by Thomas Scott
“What’s going on?” Virgil asked.
“Man wants to open his store. We should probably let him. Body’s gone, Crime Scene is done, and the witnesses have all been processed.”
“So why don’t you let him open?”
Donatti popped a stick of gum into his mouth and tossed the wrapper on the ground. “Because he’s been a dick, or at the very least, sort of dickish all day long.”
Virgil picked up the wrapper and rolled it between his fingers. “Besides,” Donatti continued, “that would be what us underlings refer to as an executive decision.”
Sandy walked up. “He’s right, we’re not authorized to make those kinds of decisions.”
Virgil looked at Donatti. “Let him open.”
“You got it, boss.”
To Sandy: “Where’s Rosie?”
“He left a little while ago. He said something about some follow up questions for someone at the bank. Margery, I think he said.”
Virgil shook his head.
Sandy looked at him, her head tilted. “What?”
“Ah, nothing. I’ll tell you later.”
“That seems to be a habit of yours.”
“Listen, I’d like for you to go back to the shop, take everyone’s notes and get them into the computer. The victims, their families, their co-workers, friends, neighbors, witness statements…all of it. This is all connected somehow. You’re the one with the psychology degree. See if you can psychologize some sense out of it all.”
“I don’t think that’s a real word. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
Virgil gave her his best fake smile. “I know. I was trying to be charming.”
“Keep trying. See you tonight?”
He leaned in close, smelled her hair and whispered in her ear. “Count on it. I’ll let you psychologize me.”
“Like we’ve got enough time for that.”
“Hey…”
Virgil had a thought and punched Rosencrantz’s number into his phone. “Still at the bank?”
“Did Small rat me out?”
“No. I’m psychic. Are you still there or not?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“Let me talk to Margery for a minute, will you?”
“She’s in the can, freshening up. We’re uh, going to have a late lunch. Wait a minute, here she comes.”
“Have her pull up the records for their safe deposit boxes. See if one of them belongs to Murton Wheeler.” Rosencrantz repeated the instructions to Margery, and Virgil could hear a keyboard clacking in the background.
A few seconds later: “No Murton Wheeler listed.”
“How about anyone with the last name of Wheeler?”
More clacking. “No Wheeler’s listed at all.”
After thinking for a moment, Virgil said, “Try Samuel Pate.
“Sorry Jonesy. No Pate listed either.”
Virgil was about to hang up when he thought of one more thing. “Ask her if she can identify a safe deposit box by the code stamped on the key.”
“She says the keys are code stamped to match the boxes. If you have a key she can match it to the box, then check the box against the owner to get a name.”
Virgil gave him the code and waited again. When Rosencrantz came back on the line his voice sounded flat, like he was talking on the other side of a glass wall. “What the hell is going on, Jonesy?”
“What do you mean?”
“That key code you gave me belongs to a box currently shown as rented to you. You know those signature cards they make you sign so they know it’s your box? I’m looking at yours as we speak. It sure looks like your signature, man.”
When Virgil arrived at Sunrise Bank, Rosencrantz was waiting for him at the entrance to the executive offices. He stood with his back against a marble-tiled wall, a half-eaten apple in his hand. When he saw Virgil he pulled the signature card out of his breast pocket and handed it to him without saying anything. Virgil studied the card for a moment. “What do you think?”
Rosencrantz took another bite of the apple and thoroughly chewed, then swallowed before he answered. “I think you messed up what promised to be a very interesting lunch.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant.”
“No shit. So let’s go see what’s in the box, Sherlock,” he said.
Virgil felt the focus drain out of his eyes. “As long as we’re on the same page, then.” He took the apple from Rosie and took a bite before he gave it back. “After you.”
They went and found Margery and she took them to an account manager named Beth, a heavy breasted, dark haired woman who reminded Virgil of his first grade teacher. Beth took them downstairs to the safe deposit box area and Virgil had to sign the signature card to demonstrate that the box was his, even though it wasn’t. When she compared the signatures she looked at the card, then back at Virgil. “You say you never rented this box?” she said.
