A Slow Walk to Hell

by Patrick A. Davis

  Simon nodded absently. Pocketing his phone and rosary, he closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer. Further evidence of the turmoil he felt over the death of priests.

  At the sudden squelch from a radio, his eyes snapped open. We heard Enrique’s tinny voice asking Simon to come downstairs. The cop in the hall reached for his lapel mike, watching Simon expectantly.

  I said, “Enrique’s questioning a church janitor. The guy might have seen something.”

  Simon immediately turned for the door. To the cop, he said, “Tell him I’m on my way. And remember, no additional radio calls until I tell you.”

  The cop nodded and made the call.

  As Simon swung out into the hall, I tucked in beside him. I said, “Assuming Talbot was being blackmailed to keep quiet about something he knew—”

  “He was.”

  “And Congressman Harris is behind the killings—”

  “We have no proof of that.”

  “Give it a rest, Simon. Sam told me—”

  That,” he said, “is precisely what bothers me. Your conversation with General Baldwin.”

  I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. We strode past the bedroom with Amanda and Mrs. Blake. Except they weren’t there. As we started down the stairs, I asked him to explain what disturbed him about my conversation with Sam.

  He hesitated. “You might not like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “I don’t think we can trust General Baldwin.”

  “Oh, for—”

  “Why the delay, Martin? Why didn’t he simply tell you Harris was responsible for Talbot’s murder?”

  “I told you. He was scared because of the videotape. He couldn’t bring himself to—”

  “According to you, he’d already implied it was Harris. If that was Baldwin’s purpose, to identify Harris as the person behind the killings, why not remove any doubt and accuse him by name? What did he have to gain by waiting?”

  My mouth opened, then fell shut. I had to admit he was on to something, since Sam had no intention of meeting with me.

  “No, no,” Simon said. “General Baldwin knew exactly what he was doing. He was being intentionally vague so he could later deny that he’d ever accused Congressman Harris.”

  It took me a second. “To keep Harris from finding out he was the one who talked?”

  We reached the ground floor and continued toward the front door, which stood open. “Actually,” Simon said, “I was considering a more worrisome possibility.” And the look he gave me told me this was the part I wasn’t going to like.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Approaching Mrs. Talley’s body, Simon came to a stop, his eyes locked on mine. “Ask yourself how the killer learned that Talbot was going public with information he knew. Would Talbot have told him? Highly unlikely. That leaves two remaining possibilities. One, someone close to Talbot betrayed him. Two, there never was any betrayal because it was the person close to Talbot who killed him.” He gave me that look again, indicating this was the option he favored.

  “Simon, how many times are we going to go through this? Sam didn’t murder—”

  “Enough. For your sake, I’ve tried to be patient, give him the benefit of the doubt. But the evidence indicates—”

  “I don’t care. I’m telling you that Sam would never—”

  We stood there bickering, neither one willing to listen to the other. Simon emphatically jabbed a finger into his palm, ticking off the facts against Sam. “He was seen at Talbot’s. He is a trained marksman. He attempted to shed suspicion on Congressman Harris. He had motive and opportunity—”

  “Just a damn minute,” I fired back. “Sam might have an alibi for Coller’s killing.”

  “Might?”

  I told him I couldn’t check because the guard on duty had gone home. “I’ll find out first thing in the morning. The guard can tell us whether Sam left his apartment tonight.”

  “And if he did leave…”

  He left the statement hanging. Trying to nudge me into a conditional admission of Sam’s guilt. It wasn’t going to work because, for once, I actually knew something he didn’t.

  I let him in on the secret now.

  Simon slow-blinked me. This was a curve he hadn’t seen coming. “You’re sure?” he demanded. “You are absolutely certain?”

  I went back to my conversation with Sam, recalling his words and affectionate tone. I analyzed my impressions and tried to be objective in my conclusion.

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Sam loved Major Talbot.”

  I could see Simon struggling with himself, undecided as whether to—

  “Trust me,” I said quietly. “I’m right about this.”

  Simon measured my sincerity, a flicker of acceptance crossing his face. He realized I wouldn’t lie to him. Not about this. He sighed, “Martin, how do you explain the fact that in all likelihood, Major Talbot only told two people of Colonel Kelly’s threatening message?”

  He was referring to the phone calls Talbot had made after receiving the threat. I said, “You traced the numbers—”

  “Yes. He made three calls today; one to a dry cleaner, one to his office, and one to General Baldwin’s cell phone.” His eyes narrowed. “Last night, he also phoned General Baldwin at his home, then immediately afterward called Major Coller. Rather suggestive, don’t you think?”

  It was more than suggestive. The back-to-back calls all but confirmed that Talbot had phoned to relay something important.

  Like Colonel Kelly’s threat on his life.

  “Since Coller’s dead,” I said slowly, “you think Sam had to be the one who contacted Congressman Harris and told him about Kelly’s threat.”

  “It’s more than that, Martin. It’s why he would have done so.”

  I read the inference. He was saying that the reason Sam had passed on the threat was so that Harris would have a convenient patsy to hang Talbot’s murder on. If true, this was damning. It indicated that not only had Sam betrayed Talbot, but he also knew the consequences of his betrayal.

