by Tom Wallace
“Sounds like he was framed.”
“My instincts always said so.” Charlie looked at Laurie, then back at Dantzler. “You gonna look into it?”
“I’m considering it.”
“Those damn prints, Jack. That’s nearly impossible evidence to overcome.” Charlie rose, refilled his coffee cup, and stood next to the counter. “Something else also troubled me. During the lead-up to the trial, Eli said very little in his own defense. Was almost silent, in fact. Even Dan was troubled by Eli’s silence. Dan kept saying, ‘if I was innocent, been framed, I would be screaming so loud they would hear me in heaven and hell.’ But not Eli. He remained stoic through it all.”
Charlie sat back down. “What did he say to you during the meeting?”
“Not a lot. Only that he didn’t do it, and that I should check the obits page in the Herald for the past two weeks. He said the answer is there.”
“Did he give you a name?”
“No. Said he couldn’t.”
“You think he couldn’t, or he wouldn’t?”
“Both. I think the man is afraid of something. Or someone.”
“You said he’s terminal. What’s a dying man got to be afraid of?”
“He has three kids. Six or seven grandkids. Could be he’s worried about their safety.”
“And it could be he’s just yanking your chain. Running one final con before he ventures off to the Great Beyond. He wouldn’t be the first murderer to pull that stunt.”
“This is no stunt. He’s afraid, and I think he has reason to be. Last night, not long after we spoke, I got an interesting call. The caller, a man, said I should forget everything the Reverend told me. He said it in a very threatening tone. It was definitely a warning, not a request.”
“You trace it?”
“Couldn’t be accessed.”
“That is interesting.”
“What can you tell me about Colt Rogers?” Dantzler said.
“He’s a lawyer-what else needs to be said?”
“You had any dealings with him?”
“Couple of times he’s questioned me in court or for a deposition. Nothing serious. Why are you asking about him? He wasn’t Eli’s attorney. Abe Basham was. Abe’s been dead for years.”
“Rogers and a guy named Johnny Richards visit with Eli on a fairly regular basis. I’m curious about their connection.”
“Well, Rogers operates out of the same building Abe was in. Maybe even the same office, for all I know. Could be he took over Abe’s practice and sort of inherited Eli.”
“And Johnny Richards?”
“Not familiar with him.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Dantzler said, closing the folder.
Charlie shook his head. “You’re gonna pursue this, aren’t you?”
Dantzler shrugged.
“You’ve got no choice.” Charlie started to say something, hesitated for several seconds, then said, “There is only one thing worse that letting a guilty guy go free and that’s sending an innocent man to prison. God, I hate to think I let that happen. But-”
He looked up at Dantzler.
“Those damn fingerprints. That was the clincher.”
CHAPTER SIX
At five-thirty, Dantzler left the police station, walked several blocks down Vine Street, turned onto South Upper, crossed the street, and went into McCarthy’s Irish Bar. The place, crowded as usual, was crawling with attorneys, most of whom were standing together, chatting and drinking. Several nodded at him as he walked past.
Near the back, sitting alone, was Sean Montgomery. When he saw Dantzler, Montgomery picked up his empty pint glass and called out to the woman tending bar.
“Make it two of these,” he said, putting the glass back on the table.
Montgomery was an ex-Homicide detective who quit the force, went back to school, and earned his law degree. He was now a partner in one of the city’s biggest, most-prestigious firms, having moved up fast due to his great skills as a trial lawyer. He and Dantzler had worked several cases together in the early ’90s, and had remained close over the years. Even though Sean had gone over to the “evil empire” and become a defense attorney, he was one of the few people Dantzler trusted completely.
Dantzler sat just as the bartender placed a pint of Guinness in front of each man. Montgomery lifted his glass and downed half the contents in one long guzzle.
“Best darn Guinness outside of New York, Boston, or Chicago,” he said, putting down his glass. “Some days it’s even better. Of course, if you want the really good stuff, you have to go to Ireland. I’ve been there twice, and I can promise you the Guinness there is to die for.”
“This is good,” Dantzler said, after taking a drink. “I need to come here more often.”
“That you do, laddie. That you do.”
“Aren’t you Scottish, Sean, rather than Irish?”
“Which I suppose makes me first cousins to the Irish. Can’t say for sure. What I do know, though, is we both have a strong dislike for the Brits. The colonial bastards.” Montgomery took another long pull, almost emptying the glass. “Have you noticed how everybody in this country claims to be either part Irish or part Native American? Those seem to be the two ‘in’ ethnic groups to have in your background. I once dated a beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed, fair-skin lady-pure Scandinavian from head to toe. Could’ve easily been Miss Sweden or Miss Denmark. Anyway, we started discussing ethnicity and she claimed to be one-eighth Cherokee. I’m thinking, well, of course you are, my dear. How could you not be? Isn’t everyone?”
He laughed and said, “If that woman has a drop of Cherokee blood in her, I’ll give you a kiss on the lips out on Main Street.”
“I’ll take a pass on that,” Dantzler said, grinning, “regardless of her bloodlines.”
“Ready for another one?” Montgomery asked, holding up his glass.
“Not just yet. I’m savoring this one.”
