by Thomas Scott
“I love you.”
“Tell me…”
__________
“I was there you know,” Virgil said, the ringing of his phone now forgotten. They were back on the couch, her feet tucked in Virgil’s lap. “At your dad’s funeral. My mom and me. My dad didn’t go. He said he was sick, but I don’t think he was. It wasn’t a happy time for us. It feels sort of ridiculous to say that now—it was just a fucking house—but I’ll tell you, we lost something that day—as a family—and we never got it back.
“But I remember the funeral. The sea of red trucks that stretched for block after block from the cemetery. All the firemen in their dress uniforms. The flag over your dad’s coffin. The way they folded the damn thing and handed it to your mom like, like—”
“Like it was some sort of substitute,” Sandy said. “Like that flag would somehow put food on the table, or keep my mom safe, or tuck me in bed at night. I wasn’t very old, but I remember thinking it was a joke. I remember thinking it might make everyone else feel good, except for the ones who really mattered.”
“We don’t have to talk about this right now, you know. It’s sort of a lot to process.”
“It’ll always be with us. It’s part of who we are.”
“I want to say I remember seeing you there, and I think maybe I do, but it might just be wishful thinking, you know, like when you want to remember something so bad you end up making part of it up and then that becomes the reality. I remember the line of trucks, I remember your mom, and I remember the sadness. I remember thinking for the longest time how I wished it had been me that died that day. I remember thinking about how there wouldn’t be all those fire trucks there at the cemetery, how there wouldn’t be as many people, how there wouldn’t be a flag over my coffin.
“I’ve got to tell you, I didn’t want to go. But my mom made me. She didn’t say it, but she made it clear that your dad had died trying to save me, and it was our duty to go.”
“Oh, Virgil, that’s terrible.”
“You know, it wasn’t really,” he said. “She didn’t put the weight on me. She didn’t have to. She just helped me see that it was the right thing to do. Boy, I can remember her and my dad fighting about it. They fought for weeks after that. Not about me going, but the fact that he didn’t.”
“Why do you think he didn’t go?”
“He never told me. He was drinking pretty bad back then, but I think the real reason was that he felt responsible for your father’s death.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You have to understand, I might not know what I’m talking about here. It’s not something my dad and I talk about very often, but I think he feels like if he could have gotten me out, then your dad would still be alive.”
“But you know that’s not true. It took two men to get you out.”
“Yeah, try telling that to him.”
“I will.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with that. He’s not exactly the easiest guy in the world to talk to sometimes.”
“So says the son.”
Virgil looked at her, a reply forming, when the phone rang again. Sandy dug her feet into his lap for a second, then swung them off and went to the kitchen. She answered the phone like it was the most natural thing in the world, spoke into the receiver for a moment, then handed it to Virgil, a hint of a smile sneaking across the corner of her mouth. “It’s your dad.”
“How do you know that?”
“Caller I.D.,” she said. Then with playfulness in her voice Virgil was grateful to hear, she added, “Detective.”
Virgil laughed at himself and took the phone. “Morning, Pops. What’s up?”
“Hey Virg. Your boss is looking for you. She tried here out of desperation. Said she couldn’t get a hold of you. Anyway, sounds like something big might be happening with your case. She wants you to call her right away. Say, who’s that just answered your phone?”
16
__________
Virgil dialed Cora’s number then put the phone on speaker so Sandy could hear the conversation. When she answered her words were clipped and the frustration in her voice was evident. “Know where the Safeway off of Morris Street is?”
“What’s going on, Cora?”
“Woman named Elle Richardson is dead. Shot in the middle of her forehead. Ron Miles is already there and says the crime scene crew thinks it’s the same shooter. If you’re not doing anything you might want to swing by. And by the way, Pate’s lawyer is raising holy hell with the Governor as we speak so you may have touched a nerve somewhere. Things are happening, Slick. You might want to get in the game.”
“We’ll get right over there,” Virgil said, then wished he’d been more careful with his choice of words.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Her voice seemed to relax a little, but as was often the case with Cora, she didn’t wait for an answer. “Your phone sounds sort of funny. Do you have me on speaker or something? Hey, one other thing, I’ve got everyone else’s paperwork from yesterday’s cluster fuck outside the Governor’s place, but I’m still waiting on Small’s. Tell her to get it to me, will you, or did I just do that?”
__________
Fifteen minutes later they were dressed and in the truck, the bubble light flashing on the dashboard. When they pulled up to the crime scene, TV was there, along with a few print people. When they got out of the truck, the cameras turned their way. Virgil looked at Sandy and said, “I hate it when the news beats me to the crime scene.”
“Well, they don’t really have a life,” Sandy said.
A very tall and skinny female reporter and her cameraman caught them just before they ducked under the crime scene tape. “Detective Jones, what can you tell me about this latest murder? Our information is the victim is a nurse, just like one of yesterday’s victims. Do the nurses of our city need to be concerned, Detective? Is it the work of the killer you’ve been hunting in connection with the death of Franklin Dugan?”
