The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller)) (30 page)

O’Brien said nothing.

“Sean, it probably comes down to the indentation that Spelling left.  Like a fingerprint, if he didn’t touch it in the right way, the impression from his ballpoint pen will only leave so much.  So we don’t know what Thomas may or may not get from it.”    

“I understand, but Charlie  Williams is down to hours now.”

“I’ve got a friend of mine in the bureau running Father Callahan’s blood letters and symbols though one of our so-called super computers.  Nothing yet.”

“Tell your friend we have two of the parts of the code solved.  But we still don‘t know what Father Callahan was trying to tell us.  One of the symbols, the moon with the image on it, I believe is connected to a fifteenth century painting by one of the masters.  The artist was Hieronymus Bosch.  The painting is called
Saint John on Patmos
.  I’m convinced the P-A-T Father Callahan wrote is Patmos, the Greek Island.  He died before

he could finish the word.  That leaves us with Omega and six-six-six.  Maybe the mark of the beast and the end of the universe.  Let your super computer chew on that.”

“We want to do is help you solve these murders, not the fate of mankind.”

“I appreciate all you’re doing, Lauren, I’m just running on empty.”

“I know you can use more manpower.  I was chatting with our chief, Mike Chambers and Christian Manerou, too.  Christian has a break in his caseload.  Said he’d be glad to assist anyway he can.  Mike sighed but relented and said ok.”

“Excellent.  If we get anything back on the letter maybe he can help find Spelling’s mother.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I know Christian and your boss Mike Chambers were part of the team that put Russo away for the drug charges.  Was heroin part of the mix?”

“Don’t think so.  It’s been a while.  Think it was a few kilos of coke.  I’ll ask Mike or Christian.”

“Also, I don’t know for sure, but I believe Russo has ties to a gym in South Beach called the Sixth Street Gym.  In a back warehouse, behind a large American flag on the wall, they’re operating bare knuckles fights.  They amount to gladiator-style death matches.  They tape it for black market sales.  One of the steroids in charge is a big redheaded guy.  Name’s Mike Killen.  Uses an Irish accent when he wants to.  I bet a background check on this guy would pull a long sheet.  If you can find out when they hold one of these fights, a raid would put a stop to this.”

“How’d you find out about it?”

“I fought Salazar in the ring.”

“What?”

“Did you kill Salazar?”

“No.  I think he was killed after they threw me in a pile of garbage in an alley. After Salazar died, Russo dropped the bogus charges he and Conti had filed against me.  Salazar, as Russo’s hit man, could be the last living connection that could possibly tie him to Alexandria Cole’s murder.”

O’Brien heard the beep for an incoming call.  He looked at the number and said, “Lauren, it’s Dan Grant.  I’d better take it.”  He connected with Grant.

“Sean, it’s getting worse,” Grant said

“How?”

“Anita Johnson, Lyle Johnson’s wife, has been found murdered.”  

EIGHTY-ONE

Detective Dan Grant met O’Brien at the crime scene.  The Johnson driveway and front yard were covered with police and emergency vehicles.  The Volusia County Medical Examiner’s car was one of the vehicles parked closest to the house.

The medical examiner was coming out of the house as O’Brien and Grant approached the front porch.  The ME wore dark green suspenders holding up trousers that seemed secure around his paunch. Wire-rimmed glasses.  Gray beard and hair to match.  He loosened his tie and said, “She died a quick death.”

“What happened?” asked Dan.

“I hope you gents can tell me that.  I can tell you how she died.  Broken neck.  Whoever did it knew exactly what the hell he was doing.  I’m assuming it’s a he, ‘cause it takes a strong person to break a human neck like you would yank a chicken’s neck.”

O’Brien said, “How long do you estimate time of death?”

“Few hours, tops.  Some reddening on the neck and intracutaneous hemorrhages around the eyes.  Died in her child’s bedroom.”

“Talk with you later, Doc,” said Dan as he led O’Brien into the home.  A half dozen uniform deputies and crime scene investigators moved around the house.  One investigator dusted the walls for prints.  O’Brien and Dan could see flashes from a camera coming from an open door down the hall.  They entered the room just as the crime scene photographer was shooting the final pictures of the body. 

Anita Johnson’s body was on its back, hand on her chest.  Eyes open. 

