When the Dead Speak (1st Sam Casey Mystery)

by S. D. Tooley

  “What the hell is going on, Preston?” Gordon Sudecky snapped. The seam of Gordon’s auburn hairpiece shifted slightly as he moved his head. “I’ve been trying to call you all morning.”

  Preston’s raised eyebrow prompted his stout press secretary to take two steps back. “I had an attempt on my life last night,” Preston explained, “or haven’t you heard.”

  Gordon stuck an arm toward the stage. “Have you seen the press release? You have to ...”

  Dismissing him with a wave, Preston said, “After my speech. I know it’s a terrible revelation and I’m sure the reporters have a lot of questions.”

  A man in his fifties wearing fatigues rushed in from behind the curtain. “Any time you’re ready, Mr. Hilliard.”

  Preston checked his hair in the mirror and straightened his navy pin-striped tie. The news about Sergeant Casey’s death had made his morning. Things couldn’t be better.

  Turning back to his press secretary, Preston said, “Just go out there and tell them to make the introduction.” Preston smiled, imagining how the media must have reacted this morning when they received the photos of Governor Meacham.

  Chapter 84

  Jake took the stairs up to his apartment two at a time. Abby had placed makeshift splinters and wrapped an Ace bandage around his hand. Alex thought he had at least three broken bones, possibly more. But Jake didn’t have time to go to the hospital. He had time for three aspirins.

  Abby told him that after Sam witnessed her father’s death, she had run home. The police had found her in Abby’s bedroom, in a corner by the closet, her small body rolled up into a tight ball of fear and confusion, shaking so hard the police couldn’t budge her. So Abby suggested that Jake look where Sam had felt the safest. She and Alex would check the house. Jake knew if Sam would go anywhere, it would be his apartment.

  The door to his apartment was unlocked. Whatever mental state Sam was in, she was still able to pick a lock. He entered slowly, the door closing softly behind him. He was stunned and exhilarated at the same time. It had been hard after seeing the wreckage to believe Abby especially after Benny’s call that on preliminary investigation they had found human remains in the Jeep.

  But there she was, curled up on the couch, her back to him, still dressed in the black jumpsuit she had worn last night. He wanted to gather her up in his arms, never let her go. Abby had warned him to approach her cautiously.

  Sam’s arms, wrapped tightly around her legs, shook violently. Jake saw sections of her hair singed, her jumpsuit ripped and burned. Her eyes stared vacantly, hinting that she could still be in shock ... or worse. But she was alive. That’s all that mattered.

  Slowly, he lowered himself onto the couch next to her. “Sam?” he whispered.

  Her eyes brimmed and tears fell like silent rivers. Reaching out, he carefully wiped the tears with his handkerchief, moved strands of singed hair from her soot-smudged face. He took a visible check of her clothing, arms, legs, looking for breaks, burns, blood. All he could see were a few abrasions.

  “Sam? I’m here. You’re safe.” He choked back tears. Sitting in front of him was a dazed five-year-old girl inside a twenty-six-year-old woman’s body.

  He held his arms out to her. “Come here, Sweetheart.” Haltingly, her blue eyes shifted toward him. Her brows curled up in confusion. She saw his arms. It took what seemed like a lifetime for her to finally reach out to him. Once she did, he gathered her up and held her close. Her arms encircled his neck, her fingers grabbing fistfuls of his shirt.

  He thought of the condition of her Jeep and wondered how on earth she ever got out. More importantly, whose body was it that burned beyond recognition?

  Chapter 85

  “So, she’s okay?” Carl asked Jake.

  “Physically. She’s with Abby now.” Jake offered his left hand to Lincoln who seemed more at ease than Jake had ever seen him.

  The lobby of the Jenkins Art Center was lined in chrome and glass with a large crystal chandelier hanging over the entrance. Floral carpeting led up the stairs, through the lobby, disappearing into the entranceways to the theatre.

  An aging veteran in Army fatigues exited one of those entrances, spilling Preston’s arrogant voice into the lobby.

  “She wasn’t able to tell you what happened last night?” Frank asked.

