Gnosis

by Tom Wallace

  “She was also pretty tough on Greg Spurlock.”

  “I know. He’s a bum, a loser, a druggie, treated me like crap. Again with the drama.”

  “You got along with him okay?”

  “Sure. He was a guy I went out with a few times in high school. Nothing serious, by any stretch.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Very cocky, very sure of himself, a daredevil kind of personality. Not all that unusual, I suppose, for someone who came from money.”

  “His family was rich?”

  “Not rich, rich. But very well off. I think his mother’s family had money.”

  “Your mother mentioned drinking and drugs. Any truth to that?”

  Angie rolled her eyes upward. “Beer and pot, maybe. But I couldn’t swear to it, because he never did any of that stuff around me. He was not a serious substance abuser, regardless of what my mother says.”

  “Tell me about that night,” Laurie said. “From the beginning.”

  “Greg and I went to a movie. We saw On Golden Pond, with Katharine Hepburn and Henry Fonda, which I thought was terrific. Jane Fonda was also in it. After the movie, we went to Pizza Hut to get something to eat. Then we drove around for a while, eventually ending up somewhere in the boondocks. We had been parked maybe twenty minutes when we saw the smoke. I remember telling Greg that it looked pretty serious, that maybe we should check it out.”

  “What time of night was it?”

  “I’d say close to eleven. Maybe a little after.”

  “What happened next?”

  “We drove to the barn.”

  “How long did it take you to get there?”

  “Ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “Was it raining when you arrived at the barn?” Laurie asked, scribbling in her notepad.

  “No. But it had been raining cats and dogs an hour earlier. I remember being worried that Greg’s car might get stuck in the mud and we’d have to call someone to come pull us out. That would have been beyond embarrassing.”

  “Describe the barn when you guys got there.”

  “One end was badly damaged, but the other end, the one closest to where Greg parked the car, wasn’t damaged at all. I guess the rain put out the fire before it spread to that part of the barn. It was in the undamaged section that we saw the bodies.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “Greg told me to stay in the car, but I said no way I’m staying in the car, not in this darkness. It was really creepy. The dampness, the flickering flames, the smoke. Oh, the smoke was so thick you could slice it with a knife. Just a real boogie-man, Stephen King kind of night.”

  “So you and Greg went into the barn?”

  “Yeah, unfortunately we did. That’s when… I took one look, turned around, and got the hell out of there.”

  “Back to the car?”

  “You bet. And locked all the doors.”

  “How long were you in the barn?”

  “Ten seconds.”

  “What do you remember about the victims?”

  “Not much, really. Only that their hands and feet were tied, and their eyes were open.”

  “Was there much blood?”

  “If there was I didn’t notice it,” Angie answered.

  “Did you see a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Anything else about the victims-or the scene-that caught your attention?”

  “No. But like I said, Detective, I didn’t stick around long enough to take notes.”

  “Greg said he remained in the barn for maybe a minute before he returned to the car.”

  “That’s not accurate. Greg was in that barn for a good ten minutes before he came out.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. I was petrified sitting in the car alone. In the darkness, with two dead guys thirty feet away? Are you kidding me? Those ten minutes felt like three hours. I let him have it good when he did get in the car. For making me sit out there alone for so long.”

  “Did he say anything?” Laurie asked. “Give a reason why he stayed in the barn that long?”

  “Not that I recall. He was just hell-bent on getting to a phone and calling the police.”

  “Did you see any blood on him?”

  “On Greg? No. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m wondering if he touched or moved the bodies.”

  Angie shook her head. “I doubt if he did that. That would be stupid on his part, and Greg wasn’t stupid.”

  Maybe not but he is a liar. Laurie thought for a while, and then said, “Did you mention to the detectives who interviewed you that Greg spent that much time in the barn?”

  “I never spoke to a detective.”

  “You never spoke with a Detective Bolton or Detective Matthews?”

  “The only person I spoke to had on a uniform. The detectives talked with Greg.”

  Laurie started to ask Angie if she remembered the officer’s name, but didn’t. That information would be in the file. She tapped her pen on the tabletop, thinking about what she had just learned from Angie. She didn’t like what she was hearing, that was for sure. Angie should have been interviewed by one of the detectives, and it was almost impossible for Laurie to believe that neither Charlie nor Dan had seen fit to do so. Those guys didn’t screw up like that.

  Maybe Angie was remembering it incorrectly, Laurie reasoned. Maybe Charlie or Dan did interview Angie and she had forgotten it. That was a definite possibility. After all, twenty-nine years is a long time. Memories fade, details can get shuffled around, lost, or re-imagined entirely. This was especially true during stressful, emotional, and chaotic moments in a person’s life. To be sure, finding two dead bodies and being interrogated by the police was more than enough to cause stress and emotional chaos. Angie could be forgiven for not remembering events in perfect order.

  Despite her concerns, Laurie decided to reserve judgment until she spoke with Charlie. At the very least, Charlie and Dan deserved to be accorded the benefit of the doubt. Both were decorated, celebrated cops. They had earned that much.