“One more for me,” Montgomery said to the bartender. “And keep an eye on this guy. Get him another one when he runs dry.”
“Listen, Sean. What can you tell me about Colt Rogers?”
“He’s an asshole, not to be trusted. Why? Is he representing you on some matter?”
“No.”
“Good. I’d make you buy the next five rounds if that were the case.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Don’t like him or respect him.”
“What’s his reputation within the lawyer community?”
“Mediocre attorney, world-class bullshitter, master manipulator, courtroom coward.”
“Why do you refer to him as a courtroom coward?”
“Because he never goes to trial,” Montgomery said. “He always has his clients plead out. Convinces them they don’t have a chance to win, then has them cop a plea. He scares them into accepting the sentence recommendation rather than fight it out at trial. Then he takes credit for winning while his clients head off to jail without having been given a chance to beat the rap. They get four years instead of six, when, in many instances, with a little luck and a good attorney, they might have been acquitted. And most of them are dumb enough to believe he’s done them a big favor. Poor schmucks.”
“What types of cases does he normally handle?”
“He’ll take on pretty much anything, so long as the money is right.”
“You ever cross swords with him?”
Montgomery shook his head. “We’re both defense attorneys, so the chances of us crossing swords are nil. I have dealt with him a few times, but nothing serious. Like I said, he tends to dodge real challenges. If I did face off against him at trial, I would eat his lunch. Now, that I would savor.”
“Did he take over Abe Basham’s practice?”
“Oh, hell, no. ‘Honest Abe’ would have had nothing to do with a guy like Rogers. Trust me, Abe and Rogers were at opposite ends of the morals spectrum. Abe was revered, Rogers is reviled. They operated in different galaxies.”
“Doesn’t Rogers have an office in the same building where Abe’s practice was located? On West Short Street?”
“Yeah, but Rogers moved in after Abe died. Prior to that, Rogers had an office in Chevy Chase.”
“Has Rogers ever been in trouble?”
“You mean, with the Bar?”
“Any kind of trouble?”
“If he has, I’ve never heard about it. I figure him for one of those slick types who knows just how far to go without going over the line. Caught or not, I’m sure he’s done his share of shady dealings.”
“You know Johnny Richards?”
“Nope. What’s going on here, Jack? Why are you inquiring about a slimeball like Colt Rogers?”
“You remember the Eli Whitehouse case?” Dantzler asked.
“Vaguely. I was a kid when it happened. He was a preacher or evangelist-something along those lines, wasn’t he? Killed a couple of guys.”
“Yeah, well, I’m thinking about re-opening the case. Give it another look.”
“I know you pretty well, Jack. You wouldn’t do that unless you were convinced something was off. Are you?”
“No, I’m not convinced, and won’t be until or unless I find evidence that will convince me. But I do think there is reason for doubt.”
“Who was the lead detective on the case?”
“Charlie Bolton.”
“You’re pissing in the wind, my friend. Charlie never screwed up.”
“No. But I talked to him about it, and he admits he was never one-hundred percent certain Eli was guilty.” Dantzler got the bartender’s attention and ordered two more pints of Guinness. “Dan Matthews worked the case with Charlie. It was his first homicide investigation. Dan had no doubt about Eli’s guilt.”
“After you, Dan’s the best homicide detective I’ve ever run across. If he was convinced, and if Charlie didn’t prove the man’s innocence, I’d say you really are pissing in the wind.”
“I don’t know. My gut says otherwise.”
“A cop’s instincts can sometimes be more persuasive than the evidence. We’ve both known that to be the case. And no one has better instincts than you. If you feel it, give it a whirl.”
Dantzler finished off his Guinness, stood, and put two twenty dollar bills on the table. “By the way, Sean. I’ve never asked you what it’s like making your living defending assholes you used to put away.”
Montgomery chuckled. “It’s easy, Jack. I just hold my nose when they hand me the money.”
“Just make sure the stink doesn’t rub off on you.”
*****
Dantzler left McCarthy’s and walked back to the station. He stopped briefly at the front desk, engaged in a few minutes of small talk with Bruce Rawlinson, and then headed for the stairs. When he reached the second floor, he saw Eric standing outside of Captain Bird’s office.
“Hey, Eric,” Dantzler said. “You serious about wanting me to take a look at your novel?”
“Sure. If you have the time.”
“For you, Eric, I’ll make time.”
“Okay, what’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“Oh, yeah, there’s a catch,” Eric insisted.
“I’d prefer to call it a Hannibal Lecter-type exchange.”
“What?”
“I give you advice, you give me information. You know, quid pro quo. Like with Hannibal and Clarice.”
“What information? Specifically?”
“I want you to check the Herald’s obit page for a specific two-week period. Make it the two weeks prior to last Saturday. Really dig into the background of those who died. I want to know everything you can come up with.”
“What’s this about?”
Dantzler spent the next fifteen minutes bringing Eric up to speed on the Eli Whitehouse case. Eric listened intently as Dantzler gave a quick overview of the murders, his being summoned to meet the Reverend, discussing the matter with Charlie, the threatening phone call, and his intention to re-open the investigation.
