by Robin Yocum
“Shut up,” he said.
I tried to concentrate and map our route in my brain. We must have driven fifteen minutes before I finally asked, “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer, but within a few seconds of the question I sensed the car slowing, and then everything around me grew dark. The next sound I heard was that of an automatic garage door closing. “You can get up,” he said.
“Where are we?”
Again, he didn’t answer. I looked around at the inside of the garage, which I assumed to be his. I sat for a few seconds until Majowski opened the door. “Come on in,” he said.
I followed him through the door that led from the garage to a mudroom. The house was immaculate but old, having the look of someone’s grandparents’ home. “Have a seat,” he said as he passed through the kitchen. I pulled out a chair and sat down. The entire house groaned under his weight as he trudged up the stairs. A few minutes later, he reappeared in the kitchen, holding a revolver with a handkerchief wrapped around the handle. My heart raced as my ass puckered.
“You know what this is?” Majowski asked. I tried to work up enough spit to swallow, but nothing would come. “Come on, Johnny, it’s not a tough question.”
“I spent several years dealing cocaine. I’m familiar with handguns. That’s a thirty-eight.”
“Very good. And do you know what’s special about this particular thirty-eight?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t a clue.”
“This is the service revolver that was used to propel a bullet into the head of Rayce Daubner.”
Again, I swallowed. This time it was painful, like trying to swallow steel wool. “You killed Rayce?”
Majowski held up his free hand, waving a palm at me. “Now, let’s be very clear—I never said that I killed Rayce. I simply stated that this is the gun that was used to kill Rayce. Big difference.”
“Uh-huh. Are you going to use it to kill me, too?”
“Don’t think for one minute that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. Let me tell you a little story. I never had the opportunities that you had. My dad was dirt poor, and I couldn’t carry a football or hit a baseball, so I went to the army and ended up wading through rice paddies in Vietnam. When I came back, I went to the police academy. It wasn’t really what I wanted to do, but I sure as hell didn’t want to go to the steel mill or the coal mine, so I became a cop. It’s been a good living, and I’ve done a good job, but I always figured that with a few breaks I could have done more. But it didn’t work out, and I ended up as a county mountie in Steubenville, Ohio. It’s an honest living, but it’s not exactly the pathway to being a CEO. Then your buddy Francis becomes sheriff. He needed me to help him get settled, show him the ropes, you know? And, fortunately, we hit it off. I know he’s got political aspirations, and he tells me if he gets elected to Congress, he wants me to come along as his aide. Someday, maybe he gets to be governor. I’ll be his chief of staff. All of a sudden, my future is looking pretty damn good. That is, until you got out of prison and that lowlife Rayce Daubner ended up a corpse.”
“I didn’t kill him, you know,” I blurted out, then choked back a nervous laugh. “But then, how could I? You have the gun.”
He smiled, and his lips disappeared behind his moustache. He bounced the handle of the pistol in his hand and squinted down the sights. “Did you know that Daubner was blackmailing the sheriff?”
“Of course not. How could I have known that? What for?”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that two weeks ago I was prepared to ride his coattails all the way to the governor’s mansion. Now it looks like the only way he’ll get to Columbus is if he gets sent to the state penitentiary. And nothing would make those FBI boys happier.” Toots worked his hand around the revolver until the handkerchief covered the barrel and his hand covered the handkerchief. He then held the gun out to me. Relieved that he wasn’t going to shoot me, I took a few cleansing breaths but made no attempt to take the gun. “Take it,” he ordered. “Take it, goddammit!” he yelled. I lifted the pistol out of the handkerchief. “Do you understand what I want you to do?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Do you like that little preacher?”
“I hate his guts, but I don’t think I want to shoot him. I’m reasonably certain that would be a violation of my parole.”
