Gnosis (33 page)

“Trust me. Eric won’t fall apart.”

“Word is he was pretty heroic during your little firefight.”

“He was also very lucky.”

“Luck ain’t a bad thing to have on your side, especially in a situation like the one you guys were in.”

“You should have seen him, Charlie, when he was charging at Stone. He had this look on his face that . . . that was pure hatred.”

“A little hate mixed in with luck—nothing wrong with that. Hell, if my partner had just been shot, I’d have a good deal of hate inside me. It’s only natural.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. But you don’t charge straight at a guy who’s aiming an assault rifle at you. That’s nuts.”

“I say give Eric a medal. He lowered the number of scumbags in the world by one.” Charlie drained his beer and set the bottle on the counter. “He also closed the Eli Whitehouse case for all of us.”

“I’m not so certain of that.”

“Why am I not surprised that you disagree with me?”

Dantzler shook his head. “It simply doesn’t play out for me that Stone is the shooter. Not those killings in ’eighty-two, not the recent ones. It simply won’t compute for me.”

Charlie said, “He kills those two boys in Eli’s barn, goes away to prison, the trail goes cold, he gets out of the joint, kills Rogers for who knows what reason, then has to take out the temp lady as insurance. That computes for me.”

“Come on, Charlie. There’s no way you buy that theory. Stone had the IQ of a frog. You want me to believe he could kill four people, manufacture and plant evidence, and get away with it?”

“He didn’t get away with it, Jack. He’s lying dead on a slab in the morgue.”

“But we didn’t catch him, Charlie. He bolted, got himself killed. We had nothing on him, nothing at all. If he had come in quietly with us, allowed us to interrogate and investigate, I would bet my pension we wouldn’t have found a scintilla of evidence connecting him to the killings in ’eighty-two or the most recent killings. We would have had nothing to hold him on. A first-year law student would have had him back on the street before you could say Perry Mason.”

“Need a replacement for that dead soldier?” Charlie said, standing. “I’m having another one.”

“Sounds good.” Dantzler finished his beer and dropped the empty bottle into the wastebasket. “Tell me, Charlie, do you really believe a blockhead like Rocky Stone would be capable of committing a double murder and then have the smarts to keep it quiet for twenty-nine years? I sure don’t believe it.”

“You’re assuming he did keep it quiet and didn’t spill his guts to someone along the way. Sure, he yapped about it. I’ll grant you that much. Probably bragged to a dozen guys over the years. Bums like him see crime as a badge of honor, so they brag about it. But those he confided in either didn’t give a shit, or they weren’t impressed, or they were too afraid of him to squeal. His secret stayed buried.”

“Charlie, if I thought for a second you believed a word of that, I would slap you upside the head. Try to knock some sense into you. Your theory has more holes in it than two dozen golf courses.”

“What holes bother you the most?”

“For starters, there’s no connection between Stone and those two boys killed in the barn. And there is no connection between Stone and Eli Whitehouse. Even if I conceded that Stone killed Colt Rogers and Devon Fraley, and I don’t concede it, there is nothing to link him to those first two murders. And that doesn’t even begin to touch the major hole in your theory—those fingerprints on Eli’s gun. How could an idiot like Stone get the gun out of the safe in the first place? And do you want me to believe he was intelligent enough to use the gun, somehow manage to get Eli’s prints on it, and leave it at the crime scene? You don’t buy that and neither do I.”

“You know what you’ve done, don’t you, Jack? You just validated the jury’s verdict. Based on what you laid out for me, Eli is guilty as sin. He’s the only one who could have killed those two kids in ’eighty-two. But you don’t buy it and neither do I.”

“No, I don’t.”

“And we both know he didn’t kill Rogers or the Fraley woman. So, it can only mean we are looking at two shooters.”

“No, there’s only a single shooter, Charlie. A pro, a hit man. I’m sure of it. There’s a connection that ties these four killings together, a link, and I can’t find it. But it’s out there, waiting to be uncovered.”

“Go talk to Eli again.”

“He won’t tell me. He’s afraid to.”

“Jack, this may turn out to be one of those times when you are going to have to do the one thing all detectives detest—walk away without finding the answer. I know that’s like telling you to cut off an arm, but sometimes the good guys don’t win. It’s a simple and painful fact of life. If Eli won’t help, you have no choice but to close the book on this one. Otherwise, it’s going to eat you up inside.”

“What . . . and lay all this on Rocky Stone?”

Charlie shrugged.

“I’m not walking away, Charlie. Someone out there has murdered four people and is still walking around free. I won’t rest until I bring him in.”

“Then you might not get much rest.”

Charlie was right.

Dantzler didn’t get much sleep during the night, and what he did get was far from restful. Mostly, there were brief periods of dozing interspersed between longer periods of wakefulness. There were other moments when he wasn’t certain whether he was asleep or awake. Either way, the previous day’s events ran through his mind like a TV news loop that keeps repeating itself over and over. He tried to shut it down but despite his best efforts he couldn’t. It played on and on, a newsreel filmed in hell.

Clear, vivid, dream-like images: Stone emerging from behind the fence, firing his weapon in all directions . . . Scott lying wounded and bleeding on the ground . . . chasing Stone across the street . . . seeing Eric flying past, hate etched on his face . . . Stone’s head exploding.

