The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller))

by Tom Lowe

  He went a block and tossed something wrapped in a newspaper…tossed it in a dumpster.

  I looked in the dumpster, found the newspaper, opened it and found a plastic bag with a bloody knife in it. When I seen the knife in the bag, I knew he’d put some drops of blood in the truck. The man that killed Alexandria a Cole is Christian Manerou, an agent with the FBI. I recognized him from a picture in the paper. He was part of a drug bust earlier involving Miss Cole’s manager. I made a call to him, told him I seen what he did and said for a hundred grand I’d go way and never come back. He agreed. I was sort of surprised he had that much cash, because I would have took less. He wanted the knife, but I told him I’d bury it and keep it as my little secret insurance policy. I pray for Charlie Williams’ soul, and I ask God to forgive mine for what I done.

  Sincerely,

  Sam Spelling.

  O’Brien looked at his watch. Midnight. It was now Tuesday, September 22. The day Charlie Williams was scheduled to die. At 5:30 a.m., he would be brought to the execution room and strapped to a gurney. At 6:00 a.m., they would pump the first of three chemicals in his bloodstream. At 6:03, Charlie Williams would be dead.

  NINETY-THREE

  O’Brien drove to the cemetery and he called Lauren Miles. “Have you heard from Manerou?”

  “About an hour ago. He doesn’t know you’re on to him. He said he would do what he could to ‘help O’Brien’ find Sam Spelling’s mother.”

  “Get your guys to run a cell tower location on his last call.”

  “Okay. Sean, I checked, Christian is rated as an expert marksman, too. ”

  “No doubt. The information your lab got off the letter faded out at the point where Spelling gave the town and street name and said it was where his mother is…what you didn’t get is that fact that’s where his mother is buried.”

  “Dead! Do you think Spelling buried the knife with his mother?”

  “No, it’s in front of a statue—a winged angel, across from his mother’s grave.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I found Spelling’s letter.”

  “Where?”

  “Before his murder, Father Callahan hid it in a large Bible—in Revelation.”

  “Let me guess: Saint John. The disciple who wrote Revelation as dictated by God.”

  “The same.”

  “Dear God... Where are you now?”

  “I’m almost to the cemetery. I’m calling Tucker now.”

  O’Brien drove through the rain, the wipers doing little to remove the torrent from the windshield. He punched in Tucker Houston’s number. “Tucker, I found Spelling’s letter. He names FBI agent Christian Manerou as the killer and says the knife can be found near a grave—Spelling’s mother.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m almost to the cemetery. It’s the Old City Cemetery near St. Augustine. Spelling left directions to the spot where he buried the knife in a plastic box. If we’re lucky, it’s still in the original plastic bag Manerou used to carry Alexandria’s blood.”

  “The letter alone may be enough to stop the execution. I’ll call the Attorney General. He’s got Governor Owens’ cell number. They’re all on stand-by. Standard procedure during a routine execution. But this thing’s proved far from routine. Governor Owens knows the nation is watching. We’re counting on you to find it Sean, and then Charlie Williams walks.”

  #

  TWO AND A HALF HOURS after he started, O’Brien drove up to the gates leading into the Old City Cemetery. He checked his watch: 4:39 a.m. He tried not to think about what Charlie Williams was going through, with less than two hours left on earth, his final meal and his final words. No!

  The wind blew through the branches of ancient oaks and the wrought iron gate at the cemetery entrance. There was a plaque in one of the old coquina stone pillars. The cemetery was designated as a national historic place. Circa: 1598.

  O’Brien drove through the open gate, down a twisting road that wound its way through graves more than two hundred years older than America. The live oaks almost as old, long branches laden with Spanish moss, stood like sentries to time, the boughs offering canopies to the dead. Through the flashes of lightning, O’Brien tried to make out the names of the small roads that seemed to come around every turn. He pointed his flashlight toward a bent metal sign, paint as faded as an old gravestone. He could read: Tranqu l….Tra l. O’Brien turned left and followed the road more than a half mile.