“I saw that little prick hanging around town before the general showed up. I couldn’t figure out why he was here, but he was obviously on a scouting mission for his boss. I suspect he was trying to keep an eye on you. He’s a sneaky little turd. So here’s how this will go down. When I get back to the sheriff’s office, I’m going to arrest the preacher.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m going to talk to him, and I’m reasonably certain that he’ll say something to me that I’ll find extremely offensive. The car is in his name. I checked. I’ll toss him in jail and have the car put in the impound lot. I want you to take the gun and hide it in his car. And for the love of Christ, wipe your fingerprints off before you plant it. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to ask the sheriff to get a warrant to search the car. He’ll resist because he won’t see the value. I’ll work on him. We’ll get the search warrant, and when we do, I want that revolver in the glove box or tucked into the backseat or under the spare tire. I don’t care where you put it, but I want it in the car. The sheriff’s going to find it and arrest the preacher for the murder of Rayce Daubner.”
“Help me out here,” I said. “What’s my motivation?”
“Your motivation is that the FBI is crawling all over Jefferson County trying to solve this case before we do. They want to embarrass the sheriff and kill his political aspirations.”
“I still don’t understand how this involves me.”
Majowski’s jaw set, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to set you up to take the fall. I’ll put my hand on a Bible and swear that you confessed to me. I’ll even say I saw you with the murder weapon in your hand.”
“Maybe I’ll just shoot you right now.”
“Maybe you will, but it won’t be with that gun. It’s not loaded, dipshit.”
I exhaled a long, exasperated breath. “Okay, so I plant the gun and you arrest the preacher. That doesn’t help me. The general is the dangerous one, and he’ll still be on the street.”
“You’re not getting this, are you? This isn’t about you. This is about Francis Roberson. You help me, and I’ll get the assault charges against you dropped. How you deal with the Nazi is your business.”
“Why would the preacher want to kill Rayce?”
“We’ll say it was over drugs. We’ll say Rayce stole the revolver and the preacher got his hands on it and killed him.”
I shook my head. “God, that’s lame. It makes no sense. There’s no connection between the preacher and . . .” My voice trailed off. For one of the very few times in my life, an idea came to me at the exact moment that it was so badly needed. “When you get back and the preacher mouths off to you, is there any chance that the general might start running his mouth, too? Maybe both of them will end up in jail?”
“Why?”
“I’m not asking for much. Humor me.”
He stared at me for a long, hard moment, then said, “I’m sure the general might also have something to say that offends me.”
“Good,” I said. “Now, this is what else I need . . .”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
VINCENT XENAKIS
Conversing with the president at Ohio Valley Hospital was strictly forbidden by my boss. Douglas Oswald used our chain of command as a way of creating a buffer and taking credit for my accomplishments, thus enhancing his status within the senior management team. The president of the hospital was Roland Clemens, an affable, outgoing man with a ready smile and a squat nose that wouldn’t support a pair of eyeglasses. Clemens was well known for his M.B.W.A. Program, which stood for Management By Walking Around. He lo
ved strolling the halls of the hospital, talking to patients, nurses, doctors, and janitors. In spite of this, I had never had a single conversation of substance with the man, and he had been president for my entire tenure at Ohio Valley Hospital.
Mr. Clemens had appeared rattled after the article in the paper listed me as a suspect in Rayce Daubner’s murder. That wasn’t hard to understand. Having a suspected murderer as your assistant director of social services would make any hospital administrator uneasy. That played to my advantage. I sat in my car at the south end of the parking lot until I saw him drive into his reserved parking space, then I timed my walk to the building so I could meet him at the front entrance. “Good morning, Mr. Clemens.”
The omnipresent smile disappeared, replaced by a look of surprise as he saw me walking under the portico beside him. “Oh, ah, good morning, Smoo . . .” He blinked twice and swallowed once. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I know your real first name.”
I arched my brows. “Really? It’s Matthew. Matthew Vincent Xenakis. My friends call me ‘Vinnie.’” I winked. “You’re my friend, aren’t you, Mr. Clemens?” I laughed before he could answer. “Since you’re my friend, you can call me ‘Vinnie,’ too.” I followed him through the lobby outside his office and entered his private lair without an invitation. “We haven’t had a chance to talk lately, and I wanted to ask you how the community outreach on my childhood obesity program was going.”
