by Tom Wallace
“That very well could be the case. I’ve seen it happen before.”
Angel made her standard entrance, barging in without bothering to knock. I wasn’t sure if that’s the California way or not, but it didn’t matter to me. I was just overjoyed she was here. It wouldn’t have bothered me if she had flown in through the window like a movie vampire.
She cleaned up well, I’ll give her that. Wearing fresh blue Levis, a white Tee-shirt with Tom Petty’s picture and 1950-2017 on it, red tennis shoes, and her still wet hair pulled back into a ponytail, she was a world-class beauty. And I’m not making that judgment because I’m her father. She’s a work of art. Seeing her standing there was a painful reminder of the wonderful daughter who had been absent from my life for twelve long years, while also forcing me to once again admit what a fool I had been for allowing such a thing to happen. Shame on me.
~ * ~
Greg’s plan was one I didn’t agree with. I know how insane that sounds, a writer challenging an experienced federal agent’s strategy, but, hey, isn’t a lowly scribbler allowed to have an opinion, even if it’s a lousy one? And yes, I know the old saying about opinions. However, this particular writer was wise enough to keep his disagreement to himself.
The plan Greg laid out called for us to sit outside the American Legion until the place closed, then go inside and confront Chet Woodward. This approach, Greg said, would be more likely to catch Chet off guard, and perhaps rattle him to the extent that he lets important information slip out. A surprise attack was the reason Greg opted for this approach.
The surprise element wasn’t why I disagreed (silently) with Greg’s plan. I just felt the smart thing to do would be to enter the Legion when the place was busy and grill Chet in front of his peers. If I were in Chet’s shoes, being questioned with multiple eyes watching would rattle me more than being questioned by a lone FBI agent with no one else around staring at you. But my approach was one I undoubtedly had seen in a movie, so it was for the best that I didn’t openly challenge Greg.
Sitting around waiting has never been my forte (unless it was on a bar stool), but it didn’t seem to bother Angel or Greg. They were in the front seat of the car chatting like lifelong friends while sharing a bag of pretzels. Mostly, I stayed quiet, preferring to think rather than talk. As always, my thoughts seemed to land on my Divine Rebel, William Blake. “Expect poison from standing water” was his apothegm that kept coming to mind. Somehow it seemed appropriate for the occasion. Would Chet Woodward poison us with his lies and false statements? More than likely he would, I quickly concluded.
~ * ~
The Legion officially closed at midnight. A handful of hardcore drinkers stayed around until closing time, but most of the customers were gone by then. By twelve-thirty, most of the lights inside had been turned off. We had no way of knowing for sure if Chet was alone, or if others were inside helping him with clean-up duties. It didn’t matter. The time had come for us to move.
Greg banged on the locked front door for several minutes before it was opened. We were disappointed to see someone other than Chet standing there. He was a small guy with a full beard, shaved head, and creepy eyes.
“Sorry, folks, we’re closed,” the man said. “We open again tomorrow at noon. You’re welcome to come back then.”
Greg held up his credentials and said, “I need to speak with Chet. Is he around?”
The man eyed Greg’s credentials with a wary look. “Yeah, he might be.” He opened the door a little wider, but not nearly enough for us to enter. “Why do you want to talk with Chet?”
“That’s none of your concern, sir,” Greg said. “Are there others inside, or is it just you and Chet?”
“Ain’t nobody but me and him.”
“Then please stand aside and let me in. I’ll want to speak with Chet in private, so why don’t you call it a night and head home?”
As the man reluctantly granted us entrance, a voice called from the back. “What’s going on up there, Carl?”
Greg put a finger to his lips before Carl could respond, indicating that Carl should remain silent. Then Greg nodded at the open door, his way of ordering Carl to decamp. Carl left without speaking.
“You deaf or what, Carl?” Chet yelled. An overhead row of lights was turned back on. “You know the rules. No one gets in after midnight. Send them on their way, lock the damn door, get your sorry ass in gear, and help me. I don’t intend to be here all night.”
“I’m afraid Carl has called it a day, Chet,” Greg announced.
