by Tom Lowe
“Nick, I don’t have a lot of time. I have—”
“You have to eat, man. You gotta learn to relax more. I met a girl, and she has this gorgeous sister. Big tits and—”
“Father Callahan was killed last night.”
“What?”
“Murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“Killed in the church sanctuary.”
Nick made the sign of the cross. His mouth parted, a sound like a cough lost in the sinew of his throat.
O’Brien said, “There were no witnesses. I’m trying to find who did it.”
Nick looked out at the water then back at O’Brien. He rubbed his mustache with a thumb, the smile gone from the corner of his mouth. “Can’t believe it. I remember when the priest came to the docks. I was cleaning fish when he asked me, where’s your boat. I told him, and then I asked him to bless my boat. He say a little prayer, and said next time he’s gonna bring holy water. You two were supposed to go fishin’ but it
stormed and you drank Irish whiskey with the Father. I brought some Ouzo. We played cards, the guitar, and sang some good tunes. Dave Collins was there, too.”
“I remember.”
“Cops know who killed him?”
“No, but it’s related to an old case.”
“What case, Sean...yours?”
“I don’t have time to get into it. But it’s erupting from an old case I had in Miami years ago. Two people are dead within the last twenty-four hours, Father Callahan and a man who confessed to him about a murder eleven years ago.”
“This man killed someone?”
“No, but he knew who did it. And, in a deathbed confession, he told Father Callahan. Somehow the killer found out and murdered both the guy who confessed and Father Callahan. To make matters worst, an inmate on death row is going to be executed in a few days unless I can prove he didn’t commit the murder eleven years ago.”
Nick shook his head. “No wonder you look like hell, you’re livin’ there.”
“I have to walk Max, grab a shower and hit the road. Father Callahan left a message on the church floor where he died. He scrawled something in his own blood.”
“What?”
“He wrote the number six-six-six, a circle drawing, the Greek letter Omega, and the letters P–A–T. Nick, you grew up in Greece. In a few minutes, tell me all you know about Omega.”
THIRTY-ONE
Dave Collins sat in a faded canvas deck chair on Nick’s boat and sipped from a mug of black, Greek coffee. He looked over the rim to see O’Brien approaching with Max trotting down the dock behind him.
O’Brien said, “Thanks for taking care of Max and putting her inside Jupiter before you left. Did you fix your daughter’s plumbing leak?”
“After some trial and error. Slept in my clothes on her couch. You were right. You said Father Callahan might be the next target. Nick told me what happened. I’m so sorry to hear that. Although I’d only met him once on your boat, he was the kind of person that made you feel like you knew him a long time.”
Nick yelled from the galley. “Sean, get some coffee. I’m makin’ fish and eggs.”
Max barked once and darted toward the galley, following the smells of frying fish, feta cheese, and black olives. “Good morning, hot dog,” Nick said, tossing Max a small piece of fish.
O’Brien looked at Dave and shook his head. He said, “No leads, at least not yet.”
“How was he killed?”
“Shot to death.”
Dave held both hands around the large mug and inhaled the steam from the coffee. “You saw it coming.”
“But I couldn’t get there fast enough to prevent it.” O’Brien told Dave everything he could remember. He went over the details of the crime scene and Father Callahan’s last conversation with him.
Dave was silent, his mind working. He finished his coffee and said, “The message Father Callahan left…it’s in there…somewhere. I’m wondering why he didn’t try to write out something more definitive. The killer’s name, if he knew it, a physical description. You don’t need to crack a code to save Charlie William’s life. You need evidence. I can see the DA asking, ‘what’s the connection to Charlie Williams?’”
Nick yelled from the galley. “Food’s ready.”
The men sat around a small table and ate pieces of grouper fried in olive oil and mixed with scrambled eggs, feta cheese and onion. Nick poured dark coffee into three cups and said, “I say a prayer for Father Callaghan. Lord, help our friend, Sean O’Brien find the man who did this terrible thing to one of your teachers…amen.” Nick made the sign of the cross and shoved a large spoonful of eggs in his mouth. “I could use a Bloody Mary.”
O’Brien said nothing.
Dave said, “Amen.” He sipped his coffee and leaned back on his wooden bar stool. “Sean, I remember Father Callahan as an excellent art historian and a man with a keen ear for linguistics. There’s something in this last message related to his expertise.”
“What do you mean?” O’Brien asked
“You said the last thing Father Callahan wrote was six-six-six, the letter Omega, a circle with a something that may or may not have been his attempt at a woman’s profile,
and the letters P – A – T—the T smeared, indicating he’d lost consciousness at that point.”
Nick chewed his food thoughtfully and said, “Spooky stuff. The six-six-six is from the Bible, the sign of the beast. Omega, well, in Greece it’s our last letter—the twenty-fourth letter. But it’s more than a letter. Like Alpha, which represents the beginning, Omega means the end of something. The end of a love. A life. The end of time, whatever. Gone, man. Poof! Maybe that’s why Father Callahan wrote it…the end of his life.”