Eric shook his head, a look of deep skepticism on his face. “I don’t know, Jack. Sounds to me like you’re fishing for minnows in the ocean.”
“No. The phone call changed everything. It convinced me the Reverend is telling the truth. When a stranger orders me to shut down an investigation I haven’t even begun, it can only mean one thing-something is going on.”
“Any parameters on the obits thing?” Eric said.
Dantzler thought for a second, then said, “Start with males, Lexington or Fayette County residents. If we need to branch out, we’ll do that later on.”
“What do you want me to look for? Besides a criminal background, of course?”
“Anything you find that might smell. Check finances, family members, business dealings. Pallbearers, if you have the time. Did the family request donations rather than flowers? If so, where did they want the money to go? It’s gonna require you to dig through a huge pile of manure in order to find the diamond.”
“If there even is a diamond.”
“It’s in there somewhere. We’ve just got to uncover it.”
“Okay. I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.” Eric laughed. “Quid pro quo, huh? It’s more like quid pro I got suckered.”
“Could be I made a fool’s deal, Eric. Depends on how good your book is.”
“It’s a helluva lot better than the obits page. I can promise you that.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Eli lay in his bed in the prison infirmary, eyes closed tight, as though by so doing he could miraculously shut out the pain along with the light. Lying there, with a half-dozen needles jabbed into veins in his arms and the back of both hands, extremities now black and blue from the relentless torture, he felt like a pin cushion. No human should experience such indignity.
He wanted to curse God, to rail against a Maker who would allow such misery, such affliction, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t dare, never, regardless of the circumstances, however grim and horrible they might be. Eli knew better, knew that despite the intense and bitter feelings he now felt, nothing could erase his awe for the Almighty. Awe… and fear. To love God is required; to fear him is the true beginning of wisdom.
The pages of history are replete with cautionary tales about men and women who voiced angry displeasure at God and the consequences they suffered. Eli often told his parishioners-and his own children-the story of Kierkegaard’s father, Michael, who, while still a young boy, cursed God. That single moment of anger, only a split-second in the space of a full lifetime, placed such a heavy burden on young Michael that he never cast it away. He remained throughout his life a sad, broken, and remorseful man.
Never, Eli warned, admonish the Almighty, no matter how bad or tragic or dire the circumstances that fire your anger. His ways are not our ways, and no matter how hard we try, we can never comprehend them. His plan for each of us is his alone. We are merely his instruments, his humble servants.
And yet… at this moment, it took all of Eli’s will and strength to contain the angry feelings that roiled inside him. The pain he felt now was unbearable. His lungs burned like they were in flames. It felt like a mad wolverine was in his chest, chewing relentlessly at his insides, consuming his very being inch by inch. The cancer was, Eli knew, eating him alive.
The morphine available to him could ease the pain, but Eli wasn’t ready to go that route. Yes, the pain was unbearable, yet at this point he preferred suffering to being doped up and out of it. Once you choose to bury the pain behind a cloud of drugs, you also choose to abandon life as you know it. That option wasn’t acceptable… yet. Eli did not want to be dead while still alive.
Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why God had placed such a heavy burden on him. He had always been God’s faithful servant, a true believer. Yes, he had sinned, fallen victim to temptation, to lust, but he was cleansed through God’s love and mercy. He had tried to obey the Commandments, to live a pious life, to be a loving husband and devoted fath
er. A protective father. He had taken the blame for sins he didn’t commit. Spent three decades in prison for a sentence that wasn’t rightfully his to serve.
Eli wondered if perhaps this was the sin that caused God’s wrath. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken the blame. Maybe he should have pointed fingers at the real perpetrator. Maybe, by allowing a murderer to go free, he was, in God’s eyes, as guilty as the killer.
Maybe-
But he had taken the only path available to him at the time. He had but a single option then and he had taken it. Any loving father would have made the same decision. Eli simply did not believe God would elect to punish him for following his conscience in a matter involving the safety of his wife and children. God could not be that cruel and uncaring.
God had to understand.
God must understand.
Tears rolled down Eli’s cheeks as he drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dantzler spent the next day studying the murder book for the Eli Whitehouse case. The report was detailed, thorough, clean, and as easy to read as a Michael Connelly novel. Exactly what you would expect from Charlie Bolton.
The specifics of the case were simple: On the night of April 5, 1982, Greg Spurlock and Angie Iler saw smoke and flames rising toward the sky. Curious, they drove in the direction of the fire, eventually arriving at the site, an old barn located next to a small pond. By this time, around midnight, a hard rain had begun to fall, effectively putting out the fire. The couple went into the barn, where they discovered the bodies of Carl Osteen and Bruce Fowler. The couple then drove to a small gas station several miles away and phoned the fire department and police.
Charlie Bolton had Dan Matthews contact Eli and ask him to come to the site. Eli arrived at two forty-five a.m. Eli was told the names of the deceased, and asked if he knew them. He stated that he did not. He was asked if he was aware of any reason why drugs would be on the property. He did not. He was also asked if he owned any weapons. He said he owned a Winchester rifle and a.22 caliber pistol. At approximately four-fifteen, Eli was allowed to leave the scene.
