The Dark Heart

by Julie Cave

  “Hi, is that Detective Jones?” The voice was so full of cheer and good humor that it would only be Dr. Walker, the medical examiner and forensic technician.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Dr. Walker. Again. I seem to be calling you quite a lot, aren’t I? Anyway, I thought you would be interested in discovering that we found some strands of hair on the body of Lola Albright. Obviously they haven’t been analyzed officially, but I’d bet my left leg that they match those found on the body of Malia Shaw.”

  Elise sat back down at her desk and stared at Dinah. This was very important. “What do the hairs look like?”

  “They are short and dark. I’d say, completely off the record, that they belong to a Caucasian male.”

  Dinah thought about the drug dealer, Simon Wakowski. He had long, stringy hair. The hairs found on the two bodies were unlikely to belong to him. But Angus Whitehall had short, dark hair, and lyin’ eyes, thought Dinah. Just like the song. Lyin’ eyes and a smile that was a thin disguise.

  “Thanks for calling,” Elise said.

  “No problem,” he said. “Have a good evening!”

  Dinah stuck a pencil in her mouth and chewed on it, deep in thought. The confirmation of every piece of evidence seemed to point to Angus Whitehall as the killer of both women, but why would the pastor take such an enormous risk? A man with a church congregation and a wife and family would have to be certifiably insane if he thought he could get away with murder twice. Yet, in police business, truth was very often much stranger than fiction.

  She fell into an exhausted sleep at about ten, and woke at about four-thirty, groggy and disoriented. She tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t. When gray light eventually appeared feebly on the horizon, she gave up and wandered downstairs for coffee. In the quiet stillness of early morning, Dinah took the opportunity to read her Bible. She was working through the Book of Galatians.

  Chloe appeared downstairs about ten minutes later, showered and ready for school. She made herself a piece of toast. “What are you reading?” she asked.

  Dinah looked up. “I’m reading the Bible. A book called Galatians.”

  “Oh yeah? What does Galatians mean?” Chloe’s toast popped.

  “It’s a letter Paul wrote to the people who live in Galatia,” explained Dinah. “They’re called Galatians.”

  “What’s it about?” Chloe sat down opposite Dinah and took several tiny bites from her piece of toast.

  “Well, I’m up to this verse,” said Dinah. “Chapter 2, verse 16: ‘We . . . know that a person is not justified by the works of the law but by faith in Jesus Christ. So we, too, have put our faith in Christ Jesus so that we may be justified by faith in Christ and not by the works of the law, because by the works of the law, no one will be justified.’ ”

  Chloe raised her eyebrows. “I have no idea what that means.”

  Dinah grinned. “What it means is that nobody is good enough or can keep the rules well enough to be considered righteous in God’s eyes. It’s not the rules that will save you. Only faith in Jesus will save you.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” joked Chloe. “I’ve broken three commandments before breakfast usually!” She stood up. “I gotta go. See you later.”

  “Bye,” said Dinah. She managed to finish reading chapter two of Galatians before Elise appeared, jingling her keys impatiently.

  Mercifully, the sheriff was not in the office when they arrived. Had he examined the interior of a chip packet or opened his fat mouth, there was no telling how Dinah might have reacted, despite her best efforts to keep her temper under control.

  Dinah was desperate to talk to Angus Whitehall about the lie he’d been caught in. But first she wanted to rule out other avenues of the investigation. She preferred to be thorough, unlike the good sheriff, who was quite happy to be sloppy and neglectful.

  The next entry in the little book found near Lola Albright’s body had raised Dinah’s suspicions. She had written of the unmarried carpenter, Miles Reading, that he “bore watching.” What did that mean? Had he threatened them? Had she suspected he could be dangerous?

  She decided to call the man at his place of work, Aristocrat Kitchens. A man answered the phone with a deep, rich baritone.

  “Aristocrat Kitchens.”

  “Hello. I’d like to speak with Miles Reading, please?”

  “He’s in the workshop. Can you hold on?”

