The Dead Detective (25 page)

“So you expected her to be promiscuous,” Jim said.

“Shit, it was a fact of life.” He leaned closer to them, lowering his voice in a mocking manner. “It was on TV, in the newspapers, it was no fucking secret. So, yeah, I expected it. I never went near the broad without a box of condoms in my pocket.”

“So you weren’t jealous of her other lovers,” Vicky said.

“No,” Nick shot back.

Harry looked at Jim. It was time for him to jump in. He did, and he came in hard.

“You’re a liar,” he snapped, his eyes cold and hard on Nick.

“Fuck you,” Nick responded weakly. He hadn’t anticipated the sudden turn, the hard edge to Jim’s body language. He thought he was in control and it had taken him by surprise.

“You were jealous of every man who had ever been with her. She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman you’d ever had. Men saw her on television and sat in their living rooms wanting her. And now
you
had her. You, Nick Benevuto, a short, fat, aging womanizer, who could only get a woman when he could browbeat or threaten her into it. And you weren’t going to let this one slip away. You weren’t going to share her with anybody. So you started following her, and when you caught her with that pathetic salesman, all dressed up like a cowboy, you flipped out and killed them both.”

“Prove it. It’s all bullshit!”

Harry watched Jim bear in, ignoring Nick’s denial.

“And when you realized what you’d done, you knew you had to do two things. First, you had to move the body so it was sure to come under county jurisdiction, where you’d have some involvement in the investigation. And second, you knew people were watching her, and that somebody might have seen your department car at Darlene’s house, might even have written down the license plate, so you had to cover yourself, you had to alter department records so they never showed you taking that particular car out.”

“It’s bullshit and you know it.”

Again, Jim ignored him. “And then you found out that Bobby Joe Waldo knew about you and Darlene, so you went to him and threatened him, scared the living hell out of him. But Harry Doyle was on his case; had him named as a suspect because people had seen him at Darlene’s house. And you knew Harry was good, you knew he’d break him down eventually, and that the little punk would give you up to save himself. So this afternoon you went to see him, didn’t you?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I was never anywhere near that dope-peddling little prick. I never even met the son of a bitch.”

“You went to him and you killed him, just like you killed Darlene. You killed him because you knew he’d not only tell Harry about you and Darlene, about how you’d threatened her and blackmailed her into having sex with you, but that he’d tell him how you were threatening him to keep his mouth shut. You knew Harry would break him eventually, and so you had no choice. It was a ball rolling downhill and you couldn’t stop it.”

“The kid minister is dead?”

Harry noted the genuine shock on Nick’s face. If he was acting, he’d missed his calling in life.

“Stop the innocent act, Nick,” Vicky said. “If you want to show us you had nothing to do with this, let us toss your apartment, right now, tonight.”

Harry could see the wheels turning in Nick’s head. He was clearly thinking about what they might find there if he allowed a search. But it wasn’t necessarily what they might find about Darlene or Bobby Joe Waldo. Harry knew if they tossed his apartment and found the duplicate evidence he kept at home, he might easily face a suspension. Very few cops, if any, were clean as the driven snow. If the department wanted to get something on you, there was always something they could find.

“Let me think about it?” Nick said.

“Think about it for how long?” Jim asked.

“A day or two,” Nick said, knowing it was more than they’d agree to, but also knowing they’d have a tough time getting a search warrant any faster.

“Just enough time to clean out the place,” Vicky said. “That’s bull.

Would you give a suspect a day or two?”

“So now I’m a suspect? I thought I was a brother cop.”

“You’re both,” Jim said.

Nick leaned forward again, glaring at him. “If I wanted to toss a suspect’s crib, I’d get a search warrant. Maybe you should do that, rookie.”

“So you’re refusing?” Vicky asked.

“You bet your ass I’m refusing. And as far as I’m concerned, this interview is over.”

Nick sat back in his chair, stone-faced, hands in his lap. Harry noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. He was scared, and he should be scared. Harry was sure murder charges would never hold up. But Nick had to know they could be filed. Mistakes had been made before. Harry still didn’t make him for either murder. It just didn’t add up, and he’d fight filing charges against Nick. But at best the guy’s career had been tarnished beyond redemption. Even if he remained with the department, it would never again be in a position of trust or authority.

“You still don’t make Nick for either murder?” Vicky’s tone was pure incredulity.

“Are you going to back us on a warrant?”

