by Tom Wallace
After hanging up, Dantzler returned to the Bloom book, spending the next hour reading and contemplating the author’s suggestion that Yeshua of Nazareth and Jesus Christ were not only different personages, but were, indeed, totally incompatible with one another. According to Bloom, one was a rather dark and mysterious human, the other a theological God. One longed for his father, the other was his father’s anointed son. The great irony, Bloom was quick to point out, was the transformation of Yeshua, the Jew of Jews, into the centerpiece of a new religion-Christianity. Bloom took that paradox even further, saying that had Yeshua of Nazareth somehow survived the Crucifixion and lived on into old age, he would have regarded Christianity with amazement. Dantzler found himself in complete agreement with Bloom’s assessment.
At six, with more than half the book finished, Dantzler’s growling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten all day. Yahweh would have to wait, Dantzler decided. Food, not esoteric literature, was now the top priority.
He quickly threw together one of his instant “left-over specials,” this one consisting of spaghetti and meatballs, and what remained of a Caesar salad. Not an award-winning meal by any standards, but at least it was filling.
There was nothing in the house that would even remotely pass for dessert, so he mixed another Pernod and orange juice and was about to head for the deck when his phone rang. He put his glass on the counter and picked up the phone.
“Jack Dantzler.”
“Forget everything the Reverend told you,” a man’s voice ordered. “That’s for your own good, and I will not repeat myself.”
“Who is this?” Dantzler asked, but the man ended the call without answering.
Dantzler punched in the caller ID, only to be informed by a mechanical voice that the number was not accessible.
He hung up the phone, stood there for several seconds, then grabbed his Pernod and orange juice and went out onto the deck. The night was warm and breezy, the sky filled with countless stars. A gold moon reflected off the lake that bumped up against his back yard. Damn near a perfect night, he thought to himself.
Dantzler sat in a lounge chair and pondered the phone call. Specifically, the questions it triggered. How did the caller know about the meeting with the Reverend, which took place less than thirty-six hours ago? What was the caller’s relationship to the Reverend? To the crime itself? Was he a family member? Could it have been Colt Rogers, the attorney? And how did he get Dantzler’s unlisted home number?
One other question had to be considered: could the call have been instigated by the Reverend as a way of increasing the odds Dantzler would get involved?
Dantzler had no answers to any of his questions except the last one. He discounted the possibility that the call was made at the Reverend’s behest. The Reverend had made it absolutely clear during the meeting that he didn’t need outside assistance. He was certain Dantzler would re-open the case.
With that one out of the way, Dantzler was left with one final thought, one that had nagged at him since leaving the prison: an ever-growing belief that the Reverend may well be an innocent man.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dantzler was in his office by six-thirty Monday morning. He had no particular reason for the early arrival, other than the need to feel like he was doing something constructive. Idleness wasn’t his cup of tea. He was like the shark that must keep swimming or die. It wasn’t lost on him that his much-longed-for leisure time had once again become a victim to his work, his need for action. So much for getting off the speedway.
Dantzler was surprised to find Eric Gamble standing by the coffee pot, holding an empty Styrofoam cup in his hand. The bags under his eyes were testament to his lack of sleep.
“I hope you don’t feel as bad as you look, Eric,” Dantzler said, plucking a cup from the stack on the table. “Because if you do, you might as well be pushing up daisies.”
“Do I really look that bad?”
“Dead man walking.”
“Man, I’m this close to finishing my novel,” Eric said, pinching his thumb and forefinger almost together. “I just can’t get the ending the way I want it.”
“Maybe you need to step away from it for a while, put some distance between you and the story. Then, at some point, attack it again. Maybe you’ll come back to it with a new and fresh perspective.”
“I tried that, already,” Eric said, shaking his head. “Didn’t work. I put it away for two days, tried to forget about it, but then I felt compelled to get back at it. It’s like a fire in my brain and it’s consuming me. I have to finish the damn thing.”
Eric poured coffee into his cup before filling Dantzler’s. “Did I tell you I finally landed an agent?”
