The 7th Canon

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The 7th Canon Page 26

by Robert Dugoni


  He moved the light from article to article. The collage covered the arrest and criminal trial of Max Connor, and the civil trial that had followed. Equally prevalent were articles on then–District Attorney Augustus Ramsey and the young assistant DA he had assigned to handle the case, Gil Ramsey.

  Frank Ross had been accurate in his assessment that the Ramseys had been unable or unwilling to let the matter go. There were articles about the Hispanic community and women’s groups pressuring the DA to ensure Max Connor would be held accountable to the fullest extent of the law. The police association had predictably stood by one of its brethren. It had accused Augustus Ramsey of conducting a witch hunt and pandering to special-interest groups, especially when an internal investigation questioned the veracity of the female officer’s allegations that Max Connor had raped her. But it had not been enough to save Max Connor.

  Ross had been right about Dixon Connor having slipped off the ledge of rational thinking; he’d just underestimated how far Connor had fallen. The bloodstained bedspread and the bizarre collage represented the work of a man obsessed with revenge and seething with anger.

  Donley realized he’d underestimated the danger he’d put himself in. He needed to get out of that house as quickly as possible. He stuck the penlight between his teeth, and quickly went through the canvas bag but did not see or feel any videocassettes or books.

  He picked through the mess on the desk and floor, checked under the bed, and went through the closet. He pulled open drawers of a dresser, pushing aside clothes. Nothing.

  He hadn’t figured Connor to be the kind of guy who would get a safe-deposit box or hide the tape someplace else, but maybe he’d also misjudged Connor’s paranoia. He left the room, stepped back into the dining room, and suddenly thought of the videotapes on the shelves in the living room.

  He moved quickly into the room and ran a gloved finger over the titles, pulling tapes from the shelves and sliding out the cassettes to check whether the title matched the case. There had to be close to fifty tapes. It would take too long to go through them all. As if to prove that point, two cones of light pierced the curtain. A second later, Donley heard the hum of an engine turning in to the driveway.

  Dixon Connor stopped the car at the end of his driveway and reached out the window, but with the new vehicle being higher, he could not reach the lock on his mailbox. He put the car in park and stepped out, opening the lock. Inside, he found nothing but junk mail and a bill from PG&E. He’d requested the postal service to cease delivery the day after tomorrow, providing no forwarding address. He didn’t care if he ever got another scrap. He’d listed the house with an agent to sell after he’d left, and set up a bank account for the real-estate agent to deposit the funds upon closing. Once the check cleared, he’d transfer those funds into a different account. He’d load his duffel into the back of the Range Rover, pick up his money from Gil Ramsey, retire to the little cottage he’d bought in the Northern Idaho wilderness, and live out his life the way he was entitled, the way his father had talked about but never got the chance.

  As he slid back onto his leather seat, a light in the front window caught his attention. The television. The timer was off its cycle again. Probably a power shortage.

  He tossed the mail onto the passenger seat, about to continue down the driveway when another flicker of light caught his eye—a sharp, more directed light. Not the television. Connor swiveled his head and looked up and down the block. The wind continued to blow the fog thick and thin. He saw a car parked on the south side of the street, the only one. A red Saab convertible. It faded and reappeared in the fog like an apparition. After forty years, Connor knew what belonged and what was out of place in his neighborhood. The street cleaners cleaned the south side of the street every Wednesday morning at 6:00 a.m. The fines for not moving your car were steep. Anyone who lived in the neighborhood knew the schedule.

  The car did not belong.

  Neither did the light that flickered again inside his home.

  Connor took his foot off the brake and drove forward.

  Outside, the headlights crept down the side of the house and disappeared. The engine died.

  Donley started out of the room, took one last look at the shelf of videotapes, and stopped. A videocassette rested atop the video player below the television. Donley quickly picked it up. Dirty Harry. The cassette was the only one not in a case. Given how organized the rest of the house was, it seemed particularly out of place. He looked but didn’t see the empty case.

  Outside the window, a car door opened and closed. Donley’s heart raced. He wiped perspiration from his eyes and quickly ran the penlight over the titles again.

  Get out, his inner voice shouted. Get out!

  Heavy footsteps approached the front door.

  Dirty Harry.

  He pulled the case from the shelf. It contained a tape. He slid it out. Unlabeled. Footsteps sounded on the front porch. He quickly switched the Dirty Harry cassette for the unlabeled tape inside the case and slid it back onto the shelf.

  Keys rattled in the lock. Donley crossed to the kitchen as the front door opened behind him. As he crossed to the laundry room, he heard the sound of keys dropping on a wood surface.

  Donley pulled open the back door and stepped onto the porch. A light inside the house came on. Donley shut the door and grabbed the porch railing, intending to vault it to get out of the line of sight, but when he jumped, the railing snapped, and he sprawled into the grass. He felt the gun dislodge from the small of his back. On his hands and knees, he frantically searched the tall grass, but it was like a thicket. He couldn’t find the revolver. He didn’t have time to look.

  Move!

