by Randy Alcorn
“Has that Tribune reporter come through?”
“Button promised me he’d deliver Abernathy’s notes on the investigation, but nothing so far. I told him no more leads if he doesn’t.”
I double-checked my recording device. Lights on.
Mona said, “The last inside tip the public got related to the vagrant.”
“Right. Let’s get the names of all the bums in that area then run background checks. Find the toughest record. We can provide some evidence, get a positive ID, and at least bring him in as a suspect.”
“But …”
“What?”
“If he’s innocent …”
“You aren’t listening. I don’t want you to find someone innocent, I want you to find someone guilty. That’s the point of the background check.”
A cynical laugh came out of my mouth. Covered it too late. “What was that?” Lennox asked.
“Sounds like Chandler laughed. Wonder what he’s laughing at?”
“He doesn’t need a reason. The man’s a clown. An idiot.”
King of the Idiots. But Lennox was in danger of dethroning me.
Obadiah Abernathy. Why do I keep thinking about that old man? Was it because I wished I’d had a real father? Mr. Abernathy’s gone. I attended his funeral. And yet … his faith was so real, his life so … right. I just can’t believe it ended when he died.
Clarence told me what his daddy said on his deathbed, about the people he was supposedly greeting in heaven. Was he delusional? Or was he seeing things I’ll never see?
That old man haunts me, comforts me, gives me hope. But he also unnerves me. Because if he was right about heaven, maybe he was right about hell. And that scares the bejeebers out of me.
Especially when I think about him asking me if I have my ticket because the train’s about to leave.
“Lord, put Yo’ gracious hand on Mr. Chandler.” Obadiah’s eyes shone bright.
The great guardians standing around the small but powerful man bowed their heads in respect for the One he addressed.
“Do what it takes to make him not so full of himself. Show him who he really is. And who You really are. Would You do that? For me? And for him? And for Your glory? Would You do that, my sweet Jesus?”
I sat at my detective division workstation making phone calls, looking around and turning my head, my voice low. I alerted Clarence to keep his notes under lock and key because the chief wanted them. And to keep his eyes on Mike Button. I warned Ray to look out for somebody bugging him, even though it was hard to believe the chief would go that far. Ray told me the number Jake found in the back of the professor’s Why I Am Not a Christian was a convenience store’s. Dead end.
I sat down, trying to clear my mind, attempting again to think like the killer. It isn’t easy for me to think like a drug dealer, a lawyer, a con artist, or a Pistons fan. But thinking like a homicide detective? That should come naturally. What would I do if I were … what I am?
Frame somebody for my murder? Only if they were guilty of a crime just as bad or worse. I hated to admit it, but I understood the chief’s logic about framing someone if I knew that person was guilty of something else.
Would I leave conflicting evidence to confuse investigators and delay resolution with rabbit trails? This could force the detectives to move on to the next case, making it likely they’d never solve this one.
Like the first glimpse of sunrise, another possibility hit me. If I were a Portland homicide detective planning a murder and wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be found out, what would I do?
Of course. There it was. So simple. So obvious.
Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
40
“I think that you know me well enough to understand that I am by no means a nervous man. At the same time, it is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE FINAL PROBLEM
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 27, 3:40 P.M.
I SAT AT MY WORKSTATION, but my mind kept going back to Chad. Saying his name aloud to Jake and Clarence had unlocked the closet I’d hidden him in.
I was thinking if Chad hadn’t died, maybe I’d have been a better father to Kendra and Andrea. Maybe everything would have been different. When the girls brought him up, I’d refused to talk about him. We’d all paid a price for that.
“How’s the investigation going?” Karl Baylor asked.
Startled, I looked up at him. My instinct was to go on offense. “What if I told you that one of the detectives who says they were alone with their spouse at the time of the murder was lying?”
“That’s a serious charge.”
“As a Christian, you have convictions against lying, don’t you?”
He hesitated too long. “Of course.”
“Lying to a police investigator, and to your wife, is pretty serious, isn’t it?”
I packed up my stuff from the table and headed off the floor, leaving him squirming.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28
By bringing up Chad, I’d opened Pandora’s box. When I got the Saturday lunch invitation from Jake and Clarence, I knew what we’d be talking about.
I walked in and they were both sitting there, with “MacArthur Park” playing. “It’s still going from the last time,” Jake said, grinning.
“No better way to stretch a quarter,” I said. But after it finally ended I was relieved to hear subsequent songs with more sophisticated lyrics, such as “Go granny, go granny, go granny, go.”
We’d been seated at Lou’s Diner only five minutes when Jake brought up Chad, like I knew he would. Before he could rationalize or minimize, I jumped on it.
“You can’t understand what it was like to lose my only son,” I said. “Or Sharon.”
“No,” Jake said, “but I understand what it’s like to have my two best friends killed and to have my only child dying.”
