Clear, vivid, dream-like images: Stone emerging from behind the fence, firing his weapon in all directions… Scott lying wounded and bleeding on the ground… chasing Stone across the street… seeing Eric flying past, hate etched on his face… Stone’s head exploding.
By five-fifteen, with hope for meaningful sleep now out of the question, Dantzler dragged himself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water felt like sharp needles being driven into his body, but the shower, more necessary than refreshing, served a dual purpose-it woke him up, and it melted away the previous night’s dreamy images. After dressing, he downed a bialy and a glass of orange juice, jumped in his car, and went to the office.
Bleary-eyed but wired, Dantzler was his desk by six-thirty, sitting alone, methodically working his way through a stack of long-neglected messages. The Homicide section was quiet, exactly how he wanted it. He felt miserable, as though he was in the midst of a supernova hangover. His head screamed, his eyes burned, and neither showed signs of letting up anytime soon. Worse still, his stomach felt like Mount Vesuvius, ready to erupt at any moment. Clearly, his medicinal holy trinity of Tylenol, Visine, and Pepto-Bismol were not worthy opponents against what ailed him this morning.
His first order of business was to call the hospital and check on Scott’s condition. The ICU charge nurse informed him that Scott was still heavily sedated, but his vital signs were good, he had no fever, and he seemed to be resting comfortably. Barring unforeseen complications, she concluded, Scott would likely be moved out of ICU within the next twelve hours. Dantzler thanked her and hung up.
From nine to eleven, Dantzler and Eric met with Don Andrews of IAB, Jeff Rosen, the chief of police, and Captain Bird, carefully reviewing the previous day’s events, getting it all on the official record in case questions arose. There shouldn’t be any questions, but… a black man had shot and killed a white man, and regardless of the circumstances or the victim’s shady background, anytime race is a factor, the potential for trouble hovered like some unforeseen powder keg set to explode at a moment’s notice.
Because of the potential for trouble, the narrative had to be nailed down, it had to be accurate, and it had to be above board in every way. To ensure that it was, the interview was recorded on video. By capturing it on tape, along with the date and time, no one could be accused of doctoring or altering the testimony.
By a stroke of pure luck, the testimony given by Dantzler and Eric-and later by Milt-had eyewitness corroboration. Neighbors Manny Sanchez and Byron Stoddard happened to be standing on Stoddard’s back porch when Stone began firing at Eric and Scott. They saw it all unfold, Scott going down after being hit, Stone racing across the street like a wild madman, Dantzler giving chase, Eric ending it all with a single shot to Stone’s head.
The Sanchez/Stoddard testimony wasn’t necessary, but it certainly couldn’t hurt. In today’s world, where race always seems to work its way into every equation, anything that could blunt potential trouble between blacks and whites was more than welcomed.
By noon, Dantzler was starving. He collared Eric and offered to buy his lunch. Eric quickly agreed. Until Eric was officially cleared by IAB, he was saddled with desk duty, which translated into answering phone calls, taking and delivering messages, and generally catching a lot of grief from his fellow detectives, who quickly christened him “Mr. Secretary.” The good-natured ribbing did little to placate Eric’s grumpiness. Like Dantzler, Eric was a man of action, greatly preferring leg work-real detective challenges-to sitting behind a desk shuffling papers. He would remain grumpy until he was allowed to get back in the field.
When they returned to the office, Dantzler went by his desk, grabbed a handful of folders, and went into the War Room. He hadn’t been in there more than ten minutes when Milt burst through the door holding a single file over his head and smiling like a young kid who had just been told he could have the biggest ice cream cone.
“Jack, you aren’t gonna believe what I’m about to lay on you,” Milt said, beaming. “First, though, you need to sit down. If you’re standing when you hear what I’ve got to say, you’ll fall down and bust your keester.”
“Okay, Milt,” Dantzler said, pulling back a chair and sitting. “What do you have that’s so earthshaking?”
“You won’t believe this, Jack.”
“Spill it, Milt, before I choke it out of you.”
“The late, departed Kevin Stone, a.k.a. Rocky, was Eli Whitehouse’s nephew.” Milt tossed the file onto the table. “His mother, Grace, was Eli’s older sister. She died of a massive stroke when Rocky was seven. Rocky was raised by his father, Vince. He was a plumber, owned his own business. No paper on him whatsoever. Unlike his wayward son, Vince was a law-abiding citizen. Paid his taxes, went to church, kept his nose clean. He died of a heart attack in ’ninety-four.”
This was big news, and Dantzler remained silent as he let it sink in. But big news didn’t necessarily translate into important news. It might mean an end to the case, or it might mean nothing at all. He let it roll around in his head for several minutes, hoping a clear meaning might emerge. It didn’t. Instead, he was bombarded with more questions.
“Well, what do think, Ace?” Milt finally asked.
“Interesting.”
“Interesting? That’s the best you can come up with?” Milt picked up the folder and pointed to it. “This is way more than interesting. This settles it, Jack. Rocky Stone killed those two kids in ’eighty-two, he killed Colt Rogers, and he killed Devon Fraley. Case closed.”
Dantzler remained silent.
Milt continued, “Rocky not only knew Eli, he was related to him, which means he had access to Eli’s house, to the safe, the gun. He-”
“You don’t know if he ever set foot in Eli’s house.”
“He was family, Jack. Eli’s nephew. I think we can safely assume he visited the Whitehouse residence.”
“I prefer facts to assumptions.”
“It plays, Jack. Rocky kills those two kids, leaves the gun at the scene, knowing Eli will take the fall, which is exactly what happened. Flash forward to a couple of weeks ago. Rocky gets pissed at Rogers, takes him out. Devon Fraley must have known or heard something, knew Rocky was coming to see Rogers, so she had to be silenced as well. It all falls into place. He’s the thread running through this entire scenario, from then to now.”
“Sorry, Milt, but I’m not buying any of it.”
“Why not?”
“To begin with, you’re crediting Rocky Stone with a lot more IQ points than I’m willing to give him. I don’t think he possessed the gray matter necessary to do all the things you say he did.”
“You don’t have to be smart to pull a trigger.”
“True. But it does require a certain level of intelligence to do the other things you say Rocky did. Get into the safe, secure the gun, make sure Eli’s prints were on it, find the two victims, lure them to the barn, tie them up, kill them, set the barn on fire, and get away without being seen. Then he has to do something equally challenging. He has to keep it quiet for twenty-nine years. And what about the thirteen hundred dollars Greg Spurlock took off the two bodies? Can you see Rocky Stone, a washed-out pug and ex-con, leaving a wad of cash lying around? I can’t. Why would he set up Eli, a relative? And can you see Eli spending three decades years behind bars for a loser like Rocky Stone? No way. Not even if Stone was kin.”
Dantzler shook his head. “And that’s only for openers, Milt. I can point out another dozen reasons why I’ll never be convinced Rocky Stone killed those four people.”
“If Stone was innocent, why did he run?” Milt said. “Why did he open fire?”