“That’s right.”
“Well, that is weird, isn’t it? I mean, your signature matches perfectly. I’m probably breaking some rule by allowing you access to this box, but you guys are the good guys, right? And with what’s happened to Franklin, I don’t think anyone would object, do you?”
Virgil took the bank’s master key from Beth’s hand and inserted it into the top lock on the box, turned it and heard the tumblers ratchet into place. He then took the key Murton had left at the bar and placed it in the lower lock, but before he turned it, Rosencrantz’s hand clamped around his wrist like a pair of vise grips.
“Tell me again where you got the key,” he said.
“From Murton Wheeler. He’s the one I asked you guys to run the sheet on.”
“Yeah, I just put that together,” he said. “This is the guy that almost got your bacon fried outside Kuwait, right?”
“Something like that,” Virgil said. “He also saved my life. I took some shrapnel. He pumped me full of morphine and blood expander until the medics arrived. I would have bled to death. You can let go of my wrist now.”
“I will, but don’t turn that key.”
“Why not?”
“What was Wheeler’s specialty in your unit?”
“He was a demolitions expert. It was his job to blow the Iraqi ammo dumps,” Virgil said. He felt himself swallow before letting go of the key as carefully as he could.
The three of them stood there and stared at the box in the wall. Beth put a hand to her throat and whispered, “Oh my God.”
Virgil turned and looked at Rosencrantz. “Clear this building and get the bomb squad down here.”
They soon discovered that you do not clear an operating bank during business hours as quickly as you would like, no matter the reason. The bank’s in-house security had to be notified, the main vault locked down, the teller drawers locked, the computers had to be shut down, and all of that took almost thirty minutes. Virgil wondered what they would do if a fire broke out. When he asked the bank’s security chief that very question he looked at Virgil with an expression that seemed to indicate he might not be operating at full speed. “We’d get the hell out,” he said. Virgil stared at him until he shook his head and walked away.
When the bomb squad technicians arrived, Virgil and Rosie showed them the safe deposit box, then walked across the street and waited inside a coffee shop. Virgil bought two large cups of coffee from a purple haired teen-age boy who had enough piercings on his face to set off an airport metal detector. A college textbook entitled Ethical Issues of Molecular Nanotechnology sat on the counter next to the cash register. He saw Virgil looking at the book and said, “Yeah, it’s pretty heavy stuff, man. Did you know that it won’t be long before they’ll have computers so small you’ll need a microscope to see them? They’ll put them inside little capsules you can swallow that’ll cure cancer and all kinds of shit. Isn’t that something? Say, you want cream or sugar for your joe?”
Virgil wasn’t sure which question to answer, so he handed him a ten-dollar bill and told him to keep the change. When he sat down, Rosencrantz sa
id “I almost forgot. Your boy Wheeler? He came up blank.”
“You must have missed something then. He’d be on record with the V.A. Plus, he was busted for assault. He did time in Westville.”
Rosie shook his head. “I think you misunderstood what I said. Everybody’s got something, right? A traffic ticket, a divorce settlement, a beef with the IRS, whatever. I wasn’t saying he comes up with no record. I’m saying he doesn’t come up at all. We checked Federal, State, local, the service, everything. There’s nothing there, Jonesy. He doesn’t exist. Not on paper anyway. You know how hard that is these days?”
“Yeah. It’s impossible.”
An hour later the bomb squad technician walked out the front door of the bank and waved them over, but just as they crossed the street and were about to enter the building a black Crown Victoria slid to a stop behind them, it’s front tire bouncing off the curb. A young man who looked like he had just graduated from college got out of the car and approached the front entrance of the bank. He wore a dark blue suit under a lightweight tan trench coat and his hair looked as if it had been cut just this morning. He walked over to where Virgil and Rosie were standing and identified himself as Agent Gibson with the FBI.
“Is one of you Detective Donatti?” he asked.