Hunting. Good word.
Virgil’s opinion of the press went like this: They had a job to do like anyone else. It had always been his experience that as a detective, if you treated the press with dignity and respect, they in turn, would reciprocate in kind, thereby establishing a mutually beneficial relationship between all concerned parties.
They ducked under the crime scene tape. “No comment,” Virgil said.
The reporter put a pout on her lips. “Come on Jonesy…”
“Not now, Karen.” He looked at Sandy. “Go find Miles, will you? I’ll be right there.”
Sandy looked at him, a quiz on her face. “Sure. What’s up?”
“I’ll be right there.”
__________
“Did you know I’d be here, Karen, or did you just get lucky?”
“I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Karen said.
Virgil thought she was trying to look surprised, but with all the plastic surgery she’d had in an attempt to maintain the appearance of a twenty-two year old, it was hard to tell. He stood there for a moment and watched her try to blink.
“Who’s the cutie?”
He wanted to ignore her and walk away, but negative intimacy is a powerful force and when he turned back around to say something to Karen, he saw the taxi. It slowed in the street behind them and when it did the passenger in the rear of the cab turned his head away at the last second. Virgil’s eyes followed the cab, darted to Karen for a second, then back to the cab that was already turning the corner at the end of the block. When he looked over at Karen again he could not think of one single thing he ever liked about her, but he also was not afraid to admit that probably said more about him than it did her. He watched the cab turn the corner, stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed to where the victim was, all the while questioning his past preference in women.
Something about the cab, though.
__________
Sandy was leaning over the body when he walked up. �
��Just like Cora said, Jonesy. Caught her right between the eyes.”
Virgil looked at the victim’s body. A pool of blood had formed under her head. Groceries were scattered everywhere. “I see that. Where’s Miles?”
Sandy stood, then turned to face him. “You okay, Jonesy? What was that back there?”
Virgil was trying to process too many things at once; the discovery he and Sandy had made together just hours ago, their love making, another shooting victim, the cab that just went by. It was a lot of information. “What?”
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know. Just someone in a cab. It was weird. How many people have you ever seen that look away from a bunch of cop cars?”
Sandy frowned, tilted her head. “What cab? What are you talking about? I’m talking about the woman. Who was that?”
“Oh, that,” Virgil said. “Uh, her name is Karen Connor.”
Sandy chewed on the inside of her lip. “Well, I don’t like her. She seems kinda…brassy.”
Virgil puffed his cheeks, then blew out a breath. “Let me tell you.”
“Oh, you will, boss man, you will.”
“Well…as long as we’re on the subject, I guess I should tell you something.”
“Yes…”
“You know, just so it’s out there.”
“What?” Sandy asked, a note of skepticism in her voice.
He didn’t know if it would matter to her or not. “You see, the thing is…”
__________
“What? You were married to her?”
“Well, yeah, but the key word here is was. As in I was married to her, but now I’m not.”
“You never told me you were married.”
“I’m not.”
“But you were,” she said.
“Right. But I’m not now.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You didn’t ask. Besides, I thought you would have detected it, Detective.” Virgil watched her expression and picked up a hint of jealousy. Just a whiff. The fun kind though. He hoped. “It was a mistake. I was just waiting for the right woman to come along.”
Just then, an overweight bald man in a cheap suit walked over eating a double cheeseburger. He held the burger with three fingers, the other two pinching the cardboard container underneath the sandwich as a drip tray, an unused napkin in his other hand. He’d caught the end of their conversation. “Hope that wasn’t her.”
Sandy said, “Excuse me?”
The fat man took another bite of his cheeseburger, chewed three times, pushed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth like a wad of chewing tobacco, and spoke with his cheeks puffed full of food. He pointed the empty box at Virgil, but spoke to Sandy. “He said he was waiting for the right woman to come along. I was just commenting that I hoped it wasn’t this one here.” Then to Virgil: “How’s it going, Jones man? Crime Scene been here yet?”
__________
Wally Wright, Deputy Coroner of Marion County, placed his napkin in the empty box and then shoved the box into his suit pocket. Ron Miles walked up behind him, and the four of them, Virgil, Sandy, Wally, and Ron all adjusted into a little circle. Miles spoke to Wally first. “Took you long enough.”
“Yeah well. Traffic. What can you do?”
Miles wrinkled his nose, sniffing the air. “You said you were going to bring me something to eat.”
“Didn’t have time to stop.” Wally took a few steps over toward the body, looked down, then back toward the group. “Are you all done here? Where are your crime scene people? I’ve got shit to do.”
Miles shook his head. “God damn, Wally. We’ve been waiting on you for a preliminary assessment.”
