Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) (20 page)

I 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 and looked at me. “A request was put in for information earlier today regarding Murton Wheeler. It had Donatti’s name attached. Wheeler is part of an on-going federal investigation. We’d like to know why.”

“You’re federal agents and you’re asking us why Wheeler is part of an on-going 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?” I 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 I 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 at 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 which 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,” I said, and turned to walk away.

“We’re not done here, Detective,” Agent Gibson said.

“Yes we are,” I said without turning around. But after a few steps I stopped and this time I did turn around. “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 he had already lost interest in anything else I had to say, his back toward me as he climbed into his car. I don’t know if he heard me or not.

* * *

When I got back inside, Rosencrantz and the bomb tech were looking at the x-ray picture 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 Rosencrantz or myself said anything, the tech shrugged his shoulders, turned the key and opened the door. Inside the box were two letter sized envelopes, one with my name hand written on the front. The tech picked up the envelope, ran the scanner over it, rolled his eyes before handing it to me, then said, “You got a case number for my report?”

“I’ll send one over when I get back to the office,” I said.

“Good enough then. Tell that Jamaican who cooks for you I like my sauce extra hot, will you? Man, that’s some good shit. I’ll be in tonight for supper.”

After the bomb tech walked out I asked Rosencrantz why he was so hard on the FBI agent. “Aw, those guys just 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, you know? Those kind of 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,” I said.

I saw the corner of his mouth turn upwards, then he said, “You going to open that?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said.

* * *

Murton Wheeler and I had grown up together playing in backyards and ball fields in a time and place when parents still let children walk to school by themselves and most people didn’t bother to lock their doors at night. It was a time when you looked back at the past and used it as a guide to a better and brighter future because of the people in your life and the good and decent things they accomplished, not just for themselves, but for one another. But we are, I sometimes think, of a generation whose goals and accomplishments seem to take precedent over our moral obligations to those in need or sometimes even the ones we love.

So as young men, still not old enough to drink an alcoholic beverage, when our country called on us to serve we did so without hesitation or question because it was what our fathers and their fathers before them did, all in the ultimate quest for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Except along the way, when you’re humping an eighty pound pack across the desert sand in one-hundred-twenty degree heat you might begin to question the history and reason of war, and maybe, if you are lucky enough to make it back home you might decide that it was all for a cause greater than you are capable of understanding. Then one day the sins of the fathers are passed on to their sons and middle eastern men with nothing more than box cutters fly airliners into buildings and no one’s life is ever the same again, and like it or not, if you want to sleep at night, you have to admit to yourself that in some way large or small, you are a participant in a game that never ends, the rules ever changing.

I opened the first envelope and saw that it contained a copy of a birth certificate for a female named Sidney Wells, Jr., born in May of 1987. I 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 of the name Sidney for their daughter. The mother’s name was listed as Sara Wells. The line for the father’s name was blank. I had no idea what any of it meant. I put the birth certificate aside and opened the other envelope.

What I saw made me squint and blink back the sting from my eyes. It was as if I still stood in the heat of the desert over twenty years ago as an arid wind filled the corners of my eyes with grains of sand from a place I can not seem to cleanse from my soul.

* * *

The envelope contained two items. One was a picture of my mother as she lay in her hospital bed. She was propped up by pillows and blankets arranged just so to hold her upright, her lack of strength and fatigue evident in the photograph, 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 as she lay on her deathbed. What gave me pause, though, and caused my hand to tremble beyond my control was the man who sat on the edge of the bed next to her, one arm around her shoulders, the other holding her hand in his. The man next to my mother was Murton Wheeler.

Somewhere in the depths of my consciousness I heard Rosencrantz say my name. When I turned to look at him I saw his lips move, but the sounds I heard were muted, like he was talking to me under water. My throat was dry and when I tried to swallow it felt like I no longer knew how. “It’s personal, Rosie,” I managed to say. “Would you excuse me, please?” I looked at the photograph again, and I didn’t hear his response, but in the periphery of my vision I saw him leave the room and pull the door shut behind him.

I sat down at one of the small cubicles and lay the photograph on the table before me. I can not say for certain how long I stared at it, but eventually I unfolded the pages that were in the envelope as well and began to read. The letter was from my mother, in her own hand, and it was addressed to me, dated 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 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 I worked behind the bar with Delroy, but the truth was, the events of the last two days had left me in a fog and I was mostly in the way. Jamaican people on the whole are some of the most patient, kind and forgiving individuals I have ever met, but everyone has their limits. Finally, after I had made a half dozen drinks in a row the wrong way, or more specifically, when he could take no more, Delroy pulled me aside and asked what was wrong. I told him about my case, from when I first heard of Franklin Dugan’s murder, to speaking briefly with an old high school flame and her peculiar and mercurial husband, my encounter with Sandy, seeing Murton, and most of all, the letter and photograph that allowed my mother to speak to me from the grave as if the elements of time, space, and mortality held no sway in her existence even though she had passed over a year ago.

“Let me see dat picture, you,” he said. When I handed him the picture he 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, she did. I never forget it. I never had a picture of my mother, no. No letter, either. But I’ll tell you this, if I did, I do what it say to do, mon.” Then he did something that surprised me. He handed me the picture then put both his hands on my face and kissed me on the cheek. “Your mother, she don’t live here,” he said as he tapped his finger at the side of my head. “She don’t live in no picture, either.” Then he placed his palm flat upon my chest over my beating heart and said, “She live in here, just like your grandfather do. Go home now. There’s nothing here for you. Not tonight, no.”

How did you ever become so wise, Delroy?

Bottom line? If you find yourself in need, seek out the advice of a Jamaican bartender.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The next morning on my way to work, with little forethought, I turned into the entrance of the cemetery where my mother is buried and wound my way around the perimeter road and parked my truck on the service pathway next to her burial plot. A black Crown Victoria sat on the road a few yards ahead of me, its parking lights on, its engine idling. I got out of my truck and walked with my head down until I was almost abreast of my mom’s gravesite. What I saw when I got there stopped me in my tracks.

Murton Wheeler stood by the grave, a single flower clutched in his right hand. I walked up behind him, but before I could speak he placed the flower on top of her tombstone, his back still toward me and said, “I always loved your mom, Jonesy. You know that, don’t you? She was the mom I never had. Remember how she cried when we got back from sand land? She hugged me like I was her own then kissed me on both cheeks and once on the lips, just like she did with you.”