by Thomas Scott
“Go, Cauliffer. Keep him in the house. Stay right by his side. I don’t care what he’s doing, you stay right with him. If he’s in there taking his morning dump, I want you standing ready with a roll of toilet paper. You got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Go. Now.”
Cauliffer took off toward the mansion and Virgil went back to Sandy. “What the hell happened?”
Sandy shook her head. “The hell if I know.”
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“I don’t know. I hit my head really hard getting Burns out of the car.” She blew a deep breath out of her mouth. “Jesus, Jonesy, half his head is gone. I mean it’s Jerry. Who’d have ever thought something like this could happen to Jerry?”
“I know, I know, but listen, it’s okay. You did good. Did everything you could. Do you have anything? Anything at all?”
“Nothing really. I saw a white cargo van turning westbound from the south corner as I came out of the gate. Couldn’t get the plate. Couldn’t even tell you the make of the van. Chevy, maybe? Or GMC. It had the tall taillights at the top. It was just a glimpse. They were already gone, you know?”
“Okay. But it was a van? You’re sure of that?”
“Yeah. White cargo van. Like a delivery van or something.”
“Okay. Sit still. I’m going to get the medics to look you over.”
“I don’t need any of that. Let me work this with you.”
“It’s not a request, Sandy. They’re going to look at you.” Virgil stood up. “I’ll be right back.” He reached for his phone before realizing it was still in the truck. He jogged back down to where he’d parked a few minutes ago and the phone was ringing when he got there. The caller ID showed a blocked number. He hit the button. “Jonesy.”
“Uh, Detective Jones? This is Cauliffer, up at the house? The governor’s? He gave me your number.”
“Yeah, Cauliffer, what is it?”
“Well, you think you could come up here for a minute?”
“Why?”
“It’s the governor. He’s pretty pissed that I won’t let him out of the house.”
Virgil could hear the governor in the background and realized Cauliffer was right. He did sound pissed. “All right. Just sit on him for a minute. I’ll be right there.” Virgil pressed the end button then hit the speed dial for his boss, Cora.
She answered immediately. “What the hell’s happening, Jonesy?”
“Ah, we’ve got a hell of a mess is what’s happening. You better get out here. Be nice if you could handle the politics for me.”
“Turn around, Slick.”
Virgil turned and saw Cora walking toward him. He hit the end button and stuck the phone in his pocket. At fifty-two years old, Cora stood little more than five feet tall, carried about twenty extra pounds, was dark skinned and kept her salt and pepper hair high and tight like a man. She began her career as an Indianapolis Metro patrol cop and the stories of her days on patrol were legendary. She once found herself cornered by three gangbangers jacked on meth in an abandoned warehouse. When they closed ranks to take her down, she left her gun in its holster and took her nightstick from the chrome loop on her belt and proceeded to offer a free demonstration on the quality of hand-to-hand combat training offered by the Indiana Police Academy. When it was over she shook a cigarette out of her pack, lit up, and stood over them, the ashes from her cigarette scattered around their broken limbs and bloodied faces. She finished her smoke before she called for EMS on the radio. No one messed with Cora LaRue more than once, and only then at their own peril.
She walked up and put her hands on her hips. “Jesus Christ. I heard it’s Jerry Burns.”
“Yeah,” Virgil said. “I don’t believe it.”
“All right, I’m going to go up and talk to the governor. Get this scene locked down, then come up and join me, will you?”
“You bet.”
“Jerry Burns. Who’d have ever thought…”
4
The Sids sat across from each other at their kitchen table; Senior lost in thought, Junior amped from the adrenaline rush.
“I still think we could do them all,” Junior said. “I want to do them all.”
“We’ve been over this before. It’s too risky.”
Junior’s hand slapped the table. Hard. “Then what the hell did I drive all the way up there for? Answer that for me, will you? An entire week of surveillance in that God forsaken shit-hole of a town and now you want to just let it go? Who retires to Osceola anyway?”
