The Dead Detective (28 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
HREE

H
arry called Vicky from the prison parking lot
. She answered her cell phone on the first ring.

“I was hoping it was you,” she said. “How’d it go with your mother?”

“It went,” Harry said. “I told her something she needed to hear. Now I’ll have to wait for the parole hearing on Tuesday … Do you have anything for me?”

“I do.”

“Are you able to talk without being overheard?”

“Yes.”

“What happened with the background check?”

Harry sat in his car and listened to a story of childhood abuse that had been inflicted on their new primary suspect. As he listened Harry marveled at what now lay before him. He had just visited one child-abusing monster, his own mother. At the same time he was investigating the murder of a different child-abusing woman. And that investigation had now revealed one more monster, this one molded years earlier by the hands of yet another. He was silent for several moments when Vicky finished.

“Harry? Are you there?”

“Yes. Sorry. I was just thinking about everything you dug up. I’m starting to feel like we’re surrounded by monsters.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Have you heard from Marty LeBaron?”

Vicky let out a long sigh. “Marty got a warrant and searched his house and both his cars, but he hasn’t located the murder weapon yet. He did come up with positive blood evidence in his work vehicle. Blood that matches Darlene’s type that he found in the trunk, along with some on the driver’s-side floor mat of his personal car that we haven’t matched yet. It could be transfer evidence from one or more of the crime scenes, something that came off the shoes he was wearing. It’ll take some time for DNA to prove everything beyond doubt, but Marty’s pretty sure he’s good for these murders.”

“Get that stuff all on paper for me,” Harry said. “I’m about two and a half hours away, but when I get back I want to run this stuff by Lola Morofsky before we lay it out for Rourke and decide how to set him up.”

“It’ll be waiting for you when you get here,” Vicky said.

Lola Morofsky sat in her overstuffed chair, her short legs dangling way above the floor. The preliminary reports that Vicky and Marty LeBaron had prepared were resting in her lap as her index finger moved from point to point like a computer mouse.

“I would very much like to interview this man.”

“I imagine you will in time.”

“Is the arrest imminent?” There was a clear look of concern on her face.

“We need to force a move on the perp’s part,” Harry said.

“Force a move?”

“We don’t have the murder weapon yet. It’s obviously stashed somewhere that we couldn’t find. But …”

“But?” Lola pressed.

“The killer has gone after everyone who’s become a problem, and excluding Nick Benevuto who had to look like a suicide, the same weapon has been used in each murder. If another problem suddenly comes up, I think it will draw the killer out, murder weapon in hand.”

“Harry, please listen to me. You are dealing with a tormented killing machine here, someone whose mind was badly twisted by something that goes far back into his childhood. It would not surprise me to find that he has killed other abusive people over the years. This may or may not have begun with the killing of Darlene Beckett. We know that was an act of retribution for what she did to that young boy. But there may also have been other acts of retribution in the past. And understand this. Unlike some serial killers, this person does not want to be caught. For this person the act of killing is truly messianic in nature and any attempt to stop those acts will be met by the harshest of responses.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Harry said.

Lola let out a long breath. “Be very, very careful, Harry. This killer knows you and hates you. Not as a person—although perhaps that way as well—but definitely for the danger you present. That makes your life meaningless—meaningless to the point that ending it would not produce one iota of guilt. It would simply be a means to an end.”

Harry and Vicky walked toward Harry’s car at six-thirty that evening. They had just met with Pete Rourke in a restaurant parking lot. Harry glanced at his watch.

“He should be home by now,” Harry said. “Call him as soon as you get back to the office. If he’s not home leave a message with his wife. Make it very specific.”

“What if the kid answers and the mother and father aren’t home? Do I leave the message with him?”

Harry thought that over. “Yes, I hate to do it that way, but I don’t think we have any choice.”

“Are you coming back to the office with me?”

Harry shook his head. “As far as anyone else is concerned, I’m out of town. I’m going to need the next couple of hours to set the rest of it up.”

Vicky nodded. “Good luck. Hopefully I’ll see you later tonight.”

Vicky looked across the conference table at Jim Morgan. She glanced at her watch. It was seven o’clock. “Time to put a little pressure on our suspect,” she said.

Morgan nodded. “You want me to make the call?”

Vicky shook her head. “I want to do this myself.” She opened her cell phone and punched in the number. It was answered on the third ring.

