by Tom Wallace
“You just don’t ask for mercy while you’re still on the stand.”
This was surely true in Eli’s case. In twenty-nine years behind steel prison bars, the old man had never once asked for mercy, never once pleaded his case. Even now, with death banging on his door, he refused to provide information that in all likelihood would set him free. The name that held the answer to this mystery, along with the reason why Eli took the fall, would soon be locked away forever. Eli was taking it all to the grave with him.
You’re a damn fool, Eli, Dantzler whispered out loud. One stubborn, insane Reverend.
*****
After nearly two hours of solid drinking, Dantzler was more than halfway through a bottle of Pernod. He had long ago zoomed beyond buzzed and was now well on his way to completely drunk. The night air was warm, almost muggy. In the darkness, around the lake, a chorus of crickets and loons sang, competing with Leonard Cohen for his musical attention.
The alcohol, the night, Eli’s cryptic words, Cohen’s music… they had conspired to send him into a dark, funky mood. It was territory he knew well, a place he visited often, and had since he was a small boy.
Next to him, on a small wooden table, was an 8x10 photograph in a gold frame. Picking it up, he brushed off some dust and held it under a lamp. It was his favorite photo, taken in Florida when he was six years old. In the photo, he was standing between his parents, Sarah and Johnny Dantzler.
Johnny Dantzler was only twenty-eight when the picture was taken. Tall, muscular, proud, more handsome than a movie star, he was a man who seemingly had everything within reach.
Everything, that is, except time.
Less than four months after the picture was taken, Johnny Dantzler was dead, killed in Vietnam.
Dantzler was barely six then, yet he’d felt a depth of sadness and hurt he doubted could ever be rivaled. But he had been wrong. He would feel it again. Eight years later when his beloved mother was murdered.
After staring at the photo for several more minutes, he gently put it back on the table. He took another drink and stared out at the shimmering water. Leonard Cohen sang “If It Be Your Will.”
“Let your mercy spill on all these burning hearts in hell.”
Those were the last words he heard before passing out.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Dantzler was flagging pages in the Bible when Milt and Scott came into the War Room. Several seconds later, Eric strolled in, carrying a bag overflowing with bagels. He tossed the bag onto the table, went to the coffee pot, filled a cup, and sat across from Dantzler.
Milt eyed the Bible in front of Dantzler, turned to Scott, and said, “Know what this reminds me of, Scott?”
Scott shook his head.
“A story I once heard.”
“Oh, yeah? What story?”
“The great W.C. Fields was an alcoholic and quite the reprobate his entire life,” Milt said, dragging a chair away from the table and sitting. “He was anything but a man of God, that’s for sure. Well, one day, late in Fields’s life, when he was old and near death, a friend of his walked into the room and was stunned to find Fields reading the Bible. ‘Why are you studying the Bible?’ the guy asked. ‘You’re not a religious man.’ Know what Fields’s reply was?”
“Don’t have a clue.”
“Old W.C. said, ‘I’m looking for loopholes.’ ” Milt laughed. “Now, that’s one terrific line, don’t you agree?”
Scott shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. One question, though. Who’s W.C. Fields?”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Milt said. “You don’t know who W.C. Fields is? That’s criminal. You ought to be busted back to traffic cop for an answer like that. Don’t you young kids know anything at all?”
“Hey, Milt,” Scott said. “Who’s Lady Gaga?”
“Hell, how should I know?”
“You gotta be kidding me. Don’t you old farts know anything at all?”
“Zing,” Eric said, taking a bagel from the bag. “You’ve been severely neutered, Milt. And by a rookie, at that.”
“He’ll never last as a Homicide dick.” Milt gently cuffed Scott on the side of his head. “He’s too ugly, he’s a wise ass, and he’s a dummy when it comes to cinema history. I give him two more months and he’s back walking a beat.”
“Nah, Milt, I think the kid’s got a future with us,” Eric said, turning toward Dantzler. “Why are you studying the Good Book, Jack? Are you looking for loopholes?”
