by Rick Reed
The judge gave Chief Johnson a questioning look. Johnson shrugged and said, “I’m afraid that must have been before my time.”
“That’s right, Bob,” the judge said. “I forgot that you moved here from—St. Louis was it?”
“Been here twelve years now, Judge,” the chief said.
“Well, sit down. I think you all should know all this, too. It may not have anything to do with what you’re investigating, but then again . . .”
Jack, Liddell, and Chief Johnson took seats in front of the judge’s desk and waited for him to begin.
“Dennis Alexander Morse,” Judge Hudgins said. “The most despicable man I ever had the displeasure of knowing.” He picked up the phone on his desk and called his secretary. “Alice, bring us some iced tea, please.” He hung up and continued.
“Denny was in the war. The one called Desert Storm. The military discharged him as unfit for duty. But we all knew there was more to it than that. We knew what kind of boy he was when he joined the service, and believe you me, the whole town breathed a sigh of relief when Denny went away in nineteen-ninety. When he came back he was changed. And not for the better.”
Alice, a matronly woman with a no-nonsense air, came in with a silver tray containing glasses, teaspoons, an ice bucket, and a large glass pitcher of ice tea. She began fixing one for the judge, but he dismissed her. She looked a little put out, and Jack guessed that she wanted to hear whatever story it was the judge was telling these men.
After Alice left the room Judge Hudgins said loudly, “Alice, quit listening at the keyhole, darlin’,” and they heard footsteps walking away.
“Where was I? Oh yeah,” he said. “Denny came back and found his wife was pregnant.”
Jack and Liddell leaned forward.
“Apparently the wife took in a little comfort while he was gone. Since he was gone more than a year, he knew there was no way that was his kid.”
“Cordelia?” Liddell asked.
“Yeah, little Cordelia,” the judge confirmed. “We never knew who the father was. But you have to keep in mind that when Denny left her, she had no money, no job, and ended up losing their house to the bank. And she had a little boy to worry about, too.”
“There was a brother?” Jack asked.
“Name was Cody Morse. Momma had a thing for names that began with a C I guess. Anyway, Cody was about five when Denny went away, maybe six or seven when Denny came back from the war.”
He paused while he offered the others a drink. As they fixed their glasses he continued.
“Well, Denny got home and moved the family to Eldorado, Illinois. I thought we were shod of them, but a few months later I got a call from the sheriff that he had Denny in jail for putting the missus in the hospital. Apparently she had tried to run from him and come here to hide out where she thought she had friends. Denny found her and almost beat her to death.
“Back then I was with the prosecutor’s office. We tried like hell to keep him in jail, but the wife, she says he didn’t do anything to her. She said she fell down. So we had to let him go.”
All the men in the room were aware of similar cases. It was a sad fact of life regarding domestic violence cases that more times than not, the truth never came out, and nothing ever changed.
“Well, before the wife—her name was Brenda—before Brenda was released from the hospital she had Cordelia. Sometime during the night, Brenda just got up and left. Without the baby. Just disappeared. Left with just the torn and bloody clothes she’d gone into the hospital with.”
“What happened to her?” Johnson asked.
The judge looked at the men and shrugged. “We tried to find her, of course. Thought maybe Denny had killed her. We searched everywhere, but there was nothing to be found. Back then, of course, we didn’t have the technology that could have been thrown at such a search in this day and age, but we always figured she’d just had enough. Left here and started a new life somewhere else. At least that’s what we all wanted to believe.”
Alice came back in with another pitcher of iced tea and this time she had some pastries. Liddell and Johnson both took several and another glass of tea.
With half a scone in his mouth, Liddell asked, “So what happened to Cordelia? Did she get raised by Denny?”
“That’s a good question and the answer is yes and no,” the judge said, and grabbed the last pastry before Liddell could swipe it. “I tried to keep him from getting the child,” Judge Hudgins said, and sighed. “But back then the welfare department didn’t really have any teeth. In the end she was given back to Denny, although I didn’t know then why he was fighting so hard to keep her.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“Well, Denny was about as blackhearted as any man I’ve ever run across. And we didn’t really find out what he was doing to those kids until one day we found Denny, laying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. He was so cut up we had to identify him with dental records. Which wasn’t easy because his whole face was cut off.”
Jack and Liddell exchanged a look but didn’t interrupt.
“Cody was found in the woods behind the house a few hours later. Covered in blood. We never found the murder weapon, but as best I can remember, it was something like an axe or a machete maybe. Cody was incoherent, babbling. Poor kid was covered in bruises, and we later found he had been sexually abused as well.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The judge told a good story, but in the end most of it came down to his memory. The records from that far back had been moved years ago to the basement of the town hall. Back then, nothing was on computer, and if there were hard copies of the case file there was a chance that some of it might be missing because that’s just the way it was.
Chief Johnson said he thought there were some police records in the police storage shed, and he promised to find what they had on Denny Morse and the family.
The small police parade made its way from the downtown courthouse toward the apartment complex where Cordelia Morse had lived with her school friend, Jonathan Samuels. Chief Johnson led the procession, with Sergeant Walker in the middle and Jack and Liddell bringing up the rear. The mood in the cars was somber after hearing the story told by Judge Hudgins.
