STATE OF ANGER: A Virgil Jones Mystery Series (Detective Virgil Jones Mystery Series Book 1)

by Thomas Scott

  __________

  Late that night the phone next to Virgil’s bed rang just as he was about to fall asleep.

  “You’ve got your warrant for Pate. One for the office and one for the house.”

  “What? Cora? Say that again, will you please?”

  “I said you’ve got your warrants for Pate.”

  Virgil thought her words were slightly over-enunciated yet slurred and it reminded him of his days on patrol when he’d stop an intoxicated driver then listen as they tried to talk their way out of a trip to jail. “Uh, that’s great, Cora. How did you pull that off?”

  “Don’t ask,” she said, then giggled like a young girl. “Let’s just say my powers of persuasion are still as good as they ever were.”

  Among other things, Virgil thought.

  “What was that?” she said.

  “I didn’t say anything. I think the connection is bad. Thanks for going to bat for me.”

  “Anytime,” she said. “Hey, did you ever see that Far Side cartoon? The one where the couple is in the delivery room at the hospital? The father is standing next to the bed and the doctor is holding their new baby boy right after he comes out of the chute. The father looks at his wife and says, ‘Look honey, it’s a boy. Let’s name him Preston.’” She howled with laughter, then hung up on him.

  Out of the chute?

  Virgil looked at the caller I.D. It read Elliott, Preston. It was just after one-thirty in the morning.

  19

  __________

  The next morning, Saturday at ten o’clock, Virgil and Sandy were to meet at the Pate Ministries complex. When he turned in, Virgil saw her state car. She’d beat him there. He looked at his watch and discovered he was about ten minutes late. He had a search warrant for the complex tucked inside his jacket pocket. The lobby of the church had been converted from the wide-open space Virgil had witnessed on his last visit to a smaller, more intimate setting, the latter being achieved by erecting a three-sided red pipe and drape system, the kind you see at trade shows and conventions. At the front of the enclosure an electrically operated viewing screen had been lowered from its ceiling mount and the image being displayed prior to the screening of tomorrow’s broadcast was a closed circuit view of the enclosed area where Virgil now stood. There were about twenty to twenty-five people scattered about the area, some seated in padded folding chairs that were set out in four rows of twelve across the width of the enclosure. Others either stood or were seated in various places at the round four-top tables that were covered with white linen cloths and set with dishes and flatware.

  Virgil watched himself enter the area on the closed circuit system and almost tripped on the leg of a chair as he did. A buffet was set up on the left side of the room and the wait staff were busy as they placed stainless steel chafing dishes into their holders. A faint wax-like aroma filled the room from the cans of chafing fuel that burned with blue flames under the containers.

  Samuel and Amanda Pate stood at the front of the room next to the lowered view screen. Samuel had his back to Virgil, the armbands of his crutches clamped tightly around his suit sleeves. Amanda glanced his way, though her eyes skipped across him as if he were not there.

  Virgil and Sandy saw each other at the same time, first on the screen, then in real life as she turned around in her chair and looked back. She leaned over and whispered something to a handsome man seated next to her, then stood and walked between the chairs to the end of the row. She wore a cream-colored sweater dress with matching knit stockings that were just slightly longer than the bottom of her dress. When she walked the tops of her stockings peeked out from under the bottom of her dress.

  “Hey, Jonesy,” she said, her hand now on Virgil’s arm. “How are you?”

  But before he could say anything, Amanda was at his side and she slipped her left hand into the crook of his arm, the words she spoke pointed directed at Sandy. “Virgil and I go way back. I’m Amanda Pate, Samuel’s wife. You’re one of Virgil’s people, aren’t you?”

  Her actions were vintage Amanda, Virgil thought.

  But it didn’t play with Sandy. She tilted her head slightly and said, “Something like that.”

  “Well,” Amanda said with mock sincerity, “I love your little outfit. It’s so, so….”

  “Yes?” Sandy said, her eyes blinking more than usual. “It’s so what, exactly?”

  “Well dear, it’s so, um, edgy I think is the word I’m looking for. Yes, that’s it. It’s so edgy I think I might be a little jealous. You’ve managed to capture just about every man’s attention here this morning. For example, that man you were seated next to just a moment ago. Do you know who that is?”

  “It’s your party,” Sandy said. “Don’t you?”

  “Of course I know, dear. I was just wondering if you did. He’s a very successful bond trader. Single too. In fact, don’t look, but he’s watching you right now. Would you like me to formally introduce the two of you?”

  “We’ve already met, thank you,” Sandy said. “Speaking of attention, I think your husband is trying to get yours. By the way, I can’t wait to see the show. I’ve heard it’s a hoot.” Then to Virgil: “Detective Jones, could I speak with you for a moment?”

  Amanda peeled her eyes from Sandy and walked away without saying anything more. Once she was gone Virgil looked at Sandy and said, “hoot?”

  She ignored him and waved at the bond trader.

  __________

  “What was that all about?” she finally said.

  “That,” Virgil said, “was a master manipulator in action.”

