The Dead Detective (27 page)

Vicky marveled at the fact that the man’s voice never rose in anger, that his breathing never increased, his face never flushed. Throughout it all he seemed calm and controlled.

“You told my partner, Detective Doyle, that you wanted to hurt her that one time in court when she smiled at your family. Do you remember saying that?”

Hall folded his arms across his chest, creating a barrier between them. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “It was after she’d been given that slap-on-the-wrist sentence and she just walks by us and looks down at us sitting there, and she just smiles like she’s looking at a collection of fools. And yes, right then and there I wanted to put my hands around her throat and choke her until her eyes popped out of her head. But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything then, and I didn’t do anything later. She hurt my son and she got away with it, and I didn’t do anything to make her pay for what she’d done.”

Vicky stared across at him. “Somebody made her pay big time, Mr. Hall.”

He nodded slowly, almost absently. “Yeah, but not me. I gave her a pass. Somebody hurts your kid you’re supposed to make them pay. But I didn’t do that. And my wife didn’t either. She didn’t even want the courts to go after that damn woman. The only people who wanted that woman to pay for her crimes were that fat minister whose church we went to, and some of the people who worked for him, and a whole bunch of people in the congregation. They all wanted her hung out to dry. And they put a lot of pressure on us. But my wife and son didn’t want that. They just wanted it over with. So we stopped going to the damn church.” He offered up a bitter smile, almost in resignation. “Now how’s that? What that damn woman did even took my family’s church away from us.”

Vicky let a few moments pass, again taking time to study the man. The church had clearly been more important to Joe Hall than he was willing to admit.

“How active were you in the church?”

“Not very. A few years back I coached the Little League team the church sponsored. My son played on it, so when they asked me to help I said I would. I ended up being the coach.” He shrugged. “You know how those things go.”

“We were told you were a youth minister.”

“Who told you that?”

Vicky hesitated, not sure how forthcoming she wanted to be. “It was someone who works for the church.”

“Everybody who helps with the kids on a steady basis gets referred to as that. They’re very big on handing out religious titles. It sort of keeps the kids in line. But, believe me, they’re more honorary than anything else. All I did was coach baseball.”

“Do you own a hunting knife, Mr. Hall?” Vicky dropped the question out of the blue and then waited for the tell.

Hall’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t kill that woman, detective.”

“Do you own a hunting knife?” Vicky repeated.

“Yeah, I own a hunting knife. It used to be my father’s. I don’t hunt, but I kept it for sentimental reasons and to use when I go fishing.”

“Would you allow me to take it in for analysis?”

She could see anger coming to Hall’s eyes for the first time. On a man his size it was an awesome sight.

“What’s going on?”

Vicky turned to the sound of Betty Hall’s voice. She had come into the lanai unnoticed and had picked up on her husband’s anger.

“This cop wants my dad’s hunting knife for some kind of half-assed analysis,” Joe Hall answered.

Incredulity filled Betty Hall’s face. “What?” she finally managed. “After all we’ve been through because of that bitch, now you’re coming around suggesting that Joe had something to do with her murder?” She shook her head violently. “Oh no, not on your life. You get the hell out of here, lady. And if any of you cops want to talk to
anybody
in this family again, you better have some kind of court paper that says we have to do it.”

Vicky stared back at the woman, cool and calm. She didn’t want to add to this family’s troubles, but right now she knew she had to play the game out. She turned back to Hall. “Does this mean you won’t surrender the knife for analysis?”

“Get
out
of here!” Betty Hall shouted.

“I think you should go,” Joe Hall said. He no longer looked angry, only resigned.

“I may be back with a warrant,” Vicky said. “If I have to do that, we’ll go down to the office to talk. That won’t look good to the neighbors, Mr. Hall—seeing you loaded into the back of a police car.”

“Get out!” Betty Hall shouted again.

“You do what you have to do,” Joe Hall said.

