He’d once risked his career helping Morgan, then a cop reporter at the Chicago Tribune, link the vicious serial killer P.D. Comeaux to a little-known group of violent Christian fundamentalists known as the Fourth Sign. But that’s the kind of passionate cop he was: a workaholic who owed the rules but didn’t play political games. So he never got a cushy headquarters job, but he got respect.
Overton never wanted to leave Chicago anyway, and not just because he was a hopelessly hopeful Cubs fan. Almost every Saturday, he walked up Mount Prospect Road to visit his son’s grave in Mount Emblem Cemetery. The boy had died almost twenty years ago in a prom-night car crash, and even before the mourning was over, so was his marriage. So the routine of his grief, amid all the violent colors of death in summer and the white-on-white bunting of winter, was his solace. He never spoke to the grave, like some people did, because he didn’t think anyone was listening. Instead, he went there to be close to someone.
Dead sons connected Overton and Morgan. Neither of them had ever stopped grieving, but after a long time of crying when they thought nobody else could hear, they’d found a place for the pain, then moved on.
Morgan dialed the number scribbled at the edge of the Rolodex card, Overton’s home in Elmhurst, where he now spent his days cataloging his collection of rare books on crime and theology, jogging on his treadmill two or three times a day, obsessively watching the History Channel, and experimenting with bagel recipes. It rang several times, then the answering machine clicked.
“You’ve reached the home of Jerry Overton …” the fuzzy taped announcement said, but suddenly there was a live voice on the line, too. “Dammit … hold on … not here at the moment … don’t hang up … just leave a number after the beep and … shit, hold on … as soon as I return …”
But before the machine beeped, the line frizzed and popped. After a second of silence, the live voice came back. “Damned machine. Hello? Still there?”
“Jerry, this is Jeff Morgan. Is this you or is it Memorex?”
“Hey, Jeff. Had to unplug the sonofabitch to shut it up. Don’t know why I even have it. Nobody calls and I never leave. Still winter out there in Montana?”
“Wyoming. And it’s June here, just like there.”
“Isn’t that still winter in Wyoming?”
“Only in odd years.”
“They’re all odd years in Wyoming,” Overton said. “So what’s up? How’s that little boy of yours?”
“Everybody’s good,” Morgan said. “Colter is learning to swim and doesn’t have a care in the world.”
“How’s your mom?”
“Still the same. She doesn’t know me anymore, but that’s what the Alzheimer’s does. She’s here and I can kiss her every day. That’s better than the alternative.”
“And you?”
“Busy,” Morgan said, “and that’s why I called. I have a case …”
“Hell, Jeff, I’ll do what I can, but I’ve been out of the loop nearly a year.”
“Thanks. You know anything about an ATF agent named Gabriel Rodriguez? Undercover guy went missing in July of ‘Ninety-eight?”
Overton said nothing for a moment.
“Why?”
“He might have turned up,” Morgan said.
“Alive?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“Here. It’s a long story, but we’ve got a headless, mummified corpse and the fingerprints match.”
“No dental?”
“No head.”
“No DNA?”
“No comparables yet.”
“Nothing else?”
“Only a tattoo. A ring of brambles on his upper arm.”
“Goddammit.” Morgan sensed Overton’s anguish over a thousand miles, and it seemed to confirm John Doe’s true identity.
“So you know him?”
Overton took a long time answering. Morgan could hear a television in the background, a grave narrator describing the carnage on Omaha Beach.
“Yeah. Good cop. College kid, but you’d never know … hold it, are we on the record here?”
“Background,” Morgan assured his friend. “I need to make him human. Family. History. What he was doing. I’ve got nothing at this point.”
“Call the media guys.”
“I did. Nothing.”
Overton huffed. “Figures.”
“You can’t help?”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“Can you point me in the right direction?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“You put me in a real pinch here, my friend. I can’t say anything without saying too much.”