  “No kidding.” Then, a few seconds later, “What time are they coming?” She was still making eyes with the trader.

  “In about thirty seconds. Donatti’s running this squad. Rosie’s at the Pate’s residence. Once they’re in, I want you to keep an eye on Amanda.”

  “You got it, boss” she said, her head turned upward. Virgil wanted to kiss her right then and there, and in fact would have except a number of things happened almost simultaneously. Samuel Pate picked up a spoon and tapped it against the side of a water goblet and said, “Excuse me everyone, if you’ll take a seat please, we’re ready to—”

  At the exact same time, Donatti and ten uniformed State Troopers came through the front doors of the lobby. Donatti shouted, “Police! Search warrant! Nobody move. Everyone stay right where you are and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Virgil started moving toward Pate. The bond trader who had been flirting with Sandy saw Virgil coming, stood up to get out of the way and tripped backwards over the row of chairs behind him. Amanda tried to duck behind the drapery out of sight, but Sandy wrapped her arms around her and tackled her to the ground. The drapery and support rods got tangled up in their struggle and fell over the buffet table, then the table and everything on it crashed to the ground as well. People were screaming and trying to get away from the commotion by the buffet and Donatti was still yelling for no one to move. Virgil pointed a finger at Samuel Pate, told him not to move, then ran over to where Sandy was still struggling with Amanda. He yanked the drapery free from the top of them both, then held her down while Sandy got up.

  Virgil had his foot stationed in the middle of Amanda’s back to hold her in place. Samuel Pate walked across the room knocking chairs aside with his crutches as he approached. “What in God’s name is going on here?” he said, his voice coarse with anger. “Will you take your foot off of my wife’s back please? Why are the police here?”

  “Step back please, Reverend,” Virgil said. “I’ll speak with you in a moment.”

  But Pate refused to listen amid the chaos of the events as they unfolded around him. He stepped closer and put his crutch against Virgil’s hip, forcing him to remove his foot from Amanda’s back or lose his balance. “Step away from my wife, Detective. I insist you tell me—”

  Virgil grabbed the still extended crutch and pinched it under his arm, then swept Pate’s legs out from under him. Pate was fa
ce down on the ground before he knew what had happened. Virgil yanked the crutch from his right arm and pinned his hands behind his back. Donatti ran over and placed his handcuffs around Pate’s wrists. Virgil leaned in close and said, “You ever place your cane against my person again I’ll show you the other end of it. I’ve got the resume, sir, believe me.”

  “Release my husband this instant,” Amanda shouted. “For God’s sake, Jonesy, he’s disabled. You’ve got a crippled man on the ground in handcuffs on his own property. What’s the matter with you? I demand to know what’s going on here,” she said. Why are all these police officers here?” She stomped her foot, her hands balled into fists at her side as she spoke.

  Virgil reached into his pocket, pulled out the search warrant and handed it to her. “We have a warrant to search the premises, Amanda.” Then to Donatti: “Have your men take the file cabinets and everything in the desk drawers. You brought trucks and dollies?”

  “We’re good to go, boss,” Donatti said.

  “Get started then. Grab the computers, too. They probably have a central server somewhere. A closet, or a small office. Don’t miss that.”

  Pate mumbled something Virgil couldn’t quite catch. “What was that?”

  “It’s in the basement,” he said. “The door at the end of the hall.”

  Virgil looked at him for a moment without responding. Then Pate lifted his head and smiled. “I’ve nothing to hide, Detective. Nothing at all. You’ll see. Then you and I, well, we’ll talk again, I suspect.”

  Virgil ignored him and nodded to Donatti who motioned for the other officers. They wheeled the dollies in and moved toward the offices. Tears were running down Amanda’s cheeks. She held the warrant in her hand, down by her side. “Read the warrant, Amanda. It gives us permission to search and seize anything in this building. Your house as well.”

  Her head snapped up, the whites of her eyes veined with red streaks at the corners. “What? My house? You’re going to search my house?’

  “Not going to, Amanda. Are. We’ve got a team there right now as well.”

  “You bastard. If you think I’m going to let you get away with this you’re mistaken,” she said, her finger pointed like she was admonishing a child. “I’ll have your badge for this, Virgil Jones. You watch and see. You think we don’t have any influence in this town?”

  Samuel Pate looked at his wife and said, “Amanda, go home. Please, you’re not helping.”

  “But Samuel, can’t you see what they’re trying to do to us? We can’t just let—”

  “Amanda, I said go home. Keep your wits about you and get to the house and make sure they conduct their search in a respectful manner, then call Everett. Tell him what’s happened and have him meet me downtown. Can you do that for me, Amanda? Detective, is she free to go?”

  Virgil nodded. “Yes, but remain available. Do not leave the city.”

  When Amanda looked at him the veins on the sides of her neck bulged with anger. “This isn’t over, Jonesy. Not even close.”

  Just then Sandy started shouting as she pulled the rest of the drapery off their support rods. “Hey, I need some help here. Someone get a fire extinguisher. Those burner cans are still going. The drapes are on fire. Jonesy? Jonesy, I need some help over here.”

