Out of the Blues (28 page)

W
ills led Spangler through the outer door of the office holding his elbow, lifting it when he wanted him to go forward and pressing it down for him to stop. Spangler's wrists were cuffed behind his back, his ankles shackled. He was dressed in a tan prison jumpsuit that he wore with aplomb, collar turned up just so. His light hair was buzz-cut, sharp and close. As he entered he looked around the office as if assessing a hotel suite for its suitability. His small, black eyes briefly acknowledged Salt, seated in a corner chair of the waiting area, then passed over Rosie as if she were part of the furniture.

After Wills had escorted Spangler through the inner door, Rosie looked at Salt. “That is one creepy fellow. He looked like he was thinking of buying the building.”

“That's exactly what I was thinking,” Salt said. “I'm going to go watch Wills change that. Word is he does great interrogations.”

After giving them time to get Spangler settled, she went on back, passing Huff, Wills, Gardner, and the district attorney as they stood
in the hall outside the interview room. She entered the observation room adjacent to the room where Spangler now sat facing the two-way mirror. His arms were extended on the small office table in front of him, relaxed, legs stretched beneath the table. He bent his elbows and waggled his fingers at the mirror. Huff, the DA, and Gardner joined her in the small room.

Spangler remained in his unconcerned posture, chin jutting, literally looking down his nose at Wills as he came in the room. Wills plopped a fat file on top of the table. “Your lawyer is on the way. He called to say he'll be here shortly and not to question you before he gets here. I wouldn't do that anyway.”

Spangler nodded at Wills, then at the mirror. “Bit of a cliché this room, don't you think?”

“Oh, you mean the mirror?” Wills said. “Well, yeah. Some folks don't notice or think about it at all. You'd be surprised. It's not like we try to hide it. But just so you know and all our cards are on the table, on the other side of that mirror today are some of my colleagues, my boss, and the district attorney. Oh, and there are speakers in there. This room is wired.” Wills pointed up at the ceiling. “And now that you ask, I'll tell you—not asking questions, mind you, just telling you, Mr. John Spangler—that today—” Wills leaned halfway across the table. “Today and today only, we, my colleagues and I, will be offering you a onetime, once-in-a-lifetime deal.”

Spangler turned and lifted his head toward the blank wall.

“I see you're not interested, Mr. Spangler. And perhaps your lawyer will advise you otherwise, but between just us—” Wills smiled and swept his arm toward the mirror. “Between us, today we're going to give you this one opportunity to avoid having to deal with that pesky death penalty thing. Your lawyer may or may not concur.”

“I'll wait to speak to you when he gets here,” Spangler said.

“Don't blame you one bit. That's the smartest way to go,” said Wills. “But here's our offer, and don't worry, I'll repeat this for your esteemed attorney. I'm sure he'll be here soon, and I'll repeat the offer, but here's the deal.” Wills removed a series of photos from the file and laid them out in rows covering the desktop. “Here's what we have.” Wills walked behind Spangler, looking over and reaching across his shoulder, spreading the display of photos with his fingers. He cleared his throat and continued. “Now, I'm a hardened homicide detective, Mr. Spangler, but you being a psychopath and all are able to detect and mimic emotions even if you don't experience them. So you know that these photos of these little dead girls and their mother cause me to anguish and want justice for them. These photos make me want you dead.” His voice had changed. It came through the speakers of the observation room tight and straining, pinching his words. The men standing in the room with Salt looked down from the window and away from each other. Wills slapped the wall behind him, loud enough to rattle the window.

“I want my lawyer,” said Spangler, sitting up.

“And have him you will,” said Wills. “But I'm going to continue just a bit, not questioning, mind you. Have I asked you even one question, Mr. Spangler? No, I haven't. That was rhetorical, by the way.

