Gnosis (6 page)

“And I’ll study them in great detail. But . . . for now, off the top of your head, what do you remember about the case?”

“He killed two people. Shot them both in the back of the head, execution style. The murder took place in an old barn on a piece of property owned by Eli.”

“Go on,” Dantzler prodded.

“The two vics were a couple of local street kids. Drugs were found at the crime scene, so we figured it for a drug deal that turned ugly.” Charlie sipped some coffee. “Why are you inquiring about Eli Whitehouse?”

“I met with him.”

“When? Where? Why, for God’s sake?”

“Saturday, at the prison. At his request.”

Charlie set the coffee cup on the table and shook his head. “Why did he request a meeting with you? You didn’t work the case. Hell, you weren’t even on the force back then.”

“He heard I was a first-rate cop.”

“No argument there. But, why did he want to meet with any cop?”

“Says he’s innocent. Wants me to re-open the case.”

“After all these years? Why now?”

“He’s dying. Inoperable cancer.”

“Huh.”

“He said something else, as well, Charlie. Said you thought he was innocent.”

Charlie shook his head. “That’s not exactly accurate. I never said he was innocent; I was just never convinced of his guilt. Dan, on the other hand, had no doubt about it. He was certain Eli was the killer.”

“Why did you have doubts, Charlie?”

“Damn, Jack, I need time to think about this.”

“No, you don’t. You remember every detail of every case you ever worked. Why the doubts?”

“Well, the method the killer used always troubled me. Back of the head, single shot. Like I said—execution style. That seemed awfully professional to me. Something you might see from the Mob or the KGB. But not how a civilian—a preacher—would do it.”

“Go on.”

“The drug aspect. We never uncovered any evidence connecting Eli to drug trafficking, production, sales, or distribution. None whatsoever. And the two victims were another stumbling block for me. A couple of local street-wise punks who had each been arrested a number of times for possession of marijuana. Typical weedsters, you know? Neither was a big-time druggie, and neither had a prior connection to Eli. At least, none that we found. There just didn’t seem to be a legitimate motive for Eli to kill those two guys.”

Dantzler leaned forward. “Let me ask you a couple of questions. If it was a drug deal gone bad, then why were any drugs left there in the first place? Second, why leave the bodies in such an open place, where they were sure to be found?”

“Your drug question is one that bothered me as well, and it’s one I have no answer for. Either they were left there inadvertently, or they were planted. Take your pick. As for your second question, the killer did make an attempt to get rid of the bodies. He torched the barn, but it rained like hell that night, effectively putting out the fire. A young couple was out parking, saw the smoke, and went to check it out. They found the bodies.”

“You had doubts; Dan didn’t. Why was he so convinced?”

“Fingerprints. Eli’s prints were all over the murder weapon.”

“A  twenty-two, correct?”

“Yep. And it belonged to old Eli, too.” Charlie sipped more coffee. “Those fingerprints—that’s what did him in. When the D.A. stood in front of the jury, held up the murder weapon, and stated the prints on the gun belonged to Eli, well, that closed the lid on the coffin. All reasonable doubt got washed away.”

“According to your notes, you found the gun at the crime scene.”

“Yes. Right next to the bodies.”

“That didn’t bother you?”

“Of course, it did. I mean, why would Eli leave the murder weapon at the crime scene, where it was certain to be found? Why not toss it into an incinerator? Or into one of the ponds on his farm? Hell, there must’ve been five or six of them. And if he was stupid enough to leave it there, why not at least wipe it clean of prints? Finding it where we did, with those perfect prints on it, just didn’t make sense to me.”

“Sounds like he was framed.”

“My instincts always said so.” Charlie looked at Laurie, then back at Dantzler. “You gonna look into it?”

“I’m considering it.”

“Those damn prints, Jack. That’s nearly impossible evidence to overcome.” Charlie rose, refilled his coffee cup, and stood next to the counter. “Something else also troubled me. During the lead-up to the trial, Eli said very little in his own defense. Was almost silent, in fact. Even Dan was troubled by Eli’s silence. Dan kept saying, ‘if I was innocent, been framed, I would be screaming so loud they would hear me in heaven and hell.’ But not Eli. He remained stoic through it all.”

Charlie sat back down. “What did he say to you during the meeting?”

“Not a lot. Only that he didn’t do it, and that I should check the obits page in the
Herald
for the past two weeks. He said the answer is there.”

“Did he give you a name?”

“No. Said he couldn’t.”

“You think he couldn’t, or he wouldn’t?”

“Both. I think the man is afraid of something. Or someone.”

“You said he’s terminal. What’s a dying man got to be afraid of?”

“He has three kids. Six or seven grandkids. Could be he’s worried about their safety.”

“And it could be he’s just yanking your chain. Running one final con before he ventures off to the Great Beyond. He wouldn’t be the first murderer to pull that stunt.”

