by Tom Wallace
*****
Bruce Rawlinson, the desk sergeant, looked up when Dantzler walked into the building. Rawlinson, a world-class needler, never missed an opportunity to crack wise with Dantzler.
“Hey, Ace,” Rawlinson yelled. “How come I haven’t seen you hanging around with the lovely Miss Dunn lately? She wise up and put your ancient ass on the pavement?”
Dantzler was in no mood for inane early morning banter. “Is Eric here yet?”
“Just left,” Rawlinson said, shaking his head. “Told me to let you know the information you need is on the table in the War Room. Said he would call you later, in case you have any questions.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, Ace,” Rawlinson said. “If the lovely Miss Dunn ever decides to look my way, she won’t be disappointed.”
“Bruce, if the ‘lovely Miss Dunn’ ever looks your way, it could only mean the End Times have finally arrived. God would not tolerate such a mismatch.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Judging by the number of Inter-Department envelopes and manilla folders lined up on the table, it was obvious to Dantzler that Eric had not been wasting his time. The man had put in many hours on this project. This came as no surprise to Dantzler, who had been the first to recognize Eric’s gift for police work. From the first day he joined the Homicide crew, Eric’s work had been consistently thorough, professional, and superb. With this effort, he had once again justified Dantzler’s faith in him.
There were nine very thick Inter-Department envelopes bound together in stacks of three, each with an identifying note attached to the top envelope.
· Obits for week of 4/5/11-4/11/11 (22 total)
· Obits for week of 4/12/11-4/18/11 (18 total)
· Pallbearers (196 total)
Lined up directly beneath the larger envelopes were three manilla folders. On top of the middle folder was a typed note from Eric:
Jack:
Ran all names through every possible data base as per your orders. Male relatives, preachers, ministers, and funeral home personnel can be done later, if necessary. As expected, most were solid citizens who stayed out of trouble. However, I did find three nuggets that got my interest. You’ll see why when you dig into it. Will contact you later.
E
Dantzler was impressed. By looking into the backgrounds of pallbearers, which Dantzler hadn’t specifically requested, Eric had clearly done far more than expected. An additional two hundred background checks was nothing to take for granted. Dantzler made a mental note to mention Eric’s extra effort to Captain Bird.
Next, Dantzler turned his attention to the three manilla folders lying in a straight row. The first thing he noticed was that Eric lined them up alphabetically by last name. He also noticed the folders were not particularly thick, which meant Eric had printed only the information he deemed important or noteworthy. Dantzler trusted Eric’s judgment, so he had no problem with not getting everything in the various local, state, and federal data bases relating to each man. If he needed more he could always get it later.
Dantzler pulled back a chair, sat, and picked up the first folder. On the outside, Eric had typed:
Lawrence Edward (Larry) Gadd
2/10/56 – 4/9/11
Lexington, Ky.
Leaning forward, Dantzler opened the folder and began reading. The information consisted primarily of the individual’s obituary notice, arrest records, prison records, bank statements, and employment records. There were mug shots from the time of arrest, as well as driver’s license photos.
According to the Herald’s obit, Larry Gadd had peacefully been “taken up to his Lord” after a lengthy illness. He was survived by his wife, Karla, two brothers, and a sister. Cause of death was not specified. It needn’t be. The answer could be found near the end of the obituary notice, where those wishing to make a financial contribution were asked to send money to The Markey Cancer Center.
Dantzler continued reading, jotting down notes as he did. Before reaching the halfway point in the file, he had become convinced Gadd was not the killer. Gadd was no saint by any stretch of the imagination, but he wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer.
The records indicated Gadd served a stint in Eddyville State Prison from 1977 to 1979 for armed robbery. Prior to committing that crime, he had been arrested twice, once in 1975 for selling drugs, and again in 1976 for breaking and entering. Both charges were pleaded out by his attorney, Colt Rogers. Gadd served no time for either offense.