“No, you didn’t. That’s huge, right?”
“Oh, definitely. She’s with a big-time New York agency. Loves what she’s read so far. Thinks it has definite potential.” Eric sipped at the steaming coffee. “She’s the one who recommended a different ending. Initially, I was resistant, didn’t think the ending had problems. But she convinced me. She gave me two or three possible endings. So… now here I am, struggling to come up with a different finish.”
“You’ll do it.”
“Would you read it, Jack? Take a look, see what you think? Let me know your verdict on the ending I’m going with? I mean, only if you have the time.”
“Not unless you make the lead character white, base him on me, and let Daniel Day-Lewis play him in the movie.”
“Well, you ain’t reading it, then,” Eric said, laughing. “Because the guy is as black as my ass, and no one but Denzel plays him in the movie.”
“Bumped by Denzel Washington. I can live with that. Sure, Eric, I’ll be happy to take a look at it.”
“Thanks.” Eric looked at his watch. “We have a meeting this morning?”
“Not unless Rich has one planned.”
“I haven’t seen Captain Bird in a week or so,” Eric said. “I think maybe he’s been out of town.”
“He’s been in D.C. attending a big-time conference on homeland security. But he should be back today.”
“Well, a Monday morning without a meeting is fine with me,” Eric said, dumping his cup into the wastebasket.
*****
A few minutes after eight o’clock, Laurie Dunn and Milt Brewer walked in. Laurie, stunning as always, wore a blue pants suit, white turtleneck top, and black flats. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and if she had on any makeup, it wasn’t noticeable. Not that she needed any help. Nature had treated her extremely well. By any standard, she was a natural beauty.
She moved past Milt, went to the table, pulled back a chair, and took a seat. “Morning, guys,” she said. When no one responded, she said, “Well, aren’t we a grumpy bunch today?”
As always, Milt, a ten-cup-a-day guy, headed straight for the coffee pot. After filling his cup, he claimed his usual seat at the table, first one on the right. He spied Eric yawning.
“You know, Eric, for such a good looking dude, you look like crap. Another late night with the ladies?”
“I was writing.”
“When are you gonna finish that damn book, anyway? You’ve been working on it for, what, five years now?”
“Three.”
“You know, God created the Earth in six days. Surely…”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ve told me this before, Milt. I’ll finish it when I finish it.”
“Yogi Berra couldn’t have said it better.”
Dantzler moved to the table and sat down next to Milt. “How did trial go Friday?” Milt had been the lead detective on a murder case that finally found its way into the courtroom after two years in legal limbo. “Any glitches?”
“Piece of cake,” Milt answered. “Puckett’s attorney only asked me three questions on cross. Ask, then sat. He knows this isn’t a battle he can win.”
Milt finished off the coffee and tossed his cup into the wastebasket. “Funny thing is, everyone, including the defense attorney, has been
begging Puckett to take a plea. He won’t do it. Keeps saying, ‘we’re gonna win this thing at trial, just like O.J. did.’ Who’s he kidding? Lonnie Puckett has about as much chance of winning as I have of getting a date with Ashley Judd, which, we all know, ain’t gonna happen. He may be the most stupid moron I’ve ever encountered. It’s just a damn shame all criminals aren’t that dumb.”
“That would certainly make life easier for all of us,” Dantzler said. “You put in your papers, Milt?”
“Not yet. They’re filled out, lying on the kitchen table, just waiting for me to hand in. But… I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. A coward, I guess.”
“Thirty-five years chasing bad guys. You’ve earned the right to kick back and relax.”
“Yeah, I have. And with Dan gone, it’s not the same for me. I love you guys, and you know it, but me and Dan, we just had so much history together. Vietnam, here, the cases we worked-it’s just not the same.”
Dan Matthews, Milt’s long-time partner, was murdered while working the Victor Sammael case, strangled and mutilated at the Marriott Inn. He and Milt had been more than mere partners. They were drinking buddies and close friends for almost forty years. They were like brothers, a perfect pairing of brains, tenacity, and toughness. For Milt, losing Dan was akin to losing a family member.
