Gnosis (10 page)

Dantzler was always suspicious when an individual being interviewed ended a statement with “I swear.” There was an unmistakable whiff of desperation about it, like the person was begging you to believe him. And when a person begs to be believed, it usually means he is dodging the truth.

“You’re sure about that?” Dantzler asked.

“Yes, I’m positive. I swear.”

Spurlock used his napkin to wipe the perspiration beads from his forehead. When he finished, he picked up the glass and took a long drink.

“Think about what you’ve told me tonight, Doctor,” Dantzler said, getting out of his chair. “If you remember events differently, regardless of the circumstances, give me a call. I’m investigating this case and I’m going to uncover the truth. The last thing you want is for me to find out you have been less than forthcoming. And I have to tell you, I don’t think you’re being totally honest with me.”

“Yes, yes, I have been truthful,” Spurlock insisted. He took another drink. “One-hundred percent truthful.”

Dantzler pointed to the now-empty carafe. “You might want to slow down with the drinking. Remember, you have rounds to make. I doubt your patients want an inebriated doctor checking them out.”

Dantzler made a quick stop at a grocery store, purchased some bread and sandwich meat, then headed home. He thought about putting in a Leonard Cohen CD, but didn’t. Instead, he used the short drive across town to mentally replay his chat with Greg Spurlock.

It was obvious the good doctor had been hedging on various aspects of his story. To state for certain the bullets were small caliber could only mean one thing—Spurlock had seen the gun. How else could he have known? The bullets were still in the victims and there were no shell casings found at the scene. He didn’t hear it from the detectives, nor did he make a lucky guess. Those explanations defied credibility. Yet he stated it as fact and with absolute conviction.

No. Dr. Spurlock knew more than he was telling.

So . . . why was he lying? What was he covering up? Or leaving out? Was he protecting someone? If so, who? And what about those drag marks? Was that an honest assessment by Spurlock, or was it part of the lie?

Dantzler let his thoughts go deeper, which only led to more questions. Did Spurlock play some role in the killings? Was he the shooter? This seemed farfetched, Dantzler concluded, since Spurlock was with Angie Iler when the murders went down. But could she have been an accomplice and the whole story about “discovering” the bodies was bogus? Was she somehow in on it? She wouldn’t be the first female to partner with a cold-blooded killer. Clyde had Bonnie, Charles Starkweather had Caril Ann Fugate. It was unlikely, but not beyond the realm of possibility.

But going in that direction only triggered a broader question: If Spurlock and Iler were the killers, what was their connection to Eli? What reason could they have for setting him up as the fall guy? And if they committed the crime, and if Eli knew they were the shooters, why would he cover for them? Why would he spend his adult life behind bars for that pair? What could have persuaded him to do that? Or who could have?

The more Dantzler thought about it, the more outlandish the notion became that a pair of teenagers possessed the moxie—the cunning—to murder two people, pin that murder on an innocent man, then for whatever reason present enough of a threat that the innocent man would remain silent while meekly accepting a life-without-parole jail sentence. It simply didn’t make sense.

There were two mysteries at play here, Dantzler realized. Who and why? Who committed the murders, and why did the Reverend take the blame for a crime he didn’t commit?  

Dantzler made a mental note to have Laurie track down and interview Angie Iler. He was still far from convinced that Angie was involved, but he now deemed her a person of interest. To move the investigation forward required more information from her. He would also need to meet again with Charlie Bolton, to query him about those alleged drag marks seen by Spurlock. That part of the story was particularly troublesome to Dantzler. If those bodies had been moved one inch, Charlie and Dan would have mentioned it. A fact that important would not be omitted from the murder book, especially by a detail-obsessed cop like Charlie.

But . . . what if it was an oversight? Even great detectives are capable of screwing up. Or what if that detail was, for whatever reason, intentionally omitted by Charlie and Dan?

What if . . .

Turning onto Lakeshore Drive Dantzler was surprised to see Laurie’s car parked in his driveway. This was most unexpected. She hadn’t been to the house for almost four months, not since they had officially called it quits. Why now? he wondered.

But at this moment, as he pulled his Forester up behind her car, the why didn’t really matter. The reality was he had missed her more than he might care to admit. There were some nights when he ached to be with her, to make love to her, to hear her voice, to feel her in the bed with him at night, to just know she was there. Now, for whatever reason, she was here. That she had decided to break the ice was a gutsy move on her part, and one he wasn’t going to argue with.

He cut the engine, grabbed the bag of groceries, and went inside. Laurie was sitting on the sofa, a bottle of Smithwick’s in one hand, the TV remote in the other hand, and a Cheshire-cat grin on her face.

“Keeping some late hours, aren’t you, Detective Dantzler?” she said, the smile widening. “Are you becoming a fortyish-something Tom Cat?”

“I’d say the better question is, when did you become Willie Sutton?” Dantzler set the bag on the kitchen table. “How did you get in here?”

Laurie tossed the remote onto the sofa, set the Smithwick’s on an end table, and began searching through her purse. After several seconds of digging, she found what she was looking for.

“You never asked me to give it back,” she said, holding up a single key. “Was that intentional, or did it just slip your mind?”

