Gnosis

by Tom Wallace

  One of the last calls she took on Friday afternoon was from a Detective Dantzler, who asked if he could meet Mr. Rogers later in the evening. She remembered telling the detective she would schedule him for six p.m., give the message to Mr. Rogers, then have him get back in touch if there was a conflict and the meeting couldn’t take place. When she relayed Detective Dantzler’s request to Mr. Rogers, he said it wouldn’t be a problem, he would arrange his schedule so the meeting could take place.

  Between 4:45 p.m. and 5:45 p.m.

  Detective Dantzler was to meet with Mr. Rogers at six. Could he be the killer? Devon wondered. No, no, no, that’s a preposterous notion, she said to herself. A police detective wouldn’t kill Mr. Rogers. Clear that thought out of your head, girl, this instant.

  Then Devon remembered something else-the man who came into the office while she was speaking with Detective Dantzler, the one who stayed a few minutes and then mysteriously disappeared. Could he have been the killer? Or was he one of Mr. Rogers’s clients, perhaps one who was in such a hurry he didn’t have time to stick around until she got off the phone? The man didn’t give his name, and she had not mentioned him to Mr. Rogers when he returned later in the afternoon. Thinking about it now, she wondered if she should have.

  Devon spent the rest of the day trying her best to block out thoughts of what happened to Mr. Rogers, or how close she may have come to being murdered. It was frightening and unsettling to realize the difference between life and death for her boiled down to a mere fifteen minutes. If she hadn’t been given permission to leave early, she would be dead.

  The realization brought tears to her eyes.

  It was almost dark when Terri brought Mark home. Seeing Terri’s car pull into the driveway, Devon went outside and spent fifteen minutes talking with her sister about the Rogers murder. She told her about the phone call from Detective Dantzler, and about the man who mysteriously vanished. Then she asked Terri again whether or not she should contact the police. Terri suggested that if the police had not contacted Devon by noon tomorrow, she should call Detective Dantzler and speak with him about it. Devon agreed to do that.

  By eight-thirty, Mark was sound asleep, a rare occurrence for him. Under normal conditions, Devon had to fight to get him in bed by nine or nine-thirty. It was a nightly battle getting the child to give it up. But not tonight. The all-day Kings Island excursion on Saturday, and a Sunday afternoon spent romping around with Jordan were more than enough to wear him down. He was yawning at seven, droopy-eyed at eight and completely out of it thirty minutes later.

  Devon undressed, put on her pajamas, poured a glass of ginger ale, and stretched out on the sofa, eagerly awaiting the start of her favorite Sunday night TV show, CSI:Miami. When it went off at eleven, she would have to hit the sack. She was scheduled to be at work tomorrow morning at eight. A local dentist’s office needed a receptionist, and Susan Lloyd, owner of the Pro-Temp Agency, had called to see if Devon was interested. Initially, Devon was reluctant to accept the offer, but when Susan told her the job was guaranteed for a week, Devon couldn’t say no. A week-long gig-that was like permanent employment. It also meant a decent paycheck.

  At ten, Devon cleared her mind of all thoughts, choosing instead to focus only on CSI:Miami. No more thinking about what happened Friday, or how close she may have come to losing her life, or the mysterious stranger, or Detective Dantzler. Nothing to keep her from enjoying the show to the fullest.

  She settled back, upped the volume one notch, and began watching.

  Devon was so focused on her favorite TV show she failed to hear the noise coming from the kitchen. It was barely detectable, first a quiet pop followed by a soft shuffle of feet. Had she heard it, she would have suspected that Mark had gotten out of bed and was getting a drink of water. Or maybe he had gotten out of bed to pee. But she didn’t hear it, didn’t lose focus on the TV, on CSI:Miami, where detective Horatio Caine was questioning a suspect about a murder that occurred during a South Beach party.

  Devon smiled when Horatio shrewdly trapped the suspect into telling a lie. But, Devon knew, this suspect wasn’t the murderer. She guessed Horatio knew it, too. But the suspect was somehow involved, and Horatio would eventually sort things out. He always did. Horatio Caine was the best.