Wally took in a deep breath, belched, and then let out an exasperated sigh. He squatted down next to the body and when he did the bottom of his jacket rode up on his waist and revealed his ass crack. A mole rode high between his cheeks, and the entire thing looked like a hairy, upside down exclamation point. His left hand pulled something out of his pocket, then went to his mouth. He stood, visibly swallowing as he did. “GSW to the head. Probably dead before she hit the ground. Maybe I should have been a cop. Okay if I get the gurney now?” He walked away, not waiting for an answer.
Ron looked at Virgil. “Was that a French fry he pulled out of his pocket? He said he was going to bring me something to eat.”
__________
Sandy looked at Ron. “Did you get a chance to look at the security tapes?
Miles shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Want me to take a look?” she asked Virgil.
“Yeah. See what you can see. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
After Sandy walked away, Ron said, “You getting any of that?”
“Course he is,” Wally said as he pushed a gurney in front of them. “It might as well be tattooed on his forehead. I really should have been a cop. You guys are something, you know that?”
__________
Ten minutes later Sandy was back, her face gray and the corners of her mouth turned down. “What’s the matter?” Virgil said. “Are you okay?”
She held up a CD. “Got the shot on tape, Jonesy. It’s bad.”
“What does it show?”
“Everything. Everything except what we need that is. Picture isn’t good enough to get the plate. Not even close. I don’t know, maybe the lab can do something with it, but I doubt it.”
“Okay. Send it back to the shop with Crime Scene and see what they can do. I’m going to have Rosencrantz and Donatti come out here. We need to figure this fucking thing out.”
“All right. What are you doing?” Sandy asked.
“I’m going to church.”
17
__________
Virgil found the broken down church in Broad Ripple easily enough. Cora had indicated that the building looked like it was being held together with bailing twine and when he arrived Virgil had to admit that her assessment wasn’t very far off the mark.
The building was originally constructed well over a hundred years ago and although it was larger than a small country chapel, the resemblance was unmistakable. The entire structure was made up of red brick and clapboard, the latter having long ago lost its protective coat of top paint, the boards now rotted and sagging at their joints. The nail holes wept reddish brown stains that left vertical tracks in the wood that looked like blood. A traditional steeple sat atop the main entrance to the church and the iron cross that stood like a spire leaned slightly askew and was held in place with guy-wires attached to its base. The wires were pulled taut and were pinched against sagging gutters at the roof’s edge, then attached to steel bands that encompassed the perimeter of the structure. Virgil parked his truck a safe distance from the structure and walked inside, his gaze held to the steeple until he was at the front steps of the building.
When he opened the door and stepped inside he heard the sound of children laughing and jumping about from the second story as well as a pipe organ being played from the chapel area. The notes bellowed through the church with a laborious effort that sounded painful and redemptive all at the same time. Then, when the music stopped, the church suddenly felt empty, even though the children could still be heard.
A woman turned the corner, looked at him and smiled in a sad sort of way. Then something happened that left Virgil momentarily unable to speak and caused a slew of questions to form in his mind at once, none of which he was prepared to ask, let alone comprehend the answers. The woman stepped forward, extended her hand and said, “Hello. My name is Amy Frechette. You’re the police officer, aren’t you? From the state? Murton’s told me all about you, but I’d recognize you any day from all the pictures he’s shown me. I’m terribly worried about Murton. Do you know where he is?”
__________
They walked into the chapel and sat next to each other in the first pew. Virgil had little if any preconceived notions of what a female pastor may look like, but if he had, Amy Frechette would fit the bill with perfectio
n. He guessed her age a little younger than his own, perhaps thirty-five or so. She wore a matching plain brown skirt and blazer over a white turtleneck sweater.
“I haven’t seen him in over a week. I don’t know what’s going on.” Her voice was strong but the skin under her chin trembled when she spoke. “You’re the best friend he’s got, Detective.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
Her unexpected smile caught him off guard, but then the light went out of her expression, replaced by something dark and defensive. “You’ve not been kind to him,” she said. “He thinks of you like a brother.”
“I’m here on another matter, Ms. Frechette. But if you don’t mind me asking, how do you know Murton, and by extension, his relationship with me?”
She shook her head and chuckled, then turned in the pew so she was facing him. “How do I know about your relationship? I guess Murton hasn’t been exaggerating when he speaks of your feelings for him. We’ve been living together for over a year, Detective. I guess I somehow thought you knew that.”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. In fact, I think there are a number of things I don’t know about Murton these days.”
“What in the world is that supposed to mean?” she said.
“What do you know about a man by the name of Franklin Dugan?”
“Who?”
“I am investigating a series of murders. One of the victims was a man named Franklin Dugan. He was the President of Sunrise Bank. Murt is either trying to insert himself into the investigation for reasons I can’t begin to understand, or he’s trying to extricate himself from it. I can’t tell which. Or maybe he’s guilty of something again, and he’s—”
“What? What do you mean guilty of something again?” she said, the anger in her voice evident.
“If you’ve lived with him for over a year, then I assume you know of his record. He spent some time at Westville for assault. He beat a man, almost to death.”
