by Rick Reed
“Richard Dick and Max were fighting over Ginger Purdie?” Jack asked.
“Max and Dick had some history going back to when Max was on the football team at Central High School. Max played against Dick, who was with Rex Mundi. Dick was the Rex Mundi quarterback and Max was a Central tackle. Max bragged that he’d taken the Rex Mundi quarterback down a few times. When Max transferred to Rex Mundi in his senior year they were on the same team, but there was a lot of animosity between them. Anyway, Ginger was supposedly Dick’s girlfriend and Max was taking her away. To be honest, I don’t think my son even liked her.”
My kind of guy. “Did they ever fight before that night?” Jack asked.
“Not that I heard of,” she answered. “But I didn’t approve of Max fighting. That’s why we had him transferred to Rex Mundi in the first place. We thought he would get more supervision there at a Catholic School. We didn’t know that he and Dick had a score to settle or we would have never put him in that position.”
“It’s not your fault, Mrs. Day. Even if you had known Max and Richard Dick didn’t get along they would have met somewhere else and fought,” Jack said, but she wasn’t convinced. She’d been beating herself up over this for a long time.
“It was Dick and his friends that killed Max,” she said. “Some other people told Mattingly they knew about the fight, but they wouldn’t come forward.”
Jack knew that even if someone had come forward they couldn’t prove anything. Secondary witnesses and even eyewitnesses were wrong 50 percent of the time. These were teenagers showing off. Dick had an ego as big as outdoors now, so he probably did back then too. But he had always pegged Dick as a bully, a coward, and a blowhard. He couldn’t imagine Dick going toe to toe with anyone who would defend themselves.
“Mrs. Day, I have to ask. Did Max or Harry have any other enemies that might have wanted to hurt them? Anyone who threatened either of them?”
“Harry never had an enemy in the world,” she said. “But Max loved conflict. He wasn’t a bad boy, but he never let a slight pass. He was easy to anger and quick to react. Dick and his friends were always getting under Max’s skin.”
“Explain.”
“We let Max go to Central when he started high school, but we put Reina in Rex Mundi. After we transferred him to Rex Mundi, he found out one of Dick’s friends was heckling Reina. You know. Teasing, touching, that kind of stuff. We didn’t know about it until Harry and I were called to school to pick Max up one day. He’d been in a fight with Carl Needham. Reina said Needham was Dick’s best friend. Well, Max said Needham had been asking Reina out and wouldn’t take no for an answer. She embarrassed him in public and he started a rumor that Reina was… pregnant. Reina didn’t tell us this was going on because she knew Harry had a temper and so did Max.”
“What happened?” Jack asked.
“Well, Max found the boy and that’s why we were called to come pick Max up. The rumors stopped.”
“Was Needham one of the boys with Dick the night of the fight with your son?”
“Yes. Reina told me it was Dick, Carl, and Dennis.”
“Do you know their full names?”
“Richard Dick, Carl Needham, and Dennis James.”
Jack thought if it was Carl and Dick who had pursued Max that night there was a good possibility that another fight would have occurred. Max had publicly humiliated both of them.
“Anyone else you can think of, Mrs. Day?”
“Max liked to fight. He’d never run no matter what the odds. But I’ll tell you something else. Max’s car was really banged up when we got it back. There were dents and scrapes and part of the front bumper was pulled off. Harry said it had a lot of damage.”
“Did Max have a wreck before that night?” Jack asked.
“No,” she answered. “And Max loved that car. He would hand-wash and wax it a couple of times a week. If there was a scratch in the paint he would have had a fit.”
The crime scene report listed a broken taillight lens, but it didn’t say what type of car it was on. There was nothing about what happened to the victim’s car after crime scene released it.
“What kind of car did Max have?” Jack asked.
“Reina has the car now. A 1975 red Camaro Super Sport. Harry had it repaired and gave it to Reina. She’s still driving it.”