“But it doesn’t explain the other things he managed to scrawl,” Dave said. “Do we try and read it left to right, like reading a sentence, or are the symbols and letters emblematic of a whole picture that will point you directly to the killer? Sean, can you sketch it out on this paper towel, as close as you can remember, the way Father Callahan wrote the message?”
“I can do one better than that. I used my cell phone to take a picture of what Father Callahan wrote on the sanctuary floor. I can email it to you from right here. On a larger computer screen, it might make it easier to read.”
As O’Brien reached for the phone on his belt, it started ringing.
“Does that always happen when you retrieve your phone?” asked Dave, as he bit into fish, eggs, and cheese, wrapped in warm pita bread.
O’Brien looked at the caller ID. He didn’t recognize the number.
“Sean, this is Dan Grant. The ME confirms what the surveillance camera pointed us toward when we saw the fake priest enter San Spelling’s room. Spelling was asphyxiated. We have a very smart and extremely dangerous killer out there.”
THIRTY-TWO
O’Brien looked over to Dave who raised his eyebrows. Detective Grant continued on the phone, “Normally I wouldn’t think twice about something like this, but under the circumstances—”
“What do you have, Dan?”
“The guard’s name is Lyle Johnson. Tried to reach him at the Department of Corrections. Supervisor said Johnson is on first shift—seven a.m. to three p.m. He didn’t report for work this morning. Super tells me that Johnson is always punctual. But today, no call. No nothing.”
“Did you try to reach Johnson’s home, his wife, maybe?”
“I called her. Didn’t get much.”
“What’d she say?”
“Not a lot. She sounded like she was on some strong medication or coming off a few drinks too many. But she said something odd, too.”
“What?”
“Said she was going to call in a missing person’s report…but she knew the department wouldn’t do anything until her husband had been missing for forty-eight hours. I told her she was correct. Then, out of the blue, she laughed. It was painful laugh, know what I mean? The kind that feels fake and all wrong.”
“I know what you mean.”
“She said she might as well skip the missing persons report and wait for them to find his body because she knew he wasn’t coming back home alive.”
“Did you ask her why?”
“She said it was just a feeling she had.”
“Was the call taped?”
“All our calls are taped. Why?”
“Because she may have incriminated herself in a murder.”
“We don’t have a body. And I doubt that she killed her husband.”
“I do, too,” O’Brien said. “But she’s obviously spoken with him…and he apparently told her something. If he managed to read Spelling’s letter or overhear the confession with Callahan, then he may know the perp’s name. He might have tried to contact him to cut a financial deal like Spelling had.”
“And if he did?”
“Then he might be dead as Spelling. You need to talk to her now. If she thinks she could be tied to her husband’s disappearance, she just might tell us everything he told her. Check phone records, bank accounts. See if Johnson had probable cause to contact the perp, then we’re one step closer to finding this guy.” O’Brien looked at his watch. “We have sixty-nine hours to stop the execution of an innocent man. When I was a detective like you, I’d work an investigation by the book, the gut and the mind. In this investigation we don’t have a lot of time to trace leads.”
“What are you saying, Sean?”
“I’m saying that unless we get something very fast, maybe a read on an imprint from the Sam Spelling paper, or a name that Lyle Johnson may have given to his wife…Charlie Williams is good as dead.” O’Brien paused. “Dan, I’m telling you this because we worked together. I trust you—trust your confidence. I’ll need your help.”
“No problem, but what do you mean?”
“I might have to force some people to talk. It’ll be the fastest way to the truth. I don’t like operating this way, but if I don’t, Williams will die. I can’t let that happen.”
Dan said, “I’m going to question Johnson’s wife. Where will you be?”
“In prison. It’s time I spoke with Charlie Williams.”
THIRTY-THREE
Starke, Florida, is one of America’s death capitals. Starke is the home of Florida State Prison, a place where the death penalty has been challenged and upheld more times than any prison in America. Some of the more notables listed on the roster of death include Ted Bundy and female serial killer Aileen Wuornos.
It took department of corrections guards about fifteen minutes to bring Charlie Williams to the meet O’Brien. He was escorted by three guards, one on either side and one behind him. Chains kept his stride to a minimum. His hands were cuffed.
O’Brien almost didn’t recognize Williams. He walked with a rhythm of distrust in his body language. Suspicious eyes. Shoulders rounded. Skinny. His spirit now nothing more than a defense posture. Eleven years in prison—eleven years on death row, had turned the raw farm boy from North Carolina into a man with a hard face and apprehensive eyes.
Both men took seats on the opposite of the no-contact glass. O’Brien could see a faded scar leading from the left side of William’s forehead vanishing into his thinning hair, turning gray before its time.
O’Brien picked up the phone-like receiver first. Williams sat there, staring though the thick glass. Finally, he slowly lifted the receiver.
O’Brien said, “I’m glad you agreed to see me, Charlie, how you holding up?”
“How do you think I’m holding up?”
“Look—”
“What the fuck do you want, O’Brien?”
“To save your life.”