A detective got up from squatting beside the body, jotting in a small notebook.  He seemed to be near retirement.  White hair about two weeks beyond the need for a haircut.  He had a look of resolve and pessimism over the state of mankind that the body seemed to represent to him.  He stepped next to Dan and O’Brien, pursed his lips in a low whistle and said, “Another young one.  A mother.  What a waste.”

 Dan made the introductions and said, “What do you think, Ralph?”

“No apparent sign of rape.  No sign of burglary.  Neighbor next door heard the kid crying and screaming.  Came over to check and saw the font door open.  Found the body and the little boy in that crib crying his eyes out.”

“So he saw his mother die?” asked Dan.

“Looks that way.  Neighbor is taking care of him until social services gets here.”

“Anyone see anything?  Stranger?  Delivery person?”

“I questioned the neighbor.  She didn’t see or hear a damn thing until the baby started wailing.  Not much to go on here.  Maybe we’ll get some prints, but I doubt it.”

O’Brien looked around the room, tuning out the drone of the detective.  Near the child’s bed, on the floor,  he saw a small piece of paper about the size of a postage stamp. O’Brien used the clip on his pen to lift the paper off the floor.

 “Got something?” Dan asked.

“Don’t know.  Looks like it is a piece of an envelope.  I can make out the top of a curved letter.  Possibility an ‘S.’  Maybe she’d just opened her mail, reading a letter, walked in here to quiet the baby and was attacked.”  He handed the paper to Dan who

dropped it in a Ziploc bag.  O’Brien crouched next to the body.  He looked at the position on the floor.  The angle of her head.  Hands.  He was silent for more than a half minute.

“Sean,” said Dan.  The guys are here with the body bag.”

O’Brien said nothing.

“Come on Sean, the place has been picked over.  Photographed.  Examined by the CSI team.”

“Got a pair of tweezers?” asked O’Brien

“Tweezers?”

Dan turned to an investigator standing near the door, “Hey, Jimmy,” he said.  “Hand me some tweezers out of your box.”

The investigator dug around in a box twice the size of an average fishing tackle box and handed Dan a pair of long tweezers.  Dan gave them to O’Brien.

They watched as O’Brien used the tool to lift something from a ring on Anita Johnson’s left hand.  Caught in a prong, barely detectible, was a dark fiber that O’Brien slowly lifted with the tweezers.

“What do you have?” asked Dan.

“Looks like a piece of wool.  Probably not from something she’d wear in the summer in Florida.  Doesn’t match the carpet color.  Maybe it’s dyed black.  Hand me a bag.”  O’Brien placed the fiber in the bag, stood, and said, “How would a piece of wool get embedded on the woman’s ring?”

“Good question,” Dan said.

The senior detective, Ralph, put his glasses on and leaned over the body.  He said, “That was a nice catch.”

“It stood out against the stone, which, at that size, looks like a nice imitation diamond.  If it is wool, the fiber might have come from a ski mask.”  O’Brien used his pen to point.  He added, “There, near the corner of her mouth…the lipstick goes from a horizontal application—the way she applied it—to a vertical serration.”

Ralph said, “Maybe that’s were she sipped her coffee.”

“Maybe,” said O’Brien.  “But it might mean she bit the hand of the guy snapping her neck.  Check her teeth for skin cells, and if the perp wore plastic gloves, see if any tiny bits of plastic might be between her teeth.”

O’Brien started for the door.

“Where’re you going?” asked Dan.

“To see if our only eyewitness might have seen something.”

Ralph cleared his throat and said, “Who’s the only eyewitness.”

“The postman.”  O’Brien turned and left.

EIGHTY-TWO

Dan Grant followed O’Brien to his Jeep.  O’Brien pulled out his cell phone.  He paced the length of the Jeep for a moment, collecting his thoughts. 

Dan said, “Some nice work in there.  Superman’s vision got nothing on you.”

“Wish I’d had better vision investigating Alexandria Cole’s death.  If I had, we wouldn’t be standing here today with all these people dead.  We have a big problem.”

“Tell me about it.  The woman’s dead.”

“The problem is that the person who killed her is definitely not who I thought was behind this.”

“Talk to me, Sean.”

“Russo’s confined to a hospital bed.  The guy I thought did the hits, Carlos Salazar, is dead.  Whoever killed Alexandria has murdered four people in the last three days: Spelling, Father Callahan, Johnson, and now his wife Anita…and perhaps Salazar.”