  Devon reached for the ginger ale, never taking her eyes off the television, not missing a word Horatio spoke. She didn’t want to miss anything. After taking a sip, she placed the glass back on the end table.

  Suddenly, from behind, a gloved hand covered her mouth and violently yanked her head backward. She tried to turn her head, to see the person behind her, but she couldn’t. The person’s grip was too powerful.

  What’s this? What’s happening here? What’s going on?

  As she tried to struggle against her captor, to free herself from his grasp, she felt a sharp prick at the base of her skull.

  Then Horatio Caine went black.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Laurie Dunn was sitting in Barbara Tanner’s kitchen when Eric phoned to tell her Devon Fraley had been found murdered in her home. Laurie listened intently, scribbling notes as Eric explained that Devon was the temp worker who filled in for Barbara at Colt Rogers’s office on Friday. Laurie didn’t interrupt while Eric was speaking, and she asked no questions when he finished. Her only comment before closing her cell phone was to tell Eric she would try to find out if Barbara could shed any light on the matter.

  Barbara Tanner was forty-eight going on seventy. At least, that’s the way she looked on this Monday morning, and she was the first to admit it. When Laurie arrived at a little past nine, a very tired-looking Barbara, dressed in a blue robe and white pajamas, her hair uncombed, apologized for her shabby appearance, adding that she simply didn’t have the energy or the will to get dressed and face the world like a normal person should.

  Barbara laid the blame for her malaise on flu-like symptoms that had stayed with her for almost a week. Laurie wasn’t so sure about Barbara’s self diagnosis. She couldn’t help but wonder if Barbara’s red and swollen eyes were the result of illness or from crying. Laurie leaned toward crying, because from the start of their conversation, Barbara made it clear that she cared deeply for Colt Rogers, and that she was devastated by his death. Laurie had no reason to doubt her.

  Laurie decided to wait until later in the interview to tell Barbara about Devon Fraley. She knew it would be yet another shock to Barbara, who was already showing signs of sinking into depression. If Laurie could somehow spare her the bad news concerning Devon, she would. But she couldn’t. She had no choice but to ask, and Barbara would have to answer. Sometimes being a detective really sucked.

  “How long have you worked for Colt Rogers?” Laurie said.

  “Since nineteen eighty-five,” Barbara whispered. “I went to work for him right out of college. He’s the only real boss I’ve ever had.”

  “Was he a good boss?”

  “The best. He was never anything but fair and kind and generous to me. If I needed time off, either for illness or personal situations, he let me have it, no questions asked. Once, when I was being hounded by a collection agency, he loaned me the money to pay off the bill. Told me to take all the time I needed to pay it back. Took me three years, but I paid him every penny. To me, he was a wonderful person and a terrific boss.”

  “Was your relationship ever more than employer-employee?”

  “You mean, did I sleep with him?” Barbara almost managed a chuckle. “Good heavens, no. And even if I had wanted to, it never would have happened.”

  “Why not? You’re a very attractive woman.”

  “Let’s just say I’m not exactly Mr. Rogers’s type, if you know what I mean. He prefers his women to be a lot wilder and more flamboyant than I could ever hope to be. I’m a little too plain, too drab, and too conservative for his taste. Also, I’m now too old. He likes them young.”

  “Did he have a lot of women?”

  “I would say he did.” Barbara blew her nose into
a tissue, wadded it, and dropped it into a wastebasket. “His current paramour is Cheryl Likens, our paralegal. They’ve been cozy with each other for the past year or so. I certainly hope she’s better in bed than she is on the job, because that’s the only way Mr. Rogers is getting his money’s worth. The woman is dumber than a bag of nails.”

  “Is it possible they had a falling out and she killed him?”

  “I seriously doubt it. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure Cheryl has enough intelligence to load and fire a gun.”

  “What about past employees? Did Mr. Rogers have trouble or conflicts with any of them?”