Rawlings Custom Printers was located in an industrial area of Tarpon Springs inhabited by equally small but clearly prosperous businesses. Ed Rawlings, the owner of the shop, had agreed to open the business when Harry reached him at home. Rawlings was a tall, slender, balding man in his mid-fifties with pale gray eyes and a faint Southern drawl.

“My daddy started this business when I was just a boy,” Rawlings said, as he ushered Harry into the main office. “Back then we mostly printed up business cards and stationery, some wedding invitations, stuff like that. When I took over the business thirty years ago I switched gears a bit. We still do business cards and stationery and all that, but the bulk of our work now is custom printing jobs like the church bulletin you’re looking for, some community theater programs, school programs—graduation programs, PTA bulletins—sports schedules, jobs like that. We employ fifteen people full time and two part-timers, which is up from the five who worked here when I took over.”

Rawlings led Harry behind a customer counter and fired up a computer. Within minutes he had brought up the church account and checked the inventory of finished materials on hand. “As you can see, everything we printed was sent on to the church. You know, it’s funny, but after you telephoned I remembered that I had a call from someone at the church asking about this same bulletin.”

“When was that?” Harry asked.

“Just last week. Pretty insistent too. Asked me to go into the stock room and make sure I didn’t have any overruns on hand. I told him print quantities were tightly controlled, but when we had any overruns we always shipped them to the customer. He still insisted that I physically check, so I did. We didn’t have any.”

“Was this a man or woman who called?”

“It was a man. He identified himself as one of the assistant ministers. Said his name was Stark, Starkey, something like that. I must have gotten it wrong, though, because when I called back the person I spoke to had no idea who I was talking about.”

“Why’d you call back?”

“Well, after I hung up I started thinking that maybe he needed another small run of that bulletin, a hundred or so.” Rawlings gave Harry a decidedly boyish smile. “Can’t afford to lose business. And since I had the printing proofs it would have been easy to set up a small run and accommodate them.”

“You have a proof copy of the bulletin?” Harry asked.

“Of course,” Rawlings said. “We always keep proofs on file for at least a year. That way we have it if a job has to be repeated, or someone wants to see what was done the previous year for a Christmas program, or if there are any complaints about errors or omissions.”

“But you didn’t tell that to the man who called?”

“No. He caught me at a busy moment and I didn’t think of it. Later, I did, and decided to see if there was any additional business available.”

“I’d like to see those proofs,” Harry said.

Vicky and Marty LeBaron faced Harry across the conference table. Vicky had just briefed them both about her interview with Joe Hall.

“I’d like to get my hands on that knife,” Marty LeBaron said. “If it’s old, like he said it is, the blade would have some pretty distinctive markings.”

“We’ll get a warrant if it proves necessary,” Harry said. “But first I want you both to take a look at these printing proofs.” He slid a manila folder across the conference table. “Take a look at page three,” he added as Vicky picked it up.

Her eyes began to scan the page and then suddenly stopped. When she peered up at Harry her face looked stunned. “I don’t believe this,” she said. She handed the folder to Marty LeBaron. “How did we miss this?”

“We had no reason to look for it,” Harry said. “None at all.”

“Well, we do now,” Vicky said.

Marty LeBaron put the folder down. “You think he could be our killer?”

“I do,” Harry said. He looked at Vicky. “I want you to run a complete background check. And I mean complete—all the way back to when our friend here was in diapers.” He turned to Marty. “In the meantime, I’ll get you a warrant to go through our friend’s home, cars, workplace, the whole shot. I want it done before anyone outside of us knows it’s happening.” His jaw line hardened. “This is one suspect who’s not going to get a chance to lawyer up or deep six any evidence.” He paused and looked at each of them in turn. “I want it done before I get back tomorrow afternoon.”

Vicky’s eyebrows shot up. “Get back? Where are you going?”

