Deception (59 page)

“Thank You, Father, for answering our prayers and keeping Ollie safe.”

That was all.

“You want to thank Him, Ollie?” Jake asked.

I shut my eyes tight, like praying people do. “God … if You’re there, I guess I owe You one. And … especially, thanks that Mulch made it.”

Janet hugged me, and it felt good. Jake hugged me, and I didn’t hurl. It had been a record day for man-hugs, including Sarge’s. I hoped I wouldn’t get used to it.

Mulch and I stayed up late. After watching Jack Bauer and Chuck Norris, I picked up Sharon’s old Bible, which Janet had not-very-inconspicuously left on my recliner. I started reading parts she’d underlined.

The phone rang at 11:30.

“Daddy? It’s Kendra.”

“Hi, honey.”

“Jake called me a few hours ago, but I just got his message. Are you okay? I’m coming over now!”

“It’s late. You need your sleep.”

It was nearly midnight when she got here and 2:45 when she left. The three hours seemed like thirty minutes. She played on the floor with Mulch and let him lick her face, and not once did she mention salads, meat, wetlands, or gun control. She even said she was grateful I was carrying that fourth gun. I introduced her to each of my Baby Glocks, the triplets. She said they were cute. When she was leaving, while we stood at the door, she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me.

My little girl hugging me. It doesn’t get any better than that.

I’m not going to tell you much of what we said to each other, not because it would embarrass me, but because the telling couldn’t capture the magic, and it would leave you thinking it was less than it was.

But we did talk about the woman we loved more than anyone, who we’d lost, the boy we never had much opportunity to know, and the girl we missed so much. And when Kendra told me how angry she was that her mom had been taken, I said I understood and felt the same way. But maybe, I said, we couldn’t own her any more than you can own a comet or a sunset or fresh rain on a dry dusty day. You’re glad to experience them, they make you happy, but when they’re gone, instead of being mad, maybe you should just be grateful they were there for you in the first place.

Okay, I maybe didn’t say it that poetically, but that’s how I wrote it down later.

I said that if Jake and Clarence were right, maybe one day we could actually see Sharon again and be with her. Maybe Chad too, who knows? Kendra asked me if I really believed that. I said I didn’t know, but I was beginning to think it’s possible.

Instead of arguing, Kendra hugged me. I hugged her back, on this Guinness day of hugs. We held on to each other. And for the first time I could remember, I felt hope.

That night I was grateful for the sand in the top half of my hourglass. Still, I knew much less remained on top than had already fallen. And it seemed like the more gravity drained the top half, the faster the sand was falling.

67

“My name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
S
IGN OF
F
OUR

S
ATURDAY
, J
ANUARY
25, 10:00
A.M
.

AN
ARMY
OF
REPORTERS
marched past Chief Lennox’s office, its door wide open, with the chief’s honors displayed like bowling trophies.

Detectives rarely talk with the press. Jack Glissan and Brandon Phillips were our golden boys, but now they’re gone. As Obadiah Abernathy said, “We’s here, then we’s gone, like a warm breath on a cold day.”

Sixty of us crammed in a media room made for thirty. I was surprised to see Jake.

“This is big stuff,” he said. “I’ll get a few columns out of it myself. Couldn’t miss your moment of glory.”

Lennox’s press secretary introduced the chief like he was a rock star, saying he’d been
magna cum something
at some university back east with a lousy football team, which probably hadn’t produced many good cops either. If Mulch hadn’t had a toothache and a migraine, I’d have wished he were there to reacquaint himself with Lennox’s pant leg.

“We have news this morning that is both good and bad,” Lennox said, riding the room’s aura of excitement. “For our police force and our city stand or fall together. The bad news is that Detective Noel Barrows has been arrested for the murder of William Palatine. He’s a suspect in another case being investigated as I speak.”

Try five other cases
, I thought.

“The good news is that this man has been arrested, charged, and if found guilty, will be punished. From the beginning I told our people, we must chase down the killer, no matter who he is, no matter what the consequences. When we first suspected it could be one of our own, I insisted we do our jobs no matter how bad it might look for us. We pulled out the stops, chased down every lead. We left no stone unturned.”

We came out like gangbusters
.

“I’m proud of our detective department. And I assure you that one bad apple has
not
spoiled the barrel.”

Lennox droned on, alluding to his critical behind-the-scenes role in this case. Someone interrupted, “What about the suicide of Jack Glissan, Barrows’s partner? Was he involved in any of the murders?”

“We’re investigating the extent to which Detective Glissan might have become aware of his partner’s crimes.”

No reason to sully the reputation of an exemplary cop and hurt his widow, and the department, and the chief. Damage control. Deception. All for a good cause.

Though Clarence was in the second row, raising his hand continually, somehow the chief managed not to notice him, the equivalent of not noticing a Humvee in your dining room.