Milt looked away, said, “I always assumed Dan and me would call it quits together. Start together, finish together. Then we would spend our remaining time drinking and playing cards. Never thought I’d finish solo.”
“What do you remember about the John Elijah Whitehouse case?” Dantzler asked.
Milt seemed puzzled by the question. “Eli Whitehouse?”
“Yeah.”
“Man, you’re taking me back a few years with that name.”
“What can you tell me about the case?”
“Mainly, it was Dan’s first homicide case. He worked it with Charlie Bolton. Why do you ask?”
“Did Dan ever talk about it?”
Milt shook his head. “Only that Eli was guilty, and the case went down easy and quick. Not much else, best I recall. If you want details, check with Charlie. He has a memory like a computer.”
Milt filled another cup with coffee. “Why are you asking about Eli’s case? That’s ancient history.”
“You know me, Milt. I’m a real history buff.” Dantzler stood. “Come on, Laurie. Take a ride with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“To kneel at the shoes of the fisherman.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Charlie Bolton lived in a cozy brick house in the Palomar Estates subdivision, a standard three-bedroom, two-bath, two-car garage model he purchased a few years before retiring. Charlie, a cop for thirty-five years, was the grand old man in Lexington law enforcement circles, and the detective who served as mentor and rabbi for virtually every detective working there today, including Dantzler and Laurie.
No one was held in greater esteem than Charlie Bolton.
Charlie was in the front yard watering plants when Dantzler and Laurie pulled into the driveway. He cut the water, let the hose fall to the ground like a dead snake, and walked slowly toward the car. A huge smile creased his tanned and craggy face.
“Dunn, how many times did I warn you to stay away from stray dogs?” he said. “Especially a big mutt like this fellow?”
“You know me. I’m not keen on following orders.” Laurie pinched her nose. “I would hug you, Charlie, but you smell like rotten fish.”
“Indeed I do,” he answered. “It’s the smell of victory.”
“I’d hug you, Charlie, but you’re just too damn ugly,” Dantzler said, grinning.
“You’ve been with uglier, Jack,” Charlie said. “And don’t tell me otherwise.”
“Can I take the Fifth on that one?”
“The prudent thing to do, I’d say.” Charlie frowned. “Thought we were meeting at Coyle’s.”
Dantzler shook his head. “Nah. This way, I don’t have to buy you lunch.”
“You always did have alligator arms when it came time to pick up a check.” Charlie looked at the thick folder in Dantzler’s hand. “A murder book? You did get the memo saying I had retired, didn’t you?”
“A detective turns in his shield and his weapon. He never retires.”
Charlie laughed. “Where did you get that slice of wisdom? A fortune cookie?”
“Where can we talk, Charlie?”
“Sun’s gonna get hot shortly, so I vote for the kitchen.”
“Then let us tarry no longer.”
Charlie draped an arm around Laurie. “Tell me again how you put up with this mutt.”
“It ain’t easy.”
*****
Charlie handed a can of Diet Pepsi to Dantzler and a glass of water to Laurie. “I know it’s not cool these days to drink water straight from the tap, but I don’t have any of the bottled stuff. Simply won’t buy it. No need to pay for water because someone slaps a fancy name on the bottle. H2O is H2O.”
“You’re a true Spartan, Charlie,” Laurie said. “If you were just a few years younger, I would-”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what all the young and beautiful ones say.” Charlie held out his left hand, fingers spread. “See this ring finger? Ain’t never been one on it. Know why? Cause I never fell into the female trap.”
“Ah, Charlie,” Laurie said, clasping both hands over her heart. “A Spartan and a heartbreaker.”
“Nope. Just a sensible man, that’s all.” He looked at the folder resting on the middle of the table. “What did you bring me, Jack?”
“John Elijah Whitehouse. What do you remember about his case?”