Senior sucked in his cheeks. Maybe he’d trained his child too well. Or too hard. Sid Jr. could be a handful for sure. Junior wanted it all, and anything less than that would be considered a failure. Sid Sr. shook his head then pointed at the map on the table. “Look, everyone else is either right here in Indy or within fifty miles. He’s the only one who’s out of the area. You want to blow the whole deal over one guy?”
Junior didn’t answer. “You’re turning chicken shit on me, aren’t you?”
Senior pointed a finger at her. “Chicken shit my ass. Did it look chicken shit to you when that trooper’s melon popped? And don’t you talk to me that way.”
“It was pretty good shootin’, I’ll give you that,” Junior said. “But listen, we may have a little problem.”
“What?”
“I lost some brass.”
This time it was Senior who slapped the table. “God damn, girl. That could be a problem, right there.”
“No, no, listen. I think it’s okay. It’s not good, but I’m not printed anywhere and neither are you, so if they find it, and they probably won’t, what good can it do them?”
“Ah, they’ll find it,” Senior said. “We killed a cop. There’s no way they won’t find it.”
“I still think it’s okay. They don’t know to look for it. We fired four shots total, right? Yours, and my three. I picked up two, but the third was hot. That’s how I lost it. Slipped right out of my hand and rolled down the storm drain. Unless they pull the grate and look in there…” She let it hang, like she was trying to convince herself. “Besides, you know the cops aren’t all that smart to begin with. Hell, half the time they can’t find their own ass with a GPS, a flashlight and a how-to video.”
“It’s not the cops, though, don’t you get it? If the cops don’t catch us in the act we’re probably okay. But those crime scene techs? They scare me. They can figure some shit out.”
“Ah, that’s a bunch of TV bullshit. We’re not printed anywhere, so all they could do is hang us after the fact anyway, and if it comes to that, it won’t make much of a difference. It’ll be so long and good-bye, know what I mean?”
They bantered back and forth like that for a bit before they got back to work, checking their gear, loading their supplies for the next run, but all the while, somewhere in the recesses of Senior’s mind, he heard himself say it wasn’t too late to back it down, to toss the whole thing in the shitter and flush it away like a bad memory. But he wasn’t really listening to himself, so in the end he never really heard. It was too bad for that cop, no doubt about it, but it really was the only way—the banker had to go.
They still had another one to do later today. By tonight the city would be shocked. By tomorrow they’d be worried. By the end of the week they’d be shit-faced with panic.
And this was just the beginning.
5
A not-so-short walk brought Virgil up to the side entrance of the governor’s mansion. He entered without knocking, stepped through a short service hallway, then turned a corner into the kitchen. The governor’s chief of staff, Bradley Pearson, was already there along with the governor and Officer Cauliffer. Virgil pulled out a chair and sat down. “Morning Governor,” he said by way of a greeting.
“Jonesy,” the governor said. “What do we know so far?” Then, without waiting for an answer, “And perhaps we should excuse Officer Cauliflower here.”
Cauliffer reddened. “It’s, uh, Ca
uliffer sir.”
The governor tipped his head sideways and closed one eye. “Yes, of course. Sorry. Cauliffer. Got it.”
When Virgil caught Cauliffer’s eyes he gave him a nod that said, ‘you’re done in here.’ Cauliffer gave him a look back that said all at once, ‘got it’ and ‘thank God’ then went back outside.
The governor looked at Cora. “Is Sandy out there? Is she hurt?”
Virgil thought, hmm. Cora spoke to the governor, but her eyes were on Virgil. “She’s fine, Governor. But Trooper Burns is dead, along with your neighbor directly across the street.”