There were no recorded arrests or run-ins with the law subsequent to his release from prison. For the past twenty-five years, Gadd worked as a mechanic at a local automobile dealership. Straight-arrow, solid Joe-Citizen stuff. Apparently, hard time in prison made an impact.
Dantzler thought about this for a while. Gadd probably was a long-shot candidate at best, but Eric was right to include him. And he knew why Eric did so. He also knew why Eric included the other two as well.
He put down Gadd’s file and picked up the one in the middle.
Bobby Lee Maxwell
11/15/61 – 4/14/11
Lexington, Ky.
Maxwell’s obituary notice was brief, consisting of a single paragraph. He died of natural causes, although the exact cause of death was not given. No surviving family members were listed, nor were pallbearers named. There was also no mention of his being “taken up to his Lord.” Had he been, Dantzler concluded, it would not have been peacefully.
Bobby Lee Maxwell was anything but peaceful. He was a bad dude with a strong propensity toward violence. And the records attested to that fact.
On nine separate occasions, from 1978 through 2002, Maxwell had been arrested for assault and battery. The victims ranged in age from eighteen to forty-seven. Their injuries ran the gamut from a simple black eye to serious head wounds. In one instance, the victim was beaten so severely he was in a coma for three days.
Despite the damage he inflicted, Maxwell never did serious jail time and no prison time whatsoever. In each instance, he pleaded to the lesser charge of simple assault. Served a few days in jail, paid a small fine, and then was sent on his way, no doubt on the prowl for the next person to smack around.
Maxwell’s lawyer? Mr. Cop-a-Plea himself. Colt Rogers.
Sean Montgomery had been right on the money about Rogers. He was a plea-bargaining machine.
Dantzler picked up the third file and began reading, only half expecting to find information that would trigger his interest. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Before he finished reading the first page, he had concluded that this man was a definite possibility. Eric might have struck gold with this guy.
Douglas Keith Reynolds
7/6/51 – 4/16/11
Lexington, Ky.
Unlike Gadd and Maxwell, Reynolds did not die of natural causes. He died in an automobile accident while returning from a trip to Florida, leaving behind a wife, three children, and five grandchildren. There were other differences as well. For one, Reynolds was not originally from Kentucky. He had been born and raised in Chicago. Also, Reynolds’s obituary notice was lengthier than either Gadd’s or Maxwell’s, due mainly to a long paragraph detailing his military accomplishments.
Reynolds served two tours in Vietnam, distinguishing himself in such a manner that he earned a bountiful harvest of combat commendations, including the Purple Heart (twice), Bronze Star, and Silver Star. The article also said he single-handedly took out two enemy machine gun nests, and though severely wounded, he managed to carry a badly injured fellow GI to safety. The paragraph ended with a quote from an ex-soldier, Chris Daniels, stating that he was one of many who felt that “Doug deserved the Medal of Honor for his heroic efforts in Nam. It is criminal he didn’t receive it.”
“Criminal” was definitely an appropriate term for Doug Reynolds. His rap sheet, dating back to his teenage years, chronicled a life filled with violence, death, drugs, and other assorted anti-social acts. Here was a man whose behavio
r was that of a jungle predator, a man lacking judgment, restraint, kindness, or respect for his fellow citizens. There was no line he wouldn’t cross to get what he wanted.
Reynolds had been arrested and tried for murder in 1983, then re-tried in 1985. In both cases, he was acquitted when the jury failed to reach a verdict.
He was also arrested in 1981 for assault and battery; 1987 for burglary; 1988 for rape; 1991 for possession of a controlled substance; and 1998 for spousal abuse. In each case, he pleaded to a lesser charge. Reynolds’s punishment for committing these acts? A grand total of thirty-nine hundred dollars in fines and a three-month stay in county lockup.
Talk about punishment not fitting the crime.
And the magic man who engineered Reynolds’s escape from serious punishment? None other than Colt Rogers.