  Talbot’s murder.

  Simon continued to stare at me, waiting for my response. I thought hard, trying to come up with another scenario. Something that was even remotely plausible.

  There was one. It wasn’t a complete stretch because of what Major Tenpas had told me.

  “Coller,” I said. “Major Coller must be the one who contacted Congressman—hear me out.” He was about to interject and I spoke rapidly to prevent him from doing so. “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. Coller was supposed to be very ambitious. He was quitting the Air Force to work for the Harris campaign. Maybe that’s how he got the job. Because he was willing to sell out Talbot.”

  Another time-delayed blink. A second curve I’d thrown by him. I was on a roll.

  “And Harris,” he said, “had Coller killed because he could implicate him.”

  A statement more than a question. “Sure. Coller knew too much.”

  Just then, we heard a shout and looked out the front door. We spotted Enrique standing between the janitor and the sergeant named Eddie, who was taking out a cell phone.

  “Simon,” Enrique called out. “Eddie says you think the killings happened around eight?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Enrique grinned. “Then we got a break. Hector saw them. He saw the killers.”

  Plural.

  As Simon and I headed toward the door, he said stiffly to me. “Perhaps, Martin.”

  Not exactly an endorsement of my suspicions about Major Coller, but I’ll take it.

  34

  Simon and I made our way down the walkway toward the lamp post, where Enrique and the janitor waited. Eddie had drifted away from them, talking loudly on his cellular. He said, “That’s right, Jeff. We’re staying off the radio until the scene gets processed. After the Talbot killing, the last thing the lieutenant wants is more goddamn press—”

  Looking past Ed
die, I saw Amanda assist Mrs. Blake into the front seat of a police car. After closing the door, she leaned through the window and gave Mrs. Blake a hug. As she did, two cops contemplated her backside with leering smiles. Amanda suddenly turned and caught them looking. The old Amanda would have chewed them out, or at least emasculated them with a blistering comment. This Amanda just coolly walked away, looking beautiful and remote. The cops grinned, elbowing each other.

  At that moment, I realized her transformation was complete; Amanda had really changed.

  “Does Amanda really love this guy Bob?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Simon said.

  “So it’s too late for me?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Very much.”

  “I see.” He paused. “Do you love her?”

  I watched Amanda join Enrique. Up to now, I hadn’t been willing to admit even to myself that I—

  “Yes,” I said softly, “I love her.”

  His pace slowed. “You’re certain of your feelings?”

  I nodded.

  He was quiet for a moment. With feeling, he said, “I care for you both, Martin. But you hurt her before and I won’t allow you do so again.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “But I have to know if it’s too late.”

  “That’s up to Amanda.”

  “At least tell me if I have a chance.”

  Simon’s expression softened. “You always have a chance.”

  So it wasn’t over. While I realized the odds could be a hundred to one against me, I didn’t care.

  I had a chance.

  Enrique watched our approach, engaged in an anxious two-step. The instant we reached him, he practically leapt at us to describe what the janitor saw.

  Enrique spoke in his newscaster precise style, consulting his notepad.

  The janitor’s name was Hector Cruz. He’d been hauling trash to the Dumpster, when he spotted the car driving up to the rectory. It was between seven forty-five and seven-fifty P.M. Hector knew this because he’d been listening to a radio station over his Walkman and the quarter-hour commercial break had just ended.

  Hector saw two men get out of the car. He couldn’t see them well because it was dark and they were too far away. Both seemed average in build, one taller than the other. He recalled they were dressed similarly in lightweight jackets and baseball caps. The jackets and caps looked black. He believed they wore jeans.

  No, he never saw them enter the rectory. By then, he’d gone back inside the church.

  “That’s all?” Simon said, when Enrique finished. “Two nondescript males in black jackets and baseball caps.”

  Enrique pointed to the Dumpster, which was situated between the gym and the church. “What do you expect, Simon? We’re talking a distance of what, eighty, maybe a hundred yards. And the Dumpster can’t be twenty feet from the side door of the church. Mr. Cruz only saw the killers for a few seconds, when he walked back to the church.”

  “A Walkman, huh?” Amanda said.

  Enrique nodded. “That’s why he never heard the shots.”

  “Been tough to hear them anyway,” I said, “once he was in the church.”

  “What about the car?” Amanda asked.

  “A silver sedan. Four door.”

  Not the black BMW we expected. She said, “No make or model?”

  “No.” He added, “He did say it looked expensive.”

  “He must remember something about the killers’ appearance,” Simon said. “Gained at least an impression of their ethnicity or age or hair—”

  “They had on jackets and caps, Simon.”

  “Even so—”

  “The height difference,” Enrique said. “He did say it was significant. It would have to be for him to notice.”

  Simon squinted, suggesting this meant something. He became still, his brow deeply knitted. I hoped this wasn’t going to take long.

  It didn’t.

  “How different?” Simon asked Enrique. “Six inches. A foot?”

  Enrique shrugged. “He said quite a bit.”