“This is no stunt. He’s afraid, and I think he has reason to be. Last night, not long after we spoke, I got an interesting call. The caller, a man, said I should forget everything the Reverend told me. He said it in a very threatening tone. It was definitely a warning, not a request.”

“You trace it?”

“Couldn’t be accessed.”

“That is interesting.”

“What can you tell me about Colt Rogers?” Dantzler said.

“He’s a lawyer—what else needs to be said?”

“You had any dealings with him?”

“Couple of times he’s questioned me in court or for a deposition. Nothing serious. Why are you asking about him? He wasn’t Eli’s attorney. Abe Basham was. Abe’s been dead for years.”

“Rogers and a guy named Johnny Richards visit with Eli on a fairly regular basis. I’m curious about their connection.”

“Well, Rogers operates out of the same building Abe was in. Maybe even the same office, for all I know. Could be he took over Abe’s practice and sort of inherited Eli.”

“And Johnny Richards?”

“Not familiar with him.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Dantzler said, closing the folder.

Charlie shook his head. “You’re gonna pursue this, aren’t you?”

Dantzler shrugged.

“You’ve got no choice.” Charlie started to say something, hesitated for several seconds, then said, “There is only one thing worse that letting a guilty guy go free and that’s sending an innocent man to prison. God, I hate to think I let that happen. But—”

He looked up at Dantzler.

“Those damn fingerprints. That was the clincher.”

At five-thirty, Dantzler left the police station, walked several blocks down Vine Street, turned onto South Upper, crossed the street, and went into McCarthy’s Irish Bar. The place, crowded as usual, was crawling with attorneys, most of whom were standing together, chatting and drinking. Several nodded at him as he walked past.

Near the back, sitting alone, was Sean Montgomery. When he saw Dantzler, Montgomery picked up his empty pint glass and called out to the woman tending bar.

“Make it two of these,” he said, putting the glass back on the table.

Montgomery was an ex-Homicide detective who quit the force, went back to school, and earned his law degree. He was now a partner in one of the city’s biggest, most-prestigious firms, having moved up fast due to his great skills as a trial lawyer. He and Dantzler had worked several cases together in the early ’90s, and had remained close over the years. Even though Sean had gone over to the “evil empire” and become a defense attorney, he was one of the few people Dantzler trusted completely.

Dantzler sat just as the bartender placed a pint of Guinness in front of each man. Montgomery lifted his glass and downed half the contents in one long guzzle.

“Best darn Guinness outside of New York, Boston, or Chicago,” he said, putting down his glass. “Some days it’s even better. Of course, if you want the
really
good stuff, you have to go to Ireland. I’ve been there twice, and I can promise you the Guinness there is to die for.”

“This is good,” Dantzler said, after taking a drink. “I need to come here more often.”

“That you do, laddie. That you do.”

“Aren’t you Scottish, Sean, rather than Irish?”

“Which I suppose makes me first cousins to the Irish. Can’t say for sure. What I do know, though, is we both have a strong dislike for the Brits. The colonial bastards.” Montgomery took another long pull, almost emptying the glass. “Have you noticed how everybody in this country claims to be either part Irish or part Native American? Those seem to be the two ‘in’ ethnic groups to have in your background. I once dated a beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed, fair-skin lady—pure Scandinavian from head to toe. Could’ve easily been Miss Sweden or Miss Denmark. Anyway, we started discussing ethnicity and she claimed to be one-eighth Cherokee. I’m thinking, well, of course you are, my dear. How could you not be? Isn’t everyone?”

He laughed and said, “If that woman has a drop of Cherokee blood in her, I’ll give you a kiss on the lips out on Main Street.”

“I’ll take a pass on that,” Dantzler said, grinning, “regardless of her bloodlines.”

“Ready for another one?” Montgomery asked, holding up his glass.

“Not just yet. I’m savoring this one.”

“One more for me,” Montgomery said to the bartender. “And keep an eye on this guy. Get him another one when he runs dry.”

“Listen, Sean. What can you tell me about Colt Rogers?”

“He’s an asshole, not to be trusted. Why? Is he representing you on some matter?”

“No.”

“Good. I’d make you buy the next five rounds if that were the case.”

“You don’t like him?”

“Don’t like him or respect him.”

“What’s his reputation within the lawyer community?”

“Mediocre attorney, world-class bullshitter, master manipulator, courtroom coward.”

“Why do you refer to him as a courtroom coward?”

“Because he never goes to trial,” Montgomery said. “He always has his clients plead out. Convinces them they don’t have a chance to win, then has them cop a plea. He scares them into accepting the sentence recommendation rather than fight it out at trial. Then he takes credit for winning while his clients head off to jail without having been given a chance to beat the rap. They get four years instead of six, when, in many instances, with a little luck and a good attorney, they might have been acquitted. And most of them are dumb enough to believe he’s done them a big favor. Poor schmucks.”

“What types of cases does he normally handle?”

“He’ll take on pretty much anything, so long as the money is right.”

“You ever cross swords with him?”