“I will personally oversee the investigation of Noel Barrows,” the chief said, “making sure every
t
is crossed and every
i
is dotted. Time for just one more question.”

Clarence stood and started talking even though the chief was pointing to a reporter three rows back on the other side, a reporter known for throwing softballs at the chief and playing poker with him Saturday nights.

“As you know,” Clarence said in his ‘Luke, I am your father’ voice, “I was assigned to cover this case.”

“Yes, since our police department has nothing to hide,” Lennox said, “I invited a
Tribune
reporter to cover this investigation from the beginning.”

“I worked daily alongside Detective Ollie Chandler, observing his handling of this case,” Clarence said. “In my opinion, he did an outstanding job. Do you have any comments on Detective Chandler’s performance?”

“Yes, I have commended him for his comportment.”

I don’t know what comportment means, but I’d have thought commending someone would include some actual communication with that person—some nice words, a greeting card, a box of chocolates, or tickets to a Seahawks game. Apparently not.

Clarence wasn’t satisfied. “Ollie Chandler put his life on the line and was in mortal danger three times. Without his tireless efforts, Noel Barrows wouldn’t have been caught. Do you agree, Chief Lennox?”

“Well … he had a significant role, as did our entire team. As general of this army, I’m proud of all my soldiers.”

“You sound as if you played some role in solving this crime.”

“As chief of police, I play a role in everything this department does.”

Clarence’s face hardened. “While I was involved in this case, I was never aware of you doing anything to help solve it.”

“You’re here to ask questions, not to make statements,” Lennox said, squeezing the podium, makeup running. “But I assure you that my role in this, while behind the scenes, was substantial. I supervised the detectives involved. Nothing happens in this department without my being part of it.”

“Including multiple murders?”

Man, I
love
that Clarence Abernathy. Score one for the journalists.

The chief halted, stumbled, and explained something about the best-laid plans of mice and men and when the going gets tough, the tough get going.

When the chief thanked everyone for coming and stepped away, waving like a candidate, one of the television reporters asked, “Clarence, would you answer some questions?”

Abernathy nodded. For the next twenty minutes he repeatedly gave me credit, using words like
brilliant, brave
, and
pit-bull determination
. He only mentioned my “idiosyncrasies” a couple of times and Krispy Kremes once. Clarence also gave high praise to Manny, who sat quietly but took notice. He paid tribute to Ray Eagle, doing everything short of passing out his business phone number.

I made a mental note to commend him for his comportment.

After three more questions Clarence pointed to me and said, “The man you really should talk to is Detective Ollie Chandler.”

The smiling Lynn Carpenter winked as she turned her camera toward me, in my blue sport coat. A dozen other cameras, still and video, followed. The questions came, none hostile. For the first time I could remember, it was fun to look into the faces of the media.

I answered questions for forty minutes. Afterward, several journalists introduced themselves to me and shook my hand. Two actually thanked me for doing my job. They seemed almost human. But, I reminded myself, things often aren’t what they appear.

When the others had left, Carp took a few more pictures, then kissed her finger and put it on one of my half dozen facial owies. She said she was glad I was okay. As she went out the door, she mouthed words that touched me in ways hard for a man to express: “double cheese, double pepperoni.”

S
ATURDAY
, J
ANUARY
25, 12:20
P.M
.

It was noon when the press conference finally ended, sixty minutes after the chief stepped out, meaning three-fourths of it took place without him. Jake said he was buying at Lou’s. Rory knocked himself out with a display of yellow pansies, which despite the name were pretty cool.

Jake said the tunes were on him, and a minute later Jan and Dean joined us in the booth, singing “Little Deuce Coupe.” They were followed by Buddy Holly and the Crickets performing “Peggy Sue.” I nodded at Rory, who looked up at the picture of him and his dad with Buddy and the gang.

“Did you see Lennox peeking in the door?” Jake asked, laughing. “He couldn’t stand it that the press conference was still going after he left.”

“There’s still a lot I don’t get,” Clarence said. “Why would Glissan and Barrows take those chances? Why leave the wineglasses, use the noose, the insulin bottles, and leave Melissa’s chain on the professor?”

“For Jack, maybe it was trying to play fair, give us a chance to catch him if somehow he didn’t work the case. For Noel, it was arrogance. Criminal masterminds think they’re invincible. Jack often consulted me on cases, and it might look suspicious if he didn’t on this one. Noel figured from the beginning I’d probably visit the scene, see some evidence, maybe recognize the rope, learn about the Black Jack and the phone call. He wanted to play with me, unnerve me. It backfired.”

“I understand Jack never suspected that Noel killed Melissa,” Jake said. “But he had to figure out Noel had killed those other people, right?”

“Once Frederick and Hedstrom died, Jack had to know,” I said. “But he had a blind loyalty to Noel. If Jack confronted him, we’ll probably never know what was said.”

