The Last Clinic (31 page)

He sprayed all four walls, all caps in bright red lettering, thinking how the shot would look on the six o’clock news, in the local papers and on the internet. The cameraman could do a 360-degree pan and get all four walls. A little Hollywood. News guys loved to do fancy camera work. The client would love it too.

He’d spent a good deal of time the previous night coming up with the exact wording. The language needed to be angry and direct, with a clear threat, but nothing vulgar. No swear words. Nothing the continuity people at TV stations would feel they had to keep off the air.

On the far wall, in the back of the office, behind the desk he scrawled, “BABY KILLERS BEWARE!” The words spanned the whole wall. Underneath it, he wrote, “NOT IN MISSISSIPPI,” so that this phrase would look like an afterthought.

On the wall to the left and right he wrote, “I SAVED LIVES TODAY.” He made a point of spraying over the drapes and the bookcase, but making sure it was legible. No question, the police would say, this is work of a true believer. Look how proud he is of himself.

On wall next to the door, he wrote, “MOTHERS WHO ABORT THEIR CHILDREN—YOU’RE NEXT!”

He checked his watch when he’d finished. Five-thirty a.m. He stood in the middle of the room and appraised his efforts. First rate. Seeing just one of these photos should be enough to discourage any sane woman from seeking an abortion in this state. The extra hundred thousand he was promised for this one job—he deserved every penny of it.  

He eased into a chair near the entrance to the room, slightly to the side of the door. The lights in the hall were off. The door to the small office had a frosted window. When he saw the lights go on in the hall, that would be the signal to take his position. There was nothing to do but wait.

32

Behind Closed Doors.

Stephen thought it was funny, a cute mix-up that they had switched cell phones. He discovered the error standing in line at Starbucks, waiting for his double espresso.

The phone rang, chimes, not the usual ring tone on his cell. Weird. The Caller Id said
Stephen, My love
. On
his
cell, the one she was using, it said
Darling Darla
next to her number. This amused him. His tough-talking girl friend was as mushy as he was.

He heard her say, “Hello,” and something about going to his office.

“What?” Her charge was low. He was losing her. He’d charge it up in the car. “I’ll call you from the office,” he said, and hoped she heard him.

The parking lot in front of his building was empty. He parked his SUV by the streetlight to let the patients know he had arrived. People were funny about entering a building before dawn, especially if there were no other cars around. If they thought no one was there, they might be tempted to turn their car around and leave. On the phone, the man had seemed especially apprehensive.

He entered the front door, turned on the lobby light, walked to the side entrance, unlocked the door, and walked down the corridor to his office.
#102. Stephen Nicoletti, MD, OB-GYN
it said on the black plate next to the door.

He had to search for the correct key. Looking at all the keys on the ring, he felt like a janitor.
A janitor in my own life
, he thought, amused, as usual, at his own sense of humor.

He flipped on the light switch to his room. The first thing he saw was the wall behind his desk, the graffiti. Vandals. He knew it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. He was surprised that it had taken them this long to discover his office and trash it. He’d have to reschedule the morning meeting. He’d entered the phone number in his cell in case something unexpected came up. Only, he didn’t have his cell. He’d have to meet both the man and the woman outside. The appointment wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes. He’d call Darla and ask her to look up the number. With luck, he could reach the couple before they arrived. He’d need to make an excuse. Maybe he’d tell them the fire alarm had gone off by mistake and there was water damage. He wasn’t going to tell them about the vandals. After he’d notified them and they’d left, he’d call the police. Let them know what has happened. What a mess. If he was lucky, the press wouldn’t get wind of it. He decided to go inside his office and drink his espresso at his desk while he made the calls.

Just as he cleared the door, he felt the gun, its muzzle at his spine.

“Stop.”

 He did as the voice said.

“Don’t turn around. Put the phone away. Drop it in your pocket. Put the coffee down on the bookcase, gently. Now, raise your hands.”