“It’s not exactly the same story that Samuels told us, is it?” Jack asked.
“He’s the same age as Cordelia. Maybe he just doesn’t know all the facts,” Liddell suggested.
Jack grunted. “Hell, the chief didn’t even know about this. And why would an twenty-year-old murder have anything to do with what we’re looking into right now?”
“You think Alice or the chief will be able to dig out all the records for us?” Liddell asked.
“Too bad it’s not on a computer system. We’ll be lucky if they can find the paper files.”
“You think Cordelia tracked her brother down?” Liddell asked.
“You heard what the judge said. There was no trial. He was committed to a mental institution. It’s anyone’s guess where he is now. They didn’t even take fingerprints because of his age.”
“We need Garcia’s help with this,” Liddell said.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Arnold’s follow-up story had been a big hit, but in the newspaper business it was already yesterday’s news the minute the paper hit the stands. He knew he was going to have to come up with something even more spectacular for tomorrow or he would be relegated to the back pages again.
After returning home from Shawneetown last night he’d had to address his mother’s needs, type out his story, and e-mail it to his editor. He had only managed about two hours’ sleep before he had to go back to work. He was sitting in the editor’s office now with a cup of cold coffee and a headache, and his eyes felt like they had sand in them.
“Are you awake, Arnold?” Robertson yelled at him.
Arnold straightened in his chair and nodded. His heart was trip-hammering in his chest.
“Reggi
e, your article’s out. Arnold’s is in,” Robertson said to the reporters that were gathered in the room.
Arnold couldn’t believe that the editor was promising him another story. If he was getting Reggie’s spot then it would be the front page of section B, but that was still a front page.
He looked across the table at Reggie Washington, the reporter for the society page, and saw the barely controlled anger showing on the older man’s face. Arnold could only imagine how Reggie felt, never having had a daily column of his own. In his three years at the newspaper he had worked filler stories and then was assigned to the police beat, but less than half of his articles ever made it to print.
His feelings of sympathy toward Reggie were quickly forgotten when Bernice entered the room with a stack of papers for her boss to sign. She had long tresses of shiny brown hair, and skin so fair it made Arnold ache with the temptation to reach out and touch it. But he’d never been with a woman, never had a girlfriend, and would never have the nerve to speak to any woman, much less Bernice.
His mouth went dry as she leaned over the conference table to pick up the signed papers, and her breast brushed against his hand. His mouth moved like a fish out of water, torn between smiling and the less important task of getting air into his shocked lungs. His face turned a bright red when Bernice looked down at him, smiled, and said, “Good story, Arnold.”
He was still staring after her retreating figure when Reggie pinched him on the arm.
“The boss is asking you a question, man,” Reggie was saying.
Arnold looked at Mr. Robertson, but the words coming from his boss’s mouth weren’t making any sense. Something about “another follow-up” and “get your head out of something” and then it all came back into focus.
“What the hell is wrong with you, boy?” Robertson said and threw his arms in the air. “This whole damn place is full of pussy poachers! Why can’t I get a real reporter?” He sounded angry, but he was grinning, and in reality he was pleased to see Arnold show some interest in a woman. His smile said, Maybe that boy will make a reporter someday after all.
Arnold’s face went red again at the mention of the word “pussy.” Mother would never approve of that kind of language. Arnold looked at Reggie Washington and Garry Tisdale for support, but they were both smirking. Garry because he really was a pussy poacher, and Reggie, well, Reggie was a different kind of poacher. He liked men.
“Sorry, Mr. Robertson, sir,” Arnold stammered. “I was just thinking about my next follow-up article.”
“Cheesus H. Cracker, son. That’s what I been asking you for ten minutes. Now do you have anything for a follow-up or am I gonna have to go back to the society news?” He said the latter with no attempt to hide his contempt for such writing.
Arnold knew that, once upon a time, Bob Robertson had been the police beat reporter. Back in the day, as they said. He also knew that Robertson had no time for society stories, gay men, or black reporters, and Reginald Washington had the misfortune of covering all those bases.
He contemplated saying, “No. I don’t have a follow-up story yet.” He liked Reggie. Reggie was different, and up until today, had always been kind to Arnold. But then he thought of Bernice’s smile, and the way she had congratulated him, been proud of him, not to mention that he had actually touched her breast.
“Yes, sir, I’m working on a follow-up story. I’ve got to talk to one more source first. I can have it by two or three, sir.”
“You have until noon,” the editor said, and then lifted his bulky frame from his chair and walked out of the meeting without another word.
On the way out of the office, Garry Tisdale slapped Arnold on the back. “Great work, Arnold,” he said, and it sounded sincere. “We’ll make a reporter out of you yet.”
Reggie watched Tisdale strut down the hallway, heading in the direction that Bernice would have gone, and gave Arnold a mocking look.
“You think you got a chance with that?” Reggie said and scoffed. “Tisdale been punching that since she came here.”
Arnold didn’t care for the way Reggie was speaking of Bernice. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about—” He paused, and realized his fists were clenched. He was actually becoming angry, something he hadn’t done in a great while.