Jack felt a chill run up his spine. Max had been killed in that car and Reina was almost killed in the same car at the same place in the cemetery. What were the chances?
“The car has been towed to our crime scene garage, Mrs. Day. I’ll ask them to release it as soon as possible,” Jack said.
“I don’t care about the car. As long as Reina is safe. Thank you for having a policeman watch out for her.”
“Are you going back to the hospital tonight?” Jack asked.
“Yes.”
“Call me before you do and I can have someone take you.”
“That’s not necessary, but thank you.”
“That’s all the questions I have for now, Mrs. Day, but I’m sure I’ll have more later. Do you have any questions for us?”
“You’ll get him, won’t you?” she asked. “Richard Dick shouldn’t get away with this again.”
Jack and Liddell took the Bankers Box of material with a promise to make copies and return it.
Chapter 11
Deputy Chief Dick hung up his desk phone. The news wasn’t good. In fact, it was horrible. If the recording got out he would be humiliated. He had to prepare for that. Victory goes to the prepared mind, or something like that. Today would be a test of his internal fortitude.
He should have known Chief Pope would give the investigation to Murphy and Blanchard. If there was a detective who hated him more, Chief Pope would surely have assigned that detective the case.
Dick wasn’t impressed with Murphy like some people seemed to be. Murphy was lucky. That was all. Dick brought Murphy up on disciplinary charges several times in the past. It should have resulted in his firing. Murphy was no doubt ecstatic at the prospect of bringing him down.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror on the wall beside the office door, straightened his tie, brushed at his shoulders, and picked a speck of lint from his sleeve. His dress shoes were immaculately shined, pants creased to a knife edge, badge and ribbons carefully shined and placed. He went back to his desk and picked the gold three-star collar-dogs that designated his rank as Deputy Chief. He took a polishing cloth from the middle drawer of his desk, wiped the smudge of his fingerprints from the gold, and worked the pins back into his collar. Perfect.
He debated whether to take his tricked-out police cap or try to appear more casual. He decided on casual. He didn’t want to seem anxious or desperate. He stood erect, head held straight, and examined himself one last time. He was ready.
Deputy Chief Richard Dick left his office and spoke to Lieutenant Brandsasse as he passed by. Brandsasse was still working as Dick’s receptionist for an extended punishment period. Dick had it on good authority that Brandsasse had been disrespectful of him. Had berated him to civilians, no less. Brandsasse was a lieutenant and should have more loyalty. More discipline. It was the sign of a good leader-to-be to have the respect of one’s subordinates. He’d teach the man or eventually break him.
Dick said, “Lieutenant, I’ll be in a meeting. If anyone needs me you can text my cell. If it’s not important, take a message.” With that, Dick turned and walked out of the office. Lieutenant Brandsasse gave his boss a disrespectful one-finger salute as he disappeared through the door.
He took the stairs to the main floor and went through the back entrance, taking the long way around by the court building to get to his car. The minor detour before his meeting was necessary. He’d forgotten his notes and his breath mints. He passed two uniform officers walking to their cars. They didn’t greet him. He made a mental note of their names
. He retrieved the items from his car and went back to the civic center.
Dick walked down the hall, enjoying the solid clicks his heels made on the tile floor. He ignored the receptionist. He could never remember her name. It began with an L. Lucrecia. Leticia. Lamika. It didn’t matter. She’d been there less than a year and she wasn’t in his circle.
He stopped in front of the elevators and punched the up button. The elevator was on the third floor. The damn things were insufferably slow. He’d have to mention that to Thatcher. But then, Thatcher wouldn’t be mayor much longer, and he was sure Thatcher had other things on his mind right now besides slow elevators.
The doors whooshed open. Dick stepped on and punched the button for the third floor. A hand stopped the doors from shutting. A young woman, twentysomething, with dark, unkempt hair, no makeup, blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a stained sweater over an equally ugly shirt stepped inside. She didn’t attempt to talk to him or notice he was there. Maybe she was one of the cleaning people. He didn’t know all the maintenance people. They weren’t in his circle. He punched the third-floor button again and she punched it after him.