Chet turned around, eyed the three of us, grinned, and said, “I’ve met your two companions, but who the hell are you?”
“Greg Harkins, FBI,” Greg said, holding up his credentials. “I’m here to ask you a few questions.”
“I don’t have time at the moment. As you can plainly see, I’m busy. Check back with me tomorrow.”
“Make time, Chet. I’m not going anywhere.”
Chet picked up a chair, turned it upside-down, and set it on a table. He did the same thing with the other three chairs around the table.
“What is it you want to talk about?” Chet asked, moving to the next table. “Did I serve alcohol to a minor? Is that it?”
“As a matter of fact, it is. But we’ll get to that later. How about we begin with the murder of Sharon Anderson?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“On the contrary, Chet, you know all about it.”
“Is that a fact? Okay, tell me what I know.”
“You and Dorsey McElwain murdered her.”
“That’s bullshit. I didn’t kill Sharon.”
“I’ve met more than my share of liars, Chet, and you aren’t a very good one.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Why did Sharon have to die?” Greg asked.
“How would I know? I didn’t kill her,” Chet replied.
“Chet, you not only killed Sharon, you also murdered Dorsey.”
“Man, you are completely out of your fucking mind. I can’t believe they’d give a badge to someone as crazy as you are.”
“Want to hear another crazy notion, Chet? You killed Luke Felton.”
“Now I know you’re pissing in the wind. That kid confessed and was sentence to life in prison for murdering Luke.”
“Todd Brown never killed anyone,” Greg said. “He was drugged, then you and Dorsey killed Luke and set Todd up to take the fall.”
“Chief, you’ve really gone off the deep end.”
“What I don’t understand is why Luke had to be killed.”
“Are you going to stand there and blame me for every murder?” Chet asked, seriously.
“No, just those three.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy, Mr. FBI Agent.”
“Make my life easier, Chet. Confess to what you did. Admit you murdered those three innocent people.”
“I’m not going to admit to something I didn’t do.”
“Admit it or not, you’re going down for those homicides.”
“But you have a big problem, don’t you? You can’t prove any of it.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that if I were in your shoes, Chet. Wait until I talk to your lover. Dottie Barker will give you up in two seconds. Trust me, she’ll lay all the blame on you. And she has the money to hire the best legal minds to handle her case. You know the ones I’m talking about. Those sleazy well-dressed lizards who will stop at nothing to keep her from going down for those homicides. No, Chet, your ass is cooked.”
As the two men were confronting each other, Angel and I were positioned on opposite sides of Greg. I was to his right, Angel to his left, which placed her just a couple of feet away from Chet. I didn’t pay attention to her close proximity to him. As events soon unfolded, I should have.
“Dottie is a tough broad,” Chet stated. “She won’t say anything against me.”
“Maybe she is,” Greg said. “Maybe she won’t rat you out. But what about e-mails and text messages? I’l
l bet there are hundreds of them. What will I find when I check them out?”
“Nothing, that’s what.”
“I’m betting I find a treasure trove of rich, salacious bedroom chat between you and Dottie. I might even be turned on by what I read. How about it? Will it turn me on?”
“Won’t make a goddamn bit of difference,” Chet snapped before making a series of surprisingly quick moves for such a burly guy. First, he dug into his pants pocket, pulled out and opened a switchblade knife, darted behind Angel, threw his right arm around her neck and pressed the knife against her throat. “I’m walking out of here, or this pretty bitch dies.”
Greg’s weapon was out and pointed at Chet. “Let her go and drop the knife, Chet,” he ordered. “You aren’t going anywhere, and neither am I. But let’s talk. No one needs to get hurt.”
“Don’t test me. I’ve already killed three people. A fourth won’t make any difference.”
The next few moments, which couldn’t have lasted more than five seconds, are the scariest and the proudest I’ve ever experienced in my life. It was a scene I’ve watched a hundred times in movies, but never in real life. And trust me, what transpired was real life.