  The burner cans from under the chafing dishes had spilled to the floor when Sandy tackled Amanda, but in the commotion that followed no one had noticed the smoldering drapery. Virgil helped Sandy yank the rest of the curtains down, then grabbed carafes of ice water from the tables and dumped them on the hot spots. A few of the people who were present to preview the Sunday broadcast and the rest of the wait staff picked up the smoldering curtains and pulled them outside and tossed them into a pile on the sidewalk.

  Sandy pick up a chair, sat down and puffed out her cheeks. Her hands were shaking. “You okay?” Virgil asked.

  “Yeah. Sorry. Fire sort of freaks me out.”

  “Yeah, me too. But I guess you knew that already.”

  She smiled at him. “Well, all in all, I think that went just fine, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. Textbook,” Virgil said.

  __________

  Virgil’s phone rang and when he saw it was Cora’s home number he thought, Jesus, what now?

  “Good morning, Cora. How was your evening?”

  “It was, mmm, productive. That about sums it up, I think.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I know. Listen, did you see everything you needed to over at that dilapidated church in Broad Ripple?”

  “Yeah, pretty sure. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason. I guess last night while you were sleeping and Elliott and I were…uh, well, while you were sleeping, it blew up and burned to the ground. I just got off the phone with the watch commander. Looks like there was some kind of explosion. He said it blew the steeple right off the top. It’s lying in the alley behind the church. He said it reminds him of that Pan Am jet they blew out of the sky over Lockerbie. Remember that?”

  “I’ll get over there as soon as I can.”

  “Slow down, Slick. There’s more. The firemen found a body inside the church. Unidentified female, but there was only one car in the lot and it’s registered to Amy Frechette, so you can do the math on that. Crime scene is on the way to the Frechette residence as we speak. Didn’t you tell me that’s where Murton Wheeler lives?”

  __________

  When they pulled up to Murton and Amy’s house, two crime scene techs were already there, waiting. Sandy hopped out of the truck and when she did both of the techs said something to her, first one, then the other. Virgil didn’t hear any of it.

  Sandy looked at them and shook her head. “Oh my God, how about we all just pull our dicks out and see whose is bigger?” She looked at each man individually for just a split second, then said, “I’d probably win. We may or may not need you boys. We’ll let you know. Why don’t you wait in your van? Go on now,” she said, and gave them a little wave of her hand. Once they were gone, she looked at Virgil and said, “you want the front or the back?”

  “Front I guess.”

  Virgil had to pop one of the small glass panes in the front door to gain entry, then went to the back and let Sandy inside. Amy Frechette’s house was old, but in good shape. The walls were stucco instead of sheet-rocked, the ceiling was made of a biscuit colored stamped tin, and the walkways between rooms were all arched. The wall opposite the front door was covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, and each shelf was filled with row after row of both religious and psychology studies. For reasons he could not readily explain, Virgil expected to find a good selection of fiction novels, the utilitarian surroundings suggestive of an individual who lived through someone else’s imagination, but that was not the case. Instead, what he found was book after book whose titles were reflective of someone who sought greater understanding of the people she served. Amy Frechette’s home did not appear to be a place of sanctuary from her work, but instead it was a place of continued study of the work to which she devoted her life.

  A hinged, two-photo frame sat at eye level on one of the shelves. One side of the frame held a sepia-toned picture of a young couple’s profile as they looked at each other, the opposite side held a color photo, yellowed with age, of a young man dressed in jungle fatigues standing next to an airplane somewhere in the tropics. Her father perhaps. But it was a single photo next to the others that caught Virgil’s eye and reminded him of Cora’s comments about not being able to serve the State and his own personal agenda at the same time. The photo was one of him and Murton, taken just after they’d arrived home from basic training, before being shipped out to fight in the gulf war. They stood side by side, their arms around each other, both of them smiling at the camera. Just off to the side, part of her face cut out of the frame of the photo, was Virgil’s mother. She was looking at them and the flash of the camera caught the tears that ran down her cheek.

  He left the photo untouched and continued to
search the room. A February 2006 issue of Psychology Today was on the sofa, open to an article entitled, ‘A Field Guide to Narcissism.’ Virgil wasted a few minutes scanning the article before deciding he was not narcissistic and tossed it back on the couch.

  The kitchen was extremely small, a nook really, with only one florescent light bulb that hummed above the kitchen sink. The flickering light against the dark paneled walls reminded him of the times he’d spent as a child with his grandfather when he’d wake in the early morning to the smell of percolated coffee and toasted wheat bread before they’d go out to fish on his neighbor’s pond.

  They spent three hours searching Amy Frechette’s residence—every drawer, all the closets, the attic, the crawl space and every inch in between turning up exactly nothing, though Virgil would have been the first to admit he didn’t really expect to find a ledger in Murton’s handwriting that detailed a master plan to kill Franklin Dugan. In the end, they’d made a hell of a mess but turned up no evidence whatsoever.

  Virgil’s cell phone buzzed and when he looked at the screen the number was not one he’d seen before. “Jones.”