“What’s going to happen in court?” Clarence asked. “If they don’t allow your recording, is there enough evidence to convict him?”

“Noel’s a master of deception. He’ll convince his attorney he’s innocent. Maybe a jury too. Jack wouldn’t betray Noel, but Noel made sure evidence pointed to Jack. Melissa’s chain, the insulin bottles, the unwashed wineglass with Jack’s DNA, if the lab ever comes up with it. I can hear Noel suggesting to Jack it would honor Melissa to use her needle, insulin, and chain. But those could point to Jack, not Noel. Nobody but Jack and Linda would realize Noel’s connection to Melissa. He never thought he’d be exposed as Donald Meyer.”

“Noel really took Jack in, didn’t he?” Jake asked.

“Talk about irony,” I said. “They bonded by their grief at Melissa’s death, but the guy the Glissans bonded with, the one they wish had fathered their grandchildren, was their daughter’s killer. Jack befriends him, does stakeouts with him, golfs with him, drinks a toast to him in honor of Melissa, never suspecting this guy murdered his little girl.”

Jake shook his head. “And what jury would believe a man would plant his own fingerprints at the scene of a crime? He eliminated himself as a suspect by making himself a suspect, then proving he’d been framed. Wow.”

“By planting evidence against you,” Clarence asked.

“The gun wasn’t found until seven hours after the murder. He probably put it there after he knew we were investigating. Noel had practice producing fake prints—from what Phil told us, he could probably do it in two hours. In this case, he wouldn’t even have to find someone’s print. He plants his own prints, then puts the gun in the Dumpster. Manny finds it. It’s that simple.”

“Talk about things not being as they seem,” Clarence said. “His alibi. I know he looks like his brother, but wouldn’t you think one of those guys could tell the difference?”

“That bugged me too until I found out Noel had been going to the Do Drop Inn two or three times a week for just five weeks and always when they were watching a ball game. Eyes were on the television. He has the same build, same hair as his brother, voice almost identical. Maybe women sit around and study each other’s faces. These guys were staring at TV, beer, peanuts, lotto results, or pool balls, not at each other. He was hanging out with men who’d only seen him in a bar, say four times each, and always when they were drinking. He’d been there just enough for them to know his name and general appearance. Perfect alibi. They’d swear it was him, but a close facsimile would be good enough to fool them.”

“Speaking of Rodney Meyer, do you think they’ll find him?” Clarence asked.

“Who knows? I’m just grateful he let the officer go. Maybe he’s waiting for Noel in his hideout in the woods.”

“You said Noel had duplicated fingerprints before,” Jake said. “When was that?”

“Remember the Jimmy Ross murder? Killed by Lincoln Caldwell? You’ll read about this in the next few days when it’s official. Heck, maybe you’ll write about it. I called Phil and asked him to take a closer look at Lincoln Caldwell’s fingerprints. He said sure enough, same thing. Definite traces of glycerin. Fake prints.”

“You’re saying Noel killed Jimmy Ross?”

“And framed Lincoln Caldwell. Two for the price of one.”

“Where’s Caldwell?”

“In jail awaiting trial. So he thinks. Soon as the paperwork’s done—Manny’s on it now—Caldwell will be released. I’m going over to see him myself. Bringing him a box of chocolates.”

“Chocolates?”

“Flowers seemed inappropriate. I got those See’s chocolates. Classy. I had a couple to make sure they’re okay. Caldwell won’t notice.”

Rory brought three hot fudge sundaes. Clarence said he couldn’t, but after hearing us groan with ecstasy, he shot some insulin and dug in.

“I keep thinking about Rodney,” I said. “Donald claimed his brother’s the mean one. If that’s true, one of these days I might wake up dead.”

“One of these days we’ll each wake up dead,” Jake said. “The question is what we’ll wake up to. And whether we’ll be ready for it.”

“You know my favorite part?” Clarence asked. “What linked the professor to Melissa Glissan, before you saw her in the picture, was the phone number in the back of a book called
Why I Am Not a Christian
. The Lord sovereignly used that book, written as an argument against Him, to accomplish His purposes. In fact, if Jake hadn’t read through that book to the final page, you might not have solved this murder. So how about you follow through with your commitment and read
Mere Christianity
—or, better yet, the Bible?”

“Maybe I will,” I said. “But right now, I want to present you two with a gift.”

I pulled out a classy little bag, with two identical gifts in fancy wrapping paper. Clarence opened the perfectly tied ribbon while Jake ripped into his.

At the same time they said, “A fountain pen?”

“Rupert Bolin called this morning and had these sent over. I won a drawing.” I pulled another fountain pen from my pocket, same design and different color from theirs. “He reminded me that in an age of encroaching illiteracy, fountain pens are tools of articulation and civility. And since you write for a living, and I’m a budding novelist, I figure we can be the three literary amigos. Plus, Rupert says you can use them to write saucy letters to your wives.”