  Jake shook his head. “She hasn’t spoken at all.”

  Frank eyed Jake’s swollen hand. “You should have gone to the hospital.”

  Jake winced as he tucked his arm back inside the makeshift sling. “There’s time for that. I could have broken every bone in my body and it wouldn’t have kept me from this moment.” He showed them a fax Chief Connelley had sent to Sam’s house last night. Jake pointed to the bottom of the page. “Look at the initials.” He explained the supervisor’s initials on Samuel Casey’s accident investigation. “Connelley was the supervisor who closed the case. It was under Connelley’s authority that no further examination was made of the evidence gathered from the scene of Samuel Casey’s accident. Connelley was Casey’s closest friend. And six months after Casey’s death, Don Connelley was promoted to chief of police.”

  Frank shook his head in disbelief. “So Connelley was pressured by Preston to drop the investigation.”

  “That would be my guess,” Jake replied. “Preston has probably been holding it over his head all this time. Since Benny confirmed that the body in the Jeep was Chief Connelley, all the answers we need went up in smoke. The only one who might have heard Connelley’s explanation is Sam.”

  Frank asked, “So how does Murphy figure in all this? Are his hands lily white?”

  “Far as we can tell,” Carl explained, “he’s only guilty of keeping a local politician apprised of community matters. Murphy had no idea Hilliard was involved in anything other than politics as usual, one hand washing the other sort of thing. Contrary to our hopes, he passed a polygraph.” Carl pressed his hand to his ear piece. “We better get in there.”

  They gathered in the back of the auditorium — Carl, Jake, Frank, and Lincoln Thomas. A sea of uniforms from all branches of the armed forces sat in silence and with some admiration for the speaker as he told of his war experiences and his efforts to pass bills for increased health care and disability benefits for veterans. The press was moving around distractingly in the first two rows. Preston talked over their heads, addressing only the audience, gazing up at those in the balcony, across the long rows on the main level.

  Carl handed Jake an envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  Several heads turned toward them. One matronly woman in dress blues placed a finger to her lips and gave them an annoyed “shhhhhhhh.”

  They found a small secluded alcove by the door where they could whisper. “David Noland, Parker Smith’s attorney, sent this by courier,” Carl said. “It was Parker’s instructions that it not be opened until after his death. This is the nail in Preston’s coffin.”

  Jake unfolded the letter and while Frank held a small flashlight, read the confession signed by Parker Smith admitting his involvement in the 1951 killings in Mushima Valley, and accusing Preston of not only ordering the executions but also personally shooting one of the victims twice in the back of the head.

  “What about Hap and Sam’s father?” Jake asked.

  “Cain was our only proof that could link Preston to the murders of Hap and Samuel Casey,” Frank whispered. “And there are no witnesses that Preston knew Cain now or twenty years ago. The butler never met him and Preston’s housekeeper has left the country.”

  “But, Carl, your men have photos of Cain entering and leaving Preston’s house,” Jake reminded him.

  “True, but no photos with Cain and Preston together. Preston can always say Cain was casing the place out.”

  Jake handed the letter back to Carl. “At least Hap’s affidavit proves he was going to confront Preston.”

  Folding the letter back into the envelope, Carl said, “My men did find the pin in Preston’s safe.
Maybe we can find Cain’s prints in the house. Maybe we can find Cain’s prints on the bomb in Sam’s Jeep. My money says Cain killed the officer last night but he wore gloves so only Sam’s prints were on the gun.”

  “Take a look at this.” Frank handed Jake a copy of the press release. “Looks like Tim’s programming worked like a charm.”

  Jake smiled when he saw Hap’s and Samuel Casey’s reports. “I’m sure Preston thinks the press is looking at embarrassing photos of Meacham.”

  Something Preston said rewarded him with thunderous applause. He held up his hands to silence the crowd, some of who stood up to cheer. Preston had just announced that he planned to run for governor.

  “Mr. Hilliard, Mr. Hilliard.” A wiry reporter with a resonant voice started to speak.