Rosencrantz looked at Agent Gibson, then said, “I think what you meant to say was ‘Are one of you Detective Donatti?’ You see, grammatically speaking, when asking—”
Virgil cut him off before he went any further. “I’m Detective Jones with the Indiana State Police. Donatti works for me. How may I help you?”
Agent Gibson peeled his eyes off of Rosencrantz. “A request was put in earlier today for information regarding Murton Wheeler. It had Donatti’s name attached. Wheeler is part of an ongoing federal investigation. We’d like to know why.”
“You’re federal agents and you’re asking us why Wheeler is part of an ongoing federal investigation?” Rosencrantz said.
“No,” Agent Gibson said, a look of exasperation on his face. “We’d like to know why you’re looking for information on Wheeler.”
“That’s not what you said. You said—”
“Rosie, why don’t you wait by the box with the bomb tech?” Virgil said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Sure thing, Jonesy,” he said. But before he walked away he turned and winked at Gibson then gave him a big smile and two thumbs up. “Keep up the great work, dude. I sleep better at night knowing you’re out there doing your job. I really do.”
After Rosencrantz walked away Virgil looked at Agent Gibson and tried a little diplomacy. “I’ll be honest with you, Murton Wheeler was a boyhood friend of mine. We grew up together and even served in the first Gulf war with each other. It has been a number of years since we’ve seen each other until just last night. He walked into a bar I own, gave me a key to a safe deposit box inside this bank then disappeared out the back. In addition, two men I’d never seen before until that very same day were following him. I don’t know what else I can tell you. Why are you looking for him?”
“I didn’t say we were looking for him. I said he’s part of an ongoing investigation.”
“What exactly do you want with him then?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”
So much for diplomacy. “Look, Agent Gibson, I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. The CEO of this financial institution was murdered yesterday, and we’ve had several other shootings that I now believe are somehow connected. Murton Wheeler ties in to it somehow. Anything you can give me would be a big help.”
“Murder is not a federal offense, Detective, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Have a nice day, then,” Virgil said, and turned to walk away.
“We’re not done here, Detective,” Agent Gibson said.
“Yes we are,” Virgil said without turning around. But after a few steps he stopped and turned. “I don’t know what’s going on with Wheeler. We were friends for a long time before he dropped out of my life. But I’ll tell you this, federal agent or not, you better watch your back. Murton is not someone you want for an enemy. I can probably help you, if you’ll let me.” But it’s hard to get over on a federal agent and Gibson had already lost interest in anything else Virgil had to say.
Back inside, Rosencrantz and the bomb tech were looking at X-rays of the inside of the safe deposit box. “It’s either a folded piece of paper, or an envelope or two. Won’t be able to tell until we turn the key.” When neither Virgil nor Rosencrantz said anything, the tech shrugged his shoulders, turned the key and opened the door. Inside the box were two letter-sized envelopes, one with Virgil’s name hand written on the front. The tech picked up the envelope, ran the scanner over it, rolled his eyes before handing it over, and then said, “You got a case number for my report?”
“I’ll send one over when I get back to the office,” Virgil said.
“Good enough. Tell that Jamaican cook of yours I like my sauce extra hot, will you? I’ll be in tonight for supper. Man, that’s good stuff.”
After the bomb tech walked out Virgil asked Rosencrantz why he was so hard on the FBI agent. “Ah, those guys flat piss me off sometimes. They strut around like their shit doesn’t stink and every time you ask them for something they tell you they’re not at liberty to say, but what they’re really saying is we’re just small time. Those guys wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, maybe. I applied twice to be an agent. They turned me down both times. You think it might be my attitude?”
“I don’t see how that could be.”
The first envelope contained a copy of a birth certificate for a female named Sidney Wells, Jr., born in May of 1987. Virgil double-checked the spelling of the first name, then the sex of the child. It was either a mistake or the parents had opted to use the male spelling for the name of their daughter. The mother’s name was listed as Sara Wells. The line for the father’s name was blank. Virgil had no idea what any of it meant. He put the birth certificate aside and opened the other envelope.