“So to continue with this once-in-a-lifetime deal, we also have what's called the ‘dying declaration.' Dying declaration. Isn't that a powerful phrase, ‘dying declaration'? The alliteration is wonderful, don't you think? I love saying it in court—‘dying declaration,' ‘dying declaration.'” Wills bowed to an imaginary jury. “Anyway, we have the dying declaration of one Mr. DeWare Lovelace, and he says in his dying declaration that you were responsible for these little girls' deaths.” Once again Wills waved his hand toward the photos. “He said that you were responsible for their deaths by arranging for him
to kill these children and their mother. We believe that you arranged their deaths at the behest of Arthur Solquist, their father and husband. And in that behest may lie your once-in-a-lifetime, one-day-only chance to avoid the sure-as-shit Georgia death penalty.” Wills aggressively swept the photos into a pile and closed them into the murder book. “Those two beautiful little girls were supposed to be at their grandmother's that night.

“Still haven't asked you a question, have I? That was again rhetorical,” said Wills, taking a paper towel from his pocket and blowing his nose. “But, Mr. Spangler, that's not all. You know these narcotics charges that we're holding you on from the club? They won't stick, even though it was your club and your dope. But the war on drugs is a joke and we know it. So we'll not even talk about that, but you should know that we have another individual that will bear witness to your involvement in arranging the deaths of the Solquist children. But more important, we're going to interview Arthur Solquist next, and he may get the deal we're offering you today. He may say he only confided his concerns about his wife's knowledge of the shady dealings between you and him, and that you, without his knowledge, initiated the contract with DeWare Lovelace. That you felt your business was threatened by Mrs. Solquist, and therefore
you
should be the one the jury should seek the death penalty for. Someone, after all, should pay. He'll say he never meant for you to, well, do what you did.” Wills picked up the file, tucked it under his arm, and turned to go out of the room. At the door he paused and looked back at Spangler. “Oh, and there's all those now-empty storage units and the paper trail of your dirty money leading us right to Counselor Solquist.”

Spangler didn't move as the door closed. He leaned back very slightly in the chair, his arms once again resting on the table, chin
raised, staring in the direction of the two-way mirror. Then his eyes narrowed as if he were trying to focus on some distant point.

—

T
HE
LAWYER
wasn't pleased that Wills had spoken to John Spangler before he got there but readily made the deal. Spangler was going to prison for life and Arthur Solquist would go to trial to try to avoid the death penalty. In the presence of his lawyer, John Spangler signed a full and detailed confession.

E
very surface, even the exposed crossbeams, held glowing candles that blurred the in-progress construction of Wills' dining-kitchen area. Three white candles in Mason jars sat in the middle of the table, and beside each were sprigs of white jasmine. The Rotties were in the backyard with new marrowbones. They were celebrating Wills' closure of the Solquist case and Salt's healed injuries; bruises gone, stitches out, her hand and arm freed from the brace.

“I've never seen you in a dress,” said Wills.

“I was in the thrift store on Moreland getting some things for Pearl, and I found it.” She looked down, smoothing the bodice of the cream-and-white cotton-lace shift, the small unravelings hardly noticeable.

“Well I've got just the accessory.” He got up and left the room. Salt took a sip of the white wine that had accompanied one of Wills' best-ever meals, Vegan Divan. They'd had dark chocolate squares for dessert with the last of the bottle of white wine. She licked her thumb and finger.

Wills came back and stood behind her, once again lowering the
Saint Michael and chain around her neck. “I hope this continues to have power and that it gives you positive memories rather than ones of DeWare.”

She turned to him, holding the medallion to her chest. “I thought it had to be kept in evidence. And you've gotten it repaired and cleaned.” She lifted the gold Saint Michael and threaded the chain through her fingers.

Wills knelt down beside her. “The photos will be good enough evidence—and your testimony. I cleaned and fixed it. You look so beautiful.”

—

“
W
HERE
DID
you get those blue eyes?” her father asked like always.

“From you, Daddy,” she answered like always.

They were standing in a large church walking up the center aisle. “Are you giving me away?” she asked.

“Never,” said her father. “Never.”

—

S
ALT
WOKE
with a start. Down the street somewhere a dog barked, too far away to be Pansy or Violet on the back porch in their dog beds. Wills was asleep beside her, his hand on the pillow next to her face, on his fingers a slight fragrance of chocolate.

The dog in the distance barked in threes,
Aruff, aruff . . . aruff!
Then he'd be silent for half a minute.
Aruff, aruff . . . aruff!