“Nothing slips my mind,” he said, picking up the Smithwick’s. “And nobody drinks my beer without asking.”

Laurie stood. “Ooh, is the famous detective really pissed? Or is he acting?”

“It’s better to keep you guessing.”

She moved closer and kissed him on the lips. Stepping back, she said, “Tell you what, Jack Nicholson, I think you’re acting. I think you love it that I’m here. I think you’ve missed me like crazy.”

“And I think you’re a little too full of yourself tonight. Too much self-assurance in a lady can be a dangerous thing.”

“Does that mean you want me to leave?”

“You can’t,” Dantzler said, pulling her close to him. “I parked behind you.”

“Good boy.”

*****

At a little past midnight, Dantzler eased out of bed, careful not to wake Laurie. He slipped on a robe and went downstairs to the kitchen. After filling a glass with orange juice, he sat at the table, grabbed the phone book, and began looking for a listing for Angie Iler.

This was, he knew, a quest virtually guaranteed to fail. After almost three decades, what were the chances Angie still resided at 590 Longview Drive, or even in Lexington, for that matter? If she did still live in the city, the odds were great that her last name was different now. She could have been through any number of marriages or divorces during the intervening years. And if she did have Iler for a last name, she would probably have an initial rather than her first name in the phone directory. Many single women preferred that listing as a safety measure against unwanted male callers. Or she might not have a landline, only a cell phone, which meant her number wouldn’t be listed.

Dantzler’s search didn’t come up completely empty. There was a listing for L. Iler on 590 Longview Drive. Not Angie, but maybe her mother or a sister. At least it was a starting point.

He ripped a piece of paper from a legal pad and wrote down the name, address, and phone number. First thing in the morning he would dispatch Laurie to make contact with L. Iler. Then he would get with Eric and find out what pertinent information, if any, had been gleaned from the obits page. Hopefully, Eric would uncover the clue Eli only hinted at.

Later in the day, Dantzler was scheduled to meet with Brother Isaac Whitehouse at the Church of the Holy Father on Southland Drive. Isaac was Eli’s oldest child. Thinking about that meeting, Dantzler couldn’t help but wonder how close—or how far—the apple had fallen from the tree. How alike or different were father and son. Judging by Isaac’s chosen profession it appeared they were more alike than different. Both were men of God. That a son followed his father into the ministry wasn’t all that unusual. It was rare but it happened. The Reverend Billy Graham had a son
and
daughter follow in his giant footsteps. But Dr. Graham had never been found guilty of a double murder, either. Eli Whitehouse had been. And yet his son, Isaac, followed his father’s path.

The path Isaac Whitehouse chose was not much different from the one taken by the biblical Isaac, who continued to love and honor his father, Abraham, even though the old man had been willing to offer his beloved son as a sacrifice to Yahweh. Despite their fathers’ questionable and unholy actions, the two Isaacs did not turn their backs and walk away. Their love and devotion remained steadfast. On the surface, at least. 

But, Dantzler wondered, what feelings and emotions did the two Isaacs keep buried deep in their heart of hearts? Was love for their father enough to drive away other more natural, more human feelings? Feelings that had to accompany them throughout the remainder of their tormented lives? The terror, confusion, and memories that surely lingered from those horrible moments the biblical Isaac spent bound on that altar of death, waiting to be executed, mystified by his father’s actions? The pain and embarrassment young Isaac Whitehouse carried like a yoke on his shoulders for having a father sent to prison for murdering two innocent men?

How does anyone cope with such dreadful, life-altering experiences? It couldn’t be easy, not even for the best of children. Yet, both Isaacs somehow managed to do so.

The biblical Isaac went on to become a dutiful son, but one much closer to his mother than to the father who was ready to kill him. So, apparently, had young Isaac Whitehouse. But at what cost? What price had he paid for his father’s sins? How scarred was he by his father’s actions?

Having lost both parents at a young age—his father killed in Vietnam, his mother murdered—Dantzler knew plenty about pain, suffering, and the scars left by certain events, especially those beyond your control or understanding. Tomorrow, hopefully, he would find out how well the son of Eli Whitehouse disguised his own scars.

*****

 Dantzler grabbed a pen and legal pad and began jotting down random thoughts concerning the case:

two vics murdered execution style

Eli’s .22 the murder weapon; his prints on the gun; gun found at scene

Eli had no alibi for time of murders

vics had no apparent connection to Eli

drugs found at scene; a decoy? Yes. Why?

Eli put up little in way of defense; accepted his sentence quietly

Charlie/Dan—did they look at all possibilities? Did they miss something? Were bodies moved?

Greg Spurlock—hiding something?

phone call warning me off case; how did the caller know about meeting with Eli?

obits, obits, obits—that’s where the answer is

Dantzler put the pen down and closed his eyes for more than a minute. This was standard procedure when he worked a difficult, complex case like this one. First, he would rapidly make a list of known facts or lingering questions, let his mind digest what he’d written, and then circle the one fact he deemed the most crucial at this stage of the investigation. He opened his eyes and smiled. The choice this time was easy.