  “Sure.”

  The hold music was tuned into the local radio station, and a hyperactive DJ was currently screaming about something so passionately he was unintelligible. When Miles Reading picked up the phone, she was utterly nonplussed.

  “Miles here.” In the background, a saw whined.

  “Hello. This is Dinah Harris, a consultant from the Sheriff’s office,” she said. “I’d like to talk to you about Malia Shaw and Lola Albright.”

  There was a loud clunking sound, then some rustling. “Sorry,” said Miles Reading. “I uh . . . dropped the phone. What did you say you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “Specifically, the murders of Malia Shaw and Lola Albright.”

  “Ah . . . right. I . . . don’t know anyone by those names.”

  Dinah sighed loudly. “Miles, don’t start this badly. I know you knew them. I don’t care how, but I want to know all about it. Do you understand?”

  “Uh . . . I don’t . . .”

  She was not feeling patient. Or gracious. Or sympathetic. With a strident tone, she said, “Miles, did you meet Malia Shaw and Lola Albright at Joaquin’s?”

  There was a long silence. “Um . . . yes. I —”

  “How did you meet Malia Shaw?”

  “Um . . . I remember I went there on a Friday night and I was sitting at the bar when Malia approached me.”

  “For what?”

  “She wanted to buy me a drink.”

  Unbidden, an image of Angus Whitehall floated through Dinah’s mind. Had he visited Joaquin’s?

  “What did she say to you?”

  “She uh, asked me if I wanted to go sit in a booth.”

  “I guess you did?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “What happened when you got to the booth?”

  “There was another lady there,” said Reading.

  “Did she introduce herself as Lola Albright?”

  “Yeah, she was with her.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, that’s when it got weird. Malia seemed like she wasn’t really all there — I think she was, like, a junkie — and Lola started asking me lots of questions.”

  “What did she ask?”

  “Where I came from, whether I’d lived here my whole life, whether I’d ever lived in California. Really weird stuff like that. Whether I’d ever beat anyone up or been in jail or assault.”

  “You answered all her questions?”

  “Well, once I realized how weird it was, I got up to leave.”

  “What happened?”

  “Lola tried to make me sit down. She seemed like she was used to getting her own way. So I just laughed at her.”

  “And then?”

  “She tried to block me, physically.” Miles coughed. “I sort of, uh, pushed her aside.”

  “You shoved her?”

  “Well, just out of the way. She kind of stumbled over. I just wanted to get out of there. It was really weird.”

  “What was Malia doing during this time?”

  “Well, she was just watching. She didn’t make much noise. I think she was half-asleep.”

  “Did you see either of them again after that encounter?”

  “I saw them hanging out at Joaquin’s again, but I never talked to them again. I stayed well away from them.”

  “Did you see any other men hanging around Malia and Lola at all?”

  “No, I didn’t see anyone else. They seemed to keep to themselves the few times I saw them.”

  “Are you aware that both Malia Shaw and Lola Albright have been murdered?”

/>   “I saw it on the news.” There was not even a trace of sadness in the man’s voice. Bears watching, Lola had written.

  “I’d like to know where you were last Monday morning?”

  “Me?” Miles Reading seemed to suddenly understand why he was being questioned. “You think I —?”

  “Just answer the question, please!” Dinah’s low patience threshold had all but petered out.

  “Uh . . . well, being a Monday, I was at work.”

  “What time did you start?”

  “I work from seven till three.”

  “You were at work the entire day? You didn’t leave for any reason?”

  “I was here, in the workshop. Just ask my boss.”

  “I will,” Dinah promised. “What about the Monday night just gone?”

  “Uh, you mean a couple of days ago? I stopped by Joaquin’s for a few drinks after work. Then I went home, I guess.”

  “Did you go home alone?”

  “Yup. Ate dinner, went to bed.”

  No real alibi, but equally no evidence that ties him to the murders, other than an interrogation by Lola.