  “Questions, later, if you don’t mind,” Preston pleaded.

  “But what about the press release we received this morning?” another voice asked.

  Preston had prepared a quick speech regarding the unfortunate incident involving Governor Meacham but another reporter cut him off before he had a chance to speak.

  A smartly dressed woman from Channel Seven News stood up. “What about these allegations concerning Korea?”

  Preston blinked. Korea? “What?” he stammered. “What are you talking about?”

  Six reporters tried speaking at once. Ivan Lambert was handed several sheets of paper. He teetered over to the podium and handed them to Preston. Expecting to see the pictures he had sent on Meacham, he was horrified to see a written affidavit by Hap Wilson and Samuel Casey.

  “What on earth? This is preposterous!” Preston’s face twisted into an expression of startled horror. The flood gate of questioning opened up.

  “Is there any truth?”

  “Did you murder those boys?”

  “How many did you kill?”

  “Did you have anything to do with Hap Wilson’s death?”

  “What about Samuel Casey?”

  They fired questions at him from all directions. The murmur from the audience grew louder as shock and realization settled in. Those that had been standing for the round of applause, sat back down.

  Preston held up his hands and yelled, “ENOUGH.” A hush fell over the crowd. “This is an election year. For someone to circulate this kind of blasphemy is an outrage.” He pounded the podium sending pages of his speech floating to the floor. “I am a decorated hero. How can anyone believe accusations surfacing now about something allegedly happening over forty years ago. My fellow veterans ...” He stretched his opened arms toward them. “How can anyone believe the ramblings of a war deserter?”

  “What about one of your men who you ordered to participate in the killings?” Carl shouted as he walked down the aisle toward the stage. Heads, cameras, and microphones turned his way. He held up Parker Smith’s envelope saying, “Carl Underer, FBI Director.”

  Cameras started flashing. Gasps and comments could be heard as he passed the rows of spectators.

  “Name, names, Mr. Director,” Preston challenged. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “I have a signed confession from Parker Smith.” A portable microphone was shoved into Carl’s hand as he read Smith’s account of Mushima Valley and how the true heroes had been Hap and his unit and how they had been needlessly eliminated.

  Preston laughed. “Parker Smith had been delusional since he was released from the Army on a physical disability. What we had seen in that valley had a traumatic effect on him. On all of us. And if he did sign anything, someone put him up to it. No.” Preston waved a finger back and forth as though scolding him. “You are going to have to do better than that.”

  “All right. How about an eyewitness?” Carl turned toward the back of the auditorium. Heads swiveled again. Cameramen jockeyed for unobstructed views. “Do you remember a young house boy named Ling Toy?”

  Lincoln walked proudly down the ramp. His eyes glared at Preston. Soft murmurs rumbled through the crowd. Lincoln looked into the faces of the veterans he passed. Shock replaced the skepticism Preston had tried to plant in their minds. Disgust and revulsion replaced the admiration.

  Preston’s world was disintegrating before his eyes. He moved away from the podium, his exit blocked by two FBI agents.

  PROLOGUE

  Jake watched Abby and Sam from behind a glass door. The nurse had told him he could go in but he wasn’t sure he could handle the rejection again, that vacant stare in Sam’s eyes of complete lack of recognition.

  After spending two days being evaluated by department shrinks and private psychiatrists, Sam had been officially suspended by Captain Murphy pending her testimony on the death of Stu Richards. She had not uttered a word since Jake found her in his apartment.

  Alex frowned as he observed Abby with Sam. He played with his hat, running the brim through his fingers as if it were a coil of rope. “Abby should have never brought Sam home years ago. They should have stayed on the reservation. That’s where she belongs.”

  Jake wasn’t in the mood to go another round with Alex. Alex must have had a glimmer of regret because he clamped a hand on Jake’s shoulder and added, “The doctor says she is already getting better.” Alex turned and mumbled something about going to get the car.

  Jake lifted his right arm to give a wave, but winced. A cast ran up close to Jake’s elbow, leaving only the tip of his right thumb exposed. X-rays had revealed seven broken bones and a fractured radius. He was having a hard time getting used to this unwanted attachment to his body.

