
“She was inside while he was torturing the kids. She said he was asking them if they had seen anyone around Sonny’s murder scene. Maybe he was worried he’d been seen, or maybe he was trying to find the real killer,” Liddell said.
Jack added, “Marty Crispino’s Jeep was left at the scene where Sully was murdered. The GPS tracker was still in the Jeep along with three handguns. One was Crispino’s, one was Sonny’s and one was Sully’s.”
Tunney sat, quietly thinking. He said, “When is the autopsy scheduled for Vincent Sullis?”
“Little Casket is on her way to Posey County to get the body. She should be calling anytime now,” Jack said.
“I guess we wait until Dr. John gets X-rays. See if there’s another carving.”
“We’ve got another avenue here,” Jack said. “Mindy told me some things about Sonny and Sully regarding an old murder case and Bobby Touhey.”
“That’s interesting,” Tunney said. “Tell me.”
“She said Sully and Sonny helped get rid of a body once under the orders of Big Bobby Touhey. She said Sonny had nightmares afterward, where he would yell something about “She’s burning!” She said he didn’t want to talk about it, but it was getting to him. Detective Yankowski—the Boston detective—told me about an old murder case that Sonny was lead investigator on, and it fits. A young woman named Missy Schwindel was raped, mutilated and burned to death. Mindy said someone confessed to the murder and they thought it was over. A few months later, Sonny gets the job in Evansville. She said Sully was involved in that case too. And according to Yankowski, Judge Knight was involved. This could be it.”
“You’re suggesting that the killings are what? A retaliation for the old murder in Boston? Or are you saying they’ve been ordered by Bobby Touhey?” Tunney asked.
“Hell, I don’t know what I’m saying,” Jack said. “You’re the analyst. Analyze.”
Tunney laughed. “It doesn’t work that way, Jack. But I’ll try to help you if I can. It seems you have a real quandary on your hands.”
“Yeah. Hey Frank. Detective Yankowski—the Boston detective—sent me a bunch of documents on that old murder, and some on the recent murder of Little Bobby Touhey. Angelina just sent us some news photos of that murder: at the courthouse, at the scene, that kind of stuff. We were about to go through it. Want to help?”
“Not really,” Tunney said. “But let me make an observation here.”
“Okay,” Jack said.
“Whoever this guy is, if you find another monkey carving in Vincent Sullis’s throat, it probably means the killer is finished. There are only four wise monkeys. Sullis would be the fourth.”
Jack said, “Well, maybe he’s done, but I’m not. Maybe he thought he was doing us a favor by killing a crooked cop and judge. He did us a favor by killing Sully and the mobster’s kid. Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m agreeing with you, Jack. I just meant if he’s done here, he’s probably moved on by now. I’m afraid you may never know who this guy was.”
“Frank, you know Jack,” Liddell said. “He’ll never let it go.”
Tunney admitted, “He does have a rather impressive record with this sort of thing.”
“You forgot about me. I’m good at this too,” Liddell said.
“I could never forget you. Sometimes I wish I could, but there you are.”
“Bite me, Frank.”
“Oh, Jack,” Tunney said. “I think I may have misspoke when I said there are only four wise monkeys. While I was researching, I found an ancient Japanese legend referring to a fifth monkey. I couldn’t find an image of this one, if there is an image, but it is only referred to as Ten-Tei. Ten-Tei is the punisher. He’s the one that metes out justice. If this guy thinks he’s Ten-Tei and was passing judgment on the victims, he will be a formidable foe. Ten-Tei, by the accounts I’ve read, is fierce and swift in his punishment of wrongdoers. Who knows where he’ll go next. Who he’ll punish.”
“So?” Jack said. “Monkey god versus .45 Glock.”
“So proceed carefully, grasshopper,” Tunney said.
“Thanks, Frank. I’ll keep an eye out for your monkey god. He should be easy to spot. He’d make a good playmate for my mutt.”
Tunney said, “Well, I wish you luck. I only stopped by to see what you turned up. I’ve got an early flight out tomorrow. D.C. has a case for me and I’d better get some sleep. You’ll let me know what you come up with?”
“I thought your boss said we could have you for a while?” Jack asked. “This isn’t about your meeting from earlier, is it?”
Tunney laughed. “Top secret,” he said and winked. “Besides, I’m pretty sure your guy is done here.”
“Yeah. I guess,” Jack said. “Too bad you didn’t know more about the murders in Boston. That’s how we’ll track this guy. I’m sure of it.”
Tunney smiled. “Jack, I’m not consulted on every murder. If I was, I’d never have time to gamble or play golf—or go to meetings,” he said, and left.
“Did you think he smelled kind of girly?” Liddell asked. “I wonder if he’s got a girl back in his room.”
“What makes you think that, Bigfoot?”
“Only two things make a cop wear cologne and give up on an interesting murder case. Sex and food.”
“Bring your two-track mind back out of the feeding trough and get busy,” Jack said.
The phone rang. It was Deputy Findlay calling from Henderson. “Glad I caught you,” Findlay said. “I don’t know how he could have done it. Man, I’m going ape shit trying to figure it out and my ass is hanging out in the wind like a single sheet of toilet paper.”
“Findlay, what are you talking about?” Jack asked.
“Crispino’s gone. I was outside his door the whole time, I swear on my mother’s testicles.”
“Shit!” Jack said. “Did you—”
“I put a BOLO out on him, and he ought to be easy to spot ’cause he’s only got on a hospital gown and a smile.”
“Unless he stole some clothes,” Jack said.
“Screw me sideways and up and down!” Findlay said. “I’ll get some help in here.”
“Well, thanks for ruining my evening,” Jack said.
“Glad I could help,” Findlay said and hung up.
&nbs
p; “I heard all of that,” Liddell said. “Uncle Marty is one tough son of a gun.”
“You’re bad luck, Bigfoot.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“Exactly,” Jack said.
They divided up the photos sent by Angelina and the files sent by Detective Yankowski. Jack picked up one of the photos and stared at it. “Magnifying glass,” he said to Liddell and held out a hand.
Liddell dug around in a drawer, found a magnifying glass and handed it over. The picture was outside a courthouse. Yankowski had marked this one as the murder of the guy who confessed to the killing from five years ago. Another was outside the police station at a news conference on the same date. Yankowski and his captain were circled in it. Jack picked up another photo. This one was a distant shot of the crime scene where Little Bobby was found gutted and hanging by wires. Apparently, some slick reporter had weaseled his way inside to get close enough to snap this one.
Jack focused the magnifying glass on one photo and then the other. He handed it to Liddell and put his finger beside one of the people in the background at Little Bobby’s scene.
His phone rang. It was Angelina.
“Asshole. I couldn’t go back to sleep,” she said. “I went back through the pictures I sent you and guess what?”
Chapter 44
On their way to the Tropicana Hotel, Jack called Detective Yankowski’s home telephone while Liddell drove. He spoke to a drowsy detective for only a few minutes. “Thanks again. Sorry to wake you,” Jack said and disconnected.
“I couldn’t hear over the pounding of my heart,” Liddell said. “What did he say?”
“He confirmed it, Bigfoot. He spoke to him before Little Bobby was killed. There’s no doubt.”
“Do you think we’re too late?” Liddell asked.
“Let’s think positive.”
“Okay. I’m positive he’s gone,” Liddell said. “I just have a hard time believing this, pod’na. I mean…we have no evidence. We can’t arrest him. This may be the one that gets away.”