Dantzler shook his head. “When Charlie and I went to see Eli, just before we left, the old guy said something interesting. He said, ‘think of Jesus’s empty tomb.’ At first, I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to me or mumbling to himself or maybe hallucinating. But after thinking about it, I’ve concluded he was trying to tell me something. Those five words hold the answer to this mystery. I’m convinced of it.”
“Jack, are you sure this guy isn’t playing mind games with you?” Milt asked. “Hell, if he really wants this thing solved, all he has to do is give you a name. How difficult can that be?”
“Dammit, Milt, he can’t. He’s protecting his family.”
“You like that cantankerous old bird, don’t you?”
“Like, dislike-they don’t factor into this. I simply can’t stand seeing an innocent man locked up behind bars.”
“None of us can,” Milt said. “But he had the option to do something about it long before now. He didn’t have to wait until the Grim Reaper was on his doorstep before seeking help. Spending unnecessary years behind bars-that’s on him.”
Eric picked up the Bible and leafed through the four pages Dantzler had flagged. “Find anything worthwhile? Any idea what Eli was trying to tell you?”
“Not really,” Dantzler answered. “The four gospels are all fairly consistent in their narratives concerning the women finding Jesus’s empty tomb. But they do differ on who those women were. Mary Magdalene is the one consistent; her name appears in all four accounts. Mary, the mother of James, is in Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Salome is in Mark’s gospel, and Joanna is in Luke’s. Luke also says there were other women with them, but gives no names. John mentions only Mary Magdalene. Like I said, there’s not much to go on.”
“A female shooter?” Milt said. “Are we wrong to discount that possibility?”
“I never discount anything, Milt. But the likelihood… I just can’t see it.”
“Okay, so where do we go from here?” Eric said.
“Back to the obits,” Dantzler said. “Men only, forget the women. Scott, you help on this. This is gonna sound nutty, but here’s what I want you to look for. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are obvious names to check for. Peter is mentioned in Mark’s and John’s versions, so look for anyone with that name. The stone was rolled away from the tomb-that was a big deal-so look for someone named Stone. Anyone named Lord or James. I know this is asking a lot, but right now it’s all we have to go on. The answer is in those five words. I’m positive of it. The name is buried somewhere in the obits.”
“What’s your next move, Jack?” Milt said.
“I need to speak with Tommy Whitehouse, but he’s a hard dude to pin down. I have his sister, Rachel, trying set up a meeting. That’s my first priority. Then at some point, I want the two of us to talk with Johnny Richards. See if he can shed some light on all this.”
“Did you ask Eli about him?” Eric said.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know the guy all that well. Richards was Colt Rogers’s friend, not Eli’s. Still, I don’t think it would hurt to meet with him.”
“Colt’s funeral is tomorrow at ten,” Milt said. “You want us there?”
“You bet. Sean Montgomery and I are going to the visitation tonight to see if anyone interesting or suspicious shows up. Laurie, Eric, and I will attend the service tomorrow afternoon. Milt, you and Scott find strategic and discreet locations near the gravesite. Photograph everyone who attends. Sammy Turley will be there to get it all on video.”
“Can you handle a camera,
Scott?” Milt asked, smiling.
“Better than Annie Leibovitz.”
“Who?”
“It’s true. You old farts really don’t know anything.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sean Montgomery was right-Colt Rogers was not highly regarded by his peers. During the two hours Dantzler and Sean spent at the funeral home, not more than a dozen people showed up for the visitation. If Rogers did have friends and professional colleagues who respected him, they were no-shows on this particular night. Judging from this turnout, the man known for his plea-bargaining tactics was a pariah within the legal community.
Dantzler and Sean stopped by McCarthy’s for a few pints of Guinness before driving out Harrodsburg Road to Kerr Brothers Funeral Home. The before-visit drinks were at Sean’s insistence.
“I want alcohol before the visit and a good long shower after I get back home tonight,” Sean said. “Maybe if I’m a little drunk, I can tolerate the slime until I’m able to wash it off.”
“Such a horrible thing to say about the deceased,” Dantzler joked. “You’re supposed to show respect for the dead.”