  “There haven’t been all that many. Since I’ve been with the firm, there have been six paralegals prior to Cheryl. Three of them went on to law school and are now practicing attorneys. One left to get married, the other two left to take jobs elsewhere. They all left on good terms with Mr. Rogers.”

  Laurie thought for a moment, then said, “Any clients, past or present, you can think of who might have enough anger toward Mr. Rogers to want him dead?”

  “None that I can think of. I have to say, most of his clients seemed happy with his services. We received very few complaints.”

  “Did you know Abe Basham?”

  “Sure. He was one of the most-respected attorneys in town. After he passed away, we moved into his office on West Short Street. Prior to that, we were located in Chevy Chase.”

  “Were Abe and Mr. Rogers close?”

  “No. I wouldn’t say so. They certainly weren’t enemies, but they didn’t run in the same circles, either. Remember, Abe was quite a few years older than Mr. Rogers. Aside from the law, they didn’t have much in common.”

  “Do you know Eli Whitehouse?”

  “Well, I know of him, but I don’t know him personally. Mr. Rogers did some work for him over the years, so I’ve handled paperwork involving Mr. Whitehouse. But I’ve never met him in person, not that I ever could, since he’s in prison. When I was in high school, I did have a couple of classes with Isaac Whitehouse, Eli’s oldest son. He was known as Ike in those days.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Basically a good guy, smart, nice. He’d do anything for you.” Barbara grinned. “Now, that younger brother of his. Tommy. He was one seriously handsome and sexy young man. With his looks he could put movie stars to shame. Every girl in school wanted to jump his bones, and that included me.”

  “I’ve known a few guys like that,” Laurie said. She tapped her pen against the table top. “Can you think of anyone-anyone-who would want Colt Rogers dead?”

  Barbara shook her head, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. “No. I’ve racked my brain and I can’t think of anyone who would do such a thing.”

  “He had no partner, so what will happen to the firm now that he’s gone?”

  Barbara burst into tears. “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll have to close it down.”

  Laurie waited until Barbara composed herself before asking the next question. “Did the Rogers firm use the Pro-Temp Agency very often?”

  “We had no need to use any temp agency very often,” Barbara said, “because I very seldom miss any work days. Friday was my first day off in years. I can’t remember the last time I missed because of illness.”

  “What about when you go on vacation?”

  “On those occasions, a woman named Maggie Richards usually filled in for me. She was a friend of Mr. Rogers.”

  “Was?”

  “Yes. She passed away not long ago. Breast cancer.”

  Laurie hesitated, not wanting to drop another bomb on Barbara. But she had no choice.

  “Barbara, do you know Devon Fraley?” she finally said.

  “No. Who’s she?”

  “Devon Fraley is the lady sent by the Pro-Temp Agency to fill in for you on Friday. This morning, she was found murdered in her duplex. We have every reason to suspect that whoever killed her also killed Colt Rogers.”

  “Oh, my God, the poor girl, the poor thing.” Barbara began to cry harder. “This is a nightmare, just a horrible nightmare. Tell me I’m going to wake up and none of this will be true. Please, tell me this is all just a bad dream.”

  Laurie closed her notepad and gently touched Barbara on the arm. She left without saying another word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Dantzler opened the door to the interview room, moved briskly to the table, and sat down across from Greg Spurlock. Milt Brewer followed Dantzler into the room, eased to his right until he was directly behind Spurlock, and leaned against the wall. This positioning was standard procedure when interviewing a suspect. All cops know most humans are not comfortable when someone stands directly behind them, and contrary to what the movies and TV shows portray, detectives doing the interviewing want their subjects to be nervous and on edge, not comfortable.

  Greg Spurlock was nervous and on edge long before Dantzler and Milt came into the room. He’d been in there alone for almost thirty minutes, sometimes sitting in the chair fidgeting with his tie, other times pacing the room like a scared puppy. At all times, he appeared to be on the verge of bursting into tears.