He understood immediately what was happening. Darla and that agent from the FBI, Jendlin, had met with him just yesterday. He could see Darla’s face now, her brows furrowed, something like dread in her look. He promised to be extra vigilant.

“Now walk around behind your desk, keeping your hands in the air. When you get behind the desk, turn, pull the chair back and stand in front of the chair.”

He did as he was told, getting his first glimpse of the intruder. He recognized the man from his photo, only the man seemed a few years older now. The man had a gun pointed straight at him. He could see the gun was equipped with a silencer.

He pictured how it was going to happen. The man more than likely would have him sit behind his desk and then shoot him in the head or chest. He thought about trying to leap to the left or right or dropping down behind the desk. His instincts told him it would do no good. He was a dead man no matter what.

“Sit down.”

I am going to die
, he thought, as he sat behind his desk, switching his thoughts to Darla, trying to remember as many details as he could about their times together—her smile, the way her body fit his, the things they had planned. How ironic that he should die now, during the happiest time of his life, the first time in his life he had been in love.

The intruder lowered his aim and moved a few steps closer.

He could see the barrel of the gun, the hole where the bullet would emerge. For no reason he smiled at the man, as if he had just thought of something funny but didn’t feel like sharing it.

The man chuckled as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing and then tucked his head down, eyeing the sight.

There was a soft knock on the door.

“Doctor? It’s Mindy. I’m afraid I left the keys to the clinic in the examination room when I was here yesterday. I know you’re seeing someone later. I’ll only be a minute.”

They were both startled. He looked at the intruder and gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, asking what he was to do. The man kept the gun on him and stepped back three big steps so that he was in a position to be hidden if the door opened. He signaled with his free hand letting Stephen know he wanted her to enter.

Stephen shook his head, looking grieved. “Yes, come in Mindy.”

Outside the office, Darla held the doorknob in her right hand. Her .380 Taurus in her left hand pointed at the center of the door. Behind her, Special Agent Henry Jendlin and three other agents stood at the ready. Three more agents we’re stationed in the lobby, two at the side entrance, three in the parking lot and three more out front. The discussion about who would be first in had been brief. Jendlin had done it twice before. Darla five times. More important, the man she loved was in there. She told him as much. Jendlin reluctantly agreed. There simply wasn’t time to debate the issue.

It happened smoothly and quickly, but to Darla everything moved in slow motion, just as it had the other times. She opened the door, caught a glimpse of Stephen sitting alone behind his desk, the graffiti on the rear wall. She sensed the assailant was standing on the other side of the door, holding the doorknob, waiting for her to clear the entrance.

She pushed against the door, and felt a slight pull and fired two shots into the door, flush into the middle.

Blam! Blam!

Wood splintered, spraying in all directions. Shreds of oak from the door kicked back, hitting her face. The shots blasted a hole in the door big enough for her to see the man being blown back. He bounced off the wall and slumped in her direction. The knob was still in her hand. She pushed on what remained of the door and stepped all the way into the room.

The bastard lay on the floor, on his back, still with his weapon in his hand, trying to raise it. She started to slip on a piece of wood from the door, and stumbled forward toward him. Jendlin grabbed her by the waist and pulled her upright as she fired again. Blam! This shot caught the guy in the neck, the main artery.

Jesus, the blood. All over her face, neck, and chest. She blinked, wiping his blood away from her eyes and saw the assailant was dead.

Everything was a blur after that. Jendlin held her upright. Agents swarmed in the office. One of them ran to Stephen, another into the examination room. Stephen walked toward her. She heard someone on the two-way say the office was secure.

For a second, she was alone on her feet by herself, shivering, holding her weapon, thinking she ought to bend down and holster it. And then he was with her, the man she loved, attending to her, her lover, her doctor. He had a box of tissues and was dabbing the blood from her face.

“No splinters to be removed. No open wounds. Thank God.” It was as though he was giving a medical report, only she saw that he had tears in his eyes, and they were for her.