“Colt Rogers was a horrible person when he was alive,” Sean countered. “As for respecting the dead, I say a person gets in death what he or she earned in life.”
“You’re a hardcore philosophical bloke, Sean. No wonder you made a great defense attorney.”
“Come on, Jack,” Sean said after finishing off his third pint. “Let’s do this before I change my mind and order another round.”
*****
The handful of visitors who did show up at the funeral home included three or four of Rogers’s fellow attorneys, all of whom looked to be in the senior citizen age group, and none of whom gave the slightest hint they wanted to be there. Each one signed the register, spent a few brief moments by the casket, then quickly departed, head down as though they were afraid they might be recognized. Their haste to leave seemed to be propelled by extreme embarrassment for having known Colt Rogers.
Several others trickled in during the two hours Dantzler and Sean were there. Most were middle-age women who came not so much to pay tribute to the dead man, but rather to console the one person in the room who was a genuine mourner-Barbara Tanner.
Barbara sat alone, dressed in black, obviously distraught by the death of her long-time boss. Her makeup had long since been washed away by her tears, and her eyes were red and puffy. She paid several visits to the beautiful oak casket, which was closed and covered by a blanket of red roses. A folded American flag and a single 8x10 photograph of a smiling Colt Rogers rested on top. After looking at the photo of Rogers for several seconds, she would wipe the tears from her eyes and return to her chair.
“That’s Barbara Tanner,” Sean said to Dantzler. “How she survived all those years working for such a sleazeball is a mystery to me. She’s a really nice, decent lady. Have you spoken to her yet?”
“Laurie did.” Dantzler pointed toward the other mourner sitting alone, this one much younger and prettier. “Who’s the good-looking lady?”
“That would be Cheryl Likens. She is Colt’s current paralegal, and if the grapevine is accurate, his latest main squeeze. I’ve never personally dealt with her, but rumor has it she is not a candidate for a Rhodes scholarship. Dumb as a rock. Of course, she would have to be to sleep with Rogers.”
“That’s what Barbara told Laurie. She said we could rule Cheryl out as the shooter based on sheer stupidity.”
“Good old Barbara,” Sean said, chuckling. He nudged Dantzler in the ribs. “Come on, Jack, let’s get out of here. I can feel the slime growing on my body.”
The funeral and the graveside service conducted the next morning also turned out to be a waste of time and effort for Dantzler and the Homicide team. Thirteen people showed up for the funeral, five made the trip to the cemetery. In all, ten of the thirteen were women. Only one attorney had the courage to make an appearance at the gravesite, and according to Sean, the man had been retired for many years. The other two men were photographed and later identified as distant cousins of Rogers.
*****
“Well, that was a chunk of my life I’ll never get back,” Milt said when the group gathered later that afternoon in the War Room. “Just another reason why I need to sign those papers, turn in my badge, and join Charlie Bolton on his fishing boat.”
“You talk about depressing,” Eric said, loosening his tie. “To live all those years, work as an attorney, get murdered in a most brutal way, and have virtually no one show up at your funeral service. I don’t care how much of a bum the guy was, that’s sad.”
“You reap what you sow in this life, Eric,” Milt said. “That’s something I firmly believe.”
“So do I. But, still, to have no one grieve for you when you’re gone. Man, that’s so… sad.”
Laurie said, “Did you see Barbara Tanner, Eric? That was no act. Those tears were real. She’s gonna miss the man.”
“Think Cheryl Likens will miss him?” Milt said, grinning.
“Are you kidding? She’ll have a new sugar daddy within a week, if she doesn’t already have one.”
“Maybe you should make a play for her, Milt,” Scott said. “Obviously, she prefers older guys, and you certainly fit into that category.”
“Scott, I’d go broke buying Viagra trying to keep up with a woman like Cheryl Likens. No, no, Scott. I need a woman, not grief or trouble. She’d be grief and trouble.”
Dantzler entered the room and the mood suddenly turned somber. He went to the end of the table, pulled back a chair, but didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned against the wall, his dark, tired eyes staring into space. After a minute of silence, he pushed away from the wall, sat, and scooted the chair forward.
