by Julie Cave
“If you feel you need one,” Ferguson advised.
The two agents were left alone in the office.
“I was thinking,” said Dinah slowly, “as we walked into this building about equal justice under the law. Do you think equal justice extends to the chief justice of the Supreme Court?”
Ferguson shook his head. “I’m not so sure.”
• • • •
Thomas Whitfield was due to be laid to rest the following morning, and both Dinah and Ferguson were eager to attend the funeral. Their interviews with the board of regents were not going well, the Colemans were busy settling into the city after their trip from Ohio, and it would be more productive than battling the heap of e-mail back at the office.
It was cold and crisp, the sky a pale and frosty blue.
The memorial service was held at the Georgetown Presbyterian Church. Dinah and Ferguson arrived early and sat at the back, watching the mourners straggle in. Most seemed to be rather scholarly looking ladies and men in the same age bracket as the Whitfields. Dinah saw several members of the senior staff at the Smithsonian and several members of the board of regents.
Ferguson nudged her at some point. “Who is that guy?” he whispered, nodding at a tall, skinny, vaguely familiar man. He was in his early thirties with black hair and pale skin and he was dressed casually, unlike most of the other mourners. He seemed to be alone and he sat on the edge of one of the pews and scanned the church continuously.
Who was he? Dinah definitely had seen him before, only recently, but she couldn’t put her finger on his identity. Her brain whirred into overdrive, mentally comparing his face with everyone they’d spoken to in relation to Thomas Whitfield’s death, but frustratingly, she couldn’t place him.
Finally, Eloise Whitfield appeared, flanked by two young women, whom Dinah assumed to be her adult daughters. All were dressed well but they couldn’t hide the puffy dark patches or the blank shock that still masked their eyes.
Eloise Whitfield paused at the entrance, and her eyes touched on Dinah’s. She gave the briefest of nods, acknowledging the agents’ presence and somehow conveying her approval that they search for answers even here, at the funeral.
The minister waited for the family to sit, then began the service. He was, rather surprisingly, a young man with a pleasantly open face and compassionate smile. Dinah had always thought of ministers as the strict, forbidding type she had occasionally encountered in her childhood.
“Friends, we are gathered here today to remember and celebrate the life of Thomas Whitfield,” the minister began. “Some of you may be surprised to hear me say that today ought to be a celebration, so let me say it again. Today is a celebration of his life rather than mourning for his passing. You see, dear friends, when one believes that death is not the end, but the beginning of a glorious new life, we can be full of gladness. The Lord God promises us that eternal life can be ours, and not to fear death. The Lord tells us in Revelation chapter 21 verse 4 that in eternal life, He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.”
The minister paused, and Dinah felt a bolt of melancholy slide down her spine. What a world that would be, she thought. No more sorrow or crying.
“God’s greatest desire for every one of us is that we should join Him in eternal life when we die,” the minister continued. “He asks us to call him Abba, Father. He longs to have a relationship with you that is as close as a father is to his own child. He says in the Book of Isaiah, ‘For I hold you by your right hand — I, the Lord your God. And I say to you, “Don’t be afraid. I am here to help you.” ’ What a wonderful promise, dear friends. The Lord God loves you each so much that He promises to hold your hand wherever you go in this world, and promises also to take you with Him into the next world, a world free of death and suffering.”
Dinah sighed. In that world, Luke and Sammy would not have gone away, and she would be whole again.
The minister saved a special smile for Eloise and her daughters. “I tell you truthfully that Thomas Whitfield is this day with his Heavenly Father in a place free of the terrible injustices we see around us today. Thomas Whitfield found the truth of life and death while he was still with us, and the reward is heaven for all eternity. You may wonder how you might find this truth for yourself. You see, God created a perfect world for us to live in, yet we rejected Him and wanted to go our own way. He created you and I with free will to choose for ourselves how we would govern our own lives. Some of you might think you are doing that pretty well. Some of you might think you’ve done a terrible job.”
I’m definitely in the “terrible job” category, thought Dinah ruefully.
“The truth is, we all have gone our own way and made our own choices, and along the way, done bad things. It is clear that none of us is perfect. You might have told a white lie. You might have stolen something. You might harbor hatred in your heart for someone. The Bible says in Romans chapter 3 verse 23 that everyone has sinned, we all fall short of God’s glorious standard. Now we have a problem. We have rejected our Creator and indulged in all kinds of evil. So how is it that a perfect God and an imperfect person may be reconciled in heaven? There is only one answer, and His name is Jesus, God’s one and only Son. He came to earth, both fully man and fully God, as a sacrifice. You have heard the story of the crucifixion of Jesus. It is more than just a story, friends, it is history. Jesus did die on the Cross, but it is so much more significant than that. He bore the punishment, the wrath of God, for all the sins committed by you and everyone else. Jesus rose from the dead on the third day, conquering death forever to prove that we need not fear death again. We were all like prisoners on death row, when Jesus took our place in the gas chamber and gave us a full pardon. He invites you to take the pardon, give thanks for this incredible free gift, and change your life forever. And not just change it here and now, but for all eternity.”