“Okay, off the record. I won’t print it unless somebody else confirms it. Deal?”
Overton contemplated the deal for a moment, then spoke.
“Rodriguez was undercover, way deep. He was wading in shit up to his neck. I’m surprised you know as much as you do.”
“What was he into? Butts, bullets or bombs?”
“Nice try, kid, but I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. That’s all I can say, and it’s totally off the record.”
“Who or what was he investigating?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Bad guys. Old friends of yours. I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t watching you right now.”
Morgan had lots of old friends who were anything but friends. Many of them were on Death Row in a dozen states, but many more weren’t in jail at all. His stories at the Chicago Tribune had exposed organized crime, radical movements, terrorist cells, drug cartels, neo-Nazis, street gangs, serial killers, bad cops, the Klan, gun runners, corrupt politicians, white slavers, desperate fugitives, child pornography rings, and suicidal cults — all friends who called on him from time to time with tender and affectionate messages about revenge and disembowelment.
“Well, that could be anyone. I’ve got lots of friends. Give me a clue. Is this ‘friend’ on my Christmas card list?”
“Not likely,” Overton said. “Just watch your ass.”
“Who was watching Rodriguez’s ass? Isn’t there somebody out there who’d like to know what happened to him? A wife? A kid? Parents?”
“They’ll be told,” Overton said.
“So he had family, right?”
Overton paused.
“We all have family, kid. I can’t tell you anything more.”
Overton’s unusual reticence frustrated Morgan.
“Rodriguez is dead. Murdered, in fact. Kinda late to get anal about policy, don’t you think? Besides, if you can’t give out classified stuff, just say so. I only need biographical details. You don’t even work for ATF anymore. What would they do … fire you?”
Overton always knew the rules. He bent them, but never broke them. For some reason, they weren’t bending now.
“Listen, and listen close,” Overton growled. “It’s not about policy. It’s not about me. It’s not even about Rodriguez. It’s about you. The more you know, the more danger you’re in. Whoever killed Rodriguez is still out there. Just let our guys handle it.”
“But I’ve got a murder here!” Morgan snapped. “Somebody’s dead, and somebody else did it. I can’t ignore it any more than you could ignore it. It’s a story. A big story.”
“I hate to offend your journalistic sensibilities, but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll butt out.”
“Just ignore the fact that while a dozen people watch, the headless corpse of a federal agent turns up in somebody else’s grave in a small town?”
“You don’t even know for sure if your stiff was an agent. You’re speculating. What if you’re wrong?”
“FBI is pretty sure it’s him.”
“Yeah, and the FBI never screws the pooch.” Overton seeped venom.
“Are you saying it can’t be Rodriguez? Or are you saying there is no Rodriguez?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Jeff.”
Morgan breathed de
eply and sat back in his chair. Even if he wouldn’t be completely candid, he knew Overton wouldn’t lie.
“Jerry, if you were me, what would you do?”
“I’d let this one go. For your own good.”
“No way, Jerry. You know me better than that.”
“Fine,” Overton said. “Then I’d go home tonight, kiss and hug my little boy, and tell him how much I love him. Just in case I don’t get the chance to do it again tomorrow.”
Nothing historic had ever happened in the Perry County Courthouse.
No famous outlaw ever stood trial there. No American president ever stumped from its six pathetic granite steps. No great idea was ever launched from its fescue-infested lawn. And no great leaders had ascended from its halls since Sputnik, even though Perry County was constitutionally obliged to send three legislators to Cheyenne every year.
But the old courthouse was a proud landmark in the county seat of Winchester, a town where the only other tourist attraction was the decrepit grave of a woman who claimed to have slept with Old West bandits. The fact that the old building was slowly disintegrating only made it seem more historic.
The worst effect of its decomposition was the regular disgorgement of raw sewage into the basement where county prisoners were jailed.