“And I understand,” Clarence said, “what it was like to have my sister murdered. And my niece. And to lose my mama and daddy. And I know something about injustice too. I have a forty-year-old memory of his screams when those cops tortured him in that Mississippi jail. Just a month ago I woke up hearing his screams.”
“So maybe,” Jake said, “we understand more than you think.”
“You believe God has hidden purposes,” I said. “Well, I’m not one for hidden purposes. I say, lay them out on the table. I don’t like being kept in the dark.”
“But you’re not God,” Jake said. “If we were running the universe, everything would be a mess. Our minds just aren’t big enough to wrap around God’s purposes. That’s where trust comes in.”
“Right,” I said. “You trust Him. I don’t.”
“You said you don’t believe in hidden purposes?” Clarence asked. “And you don’t want to be kept in the dark. Aren’t you being hypocritical?”
“How?”
“In the Palatine case you’ve withheld self-incriminating evidence, placed hidden cameras, and now you’ve bugged the chief of police. I’ll bet you had good reasons for all those, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just like I had a good reason for setting the fire at the apartments.”
“So you’ve done outrageous things and kept people in the dark, but you had hidden purposes. And you thought you were accomplishing something good. But do you think other people would understand and appreciate you for it?”
“No, probably not.”
“Well, then, don’t you think God might have some hidden reasons for doing what He does and allowing what He allows and even for keeping you in the dark? Some of your reasons probably aren’t as good as you think, but is it possible God’s hidden reasons might all be good, even though we can’t understand them?”
I squirmed. “My son, my wife, your friends, your sister. Your God sits off in a corner of the universe, nice and safe. And we get stuck with the injustice and heartache.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” Jake said. �
��God never sat off in a corner of the universe, nice and safe. He did the opposite. To save us, He became one of us. He faced all the hardships. Nobody ever suffered like Jesus did. He took on all our sins and sufferings. He endured the Holocaust and the Killing Fields and the sufferings of the slaves and everything else—including Chad’s and Sharon’s deaths—on that cross.”
“You really believe that?”
“With all my heart. The Bible says that God’s Spirit groans for us, awaiting our redemption. You think God doesn’t care? His Son was innocent. After they beat Him mercilessly, they sent Him to a shameful and excruciating death.”
“You’d think if He was God, He could’ve stopped them,” I said.
“He could have. But He restrained Himself because it was the only way to rescue us. God had to forsake His only Son on that cross, causing Jesus to cry out in agony, asking God why. You feel like you’re in the dark? He was in the dark, literally, as He hung on that cross. The Father buried His only Son in a foreign land. Talk about heartbreak. That was the biggest heartbreak the universe has ever known. Or ever will.”
After a long silence, Clarence said, “Daddy used to say to me, ‘Son, never waste your suffering—God has a purpose for it.’ He doesn’t want us to suffer alone, Ollie. He’s there for us. And we’re here for you.”
“We’d do anything for you, old buddy.” Jake put his hand on my shoulder. “But don’t ever forget: God’s no stranger to suffering. He knows exactly what it’s like to lose His only Son.”
41
“However, wretch as he was, he was still living under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt, Inspector, that you will see that, though that shield may fail to guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE RESIDENT PATIENT
MONDAY, DECEMBER 30
UNDER THREAT of being prosecuted for aiding and abetting a murderer, Mike Button, esteemed Tribune reporter, kissed good-bye journalism’s bill of rights, singing like a bird. Unfortunately, what he sang wasn’t helpful. He claimed an anonymous source mailed the crime scene photo that the Trib had published. An anonymous source would have lacked credibility. An “unnamed source” sounded better. He’d withheld the name not on principle, but because he knew no name.
Button produced the mailing envelope. The lab was examining it for possible prints and saliva on envelope and stamp. I figured each would prove a dead end. I knew Chief Lennox had fed a false lead to Button, but I still didn’t believe he’d supplied the photograph.
Carp and I discussed these developments in her office, perfectly neat except for two rows of empty Diet Coke cans on her windowsill.
“Remember that evidence kit by the professor’s leg in that photo in the paper?” she asked. “Take a look at this enlargement.” She pointed to the screen and lightened the picture. “Watch what happens when I sharpen it.”
She sharpened it twice. The second time it came to life. I saw perforation marks, six clamps evenly spaced near the edges, and what appeared to be a flap, raised from the object and pointing to the five o’clock position.
“That’s no evidence kit,” I said.
“If I superimpose this ruler, it shows you true size. Look at its depth.”
“Less than an inch! It must be six inches across and eight inches tall.”
“Pretty close. It’s the back side of a five-by-seven photo frame.”
TUESDAY, DECEMBER NOON
I’d asked Jake to meet me alone at Lou’s. I’d had a few beers when some misguided stranger selected a song Rory had apparently just added: “Achy Breaky Heart.” I had to call Rory over and explain to him why this song didn’t belong at Lou’s Diner and why, if it wasn’t removed within ten minutes, I would have to empty my Glock into the Rock-Ola, which I didn’t want to do because I always liked that robot in Lost in Space.
