Nick chewed his food thoughtfully and said, “Spooky stuff. The six-six-six is from the Bible, the sign of the beast. Omega, well, in Greece it’s our last letter-the twenty-fourth letter. But it’s more than a letter. Like Alpha, which represents the beginning, Omega means the end of something. The end of a love. A life. The end of time, whatever. Gone, man. Poof! Maybe that’s why Father Callahan wrote it…the end of his life.”
“But it doesn’t explain the other things he managed to scrawl,” Dave said. “Do we try and read it left to right, like reading a sentence, or are the symbols and letters emblematic of a whole picture that will point you directly to the killer? Sean, can you sketch it out on this paper towel, as close as you can remember, the way Father Callahan wrote the message?”
“I can do one better than that. I used my cell phone to take a picture of what Father Callahan wrote on the sanctuary floor. I can email it to you from right here. On a larger computer screen, it might make it easier to read.”
As O’Brien reached for the phone on his belt, it started ringing.
“Does that always happen when you retrieve your phone?” asked Dave, as he bit into fish, eggs, and cheese, wrapped in warm pita bread.
O’Brien looked at the caller ID. He didn’t recognize the number.
“Sean, this is Dan Grant. The ME confirms what the surveillance camera pointed us toward when we saw the fake priest enter San Spelling’s room. Spelling was asphyxiated. We have a very smart and extremely dangerous killer out there.”
THIRTY-TWO
O’Brien looked over to Dave who raised his eyebrows. Detective Grant continued on the phone, “Normally I wouldn’t think twice about something like this, but under the circumstances-”
“What do you have, Dan?”
“The guard’s name is Lyle Johnson. Tried to reach him at the Department of Corrections. Supervisor said Johnson is on first shift-seven a.m. to three p.m. He didn’t report for work this morning. Super tells me that Johnson is always punctual. But today, no call. No nothing.”
“Did you try to reach Johnson’s home, his wife, maybe?”
“I called her. Didn’t get much.”
“What’d she say?”
“Not a lot. She sounded like she was on some strong medication or coming off a few drinks too many. But she said something odd, too.”
“What?”
“Said she was going to call in a missing person’s report…but she knew the department wouldn’t do anything until her husband had been missing for forty-eight hours. I told her she was correct. Then, out of the blue, she laughed. It was painful laugh, know what I mean? The kind that feels fake and all wrong.”
“I know what you mean.”
“She said she might as well skip the missing persons report and wait for them to find his body because she knew he wasn’t coming back home alive.”
“Did you ask her why?”
“She said it was just a feeling she had.”
“Was the call taped?”
“All our calls are taped. Why?”
“Because she may have incriminated herself in a murder.”
“We don’t have a body. And I doubt that she killed her husband.”
“I do, too,” O’Brien said. “But she’s obviously spoken with him…and he apparently told her something. If he managed to read Spelling’s letter or overhear the confession with Callahan, then he may know the perp’s name. He might have tried to contact him to cut a financial deal like Spelling had.”
“And if he did?”
“Then he might be dead as Spelling. You need to talk to her now. If she thinks she could be tied to her husband’s disappearance, she just might tell us everything he told her. Check phone records, bank accounts. See if Johnson had probable cause to contact the perp, then we’re one step closer to finding this guy.” O’Brien looked at his watch. “We have sixty-nine hours to stop the execution of an innocent man. When I was a detective like you, I’d work an investigation by the book, the gut and the mind. In this investigation we don’t have a lot of time to trace leads.”
“What are you saying, Sean?”
“I’m saying that unless we get something very fast, maybe a read on an imprint from the Sam Spelling paper, or a name that Lyle Johnson may have given to his wife…Charlie Williams is good as dead.” O’Brien paused. “Dan, I’m telling you this because we worked together. I trust you-trust your confidence. I’ll need your help.”
“No problem, but what do you mean?”
“I might have to force some people to talk. It’ll be the fastest way to the truth. I don’t like operating this way, but if I don’t, Williams will die. I can’t let that happen.”
Dan said, “I’m going to question Johnson’s wife. Where will you be?”
“In prison. It’s time I spoke with Charlie Williams.”
THIRTY-THREE
Starke, Florida, is one of America’s death capitals. Starke is the home of Florida State Prison, a place where the death penalty has been challenged and upheld more times than any prison in America. Some of the more notables listed on the roster of death include Ted Bundy and female serial killer Aileen Wuornos.
It took department of corrections guards about fifteen minutes to bring Charlie Williams to the meet O’Brien. He was escorted by three guards, one on either side and one behind him. Chains kept his stride to a minimum. His hands were cuffed.
O’Brien almost didn’t recognize Williams. He walked with a rhythm of distrust in his body language. Suspicious eyes. Shoulders rounded. Skinny. His spirit now nothing more than a defense posture. Eleven years in prison-eleven years on death row, had turned the raw farm boy from North Carolina into a man with a hard face and apprehensive eyes.
Both men took seats on the opposite of the no-contact glass. O’Brien could see a faded scar leading from the left side of William’s forehead vanishing into his thinning hair, turning gray before its time.
O’Brien picked up the phone-like receiver first. Williams sat there, staring though the thick glass. Finally, he slowly lifted the receiver.
O’Brien said, “I’m glad you agreed to see me, Charlie, how you holding up?”
“How do you think I’m holding up?”
“Look-”
“What the fuck do you want, O’Brien?”
“To save your life.”
“You’re a little late, Detective.”
“I’m not a detective anymore.” “Then what the hell are you? Why are you here?” “I believe you didn’t kill Alexandria Cole.” Williams mocked a laugh. “It only took you eleven years to figure that out?”
“A horrible mistake was made. I want you to know that I feel awful about that. The evidence was so compelling. I want to tell you how sorry I am for-”
“Bullshit, man! You wanted me here. It’s because of you, Detective O’Brien that I’m here. It’s because of you that I’ve been beaten, stabbed twice, raped, and now they’re gonna stick needles in my veins and let poison slowly shut my organs down. All because you wanted another closed case.”
“You have every right to be angry. But listen to me a second. Please. Just listen. We don’t have time-”
“We don’t have time! What are you-”
“I’m saying we-you and me, have to stop this execution. I know you didn’t kill Alexandria. To set you free, I’ll need your help.”
“Leave me the fuck alone! What’d you do, find God or something, huh?”
“No, I found two people dead.”
Charlie William’s dry lips parted. Eyes filled with confusion. “What?”
“Two people dead. What they had in common was this: they knew who killed Alexandria. One was a priest, a close friend of mine. The other was an inmate. Did you know Sam Spelling?”
Williams was quiet a long moment. His eyes focused on the handcuffs around his wrists. Then he looked up through the glass at O’Brian. “Sam Spelling. The guy who was shot when they were taking him to testify in the coke trial?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’d seen him around. He hung with more of the sleaze balls than I was comfortable with…not that you have a good bunch of normal people in this shithouse.”