“Your childhood obesity program?”
“Yes, my childhood obesity program. It was my idea. I created it and wrote for the grant. I assumed that Mr. Oswald told you that.”
He looked at me for a moment, then pressed a button on his intercom and asked his secretary to bring him the file on the program. When she did, he pulled the report and accompanying cover letter and pointed to the second paragraph, which read:
It is my opinion that Ohio Valley Hospital cannot simply be a spectator in the growing problem of childhood obesity. In order to combat the problem and put our hospital on the battle lines, I have created a program for fifth- and sixth-graders that will educate them on the dangers of obesity, encourage good eating habits, and provide a sound fitness regimen.
I nodded. “That’s interesting. That sounds like the exact verbiage I used in my memo to Mr. Oswald when I explained the importance of the program to him.” I opened my briefcase and pulled my own file folder. I handed him a copy of the memo I had sent Oswald when I first proposed the program. “You’ll see by the date on the memo that I sent it to him eight months before he came to you with the proposal. The second paragraphs are identical.” As he compared the paragraphs, I pulled a draft copy of the program from my briefcase. “Here’s the draft of my program. I’m sure you’ll find that it’s virtually identical to the one he passed off as his own. Also, here’s my application to the Crocetti Foundation for the grant.” I allowed him a few seconds to review the documents and asked, “What about the community immunization program?”
“What about it?” Clemens asked.
I could feel my jaw tighten, and it was not a show. It was true anger. “Did he tell you it was his?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t. It was mine.” I reached into my briefcase and tossed another folder on his desk. “The documentation is there. I suppose I don’t even need to ask about the teen pregnancy education program?”
It was Mr. Clemens’s pet project, an effort by the hospital to educate high school freshmen about the dangers of unprotected sex and the responsibilities of raising a child. The hospital purchased real-life dolls equipped with computer chips to cry and require attention, as well as monitor their care. Each freshman was required to take one home for a weekend and was graded on the effort. The program had won the hospital and Mr. Clemens many accolades.
I slapped another folder on the desk. “Mine, too. Mr. Clemens, are you telling me that you had no idea that these were my programs?”
He looked as though he had been caught masturbating. “No, I just assumed they were Mr. Oswald’s work. His name was on the reports. He never mentioned your name. Why didn’t you say something before now?”
“Before now, I was just trying to be a good soldier. What’s the phrase you like to use, Mr. Clemens? ‘Be a good team player.’” I snapped my briefcase closed. “Well, I’ve been a good team player, and you see where it’s gotten me.” I walked out without saying another word. Mr. Clemens sat behind his desk, his mouth open.
Shirley was already at her desk when I entered the offices of the social services department. “Shirley, when Mr. Oswald comes in, please tell him I want to see him in my office.”
She squinted. “You want to see Mr. Oswald in your office?”
“Did I stutter?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you, Shirley,” I said, closing the door behind me. I bit on my finger to keep from laughing aloud. Sweet Jesus, I loved the new me. I peeled off my suit jacket, revealing a tight vest over a crisp white shirt and a maroon and gold necktie in a tight Windsor knot. The vest and tie, I believed, added a level of authority that was called for in this situation.
When I heard Shirley and Oswald talking in the lobby, I slipped a toothpick into the side of my mouth and pretended to be talking on the phone. He rapped three times on my door and then pushed it open a few inches. I waved him in while continuing my pretend telephone conversation. “Look, this is very simple, either he gets with the program or . . . exactly . . . I don’t have the time for this kind of nonsense. That’s right. Handle it, or I will. Listen, I’ve got someone in my office. I’ll call you back.” I motioned toward an open chair, and Oswald sat. “Do you have my performance review?” I asked.