  “Sam Spade-you have the look of a very troubled woman,” Angie said, softly, breaking nearly a minute of silence.

  Laurie nodded. “As the prison warden said to Cool Hand Luke, ‘what we’ve got here is failure to communicate.’”

  *****

  Sitting alone in O’Charley’s, her thoughts racing a hundred miles an hour and in fifty different directions at the same time, Laurie felt like she was being beaten up by some invisible force inside her. An inner tornado had been unleashed, resulting in a war among competing options, possibilities, and scenarios, none of which were positive or pleasant to contemplate. ‘What should be her next move?’ she silently asked herself. Her instincts said she should call Charlie and have him verify Angie’s recollection of what happened that night. She should also ask him to explain why neither he nor Dan had spoken to Angie at the crime scene. Her curiosity screamed the same thing. That those two excellent detectives had not done so was more than puzzling; it went against everything she knew about both men. Until that puzzle was pieced together to her satisfaction, she could not-would not-allow herself to believe that Charlie Bolton and Dan Matthews committed such a bonehead rookie mistake.

  She speared a piece of lettuce from her Caesar salad, held the fork suspended above the plate for several seconds, and put it down. Her appetite had vanished, a victim of the swirling mass of thoughts and emotions ripping through her. She drank some water, took out her cell phone, and began to punch in Charlie’s number. Halfway through, she closed the phone and dropped it back into her purse. The voice in her head told her that calling him now would be making that rush to judgment she wanted to avoid.

  There was an alternative option, one that made far more sense. She would phone Dantzler, fill him in on what she had learned, and find out how he wanted to proceed. That would relieve her of having to make the decision concerning Charlie. Let it be Dantzler’s call. Besides, there was always the possibil
ity he had uncovered some information in the murder book that would contradict Angie’s memory of not being interviewed by one of the detectives. Laurie hoped that was the case. If it wasn’t, then Dantzler had no choice but to ask Charlie about it.

  For now, though, she wanted to go home, put on a sweat suit and running shoes, and go jogging. Running was her way to escape the shackles of her job while also serving as the mechanism by which she calmed the storm raging inside her. Ultimately, she ran in order to remain sane.

  Charlie Bolton, Eli Whitehouse, and Angie Iler would have to wait. Top priority now was Laurie Dunn’s mental well being.

  She grabbed her purse and the check, paid the bill, and headed home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Dantzler was surprised to learn that he knew Rachel Whitehouse, Eli’s daughter. She was now Rachel Foster, wife of Kirk Foster, a former circuit judge who currently held the position of chief of staff to the governor. The Fosters also owned and operated RKF Farm, one of the most successful thoroughbred farms in the nation. They were politically powerful, very wealthy, and highly placed among the social elite. The Fosters were, in every respect, an A-list couple.

  Dantzler only knew Rachel in passing; he couldn’t recall ever having had a conversation with her. He was more familiar with Kirk, although he wouldn’t include the man among his coterie of friends,. A nodding acquaintance at best. Primarily, he knew the Fosters from the Lexington Tennis Club, where they were members, and where Dantzler was part owner.

  As a young man, Kirk experienced some success as a junior tennis player, having once been ranked in the top ten in several age divisions. His love for the sport carried over into adulthood. So did the confidence he gained as a youngster. Three years ago, Kirk, yielding to a burst of self-assurance, challenged Dantzler to a set of tennis. Dantzler, arguably the best tennis player in Lexington, won six-love. Like many powerful, successful men, Kirk did not graciously accept defeat. He quickly challenged Dantzler to a second set. The result was the same. It took two subsequent sets, both ending at six-love, before Kirk finally raised the flag of surrender.

  “Come on, fellow,” Kirk said when the two men met at the net. “Couldn’t you at least have given me a sympathy game?”

  “I would have,” Dantzler replied, “if you hadn’t been so damn sure you could beat me.”

  Dantzler enjoyed few things more than humbling a cocky opponent.

  *****

  After learning that Rachel Foster was Eli Whitehouse’s daughter, Dantzler went to the Tennis Club in search of Kirk. Arriving at seven-fifteen p.m., Dantzler went downstairs to the courts, where Kirk was involved in a doubles match. Dantzler waited until the changeover before approaching Kirk.

  When Kirk noticed Dantzler heading in his direction, he stood, and said, “Have you finally seen fit to apologize for the beating you gave me?”

  Dantzler shook his head. “I never apologize for winning.” He waited until Kirk’s partner walked past before continuing. “Listen, Kirk, I need to speak with your wife. Would she happen to be here tonight?”

  “No. She’s out of town,” Kirk answered, wiping his face with a white towel. “If you don’t mind my asking, why do you need to speak with her?”

  “Some questions regarding Eli.”

  “You know her father?”

  “I don’t know him. I met him once, at the prison.”

  “That’s where she’s been today, visiting him. She should be home around nine, maybe a little later. When would you like to meet?”

  “Tomorrow, if possible.”

  “Is something going on that I should know about?”

  “I need to get some information from her, that’s all. Clear up a few things.”

