Killing With Kings

by Lois Lavrisa

  “We interviewed everyone who was there that night. The dealer only met Ray that evening. She had no motive, but Norman did.” He glanced at his computer screen. “On another note, I’m sure you heard by now we got the ballistics report back from the shooting on River Street. It was from the same gun that killed Officer Cory Palmer fifteen years ago. The gun we weren’t able to find at the time.”

  My stomach dropped and my pulse sped up. “Do you think Ray’s death could be connected to that? His work convicted the perp, even though they didn’t have the weapon.”

  “Ray’s work on that case led to the killer’s lethal injection.”

  “I know.” I rubbed my temples at the start of a tension headache. “Think about it. The same gun that was never found in the old cop killer case was used to shoot at Nowak and me. Doesn’t that make you think there has to be a connection to what happened to Ray?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Because the shooter’s mask we found in the trash leads directly to gang activity. Plus, we don’t know if they were aiming at you or at someone else.” McFalls slid open a drawer, extracted two wrapped yellow candies, and handed one to me. “Bottom line, Ray was killed with peanut oil, not a bullet. Which brings us back to Norman, who had a syringe full of it in his possession. My team is covering all our bases. This case is at the top of my pile; I will make sure it gets all the attention it needs.”

  I couldn’t write the gun off. It had to have something to do with Ray’s death. I unwrapped the lemon candy and popped it in my mouth. I remembered Norman telling me he had lost twenty pounds by running. He was about the same height and weight as the shooter. For a split second, I played with the thought the two were the same and then dismissed it. Norman had no reason to kill me. “What I don’t get is why, after all these years, the gun shows up, right after Ray’s killed. Then it’s aimed toward me, who’s been asking questions about his death. That’s not random.”

  “Gangs use all types of guns and get them anywhere they can. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Yeah. But what concerns me is the timing of it all. It’s way too coincidental.”

  “I agree. The chain of events seems like a solid correlation. But right now, the gang unit doesn’t think it is. I get that you want to help your buddy. But you’re connecting dots that aren’t even on the same page.” McFalls stood. “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation this week, visiting your family in Miami?”

  “Yeah, I’m leaving soon.” Or maybe not at all, depending on how long it took me to find answers.

  “We’ve got this covered. Go enjoy your break and leave this case—my case—alone.”

  He was not mincing words. Although he’d heard me out and listened to my theory, he was shutting me down. “Sure. I’ve just got a few things to clear up on my desk.”

  “José, for what it’s worth, I’m really sorry about your friend Norman. I know it’s hard for you to accept that a buddy of yours could be a cop killer.”

  “No kidding.”

  After logging into my computer, I pulled up the Tiburon/ARS system. It was my first go-to when trying to find information about someone. It combined dispatch calls, information from police reports, addresses, telephone numbers, birth dates, and more.

  When I typed in “Margaret Linzey,” assuming Maggie was her nickname, nothing came up. I tried different spellings of her first name. Still nothing.

  Typing in just “M. Linzey” also produced nothing. Maybe she had a license issued in another state. Elias had mentioned that she’d lived in Vegas. I sent an email to the Nevada driver’s bureau, inquiring about Margaret “Maggie” Linzey. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long to get a response.

  After a quick check in the reverse directory database, nothing came up on her cell number. A stirring deep in my gut put me on alert. As far as records, it seemed that Maggie didn’t exist.

  Trying another database, I typed in her address. A few minutes later, I read that the 2222 Harmon Street house had been deeded from Jennie L. Welsh to William Taylor. Searching online for Jennie Welsh, I found her obituary from fourteen years earlier. It wasn’t the normal write-up, indicating who had predeceased her, nor did it list any relatives. Instead, it stated only her birth and death date. Another search listed Jennie L. Welsh as a long-term patient in a local psychiatric residential treatment program.

  I called the treatment program. After being transferred to three different people, I was finally put in touch with an employee who could help me.