He fumbled with the clasps on his briefcase, then produced the document. Unsmiling, I read over the evaluation. It was stellar. I exceeded expectations in nearly every category, and Oswald had recommended me for a 12 percent merit raise. Without a word, I nodded and signed the document. I handed him the pen and pushed the evaluation toward him but kept my fingers on the paper. After he had signed, I pulled it back.
“I’ll need to take that to human resources,” he said.
Slowly, I folded the review twice and slipped it inside my vest. “I’ll take care of that.” I turned in my chair to face him directly. “I had a conversation with Mr. Clemens this morning.”
“Mr. Clemens?”
“Please don’t make me repeat myself.”
His face was glowing red, and beads of perspiration began to appear around his hairline. “What about?”
“Well, you’ll be happy to know that I didn’t tell him about you going doggie on Mrs. De La Torre, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Two years earlier, I had left the office late on a Friday afternoon. I was twenty minutes away from the office when I remembered that I had forgotten to hand in my weekly time sheet, which Oswald insisted be on his desk before the weekend. I returned to the office and, assuming he had gone home for the day, walked into his office without knocking. Annette De La Torre, the head of the payroll department, was bent over his desk, and Oswald was servicing her from behind. I said, “Here’s my time sheet,” set it on the credenza, and left. Until now, neither of us had ever mentioned it.
Oswald had assumed I didn’t have the courage to blackmail him. And he was right . . . until now.
“I gave you a twelve percent raise, goddammit,” he growled between clenched teeth. “What else do you want? That’s the most I can possibly give.”
“Here’s the thing, Dougie. It’s not always about the money, if you know what I mean. Sometimes it’s simply a trust issue. For example, you trust your spouse to be faithful—and just so you know, I’m not talking about you at the moment—and they let you down. You know what I mean? Did you know that my wife and Rayce Daubner were having an affair?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. How would I know that?”
“Really? I thought everyone in town knew.”
“I don’t concern myself
with other people’s personal lives.”
“That’s good, but just so you know, when someone you trust violates that confidence and commits the ultimate betrayal, it makes you very, very angry. How can there ever be trust in a relationship after that? I ask you that question, because it’s not unlike the situation you and I are in right now. See, I trusted you to do what was right. But this morning, I found out that you’ve been unfaithful to me. I asked Mr. Clemens about all the programs I had created for this hospital, and lo and behold, they all have your name on them. Mr. Clemens had no idea that those were my programs. You had taken all the credit.” I paused a moment for the words to sink in. “Do you see how that can just suck the trust out of a relationship, Dougie?”
“Well, as the head of the department I felt it was—”
I held up a hand, and it silenced him. “If you are about to justify taking credit for my work, save your breath. We’re well beyond that.” I reached into my top desk drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper, and slid it across the desk. “Sign that. I’ll turn it in with my review.”
“What’s this?”
“I know you can read, Dougie, I’ve seen you do it.”
The letter was to the point.
August 14, 1989
To whom it may concern:
I am hereby tendering my resignation as director of social services for Ohio Valley Hospital, effective immediately.
Signed,
Douglas Oswald
He pushed it back toward me. “How dare you. I’ll not be blackmailed. I’m not signing this.”
I took my index finger and slowly pushed it back toward him. “I do believe you will.”
“I told you, I’ll not be blackmailed. I’ll talk to Mr. Clemens. I’ll tell him that you were doing those programs under my direct supervision. He’ll never fire me.”
“You don’t seem to have a grasp of your actual problem. It’s not about Mr. Clemens.” Again, I paused to let the words settle. “It’s about me. You see, Dougie, the last person who didn’t listen to me was a man who was sleeping with my wife. I went to his place to talk to him, like a reasonable person, but he just didn’t want to listen.” I leaned closer. “That man? He’ll never sleep with my wife again. In fact, he’ll never sleep with anyone’s wife again. That man made me angry. And, right now, I’m very angry with you, Dougie. Why, it’s as though you were the one having an affair with my wife. Are you understanding now?” He swallowed hard and nodded. “Good boy. Now, sign the paper.”