Mayor Thatcher had summoned him for a meeting. He had a good idea what the meeting was concerning, but what was done was done. He’d endure whatever the man said, go back to his office, and make plans to repel the new assault he saw coming. He never imagined that doing a good thing—talking to the family of Max Day before he took over the reins of the EPD—would be taken so out of context. He should have known that no good deed goes unpunished.
The elevator door opened and the young lady brushed past him into the hallway without a “sorry” or an “excuse me” or even a “watch it.” He couldn’t help but watch as she moved down the hallway at a quickstep march. The city comptrollor, Bob something, was just leaving the mayor’s office and held the door for the woman, but passed by Dick without acknowledging him. Rudeness must be catching.
Dick opened the mayor’s office door. He was mildly curious what business the badly dressed young woman could possibly have with Thatcher, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“He was expecting you five minutes ago,” the mayor’s secretary said without addressing him by name or rank. “Go in. You don’t have to knock.”
Dick felt his stomach tighten. The secretary was always uppity, but something was off. Something bad was happening and he hadn’t a clue. He rapped his knuckles on the door, regardless of what the secretary said, and was greeted with a “come” by Thatcher Hensley. That voice sounded tired.
Dick entered the spacious office to see that many of the awards and photos had already been taken down from the walls and were now in boxes stacked on chairs and the floor beside the desk. He wished he had the nerve to say, “Going somewhere, Thatch?” But he didn’t know what was going on. Therefore, caution was the watchword.
The young woman from the elevator was with the mayor. She set a box of Hensley’s personal belongings on the floor and pulled the chair to the side of the mayor’s desk. Hensley’s rolling chair was turned facing her and he’d scooted back off the chair mat.
“Have a seat, Richard,” the mayor said.
Dick sat on an empty chair across from the mayor. The woman’s eyes never left Hensley as she said, “We’ve got a problem, Thatcher. What are you going to do?”
Dick could tell Hensley was relieved that another person, a man, was in the room. He’d never seen Thatcher cowed by anyone, much less some little spit of a girl.
“Richard, do you know Tilly?” Hensley asked.
“Tilly Coyne,” the young lady said, but didn’t move to shake hands, didn’t take her eyes off Hensley.
Hensley cleared his throat and said, “She’s—”
“I’m Benet Cato’s campaign manager,” Tilly interrupted. She asked Hensley, “I’m going to ask again: What are you going to do with this problem?”
Mayor Hensley said, “Richard, we need to discuss the elephant in the room, so to speak.”
“Elephant?” Tilly said and stood. “This is not an elephant, Thatcher. It’s a goddamn bull in a china shop. It’s a Hiroshima. I’ll ask for the last time: What are you going to do?”
Hensley backed his chair off the mat and took a long, deep breath. “I was just made aware of this ‘problem’ an hour ago, Miss Coyne. A better question is: How does Benet plan to handle it? It’s really not my problem. If she was so interested, why didn’t she come herself?”
The minute those words left Thatcher’s mouth Dick knew it was a mistake and he grinned inwardly. It was about time someone took the arrogant asshole on.
Tilly said, “She lets me handle pissant problems if the people in charge don’t have the balls to keep their employees in line.”
Dick glared at her. She was undoubtedly talking about him. How dare she!
Thatcher finally found his voice. “And how would you deal with this problem, Tilly? Perhaps you’ll give me the benefit of your non-experience in handling these types of things.”
Dick, who had sat quietly during this exchange, had had enough. “Stop it! Would someone please tell me what you’re talking about. I might have something to say about it.”
Tilly fixed Dick with a stare that made his scrotum shrink. “You.”
Dick managed to say, “What does that mean?” He knew what it meant.