  He scrambled to his feet, unlatched the gate, and slid between the car and the side of the house, ducking low to stay below the windows. At the corner of the house, he paused and leaned out. Seeing no one, he bolted for the street, the videocassette bouncing inside his coat pocket. The fog now became his ally, helping to obscure him.

  Fear caused him to burst into a dead run. At his car, he fumbled with his keys and looked back over his shoulder, but the fog had grown so thick, he could barely see the outline of the house.

  The key rattled in the lock. Donley’s hand shook, unable to find the teeth. Gusts of wind shook the car. Donley inserted the key. He had visions of it snapping off in the lock, but it turned, and the door latch popped up.

  He pulled the door open, slid behind the wheel, and shut and locked the door. Only then did he allow himself to let out the breath he’d been holding, to feel a sense of relief. Yes, it had been a risk, but it had paid off. He had the tape, and he was certain whatever was on it would be the final piece to the puzzle he needed to exonerate Father Tom. He inserted the key in the ignition lock between the two seats. A further sense of relief washed over him when the engine kicked over. He felt like shouting. He felt like laughing out loud. He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  Something fluttered in a gust of wind.

  He looked up at the convertible top. A wedge-shaped piece of the canvas roof flapped like a bird’s wings.

  Ragtops are easy, the homeless man had said. Rip the top, open the door, do all kinds of damage.

  And in that moment he smelled the feral, inhuman smell, just before he felt the muzzle of the gun press against the back of his head.

  “Hello, Counselor.”

  Chapter 21

  Frank Ross walked into his house through the back door, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle of mineral water. Old habits died hard. The mineral water used to be beer. He drank the water to settle his stomach.

  His wife, Julia, walked into the kitchen wearing a bathrobe and slippers, drying her hair with a towel.

  “You waited up this late,” he said, surprised to see her.

  “I couldn’t sleep. Thought a hot shower would help.” She leaned against a counter. “Everything OK?”

  “Sam just needed to talk. I didn’t think I�
�d be this long, or I would have called. I was afraid I’d wake you.”

  “What did Sam want this time of night?”

  “He wanted to show me a story the Chronicle was going to run tomorrow about that attorney I told you about, the one representing Father Martin.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” she said. “He called, by the way.”

  “Peter Donley called here? When?”

  “Earlier. He called twice.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  She shook her head. “No. Didn’t leave a number, either.”

  Ross wondered if it had to do with Ross picking up Donley in the morning, if Donley had a change of plans. It was too late to call now.

  On the drive home, Ross had thought about what Donley had told him in the car, about being abused by his father, and the deadly confrontation that eventually resulted.

  “So many people really get cheated in life, don’t they?” he said. “Kids, I mean. They don’t do anything except get born, and then they pay the price for someone else’s mistakes and disappointments.” He felt his emotions bubbling to the surface and wiped away tears. “We gave Frankie a good home, two loving parents. Why him?”

  This time, the tears felt different. Instead of stinging like a thousand needles piercing his skin, they felt like they were somehow washing him clean, absolving him. “Why would God take him when there are so many others out there living in such crappy conditions?”

  She put her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest. “I don’t know, Frank. I don’t know.”

  “He’s dead,” Ross said, sobbing. “Frankie’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Now she was crying, too, holding him tight. “I think so, Frank. I think he is.”

  “I hope he is,” Ross said. “Does that sound terrible . . .”

  “No.”

  “To hope that your own child is dead? I just don’t want him suffering. I don’t want him hurting. I want him to be in a better place, someplace where no one can hurt him. Someplace where he can feel our love, where he knows we still love him, and that we tried. We really tried to get him back.”

  “He’s there, Frank. He’s there, and that’s where we’ll think of him from now on. We’ll think of him in that better place, with your parents and mine watching over him.”

  “My pop loved Frankie.”

  “Yes, he did. So that’s what we’ll think. We’ll think they’re up there fishing together on a big lake with a bright-morning sun and doughnuts and coffee—”

  “Hot chocolate and cinnamon twists,” he said.

  “Hot chocolate and cinnamon twists.”

  He clutched her to him, holding her in a fierce embrace.

  “He’s in a better place,” he said. “So much better than this world has to offer.”

  The nauseating odor of alcohol and cigarettes filled the car as they drove east on Sloat Boulevard, making their way across town—to where, Donley did not know. His mind raced, and he fought to slow his thinking and remain calm, but there was a howling in his ears like the wind blowing off the Pacific Ocean. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow, the salt stinging his eyes.

  He thought of hitting the brakes and trying to wrestle the gun away from Connor. If he crashed and died, it didn’t matter. Connor was going to kill him, anyway. At least he’d take the son of a bitch with him. The light fixtures along the sides of the road were metal poles but made to break away if hit. He looked for something solid to impact.

  Dixon Connor spoke from the back of the car, like the devil on Donley’s shoulder.

  “Keep your eyes forward. If you make any sudden movements, or do something stupid, I’ll blow your brains out.”

  “It’s over, Connor. People know I came here. People know I came to your house.”

  “No, they don’t. You know how I know that? Because I saw you and Frank Ross together, which means you’re working with him, and if Ross knew you were thinking of breaking into my house, he never would have let you do it. I actually admire your courage, Counselor. You got balls.”