“I’ll be out of the loop in the morning. I’ve got to go to the Central Florida Women’s Correctional Facility. It’ll probably be mid-afternoon before I get back.” He looked Vicky in the eye; held it. “I have to meet with my mother. It’s something they say I have to do if I want to fight her parole, and there’s no other time.”

“I understand,” she said needlessly. “I’ll handle things while you’re there.” She paused, trying to decide if she should wish him luck. She just nodded instead.

Harry returned her nod. If you understand, you’re one up on me, he thought.

A Clearwater patrol car was parked in front of Harry’s house, and a second four-wheel-drive unit was on the beach with a view of his rear yard. Harry checked in with both before going inside.

Jeanie was sitting on the lanai with Rubio when Harry entered the house. He kissed the top of Jeanie’s head, gave Rubio a shoulder squeeze. “How are you?” he asked Jeanie.

“I’m fine,” Jeanie replied. “Rubio is great company.”

“I think she’s hot for me,” Rubio said.

Harry jabbed a finger at him, then explained that he had some papers to go through to prepare for a meeting he needed to attend the next day.

“Hey, my man, before you go off, I gotta tell you somethin’,” Rubio called out as he started to leave.

Harry glanced back and saw Rubio grinning at him. “What’s that?”

“I jus’ want you to know that you don’t need all them cops outside.

Not when you got Rubio Martí
inside
. And that’s truth, my man.”

Harry glanced at Jeanie and saw her smiling at Rubio’s macho act. He brought his eyes back to the twelve-year-old gangsta. “Yeah, I know that, my man. But my dad, Jocko, he’s an old time copper, and you know how that is. They think there’s never enough backup.” Rubio gave off a little snort and Harry turned away before he could see him smiling. “Give me a half hour,” he said as he walked away.

Returning to the living room, Harry retrieved the box that held his mother’s letters and placed it next to him on the sofa. The letters stood on end, the box serving as a makeshift file cabinet, each letter sorted by the date it had been received. There had never been more than one letter per year, each arriving on the anniversary of his brother’s death. He knew the letter he wanted. It was the eighth one he had received, arriving only a few days after his eighteenth birthday. It was also the only letter he had repeatedly read.

My son,

Your brother, Jimmy, has been with Jesus for eight years now. How I wish you were with him too. Last night Jimmy came to me in a dream and told me how happy he is in heaven, sitting at the foot of our Lord, seeing Him in all His heavenly glory. It was a beautiful dream. In it Jimmy told me that he talks to you and that you hear every word he says. Jesus told him it is a power you have had since you were a small child. The dead speak to all of us, of course, but only a few people have the ability to hear what they are saying. I have this power, and now I know that you do too. I hope you will write to me and tell me what Jimmy has told you. It is important for me to know this. It is my right as a mother to know
.

I also hope you will tell me what other dead people say to you. What the dead say is very, very important. They see things that are hidden from us. The dead see everything because Jesus has opened their eyes to all the things the living cannot see. If only we knew the things the dead know. If we did all the mysteries of life and death would fall away and we would have the knowledge of the angels. That is what I want. I want that heavenly knowledge that will allow me to continue to do the bidding of our Lord. You can help me do this if you tell me what the dead are saying …

Harry saw that his hands were shaking and he put the letter aside without finishing it. His mother’s madness overwhelmed him, but it also struck something deep inside. He wondered if this was where it came from, this sense of hearing the dead speak. Did it come from this insane letter he had received when he was an eighteen-year-old boy? He had always described what happened in his work as nothing more than intuition. But was it more? Was it a piece of a mother’s madness passed on to her son in a prison letter? He doubted he would ever know the answer.

Harry folded the letter and placed it back in the box. All that mattered now was keeping his mother behind bars. He would go and see her tomorrow, and then, on Tuesday, he would take the letters to the hearing and let the parole board members read them. He’d even read the letters to them if he had to. He had made a promise to his brother and he had repeated it each time he visited his grave. And, yes, Jimmy had spoken to him. He had asked him to keep his promise; keep his mother locked away so she could not hurt anyone else.