“Hello, Mr. Hall. This is Detective Stanopolis. I’m calling for Detective Doyle.” She paused, listening. “Yes, he’s the other detective who interviewed you. He needs to do it again. He can come to your house before you leave for work tomorrow, or he can see you at work. It’s your call.” Again she listened. “It’s about a church bulletin we’ve been trying to locate. Detective Doyle found a copy and there’s something in it that he needs to discuss with you.” Another pause. “No, I can’t tell you what it is. I haven’t seen the bulletin. Detective Doyle has been out of town all day and he has it with him.” She listened. “I know what you said. If it’s necessary, Detective Doyle can bring a warrant with him.” Another pause. “I’m glad you feel that way. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Vicky closed her phone and peered off in the distance.

“Where’s Harry been?” Joe Morgan asked, bringing her back.

“Visiting his mother,” she said. “She’s up for parole on Tuesday. Twenty years ago she killed his six-year-old brother. She also killed him, but some Tampa cops were able to bring him back.”

“His mother? God, I didn’t know.” Morgan thought over what she had said. “So that’s why they call him the dead detective. It’s because he was dead once. I thought it was all that nonsense about how he can talk to murder victims.”

Vicky stared across the conference table. “He doesn’t talk to victims,” she said. “They talk to him.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
OUR

A
misting rain turned the street into a shiny black mirror
, the gleaming surface reflecting the lighted windows that faced the street. A steady breeze came from the west, bringing the noise of the surf up from the beach, the low distant rumble obliterating the sound of a car that pulled in from Mandalay Avenue and glided silently to the curb. It was ten-thirty and the only other sign of life was a young boy rolling toward the intersection on a skateboard, his baseball hat askew on his head, his long, baggy basketball shirt flapping about his legs.

When the boy reached the corner he glanced back, then seemed to lower his head to his hand before rolling off into the avenue.

The car remained at the curb for several minutes before the driver’s door opened. A tall figure slipped out and moved quickly to the shadow of a large hedge of sea grape. Again, there was no movement, the driver remaining perfectly still, eyes fixed on a house directly across the street. The house was dark except for the faint flicker of a television screen.

The driver had cruised the area for the past hour, seeking out the patrol units that had guarded the house in recent days, making certain they hadn’t been replaced by unmarked cars. Now the driver’s eyes scanned the windows of the other houses, watching for the rustle of a shade or curtain or blind that would indicate some watcher. There was nothing.

Harry sat in a leather recliner positioned so it offered a clear field of vision of both the front door and the entrance to the lanai. The dead bolt for the front door had not been secured; the lone lock that now held it closed was one that could be easily slipped with a credit card. The exterior door to the lanai had been left unlocked. A walkie-talkie sat on the table next to his chair. Moments before, Rubio Martí’s warning that someone had entered the street had squawked over the receiver, a simple warning that the killer may have arrived. Harry’s hand moved to the stock of the 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun that lay across his lap.

The driver moved quickly down the street, heading toward the beach. Once there he cut into the dunes and dropped to his knees. There was no moon and the beach and the water beyond were hidden by an impenetrable darkness that obscured all but the few yards of sand closest to the buildings that faced the gulf. The driver’s left hand tightened on the handle of the large hunting knife. There had been no intention of using it again and he had considered throwing it away. Now it was needed one more time … all because of Harry Doyle. Now it was time for Harry Doyle to die … again.

Harry heard the screen door creak as it was eased back on its hinges. The sound was followed by complete silence. Someone was standing on the lanai, waiting, listening. A faint smile played across Harry’s lips.

“Come on in, Jim. I’ve been expecting you.”

Long moments passed before Jim Morgan stepped into view. His eyes found the shotgun in Harry’s lap, noted his finger resting on the trigger guard.

“Looks like you’re loaded and ready for bear,” Jim said. “I thought I’d come by and help, cover your back in case Joe Hall came at you from the beach.”

“Joe Hall’s not coming,” Harry said. “The phone call Vicky made … it wasn’t for him, Jim. It was for you.” Harry’s eyes dropped to the hunting knife that Jim held along his left leg. “Is that the knife you used on Darlene and Bobby Joe? I was hoping you’d bring it with you. Marty and his boys couldn’t find it when they searched your house and your cars yesterday. Oh, but they did find Nick’s missing.38s. They even found the suppressor you used.” Harry watched Jim Morgan’s eyes harden. “Altogether they found more than enough evidence, Jim … Blood in the trunk of your patrol car, still more blood on the floor mat of your personal car, even some fibers that we expect will match up with the clothing Darlene was wearing. And of course we have that church bulletin with that wonderfully obscure reference to your work there as a youth minister.”

