TWENTY-FIVE
O’Brien met Detective Dan Grant at the emergency room entrance to Baptist Hospital. As they entered, O’Brien said, “Maybe we can find some coffee here. Dan, try to remember everything Spelling told you before he died. Father Callahan told me what Spelling had revealed to him-except for the identity of the shooter. Maybe there’s something, probably small, Spelling mentioned that might fit the puzzle.”
Detective Grant glanced to his left and right in the ER before responding. “Look, Sean, as I was leaving the church, Henderson and Valdez questioned me about you.”
“Questioned?”
“You know, how’d you get involved? Stuff like, if you’re a retired cop, then why don’t you retire. More territorial than anything else, but you’re not even carrying a PI license. You might think about that if-”
“I’m not going to put a condemned man’s life on hold while I run out and get a license. I didn’t choose this. Father Callahan called me after he heard what Spelling told him. It was a deathbed confession. Callahan wanted it in writing because he knew Spelling might not make it. He called me because I was a friend, and he knew I was the cop who caught and convicted Charlie Williams.”
“Look man, I’m on your side. I’m damn glad you’re on our side. Henderson and Valdez don’t know you. They know of you, but that’s it. Maybe when they saw you walk though that media herd and all the media tossing questions at you, the reporters remembering you from the Santana case, maybe it’s a pissing contest for them.”
“I just lost a dear friend. We have an odd set of new clues and eighty-three hours left to catch a killer. As you saw, this guy’s the worst of the worst. And he’s smart.”
“You’re no dummy, either. How’d you miss him the first time around? How’d Charlie Williams take the fall?”
“I missed him because the perp wanted me to and I didn’t recognize it. He set a trap, a path to Williams. I had an agenda. Wanted notches on my gun, I had a heavy caseload, and I didn’t look beyond Williams once we found the vic’s blood in his car. His semen was in her. Fingernail cut on his face. My gut told me it was too easy and that bothered me. But there were two other murders that came in the week I was working the Alexandria Cole case-one case that really pulled at me. It was a serial pedophile and the average age of his vics was nine. We were short staffed, and I guess I made excuses.” O’Brien felt fatigue growing behind his eyes.
“Man, it’s a lot easier to go back and say the ‘what if’s’ after time’s passed. So Williams, the guy on death row was set up. But why, after a decade, is the real killer comin out? I mean, Spelling’s confidential confession to a priest…how’d the perp know about that? How’d he slip in here and whack Spelling, if he did do it?”
“Because there’s a connection here…somewhere.”
“I’m gonna need more than that, Sean. So will you if you have any hope of getting the DA to reopen this thing. People forget. Witnesses die.”
“Sam Spelling never forgot.”
“And he’s dead.”
O’Brien inhaled deeply. “Look what’s gone down the last couple of days. Someone took a shot at Spelling. Why? My guess is Spelling somehow reconnected with the killer, probably related to money. Father Callahan said Spelling told him he blackmailed the real killer eleven years ago to keep the killer’s ID secret. Maybe Spelling had tried doing it again, this time from his cell.”
“If Spelling were getting out of prison soon, he’d need the money immediately. Then it would make perfect sense. I’ll check to see if he had a release date coming up.”
“It’s all about timing because the perp somehow knew Spelling was supposed to act as state’s witness in a cocaine and bank robbery trial. So, the killer resurfaces and uses the opportunity to hit Spelling. He would think, and so would everyone else, that the hit came from someone connected to the drug trial-an ordered hit, mob style.”
“And, all the while, the guy who killed your vic a decade ago was taking Spelling out for something no one knew about-”
“Except Spelling.”
“And Father Callahan. He’s there by default and his good graces.”
“Father Callahan told me something else.” O’Brien paused. “He said there was a guard, a guy from D.O. C, who was trying to eavesdrop on Spelling’s confession. Apparently the same guy was posted outside Spelling’s room for the first few hours.”
“Yeah, I saw him. Seemed preoccupied. Like he was in a hurry to clock out. At the end of his shift, we put a deputy on Spelling’s door.”
“We need to find that guard immediately.”
TWENTY-SIX
“Doctor Silverstein, phone call, Doctor Silverstein,” came the announcement of the hospital’s PA system.
Detective Gant looked at O’Brien and asked, “Why do we need to find the corrections guard immediately?”
“Because the guard was eavesdropping when Spelling was confiding-confessing to Father Callahan. If this guard heard enough, meaning enough information to link back to the person who killed Alexandria Cole-maybe he spoke with Spelling when he was partially sedated, somehow managed to get even more information from him. I don’t know, but I’m thinking that now he might have the identity of the man who killed Spelling and Father Callahan.”
“Maybe the guard is somehow tied in with the perp. He could have knocked off Spelling and killed the priest.”
O’Brien shook his head. “I don’t think so. But it’s plausible that if he somehow discovered the perp’s real identity…just maybe he could have contacted him.”
“But why would a department of corrections guard do that?” Dan asked
“The same reason that Sam Spelling did…greed.” O’Brien pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes burned. “Let’s walk and talk as we head to Spelling’s room.”
Anita Johnson didn’t feel the hand touch her shoulder. She lay on the couch with a knitted blanket pulled up over her shoulders, the bluish light from the television flickering across the room. An open bottle of sleeping pills was on the coffee table. A few pills were scattered across the glass top. One of the pills had turned into a milky liquid and lay dissolved in the condensation left from a sixteen-ounce can of Budweiser.
The hand touched her shoulder again, this time more forceful.
“Mommy, I’m scared,” said the three-year-old boy. He stood at his mother’s side and tried to keep from crying. Summer storms were rolling in again, the approaching thunder sounding like bombs in the distance, growing louder.
“Mommy, wake up.”
Anita slowly opened her eyes and tried to focus on her son. “Hey, baby…what you doin’ up, huh? You supposed to be sleepin’.”
“Thunder scares me.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Crawl under the blanket with me.”
“Where’s Daddy?”
Anita felt her heart jump. She tried to focus on the digital numbers glowing from the DVD player. She closed one eye. 1:37 a.m. “Oh, God.”
“I’m sleepy, Mommy.”
“I know, Ronnie. Let Mommy stand up and check on something, okay? You sit here and keep our spot on the sofa warm, okay, baby?”
The boy nodded and climbed on the couch.
Anita got up, steadied herself against a wall, and walked into the kitchen. She slowly pulled back the curtains and looked out onto the dirt driveway.
Lyle Johnson’s truck was not there.
Anita touched her fingers to her throat. She felt sick. Darkness and nausea rose around her in a flash flood of emotions. Her eyes welled with water, tears streaming down her cheeks like trapped water through a cracked dam.
He’s not comin’ back. He’s never comin’ back.
She could hear the sounds of frogs calling as the rain grew closer. She flipped on the porch light and looked through the parted curtains again. Only her seven-year-old Toyota was in the driveway.