Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) (18 page)

The fat man took another bite of his cheeseburger, chewed three times, pushed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth like a wad of chewing tobacco, and spoke with his cheeks puffed full of food. He pointed the empty box at me, but spoke to Sandy. “He said he was waiting for the right woman to come along. I was just commenting that I hoped it wasn’t this one here,” he said as he waved his napkin at the body. Then he turned and faced me. “How’s it going, Jones man? Crime Scene been here yet?”

* * *

Wally Wright, Deputy Coroner of Marion County, placed his napkin in the empty box and then shoved the box into his suit pocket. Ron Miles walked up behind him, and the four of us, me, Sandy, Wally, and Ron all adjusted ourselves into a little circle. Miles nodded at me and Sandy, but spoke first to Wally. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah well. Traffic. What can you do?”

Miles wrinkled his nose, sniffing the air. “You said you were going to bring me something to eat.”

“Didn’t have time to stop.” Wally took a few steps over toward the body, looked down, then back toward the group. “Are you all done here? Where’s your crime scene people? I’ve got shit to do.”

Miles shook his head. “God damn, Wally. We’ve been waiting on
you
for a preliminary assessment.”

Wally took in a deep breath, belched, then let out an exasperated sigh. He squatted down next to the body, and when he did the bottom of his jacket rode up on his waist and revealed his ass crack. A mole rode high between his cheeks, and the entire thing looked like a hairy, upside down exclamation point. His left hand pulled something out of his pocket, then went to his mouth. He stood, visibly swallowing as he did. “GSW to the head. Probably dead before she hit the ground. Maybe I should have been a cop. Okay if I get the gurney now?” He walked away, not waiting for an answer.

Miles looked at me. “Was that a French fry he pulled out of his pocket? I think it was a French fry. He said he was going to bring me something to eat.”

* * *

Sandy looked at me, then Ron. “Did you get a chance to look at the security tapes?

Miles shook his head. “Not yet.”

Sandy turned to me. Want me to take a look?”

“Yeah,” I said. “See what you can see. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Ron and I watched Sandy walk away. We looked at each other for a moment, then Ron said, “You getting any of that?”

“Course he is,” Wally said as he pushed a gurney in front of him. “It might as well be tattooed on his forehead. I really should have been a cop. You guys are something, you know that?”

* * *

Ten minutes later I saw Sandy as she headed back over to where Ron and I stood. Her face was gray and the corners of her mouth were turned down. “What’s the matter?” I said. “Are you alright?”

She held up a CD. “Got the shot on tape, Jonesy. It’s bad.”

“Well, we sort of knew that,” I said, and I soon as I did, I regretted it. “Aw, jeez, that was a shitty thing to say wasn’t it? I’m sorry.”

Sandy looked at me for a second like she might not be sure, but then I saw her soften up. “No no, you’re right. I just…“

“Yeah, I know. What’s on the disc? What does it show?”

“Everything. Everything except what we need that is. Picture isn’t good enough to get the plate. Not even close. I don’t know, maybe the lab can do something with it, but I doubt it.”

“Alright, good, good. Send it back to the shop with Crime Scene and see what they can do. I’m going to have Rosencrantz and Donatti come out here. We need to figure this fucking thing out.”

“All right. What are you doing?” Sandy asked.

“I’m going to church.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Most people who know me think the reason I became a police officer was as simple as the fact that my father was one, and while there may be a measure of truth in their suppositions, I think the reasons are deeper than even I sometimes understand.

The days of my youth were spent much like any other mid-western teenager. Murton and I would attend our high school’s football games on Friday nights in the fall, the autumn air cool and thick with the aroma of red and white striped boxes of salted corn popped over the heat of gas fired oil pans at the concession stand. At half-time the marching band would perform and the sounds of the bass and snare drums would thunder off the out-buildings and reverberate through the grandstands like gunfire from a war not yet fought by children who, in reality, were only months away from sacrificing their lives for a cause they would never have the opportunity to know as both futile and unwarrantable.

My grandfather would often accompany me to the games, then end up by himself as Murton and I walked the grandstand area to visit with our friends. Sometimes when I looked back to where he sat my eyes would catch his gaze only to discover he was watching me and not the game. It was those times that I would leave Murton to his teen-aged conquests and go back to sit with my grandfather and watch the game with him, our words few, but our bond as strong as ever. Less than two years later, on the very night Murton was ripping open sterile gauze packs and pressing them into my wounds while my blood seeped between his fingers, half a world away my grandfather died in his sleep of heart failure. He was sixty-nine years old.

For months after I returned home from the war I carried an immeasurable sense of loss and anger around with me over the events of the war, my injuries, and the loss of my grandfather while I was away. I was mad at myself for being gone when my grandfather died, mad at Murton for the loss of the men in our unit, and in truth, mad at my grandfather for abandoning me. I was even mad at Murton for saving me. If you have ever been close to someone who has been the victim of a violent encounter then you know what I am talking about. The sudden shock and distress that comes with the knowledge of harm and injustice done to a loved one is something you carry with you for years, if not forever. I became a police officer because those feelings are ones I hoped to help put to rest in others, perhaps even myself.

I found the broken down church in Broad Ripple easily enough. Cora, had indicated to me that the building looked like it was being held together by bailing twine and when I arrived I had to admit that her assessment was not very far off the mark.

