by Randy Alcorn
“We’ve passed out dozens of these photos. A lot of us keep them at our desks next to our own family pictures. Reminds us Rob’s killer is still out there. Here, you can keep this one.”
“Sure hope Spider leads us to him,” Ollie said, carefully putting the picture inside his suit pocket. “Speaking of which, we better get back. You can’t hold Spider much longer before attorneys storm the precinct. And I want to see if he’s done any artwork.”
They went back to the dimly lit observation room, where a man in plainclothes with a notepad in front of him peered into the holding room.
“Detective Chandler,” Lieutenant Tucker said, “this is Greg Suminski, our resident handwriting expert, the one I told you about.” Ollie shook his hand, then looked in on Spider. To his delight, he saw a number of scribblings on the board. Spider was just now finishing off the last line in a five-line composition. He was writing with his left hand.
Ollie pointed at the photo sitting in front of Suminski, an eight-by-ten of graffiti on the Taco Bell fence. “Okay,” Ollie said, “was this written by the same guy?”
Suminski looked down, then held the photo up in front of him, juxtaposed to the board. His eyes went back and forth methodically, checking every letter of every line.
“Absolutely,” he finally said. “No doubt.”
“You’re saying,” Ollie mouthed it slowly, “you’d testify in court that these were written by the same guy? So Spider would have had to be in Portland, less than a mile from the murder scene?”
“The guy in that room who just wrote on that board is the author of this tag,” Suminski said, pointing to the photograph. “Count on it. But you better get in there before he erases it. You’ll need a decent photo for a courtroom blow-up.”
Ollie went to Spider with a uniformed officer, bringing him another Pepsi and escorting him and the boom box to another interrogation room. Then Ollie returned to the original room with his camera to take some pictures of Spider’s handiwork. He asked the lieutenant if an LAPD photographer could take some as backups, which he did.
When he finished taking the pictures, Ollie decided to reward himself. He went in search of a jelly donut.
Ollie and Spider met back in the original interrogation room, where the temperature had been turned up to 78 degrees at Ollie’s request.
“I need to take off soon, Spider, but I’ve got something you should hear first. What if I told you your guy in Sacramento, Matthew Harper, is selling you out? What if he says he hired you just to make a delivery and you did the murder completely on your own?”
“He don’t say that.” Spider tried to sound certain.
“How do you think we found you if Harper didn’t give us Rafer Thomas?”
Spider looked around nervously, unable to answer.
“And Rafer Thomas will be the next to turn on you. He won’t be willing to go down as an accessory to murder. He’ll deal. How do you think we found out where you live if Rafer didn’t tell us?”
Spider wiped his forehead.
“Then there’s your driver for the Portland hit, a.k.a. Robert Rose. What if I told you we met with him an hour ago and he wants to cut a deal? Suppose he’s willing to testify you were the shooter, so you’ll fry and he won’t. Suppose he says it was all your doing, that you told him the two of you were just goin’ up there to do a couple of burglaries, that he never knew you intended to shoot anyone until you did it?”
“He say that, he be a liar.”
“I’m afraid there’s a lot you don’t know about this soldier—not your Road Dog, is he? Goes by all kinds of a.k.a.s. He sure fooled you, Spider. Bet you a hundred you didn’t even know his real name’s Jimmy Tennesen, did you? You probably know him as Michael Bock.”
Spider’s eyes got big. “Sailor’s name not be Michael or Jimmy. It be Allen.”
“Allen Jones?” Ollie smiled knowingly. “Yeah, that’s another one he uses.”
“Not Jones. Ivester.”
“Ivester, yeah, he goes by that one too.” Ollie turned and winked at the two-way mirror. Allen Ivester, a.k.a. Sailor. Pay dirt.
“Thing is, it looks really bad for you, Spider. You’re the one we can positively ID, the one the witnesses saw, the shooter. And since it was your gun, LAPD knows you killed that cop in April.”
“Didn’t even have that piece in April.” Spider’s voice trembled.
“Only one way to prove that,” Ollie said. “You’d have to tell me who did have it.”
Spider said nothing.
