CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
Warden Thad Curtis entered his office like an angry water buffalo, moving with great haste and determination from door to desk. Once he’d reached his destination, he removed his coat, loosened his tie, and dropped like a fallen boulder into the soft leather chair. From door to chair took less than five seconds. Not bad for a man whose weight hugged three hundred pounds.
Curtis coughed, shuffled mindlessly through a handful of papers and looked up, a no-nonsense expression on his freckled, moon-like face.
“Thank you for being so prompt, Detective Dantzler,” Curtis said, taking off his glasses. “I appreciate those who are on time. I have little or no patience for the tardy.”
“No problem.”
Curtis leaned back in his chair. “You don’t remember me, do you, Detective?”
Dantzler shook his head. “No. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“We squared off against each other in the second round of the state tennis tournament,” Curtis continued. “I was seventeen or eighteen, and you were maybe thirteen or fourteen. I took one look at you and figured if I couldn’t whip a scrawny kid like that, I had no business on a tennis court. You beat me six-love, six-love. Guess you could say I overestimated my ability somewhat.”
“I got lucky.”
“You won the damn tournament, Detective. You weren’t lucky, you were good. Plenty good. Way out of my league.”
Dantzler nodded but didn’t respond to the compliment. He was in no mood to ransack his mental archives for the purpose of discussing a thirty-five-year-old tennis match, especially one against a player he crushed. Anyway, what could he say? The double-bagel said it all.
“Any idea why Eli Whitehouse wants to see me?” Dantzler asked, shifting the subject to why he was at the prison in the first place.
“I was about to ask you that very same question, Detective.”
“I’m as baffled as you are.”
Curtis opened a brown file folder that looked to be five inches thick. “What do you know about John Elijah Whitehouse? Or, as he’s more commonly referred to around here-the Reverend?”
“Probably a lot less than what everybody else knows. I did some research last night, went through his file, the murder book and the trial documents, so I’m familiar with the basics. Beyond that, I don’t really know much.”
“Were you on the force when it all went down?”
“No. I was still in college.”
“Strange, him asking specifically for you,” Curtis said. “I mean nothing personal by saying that. But it is intriguing, wouldn’t you agree? You’re a homicide detective, yet you had nothing to do with his case. I would have expected him to ask for a detective familiar with his situation, if any are still around.”
“Does he have many visitors?”
Curtis shook his head. “Not so many, anymore. Early on he did. You know, church members would visit on a regular basis. But… over the years, the number has dwindled. I suppose members of his flock either died off or found a different shepherd. Either way they stopped showing up. These days you can count his visitors on one hand. Close family members, mostly.”
“According to the file, he has two sons and a daughter.”
“That’s correct. The boys never visit, but the daughter sees him regularly. She seems to be closest to him.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“A couple of others come by fairly often. His attorney and a former business associate.” Curtis put his glasses on and searched the folder. “Yeah, here they are. Colt Rogers and Johnny Richards. Rogers is the lawyer.”
“I’m familiar with him.”
“Don’t know Johnny Richards?” Curtis said, taking off the glasses.
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Probably shouldn’t. He’s not from around these parts. Judging by his accent, I’d venture a guess that he’s the New York or New Jersey type.”
“Whitehouse isn’t from Jersey or New York, is he?”
“Nope. The Reverend is an Eastern Kentucky boy all the way. Harlan County, which is deep in Appalachia. He told me once his roots go back seven generations in those mountains. That translates to a multitude of snake-handling relatives.” Curtis closed the folder and leaned forward, both elbows on the desk. “He’s dying, the Reverend. Has the Big C, both lungs, inoperable. Three to six months is what they’re giving him, but I say that’s highly optimistic. I’ll be surprised if he lasts to the end of this month.”
“What kind of prisoner has he been?”
“Model. Of course, he had some age on him when he got here, and older guys tend to cause less trouble. It’s the young ones that give us problems. Punks, assholes, scumbags. Half of ’em pumped on steroids, half just plain mean and crazy. Still… I’ve known some old-timers who delighted in causing us grief. The Reverend wasn’t one of them, though. He’s been easy to handle.”
Dantzler closed his eyes and let his mind sift through last night’s research, hoping to find some bit of logic, some reason why Eli Whitehouse would request a meeting. From his brief study, Dantzler learned that Whitehouse was accused of murdering two young men in what, the detectives concluded, was a drug deal gone sour. Cocaine, heroin, and an assortment of pills were found at the crime scene, an old barn located on property owned by Eli. He also knew Charlie Bolton was the lead detective on the case, and that it was one of Dan Matthews’s first Homicide assignments.
Whitehouse was brought in for questioning the day after the bodies were discovered. Less than twenty-four hours later he was arrested and officially charged with the crime. The trial only lasted two days. A guilty verdict was handed down after the jury deliberated for less than an hour. John Elijah Whitehouse, the Reverend, was sentenced to life in prison with no possibility of parole.
Dantzler remembered one more tidbit of information gleaned during his research: the Reverend said very little in his own defense.
“If you’re ready, Detective Dantzler, then we should go,” Curtis said, rising from his chair. “I scheduled the meeting for three and I don’t want to be late. I have no patience for those who cannot be on time.”
“Yeah, I think you said that, already.” Dantzler stood. “Where are we meeting?”
“The gym.”
“Will Colt Rogers be there?”
“No. The Reverend insisted that no one other than the two of you should be present. He also insisted on no recording devices, either ours or yours. If you have one, you’d better hand it over.”
“I don’t.”
“He also insisted that I allow as much time as necessary.”
“He does a lot of insisting for a convict. I’m surprised you cave to his demands.”
“Hell, he’s a dying man,” Curtis said, gruffly. “Might as well let him have a few small victories before his time is up. Contrary to popular opinion, even a prison warden can show compassion.”
CHAPTER TWO
Dantzler was escorted out of the Administration Building by Warden Curtis and a beefed-up guard who looked like he could handle the toughest NFL linebacker on any given Sunday. Handle with ease. The man was a mountain, easily six-seven, his muscled upper torso and arms pushing against a brown shirt that looked like it had been painted on. Dantzler doubted many inmates would want any part of this behemoth. He certainly wouldn’t.
They walked down three flights of stairs, across an open courtyard, toward a large Quonset hut Dantzler guessed to be the gym. No one spoke during the trip. The warden, despite his weight, moved with an ease and grace that belied his size. He hardly broke a sweat, and his breathing was steady and even. Clearly, Dantzler decided, the man was in good shape for someone carrying so much weight.
The guard, Leroy Henderson, began searching his key ring while the men were still several yards from the gym. After shuffling through what had to be fifty keys of various shapes and sizes, he found the one he was looking for. When the trio reached the back door, Henderson inserted the key, turned the lock, and pushed the door open.