Jim smiled bitterly and shook his head. “Reverend Waldo just couldn’t help himself. He just had to see that everybody got a title. He didn’t even know who I was. Bobby Joe handled the youth ministers.” He let out a little snort. “All I did was work with the kids one night a week. But I still got a title. Seems like everybody but the janitor got one.”

Jim took a step forward and Harry raised the shotgun, leveling it at his chest. “Not one more step, Jim.”

“Aren’t you going to disarm me?”

“Not yet, Jim. You know how it is. Always give a cop killer a chance to go for his weapon.” He smiled at Morgan. It was a cold, clearly threatening smile. “Not a good chance, but a chance.”

“I
was
sorry about Nick, but it couldn’t be helped.” He shrugged. “Besides, he wasn’t much of a cop. He was even less of a Christian.”

“Were you sorry about Darlene Beckett?”

Morgan’s face twisted obscenely. “She got what she deserved. I’m sure the Lord’s punishment was even harsher.”

“Why do you think so?”

“You have to ask, after what she did to that boy? I thought the great Harry Doyle could see that. Or are you going to tell me she didn’t deserve to be punished? Are you suddenly some great defender of women who abuse children? Are you, Harry … the same Harry Doyle who was murdered by his own mother?” He shook his head vehemently. “No, she was nothing but a tramp and she used that kid to satisfy her filthy cravings. She deserved just what she got. Reverend Waldo saw that. He couldn’t say it just that way. He couldn’t say right out what needed to be done, but he saw it, he saw it, Harry.”

“Did Darlene remind you of Betty Higgins, Jim? Was that it?”

Morgan’s head jerked back as though he had been slapped. “How did you find out about her?” His voice sounded almost like a growl.

“There were others too, weren’t there, Jim—other abusers at all those foster homes you were sent to one after the other when you were just a little kid?”

Bitterness filled Morgan’s face. “That’s what kids are for. Don’t you know that, Harry? They’re for the satisfaction of sinners. Darlene Beckett understood all that. And … that’s … why … she … had … to … die.” He pressed the knife tighter against his leg. “It was perfect, you know, the way I worked it out. I followed her for weeks—I even saw Nick messing with her. But I waited for the perfect chance. Then she went off with that clown in the cowboy clothes and he took her to that beach at Frank Howard Park. So I followed them in and killed them both.” A small smile flitted across his lips and then disappeared. “I was off duty, but I lived close by. So I went home and changed into my uniform and drove back in my patrol unit. It was a perfect cover if anyone saw me. I loaded her into the trunk and took her to Brooker Creek. I had always intended to dump her body there, no matter where I ended up killing her. I was assigned that area for the whole month, so I knew when the body was found and the call came in—with any luck at all—I could be the first unit at the scene. And, of course, I was.” His face broke into a wide grin. “And I did such a good job I even got an official attaboy from the great Harry Doyle.” He let out a low, soft laugh. “From there on it was a cinch to make the team investigating the case.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Tell me about Bobby Joe. Why did he have to die?”

Jim looked down at the floor and shook his head. “He was the only one who knew about me. He knew I’d been tailing Darlene, because he’d been doing the same thing. He’d started out trying to get back into the good graces of his daddy. But she seduced him, just like she seduced everybody. Later, when he saw that I was tailing her too, he approached me about it. He was worried I’d let his daddy know he was sleeping with her. But I told him not to worry, that she was the one I was after, not him … I guess I knew right then that Bobby Joe might have to go eventually. He was such a little coward he just couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut. He was also the only one who knew I was a deputy. I’d kept that from people at the church; didn’t want the kids I worked with to know. Then one day I ended up pulling Bobby Joe over for speeding. I didn’t know it was him, of course, and I let him go without even a warning ticket. But right then I told him he needed to keep his mouth shut about my job.” Jim let out another small laugh. “You see, I had no desire to kill Bobby Joe. But you left me no choice. When you started in on him, I knew sooner or later you’d break him. He was just too weak … So it was your fault, Harry. You’re the reason Bobby Joe had to die. You wouldn’t fall for Nick as Darlene’s killer, even when I gave you those computer records. You just kept on after Bobby Joe. You knew it was someone at the church and you were like a dog with a bone, you just wouldn’t ease up and take what I handed you on a platter. And that’s why Nick had to die, Harry. He was your fault too.” Jim’s voice began to rise. “I needed you to accept him as Darlene’s killer. But you wouldn’t do that! You wouldn’t accept the evidence I’d put together about the doctored computer records. And that evidence was iron clad. I know it because I doctored those records myself. But they weren’t good enough for you, were they? You just kept insisting Nick was too good a detective to let himself get caught that way. And even after I’d killed him and gave you his bloody shoes and a suicide note to tie it all together, you still wouldn’t buy it.” He tilted his head to the side and his voice became softer. “Why was that, Harry? Why did you refuse to look anywhere else but the church? Did that whore, Darlene, tell you it was someone at the church? Was it a case of the dead talking to you again, Harry?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re telling me that whore came back at me from the other side? Is that what you’re telling me, Harry?”