—

“
B
LACK
FOLKS
used to say that white people smell like wet dogs,” said Sister Connelly.

“I've heard that before,” said Salt. Pepper had told her that one night in their rookie days. “I have been dreaming about a dog.”

She and the old woman stood looking out at the downpour from under the portico at the front of Sister's small church. Salt always noted Wednesday nights, because when this had been her beat she'd try to come by to sit in the patrol car and listen to the weekly choir practice. Knowing that Sister always walked, Salt had come and for the first time gone inside and sat listening to the old hymns and gospel music, her uniform no longer a distraction.

“Legba always has a dog with him. Someone trying to get a message to you from the unseen world?” The old woman's smile was sideways.

Salt thought about it. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe.”

“Some a' that ol' voodoo true. You carrying Legba around your neck—oh, I know high church say that's Saint Michael. But it's all the same big thing. We get messages from another place, call it the dream world, call it your unconscious.”

Salt opened the umbrella, took Sister's hand, and wrapped it through her own arm for support going down the steps. In the car Sister shook rain off a collapsible plastic rain bonnet. “I don't mind the rain, 'specially these spring showers.”

They both sat watching the distant lightning and clouds moving. The windows of the old stone church were still lit from within, each window depicting one of Jesus' disciples. “Your choir was in top form tonight,” said Salt.

“We were, weren't we? You got a favorite?”

“That was a rockin' ‘Roll Back Old Jordan,'” Salt said. “I love the old stuff.”

“So does everybody if they admit it. We got these old songs in our head from way back. It's like in movies—they play in the background of our lives, white and black. We got the same music going on in our heads.”

“The big new churches don't seem to do much of the old music, do they?” Salt asked.

“That's a symptom. The problem is that people try to forget the past. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for progress and creating new music, art, computers, all that. But you can't do it without honoring the ones who've gone before and how hard it was, the good and the bad. It's what brought you to here.” Sister patted the seat between her and Salt. “Like in the Bible they saw fit, thought it was important to include all those ‘begats.' Cain and Abel begat their sons and Noah and Moses begat theirs. It's important to know your begats. Slaves and convicts begat the roads and the tracks that begat the railroads, and the railroads begat the buildings and banks, and they begat this city.”

“And the work begat the music,” Salt added, humming as she turned on the ignition. They worked out a little harmony for “Roll Back Old Jordan” on the short drive to Sister's place.

“You still smell like a wet dog.” Sister grinned and got out of the car, leaving Salt laughing, and went through the gate and up the walk of her lush yard.

T
he Homicide office was all but deserted. Rosie had left for the day. During these last hours before the end of the shift, knowing people would be out, most of the evening-watch detectives were taking advantage of the first summer-like night of the season to work the streets. So all around Salt the cubicles and gray-carpeted aisles were empty. One of the harsh fluorescent tube lights in the recessed ceiling flickered behind its plastic panel. Huff's presence in his office across the room, the only one of the wall offices lit, the rest all dark windows and closed doors along the wall, somehow made the unit seem even more desolate. The silence of the space distracted Salt—silence punctuated by the occasional muted rumble from the elevator on the other side of the offices or the pings and pops of pipes expanding and contracting behind the walls of the old building. Salt was used to the funky rhythms of the street, a backbeat to her days and nights, not these lonely Homicide sounds.

She stared at the notes she'd just added to the e-form on the
monitor.
Call to Melissa Primrose, 8:47 p.m. this date—In response to my query, Primrose recalled that there were two children at Michael Anderson's house the night before his death. She said that both the children were African-American boys, approximately eleven or twelve years old, one dark and one light-complexioned. She hadn't seen how the boys arrived, if they were with anyone. She just recalled them being there for a brief period of time and hadn't even seen them interact with anyone.
Salt felt sure she knew who those boys were. She printed the notes and added them to the file. She checked her e-mail, browsed the Internet, straightened the already neat desktop, and finally sat still for a minute, then looked down the aisle. She got up and headed to Huff's lit office.