  “Come to the farm in the morning. Ten, if that’s okay. I’ll leave your name with the guard and he’ll let you through. Go to the first barn on your left. That’s where she will be.”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

  “Still no apology, though, right?”

  “Never.”

  *****

  Dantzler identified himself to the guard and was immediately waved through the gate. Following Kirk’s directions, he drove slowly toward the main house, his eyes on the lookout for the barn. It wasn’t until he crossed over a wooden bridge that the barn came into view. Turning left, he traveled another hundred yards, eventually stopping and parking behind a white Cadillac Esplanade.

  Rachel Whitehouse Foster was standing just outside of the barn, cup of coffee in one hand and a clipboard in the other hand. She was dressed in Levis, a sweatshirt, leather boots, and a white baseball cap with RKF Farm on the front. A stopwatch dangled from her neck.

  “My husband tells me you show no mercy on the tennis court,” she said, tucking the clipboard under her arm. “What was it, six-love times four?”

  “I like bagels.”

  “Probably did him some good, being cut down to size like that.” She extended her free hand. “Hello, I’m Rachel Foster. I’ve seen you around for years. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “Thanks for taking the time,” Dantzler said, shaking her hand. “And for meeting me on such short notice.”

  “Let’s go inside,” Rachel said, gesturing toward the barn. “To my grand air-conditioned office. You may not care much for the smell of horse manure, but at least you’ll be cool.”

  “Fair enough,” Dantzler said, following her into the barn. Once he was seated in a leather chair across the desk from her, he said, “How long have you and Kirk owned the farm?”

  “We bought it in ’eighty-nine,” Rachel said. “Back then it was known as Limestone Stables. We got it for virtually nothing, which is exactly what it was worth at the time. Took a lot of hard work and tons of money to get it back into working shape. We killed ourselves, sometimes working twenty hours a day for weeks on end. Finally, we managed to turn it around. And we were also very lucky. Not long after we got into the business, the price for thoroughbreds went through the roof. The big American owners and trainers began bidding wars against each other. Then the Europeans came, especially the guys from Ireland. That pushed up prices even more. And to top that off, the Saudi sheiks suddenly decided to use all that oil money they make off us to get into the horse business. Sales prices skyrocketed. It was insane. Still is, if you want my honest opinion. Our first group of foals, this was in ’ninety-six, turned out to be very successful, put us on solid footing within the industry.”

  “Hard work, good luck, and timing-that tends to translate into success in any endeavor. I know it’s certainly true in my profession.”

  Rachel got out of the chair, opened a small refrigerator, and took out two bottles of water. She handed one to Dantzler, then sat back down. After opening the bottle and taking a drink, she said, “So, Detective, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about your father.”

  “Kirk mentioned you wanted to talk about Eli. Well, about the only thing I can tell you is he’s terminally ill. Cancer in both lungs.”

  “Yes, I know. Sorry.”

  “You know my father?”

  “I met him last week at the prison.”

  “Did he send you to see me?”

  “No. Until two days ago, I had no idea Eli Whitehouse was your father.”

  “You would have had no reason to.”

  “I understand you visited him yesterday. How is he holding up?”

  “Better than expected,” Rachel replied. “But… it’s obvious he’s beginning to go downhill.”

  “Any idea how long he has?”

  “His oncologist said three weeks at best. I’m hoping he is wrong.”

  “What was your relationship with Eli?”

  “Was? He’s not dead yet, Detective.”

  “Sorry, I misspoke. What is your relationship with Eli?”

  “I love my father very much,” Rachel said. “We’ve always maintained a close relationship, even after his incarceration. Rarely do I go a week without vis
iting him.”

  “I understand you are his favorite.”

  “Not even close, Detective. I was the baby, the only girl, so I was his little darling. His pet.” She smiled. “You know, I was what you might call a redemption baby.”

  “What does that mean?” Dantzler asked.

  “Eli was a man of God, but he was also a man. A flawed man in many respects. About three years prior to my arrival, he had an affair. As you can imagine, when my mother found out about his indiscretions, she was angry, hurt, and embarrassed. She threatened to leave and take the boys with her. Given Eli’s reputation and the reverence his congregation had for him, a divorce would have been devastating. He would have been ruined. So he pleaded with my mother to forgive him and take him back. She loved the man, so that’s what she did.”

  Rachel laughed, as though she had just recalled some private and humorous moment.

  “Some babies are accidents, some born out of wedlock. Me, I was born because a sinful man was trying to redeem himself.” She shook her head. “Eli loves me very much, but I am nowhere close to being his favorite.”

  “Isaac?”

  “He wishes. No, Detective, Tommy is Eli’s favorite. Always has been, always will be. It’s not even a close contest.”

  “When I spoke with Isaac, I asked about Tommy. Isaac didn’t have much to say.”

  “They aren’t close. Not since… Looking back, I don’t think they ever were close. Are you familiar with the Bible, Detective?”

  “I know my way around it.”

  “Do you know the story of how Jacob, with his mother’s help, manipulated his blind father, Isaac, into granting him the Blessing that rightfully should have been bestowed upon Esau, Jacob’s twin?”

  “Yes, I know that story.”