Rory was extracting “Achy Breaky Heart,” looking at me nervously, and Jake arrived, while the beer bottles were still on the table.
I asked him about Carly. She wasn’t doing well.
“Sorry to bug you today,” I said. “You must be exhausted.”
“You’re not bugging me. Carly’s sleeping, and Geneva’s at the hospital with Janet. What’s up?”
“I need to … tell you something,” I said. “I don’t know why, but I do. Clarence knows some of this but not all. Promise not to tell him?”
“I guess.”
I cleared my throat to shift the gravel.
“I don’t know where I was when Palatine was killed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I came home from Rosie’s bar, but I lost at least two hours.”
“You … lost it?”
“It’s a blank. And it’s not the first time.”
“Blackouts?”
I nodded. “I’m on my own suspect list.”
“You think you might have killed him?”
“Not really, but … I’m sure that Black Jack wrapper was already there. And when I drove to the murder scene there was a box in my car from Wally’s Donuts, which is just three blocks from the professor’s house. I don’t remember going there. But … I’ve done other things I don’t remember. I don’t know why I’d kill the professor, but … something doesn’t feel right.”
Rory came to our table with another beer. When I lifted it, Jake grabbed my wrist.
“You’ve had four,” Jake said.
I shook his hand off. Rory retreated.
“Now you’re counting my beers? Counting my calories too?”
“I can’t count that high. But I can count to four. Or five.”
“What’s your point?”
“You’ve been drinking more. It shows.”
“Who made you my judge?”
“I’m not judging you. I want to help you.”
“I don’t need your help. It’s New Year’s Eve.” I lifted the bottle. “Beauty’s in the eye of the beer holder.”
He yanked it out of my hand, and it spilled over my right arm and onto the table.
“It’s not funny, Ollie.”
“I’m not laughing.” I stared him down while wiping my sleeve on my pants.
“I needed your help once, remember?” Jake asked. “I came to you about Doc and Finney after … what happened. I asked you to stand with me when Janet and I remarried. And I hope I’ve been there for you a few times.”
I nodded. “When the Trib smeared me, you stood up for me. And when Sharon was dying …”
“Ollie, I’m going to say something you won’t like.”
“You already have.”
“Think you know what it is?”
“You’re going to tell me I need help.”
“Yeah, but maybe not the help you’re thinking.”
“You’re going to go Christian on me.”
“I’m not going Christian; I am a Christian. Beneath your drinking problem there’s a thirst for something more. Someone more.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know this script.”
“Just listen. One time Jesus stood before a crowd and said, ‘If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink.’ He’s the only one who can quench your thirst.”
“I’ll stick with beer, thanks.”
“Beer isn’t what you’re thirsty for. Jesus went on to say, ‘Whoever believes in me … streams of living water will flow from within him.’ If you ask Him, God will give you peace and a perspective you’ve never had.”
“I’m not looking for peace and perspective.”
“Yes, you are. You’ve just been looking in the wrong places. Maybe you haven’t been looking that hard, but don’t kid yourself. You’re looking. Everybody is.”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
“I’ve been where you are, without Christ. Even when I didn’t know it, I was searching for Him. He invites you to believe in Him and accept the gift He bought for you when He died.”
“You sound like an evangelist.”
“I’m just quoting Jesus,
okay? I’m telling you how He changed my life.”
“You want me as a notch on your Christian gun.”
“You know me better than that. I’ll love you and be your friend if you never come to Christ. Sure, it’ll break my heart because I love Him and I love you. And I know how much you need Him.”
“What’s this got to do with me having a beer?”
“When you’re reaching for your fifth beer, you’re looking for something the beer can’t give you.”
“You know how many times I’ve said good-bye to the bottle?” I said. “It’s like ‘just say no to drugs.’ Nice thought. Well, some people just say no to drugs, but the drugs don’t listen. I was sober for years. But after Chad and then Sharon, and Andrea dropping off the face of the planet, and my problems with Kendra, and some of the cases I’ve worked.”
“It’s been tough for you.”
“You going to tell Clarence about this conversation?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t.”
“Fine. But Clarence is in your corner too. He’s rooting for you. So’s Carly.” When he said her name, he choked and his eyes misted. “She loves you, Ollie. Janet does too. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that at my church we have recovery groups.”
“For alcoholics?”
“Yeah, for alcoholics and for other issues too. One group is called grief recovery.”
“No thanks. I can take care of myself.”
He looked at me long and hard. “Actually, Ollie, you can’t.”
The chief was working at home again. After fifteen minutes I fell asleep listening to the chief’s fatally boring conversation with a city councilman. Mulch licked my face awake.
“Paul Hines, crime lab. Calling back about that Black Jack gum wrapper in the evidence bag, from the Palatine case.”
“Yes, it took you long enough to get back to me,” Lennox said. “I’d have thought the chief of police wouldn’t have to wait for a return call. Were you able to confirm that it has the detective’s prints?”
“Detective?”