“I get it,” Reggie said. “Good luck with all that.” He stopped just inside the doorway and whispered low enough for only Arnold to hear, “Look at you, and look at Garry. Which way you think she gonna swing?” And with that remark, Reggie sauntered down the hallway.
The clock was ticking. Arnold still had nothing more to add to his story. Robertson would skin him alive. It was almost noon and he was beginning to feel like a character in a movie, waiting for a showdown at high noon. He would be facing off with Reggie Washington. But instead of guns, they would draw notebooks from their back pockets and see who could write the first story. There can be only one, Arnold thought, remembering Bernice’s smile.
He looked at Reggie walking down the aisle and said, “Hasta la vista, baby.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It was early afternoon and a drizzling rain was misting down as Jack and Liddell arrived at Samuels’s apartment with Sergeant Walker following in the crime scene van. The chief had followed in his own vehicle. Samuels was waiting at the front door of the apartment holding the leash of the ugliest dog Jack had ever seen. Samuels was wearing white pants that were skintight and came down well below his knees. He wore a multicolored pastel top that reminded Jack of one of Susan’s blouses. His hair was green tinged now instead of multicolored.
Liddell leaned over to Jack and said, “Must be the mutt he told us about. I’ve never seen anything like it. What do you think it is?”
Jack looked at the dog and shrugged. She was tall and built like a poodle, but with a pug snout and ears that sat high on her head and rotated like radar dishes. Ugly had a new meaning, but the dog wasn’t his problem. Keeping the redneck chief of police from messing with Samuels to the point of losing the focus of this investigation was his problem. He looked over at Chief Johnson. The look on the chief ’s face said he was spoiling for a fight.
The layout of the apartment was typical of any two-bedroom place. The living room was first, separated from the kitchen by a breakfast bar. Behind the kitchen was a small hallway that led to the two bedrooms, which shared a bath.
“The big bedroom is Cordelia’s,” Samuels said. “It’s on the left. And I haven’t been in there, in case you want to know.” He had directed this last remark to Chief Johnson, who was standing in the doorway with his thumbs hooked into his gun belt.
“Listen up, Nancy,” Johnson said to Samuels, “I’m gonna stay out on the porch and have a cigar.” He looked at Samuels and ran the cigar in and out of his mouth, and then grinned. “You stay outta these men’s way, you hear?” He cast a glance at the dog, which responded with a low growl.
Samuels ignored the insults, and spoke to Jack. “Well, if Boss Hogg’s not going to be in here I guess we can wait on the porch. I trust these other men.”
“This won’t take long,” Walker said, and they watched Chief Johnson make his way down the stairs and head toward his police vehicle.
“We can talk on the porch,” Jack said, hoping to avoid more hostility. Besides, the apartment was too small for all of them. Liddell and Walker would easily be able to handle it.
Samuels walked to the end of the upper porch and sat in one of his neighbor’s white wicker chairs and looked out across the fields. Chief Johnson waddled down the stairway toward his vehicle. As irritating as the man was, Jack wished he would at least stay on the porch so that they could say that he maintained the scene of the search, but you don’t tell a chief of police what to do. Jack turned his attention to Samuels.
“Sorry about the chief,” Jack said.
“It’s okay. I’m used to it,” he said, and scrubbed the head of the dog, who was looking Jack over very carefully.
Jack chuckled, and said, “Bos
s Hogg. That’s good.”
Samuels looked up at him and grinned. “Don’t forget Baldilocks.”
Jack reached out a hand toward the dog, palm up. “Seems like a nice dog,” Jack said.
Before Samuels could warn him, the dog strained at its leash and snapped at Jack’s outstretched hand. Jack was able to pull his hand back just in time.
“Sorry, Detective Murphy,” Jon said. “I’ve only had her a few days and apparently she doesn’t like men.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” Jack said. “I heard her growling at the chief, but I figured that was just because the chief is a dick.”
Samuels laughed out loud.
The search of Cordelia’s apartment was anticlimactic considering the amount of preparation it had taken to set it up. Liddell came out of the apartment first, and shook his head at Jack’s questioning look.
“Not a thing, pod’na,” he said, and peeled latex gloves from his hands. He motioned for Jack to follow him back inside, where he led Jack to Cordelia’s bedroom. He kept his voice at a low whisper and said, “Take a look in the closet.”
Jack opened the folding doors. There were dozens of hangers but only two pairs of jeans and a few cotton tops. On the floor of the closet were two pairs of dirty tennis shoes.
“She only had a few clothes with her at the Marriott, didn’t she?” Jack asked.
“What young woman that you know has less than a semi-truckload of clothes and shoes?” Liddell shook his head. “Someone has cleaned out her closet, pod’na. And I didn’t find any underclothing in her dresser, either. It’s like all of her panties and bras have been taken along with her clothes.”
Jack walked to the dresser and opened the drawers. “Let’s talk to Samuels,” he said.
Jack and Liddell found Jon Samuels still at the end of the porch with the dog. Chief Johnson was standing at the back of the crime scene SUV talking to Sergeant Walker.
