Justice for Hire (8 page)

“Any ID on the shooter yet?” Jake asked.

“Nothing,” Hank said. “They ran his prints, but nothing showed up. Whoever it is, he doesn’t have a record of any kind. Which means we wouldn’t have any DNA records on him in the database either, nor would he be in the mug books.”

“What about the weapon?”

“A 9 mm Glock. Unregistered,” Hank replied as he took the last gulp of his coffee and set the cup thoughtfully on the table. “Hopefully, once forensics is done, and we get the M.E.’s report, we’ll know a little bit more about what happened. Or, at least confirm what we already suspect took place.”

“What about Sullivan’s friends or family? Any info on that?” Jake asked.

“Apparently, Sullivan lived with his aunt,” Hank replied, as he consulted his notepad. “A Mrs. Bessie Mitchell. She took him in after his parents were killed in a car crash when he was fifteen. She’s a widow, and other than her nephew, she lives alone.”

“Has she been notified yet?” Annie asked.

Hank sighed. “Not yet. We just got that information now. That’s my next task.”

Annie heard the tension in Hank’s voice. She knew notifying the next of kin was one of the requirements of his job he disliked the most. The emotional strain of breaking the news of a loved one’s death always affected him deeply, and unfortunately there was no easy way to do it. And you never get used to it.

“I have to head over there now,” Hank said, and sighed again.

Chapter 14

Tuesday, August 23rd, 11:45 AM

HANK WAS FAMILIAR with the area where Bessie Mitchell lived, and as he wheeled his Chevy onto Cedarwood Drive, Annie sat in the passenger’s seat, watching the house numbers. They were looking for 95.

Annie pointed toward a small bungalow nestled behind a wide bed of blooming summer plants. A freshly cut lawn was split in half by a stone walkway leading up to the single front door.

“There it is,” she said.

Hank pulled to the curb and shut down the engine. He turned to Annie. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’ve never been good at this.” He’d asked her along because he was awkward when it came to breaking the bad news of a loved one’s death, especially to women. It wasn’t actually in the telling, but it was in what to do or say next that was the most difficult for him.

Hank continued, “I know it’s not proper police procedure, but . . .” He shrugged.

Annie nodded. “I’m happy to help out.”

They stepped from the vehicle, and Hank led the way up the pathway to the front door and rang the bell. It was answered by an attractive woman, probably in her early fifties.

“Mrs. Bessie Mitchell?” Hank asked.

She nodded. “Yes.”

Hank held up his badge. “I’m Detective Hank Corning, and this is Annie Lincoln. May we come in for a moment?”

She hesitated briefly, and then stepped back and swung the door open. “Come in.”

They walked inside and Hank turned to Mrs. Mitchell. “It’s about Bobby, your nephew. May we sit down?”

She frowned slightly and waved toward the front room. Hank followed Annie and they took a seat on the couch under a large front window.

Mrs. Mitchell sat in a loveseat across from them and leaned forward. “Is Bobby in some kind of trouble?” she asked.

Hank cleared his throat, glanced at Annie, and then back at Mrs. Mitchell. He leaned forward. “Not exactly, ma’am,” he said, “but I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

Mrs. Mitchell waited.

“I’m sorry I have to tell you, Bobby is dead.”

Mrs. Mitchell caught her breath. She stared in disbelief, her mouth open, her eyes darting back and forth from Annie to Hank. Finally she said, “But Bobby is at work.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s where it happened.”

“What . . . what happened?”

“He has been shot.”

“Shot?”

Hank nodded. “He has been killed.”

Mrs. Mitchell sat quiet and still, in shock as she tried to grasp the news. Then, in a hoarse voice, “Murdered?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But who? Why? What happened?” Her brow wrinkled. “Are you sure it was Bobby?”

Hank nodded slowly. “It’s him, ma’am. We’ll need you to make a formal identification later, but there’s no doubt, it’s him.” He watched Mrs. Mitchell, unsure of what else to say.

Annie stood, stepped around the coffee table, and sat on the edge of the loveseat, facing Mrs. Mitchell. She grabbed a few tissues from a box on a nearby stand and pressed them into Mrs. Mitchell’s hand. Placing her arm around her shoulder, she attempted to comfort the distraught woman.