Angel grabbed Chet’s right arm with both hands, and then in an explosive move, she simultaneously pulled his arm away from her neck, ducked her left shoulder down, a move that also had the knife aimed toward the floor. With her right shoulder raised and Chet’s body bent forward, she slipped out of the headlock, twisted the arm holding the knife, which was positioned blade-first toward his ribs, jabbed the knife into his side, and then kicked him twice in the face while taking the knife from his hand. When she released Chet, he fell forward on the floor, moaning and groaning, blood leaking from the small wound to his side.
I could only marvel at the scene I had just witnessed. A knife-wielding, two-hundred-fifty-pound three-time killer, a Vietnam vet to boot, had just been totally annihilated by an opponent who maybe tipped the scales at one-twenty. And she had taken him down without the first hint of fear or hesitation. Had I scripted this scene for a movie, I doubt it would have made the cut.
Greg put the handcuffs on Chet, who was still too woozy to stand. The injury inflicted by Angel was little more than a nick, but Greg, being a considerate law enforcement officer, took out his handkerchief and pressed it against the wound. When he was certain the bleeding had stopped, he stood and glanced at me.
I could tell from the look on Greg’s face that he was equally impressed by what he’d just seen. He stared at Angel for a while, then shifted his eyes back to me. There was a minimum of ten questions behind those eyes, but he only asked one.
“Where the hell did she learn how to do that amazing shit?” he said.
“Brown belt in Krav Maga,” I replied.
“Hey, I say give her the black belt. She just earned it.”
“I second that motion.”
Angel listened but didn’t chime in. And most important of all, like a proud warrior she didn’t gloat. She seemed to know instinctively that real heroes don’t have to gloat or brag. Real heroes let their actions do the talking.
And my beautiful daughter was a real hero.
Twenty-nine
Well, this story ends where it began, me sitting at the bar in the Old Salty Dog on Siesta Key and Rory Killion peppering me with questions about my friendship with Anthony Hopkins. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get it across to Rory that the Oscar-winning actor and I are not friends, only working acquaintances, and barely that. I’ve tried and failed to make Rory understand that sitting in on a reading of my play or observing a few rehearsals does not a friendship make. None of my arguments mattered. Rory granted me friendship status with Sir Anthony and nothing was going to persuade him differently. You have to admire someone that stubborn and hard-headed.
It’s only four-thirty on New Year’s Day, but the bar was doing a bang-up business. Outside, the temperature is barely in the fifties, which necessitated adding a windbreaker to my normal beach wardrobe… shorts, Tee-shirt, and tennis shoes. The New England area is currently being blanketed with snow, so you won’t hear me complaining about the cooler weather in Florida.
This Christmas past was the best I’ve had in, well, the past thirteen years. I say this because Angel was here. She and her college roommate flew down and spent ten days with me. We had a blast, trust me. The two ladies immediately fell in love with this entire area… Siesta Key, Sarasota, Longboat Key, Bird Key, and especially St. Armands Circle, where they shopped for hours each day.
Angel now claims that, after graduating from college, she intends to move here and live on Siesta Key. I was quick to say that was fine with me. She has decided to forego creative writing and stick with psychology, which, in my opinion, is a wise decision. It’s much less risky. In my case, I got lucky. Few writers are fortunate enough to land good-paying gigs as a script doctor, or to pen a play that becomes a big critical and financial success. I reminded her that a guaranteed steady income is not a bad thing.
Speaking of Divine Rebel: An Evening with William Blake, the play is doing better now than ever. In London, Jeremy Irons replaced Jonathan Pryce as Blake, and from all I’ve read and heard, he is spectacular in the role. In September, I hooked up with Angel in Los Angeles and we attended the production at the Mark Taber Theatre that featured Brian Cox as Blake. Cox didn’t disappoint; he was excellent. I know that a parent is not supposed to favor one child over another, but in my case I’m guilty of that transgression. Of all the productions of the play I’ve seen… and with the exception of the one in London, I’ve seen them all… my absolute favorite is the one I saw at the Steppenwolf Theatre in Chicago. John Malkovich was Blake, and Gary Sinise directed. I judged it to be beyond perfect. It’s impossible for me to adequately explain why I felt this way, only to say there was something different, unique, about that production. Maybe it had more energy, or perhaps it’s because Blake, for the first time, was portrayed by an American actor. There has been some chatter making the rounds that if Malkovich and Sinise can work it into their busy schedules, the Steppenwolf production might move to Broadway. I hope that works out. New York theatre patrons would love it.