“Okay, Earl, if you’re done talking with me, I’ll head off now. You can take this up with LAPD.” Ollie walked to the door and opened it, then turned around and said, “I wish you luck.”
“Wait,” Spider blurted out. “Monk have the piece. Got it from Monk.”
“Who’s Monk?”
“He Nine Deuce. Traded him for it.” Ollie thought he heard a noise from the adjacent room, like a muffled cheer.
After a few more minutes, the well ran dry.
“I think they’ll be bringing charges against you, Earl,” Ollie said. “Better talk to your lawyer. Just knock on the door and ask one of the officers. They’ll take you out to make the phone call.”
Ollie walked out, heading to the observation room doorway twenty feet away. Lieutenant Tucker and a gang detective stepped out into the hall to greet him. Tucker smiled broadly and gave Ollie a high five.
“Monk! Nice work, Ollie! And Spider’s driver was…Allen Ivester. Brilliant! The dominoes are falling.”
“I can’t believe you got him to finger Monk,” the gang detective said. “I know him. He’s minister of defense for the Nine Deuces. We thought he was in that gun-fight, but we couldn’t prove it. This is just the break we needed.”
“As we speak,” Lieutenant Tucker said to Ollie, “one crew’s going to find Allen Ivester and another’s going to arrest Monk on suspicion of murdering Officer Tallon. We owe you big for this one, Ollie!”
The faint pneumatic sigh of the oil furnace expressed its bewilderment as to whether it was supposed to come on again after having been off so short a time.
Clarence lay shivering in the waterbed, reaching through the darkness blindly toward the dial to turn it up another notch. He pulled over his feet the Green Bay Packer stadium blanket he’d put on top of the covers. This was Geneva’s job, freezing on a winter night. But she lay there under her two extra comforters, sleeping soundly. How many nights without sleep would this make for him? He’d lost track. He felt punchy and disoriented, tossing and turning like a rotisserie minus the heat.
He couldn’t remember the boy on the bike coming to him so many nights in a row. He couldn’t remember ever feeling there was so little purpose in going to work in the mornings. He couldn’t remember it ever being so dark and cold.
“Wait a minute,” Clarence said to Ollie, after Chandler recounted to him and Manny his adventures in LA. “I didn’t know you got Spider’s prints off the license plate. And the gun? You never even told me part of the gun was found.”
“There weren’t any clear prints on the plate, unfortunately,” Ollie said. “It was out in the weather too long. I never told you I said there were prints, did I Manny?”
“No.” Manny smiled. “You just told us you said, ‘What if I told you we found your prints on the plate?’”
“Same with the HK53,” Ollie said. “We never found the gun, and I never said we did. Since they didn’t object to the car search in Medford, I knew they’d ditched it. No time or place to deal it after the hit. I figured they disassembled it and disposed of it piece by piece—that’s what I would have done. I gambled Spider would buy we wouldn’t know that unless we’d really found a piece.”
Clarence looked at Ollie. “You’ve played some poker along the way, haven’t you?”
“Comes with the territory. Got a message from Lieutenant Tucker saying they arrested Allen Ivester last night. But I’m not optimistic about either of our Crips handing over Harper. They probably see h
im as someone who can help them behind the scenes, but only if they don’t betray him. We’ll try to get Harper from this side, through Gray and Norcoast. See if we can turn them against Harper and Harper against them, Harper against Spider, Spider against Harper, Ivester against Spider, Spider against Ivester. And throw in Rafer Thomas too, he’s a wild card. If they think the ship’s goin’ down, pretty soon they’re fighting for the life rafts. We’ll see. I tell you, Clarence, you would have been really impressed with LAPD.”
Clarence was expressionless.
“Very professional, very helpful,” Ollie said.
“Yeah,” Clarence said, rubbing his red eyes, “I suppose they’re cooperative when the victim’s one of their own.”
“You mean when a cop is killed? Or when they’re after a black man who killed a white cop. Is that what you’re thinking?”
Clarence didn’t respond. Ollie reached into his briefcase and took out a picture of a husband and wife and two daughters and a son, ranging from ages four to nine. It was a beautiful family in front of a fireplace at Christmas time.