Mrs. Mitchell dabbed at her eyes with the tissue as her body quaked, her breath coming in short, quick gasps. “Bobby,” she whispered. “My darling Bobby.”

Hank sat fidgeting on the couch and watched as Annie tried to comfort the woman. He dabbed at a couple of tears that had broken free, and then gained control, and was thankful he’d asked Annie to come along. He dug out his notepad and pen, flipped through to a blank sheet, and made a notation at the top of the page.

In a few minutes, Mrs. Mitchell blew her nose, turned to Annie and smiled weakly. “I’ll be ok.” She cleared her throat, attempting to compose herself, and asked, “How did it happen?”

Annie held the woman’s hand and looked into her reddening eyes, her makeup smeared. Annie’s heart broke for this grieving woman who’d obviously loved her nephew as her own son. She spoke softly, “We don’t know the reason yet, or the identity of the shooter. The police are working on it, and they’ll soon find out more.”

Mrs. Mitchell nodded. “Did he suffer?” she asked.

Annie looked at Hank. “It’s not likely, ma’am,” he said.

“And you don’t know why?”

“Not yet,” Hank replied. “We’re hoping you can help with that.” He cleared his throat again. “Do you know if Bobby had any enemies, or anyone who might wish him harm?”

“Mrs. Mitchell shook her head slowly, the distress she felt evident in her eyes. “No. I don’t believe so. Bobby was such a good boy. Well liked by everyone who knew him.” She blotted away another tear that had escaped.

“What did he do in his spare time? Did he have any friends you may not know?”

“He came to church with me every Sunday, and then he would go again in the evening. He was there for Bible study on Wednesday as well. He never missed it.”

“What’s the name of the church?”

“Richmond Baptist.”

“I know the place.” Hank jotted in his notepad, and then asked, “Anything else?”

“He helped out at Samaritan Street Mission once a week, every Tuesday, sorting food and serving meals.” She thought a moment before saying, “Other than that, Bobby worked hard and was home every evening. He took care of himself. He didn’t drink, or smoke, and he certainly didn’t do any drugs. He was trying to get his life back on track after . . .” Her voice trailed off, her lower lip quivered and she drew a deep breath.

Hank nodded. “Yes, we realize Bobby had spent some time in prison.”

“He was innocent, you know.” Mrs. Mitchell sighed and dropped her head. “My darling Bobby lost five years of his life in a terrible prison, for something he didn’t do. And now . . .” She sighed again.

Hank knew, technically, Bobby wasn’t innocent, but he was aware of the circumstances of the case, and believed the judge had been harsher than necessary. He was only going by memory, and he made a mental note to look into the case a little further.

Annie moved her arm from around the woman and sat back against the end of the loveseat, still facing her. “Has Bobby lived here since he was released?” she asked.

“Yes, he came to live with me right after his parents, my brother, was killed, and he has been here since he was released from that awful place.”

Hank said, “I was wondering if something happened in prison, ma’am, and somebody was looking for revenge. Did Bobby ever mention anyone from there?”

“No, never. He didn’t like to talk about that. He was always an optimist, and looked forward to the future. He never dwelt on the past.”

Hank looked at his notepad. He would talk to the pastor and anyone who knew Bobby from the mission, but he’d hoped to find some kind of solid lead. He looked up and asked, “Do you mind if I take a look at his room?”

Mrs. Mitchell nodded. “Certainly,” she said, as she stood. Hank followed her to the hallway entrance where she pointed up the stairs leading to the second floor. “It’s up there, first door on the left.”

Hank climbed the steps, pushed the door to Bobby’s room open and stepped inside. He flicked the light on and took a quick glance around the sparse, but immaculate room. A look through a dresser beside the door revealed nothing more than neatly arranged clothing; socks, underwear, and t-shirts.

The closet contained a variety of the usual items you would find in a man’s closet; shirts, jackets and pants, along with a well-tailored suit and a couple of ties.

Hank swung open the double doors of a shelving unit along the far wall. It was lined with long white cardboard boxes. A peek inside revealed they contained complete sets of baseball cards, many dating back to the early ‘80’s. Binders on a shelf below contained plastic sheets containing even more cards. Hank recognized many of the star players sheathed safely in the pages. Mickey Mantle, Reggie Jackson, Hank Aaron, Ted Williams, and many of his own boyhood heroes. It looked like a valuable collection.