On those days — and this was one of those days — the stench of liquid shit wafted down Main Street, and when anybody in town would get a whiff, they’d repeat a phrase made socially acceptable by Whit Kelley, the town barber who’d been dead for thirty years: “Smells like a turd in the pool.”
And when there was a turd in the pool, it was the sheriff’s job to fish it out.
Trey Kerrigan slogged up the back steps in irrigation boots, a bandanna around his face and a bucket of nasty brown water in both hands. Morgan stood a safe distance away, in the shade of a gigantic cottonwood whose gnarled roots heaved the sidewalk.
“Figured I’d just wait out here for you,” Morgan said.
The sheriff put down his buckets and stripped off his elbow-length rubber gloves. His uniform blouse and his badge were splattered with flecks of something Morgan didn’t want to think about.
“You know, now I remember why I didn’t want this job back,” Kerrigan said.
“Hold it, let me take a picture of you for your re-election,” Morgan said, painting an imaginary campaign poster in mid-air. “Kerrigan Knows Shit.”
The sheriff smiled lamely.
“Yeah, well, I think I saw some of yours down there, old buddy, and I’m thinking about locking you up for littering.”
Morgan surrendered.
“Uncle,” he laughed. “I’d pay any fine to avoid jail time.”
Kerrigan blew a wad of stringy brown snot on the grass and wiped his nose on his soiled sleeve.
“So unless you’re just loitering, I reckon you come down to see me about somethin’,” he said. “And I think I know what it is.”
“John Doe?”
“What about him?”
“Have you gotten any word from the FBI or ATF about his identity?”
“Should I?”
Morgan was puzzled. “You haven’t heard anything?”
“Nope.”
“You’re not just shitting me, are you?”
Kerrigan opened his arms wide and looked innocent.
“Do I look like a shitter?”
“Well … yeah.”
“I ain’t. What should I hear?”
Morgan studied his old friend’s face, or more accurately, his mouth. They’d known each other since first grade, and when Trey was lying, the corner of his mouth pinched ever so slightly. Once Trey got wise to the tell, something like a poker player’s twitch, he grew a prodigious mustache to cover his mouth and ran for sheriff. But now his walrus-like mustache was slicked back across his cheeks with sweat, and the corners of his mouth were exposed.
So Morgan could see he wasn’t lying. Trey Kerrigan had no idea about John Doe.
“Trey, the FBI thinks John Doe is a missing federal agent named Gabriel Rodriguez,” Morgan told him. “Disappeared a couple years ago while he was undercover for the ATF.”
“No shit?”
Morgan peered down into the sheriff’s honey pots. “Well, there appears to be lots of shit …”
“Those federales piss me off,” Kerrigan seethed.
Kerrigan’s front teeth and lower lip formed a long, exquisite “f” and a silent “uck”.
“I guess they sorta look down their noses at the local cops, huh? Like you’re an amateur. Gunther Toody. Barney Fife …”
“Yeah, yeah, I get the idea, Jimmy Olsen” Kerrigan interrupted. “What else do you know about John Doe?”
“The usual stuff,” Morgan lied. “But I’d hate for you to hear it all from me first. You can probably get the whole enchilada from your buddies in ATF. Then we can compare notes.”
Kerrigan’s foul buckets sloshed as he loped purposefully across the lawn toward the back door of his office. Morgan hollered after him.
“Hey wait, if you didn’t know about John Doe, why were you expecting me?”
Kerrigan turned and walked backward with his slop pails hung out a safe distance from his lanky legs.
“I thought for sure you were coming to give me some shit about my newest case,” Kerrigan said. “Some kid sent a threatening e-mail to the Mayor.”
“How do you know it was a kid?’
“Cuz it started, ‘Dear Dorkface.’”
“Well, that doesn’t rule anybody out,” Morgan quipped. “What did the e-mail say?”
“Said if the Mayor didn’t release all the stray dogs in the pound, he’d blow up the town hall.”
“It’s a prank, for god sakes,” Morgan laughed.