“Go for your warrant,” Harry said. “I agree he’s a viable suspect. I just don’t think he’s our guy.”

“And who do you think is?” Jim asked.

Harry studied his shoes for a moment, considering how much he wanted to say. “I still think it’s someone connected to Bobby Joe’s church. And I think he knew who that person was, and it was somebody who really scared the hell out of him.”

“You said his father scared him to death,” Vicky said.

“No, this wasn’t someone who just intimidated him. This was somebody who made Bobby Joe believe he’d be killed if he ever talked. But his father was part of it. His father sent out a call asking his parishioners to get something on Darlene. Bobby Joe answered that call—that’s how he met Darlene. But our killer answered it too, and Bobby Joe knew it. That’s what eventually got him killed. The parents of the kid Darlene molested gave me a copy of a church bulletin where that call from Reverend Waldo was repeated. That’s the only thing that was taken from my house when the killer broke in. That’s the connection, that church bulletin. So I’m going to find out why it was important enough to make our killer risk breaking into my house. And when I do, I’ll know who killed Darlene and Bobby Joe.”

“I don’t buy it, Harry,” Vicky said. “It still could have been Nick Benevuto. Bobby Joe knew about him and his connection to Darlene. And Nick smells to high heaven on this. The only thing we haven’t been able to do is place him at the scene. When we get our warrant, we’ll do that. In the meantime, I need people watching his house to keep him from removing any evidence.”

“I’ll assign the two Tarpon detectives, Davis and Deaver. You two can alternate with them, take turns sitting on him. One at a time, six-hour shifts each.”

“That’s going to slow us down,” Vicky complained.

“I can’t help it,” Harry said. “Give it thirty-six hours. If you don’t get a warrant by then, you’re not going to get one. But right now I can’t spare any more manpower.”

“You can’t spare it for a suspect you don’t believe in,” she said.

Harry gave her a long, hard look. “That’s right, Vicky, not for a suspect I don’t believe in.”

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

I
t was ten o’clock when Harry finally made it home
. Jocko Doyle was seated on the living room sofa, glasses perched on the end of his nose, a Stuart Kaminsky mystery in his lap. Harry noticed he had his old, off-duty.38 snub nose on his hip, a weapon he rarely wore since his retirement from the Clearwater P.D.

“Where’s Rubio?” Harry asked.

“He’s out on the lanai watching TV.”

“Jeanie?”

“In bed, asleep,” Jocko said.

Harry started toward the bedroom.

“Hold up a minute,” Jocko said, stopping him. “There was a call from that assistant state’s attorney, Cal Morris. He’s got some info on your mother you need to hear.” He raised his chin indicating a pad on the coffee table. “His number’s there; he said you could call whenever you got in.”

Harry immediately punched the number into his cell phone. Cal Morris answered on the third ring.

“I’ve got an odd situation here, Harry,” he began. “First, let me explain that the prison called our office because they don’t have an address or a number for you. They said you never filled out their forms to arrange contact with your mother, or with the prison.”

“That’s right. I didn’t want contact.”

“Well, it seems that’s what has screwed up their notification about the parole. Now they’ve got something else. They contacted us as her prosecutor, because they couldn’t reach you and thought we might be able to. Seems your mother has asked to meet with you prior to her parole hearing. It’s not something you have to do, but I advise you to consider it.”

“Why? I have no interest in meeting with her.”

“If you’re going to oppose her release I advise you to do it. Don’t give her the opportunity to say that you haven’t had any contact with her for umpteen years and therefore have no solid basis to try and stop her from getting out.”

“I have her wacko letters,” Harry snapped.

“Yes, but letters and personal contact are like apples and oranges. You need to be able to say that you’ve read her letters
and
seen her and feel that she’s a danger to you. It will make your argument a great deal stronger. The prison has set a time—nine a.m. Sunday morning.”

“How efficient of them,” Harry said. “Tell me something, Cal. Why does the state seem so anxious to let her the hell out?”

“They’re overcrowded, Harry, and overcrowding makes life difficult for them. Whenever that happens they look to see who they can cut loose. The people who’ve already done heavy time are usually the safest bet. That’s how your mother ended up on the list.”

Harry closed his eyes, let out a breath, and surrendered to the madness of it. “I’ll think about it, Cal. I appreciate your call and your advice.” He closed the cell phone and looked at his father.