  His cell rang. It was Lauren Miles. “Sean, we got a fix on Christian’s call. Came from a cell tower south of St. Augustine, near the cemetery. Be careful, Sean. If Christian’s not there, he soon will be.”

  NINETY-FOUR

  O’Brien was silent. He turned off the Jeep’s headlight.

  “Sean, are you there?” asked Lauren

  “I’m here.”

  “I could only hear the rain on the roof of your car. We’re sending back-up.”

  “You can’t get here in time. The local P.D. would turn it into a circus. All I need is to find the buried box. Manerou doesn’t know where Spelling hid it. I’ll call you when I find it.”

  The rain turned to hail. The stones were the size of peanuts, ivory-colored rocks bouncing off tombs of gray. They pounded the canvas roof of O’Brien’s Jeep. He drove slowly, straining through the bursts of lightning to follow the narrow road. At the end of the road, before it hooked left and turned into a coquina shell path, O’Brien saw the statue of the angel. Even in silhouette, he knew it was the one Spelling had described. O’Brien drove the car over a half dozen graves to get it off the road, to hide it behind a mausoleum. He shut off the interior dome light, picked up his Glock, took a small utility shovel out of the back, and walked toward the statue.

  O’Brien stood behind a giant oak tree, out of sight from the road, and waited for the next burst of lightning. It came within seconds. He looked the length of the road to see if anyone was walking toward him.

  Nothing. As O’Brien stepped around the tree, lightning hit the treetop. A branch broke off, crashing through the limbs. He dove out of the way, coming up next to a

  headstone. His vision blurred. His heart felt like it had stopped for a moment before the hammering started again in his chest. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood. His vision floated for a second, the words on the headstone coming into focus:

  Dottie Spelling

  Loving Mother

  Born 1940 – Died 1996

  Broken limbs and leaves rained down on O’Brien. He covered his head with his arms and slowly stood. He darted across the cemetery road and approached the statue. He looked at the statue of the winged angel and thought about the Bosch painting—Saint John of Patmos. The angel in that painting was similar to the statue, her right arm out, hand pointing up, wings extended and look of peace on her face. In the white shimmer of lightning, O’Brien could see a small lake less than fifty feet from the statue.

  There was a granite rock about the size of a loaf of bread in front of the statue. He lifted it and set it aside. O’Brien looked at his watch. 5:29 a.m. Less than thirty minutes left.

  NINETY-FIVE

  Two department of corrections officers led Charlie Williams out of his deathwatch cell. There was an awkward silence. One, an older staff member said, “Son, I hope you’ve made your peace with the Lord.”

  “And I hope ya’ll know you’re killin’ an innocent man.”

  They escorted him into the death chamber. The room was bright white and the gurney was in the direct center. Two more guards stood there, hands clasped in front of them, somber expressions on pinched faces. The warden stood in a corner next to a black phone on the wall. A white curtain on the left side of the room was closed.

  “We need to get you ready, son,” said the older guard. “Just go on and make it easier on yourself, you need to lie down on the table.”

  Charlie looked through the curtain, his lower lip quivering, his jaw line popping. “I don’t want people to watch me di
e. It’s not right.”

  “State law,” said the warden. “The department has nothing to with it. There has to be witnesses in case somebody tried to say we did something wrong.”

  “You’re doing something worse; you’re killin’ the wrong man!”

  The warden motioned with his head, three guards surrounded Charlie Williams and led him to the gurney.”

  Charlie said, “I can’t just hop up there like I’m crawlin’ in bed to be killed.”

  The warden said, “Put him up and strap him down.”

  “Noooooo!” Charlie screamed as urine trickled from his full bladder, a wet spot growing on his pants in the shape of a leaf. “Don’t let them see me pissin’ in my pants! Please! God, don’t let them! Don’t open that curtain! I didn’t kill Alex!”

  “Hold on, son,” said the older guard in a soft voice.