He was behind his desk and just reaching for his Handie-Talkie when she got to the door. “Sarge, sorry, Huff, I just got off the phone with—”

He held up his hand to indicate he was monitoring the radio and simultaneously turning up the volume knob.

“Raise any negotiator,” dispatch called.

“4144, go ahead,” they heard Felton respond.

“4144, we have a hostage situation, man with a knife at 2199 East Avenue, Southwest.”

“4144, copies,” acknowledged Felton.

“I didn't know Felton was a negotiator,” Salt said to Sarge.

“He just completed his certification right before you came to the—”

“Wait, Sarge, that address, it's Big Calling.”

“I'll drive,” he said, grabbing his fedora from a wall hook.

Salt ran to her cubicle, picked up the Handie-Talkie, and grabbed her coat, shrugging it on as she followed Huff into the stairwell and out to the parking deck. “Warm for the coat, doncha think?” he said.

“Maybe.” She shut the car door.

Waiting for a break in traffic before turning out of the driveway, Huff cleared his throat, then cleared it again. “I'm not into all this touchy-feely stuff.”

She waited, then asked, “You mean the negotiator training, de-escalation?”

“Nonverbal communication, yeah, yeah.” He turned onto North Avenue. “Don't make me say it—come on.”

“What?”

“You, the coat—I know it was your dad's. I know. And the thing with Stone—I shouldn't have been such an asshole. My wife says it's good for me to say it.”

“Please don't. Don't and we'll say you did.”

“I'm sorry.” He made a bereft-like sob, then grinned at her, his teeth brightened by the passing lights.

—

L
ANDSCAPE
LIGHTING
on the grounds glared off the edifice of Big Calling Church, making a deep, sharp darkness of the surrounding areas. Other than the two patrol vehicles and Felton's Taurus parked beside the side door of the church, there was only a lone dull sedan parked beneath one of the pole lights in the vast asphalt lot. Sergeant Huff parked near the patrol cars, next to the same door that Salt had previously used when she'd been to the church the first time. A uniform officer stood at the door, and as they approached he held his hand out. “Sergeant Fellows said to let her know when anybody—chiefs, commanders—got here, and she'll come out.” The tall, young black officer had a military bearing, but there were streams of sweat running down the sides of his cheeks. The night was warm but not that warm. He stuck his head in the door, silently raised two fingers, and nodded into the sanctuary.

Fellows, the new sergeant Salt had talked to across from the shelter, came outside. She was pale and serious. “This is what we got. Your negotiator, Felton, is in there now talking to the subject. The first officer here”—she nodded at the officer in the doorway, who swiped sweat from his face with one finger while he both listened to his sergeant and monitored the inside of the church—“was dispatched to a silent alarm call at this address.

“When he got here, he found this door unlocked and partially open, so he called for backup and entered because he heard voices, specifically a kid crying.” She looked over at the officer, who nodded his confirmation of her account. “I arrived just minutes after he notified radio, and when I went in, he was trying to talk to the man who had the kid at knifepoint. Salt, it's Twiggs, the guy I pointed out to you at the shelter, Devarious Twiggs. When Twiggs first saw my officer, he jumped up like he'd been shot from the pew where they were sitting, and both he and the boy had their pants unzipped. Then Twiggs pulled the knife.” Sergeant Fellows released a long breath. “SWAT has an ETA of fifteen.”

“How's Felton doing?” Salt asked. “He establish rapport?”

“Twiggs is crying and shaking. I'm worried.” Fellows looked toward the dark interior of the sanctuary.

Sergeant Huff took out his notepad. “What's the guy's name again?”

“Sarge, I'm going in—give Felton some backup. I've had the de-escalation training.”

Huff nodded his head and continued to get the details from Fellows.

Inside, the cathedral-like space was dark except for the red exit signs, some spotlights on the dais, and wavy aqua reflections that floated around the walls. Behind the pulpit and between the choir lofts on either side, a waist-high crimson curtain had been retracted
along a brass rail, revealing the full-immersion, glass-sided baptismal tank. The water in the tank was lit so that congregants could view the preacher submerging the newly saved. Salt moved quietly along one wall, positioning herself close enough so she could hear without being a distraction.