On the nightstand beside the bed was a Bible. Hank leafed through it. It looked well-worn and often-read, with several bookmarks and many portions of scripture underlined. In the top drawer of the nightstand he pulled out a stack of photos held by an elastic band. There were pictures of Bobby taken several years ago, posing in his baseball uniform with his team-mates. There were also a couple of pictures of him with a girl, posing and smiling, taken back in happier times.

But there didn’t seem to be anything in the room that could shed any light on the reason for Bobby’s murder.

Hank flicked the light off and left the room, closing the door behind him. He went back downstairs to the front room. Annie and Mrs. Mitchell talked quietly, the heartbroken woman occasionally dabbing at her eyes, crying softly.

Annie looked up as Hank came in and stood by the doorway. “Thanks, Mrs. Mitchell,” he said. “Unfortunately, there doesn’t appear to be anything in Bobby’s room that can help us.”

“I wish I could tell you more,” she said.

Hank dug in his pocket, withdrew a card and held it out. “If you think of anything, you can contact me at this number.” She took the card, glanced at it briefly and tucked it under the edge of a lamp on the stand beside her.

Annie put her hand on Mrs. Mitchell’s arm. “Will you be ok?” she asked.

The woman nodded and forced a smile. “I’ll be ok.”

Annie found a Lincoln Investigations business card in her purse and tucked it under the lamp with Hank’s card. “If you need to talk, or need anything at all, call me,” she said, as she stood.

“I will.”

Mrs. Mitchell saw them to the door. “Do you think you can find out what this is all about?” she asked, as they stepped outside.

Hank turned back to face the devastated woman, “I’ll do everything I can,” he promised. “And I’ll keep in touch, and let you know what I find out.”

“Thank you both.”

The door closed behind them, and Hank and Annie walked quietly to the car and climbed in. Hank flipped open his pad and looked at his notes. “I’ll drop you home, Annie, and then I’ll swing by the church and see what the pastor can tell me. Until we find the identity of the shooter, I don’t have a lot of leads.”

Chapter 15

Tuesday, August 23rd, 12:42 PM

ANNIE HAD JUST called Jake and informed him she was on her way home and would be there in a few minutes. Jake’s stomach was begging for food, so he decided to put together a couple of sandwiches and enjoy a lunchtime snack with Annie when she got home.

He’d just finished piling on the cold roast beef, one sandwich much thicker than the other, digging out a pair of pickles to go with the meal, when the doorbell rang.

He turned and stared briefly down the hallway, and then wiped his hands on a towel and headed for the front door. It popped open before he got to it, and he stopped short when a familiar and unwelcome face appeared.

It was Annie’s mother.

She bustled in, paying little attention to Jake as she strode past him and into the kitchen. Jake shook his head, rolled his eyes and followed her.

She spun around. “I was on my way to work, and I wanted to stop by and see my daughter a moment,” she said, and then called, “Annie, it’s your mother. Where are you?”

Jake crossed his arms and glared at her. “She’s not here right now.” He hoped she would leave quickly if he didn’t tell her Annie would be home soon.

“I saw her car in the driveway.” Her tone seemed to indicate she thought he was lying about Annie’s whereabouts. “Where is she?”

“She had to go out.” Jake wondered how Annie had turned out so well with such an overbearing mother. At nearly sixty years old, Alma Roderick still looked youthful, and if it wasn’t for her sour attitude, could still look attractive, maybe even beautiful, on those rare occasions when she actually smiled.

Instead, she gave him a cold stare. “Shouldn’t you be out looking for a job?”

“I have a job, Alma,” he said calmly, holding back a flood of anger.

“From what I hear, Annie does all the work. It’s not right she should have to support you.”

Jake’s muscles tensed and he raised his voice, “Annie and I are equal partners. We both do what we can and our business is doing fine.”

Alma looked at him with contempt and brushed aside his comment with an arrogant wave. “Business? Is that what you call it? Running around, putting my daughter in danger?”

“She’s an adult now, in case you didn’t notice, and she can make her own decisions.”

“Then, you should both know enough to leave police matters up to the police, instead of meddling in dangerous affairs.” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “You need to be a better influence on my grandson.” She sniffed and looked around the kitchen, as if looking for something else to complain about.