If she gets out she’ll kill you, Harry. She’ll send you to be with me.

Harry put the box of letters away. He would not need them again until Tuesday. And after that, no matter what happened, he would never need them again.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
WO

T
he heavy barred steel door slid open with a loud rumble
as Harry left the reception area and entered the main body of the prison. He could feel sweat gathering in the palms of his hands and he wiped it away as discreetly as possible on the sides of his lightweight tan sports jacket. A correctional officer walked ahead of him and came to a stop before another solid steel door. The officer glanced back at Harry, pressed a buzzer set into the wall, and then lowered his mouth to an intercom and identified Harry and the name of the prisoner he was there to see. Above them the light on a closed-circuit security camera blinked on so other officers could see who was at the door. Moments later there was a solid click and the correctional officer pushed the door open.

“The prisoner you’re here to see should be brought in within a few minutes,” the officer said. “You can sit anywhere you want. This isn’t a normal visitation time so you have the place to yourself.” He gestured toward a row of cubicles each separated by a thick glass partition, with telephone receivers on both sides of the glass. “They told me you were a cop,” the officer added.

“That’s right,” Harry said.

“Then you know the routine. Just hit the buzzer by the door when you’re finished.”

“This won’t take long,” he said.

Harry’s hands trembled as the door on the other side of the glass opened.

He watched his mother enter the visitor’s room and wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him. What he saw was the same young woman who had stood in their kitchen all those years ago, a broad smile on her beautiful face as she listened to Jimmy do his comic imitation of the small boy who lived next door.

Lucy Santos slid into the chair opposite him, her hands going to the glass partition that separated them, stroking it as if the glass were his face. He stared at the hands. They were old hands, cracked and work worn, not the soft hands of his mother. He looked up at her face and saw lines and creases he had not seen when she entered the room. Then the creases slowly disappeared, the lines smoothed out, and the face was young again. He fought for control and grabbed the handle of the telephone receiver that would allow him to speak to her, jabbing with the index finger of his other hand at the receiver on her side of the glass, indicating that she should pick it up. She obeyed, bringing the phone to her lips.

“Harry, my darling Harry,” she said.

“Be quiet and listen to me,” he snapped.

She jerked her head back and her eyes widened in surprise. “Harry—”

“Just listen. Don’t speak.” He glared at her with unforgiving eyes. He saw her lips begin to tremble but felt nothing. Her face was soft and young and beautiful again and he fought the image off. “When I was eighteen you sent me a letter and asked me if the dead spoke to me, if Jimmy spoke to me. I never answered your letter, never answered that question because I didn’t want to; didn’t want any contact with you at all.” Harry leaned forward still glaring into the young/old woman’s face. “Now I want to answer you. Now I want you to know what Jimmy has told me, year after year after year; I want to tell you what other dead people have told me.”

“Oh, thank you, Harry. Thank you, thank you. You give me a beautiful gift. You give me the knowledge of the angels. Tell me, tell me what Jimmy says? Tell me, my son, what your brother says to you.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “He says that Jesus is waiting for you …”

“Oh, yes, yes …”

“He says that Jesus has told him that when you get to heaven you will see Him in all His glory …”

“Oh, yes, thank God, in all his glory …”

“And when you see Him you will also see all that awaits the pure of heart; all the beauty that will be theirs for life everlasting. You will see everything that Jimmy has now. And Jimmy says that after you have seen it, after you see all the beauty and the glory that awaits those who have pleased the Lord, Jesus will raise his hand …”

“Oh, yes, yes …”

“ … and He will cast you straight into hell.”

Lucy Santos’s back stiffened and the telephone receiver fell from her hand. Her eyes were wide and terrified and her face was lined with sharp fissures and sagging flesh. She was an old woman now.

Harry got up and walked to the door, pressed the buzzer, and waited for it to open. He did not look back.