“I was just comforting him—just comforting him,” Twiggs repeated over and over, crying and wiping his face on the inner sleeve of the arm that held the knife to the boy's throat, then using his other fist to swipe the top of his upper lip. The boy in the crook of Twiggs' arm was wide-eyed and trembling. “Be still, Thomas,” D.V. said to him. “I don't want this knife to cut you.”

Felton, standing twenty feet in front of Twiggs and the boy, in the center aisle, picked up the cue. “We know you don't want to hurt him. Put the knife down. Let's work this out.”

Salt thought Twiggs might have glanced at her. He took a breath, then dropped the arm he'd had around the child. The boy ran to Felton as Twiggs put the point of the knife into his own neck. Salt stepped up as Felton led the boy out. “I know about Midas, D.V. I think you've been hurt.”

Blood dribbled from his neck where the knifepoint had punctured the skin near his jugular. The knife was large, with a curved point. “No one will believe that I was keeping Thomas away from Midas.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling, a supplicant expression on his face. The wavy light gave the place a submerged feel.

“Isn't it time to let someone help . . . to let someone help you?” Salt stepped into the aisle.

“No, you don't understand.” Twiggs closed his eyes briefly, then popped them open. “I want to be Midas' right hand. I always wanted him, to be what he wants. Now he wants to get rid of me. I'm not stupid. Midas has chosen Thomas now.”

“Thomas? The boy with you tonight?” Salt slid the coat off her shoulders and down her arms, taking several more steps toward D.V.

“Don't come any closer,” he said.

“What about your faith, D.V.? Isn't the Bible all about salvation and how it's never too late to acknowledge our sins, the past, and how we got from there to here? I just talked to Melissa Primrose tonight, you remember, Mike Anderson's girlfriend. She remembered you and DeWare from the night before Mike died. You were just a kid, not much older than Thomas.”

D.V. sighed and shrugged, some of his energy draining.

“Put down the knife, D.V.,” she said.

He lowered his arm so that the point of the knife still punctured the skin but was no longer pulling at his vein. “I was twelve when Midas took me into his program. ‘Program.' More like a family for us. Most of us didn't have any kind of family. My mother was a full-time junkie.”

Salt folded the coat over her right forearm.

The sound of heavy vehicles arriving came from the parking lot. Blue lights bounced off the side door mingling with the aqua waves. Twiggs' eyes darted to the door, where a helmeted SWAT sergeant peered around the doorframe from the outside. “Oh, my God,” he said. “Tell them to go away.” He lifted his elbow again, straightening the angle of the knife.

“D.V.,” Salt said, “you can control this, how it goes. You do have some say. Those officers cannot leave. By law and the police department rules they have to stay until we resolve this. But you, by what you decide, right here and right now, can determine what happens. You can put down the knife and let me walk you out. I'll stay by your side.”

“I'm going to jail?”

“I think that what happened tonight will be evaluated by the court in terms of your lack of a criminal record and your history. You've
never been charged with any crime. You've been victimized and, for now, yes, you'll have to go to jail until a judge makes a preliminary determination.”

“I can't go to jail.”

“D.V.” She stepped to an arm's reach of him. “You can. My sergeant can call the corrections supervisor to make sure you'll be in a safe section, the medical ward of the jail.”

There were footsteps, a lot of heavy bodies moving, some clanking of gear against the marble walls behind and to the side of where Salt and D.V. stood. From the corner of her eyes Salt saw shapes along the sides of the sanctuary. D.V.'s eyes widened. Salt stepped to him and without hurry or haste laid her coat over his arm, hand, and the knife, which she pressed downward and away from his neck. She took the knife from his fingers. “Walk with me.”

—

S
ERGEANT
H
UFF
had made the call to the jail, and Devarious Twiggs was admitted to the medical unit on suicide watch. Felton stayed with Thomas until Child Protective Services arrived—he had the experience not to interview or let anyone else interview the boy, leaving that to the medical specialists and the forensic interviewers. Felton did have his suspicions, however. He said that without prompting, the boy kept saying, over and over, that Reverend Prince loves him.