  “Jennie L. Welsh died fourteen years ago while she was a patient at your facility. What can you tell me about her?” I asked.

  “I’ll check my database. Can you hold for a moment?” After a long pause, she came back on the line. “She had been a patient here for a year leading up to her death.”

  “What led her to be a patient at your facility?”

  “She was admitted due to a mental breakdown. Ms. Welsh had acute stress. It manifested itself in depression and dissociation, where she was no longer able to function on a day-to-day basis. There are notes that she also had severe paranoia and schizophrenia.”

  “What caused the breakdown?”

  “Losing her nineteen-year-old son.”

  “He died?”

  “No. Incarcerated.” She gave me his name.

  I jotted down David James Welsh. His name sounded familiar. I would have to confirm, but it sounded like the name of the guy who’d just had lethal injection for killing Officer Cory Palmer. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. The very gun from that shooting had recently resurfaced, and the cop who’d put him away for it was now dead. There had to be a connection. “What crime did David Welsh commit?”

  “I can’t find it in the notes.”

  His mother was dead. He was now dead. Maybe it was one of his relatives who’d sought revenge. “Did she have any other children? Family? Spouse?”

  “Let me see.” She paused. “One other son. Aaron Thomas Welsh. He was seven years younger than David.”

  Then Aaron had been twelve years old when his brother had been sent to prison and his mother admitted to the psych ward. That would make him twenty-seven years old now. Could it be David Welsh’s brother who’d killed Ray? “What happened to Aaron when his mother was admitted?”

  “That I’m not sure. There are no other relatives listed on her intake forms. No spouse or other family. Since he was a juvenile at the time, I assume he went into foster care.”

  I’d look Aaron up. Although finding information on a minor was often challenging, I needed to find out where he was now. “How was Jennie treated for her condition?”

  “Therapy and medication.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Inpatient suicide. She hung herself in her room.” There was a long silence. “We monitored her closely, did a suicide risk assessment, like we do on all patients. The staff here is highly trained, and we follow all necessary protocol. But sadly, it still occurred.” Her voice choked.

  “I’m not here to judge you,” I assured her.

  “After her death, we came under close scrutiny. Every detail was looked over to see what we could’ve done to prevent it. We’ve since put many safeguards in place so nothing like that could happen in the future. Sergeant Rodriguez, if there aren’t any more questions, I have to get to a meeting.”

  “I appreciate your taking time to talk with me.”

  “You can email or call me if you need anything else.” She gave me her email address and cell number.

  Back on my computer, I typed in “David James Welsh.” This brought me to a recent article in the Savannah Morning News, which began, “Condemned cop killer David James Welsh, who was convicted in the shooting death of Officer Cory Palmer, was executed by lethal injection…”

  A few days after the lethal injection, Ray had been killed. Then a day later, I had been caught in gunfire, shot at by the same weapon that had killed Palmer. Ray was the cop who had put away David Welsh. The hairs on my arms stood on end. T
his was not happenstance. This was a solid association.

  Who could have wanted retaliation? There was only one living relative of David Welsh. His brother. I typed in “Aaron Thomas Welsh.” I tried several searches and found nothing on him.

  If Maggie had killed Ray, as I suspected, then she must be connected in some way to David. Maybe Maggie was David’s girlfriend, or wife? A friend, a neighbor? There had to be a connection. Right now, there were loose ends that needed to be tied up.

  And who was William Taylor, the current owner of Jennie Welsh’s home? I uncovered that William had been given the deed to her home in probate court because he was her heir.

  Her heir?

  As far as I knew, her son Aaron was her only living relative. How was William connected to her? Had Aaron changed his name? He’d been twelve years old when his mother had been institutionalized and his brother incarcerated. And his mother had died shortly after she had been committed. Aaron must’ve gone into foster care, since there were no other family members to take him. Perhaps he’d been adopted and changed his name?