  “Thanks for your time today, Mr. Reading. I may be in touch with you again. I’d like to make it really clear to you that you shouldn’t leave town. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Reading, sounding vastly relieved to be done.

  Dinah hung up and stuck the pencil back into her mouth.

  All the signs still point to Angus Whitehall. Esteemed pastor and family man — murderer?

  Chapter 11

  The next morning found Dinah staring blearily at the coffee pot again, having had a night of restless, broken sleep and bad dreams. She considered for a moment forgoing a cup and simply pouring the contents of the pot directly down her throat. Elise stood beside her, making oatmeal.

  Elise’s cell phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, startling them both.

  “Hello?” Elise put the phone on speaker.

  “Detective Jones? It’s Special Agent Max Shorten, FBI.”

  “Hi, Special Agent. How are you?”

  “Great. I think you’ll be feeling pretty good when I show you this tape.”

  “Really? From the surveillance of the organized crime’s business?” Dinah was at once excited, the adrenaline doing more for her state of awareness than caffeine ever could.

  “Yes. Can you come up to Richmond? I’d like to show you.”

  Twenty minutes later, Elise and Dinah were on I-95, driving north toward the city. Despite Elise’s erratic driving, Dinah felt herself drifting off into a doze. The series of nights with little sleep left her feeling exhausted. The doze didn’t really help; by the time they reached the FBI office in Richmond, she felt groggy and her eyes felt raw.

  When Max Shorten met them outside his office, Elise smiled. “So you sounded pretty happy on the phone,” she said. “What have you got?”

  He led them into an interview room with a television and other assorted electronic gear set up. “I think you’ll be pretty happy, too,” he said. “It didn’t take too long because we saw your guy come in only about two and a half years ago. We know most of Guido’s business associates, so we could fast-forward through lots of them. The ones we didn’t know we had a careful look at — and I think this is someone you’ll be interested in.”

  Shorten turned on the television and brought up a still image in grainy black-and-white. It was shot from an awkward angle above Guido’s talent agency, but it gave a clear view of the street and entrance. Shorten started to play the tape.

  At first, all Dinah saw were several teenage girls coming and going from the agency.

  “They probably think they’ll be the next supermodel,” said Shorten, his voice sour. “In reality, the gang will fleece their parents out of thousands of dollars.”

  Then a different figure appeared onscreen, walking up the sidewalk toward the agency. It was a male, dressed in chinos, boots with pointy toes, and an open-necked polo shirt. He stopped at the door, glancing around the street before going inside. In that moment, Dinah got a good look at him.

  It was Angus Whitehall.

  According to the time stamp, Whitehall appeared an hour and a half later, carrying a small white shopping bag just the right size to contain false identification documents.

  “Obviously, the tape doesn’t prove what he did in there,” said Shorten. “But he’ll have a devil of a time trying to explain it, I would think.”

  Dinah thought about that. “Is there a chance he went there on behalf of his daughter? He does have a teenage daughter.”

  “Of course, there is a chance,” admitted Shorten. “But there are far more well-known and highly regarded agencies in this city for an ordinary person to go to. This talent agency doesn’t advertise and I don’t see how he would know about it, unless it was for less innocent purposes. In any case, I’d imagine if it were for his daughter, he’d actually bring the girl along.”

  Dinah nodded. “Okay. That makes sense. I don’t suppose you’ve made a copy of the tape for me?”

  He handed it to her. “Indeed, I have. Do you think this man is the one who murdered the woman?”

  “It’s women now,” corrected Elise. “A friend of the dead woman was found murdered two nights ago. Yes, I think this guy might have done both. There are too many holes in his story. I’ve caught him out in too many lies.”

  Shorten stood up. “Well, good luck with the case. I hope you nail whoever did it.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate your help.” Elise and Dinah told him goodbye and headed back out to the car for the trip back down to Ten Mile Hollow.

  As Elise drove, Dinah pieced together the case against Angus Whitehall. The pastor was in big trouble.