By five-fifteen, with hope for meaningful sleep now out of the question, Dantzler dragged himself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water felt like sharp needles being driven into his body, but the shower, more necessary than refreshing, served a dual purpose—it woke him up, and it melted away the previous night’s dreamy images. After dressing, he downed a bialy and a glass of orange juice, jumped in his car, and went to the office.

Bleary-eyed but wired, Dantzler was his desk by six-thirty, sitting alone, methodically working his way through a stack of long-neglected messages. The Homicide section was quiet, exactly how he wanted it. He felt miserable, as though he was in the midst of a supernova hangover. His head screamed, his eyes burned, and neither showed signs of letting up anytime soon. Worse still, his stomach felt like Mount Vesuvius, ready to erupt at any moment. Clearly, his medicinal holy trinity of Tylenol, Visine, and Pepto-Bismol were not worthy opponents against what ailed him this morning.

His first order of business was to call the hospital and check on Scott’s condition. The ICU charge nurse informed him that Scott was still heavily sedated, but his vital signs were good, he had no fever, and he seemed to be resting comfortably. Barring unforeseen complications, she concluded, Scott would likely be moved out of ICU within the next twelve hours. Dantzler thanked her and hung up.

From nine to eleven, Dantzler and Eric met with Don Andrews of IAB, Jeff Rosen, the chief of police, and Captain Bird, carefully reviewing the previous day’s events, getting it all on the official record in case questions arose. There shouldn’t be any questions, but . . . a black man had shot and killed a white man, and regardless of the circumstances or the victim’s shady background, anytime race is a factor, the potential for trouble hovered like some unforeseen powder keg set to explode at a moment’s notice.

Because of the potential for trouble, the narrative had to be nailed down, it had to be accurate, and it had to be above board in every way. To ensure that it was, the interview was recorded on video. By capturing it on tape, along with the date and time, no one could be accused of doctoring or altering the testimony.

By a stroke of pure luck, the testimony given by Dantzler and Eric—and later by Milt—had eyewitness corroboration. Neighbors Manny Sanchez and Byron Stoddard happened to be standing on Stoddard’s back porch when Stone began firing at Eric and Scott. They saw it all unfold, Scott going down after being hit, Stone racing across the street like a wild madman, Dantzler giving chase, Eric ending it all with a single shot to Stone’s head.

The Sanchez/Stoddard testimony wasn’t necessary, but it certainly couldn’t hurt. In today’s world, where race always seems to work its way into every equation, anything that could blunt potential trouble between blacks and whites was more than welcomed.

By noon, Dantzler was starving. He collared Eric and offered to buy his lunch. Eric quickly agreed. Until Eric was officially cleared by IAB, he was saddled with desk duty, which translated into answering phone calls, taking and delivering messages, and generally catching a lot of grief from his fellow detectives, who quickly christened him “Mr. Secretary.” The good-natured ribbing did little to placate Eric’s grumpiness. Like Dantzler, Eric was a man of action, greatly preferring leg work—real detective challenges—to sitting behind a desk shuffling papers. He would remain grumpy until he was allowed to get back in the field.

When they returned to the office, Dantzler went by his desk, grabbed a handful of folders, and went into the War Room. He hadn’t been in there more than ten minutes when Milt burst through the door holding a single file over his head and smiling like a young kid who had just been told he could have the biggest ice cream cone.

“Jack, you aren’t gonna believe what I’m about to lay on you,” Milt said, beaming. “First, though, you need to sit down. If you’re standing when you hear what I’ve got to say, you’ll fall down and bust your keester.”

“Okay, Milt,” Dantzler said, pulling back a chair and sitting. “What do you have that’s so earthshaking?”

“You won’t believe this, Jack.”

“Spill it, Milt, before I choke it out of you.”

“The late, departed Kevin Stone, a.k.a. Rocky, was Eli Whitehouse’s nephew.” Milt tossed the file onto the table. “His mother, Grace, was Eli’s older sister. She died of a massive stroke when Rocky was seven. Rocky was raised by his father, Vince. He was a plumber, owned his own business. No paper on him whatsoever. Unlike his wayward son, Vince was a law-abiding citizen. Paid his taxes, went to church, kept his nose clean. He died of a heart attack in ’ninety-four.”

This was big news, and Dantzler remained silent as he let it sink in. But big news didn’t necessarily translate into important news. It might mean an end to the case, or it might mean nothing at all. He let it roll around in his head for several minutes, hoping a clear meaning might emerge. It didn’t. Instead, he was bombarded with more questions.

“Well, what do think, Ace?” Milt finally asked.

“Interesting.”

“Interesting? That’s the best you can come up with?” Milt picked up the folder and pointed to it. “This is way more than interesting. This settles it, Jack. Rocky Stone killed those two kids in ’eighty-two, he killed Colt Rogers, and he killed Devon Fraley. Case closed.”

Dantzler remained silent.

Milt continued, “Rocky not only knew Eli, he was related to him, which means he had access to Eli’s house, to the safe, the gun. He—”

“You don’t know if he ever set foot in Eli’s house.”

“He was family, Jack. Eli’s nephew. I think we can safely assume he visited the Whitehouse residence.”

“I prefer facts to assumptions.”

“It plays, Jack. Rocky kills those two kids, leaves the gun at the scene, knowing Eli will take the fall, which is exactly what happened. Flash forward to a couple of weeks ago. Rocky gets pissed at Rogers, takes him out. Devon Fraley must have known or heard something, knew Rocky was coming to see Rogers, so she had to be silenced as well. It all falls into place. He’s the thread running through this entire scenario, from then to now.”