“Who are they?” Clarence asked.
“That’s Officer Tallon,” Ollie said. “He was the murdered SWAT officer, the one they took the HK53 from.”
“You never told me he was black,” Clarence said.
“I didn’t know he was black until they gave me this picture. But it really doesn’t matter.” Ollie looked at him. “Does it?”
“No,” Clarence said, his throat dry. “It really doesn’t.”
“If it means anything—and apparently it does—Lieutenant Tucker’s black too,” Ollie said. “Those guys were pros. Start to finish.”
“Ollie’s been full of himself since he got back from L.A.,” Manny said to Clarence. “He’s even harder to live with than usual.”
“Hey don’t either of you guys mess with me today,” Ollie said. He picked up a long black leather case leaning on his desk. “I’m carrying heavy metal, packin’ major heat. I checked out this HK53 from the department for a few days. Taking it home tonight.”
“Why?” Clarence asked.
“I do it every once in a while when there’s some loose ends. Sometimes just living with a piece of evidence or a weapon, just having it around, triggers something I haven’t thought of. Maybe I’ll lean it on my nightstand and it’ll whisper secrets to me in the night.”
“Maybe I better call your wife and warn her,” Manny said.
The low gray sky seemed as hard and impenetrable as it was dark and foreboding. Winter’s long bony fingers gripped the city, having already stripped bare the trees, leaving everything a lackluster gray. Clarence Abernathy scraped just enough ice from his windshield to allow him to see straight ahead, but not up or down or to the side. He didn’t care.
Clarence found himself longing for the past, nostalgic even for Mississippi. Geneva kept telling him he should just be grateful the charges against him had been dropped. But they’d been unjust charges, and his reputation would suffer from that injustice the rest of his life. How good could he feel about that? Having lost his reputation, he now cared less about trying to uphold it than he ever had. It would be like guarding the jewels after they’d already been stolen. What did it matter what he did any more? How much worse could people think of him?
He didn’t share Ollie’s jubilation at the progress in the case made down in L.A. Sure, Spider would probably go to jail eventually, provided he faced the right judge and jury and his lawyer wasn’t too good. Shadow might go down too. But Clarence seriously doubted those who pulled the strings and set up the murder would be put away. Harper would come up with some angle, and Norcoast and Gray would worm their way into lesser charges. Even if Ollie could come through with his mountain of circumstantial evidence, would it be enough? How much of Clarence’s own amateur sleuthing, right down to the tissues from Gray’s garbage can, would prove inadmissible? On finding corners had been cut, would some liberal judge drop the charges entirely?
How many men had weaseled their way out from under evidence that should have nailed them dead to rights? Men such as Norcoast and Gray and their high-priced Ivy League lawyers always had some technicality, some way of getting off the hook. They were above the system, like the politicians and cops in old Mississippi. In the end, Clarence told himself, they would get off—but Dani and Felicia would still be dead. There would be no justice. It gnawed at him like a nagging ulcer. It produced ever bigger and darker clouds in his mind, each new cynical thought seeding them with rain.
Clarence’s sleeplessness and fatigue were compounded by severe blood-sugar swings. He hadn’t told Geneva, not wanting to worry her. He felt on the edge, tired of playing games, tired of waiting for justice that would never come.
If it’s justice I want, maybe there’s only one way to get it.
“The longing of your brother’s heart is for something further back,” Lewis said to Dani. “For Eden. And for something further forward. For heaven. Limited to the horizons of that world, his thoughts can only remind him of what is not. Out of that can only come despair. Men are born with a longing for Eden, Elyon’s garden, and a longing for Jerusalem, Elyon’s city. This longing creates the pain of separation from what is good and the hope of experiencing the good as it was meant to be. When we were in that world, our hearts could never fully rest. Sometimes the turmoil was overwhelming, as it is now for your brother. He’s like a man without eyes, groping along the wall in search of justice in a world of injustice.”
“He’s totally disillusioned,” Dani said. “I wish I could go tell him there’s so much more happening that he can’t see.”