  He watched Alex cross the spacious lobby with its marble floors and ornate archways. The Sara Binyons Retreat was located about two hours south of Chicago in a small town near Terre Haute, Indiana. It was out in the country on two hundred acres of peaceful streams and wooded meadows.

  It was not a place for the criminally insane or patients with serious mental problems. Some prominent politicians and Hollywood-types were known to frequent Sara Binyons when they wanted to get away from their hectic lives.

  On a wide-screen TV in the lobby Jake could see a re-broadcast of a ceremony held earlier at Arlington National Cemetery. President Whittier had awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, Congressional Medal of Honor, and Purple Heart posthumously to Sergeant Booker J. Jones, Calvin Leeds, Shamus Lewis, and Harvey Wilson.

  The crowd of politicians, family, war veterans, and press, applauded President Whittier’s remarkable gesture. The screen showed Carl standing with his arm around a black-veiled Matilda Banks, Hap’s sister, who clutched the folded American flag.

  The broadcast cut away to the Korean War Veterans Memorial at the west end of the mall near the Lincoln Memorial. Workmen had just finished engraving the four names of the honored recipients in the granite wall. The camera panned the mural of sand-blasted images of medics, chaplains, and support troops. Near an image of the Korean peninsula were the words, Freedom is Not Free.

  The TV reporter made a closing statement, “More than fifty-four thousand Americans died in the Korean War. That number has just increased by four.”

  “It was still a wonderful gesture on the president’s part,” Abby remarked as she appeared in the doorway, a picture of tranquillity wrapped in festive cotton and a sunshine smile.

  “His arm is probably still sore from Sam twisting it.” Jake looked past Abby’s shoulder at Sam. A stocky, red-haired nurse with a cherub face was coaxing Sam off the couch.

  Jake leaned against the door jamb finding it hard to restrain the impulse to run in there and carry Sam out of this place. The last time he had seen her hair loose and carefree, she had been lying in his bed. He looked away again.

  Abby tapped his arm. “Let’s go.”

  Nurse Petree placed her hands on Sam’s shoulders. “It’s time to go back to your room, Dear.” Mrs. Petree’s fingers touched Sam’s necklace. “Oh, my. I’m sorry, Miss Casey. Jewelry is not allowed.” She fumbled with the clasp. “Let me give this to your mother before she leaves.”

  Sam watched as the sunlight b
ounced off the lightning bolt pendant. The way the nurse held the necklace reminded her of another time it was held in front of her, with the pendant swinging, someone’s muscular arms reaching around her neck to fasten it. Sam inhaled the scent of a woodsy aftershave. She remembered a man’s rugged, handsome face.

  Reaching out, she grabbed the necklace from Mrs. Petree’s fingers. For a brief moment, other memories flooded back. That same man, holding her tightly in a darkened room. She could see his chiseled features, the sharp angle of his chin. Her head turned quickly toward the door.

  “Miss Casey, wait!” Mrs. Petree hurried after Sam.

  Sam rushed past the potted calla lilies resting on the sill of the tall, narrow windows lining the wide hallway. When they heard the commotion, Abby and Jake turned around. Cautiously, Sam approached Jake. Her eyes moved from his face to the pendant. Slowly, she reached up and fastened it around his neck.

  Jake gathered her in his arms and held her tightly, inhaling the smell of her hair. He could feel her body tremble but she didn’t push away. He whispered, “Just remember, I love you.”

  She didn’t pull away when he kissed her on the mouth. Her face was masked in confusion as she backed away from him. As Mrs. Petree led her back down the hallway, Sam stole several glances over her shoulder at Jake.

  Jake and Abby walked along the brick circular driveway to a sidewalk framed in low shrubs. Tall oak trees near the curb loomed overhead, shading them from the late morning sun.

  “You will move in with us, Jacob. You are family now. It will make the waiting less painful.”

  “Listen, Abby, I know it’s customary for you to choose your daughter’s husband.”