Reading this information, seeing hardened, violent offenders get off with little more than a slap on the wrist, caused Dantzler’s stomach to churn and his anger to rise like bile in his throat. How many victims could have been spared injury and harm had thugs like Reynolds and Maxwell been taken off the streets and placed behind bars like they deserved. Why were men who thrived on violence continually allowed to walk away untouched by the hands of justice? How can a system even call itself just when the innocent suffer and the criminals go unpunished?
In moments like this, Dantzler wondered who committed the more egregious sin-the criminal or the attorneys who defended them. Right now, he rated it a toss-up.
Going through each file, he extracted a picture of the three men and carefully studied their faces. Maxwell was the smallest of the trio, standing five-six and weighing one-fifty. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and a scarred face that bore testament to a lifelong battle against acne.
Dantzler had seen plenty of guys like Maxwell, hot-headed runts who were quick with their fists, and who were always ready to inflict hurt on another person, usually someone physically bigger and stronger. They tended to throw the first punch, and they weren’t above grabbing the nearest available weapon, a bat, club, or tire iron, if they felt the need to stack the odds in their favor.
Size, or more specifically lack of size, played a key role in a mutt like Maxwell’s psychological make-up. From childhood on, he had been driven by a need to prove his toughness, his manhood. He would never, under any circumstances, back down from a physical challenge. That would be seen as cowardly. Being small helped in yet another way-opponents tended to underestimate him. They saw his small stature, not the giant chip on his shoulder or the fierce anger in his heart.
But was he a killer? Someone who could tie up two men, put a gun to their head, and squeeze the trigger? Dantzler didn’t think so. Bobby Lee Maxwell was a violent punk, but not a murderer.
Neither was Larry Gadd, a man who made mistakes early but somehow managed to turn his life around in his later years. He was that rare bird, a man who came out of prison a better person than when he was locked up. That didn’t happen often. Most criminals only harden their anti-social attitudes while behind bars. Prison is like a college for bad guys, the institution where even the most stupid inmates can earn a PhD in criminal behavior.
Somehow, Gadd had defied the odds and gone straight. Good for him.
Dantzler looked at Gadd’s photo, taken for his driver’s license when he was thirty-four. By this time, Gadd was almost completely bald, and what little hair he did have had gone gray. His bearded face was beefy, indicating he was probably a heavyset man. His DL weight was listed at one-ninety but, Dantzler knew, that wasn’t accurate. He estimated it to be closer to two-twenty.
Gadd’s eyes caught and held Dantzler’s attention. Unlike Maxwell’s, Gadd’s eyes contained a twinkle, a spark of kindness or gentleness. There was no hate or hardness in them. No look of rage or an impending explosion so often seen in the eyes of most criminals. Perhaps by this stage of his life, Gadd had found the inner peace that eluded him when he was a troubled young man.
Larry Gadd was no executioner.
The irony did not escape Dantzler: Gadd, the only one to serve hard prison time, was the only one of the trio who lived a productive life.
Doug Reynolds was another matter altogether. Looking into his eyes was like peering into two empty holes, two cold pieces of black ice. They were chilling, yet somehow strangely hypnotic. You were drawn to them even though you wanted to look away. Even though you knew you should look away. They were evil eyes that advertised danger and violence.
Based on the record, Reynolds was a definite possibility. He resided in Lexington at the time of the murders. He had a long history of violent behavior, including rape and assault. He had twice been tried for the murder of a gas station attendant who, it was alleged, was killed for failing to pay Reynolds a large sum of money lost in a poker game. Since both trials ended in a hung jury, there was no way to know for certain whether Reynolds committed the murder or not. A hung jury did not equate to innocence.
From Dantzler’s perspective, the outcome of those trials was irrelevant. What was relevant was the fact that Reynolds had taken human life in the past. He had blood on his hands. He had killed, with the medals to prove it. If nothing else, his combat experience provided uncluttered evidence that he would not hesitate to pull the trigger.