  It was the only theory we had that made any sense. A brother killing the cop who’d put away his sibling. And the brother on death row had triggered his mother’s enormous trauma, leading to her mental breakdown and taking her away from him.

  Aaron had lost everything, which in turn could compel him to seek revenge. Looking into every available database yielded no answers as to what had happened to Aaron Welsh. He had to be out there. Where was he now? And how was he connected to Maggie?

  From what I surmised, Maggie was renting the house from William Taylor. I couldn’t find a contact number for him.

  Searching for Elias Linzey’s name resulted in nothing. Not finding either sibling in the database could mean any number of things. First, people who were trying to hide something often gave a false name. Second, it could be that they were from another state or county and thereby wouldn’t come up in my database. Third, it could be as simple as that they had never had any sort of contact with the police.

  The question burning in my mind was why I couldn’t find Maggie or Elias in the system.

  For the next hour, I investigated online to find answers. My searches amounted to nothing more than what I already had. I knew that at eight tomorrow morning, I would meet Maggie at her house. Maybe in talking to her, I could determine whether or not she’d had any reason to kill Ray. Or at least I could find out if she knew Jennie, Aaron, or David Welsh. My gut said there was an association, and that relationship was the clue to who’d killed Ray. Meanwhile, I would be cautious in case she was setting me up.

  My thoughts on the Welsh link and Ray nagged me to no end. Where was Aaron, and how was Maggie involved in all of it?

  A text chimed in from Regina. “You are my lucky star. There’ll be a cute single guy there tonight I want you to meet. Make sure that you express yourself.” I cringed, knowing that all her Madonna song references were meant to encourage me to live my life as an openly gay man.

  Like Bezu, Annie Mae, and Cat, Regina didn’t think my reasons for keeping my sexuality secret were valid. Thankfully, they all respected my decision although they never gave up trying.

  The duplicity I led kept surfacing. Such as when I got fixed up on a date when I knew, but could not admit, there was no chance I’d have a romantic relationship with the woman. The guilt and deception were overwhelming.

  My secret was hurting others and my career.

  More than ever, I was tired of lying to myself, to my family, and to my peers. It was tearing me apart. With the secret, I was only half living. But when should I come out? And more importantly, was I ready for the repercussions of that decision?

  Chapter 25

  “I’m glad it wasn’t too much effort for you to find something to wear.” The sarcasm in Regina’s greeting was not lost on me as I entered the party.

  She wore a white lingerie wedding dress, fingerless lace gloves, several necklaces, and white pumps. Her hair was puffed in a big eighties hairstyle, her lipstick red, and her eye makeup dark and heavy. I recognized the iconic Madonna look from the 1984 MTV awards.

  “Hey, I’m here, and I’m wearing a costume.” I made a checkmark motion with my finger in the air. “One favor checked off the IOU list.”

  She grabbed my forearm and tugged me through the throng gathered in the back courtyard as Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” blasted from the speakers. The smell of charcoal-grilled hamburgers wafted in the air. Lights strung through the trees canopied the crowd in a soft white light.

  I bumped into someone dressed as Prince who was followed by a guy dressed in a ripped tank and blond mullet wig like an eighties version of wrestler Hulk Hogan.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a guy around my age standing by the bar. He was wearing a letterman jacket, T-shirt, faded jeans, and running shoes. He had shoulder-length layered brown hair, although I wasn’t sure if it was real or a wig. He looked like Mel Gibson’s character, Riggs, from Lethal Weapon. His high cheekbones looked familiar.

  Our eyes locked for a moment before I turned away. I felt a stirring of attraction but quickly submerged it as Regina began to introduce me to her friends.

  “Glad you made it, José. Nice to see you, Regina.” Beaker, my buddy from forensics, handed us each a beer. “I’ve made myself the unofficial greeter and drink-getter here.”

  Beaker wore a dark brown fabric-brimmed hat, and a whip hung from a belt loop on his khaki cargo pants, which were tucked into dark boots. He wore a button-down shirt under a tattered leather jacket. His face was sponged with dark brown makeup to simulate stubble.