O’Brien pounded the fender of his Jeep with an open hand.  He turned to Dan. “I’ve been chasing a ghost.  The real killer just wiped out the last person alive who knew his name.  I’m sure he destroyed any letter that Johnson may have sent to his wife.”

“So the son of a bitch who’s gone on this killing spree is as clueless to us now as that stuff the priest left in his own blood.”

“Right now the stuff the priest left in his blood is the only thing pointing us in the right direction.”

“Which direction?”

“Call your office and have someone call the post office.  Find out who has this route.  We need to know where that person is right now!”

#

O’BRIEN PUSHED THE JEEP, hitting speeds of near one hundred miles an hour though the back roads of rural Lake County.  Dan Grant sat in the passenger side, hands gripped on the door and center console.  He said, “Hey, man.  If you kill us driving like this, who the hell is gonna stop this perp?”

“What’s the next turn?”

“Should be the next left.  Quarter mile up, tops.  Dispatch told me that the post office says this mail carrier ends his route on River Lane, a long mile stretch.”

O’Brien turned down River Lane and took out a plastic trashcan someone had set too near the street. “Whoa!” yelled Dan.

“There he is!” said O’Brien, looking at a slight incline where the white mail truck poked along.  The postman was opening a mailbox when O’Brien brought his Jeep to a screeching halt directly in front of the truck.  Both O’Brien and Dan got out and approached the frightened letter carrier.  He reached for his cell.  “I called 911!  Cops are on their way!”

“We’re here.  Fast enough for you? ” Dan said, flashing his shield.

“I didn’t do anything!” the postman shouted.

“Everyone’s done something,” said O’Brien. “But that’s not why we’re here. Do you remember the Johnson’s residence.  Lyle and Anita Johnson?”

“Sure.  I got three Johnson’s on this route.  But I know their box.”

“Do you recall making a delivery there today?”

“Yep.  That’s an easy one because Mrs. Johnson was at the mailbox to greet me.”

“What’d she say?” asked Dan.

“Not a lot.  Looked a little anxious.  I remember the only letter she got today.”

“How so?” asked O’Brien

“Because it was a handwritten letter…large block letters with a guy’s kinda handwriting.  None of that stuff is the postal service’s business.  But I remember reading something right below the zip code.”

“What was that?” asked Dan.

“S-W-A-K.” he said, almost shyly. “You know, sealed with a kiss.  Used to see that all the time.  Now, hardly ever.  Maybe it’s because of email.”

“Did she say anything to you?” asked O’Brien

“Not really.   Mrs. Johnson seemed…seemed anxious, I guess is the best word.”

O’Brien asked, “Did you see anyone around?  You know, maybe a delivery person…a car or truck there that you don’t normally see?”

He thought a moment.  “No.  What happened?  Is she okay?”

“She’s dead,” said Dan

#

O’BRIEN AND GRANT WERE less than a mile away from the Pioneer Village when O’Brien’s cell rang.  It was Tucker Houston.

“Sean, state’s refusing to hear it.  I’ve got it hand-delivered to the Fifth Circuit.  A clerk’s ready to receive it.”

“Good!” said O’Brien. “You can put this in that habeas corpus mix—we have another body.  Wife of the prison guard who overheard Spelling’s confession to Father Callahan.  Neighbor found her murdered.   Now I know Russo didn’t do it.”

“Then who did?”

“Buy me a little more time and I will find out.”

“What this latest murder will buy us is coverage on the whole damn broadcast spectrum.  If we can get the exposure we’ll get the ear of somebody’s court.”

EIGHTY-THREE

 The yellow crime scene tape was still around the front porch of the old general store.  O’Brien looked at the porch from a half dozen angles.  He watched the windmill turn.  He listened to the cluck of nearby chickens and tried to picture the scene the night Lyle Johnson died on the front porch.

Dan said, “They found his body sitting right there in that chair.”  He pointed to a rocking chair on the porch.

O’Brien said nothing.  He knelt down in the Bahia grass next to the porch and looked at the surface of the old cypress slats.  He stood and slowly walked up the three timeworn steps leading to the porch.  He looked at the bloodstain beneath the chair and then at the wooden barrel behind the chair.