  When they finished the last leg strap, they readied the first chemicals, the needles, and then opened the curtain. Charlie Williams turned his head and looked at the glass. He thought he saw the head movements of people sitting, like seeing a school of fish beneath the water in his grandfather’s pond. He saw his reflection in the glass. He didn’t recognize his own frightened face. And he couldn’t hold back the tears.

  NINETY-SIX

  O’Brien began digging, holding the small flashlight in his mouth as he dug. Quick movements of the shovel in the wet earth. The wind whipped through the trees, the rustling sounds of leaves and of gnarled oak branches slapping each other, the creak and groans of wood against wood in the night.

  Then there was the sound of metal hitting plastic.

  O’Brien dug with his hands, furious, wet dirt flying. He brushed the dirt off the top and sides, carefully lifting the Tupperware box out of the hole.

  He sat it down at the foot of the statue and opened the lid. O’Brien lifted the plastic bag. It held an eight-inch kitchen knife and, in one corner, the bag still contained the ruddy creosote deposit of blood.

  Thunder rumbled. There was the feel of cold steel on his neck under his left ear.

  “Stand up!”

  O’Brien stood and in a flash of lightning saw pure evil, the face of Christian Manerou. The eyes bore through the night like heat lightning behind pockets in a cloud. He wore a dark raincoat, the hood over his head, the pistol aimed directly at O’Brien’s heart.

  “They know you’re here, Manerou. The smart thing to do would be to give up, cop an insanity plea, and live the rest of your sick life in a padded room on Thorzien.”

  “Is that the ‘smart’ thing to do, O’Brien? You’re nothing but a burnt-out homicide detective, a puny little man who couldn’t solve Alexandria’s death eleven years ago and nothing has changed. I’ll destroy the evidence in your hand, bury you in this cemetery, and it’ll be the end of a weak man’s life. A cop who couldn’t cut it against an esteemed federal agent. You picked an interesting place do die, in front of an angel.”

  O’Brien’s mind flashed back to his dream—he’d touched the Bosch painting, the paint wet and sticky on the tips of his fingers. “Why did you kill Alexandria?”

  “Why? I would not expect you to understand. She was extraordinary, the epitome of what a woman should be—a goddess, the embodiment of the most exquisite in the form of flesh.”

  “Then why kill her?”

  “Because she fought me! She dissented. Alexandria did not understand how we were destined to become one. And if I couldn’t have her…then no one would.”

  “Is that why you kept her flying high on heroin?”

  “So you discovered that, O’Brien? Regardless, people called her a supermodel, but inside she was an artist, Alexandria loved to work with her hands and heart…the heroin helped her self-actualize.”

  “The heroin was your only way of controlling a woman who was far beyond your capabilities—”

  “Shut up! You know nothing, O’Brien.”

  “Now I know that Jonathan Russo was the ultimate pimp.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You cut a deal with him, didn’t you? In working the Russo coke investigation, you became infatuated with Alexandria Cole. You found the kilos of heroin along with the cocaine and decided to cut Russo a little deal. When Todd Jefferies and his DEA agents weren’t paying close attention, you stole the heroin. This ensured Russo’s charges would be cut to almost nothing, meaning his jail time would be very little. And all you wanted in return was to take Alexandria’s body and own her soul. You wanted a trophy and Russo was willing to hand the ultimate one over to you for a steep price—he bartered her off to you in exchange for the deal. And you kept some heroin to use on people like Alexandria, and then you managed to sell the rest. That’s how you paid cash to Sam Spelling after he blackmailed you. And you knew the cash couldn’t be traced—”

  “Shut up!” Manerou raised the pistol toward O’Brien’s head.