  Dantzler slapped his notepad on the table, flipped it open, and glared across the table. Spurlock seemed to flinch when his eyes met Dantzler’s. He looked away and shifted in his chair in an attempt to see where Milt was standing. Milt reached down, took Spurlock by the shoulders, and turned him back toward Dantzler.

  “Eyes front,” Milt said, harshly. “Don’t look at me unless I ask you a question. Got it?”

  Spurlock nodded.

  “Okay, Greg,” Dantzler said, “the last time we…”

  “Do I need a lawyer?” Spurlock interrupted.

  “That’s up to you,” Dantzler answered. “If it takes a lawyer sitting next to you in order for you to be honest with me, then by all means call one. You can use my cell phone.”

  “I just don’t want you guys to trick me. You know, get me to fall into a trap.”

  “The best way to avoid a trap is by telling the truth. Lying to me, like you did the first time we spoke, will not serve you well. I can promise you that much.”

  Milt put his hands on Spurlock’s shoulders, bent down, and whispered in his ear. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you honesty is the best policy? That the truth shall set you free?”

  “Yes,” Spurlock mumbled.

  “Well, then, this is the perfect time to heed their advice,” Milt said, letting go of Spurlock’s shoulders and leaning back against the wall.

  “So, Greg. Do you want to call an attorney?” Dantzler said.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “You’re sure? I don’t mind waiting if you do.”

  “No. It’s okay. Let’s just get this over with.”

  Dantzler said, “Greg, the three of us are not leaving this room until we clear up a few things about your actions on that night in nineteen eighty-two. If you’re truthful with us, we can get this over and done with in a relatively short period of time. However, if you persist in being dishonest, we’ll be here until the Messiah shows up. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, let’s begin with the gun that was at the scene. You told me you didn’t see it, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that a lie?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re telling me now you did see the gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you lie about that?”

  “I don’t know. I just… did.”

  “Where was the gun when you saw it?”

  “Between the two victims, but closer to the victim on the right.”

  “Did you touch the gun?”

  “No, absolutely not.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes, yes, I am.”

  “How did you know it was small caliber?”

  “My grandfather was a big gun collector. He had dozens of guns-rifles, shotguns, pistols-every kind you can think of. He taught me a
ll about the different types of guns. I could tell from looking at the gun in the barn that it was probably a twenty-two.”

  Dantzler nodded. “This is good, Greg. See how much smoother things go when you tell the truth?”

  “You’ll want to stay on this path,” Milt said from behind. “Don’t stray from it one inch and we’ll all get along fine.”

  “When we first spoke,” Dantzler continued, “you told me you were only in the barn for a minute after Angie went back to the car. That doesn’t square with how Angie remembers it. She claims you were in the barn for ten minutes. Which is it?”

  “Well, uh…”

  “Come on, Greg,” Milt said. “This is no time to get squirmy on us. Focus on that path I talked about.”

  “I would say Angie is closer to being accurate,” Spurlock admitted. “I don’t agree that it was ten minutes, but it was longer than a minute.”

  “How long?” Dantzler asked.

  “Between five and ten minutes, I would say.”

  “All right, Greg, we’re now getting to the heart of the matter. Why did you lie about that?”

  Spurlock’s face and neck turned beet red, and his entire body began to tremble. He looked like a man having a seizure or a stroke. His eyes clouded with tears.

  “Because I, well, I, uh, sort of touched the bodies,” he finally managed to say. “I know it was stupid, but I did.”

  “Why did you touch them?” Milt asked.

  “When I bent down next to the bodies, I noticed some money in one of the victim’s jacket. I took it.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Milt barked. “How did a numbskull like you ever become a doctor?”

  “How much money?” Dantzler said.

  “Seven hundred and fifty dollars. It was in a big wad, you know, all rolled up with a rubber band around it. I just… took it.”

  “Which victim had the money?”

  “They both did. The other victim, the one on the left, had more than six hundred dollars on him. It was in his pants pocket.”

  “So, let’s do some accounting here,” Milt said. “You pilfered more than thirteen hundred bucks off two corpses? That’s despicable.”