The governor’s jaw muscles were clenched tight. “Yes, I know. It’s all over my Blackberry already.” He held his phone up and wiggled it in the air, then tossed it on the counter. Governor Hewitt (Mac) McConnell was ex-military and looked it. Tall, hard and lean with a military buzz cut, slightly gray at the temples, clear blue eyes and a salt and pepper goatee he wore off and on. Today it was on. The gray in his hair and beard contrasted perfectly against his black over black three-piece suit. Pearson, his chief of staff, was the polar opposite. Narrow shoulders, a soft stomach that strained the buttons on his wrinkled shirt, and a polyester suit that looked capable of surviving nuclear devastation. His hair was drugstore bottle black but left gray along the sides. The common consensus held that he was trying for a Mitt Romney look. The reality was he looked more like Pauley Walnuts from the Sopranos.
“Jonesy, ever hear of a guy named Samuel Pate?” Pearson asked.
Samuel Pate was something of a minor celebrity, a televangelist who somehow managed to attain an impressive measure of financial success over a very short period of time despite his lack of education, verifiable credentials, and physical shortcomings. Or perhaps because of them. “Sermon Sam, the Preacher Man? Sure, who hasn’t?” Virgil said. “Why do you ask?”
“What do you know about Sunrise Bank? Do you have an account there, or know anyone who works at their institution?”
“That’s three questions in a row. Which would you like me to answer? And why does it suddenly feel like I’m the only one in the room who doesn’t know what’s going on here?”
The governor caught the frustration in Virgil’s tone and held up his hand in a peaceful manner before speaking. “You’ll have to forgive Bradley, Detective. At times I think he wishes he had chosen a career in law enforcement. Or maybe it’s my fault. I often let him ask the difficult questions for me.”
“Maybe if we started at the beginning,” Cora said.
Pearson let out a heavy sigh, and then started over. “We don’t think this attack, these murders…we don’t think the governor was targeted. At all. We want to be clear on that. There may be political implications, and we’d like it handled in a manner befitting the office of the Governor of the State of Indiana.”
Virgil didn’t like Bradley Pearson and knew of few people who did. “I’m not sure what that means, Bradley. And who exactly is Franklin Dugan? The name rings a bell, but I can’t quite place it.”
“He is, or was rather, the President of Sunrise Bank,” the governor said. “He was also one of my closest friends.” Pearson had a look on his face. An expression that indicated there was more. The governor noticed, puffed out his cheeks and exhaled loudly through his mouth. “He was also one of my biggest campaign contributors.”
“I want you to catch this son of a bitch, Jonesy,” the governor said. “Or kill him. Sooner the better. Elections are only nine months away and voters have a memory for this kind of thing.”
“Especially if your platform was a reduction in capital crime,” Cora added. Sort of dry.
Virgil winced when she said it, but the governor just pointed a finger at her and said, “Exactly.” He stood, shot his cuffs and made a circular motion with his hand at Pearson. “Cora will fill you in on the details, Jonesy. I appreciate your efforts. You’re sure Sandy’s okay?”
“Yes, sir, I think so.” He thought, hmm, again.
The governor shook his head and looked at no one. Then to Pearson: “Where’s officer Cauliflower? Perhaps he can clear us a path out of here so we can get downtown.”
Ten seconds after they left the room, Pearson stuck his head back in. “Uh, I just want to be sure we’re all on the same page, here. The governor...when he said ‘catch him or kill him’…what he was really saying was ‘catch him.’ Just so we’re clear on that, okay?”
Once Pearson was finally gone, Virgil looked at Cora and said, “What aren’t they saying?”
“You never answered Pearson’s question. What do you know about Sunrise Bank?”
“What’s to know? They’re a bank, just like any other, aren’t they?”
Cora pursed her lips. “In many ways, they are. But did you know that there’s a bank up in the northern part of the state—I can’t remember the name—but they’re based out of South Bend. Strictly local, people walk in and out all day and deposit their checks, take out loans, the whole thing. Just a regular local bank, but, they also happen to be the third largest specialty financing firm in the entire country. Garbage trucks, rental cars, aircraft for regional air carriers, the works. If it runs or flies, they’ve got their hand in it.”
“Fascinating stuff, Cora, really. But what does that have to do with Sunrise or Dugan?”
“Care to guess where Pate’s ministry does their banking?”