  “You knew it would be easy to frame Charlie Williams in the death of his former girlfriend. All you had to do was watch, wait and strike. And you knew if you could put enough degrees of separation between you and Alexandria, you might never be caught. That’s why you pointed me toward Oz and your pimp, Jonathan Russo. You believed either I’d kill Russo, silencing him, or he’d kill me, stopping the reopened investigation into Alexandria’s murder. And all of this started when Sam Spelling started thinking about how he’d make money after he was released. He contacted you. Your plan almost worked, Christian. You almost killed him on the courthouse steps. If you’d succeeded, your dark secret would have been buried with Spelling, and Charlie Williams would be executed for your original crime.”

  Manerou grinned and said, “Impressive, O’Brien. But none of that detective work matters now because I have the gun pointed at you. I’m in control and you’re standing there helpless while they prep Charlie Williams for the needle. It’s been nice knowing you, Detective.”

  O’Brien glanced at his watch. 5:51 a.m. Nine minutes left.

  Manerou mocked a grin, his face shining and wet from blowing rain, villainous eyes inflamed with hate. He said, “Too late for Charlie Williams! Like it’s too late for that dumb guard and his wife! Then there was greedy Sam Spelling. He accepted death without much more than a hiccup. Then there was the priest. You, O’Brien! You made me kill these people. It was your meddling after all these years. Now it’s your turn to die. I’ll make it quick and painless for you.”

  Manerou pointed the gun at O’Brien’s forehead as headlights swept over the statue and tree line. Manerou looked away for an instant. It was enough time for O’Brien to grab Manerou’s gun hand and slam it against the statue. The pistol dropped and Manerou pulled a knife from his belt. He lunged at O’Brien, the tip of the blade cutting his shoulder. O’Brien hit Manerou solid in the mouth. The blow knocked him to the ground. He got up and moved the knife to his right hand.

  “Do you really think you can defeat me?” He jabbed at O’Brien, the knife coming inches from his stomach. O’Brien dropped quickly. He picked up two fistfuls of wet dirt and threw it into Manerou’s wild, mocking eyes. “Throw dirt little man!”

  O’Brien grabbed Manerou’s wrist and held the knife hand, pushing Manerou to the statue. O’Brien head butted him, causing Manerou’s head to crash against the statue.

  O’Brien maneuvered the knife closer to Manerou’s neck. The arms of both men shook as they pushed, muscle and bone, the rain pelting their faces. O’Brien turned the tip of the blade toward Manerou’s throat.

  “Sean! Don’t! Don’t kill him! Let the state do it!” Detective Dan Grant screamed. Grant and two deputies pointed guns and flashlights at Manerou’s face. Grant pushed a pistol barrel inches from Manerou’s forehead and said, “Drop the knife!”

  O’Brien twisted the knife out of Manerou’s hand and let it fall to the ground.

  “Hold him right there!” O’Brien shouted over the rain.

  “This guy’s not going anywhere except to the death chamber.” Dan said. “Put the bracelets on h
im, Bobby.”

  NINETY-SEVEN

  O’Brien looked at his watch: 5:57. He called Tucker Houston. “Tucker we have Manerou in police custody. We have the knife he used in the Cole killing. He admitted he killed her and the rest. And he just tried to kill me.”

  “I’ve got the Governor’s office on hold. Stand by. I’m putting you on hold. I’ll be right back.

  #

  AT 5:59 A.M., the black phone rang in the Florida State Prison death chamber. The warden answered, “Warden Stone.

  “This is Governor Owen. What’s the status of the prisoner?”

  “We’re ready to begin, sir.”

  “Don’t. I’m issuing an oral executive order to halt the execution. You’ll have it faxed over momentarily.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And Warden Stone, please convey to Mr. Williams our apologies for what he’s been through.”

  “Yes, sir.” Warden Stone turned to Charlie Williams and said, “Mr. Williams, you are being removed from death row. The State of Florida will be reviewing your case, sir. Governor Owen sends his apologies.”

  Charlie Williams wept. He looked at his reflection in the glass window. He recognized the man he always was.

  An innocent man.

  #

  “SEAN,” SAID TUCKER, “the execution has been stopped. I told the Governor Owens everything. Charlie Williams is alive. We’ll get him out.”