The building was originally constructed well over a hundred years ago and although it was larger than a small country chapel, the resemblance was unmistakable. The entire structure was made up of red brick and clapboard, the latter having long ago lost its protective coat of top paint, the boards now rotted and sagging at their joints. The nail holes wept reddish brown stains which left vertical tracks in the wood that looked like blood. A traditional steeple sat atop the main entrance to the church and the iron cross that stood like a spire against the morning sky leaned slightly askew and was held in place with guy wires attached to its base. The wires were pulled taught and were pinched against sagging gutters at the roof’s edge, then attached to steel bands that encompassed the perimeter of the structure. When I looked closer I discovered it was not the cross that angled out of plumb from the steeple, but the entire steeple itself that was out of square and sitting precariously on top of its base, perched to one side like the leaning tower of Pisa. I parked my truck a safe distance from the structure and walked inside, my gaze held to the steeple until I was at the front steps of the building.

As I opened the door and stepped inside I heard the sounds of children laughing and jumping about from the second story and I have to admit I wanted to warn them of the structural integrity of the building and perhaps even admonish them for the danger they were placing themselves in by dishing out more abuse than the building was capable of accepting. I listened as a pipe organ played from the chapel area, the notes bellowed with a hallowed, laborious effort that sounded both painful and redemptive all at the same time.

I followed the sounds of the children up the main stairwell and when I poked my head into to classroom I gave witness to one of those moments that make me happy to be alive. There were about twenty or so pre-school children in the room, the tables and chairs all pushed against the walls, and the teacher, a young girl of college age stood at the front of the room where she acted out a one person play of some sort. I don’t know what the play was about, but the children seemed thoroughly amused at her attempt to entertain them. She was playing two separate parts and every time she switched roles she would move to the other side of the room in an overly dramatic fashion and try to disguise her voice. She was not a very good actor, but she certainly knew how to entertain children. When she saw me standing in the doorway, she stopped mid sentence and still in her character’s voice said, “And how may I help you today, kind sir?”

The children all turned and looked at me laughing and clapping as if I were a part of their play. I thought about throwing my arms open wide and in my best theatrical voice announcing the purpose of my visit, but in the end I just smiled and told the young lady I was looking for Amy Frechette.

The woman threw both her hands to her breast, her eyes wide, and said, “See children, see, the stranger in our midst seeks out our fearless leader, even though he mispronounces her last name. Come, come, let us show him the way. The children all jumped up and followed the woman to the doorway. She winked at me and walked down the stairs, the children marching and clapping along with her and a few seconds later I followed them down. I did not march or laugh or jump or clap, but I probably should have. You only live once.

* * *

The woman and children led me to the main chapel area, down the aisle between the pews and up to the altar where another woman sat at the pipe organ, her back to us. When she heard the children she stopped playing and turned on the bench and faced the group and I saw her smile falter just a little when she looked at me. The daycare worker and the children kept right on marching past the alter and headed back upstairs to resume their fun.

Then something happened that left me momentarily unable to speak and caused a slew of questions to form in my mind at once, none of which I was prepared to ask let alone comprehend the answers. Amy Frechette walked over and extended her hand and said, “Hello. You’re the police officer, aren’t you? From the state? Murton’s told me all about you, but I’d recognize you any day from all the pictures he’s shown me. Do you know where Murton is?”

* * *

She stepped down off the altar and we sat together in the first pew. I had little if any preconceived notions of what a female pastor may look like, but if I had, I think Amy Frechette would fit the bill with perfection. I guessed her age a little younger than my own, perhaps thirty-five or so. She wore a matching plain brown skirt and blazer over a white turtle neck sweater. When I did not immediately say anything, I expected her to ask me about Murton again, but instead I followed her gaze to the brass organ pipes that lined the alter wall. Her eyes were down turned at the outer edges and marked with crows feet that crinkled with kindness when she spoke. “Our organ player moved on about a year ago. I’ve been filling in ever since. It’s a beast of an instrument to play.”

“I thought it sounded just fine,” I said.

She accepted my compliment with modesty then said, “I haven’t seen him in over a week. I don’t know what’s going on.” Her voice was strong but I could see the soft skin under her chin when it trembled. “You’re the best friend he’s got, Detective.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I said.

Her unexpected smile caught me off guard, but the light in her eyes reminded me of the look I used to see on my parents faces when I was a child and they watched me discover something wonderful and joyous, like a rainbow, or the flight of a box kite for the very first time. But then I watched the light go out of her expression, replaced by something dark and defensive. “You’ve not been kind to him, Detective,” she said. “He thinks of you like a brother.”

“I’m here on another matter, Ms. Frechette. But if you don’t mind me asking, how do you know Murton, and by extension, his relationship with me?”

She shook her head and chuckled, then turned in the pew so she was facing me. “How do I know about your relationship? I guess Murton hasn’t been exaggerating when he speaks of your feelings for him. We’ve been living together for over a year, Detective. I guess I somehow thought you knew that.”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t know that. In fact, I think there are a number of things I don’t know about Murton these days.”

“What in the world is that supposed to mean?” she said.

I ignored her question and asked one of my own. “What do you know about a man by the name of Franklin Dugan?”

“Who?”

“I am investigating a series of murders. One of the victims was a man named Franklin Dugan. He was the President of Sunrise Bank. Murt is either trying to insert himself into the investigation for reasons I can’t begin to understand, or he’s trying to extricate himself from it. I can’t tell which. Or maybe he’s guilty of something again, and he’s—”