What he saw made him squint and blink back the sting in his eyes, as if he still stood in the heat of the desert over twenty years ago, an arid wind filling the corners of his eyes with grains of sand from a place he could not seem to cleanse from his soul.
The envelope contained two items. One was a picture of Virgil’s mother lying in her hospital bed. She was propped up by pillows and blankets that held her upright, her lack of strength and fatigue evident, even though she was smiling. The side effects from the steroids her oncologists had prescribed had taken a toll on her body, her face puffy and swollen, but the light in her eyes remained strong even on her deathbed. What gave Virgil pause though, and caused his hands to tremble was the man who sat next to her on the edge of the bed, one arm around her shoulders, the other holding her hand in his.
Murton Wheeler.
Somewhere in the depths of Virgil’s consciousness he heard Rosencrantz say his name.
“It’s personal, Rosie. Would you excuse me, please?” When Rosencrantz left the room, Virgil sat down at one of the small cubicles and set the photograph on the table. The letter was from his mother, in her own hand, written less than a week before she died. It read,
My dear Virgil,
This is a fine picture of Murton and me, isn’t it? I thought you might like to keep it. When you and Murton became friends it was a friendship that changed our family for the better. After his own mother died, I watched you boys play and grow together over the years and I began to think of you as brothers, and myself as a substitute for the mother he never had the opportunity to fully know or love.
Murton was a fine child and from what I gather, he has turned into a fine man as well. I believe it’s time to let the past go, Virgil. You have chosen to punish Murton for what happened, but I thank him. I thank him for asking you to stop that horrible night in the desert. I thank him for wandering off and getting lost
in the dark. But mostly, I thank him for keeping you alive while your body bled from the inside. It’s time for you to forgive yourself and Murton for what happened over there, and quite frankly, I think you should thank him too. I have.
I hope throughout the years my love for you was as evident as it could be. I hope you’re lucky enough to eventually find someone to share your life with. Don’t be afraid of marriage. There is a woman out there waiting for you and all you have to do is be open enough to recognize it when she finds you. Have children if you can, and someday when they’re grown and gone and you find yourself older and in the twilight of your life, find this letter and read it again. My hope is it will offer you an understanding not previously possible. I consider it an honor to be able to live on through you and I’m proud to say I am your mother. I love you Virgil, my sweet darling boy.
Love,
Mom
P.S. Don’t forget to duck if someone shoots at you. Ha ha.
Later that night Virgil worked behind the bar with Delroy. But the events of the last two days had left him in a fog and he was mostly in the way. Everyone has their limits, even Delroy. Finally, after he'd made half a dozen drinks in a row the wrong way, Delroy pulled him aside and asked him what was wrong. Virgil told him about his case, from the beginning when he’d first learned of Franklin Dugan’s murder, to speaking briefly with an old high school flame and her peculiar and mercurial husband, his encounter with Sandy, seeing Murton, and most of all, the letter and photograph that allowed his mother to speak to him from the grave as if the elements of time, space, and mortality held no sway in her existence even though she had passed a year ago.
“Let me see dat picture, you,” he said. When Virgil handed him the picture, Delroy studied it for a long time before he spoke. “My mother’s name was Hazel,” he said. “She stood ‘bout five feet tall, her, no more of dat, mon. She work her whole life, mostly laundry for the rich people live in the hills high above the road dat look out over the bay water. One day Robert and me went wid her to carry the buckets. We were both only fourteen. When dat truck swerved to miss the goats in the road it headed right toward us. She shoved Robert and me into the ditch but dat truck, mon, it struck her dead. She land right next to us. I never forget it. I never had no picture of my mother. No letter, either. But I’ll tell you this, if I did, I do what it say to do, mon. Your mother, she don’t live here,” he said as he tapped his finger at the side of Virgil’s head. “She don’t live in no picture, either.” Then he placed his palm flat upon Virgil’s chest over his heart and said, “She live in here, just like your grandfather do. Go home now. There’s nothing here for you. Not tonight, no.”