The minister paused again, his eyes roaming the congregation.
“I wish for you the certainty that Thomas Whitfield had, in knowing that a new life awaited him beyond death. I wish that same peace and freedom from fear for you all. There is nothing any of you could do to save yourselves; it has all been done for you by Jesus. All you have to do is receive His offer of salvation. This means that you are sorry for your old life and your sins, and that you want to live the rest of your life with God as your Master.”
Dinah felt a strange sense of irony. She wasn’t scared of death. She was looking forward to it, as an instrument of release, but she hadn’t given much thought to what would happen after death. She had been raised as a nominal Anglican; that is, she’d been to church about four times in her whole life. She supposed that somewhere in the back of her mind, she did believe in some sort of God, more as a distant and shadowy puppeteer, occasionally checking in with earth to see if it was still there. The concept of a loving, fatherly God was a completely different proposition. Perhaps, she thought, I’ll check that out properly before I take the final step.
It no longer alarmed her to think so calmly and rationally about life and what might lie ahead for her.
• • • •
It was late in the afternoon, the pale sun sinking regretfully behind the horizon as the two agents left the funeral service and arrived at the FBI headquarters. Ferguson was impatient and irritable because he couldn’t place the tall, skinny guy they’d seen at the funeral. Dinah was absorbed in her own thoughts, thinking about the message the minister had given.
Both of them were snapped rudely from their thoughts upon exiting the elevator. Their boss, the Special Agent in Charge George Hanlon, was waiting for them.
“You two,” he snarled at them. “In my office, now.” He stalked off, while Dinah tried not to smirk at his balding patch and the sweat stains under his armpits.
Ferguson, guessing at her thoughts, nudged her with a warning look.
Dinah hissed, “Well, how am I supposed to
take him seriously?”
The two agents sat in his office with the door closed and waited for the haranguing to begin.
“I got a call from Chief Justice Maxwell Pryor this afternoon,” he began ominously. “You better have a good explanation for what happened.”
“He is a suspect in the death of Thomas Whitfield,” began Dinah, ignoring Ferguson’s silent plea in his eyes to keep her mouth shut. “Just the same as every person who has been connected with Mr. Whitfield up until his death. We are obviously aware of the fact that he is the chief justice, but nobody is above the law.” Dinah added, after a beat too long to be anything but insolent, “Sir.”
George Hanlon glared at her. “I am well aware of your contempt for authority, Agent Harris,” he said sharply. “And since you appear to be well-versed in the law, then perhaps you’ve heard of a small concept called the presumption of innocence.”
“Sir, I can assure you that we did not accuse him of anything,” Ferguson intervened hastily. “We have reports regarding serious conflict between the board and Thomas Whitfield that none of the board members want to tell us anything about. We feel it may be crucial in finding out why Thomas Whitfield was murdered, and therefore a step closer to finding out who did it. We simply asked Chief Justice Pryor if he knew anything about it.”
“And?” Hanlon raised his eyebrows.
“He said that he didn’t,” admitted Ferguson. “However, this directly conflicts with other reports we’ve been given. So I’m afraid that we do not believe him. And we would have to question why he would lie to us.”
“Is it possible that Pryor really does not know anything about the conflict, and that the other reports you have been given are false?” Hanlon asked, still scowling.
“I don’t believe that is the case,” replied Ferguson stubbornly.
Hanlon heaved a sigh. “Then you must know the shaky ground on which you tread. You simply cannot barge into the chambers of the chief justice of the Supreme Court and demand answers from him. Whether he is truly a suspect or not, I’m sure he now has a fine attorney who won’t let us within ten feet of him.” He stood, turned his back on them, and stared out his window. “I’m calling you off him, immediately. If you must investigate him, do so at a distance. The fact is that he is also a part of the justice system in which we all work, and we need him to be on our side. Now you’ll have to get some actual evidence instead of harassing confessions out of people who know better.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Dinah said, implying that she felt no respect toward him at all, “there simply isn’t a lot of evidence to find. Both murders have been thoroughly professional. So that leaves us with only one option — to talk to people until we find out the truth.”
Hanlon turned to face the agents and anger flared in his eyes. “Agent Harris, you are one warning away from being taken off this case,” he snapped. “You are rude and insubordinate, despite the fact that I am doing you a favor even letting you be part of this investigation. Not only that, you are bringing disgrace on the bureau again by the way you live your life. I don’t know why the bureau didn’t just terminate your employment in the first place.”
Dinah stood, her cheeks flaming. “Are you done?” she demanded, not trusting herself to enter an argument with him.
“Actually, not quite,” replied Hanlon, trying to remain eye-to-eye except that she was half a foot taller than him.
“Well, I’m done listening to you,” Dinah said coldly. She left the office, slamming the door behind her. Her colleagues, momentarily stunned, looked up at her, saw the storm clouds circling her face, and wisely went back to work.
Dinah left the office, having no stomach for more work. On the way home, she envisaged several entertaining ways George Hanlon might meet his death.
What eventually cheered her up was the thought of the cool, dulcet tones of the bottles of wine in her fridge, helping her to forget.