~ * ~
Earlier, I stated that this had been a special Christmas because Angel shared it with me. Her presence made it truly special. There was also a second reason why it was so much better than normal. On Christmas evening, I received a phone call from Steve Brown. We only spoke for a brief time, with Steve doing most of the talking. He thanked me again and again for never losing faith in Todd, and for never relenting in my effort to prove his innocence. I told Steve the real credit should go to FBI agent Greg Harkins, which was true. Without him, none of those three homicide cases would have been solved. Certainly not by a writer with no authority to investigate a series of murders. Steve promised to give Greg a call and thank him for his work on the case.
Steve said Todd was doing well, and that as incredible as it might seem, during the time Todd was incarcerated he made positive strides toward overcoming his drug addiction. According to Steve, his son had completed a one-month stay in a drug rehab facility, landed a job with the highway department, and was planning to enroll in the community college later this month.
What I didn’t tell Steve was that I had previously been given this information. Todd called in early October, we spoke for almost two hours, and he shared with me all the positive things that were going on in his life. He seemed to be in good spirits, his thought process was sound, and he was eagerly looking forward to the future. My conclusion: He was happy and at peace with himself. Now he faced the real challenge… not straying from this path he’s on.
What Todd couldn’t do, however, was remember what had actually taken place on the night Luke Felton was murdered. He’d racked his brain countless times trying to recall those events, but always came up with blanks. So, it was left for me to unfold the story for him.
And that’s what I did.
&nb
sp; ~ * ~
This whole sordid mess began when Sharon Anderson made the mistake of confiding to Chet that she was pregnant with Russell’s child. Chet went straight to Dottie and told her. This sent Dottie into a panic. She didn’t love Russell, but she did love his money. She feared that if Russell learned of the pregnancy, and after having lost his only child in that explosion in Florida, he would demand that Sharon keep the baby. That would be bad enough, Dottie knew, but what if Sharon wanted Russell to get a divorce and marry her? Or what if Sharon decided to blackmail Russell for big bucks, really hit his bank account hard? Neither one of those scenarios was acceptable to Dottie. There was but a single solution to this problem… Sharon and her unborn child had to go.
Naturally, Chet, Dottie’s lover, was enlisted to put an end to this potential threat. He agreed to help… there was nothing he wouldn’t do for Dottie… but said it would be difficult to pull off alone. Dorsey McElwain could be recruited, he told Dottie, if she agreed to pay him five grand, which for her was chump change. Dottie wrote the check right on the spot.
Two nights later, Chet met with Sharon under the guise of advising her how she should approach Russell with the good news that he was soon to be a father. When they arrived at the previously arranged destination, Dorsey was there waiting. Dorsey held her down while Chet strangled her with a rope. Then, per Dottie’s orders—“I’m sick of hearing how great her blow jobs are”… Chet cut off Sharon’s head, stuffed the rest of her body in the trunk, then he and Dorsey attempted and failed to completely submerge her car in the pond. Chet and Dorsey drove away… only those two know where they discarded Sharon’s head… certain they had pulled off the perfect crime.
Which was true…for three years, anyway.
Dorsey McElwain was murdered because, just as Rabbit said, he was seen speaking with Angel at the Convention Center. That individual, and we don’t know who it was, went to the American Legion and told Chet what he had just seen. This was not news Chet wanted to hear. When the Legion closed that night, Chet paid Dorsey a visit. No big deal, just two friends shooting the shit. Then at some point while Dorsey was sitting on the sofa Chet came up from behind and snapped Dorsey’s neck, killing him instantly. Dorsey had become a problem; Chet took care of it. It was no more complicated than that.