You don’t get the Bronze Star for kindness.
The next step, Dantzler knew, was linking Reynolds to the two murder victims. Or to Eli Whitehouse. If no connection was found, it likely ruled out Reynolds as a suspect. Finding that link, if one even existed, wasn’t going to be easy. Too much time had elapsed, potential witnesses were either dead or had relocated to God knows where. And tracking down the live ones would be virtually impossible. They could be all over the map.
Regardless of the long odds against success, Dantzler knew a detailed study of Reynolds was the only logical approach. Conversely, he saw no value in digging into the background of Gadd, Maxwell or the two young victims. To do so would be a colossal waste of time and resources. No, if a connection to the murders or to Eli did exist, it would have to come through Reynolds.
Dantzler looked at his watch. It was closing in on noon, giving him just enough time to grab some lunch before his one-thirty meeting with Isaac Whitehouse. He was eager to meet Eli’s oldest child, the son who had followed his father into the ministry. He wanted to learn more about their relationship. About those scars Isaac surely carried with him. Dantzler also hoped Isaac could shed some light on why his father would silently suffer in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.
If, indeed, he didn’t commit it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Church of the Holy Father was housed in an old building that had once been a hardware store. The one-story structure, which was at least seventy years old, was made of concrete and had recently been given a fresh coat of white paint. The roof was black, and three large silver crosses rose from the front facade. The parking area was small, requiring most parishioners to park in an adjacent restaurant lot.
When Dantzler arrived there were only two cars in the church parking lot. He pulled up next to a blue Honda, cut the engine, and got out. Walking toward the front entrance, he recalled that as a young boy he had come here with his father to purchase a ladder and some paint. Less than three months later his father was killed in Southeast Asia.
Dantzler entered the building, looked around, saw no one. As he was about to head toward the pulpit, he heard sounds coming from his left. Turning, he saw a plump middle-age woman standing on tip-toes dusting a large picture of Jesus. Upon seeing Dantzler, she took one last swipe at the picture frame, and then came toward Dantzler, right hand extended.
“Name’s Clara,” she said, shaking his hand. She looked back at the picture. “You wouldn’t think the Son of God could collect so much dust, but he does. I spend half my time keeping this picture and frame dust free. Well, I suppose it’s the least I can do for our Savior.”
“I remember when this was a hardware store,” Dantzler said, looking around. “A gu
y named Walters owned it.”
“You have an A-one memory. Buddy Walters. He was my first cousin.”
“How long has the church been here?”
“Let me think. Since about nineteen ninety-two. Maybe ’ninety-one. You’d have to ask Brother Isaac to be sure.” She put down her dust rag. “I’m assuming you are Detective Dantzler.”
“I am.”
“Brother Isaac is in his office in the back. Follow me and I’ll show you the way.”
*****
Isaac Whitehouse stood when Dantzler entered the office. He was of medium height, somewhat on the stocky side, with dark eyes, jet black hair, and a full beard. He wore a blue suit and white shirt, with the collar open, and a pair of loafers. Except for the area around the eyes, he bore little resemblance to his father.
“Clara tells me you’re a Homicide detective,” he said, motioning to a chair across from his small desk. “I don’t see many of those around here. Am I safe in assuming you are not here on a spiritual quest?”
“That would be correct.”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m here to talk about your father,” Dantzler said, sitting.
“Ah, an Eli quest. Been years since I trod that path.”
“I’ll make it as painless as possible,” Dantzler said.
Isaac nodded. “I must confess up front that I am more up to date on Holy Scripture than I am on my unholy father.”
“You aren’t close?”
“How can you be close to a man who has been absent for much of your life?”
“I’m sure it’s been a difficult situation.”
“Every family, every individual, will at various times come face to face with trials and tribulations. It is God’s way of testing us. His way of challenging the strength of our faith. Haven’t you been tested, Detective?”