The sheriff shrugged, and his shit slopped.
“Yeah, prob’ly,” Kerrigan said. “But you know law ‘n’ order Horace Thurlow. He sits on his fat seat of power, and he’s intent on huntin’ down the little perp and shootin’ him, preferably in the town square.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Funny thing. It came from the mayor’s own e-mail address. As if he sent it to himself. Tricky little freak.”
“Well, good luck. I’m afraid these little computer geeks are smarter than both of us put together.”
“Hell, I think a re-boot is when you take off your ropers and put ‘em back on your feet,” Kerrigan said as he turned and walked away. “Why can’t these kids just look at dirty pictures on the Inner-net like everybody else?”
Morgan punched a code into the keypad that opened the glass doors to Laurel Gardens’ secure unit, and the intermingled odor of antiseptic and urine met him as he walked through. A teen-ager wearing headphones was mopping the tile floor and didn’t look up.
All of the home’s residents behind that glass posed some risk to themselves or others and required slightly more attention. Mostly, they’d simply wandered away from other caregivers in the past, and the locked doors kept them safely within the reach of the doctors, nurses and aides who took care of them.
To him, Rachel Morgan was still a misfit among the bingo players, the hand-wringers, the hooters, and the TV watchers. But it was getting harder to sustain his denial.
His mother’s confusion became apparent the first day she spoke to her own reflection in the mirror. When the reflection wouldn’t answer the question she asked, she grew petulant and pouted. In the coming days, she spoke to pictures over the fireplace mantel and finally swept them all off onto the floor when the people in them wouldn’t answer.
He and Claire took her to the psychologist in Blackwater, the nearest town where one could be judged officially mentally ill. She gave her a barrage of clumsily named tests like the Pfeiffer Short Portable MSQ, Porteus Maze, Hooper Visual Organization Test, Boston Naming Test, Trail-Making Tests A and B, Wechsler Memory Scale Subtests, Familiar Faces Test, and the Geriatric Depression Scale. They simply tired her.
Later, in private, the doctor told them Rachel’s test
results suggested a primary progressive dementia, probably of the Alzheimer’s type. Afterward, the doctor asked Rachel to come into the office. Rachel liked her very much, and when they closed the door, Morgan stood outside and listened. When she mentioned the word “Alzheimer’s,” there was a long silence.
“Oh,” Rachel said with a dread a mother’s voice almost never reveals. “I sure hope I don’t have that. It’d be too hard on my family.”
Now, Morgan walked past the rooms of others just like his mother, reading the names on the metal brackets outside each door.
In one, Shorty Puckett lay on his bed, curled in a pool of warm sunlight that streamed through the floor-to-ceiling west window. Morgan wondered what he might be dreaming. In another, Hanna Baker crocheted a small afghan, but he knew she hadn’t spoken or smiled in years because she’d simply forgotten the process of making words.
Rachel Morgan sat in a wingback chair in her private room at the end of the air-conditioned hall. She brushed her hair back with her fingers incessantly and stared a thousand yards off toward something only she knew was there.
“Hello, Mom,” Morgan said, kissing her on the forehead.
“Hello,” she said. “Was the path muddy?”
He was accustomed to the peculiar questions that came from that strange, distant place only Rachel Morgan could see from where she sat.
“No, it was fine,” he said.
“It filled my shoes. I had to sit here at the stream and wash my feet,” she said, giggling at the cold water that she imagined flowing between her toes.
Morgan snugged her hospital slippers and smelled the oldness of her. She had always smelled of lilacs, had dreamed of living in the mountains of northern New Mexico, and had sung songs to him at bedtime. He ached deep down in the heart of his heart that it was all lost now, even if she were still here.
“How are you feeling, Mom?” he asked.
“I’m feeling so fine since my mother visited,” she said. “It was so good to see her.”
The Obituary (Jefferson Morgan Mysteries Book 2) Page 11