  ****

  O’Toole was on the phone. Angus wanted to screech down the line at him that he had far bigger problems right now than trying to convince the other man that there was no master race. His edginess told him he was close to having a major breakdown.

  “I’ve found evidence of inferior races,” O’Toole said. “Even you can’t deny it, because it’s historical.”

  Angus closed his eyes. “Which ones are you referring to?”

  “Pygmies.”

  “I don’t know how many people you’ve insulted by saying that word,” said Angus, “but African tribes of any sort are not inferior. Nor any people groups indigenous to certain continents.”

  “But, listen,” said O’Toole. “When white civilization came across the pygmy African tribe, they didn’t know how to farm, they didn’t know any animal husbandry skills, and they certainly had no infrastructure. And this was only at the beginning of the 20th century! We’d been building cities for hundreds of years by then and they were still living like savages in the jungle.”

  “In their own environment,” retorted Angus. “The tribes you speak of were exceptional hunters, experts at tracking and trapping, physically agile, and had highly developed social structures. I would dare say that any city-dwelling white man dropped into the African jungle might have a hard time surviving. But we don’t judge his ability to survive, do we? Only the other way around — and that is pure racism at its worst.

  “Furthermore, what you’re implying is that certain people groups are no more than savages. Do you know what that word implies? It implies subhumanity: not quite human. Savage is the very word Darwin himself used to describe groups he considered not to be fully-evolved, groups like American Indians, African tribes, and Indigenous Australians. He contended that white people were more fully evolved, more human than people with darker shades of skin. The belief that these people groups were subhuman allowed the justification of horrific treatment: slavery, oppression, and genocide. Do you in your heart believe in Darwinism, that we are all descended from an ape-like creature?”

  O’Toole was silent for a moment. “I’m a Christian man, sir. I believe that God created us.”

  Angus nodded. “God does not say that He created one human and one sub-h
uman. He created a man and a woman, and they were fully human.”

  “But,” said O’Toole. “The Bible talks about slavery — there was lots of it in the Old Testament. And the New Testament doesn’t forbid slavery, either.”

  Angus was expecting this argument. “Slavery in the Old Testament was based on vastly different circumstances. The Israelites were slaves in Egypt because there were so many of them and Pharaoh was afraid of their numbers. So he subjugated them. What we think of as slavery — capturing people against their will and selling them to an owner — is not what slavery was in biblical times. In fact, somebody who attempted to do this was to be put to death, according to Old Testament law. In those times, the absence of a social welfare safety net meant that people who were unable to provide for themselves would become slaves in exchange for food and housing. There were a vast number of laws pertaining to the protection of one’s slaves: they were not to be injured or killed, they were required to have the Sabbath day off, and they weren’t even to speak badly about their slaves.

  “The New Testament is set during the period of Roman rule. The Roman empire practiced involuntary slavery — the capture and sale of otherwise unwilling slaves. Early Christians were slaves to Roman masters but were encouraged to serve faithfully in order to show the love of Jesus. Anyone who became a Christian who owned slaves was instructed to treat them with justice and fairness. In fact, it is widely believed that in Paul’s letter to Philemon, Paul encourages Philemon to treat an escaped slave with mercy and forgiveness, even to the point of releasing him from slavery. In the first chapter of the Book of Philemon, Paul writes: ‘For perhaps he was for this reason separated from you for a while, that you would have him back forever, no longer as a slave, but more than a slave, a beloved brother, especially to me, but how much more to you, both in the flesh and in the Lord.’ Does it sound like the Bible endorses slavery, Mr. O’Toole?”

  “I suppose not,” said O’Toole.

  Angus suddenly felt very tired. “May I make the following point: racism isn’t harmless. Believing that one group of people is superior to another isn’t harmless. The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer attributed civilizational primacy to the white people: ‘The highest civilization and culture, apart from the ancient Hindus and Egyptians, are found exclusively among the white races; and even with many dark peoples, the ruling caste or race is fairer in color than the rest.’ Do you remember what happened in Germany?”