“So like the bank up in South Bend, Sunrise does specialty financing?”
“You got it, Jones-man. And it’s big business, at least according to the governor. We’re talking billions of dollars in outstanding loans to religious institutions all across the country. Big, big stuff.”
Virgil thought about that for a few minutes. “If they’re doing that much business, what’s the tie-in with Pate? He’s regional at best. Why has his name come up?”
“Pate just borrowed over five million dollars from Dugan’s bank to buy a run down church in Broad Ripple.”
“Maybe I’m not quite the detective I think I am, because I still don’t see how that would make Pate a suspect.”
“Maybe you should go over to Dugan’s office and look things over. You’ll probably revise your last statement after you do. I’ve attached his office as part of the crime scene and I sent Rosencrantz and Donatti over there as soon as I heard what happened out here. They’ve got his office locked down and are personally standing guard outside until you get there. There are only two things on Dugan’s desk. One is a copy of Pate’s financials and the other is a copy of a Texas Department of Insurance investigator’s report. They have an open file on him. He started his ministry there five years ago with the proceeds from an insurance claim that paid out over a million bucks when his Houston church turned to a pile of ash one night. He brought the money here and set up shop all over again. He calls it Grace Community Church, and it’s mortgaged to the hilt.
“And the church over in Broad Ripple? The one he just bought? It looks like it’s being held together with baling twine. I think they have a congregation of about thirty people, all dirt poor. The building is about to be condemned by the city, the lot can’t be worth more than about fifty grand and the victim, Franklin Dugan is the one who approved the loan to Pate. He’s also the guy who financed the vast majority of the governor’s campaign when he ran for office. Word on the street is ol’ Sermon Sam is thinking about making a run at the governor’s chair. A quick five million would make a nice campaign starter fund, don’t you think? Maybe Dugan was playing both ends against the middle.”
Then, as if she hadn’t quite made her point, she added, “Politics. It’s good stuff, huh? By the way, Rosencrantz says the bank is calling an emergency board meeting. Should be starting anytime now. You might want to stop by at some point. When you get there, ask for Margery Brennan. She’s Dugan’s secretary, or personal assistant or whatever they’re called these days. Keep me in the loop, will you?”
Virgil walked outside and back down to the street and saw Sandy at the back of an EMS van getti
ng her blood pressure checked. The two news helicopters still circled overhead, their news feeds streaming live video of the scene, though there wasn’t much to be seen from the air. The crime scene technicians had erected two tents with side-flaps, one covering Dugan’s body at the end of his drive, the other over the top of Trooper Burns and his squad car. Virgil estimated a total of about fifty uniformed officers on the scene from all three jurisdictions, City, County, and State. Metro Homicide would be in charge of the scene, and Virgil’s team, while technically over the Metro Homicide Task Force, would do what they did best: work the fringes, the areas outside of normal investigative procedures.
Virgil got to Sandy just as the paramedics were finishing up. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. Jesus, what a mess, huh?”
“That about says it. So, you’ve had a little while to think about it. Give me something I can use.”
The paramedic interrupted. “If it can wait, I’d like to get her downtown. Her blood pressure is off the charts. I mean way up, and so is her pulse. You said you bumped your head, Miss?”
Sandy shot the medic a look. “It’s Detective. And yes, I bumped my head, but it’s no big deal. I’m fine.”
“Nevertheless, we’ve got to have you looked at. You may be concussed. The docs will know for sure.”
Sandy turned away from the paramedic. “Jonesy, can you do something about this?”
“I sure can. See you at the hospital.”
“Jonesy.”
“No way, Sandy. You’re going. That’s a direct order.”
“Okay, okay. But listen, before I do, you said you wanted something you could use. I think we’ve got two shooters, both with silenced weapons. The shots were muffled, like a quiet backfire from a car engine. Not even that loud really. The loudest thing I heard was the ratcheting cycle after the shots. If it wasn’t for that, I might not have even thought they were gun shots.”