  “You’re wrong. I called Frank. I left a message. I told him where I was going.”

  “Well, then, he’s too late, isn’t he?” Connor chuckled. “Good old Frank. Is he still crackers? He was a good man until someone stole his kid.”

  Donley searched the deserted streets. “We found the red-haired kid. He told us everything. He’s giving the police a statement right now. We also know about the other two boys you killed, Jerry Burke and Manuel Rivera.”

  “Without the video and the priest’s little black book, you don’t have shit. Do you think I picked that kid at random? He’s a druggie and a liar. Did he tell you he had hippie parents or give you the story about his father dying in Vietnam? He comes from Orinda, Counselor. His father’s a doctor. He’s just a punk loser whose parents threw him out of the house. He’s also a compulsive liar. But that’s all irrelevant because nobody is going to prosecute me.” Connor leaned forward, speaking into Donley’s ear. “You can count on that.”

  Connor picked up the videocassette and held it between the bucket seats. “They had no idea what they had. I thought it was all bullshit, the rumors about three punks blackmailing people with videotapes. Then I paid a visit to that restaurant prick, Devine, and he cried like a baby. So I started thinking if they had clients like Jack Devine, who knew what else they had? When I got ahold of Burke and he told me he’d seen one of the guys on a local billboard, I nearly shit my drawers.”

  “Bennet took the tape to the shelter, didn’t he?” Donley said. “He tried to hide it in one of the lockers.”

  “Not bad, Counselor. Keep going.”

  “You sent Red in to get it, but the lockers were locked. So you had to get it yourself. But you had another problem: two open files, Burke and Rivera. Three would set off alarms. So you framed Father Tom for Bennet’s murder.”

  “Actually, the locks on the office door and lockers turned out to be a stroke of luck.”

  “Because screwing up the evidence makes people more nervous the priest might walk, or this matter could go to trial,” Donley said.

  “People tend to listen better when they’re nervous.”

  “That’s why Ramsey is pushing a plea.”

  Connor gave him instructions to turn on to back streets, avoiding the freeway and major arteries across town. They turned onto Third Street, an industrial area of cement plants, abandoned steel mills, and warehouses. The condition of the area declined as they drove south.

  “Slow here,” Connor said, looking out the windshield. “Turn.”

  Donley made a right turn onto a gravel road. The Saab lurched and pitched up an incline toward a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence with a single roll of barbed wire strung along the top.

  “Pull up to the fence.”

  “Where are we?”

  “A long time ago, I was investigating a missing person’s report. The family became convinced a boyfriend killed their teenage daughter. The problem was, we couldn’t find the body. The boyfriend’s old man owned this wrecking yard. Eventually, the poor dumb bastard broke down and led me here. He and the son dumped the girlfriend’s body in the trunk of a car, flattened it, and sent the car inside the building, where it was melted down at about ten billion degrees. No car. No girlfriend. No body. Ingenious. I didn’t think the guy was that smart. Apparently, there’s a soil-contamination problem, so the yard has sat unused since father and son went off to San Quentin together.”

  “Why not just take the tapes? Why kill those three kids?”

  “Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, Counselor. They were going to die, anyway, with all the drugs and crap they were putting in their veins. I just helped along the natural order.”

  “Ross is right. You really went off the deep end. What happened to the decorated police officer and war hero? Your father must be looking down at you awful proud tonight.”

  Connor grabbed a handful of Donley’s hair, pulled his head back, and bit down o
n the tip of his ear. A searing pain shot through his body, his back arching as if Connor had embedded a knife in his spine. Connor kept a grip on Donley’s hair and spit the tip of the ear onto the passenger seat. Donley felt warm blood dripping down the side of his neck.

  “Did you know the ear is all cartilage?” Connor said, still spitting. “That’s the reason it atrophies so bad. You see those wrestlers with the big cauliflower ears? They can’t fix ’em. Plastic surgery doesn’t work. You hurt someone’s ear and they’re scarred for life. You want to talk about my father? My father taught me that when I wrestled. He said go for their ears.”

  Donley grimaced at the sudden, searing pain. Spit projected through the gaps in his teeth. He had trouble focusing, thinking clearly. The pain caused his hands to clench into fists and bile to inch up his throat.

  Connor sat back, laughing. “You want to know what happened?”

  Donley tried to swallow, but his saliva stuck in his throat. Connor slapped the ear with the cup of his hand. “Hey, you with me? I asked, do you want to know what happened?”

  Donley buckled over as far as the seat belt allowed, his ear on fire. Mentally, he tried to absorb the anger and the pain, to redirect it, to use it to help him focus. “Yeah, Connor, what happened? I’m dying to know.”

  Connor leaned between the seats and whispered in Donley’s ear. “What happened is this whole world fell apart, and you’re part of the problem. Lawyers have screwed it up for everybody with your bullshit lawsuits. Civil-rights crap. Affirmative action. Equal opportunity. Sexual harassment. It cost my old man the only job he loved. It wasn’t just that bitch that killed him; it was guys like you. You sucked the life out of him. Twenty-five years he put his ass on the line every day, and they killed him because of one lying bitch.”

 

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