  “You look exactly like Harrison Ford,” I claimed.

  Beaker beamed. “I wonder if it’ll help me get Cyndi Lauper over there to notice me.”

  “I happen to know her; I’d be glad to make an introduction for you,” Regina offered.

  “Um, why I, um…” Beaker’s face flushed.

  “I’m taking that as a yes.” Regina took hold of Beaker’s leather jacket and pulled him with her as she walked away.

  “Ponch, huh?” I heard from behind me.

  I turned and saw the guy I had locked eyes with earlier. “Yup. And you’re Riggs?”

  He stuck out his hand. “Earl Chu.”

  I recognized his name. But with the costume, he looked nothing like the straight-laced attorney I’d seen in court or helping Norman during his recent murder interrogation. “José Rodriguez. Nice hair.”

  “I have to say, I rocked the same style back in high school. Not sure the look would work in my day job.”

  “You’re an attorney. I’ve seen you around. You’re defending Norman Sanders?”

  “Yup. That’s me.”

  “I hope you can prove his innocence.”

  “I’m doing my best. I saw you the other day outside the courthouse talking to Patrice DeLeon. I assume you’re friends?”

  I shrugged, giving a noncommittal answer. It was a loaded question with too much bad history.

  “Anyway, you might have already heard, since rumors fly around Savannah quicker than gnats show up on a summer day—she resigned,” he told me.

  “Yeah, I heard that.”

  He leaned in toward me. “Between you and me, the council has appointed me to fill the casual vacancy. It hasn’t been announced yet, so if you can keep it our secret, that would be great.”

  His sharing a confidence with me felt intimate, and I liked the feeling. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” Earl smiled. “By the way, that same day I saw you with DeLeon, there was also a pretty blond lady you were with. Wife? Girlfriend? Significant other? Or just one of your many admirers?”

  “Why does it feel like you’re stalking me?”

  “Guilty as charged.” He laughed. “So, you don’t want to answer my question? That’s fine.”

  My throat constricted. Was he fishing around in order to find out if I was straight? Single? “She’s a friend. I’m single.”
Why in the hell did I just say the “I’m single” part? Why hadn’t I stopped at “friend”? The information had seemed to roll off my tongue without passing through my brain. I cringed inwardly.

  “Oh, good.” He grinned and nodded. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while, but there never seemed to be a good opportunity until now. It’s nice we finally got to meet, even as Riggs and Ponch. Maybe we could grab a bite to eat sometime as our real selves?”

  Had he just asked me out? I was taken aback by his boldness yet felt flattered at the same time. Was that last line, “our real selves,” a reference to my hiding my sexuality? Before I could give him some lame answer, like “No, that wouldn’t work.”

  Regina approached us.

  “I’m glad you found each other. I’ve been wanting you two to meet,” she declared.

  I felt hugely uncomfortable, as though all eyes were on me. Changing the subject, I asked her, “How did Indiana Jones and Cyndi Lauper do?”

  She pointed to a table, where Beaker sat talking to a young lady in an orange-red wig. “They seem to be hitting it off just fine.”

  “If you two would excuse me, there’s someone I need to talk to. José, you can let me know your answer later. I’ll be here all night.” With that, Earl left.

  “What was that about? What answer?” Regina tapped my arm.

  “Nothing.” I felt the heat of embarrassment rise in my neck.

  “I can tell you’re hiding something. He asked you out, didn’t he? José and Earl sitting in a tree,” she whispered in a singsong voice. “He’s been asking me about you. You know he’s openly gay, right?”

  I felt cornered and pissed off. When I decided to, I’d come out. It would be in my time, on my terms. Not because I’d been forced. And dating out in the open was way, way out of the question. “I’m getting another drink. I don’t think you need one, as you’re drunk with meddling in people’s lives.”

  “José, I’m really sorry I pushed. You know I only want the best for you, that’s all.” Her smile faded.