“Elyon has told him that already, in his Word. He must find it there himself, learn to believe and trust what the Sovereign One has said to him.” Lewis paced again in his inimitable professorial style. “Your brother is right to be disillusioned with that world. He does not belong there. No one does. Only the ungodly could be content with a world so dark, and even they are never truly content. Clarence’s error is in being disillusioned with what is true, for truth is just as real now as it was before the tragedies he’s endured. That he is so disappointed with the failings of the dark world shows he put too much hope in that world. Only this world can bear the weight of his highest expectations. Only this world can fulfill his deepest longings.”
“Can we pray for him?” Dani asked.
They bowed their knees toward Elyon’s throne, lifting up one still living on the planet of pain.
The man reached underneath the worn brown Malibu, just below the Visualize Whirled Peas bumper sticker. He groped around, finally fingering a greasy little container. He removed the key and opened the trunk. He looked both ways, then removed the long black leather case, shut the trunk, took it to his own car, and drove away.
“Sheila? Hi, this is Clarence Abernathy.”
“Hello, Mr. Abernathy. Say, I’ve been wondering when we’ll see your column featuring Mr. Norcoast’s career. Don’t worry, I haven’t spoiled the surprise!”
“Uh, well, I’m still working on it, but I’m sure you’ll be seeing the councilman’s name in the paper real soon. Listen, speaking of surprises, I heard Reggie’s birthday is Sunday.”
“Yes. He’ll be forty-five!” Sheila was as effervescent as always.
“That’s great,” Clarence said. “Listen, there’s five or six of us, friends from his district, and we were wondering if maybe there’d be any time tomorrow when we could drop in as a surprise, bring Reggie a cake and some presents. Just for forty minutes, maybe? Hopefully Mr. Gray could be there too. Any possibility you could help us pull this off?”
“Oh, that sounds just wonderful,” Sheila said. “I love surprises. Let me check everybody’s schedule. Jean’s gone tomorrow, and neither of the part-timers work Fridays. Yes, Councilman Norcoast and Mr. Gray have a breakfast appointment out, then they’ve got a telephone conference with Congressman Sparks from ten-thirty until eleven. Then both of them have an hour open until they’ll need to
leave for a lunch appointment. Sounds like eleven would be perfect!”
“Wonderful,” Clarence said. “How about you write me in for an eleven o’clock appointment with Mr. Norcoast, but just tell him it’s an interview, okay? He won’t know the others are coming, all right? Don’t tell Mr. Gray either. I’ve got a little plan I won’t bore you with, but we need to be with just Reg for a while, then we’ll call in Carson. All right?”
“Certainly,” Sheila said. “I love this kind of thing! The councilman will be so surprised.”
Yes, he will. More than you can possibly imagine.
“Antsy is stuck in the present,” Dani said. “His eyes are closed to the past, in which Elyon has proven himself faithful, and closed to the future, to his promise that all wrongs will be made right.”
“Your brother sees himself as the main character in life’s drama,” Lewis said. “He demands the script be written to his liking and he storms off the stage when it isn’t. He resents Elyon directing the drama as he sees fit.”
“He’s so angry and desperate. More than I’ve ever seen him.”
“His anger and despair are like a compass that points to true north,” Lewis said. “They are a reminder there’s a right direction, and the whole earth is headed in the wrong one. Hell is automatic. Heaven’s values, however, are a choice against the grain, a choice he needs to make. Your brother’s disillusionment is valid, but he must not allow it to control him. He must let it direct him toward heaven.”
“I’m afraid he’s making the wrong choices,” Dani said. “He thinks he can’t wait for justice, yet final justice won’t come until the last day.”
“You are right, my sister,” Lewis said. “Life in that world never fulfills God’s perfect design or man’s deepest longings. At its best, it hints of them and kindles longing for them. Your brother longs for what will be. But if he takes things into his hands now, his attempt to accomplish God’s justice will be an act of injustice. If your brother’s pain leads him to look to Elyon for healing, the pain will serve him well. If he allows his pain to become his master, it will destroy him—and perhaps others.”