“You are the problem, Deputy Chief Dick,” Tilly said derisively, coming to her feet. “We are discussing what should be done with you. And before you say that you are under a merit system and therefore can’t be fired except with just cause. Before you say anything, I want you to remember whose name appears on your paycheck. I want you to remember what happens after the first of the year. I want you to remember that Benet ran her campaign on a clean-sweep slogan. You are an embarrassment.”
Dick folded his hands in his lap and struggled to keep the emotion out of his voice. “I’m assuming you’ve had a complaint by a Mrs. Day.”
Tilly sat down. “Duh. You think?”
“It was just a conversation,” Dick said to the mayor.
“A conversation that was recorded,” Tilly said.
Hensley focused his attention on the top of his desk and she tore into Dick.
“A conversation that was emailed to mayor-elect Benet. She heard the entire ‘conversation’. She, to say the least, is concerned that someone of your supposed intelligence, and someone in charge of day-to-day operations of a three-hundred-eighty-five-person police force, would have a conversation with the family of a boy who was murdered thirty-seven years ago. A murder that you have been connected to by rumor. You, of all people, should know the family wouldn’t welcome your comments, nor your presence.”
Thatcher was staring at Dick now. “Just what the hell were you thinking, Richard?”
Dick saw the handwriting on the wall. Hensley had just found his way out. Cato wouldn’t appoint him Chief. He would be castigated, ridiculed in public, and the blame for an investigation that he had no responsibility for—he was eighteen when it happened—would be hung around his neck like a burning tire. He was being sacrificed in the name of politics.
“I thought I could reason with her,” Dick offered.
“You thought?” Hensley said with a sneer.
Tilly said, “I think we’re done here, Thatcher. I’ll report back to Benet that you don’t have a clue what is going to be done. According to you, it’s not your problem. I’ll handle it.”
Tilly got up and left the office. The door snicked shut behind her and Hensley rolled to his desk and put his clasped hands on the top. “I can’t protect you this time, Richard. Maybe this will all go away. Just tell me one thing. No. No, don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to know. I’m told Jack Murphy is working this one and I’m sure he’ll catch the bastard. He always does. I hope you appreciate a man of his caliber.”
Dick was dismissed and as he passed the secr
etary’s desk he could swear he heard her snort. Well, her days were numbered too. Clean sweeps included nosy, good-for-nothing clerical help. He’d gloat as she cleaned her desk out. He’d have her escorted from the building. Perp-walked out the door.
Chapter 12
Liddell pulled up to the drive-through window at the First Avenue branch of Donut Bank.
“How can you possibly be hungry again, Bigfoot?” Jack asked.
A young girl came to the window and asked, “Can I help you, sir?”
Liddell said, “I’d like to make a withdrawal,” and the girl giggled. He asked Jack, “Do you want something, pod’na?”
“No. I just worry you’ll go into a sugar coma and wreck the car.”
Liddell gave her his order and asked for coffees.
“So, you’re not worried about me, you’re really worried about the car? That hurts,” Liddell said.
His order came, two boxes of mixed pastries and two large coffees. He handed one of the coffees to Jack and set the boxes on the seat between them.
“I thought I’d bring a little something to the meeting with the Chief and Captain,” Liddell said.
“Right,” Jack said. “We need to keep this meeting short. I want to move everything to the war room. You can take them there.”
They had dubbed a back room at Two Jakes Restaurant as the war room. It was a place where they had worked before. A place where they could run their investigations in privacy and anonymity. Plus, Liddell was in food heaven and that meant less downtime feeding the Yeti.
“Is Jake cooking today?” Liddell asked. Jake was a part-time cook—he called himself a chef—at Two Jakes Restaurant. Jake had hired a man named Vinnie to act as bartender. Jack had never known Vinnie’s last name and hadn’t worried over it, since Jake trusted the man. Jack knew Vinnie had a colored past, but he had proven himself a willing ally time and time again when Jack was in a scrape.