“Eli Whitehouse? You’re here about him?”
“I am.”
“Hell, Jack, that was twenty, twenty-five years ago. I-”
“Twenty-nine, to be exact.”
“Okay, twenty-nine. That’s a long time ago.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“You don’t see me laughing, do you?”
“What do you want to know?” Charlie asked, his fingers drumming the murder book.
“Anything. The basics.”
“It’s all in the murder book. I kept detailed notes.”
“And I’ll study them in great detail. But… for now, off the top of your head, what do you remember about the case?”
“He killed two people. Shot them both in the back of the head, execution style. The murder took place in an old barn on a piece of property owned by Eli.”
“Go on,” Dantzler prodded.
“The two vics were a couple of local street kids. Drugs were found at the crime scene, so we figured it for a drug deal that turned ugly.” Charlie sipped some coffee. “Why are you inquiring about Eli Whitehouse?”
“I met with him.”
“When? Where? Why, for God’s sake?”
“Saturday, at the prison. At his request.”
Charlie set the coffee cup on the table and shook his head. “Why did he request a meeting with you? You didn’t work the case. Hell, you weren’t even on the force back then.”
“He heard I was a first-rate cop.”
“No argument there. But, why did he want to meet with any cop?”
“Says he’s innocent. Wants me to re-open the case.”
“After all these years? Why now?”
“He’s dying. Inoperable cancer.”
“Huh.”
“He said something else, as well, Charlie. Said you thought he was innocent.”
Charlie shook his head. “That’s not exactly accurate. I never said he was innocent; I was just never convinced of his guilt. Dan, on the other hand, had no doubt about it. He was certain Eli was the killer.”
“Why did you have doubts, Charlie?”
“Damn, Jack, I need time to think about this.”
“No, you don’t. You remember every detail of every case you ever worked. Why the doubts?”
&
nbsp; “Well, the method the killer used always troubled me. Back of the head, single shot. Like I said-execution style. That seemed awfully professional to me. Something you might see from the Mob or the KGB. But not how a civilian-a preacher-would do it.”
“Go on.”
“The drug aspect. We never uncovered any evidence connecting Eli to drug trafficking, production, sales, or distribution. None whatsoever. And the two victims were another stumbling block for me. A couple of local street-wise punks who had each been arrested a number of times for possession of marijuana. Typical weedsters, you know? Neither was a big-time druggie, and neither had a prior connection to Eli. At least, none that we found. There just didn’t seem to be a legitimate motive for Eli to kill those two guys.”
Dantzler leaned forward. “Let me ask you a couple of questions. If it was a drug deal gone bad, then why were any drugs left there in the first place? Second, why leave the bodies in such an open place, where they were sure to be found?”
“Your drug question is one that bothered me as well, and it’s one I have no answer for. Either they were left there inadvertently, or they were planted. Take your pick. As for your second question, the killer did make an attempt to get rid of the bodies. He torched the barn, but it rained like hell that night, effectively putting out the fire. A young couple was out parking, saw the smoke, and went to check it out. They found the bodies.”
“You had doubts; Dan didn’t. Why was he so convinced?”
“Fingerprints. Eli’s prints were all over the murder weapon.”
“A twenty-two, correct?”
“Yep. And it belonged to old Eli, too.” Charlie sipped more coffee. “Those fingerprints-that’s what did him in. When the D.A. stood in front of the jury, held up the murder weapon, and stated the prints on the gun belonged to Eli, well, that closed the lid on the coffin. All reasonable doubt got washed away.”
“According to your notes, you found the gun at the crime scene.”
“Yes. Right next to the bodies.”
“That didn’t bother you?”
“Of course, it did. I mean, why would Eli leave the murder weapon at the crime scene, where it was certain to be found? Why not toss it into an incinerator? Or into one of the ponds on his farm? Hell, there must’ve been five or six of them. And if he was stupid enough to leave it there, why not at least wipe it clean of prints? Finding it where we did, with those perfect prints on it, just didn’t make sense to me.”