“Sorry for putting you through an ordeal like this,” he said. “I know you all had better ways to spend your time than hanging out at Colt Rogers’s funeral service. Sean Montgomery warned me it would be a waste of time. I should’ve listened to him.”
“The next big dinner tab is on you,” Milt said. “And the bar bill. Speaking of which, I could certainly use an alcoholic beverage right about now.”
“Later,” Dantzler said. “What I want from you now are thoughts or ideas about this case. That goes for all of you. Give me anything you’ve got, no matter how out there you think it might be.”
“It’s really not very complicated,” Laurie said. “If you’re convinced the killings in ’eighty-two and these two recent killings were done by the same person, then we just need to dig deeper to find the missing link. If there is one.”
“I still say you should pressure Eli for a name,” Milt said. “Give him your assurance that if he coughs up the name, we’ll protect his family. We’ll make sure they are never in harm’s way.”
“How can I make that assurance, Milt?” Dantzler argued. “I have no clue what we’re up against here. For all I know, the killer could be part of Murder Incorporated or the Russian mob. At any rate, you can forget about Eli giving us a name. It’s not gonna happen.”
“Well, then, our only option is old-fashion hardcore detective work. Tell us what you want us to do.”
“Same plan as before,” Dantzler said, standing. “Eric and Scott on the obits, Laurie digging into Devon Fraley’s past, you going through Colt Rogers’s files. Check with Barbara Tanner. If she’s up to it, get her to assist you.”
“What about you?” Eric asked.
“Rachel Foster phoned me a few minutes before I came in. She has me set to meet Tommy Whitehouse tomorrow afternoon. He was a hard dude to track down, and given his checkered past, I’m not sure what to expect from him. I doubt he’ll give me anything worthwhile, but who knows? Maybe he’ll surprise me. Then sometime on Thursday, Milt and I are going to talk with Johnny Richards.”
“He wasn’t at the funeral today, was he?” Eric said.
Dantzler shook his head. “No. And based on the names listed in the guestbook, he didn’t come by the funeral home last night, ei
ther.”
“Some friend.”
“Hell, after what I saw today,” Milt said, “I don’t think Colt Rogers had any friends.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Of the three Whitehouse children, the one who most intrigued Dantzler was the one he had yet to meet-Tommy.
There was no mystery why this was so. Tommy Whitehouse’s story was a mirror image of Dantzler’s uncle Tommy Blake, another charmed golden boy who stumbled somewhere along life’s road and became a lost soul.
Tommy Blake had been Dantzler’s idol, his hero, his mentor. It was Tommy who taught him how to play tennis and baseball. It was Tommy who instilled in him a love for learning. It was Tommy who helped him become a man. Tommy Blake was one of those charmed individuals who had star quality written all over him. Graceful, strong, quick, fearless, and intelligent, he was seen as a can’t-miss Major League shortstop or a Rhodes scholar. All doors were open to him. All he had to do was pick the one he wanted to enter. He chose baseball, signing a contract with the Los Angeles Dodgers on the day he graduated from high school. His impact was immediate, his talent enormous, and within two years he had moved rapidly up the ranks within the Dodgers’ organization. Then, while playing for the Triple A club, disaster struck.
A career-ending knee injury and the death of Sarah Dantzler, his beloved sister, with whom he was especially close, slammed those doors shut. After his playing career ended, an addictive personality emerged. Tommy Blake, disillusioned and adrift, traded his dreams of glory for drugs, alcohol, and a series of unsuccessful relationships with women. He was, Dantzler knew, a haunted, tragic figure.
Not unlike Tommy Whitehouse, who, according to Rachel, was so devastated by Eli’s situation that he “shut down, checked out, and extinguished the light of brilliance that shone within him.” Rachel had used words like lost, haunted, and tragic when describing Tommy. They were the same words Dantzler often used when describing his uncle. Tommy Blake and Tommy Whitehouse were, in Dantzler’s mind, two of life’s great magnificent maybes, men whose vast potential would never be realized.