She put her hands on his wrists, stopping his ministrations and pushed him back so she could see him, head to toe. Alive. No injuries. Unable to stop she kept checking him, just to be sure.

Finally, there were sirens outside and agents everywhere, Jendlin gave the all clear. She closed her eyes and just held Stephen.

33

Blind Alley Blues.

It was time for a recap. Darla, Uther, Tommy, and Shelby, sat on the benches outside the Hinds County Courthouse so Shelby could spit with impunity, which he did, twice, before launching into his analysis of the situation.

 “The usual media screw-up.” He held up a copy of the
Jackson Crier
. “Uther and Darla did most of the heavy lifting, but that FBI fellow, Henry Jendlin and the Brook Brothers bunch got all the ink. Don’t even mention that it was a Hinds County detective that pulled the trigger. And where’s any mention of yours truly? Page eight, last paragraph. That’s where.

“Listen to this. ‘Hinds County Sheriff Shelby Mitchell states that the terrorist was not in the Metro Jackson area at the time of Reverend Aldridge’s death and could not have been responsible for the shooting. He further states that his department is still searching for leads.
’”

“‘Sheriff gets an incomplete on his report card. Searching for leads.’ That’s what they’re going to write on my tombstone. So where are we?”

Darla spoke first. “The people who had motive to kill Reverend Aldridge didn’t have the opportunity. Conway was in the hospital. Stephen was across town examining Beth Aldridge. And once word got out that Kendall was a suspect, three different motorists reported seeing a woman with short red hair out running at the reservoir at the approximate time of the shooting. That eliminated her. Lenore Aldridge, had she known about her husband’s sexual obsession with black virgins, might have had motive, but there’s no evidence that she did. Besides, she didn’t have access to the SUV. Nobody else we’ve investigated has motive.”

“At least Darla won’t have to look for a new roommate,” said Tommy.

“I heard Kendall flipped you off, when you had to release her,” said Shelby. “Kinda sorry I missed that.”

He pulled a fresh Styrofoam cup up to his mouth and spit. “What about that old reprobate Bobby Goodhew?”  

“He’s being investigated further by the FBI for his connection to the terrorist, but Jendlin doesn’t think they’ll find anything” said Darla. “As far as Reverend Aldridge’s murder, Bobby really didn’t have a motive. Plus, he has an alibi at the time of the murder. He was at his daughter’s gymnastic practice. So that leaves us with the church members, the ones that Jimmy secretly recorded. We’ve all heard the recordings. Extramarital affairs, homosexuality, dirty business dealings. I’m pretty sure Reverend Aldridge was going to use some of these recordings to extort funds for his scheduled slave-master fantasy over at Hemings Mansion. It’s the kind of stuff, if you have the —and these people do—you’ll pay to keep hushed up. But at this point, there’s no evidence of an exchange of money, no demand notes, and no physical connections. It’s likely none of these people knew he had the tapes, but we can’t be sure.

Tommy’s eyes lit up. “I could bring them in, interview them one by one. See if I can pry anything loose?”

“That’s the last thing I want done,” said Shelby. “We need to have us something more to go on before we march these good citizens downtown and start discussing all their filthy personal and business habits with them.”

Shelby’s still thinking he’s going to run for mayor next year, thought Darla. He plans on hitting these people up for campaign contributions. He can’t afford to piss anyone off unnecessarily.

 “We also don’t know who sent Tommy the DVD,” said Darla. “It might have been Bobby, but maybe not. I don’t think Higgenstone sent it. He was too horrified when I showed him Reverend Aldridge’s other DVDs. Maybe it was Cecil Witherspoon. He and his daughter have been out of town the last couple of days. They’re back. I’m going to talk to him later today. But even if he did, so what? So far as we know, he has no motive for killing Reverend Aldridge.
    “What about you, Uther? You still on the payroll or have you gone Federal on us?” said Shelby.

“He never was on the payroll,” said Darla.

“I’m speaking figuratively,” said Shelby.