Chapter 14
A cold sleet fell as Jane Morrissey walked briskly down the street. It was well after midnight, and she was aware that she shouldn’t be walking around on her own at such an hour, even in a neighborhood like this one with bright street lamps. She had been volunteering at the homeless shelter all night, serving bread rolls and vegetable soup to the masses of poor souls who had nowhere else to go. She was tired but felt almost euphoric, the natural high that came from helping others.
Usually she caught a ride in with one of the other volunteers, but he had the flu. Tonight she had driven to another volunteer’s house and parked there instead. She wasn’t too concerned except for the biting cold. She turned the collar of her jacket up around her ears and jammed her hands farther into her pockets. Jane noticed that the residents had put their trash bins out for collection the next morning, and their presence obscured the view onto the street of where she had parked her car. She wasn’t very good at things like remembering where she had left the car. Everyone she knew had accused her of being a dreamer at some point.
She passed a row of little shops, which collectively used a commercial Dumpster and had wheeled it out to the curb. Jane stopped next to it as it gave her some relief from the sleet, and looked up and down the street, searching for her little Ford.
Finally she spotted it and took a step forward. As she did so, something brushed her cheek and caused her to gasp in fright. She jumped and looked over her shoulder, expecting to see somebody — perhaps a homeless bum — but didn’t see another soul. She glanced at the Dumpster and saw something hanging out of it at about head height and breathed a sigh of relief. That must have been what touched her. But her heart didn’t stop hammering at a thousand miles an hour, and she leaned closer to the object that had brushed her cheek.
It was a white-white human arm, the blood flow long since ceased, the tips of the fingers and the fingernails blue.
Jane shrieked, then tried too late to muffle the sound with her hands. She had touched and hugged countless unwashed and diseased people at the shelter, but never a dead person.
Wait, she thought. Perhaps the person wasn’t dead. Perhaps the person just got his arm caught and the rest of him was alive and kicking. Gingerly, she reached out and felt for a pulse at the wrist of the arm. The skin was waxy and cold and she couldn’t feel a pulse.
Digging through her handbag, she found her cell phone and dialed 911. Then she sat at the curb, hunched against the cold, and waited for the show to begin.
It didn’t take long — an ambulance and a police car with lights blazing arrived less than ten minutes later. Jane stood and waved them over.
The paramedics also felt for a pulse and glanced at each other. Jane guessed that the look meant whoever was in the Dumpster was dead. She shivered.
It took the two paramedics and a police officer to lift the heavy Dumpster cover. It made a horrific screeching noise that echoed up and down the quiet street. Standing on a little ledge that ran around the outside of the Dumpster, about halfway up, the two paramedics checked the remainder of the body for any sign of life.
When they began hauling him over the side of the Dumpster, it was apparent that there was no life. The body was male and his entire upper torso was covered in blood.
The two uniformed police officers took Jane aside so she didn’t have to watch and asked her to go through the events of the evening. Jane recounted her short story. She couldn’t help but stare as the body was loaded onto the paramedics’ stretcher. Suddenly, she felt a jolt of recognition as she looked at the body and gasped.
“What is it?” one of the cops asked her.
“That person …I think I know who it is!” Jane exclaimed. “Could I see a bit closer?”
She approached the stretcher tentatively and tried to ignore the queasiness in her stomach. While there was a great deal of blood, the face of the body was remarkably untouched. Jane took in the square jaw and dark hair.
She nodded. “Yes, I do know who that is,” she said. She tried not to retch. “It’s Damon Mason.”
“No,” said Jane. “He is the president of an association of which I’m a member.”
“Which association is that?” the cop asked, writing in his notebook.
“The IAFSI, Individualist Association for the Freedom of Scientific Integrity,” explained Jane.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am,” the cop told her. “We’ll be contacting his next of kin, and we’ll probably ask one of them to do the formal identification at the morgue. In case we need you, we’ll call. Can I take down your cell phone number?”
Jane nodded and gave it to him, the shock starting to wear off and the reality starting to sink in. The person she had found dead in the Dumpster was someone she knew! And the fact that he’d been left in a Dumpster could only mean that he had met a violent end.
Jane shook her head in disbelief.
Who would want to kill Damon Mason?
• • • •
Dinah was up early the next morning and made herself a pot of strong black coffee. As she drank the first cup, her cell phone rang. Trying to ignore her fuzzy head, she saw that it was Ferguson.
“Morning,” she greeted him, trying to sound more alert and chipper than she actually felt.
“Hey, Harris. We’ve got another body,” Ferguson said gravely.
Dinah felt her heart sink. “Really? Who is it?”
“Our favorite atheist, Damon Mason.”
The news threw Dinah. “What?” she exclaimed. “Why? That’s out of left field. What happened?”
“He was found by a woman coming home after volunteering in a homeless shelter,” reported Ferguson. “Who just happened to be a colleague of his at IAFSI. It looks like his throat was cut, just like Lara Southall, and then tossed into a Dumpster.”
“Let me guess, no fingerprints or DNA or anything useful to speak of?” Dinah asked, already knowing the answer.