“I know,” Jocko said. “Cal filled me in when he called. I think you should consider his advice.” He stood and headed for the door. “I’m going home. Think over what I said.”

Harry nodded, but said nothing. It was Friday. The meeting with his mother—if he decided to go—was two days away. He walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Jeanie was lying on her side, facing him. He could see the bruise where the killer had hit her. It crept from her hairline out on to her forehead. He bent down and kissed the area lightly.

Jeanie stirred and opened her eyes. “Hi,” she said, her voice heavy with sleep.

“How do you feel?”

“I’m fine. I had a great day. Your father and mother were wonderful, and Rubio is just a hoot. I’m learning a whole new language.”

“Street,” Harry said.

“Yes, that’s what he calls it. He’s pretty cute for a twelve-year-old.”

“Twelve going on forty,” Harry said.

“He thinks you’re pretty special too. He says you can hear what dead people are saying.”

“Only on Thursdays.”

Harry leaned down and kissed her forehead again, staying well away from the bruise.

“Come to bed,” Jeanie said. “You look exhausted.”

“I will.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

R
everend Waldo’s secretary looked at Harry
as though he had just crawled out from under a rock.

“Do you realize what we’re doing here?” she asked. “We are all in working early on a Saturday morning to prepare for Reverend Bobby Joe’s funeral. We do not have time to waste satisfying the curiosity of a police officer.”

She was a slender woman somewhere in her mid-fifties, with a flat chest and a pinched face. Her graying hair matched her dress and was worn in a tight bun, and her dull, brown eyes were obscured by rimless glasses. There was no wedding ring on her finger and Harry doubted anyone had ever given her one. The name plate on her desk said
Emily Moore.

Harry placed his hands on the edge of her desk and leaned in toward her. He kept a smile on his face but it was not a warm one. Emily Moore inched her chair away from him.

“Ms. Moore, Reverend Bobby Joe didn’t die of a heart attack. He didn’t die of cancer, or as the result of an automobile accident. Someone came to his home and sliced his throat open with a very sharp knife. He was murdered, Ms. Moore, and I’m the police officer who’s been assigned to find out who butchered him like a Christmas turkey. So you stop whatever you’re doing, and you go find me a copy of that church bulletin, or I will slap handcuffs on you, put you in the back of my car, drive you to headquarters, and charge you with obstruction of justice, after which you will be strip-searched, photographed, fingerprinted, and put in a holding cell with some very unpleasant people. Do we understand each other?”

The woman’s lips began to tremble as she tried to speak, but no words came out. Her eyes filled with tears. Harry leaned in a bit closer. “Now,” he said. His voice was little more than a whisper.

Emily Moore began opening drawers in her desk; then the cabinet behind her. She rose from her chair and went to a small closet that seemed to hold an abundance of office supplies and began rummaging through them.

Harry thought about what he had said to the woman. He had little doubt Rourke would hear about it sooner or later. He always seemed to hear about Harry’s indiscretions. He’d probably think that threatening a spinster church lady with a strip search was a bit over the top. A smile began to form on his lips. It probably made her whole day, he told himself.

Emily Moore came out of the supply closet with her eyes brimming with tears again. “I don’t understand it,” she said. “We always have copies left over, but there aren’t any.” She stared at Harry, as if she expected him to whip out his handcuffs.

“You think someone took them or tossed them out?”

“I can’t think of anything else that could have happened. But they’re not supposed to be thrown out. We always overprint so we have a supply. I also always keep a few back issues in my desk. But everything is gone.”

“What about getting one from someone who still has a copy at home?”

“The issue is several months old, but it’s possible. Some of our older parishioners do keep them. I could make a few calls and see if I could find one.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Harry tried a genuine smile, but Emily Moore still looked tearful.

You’re an ogre, he told himself. His cell phone interrupted the thought.

“Doyle,” he said.

Vicky’s voice came over the line, sounding a bit shaky. “You better get over to Nick Benevuto’s condo,” she said.

“Why? What happened?”

“I just found his body. Oh God, Harry. He ate his gun.”

Nick’s body was slumped in a chair, his head thrown back, the ultra-suede upholstery soaked with his blood. Harry stepped in close. Nick’s mouth was open, showing several broken teeth and badly burned tissue. A Glock 9mm automatic lay at his feet.