The lanai door behind Morgan opened and Vicky stepped inside. She immediately dropped into a shooting stance, leveling her Glock at Morgan’s back.

Morgan’s head pivoted and the bitter smile returned. “Hi, Vicky.”

“Drop the knife, Jim. Drop it or I’ll drop you.” She glanced at her partner. “Sorry, Harry. We lost him on the beach. It was so dark we couldn’t be sure if he’d come into the house or not.”

Suddenly Vicky realized her position in the room was all wrong. Harry was directly behind Morgan, right in Vicky’s line of fire, just as she was directly in his. Neither she nor Harry could use their weapons without the risk of hitting each other. She began moving to her right, but Morgan had seen it as well. He lashed out with his left hand, the hunting knife slicing across Vicky’s gun hand and sending her Glock clattering to the floor. In the same motion he lunged past her and crashed through the screen door. Within seconds he was out of the house and into the enveloping dark of the beach.

Harry leaped forward, barking into his hand-held radio as he hurried to Vicky’s side, telling the others outside that Morgan was loose and escaping along the beach. He looked at the wound on her forearm. It was deep but not life threatening. “I’m going to call in an ‘officer down’ so you can get some medical help.”

“Screw that,” Vicky shot back. “Tell me where your bandages are and I’ll be right behind you.”

“We’ve got enough people out there.”

“Just tell me,” she snapped. “Then get the hell out of here and catch that cop-killing son of a bitch.”

“The bathroom off the master bedroom,” Harry shouted as he crashed through the screen door and raced to the dunes.

The dark closed around him and the crashing surf cut off all other sound. Harry lay in the dunes, his eyes searching for movement; ears tuned to any sound that might point the way toward Jim Morgan. He fought the tension that was infusing his muscles, tried to keep his body loose. Morgan would use the knife if he could to avoid the giveaway bark of his Glock and Harry knew he would need to react quickly. He also knew that Morgan could be lying only a few feet away and he’d never know—not until that hunting knife lashed out in the darkness. Farther out along the beach, flashlights came on as other members of the department began searching. Harry had turned off his radio when he’d entered the dunes. Now he turned it on again to warn the others that he was coming out on to the beach. The last thing he wanted was to be shot by one of his own men.

When the answering call came that his message had been received, he heard a brief rustling to his left, then the sound of movement heading south along the beach. Morgan, he realized, had indeed been lying in the dunes. Now, after hearing Harry’s call to other searchers, he’d bolted and headed away from the probing lights.

Harry followed, keeping his body low to the ground, aware he was backlit by the lights of the buildings facing the gulf. Morgan, conversely, was hidden by the dark water and the moonless sky. Trying to reverse those positions, Harry gambled and raced toward the surf, turning back when he reached the water. Nothing came into view. He paused, turning in a slow circle. Morgan had either flattened his body against the sand or had entered the water. Harry reversed their positions mentally, trying to decide how he would elude his pursuers if he were Morgan. Then it came to him and he raised the radio to his lips.

“This is Doyle. Are the streets covered?”

Pete Rourke’s voice came back. “We’ve got a blanket out there, Harry; our people and Clearwater P.D. You have any idea where he is?”

Harry hesitated. If he was right, he knew he couldn’t answer Rourke’s question. “I think he may have gone into the water. You need to get some men into the surf, but tell them to watch the beach behind in case he slips through. We could use some big lights to illuminate the area.”

“They’re on the way,” Rourke answered.

Harry entered the lanai, his Glock out in front, eyes scanning ahead. Sliding doors led to both the living room and the master bedroom. A trail of Vicky’s blood headed back toward the darkened bedroom where the sliding door stood open. Harry entered in a shooter’s crouch, weapon swinging from corner to corner. Vicky stood against a far wall, deep in shadow.

“Hello, Harry. Aren’t you the clever one?”

Jim Morgan’s voice seemed to float out from behind her, and as Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dark Morgan gradually came into view. He was standing behind Vicky, back against the wall, and he had pulled her body tight against him. The hunting knife was in his left hand, the edge resting along her neck. One slicing move and Vicky’s life would pour out onto the bedroom floor.