“You’re a little late, Detective.”
“I’m not a detective anymore.”
“Then what the hell are you? Why are you here?”
“I believe you didn’t kill Alexandria Cole.”
Williams mocked a laugh. “It only took you eleven years to figure that out?”
“A horrible mistake was made. I want you to know that I feel awful about that. The evidence was so compelling. I want to tell you how sorry I am for—”
“Bullshit, man! You wanted me here. It’s because of you, Detective O’Brien that I’m here. It’s because of you that I’ve been beaten, stabbed twice, raped, and now they’re gonna stick needles in my veins and let poison slowly shut my organs down. All because you wanted another closed case.”
“You have every right to be angry. But listen to me a second. Please. Just listen. We don’t have time—”
“We don’t have time! What are you—”
“I’m saying we—you and me, have to stop this execution. I know you didn’t kill Alexandria. To set you free, I’ll need your help.”
“Leave me the fuck alone! What’d you do, find God or something, huh?”
“No, I found two people dead.”
Charlie William’s dry lips parted. Eyes filled with confusion. “What?”
“Two people dead. What they had in common was this: they knew who killed Alexandria. One was a priest, a close friend of mine. The other was an inmate. Did you know Sam Spelling?”
Williams was quiet a long moment. His eyes focused on the handcuffs around his wrists. Then he looked up through the glass at O’Brian. “Sam Spelling. The guy who was shot when they were taking him to testify in the coke trial?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’d seen him around. He hung with more of the sleaze balls than I was comfortable with…not that you have a good bunch of normal people in this shithouse.”
“Tell me about Spelling. Did he ever talk with you? Can you remember conversations…anything about your past or his? Did he prod you about the murder?”
Williams thought, his eyes searching. “One thing nobody really talks about in prison is why they got here. The sexual deviants, the ones who molest children, they find out about them. But the others…everybody’s innocent, right?” Williams sneered.
“Think!” O’Brien almost shouted, embarrassed by his tone. “Can you think of anything Spelling may have casually mentioned, or something you might have said that may give me a clue as to who murdered Alexandria?”
“Sometimes I’d catch Spelling looking at me, when they let me get some exercise. Thought he was gonna shank me. So one day, I asked him what his deal was. He said I didn’t look like I really belonged in here. Told me his mother had him reciting Psalm Twenty-Three when he was four. He said if I memorized it, believed it, then there was no way I’d be alone when they strapped me to the gurney.”
“Charlie, Sam Spelling knew who killed Alexandria.”
“How’d he know?”
“He saw the real killer hide the weapon. Spelling blackmailed the killer.”
Williams was quiet. He closed his yes and inhaled deeply. “Why me?”
“In a deathbed confession he told a priest that you were innocent. The priest asked him to make a statement in writing. Spelling did. He was killed.”
“I heard he died from the shooting. Shot so he couldn’t testify.”
O’Brien told Williams why he believed Spelling was killed and added, “The perp found out Spelling had revealed his identity to the priest, and the location of the murder weapon. Spelling was killed in his hospital bed recovering from surgery. And the perp then left the hospital, went to the church, and killed Father John Callahan.”
“How’d Alex’s killer come out after so long to whack Spelling and this priest?”
“Father Callahan said the guard, a guy from right here assigned to transporting Spelling, overheard some of the confession in the emergency room. I believe he stole the statement Spelling wrote for Father Callahan, and he contacted the perp.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To blackmail him or her.”
“So let’s get these iron bracelets off me and let me walk outta here.”
“I need something I can take to the DA. Some physical evidence that will prove who really killed Alexandria.�
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“You got two people dying’ what more do you need?”
“But I can’t directly tie them to Alexandria’s murder. The fact that Spelling made contact with you shows that somewhere in his mind guilt was bothering him.”
“Yeah, but obviously not enough to tell anybody I was innocent.”
“Charlie, think back to the time of Alexandria’s death. Did she confine in you then? Maybe mention something that was bothering her? Scaring her?”
“Not really. But her attention span seemed different.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, kinda like she was looking over her shoulder all the time.”
“Do you think she was afraid of her manager, Jonathan Russo?”
“He was definitely using her, like a tick in a mare’s ear. I hated the bastard.”
“I don’t know why Russo would kill someone he was using as a cash flow.”
“Alex told me she was firing him. She had a new agent lined up in New York.”
Williams used the back of his cuffed left hand to wipe perspiration off his forehead. He said, “Since I’ve been here, they’ve executed seven men and one woman. Every one they led outta their cells were scared shitless. You can memorize any Bible verse you want, but when you’re strapped down, they open those curtains so others can watch you suck in your last breaths. All that really matters, O’Brien, is what you are inside. You can tattoo a Bible verse on the inside of your eyelids. But unless it’s inside your heart—not some last minute finding God crap, then you might was well take a seat at the devil’s table. Now I’m gonna be sacrificed in a place that the devil’s blessed—the execution chamber. And I’m innocent!”
O’Brien shook his head. “I know you are, and I’m going to get you out of here.”