Harry had seen the bodies of other cops who decided to eat their guns; civilians as well. The back of Nick’s head was gone, the exit wound having blown out a section of skull the size of his fist. He looked up at the ceiling. Blood and bone and brain matter were spread over a three-foot swath. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves as he studied Nick’s face. Normally the face of a victim spoke to him; told him things. Not this time. Nick’s features were distorted, the eyes bulging almost to the point of coming out of their sockets. The broken teeth and burnt tissue indicated he had placed the barrel of the Glock into his mouth, which had internalized the explosion of gunpowder to the point that it distorted his features. He looked down at the weapon, noting that it was still cocked and ready to fire, something the pistol did automatically whenever it was discharged.

“There’s still a live round in the chamber. As soon as it’s dusted for prints let’s remember to put the safety on.”

“You should come and see this, Harry.” Vicky was standing next to a computer that was set up on a small desk. Even from across the room he could see a message printed on the screen.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s a confession. It covers all three murders—Darlene, the cowboy, and the Waldo kid.”

Harry walked to the computer, but before he started reading he checked a nearby printer, making sure it was loaded with paper. Using a pencil to move the mouse he hit the print tab. “I want a hard copy, just in case we lose what’s on the screen.”

The printer started whirring as Harry began reading Nick’s confession. It essentially followed Vicky’s theory that Nick had fallen in love with Darlene Beckett only to find that she cheated on him every chance she got. He began following her, the confession said, and when he came upon her on a small beach in Tarpon Springs he lost his temper and killed both her and her lover. He had then moved Darlene’s body to the Brooker Creek Preserve to make certain county homicide detectives were called in to handle the case. Later, he learned that Bobby Joe had also been romantically involved with Darlene, and that Harry Doyle was pressing him for information. He was certain that Darlene had told Bobby Joe about him—about their affair and subsequent threats he had made against her. He went to see Bobby Joe and tried to coerce him into silence. But he soon realized how weak the young minister was and decided that sooner or later he would spill everything he knew to save himself. Bobby Joe had left him no choice. The confession ended with Nick’s name printed at the bottom of the two-page statement.

Harry walked back to the body without saying a word. Vicky followed, a quizzical look on her face.

Harry removed the camera from his crime scene case and took photos of the body, the gun, and the blood splatter on the ceiling. He then began to carefully search the body.

“Harry, talk to me,” Vicky said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Harry turned to the sound of the front door opening. Jim Morgan stood in the doorway staring at the body. He looked shaken and Harry wondered if it were due to the fact that he had never seen this type of head wound before, or if it was because he was seeing it on a brother cop, someone he had known.

“I called Jim and told him what happened,” Vicky said.

“Put on gloves and shoe coverings before you come in,” Harry warned. He looked at Morgan closely. “If you think you’re going to be sick don’t come in here.”

Vicky went to Harry’s case and retrieved the necessary materials and brought them to Morgan. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Morgan nodded absently. “Yeah, I’ll be alright. I just feel responsible, like I helped push him into this.”

“If you want to stay in homicide you better change that thinking,” Harry snapped. “This state executes people. You can’t do your job if you’re going to worry about people ending up dead.” He watched Morgan nod a weak agreement and turned back to his search of Nick Benevuto’s body.

Harry removed and bagged all the items in his pockets; checked his wallet and bagged it as well. Vicky stood at his side writing each item in her notebook. Harry then began a close examination of Nick’s clothing, carefully searching for any hairs or fibers he might want to point out to the forensic team that was now on its way. Nick was dressed in a T-shirt and baggy khaki cargo shorts. His feet were bare.

Harry caught a glimpse of something in Nick’s gray hair. He leaned in closer to get a better look, holding his breath to keep away the smell of blood and brain matter.

“What is it?” Vicky asked.

“A feather,” Harry said.

“Is it from the chair?”

Harry looked at the chair. “No. The chair’s filled with foam.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I don’t like it.”

Harry began walking around the room, taking a mental picture of his surroundings. “How did you find the body?” he asked Vicky.

“It was my turn on the surveillance. Jim had done the first six-hour shift and I came in and took over about five a.m. We figured we’d get our shifts out of the way first so it wouldn’t interfere with other stuff we had to follow up on. Anyway, about seven-thirty this neighbor starts banging on Nick’s door, but he doesn’t answer. After she leaves, I went up to see what the problem was and I hear loud music coming from inside—I mean really loud, louder than any adult is going to want to listen to, and certainly nothing a person could sleep through. At that point I knocked too, and got nothing. So I asked the manager to open the door. As soon as it swung back the smell hit me and I knew. I went in, saw him, checked his pulse— pretty needlessly—turned off the CD that was playing, and called you. Then I secured the scene, radioed in a report, asked for uniform backup, and notified forensics.”