  “Was the smaller man unusually short or—”

  “His impression was the other person was tall. But he made a point of saying he couldn’t be certain because—”

  Simon impatiently stepped around him to talk to Hector. Enrique glanced quizzically at me. I shook my head; I couldn’t venture a guess at Simon’s sudden interest. Amanda gave it a shot, pointing out that an unusually tall killer would be easier to identify.

  A given if you had a suspect pool. But none of the players whom we’d come across could be described as unusually tall except for—

  “General Baldwin?” Amanda said, as if reading my mind. “He’s tall, right?”

  “Six-five.” I added, “I saw him at his dinner party at nine.”

  “That gives him an hour. He could have left the party and returned.” This was Enrique.

  “With the secretary of the Air Force and a congressman as dinner guests?”

  That quieted them. Neither could fathom Sam slipping out on high-powered guests to slaughter three people, then return for dessert.

  Hector looked understandably nervous as Simon addressed him. Simon tried to disarm his concerns with a beaming smile. He reinforced it with soothing Spanish and Hector visibly relaxed.

  In response to a question, Hector pointed to the driveway, where one of the cop cars was parked.

  “The killers parked there,” Enrique said.

  More conversation in Spanish. Simon gestured to a section of the walkway close to the house. Hector seemed puzzled. He shook his head.

  Enrique said, “He’s asking him who walked up to the house first. The passenger or the driver? Hector thinks it was the passenger, but can’t be sure.”

  “Do we care?” Amanda asked.

  “Simon,” Enrique explained, “thinks the one in charge would go first.”

  “Do we care?” Amanda repeated.

  Simon held his hand adjacent to his head, palm parallel to the ground. His question about the height.

  Hector thought for a moment, then moved next to Simon. He was at least five inches shorter than Simon’s six-two. He squinted at Simon’s head, then placed his hand several inches above it.

  “More than a head taller,” I said.

  Simon asked another question and Hector responded.

  “He thinks the driver was the tall one,” Enrique said. “Again he isn’t sure.”

  Simon began walking toward the driveway, motioning Hector to follow. After several paces, he lowered his voice and asked another question.

  “What’s this?” Amanda said. “Is he—hell, he is. He’s trying to keep us from hearing him.”

  The cops were standing around with blank expressions. None appeared to follow the conversation.

  “Not us,” I said to Amanda. “We don’t speak Spanish.” I looked at Enrique.

  Instead of appearing irritated, he had a stunned expression.

  “You heard what Simon asked?” I said, jumping on the obvious.

  A hesitant nod. “A couple words. Simon wants to know if—”

  Simon spun toward him. “No,” he ordered harshly. “Not a word.”

  Enrique flinched, shocked at his tone. His mouth obediently closed.

  Amanda glared at Simon. “What the hell is this? We’re on the same team, remember?”

  The cops watched this confrontation with spreading smiles. It wasn’t often they saw someone get into Simon’s face.

  “It’s nothing,” Simon said to Amanda. “It’s an impossibility. It can’t be done.”

  “What can’t be done?”

  His attention was back on Hector. The two men ducked under the yellow tape and drifted toward the driveway, speaking in hushed tones.

  “It is impossible,” Enrique murmured. “But why would Simon ask? Why in the world would he even consider the possibility that…”

  Amanda and I watched him. He was slowly shaking his head, looking completely confused. Brushing pa
st us, he headed down the walkway, still talking to himself. Amanda and I frowned, staring after him.

  “You catch what he just said, Marty?”

  “Something about a person being in two places at once.”

  35

  Enrique went over to the limo and climbed in the back. He left the door open and we could see him sitting there, staring into space. While Amanda and I had no idea what question Simon had posed, Enrique’s reaction did confirm one thing.

  Simon was thinking out of the box again.

  “He’s finished,” Amanda said.

  A reference to Simon who’d removed his wallet and was handing Hector several bills. From Hector’s response, we knew they were big. He smiled broadly and thanked Simon profusely. As Hector walked toward the church, Simon negotiated the crime scene tape and made his way over to Amanda and me.

  His determined expression made it clear it was no use pressing him for answers, so when Amanda gave me a questioning look, I shook her off.

  So much for accepting my input.

  Once Simon got within earshot, she demanded, “When will you tell us?”

  He shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell. It can’t happen.”

  “Then why are you worried?”

  “I’m not.” His denial contained a weary quality; he didn’t expect us to believe him.

  “It?” Amanda pressed, fulfilling his expectation. “What’s it? What can’t happen?”

  Ignoring her, Simon addressed Eddie, who’d worked the phone earlier. “What’s the estimate for the ME and forensics?”

  “Thirty minutes for forensics, Lieutenant. At least an hour for an ME, Doc Page.”

  Simon nodded and started back down the walkway, away from the house.

  “Where are you going now?” I asked.

  “Church,” he said, without looking back. “I need to think.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No. I need to be alone. I need to understand.”

  “How two people can be in the same place at once?”

  I had to hand it to Simon. He never reacted in any way. He just calmly scooted under the tape and kept walking as if he hadn’t heard me.