Harry looked around the room again, found the location of the CD player. He didn’t touch the machine, or any of its settings, leaving that for the CSI team. “The CD in there is the one that was playing when you came in?”

“Yes, it is.” A note of concern crossed Vicky’s face.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

Vicky shook her head. “It’s gospel music. I just never figured Nick for gospel.”

Harry went to the cabinet that held Nick’s other CDs and began looking through them. “There’s no other gospel here,” he said.

“That doesn’t prove anything in itself,” Vicky said.

Harry let it go and began to look through the apartment. Nick had picked it up considerably since his earlier visit. He entered Nick’s bedroom and immediately noticed that the television set opposite the bed was on and in a paused position. He recognized the format as a pay-per-view movie. He located the remote and using a pencil hit the play button. The TV restarted a Bruce Willis film that Harry had seen. Nick had been almost halfway through the film when he’d hit the pause button.

He turned and saw Vicky and Jim in the bedroom doorway. “He was watching a pay-per-view film and was halfway through it.”

Vicky nodded. “So that means he paused the film, got up, went into the living room, wrote out a confession, turned on the CD with the volume way up to cover the sound of a shot, and then sat down and blew his brains out. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?”

“What do you mean?” Jim asked. “Nobody came in here during the six hours I was watching.”

“Well, about five-thirty I did drive up to that all-night gas station to take a pee.” She looked at Harry and Jim in turn. “Hey, I can’t pee in a bottle like you guys can.”

“So you were gone how long?” Harry asked.

“Fifteen, twenty minutes tops.”

Harry turned to Jim. “And you’re certain nobody could have gotten in while you were outside?”

“Sure, it’s possible if they came in and went out through a rear window. We were concerned about Nick leaving with evidence, so I was positioned where I could see his front door and his car. I wasn’t worried about anybody climbing in.”

“Did you talk to the neighbor who was knocking on the door?” he asked Vicky.

“No. There hasn’t been time.”

“Let’s do it now. Jim, you stay on the front door, make sure nobody comes inside except the CSI team. When the uniforms get here tell them to secure the scene, including Nick’s car in the parking lot. Show them which one it is.”

“You got it,” Jim said.

The neighbor’s door was answered by a woman in her mid-thirties, who looked as though she had not had a good night’s sleep. She was a tall, slender blonde with large, clearly augmented breasts, and Harry wondered how many times Nick had hit on her during the time they’d been neighbors. The woman gave her name as Terry Hogan and said she had lived in her condo for three years and had known Nick well.

“Yeah, that was me pounding on his door,” she said. “All of a sudden this music started, like real loud, you know. And it wasn’t even dawn yet. I tried calling him, I mean he’d given me his number and all, but I couldn’t get an answer.”

“What time was it when the music started?” Harry asked.

“It was like three a.m.,” she said. “I put up with it for a couple of hours, threw a pillow over my head, and went back to sleep, but it kept waking me up. Finally I just went over there and started pounding on the door, but he never answered.”

“Did you go outside, or look out the window when the music first woke you?” Vicky asked.

“No, should I have done that? I mean did Nick get robbed or something?”

Harry found Pete Rourke standing over Nick’s body when he returned to the apartment.

“This isn’t the way I wanted this case to end,” he said. “Not with a confession and suicide by one of my own men.”

“I’m not sure it’s a suicide, or that the confession is legit,” Harry said.

Rourke’s head gave a quick jerk and he threw a questioning look at Vicky.

“I’m not sure it’s legit either. I want to wait for CSI to have a look, but I agree with Harry. It just doesn’t smell right,” she said.

Rourke turned back to Harry. “Talk to me.”

Harry went through the evidence he’d found at the scene. Rourke nodded as Harry explained each contradictory piece. When he had finished Rourke shook his head.

“Harry, I’d give anything to have it not be one of my guys, but if we can’t prove this isn’t a suicide, we’re not going to be able to ignore a written confession found in a locked room with a cop who blew his own head off. Let’s see if CSI can come up with anything that will nail this down as a homicide.”