The Judas Murders

by Ken Oder

  “How did you find him?” she said.

  He took Dolley Madison’s report out of his shirt pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to her.

  She held it up to the fading sunlight with shaking hands. Her eyes widened when she saw the name. She read the rest of the report, reread it a second time, handed it back to him, lit a Kool, and looked out the window at the schoolhouse, her eyes glistening. “I didn’t expect it to be him.”

  “I didn’t either.”

  She looked across the road in the direction of Leland Mundy’s grave and looked back at the schoolhouse. “It ain’t fair.” She bowed her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I hate to think . . .” Her voice trailed off. She took a deep drag on the Kool and blew smoke out the window. “You said you need my help. What kind of help?”

  He told her what he wanted to do. He laid it out carefully and in detail, so she’d be sure to understand. When he finished, he gave her some time to think. Then he said, “There’s a big disadvantage with doing it this way.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and looked at him, waiting.

  He set his hat on the bench seat between them and ran his hand over his bald head. “People like him don’t ever get better. He didn’t quit when you shot him. There are little girls who came after you. If we do what I want, no one will ever know their names. Their stories,” he paused and wiped sweat off his brow, “and your story will never have a voice. No one will know what he did. He won’t be judged. He won’t be sentenced. He won’t be punished.”

  She stared at him, her brow knitted, still waiting.

  “I need to know if this is all right with you,” he said. “Without your permission, I can’t bring myself to do it.”

  She was quiet for a long time, staring at the rusty swing set and the dead locust tree. A hot breeze swirled powdery dust across the yard and then died out. A crow cawed in one of the pines on the other side of the road.

  “Go ahead with it,” she said. “It’s the best way to end it. No more pain. No more hurt.”

  He let out a long breath.

  “One condition,” she said. “When it’s done, I want to know what you told him, what he said, what he did about it. I want to know every detail. Don’t leave nothin out.”

  He nodded. “I’ll tell you all of it.”

  She lit another Kool, pulled smoke into her lungs, and blew it out the side of her mouth. Tears beaded in her eyes. “I hope it works,” she said softly.

  “Me, too.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The Velo Dog

  September 7, 1967, Thursday

  Over the next three weeks, Cole investigated. In 1943, the man named in the medical record bought Langham Properties, a small company in Charlotte, North Carolina, and built it up into a commercial real estate powerhouse. Three years ago in 1964, he sold Langham for a rumored mid-eight-figure fortune and “retired” to a plantation-style manse perched on a knoll overlooking the Pee Dee River near Cheraw, South Carolina. Within months after his retreat to the twenty-acre estate, he formed a new company and began to invest in real estate in Chesterfield and Marlboro Counties.

  On a warm, humid, sunny afternoon, Cole sat in a burgundy barrel chair facing an antique cherrywood desk with a green inlaid leather top covered with deeds, mortgages, liens, title reports, surveys, construction blueprints, and plat maps.

  Tall and slim, Charley Hix sat behind the desk, smoothing down his wispy gray hair with delicate pale fingers, an almost undetectable tremor in his hand.

  “I fired Jim Lloyd during my first term as sheriff,” Cole said. “Did he tell you that when you hired him?”

  “He worked in security for my company in Charlotte, deep in the bowels of the organization. Someone in that department hired him. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Charley’s voice had changed with age, Cole noticed, from the firm tenor of his younger days when he was married to Kelly McNiel to a high-pitched, reedy, tremulous whine.

  “So you had no contact with him at Langham Properties?” Cole asked.

  “I might have dealt with him on some minor matter, but if I did, I don’t remember it.”

  “Interesting.” Cole withdrew a document from his briefcase and slid it across the desk to Charley. “That’s a record I found in Jim’s personnel file at Langham.”

  Charley only glanced at the document. “Those records are confidential.”

  “Buster Dillon gave me access to all the company’s records.”

  A telltale sheen of sweat glistened on Charley’s brow.

  “That document lists Jim’s job title as ‘Security Specialist,’” Cole said. “Under job description it says ‘Special Projects.’ What caught my eye, though, is the reporting relationship. Everyone in security reported to the general counsel. Everyone except Jim. He reported directly to the chief executive officer, Charles M. Hix.”

  Charley pushed the document back across the table, giving Cole a tight smile. “After I sold Langham to Dillon, he ran it into the ground. He needs a scapegoat to appease his investors. To save his hide, he sued me. He claims I defrauded him. You can’t believe a word he says about me.”

  Cole returned the smile. “I suppose that explains why he’s been so cooperative, but your close connection to Jim doesn’t depend on Dillon’s word.” Cole pushed the document back across the desk. “The date on this personnel record is January 14, 1957, seven years before you sold Langham to Dillon.”

  Charley’s eyes narrowed and the muscles in his face tightened into a look of menace he never showed Cole in the old days. “Quit playing games. Cut to the chase. Why are you here? What do you want?”

  Cole gave Charley a long, cold stare. He stood and crossed the plush maroon carpet to look through a set of French doors flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows. Charley’s office was on the second floor of his manse and opened onto a widow’s walk that overlooked the Pee Dee River. Sunlight glistened on gentle ripples along the river’s muddy-brown back.

  “After you sold Langham and pulled out of Charlotte,” Cole said, his back to Charley, “Dillon fired Jim. Last fall, he landed in Selk County. He set up a false identity and deposited twenty-five thousand dollars in the Jeetersburg branch of the First Virginia Bank, a healthy sum of money considering he’d been unemployed for three years.”

  Cole looked at the white railing enclosing the widow’s walk. The paint on the ornately carved spindles was new, unblemished by the winds rolling in off the river.

  “On Christmas Day,” Cole continued, “Jim murdered a woman. Over the next few months, he committed two more murders and four attempted murders. He planned to kill two more people, but they died before he could get to them. The odd thing is most of his victims had no connection to him and he had no personal motive to attack them.”

  Cole turned and looked at Charley. “I figure he was a contract killer. He worked for someone who wanted those people dead.” Cole crossed the room and stood beside Charley’s desk, looking down at him. “Jim worked for you, Charley. You paid him to kill Hazel Emley, her daughters, and the men they confided in.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Charley said evenly. “I didn’t pay Jim Lloyd to kill anyone.” Charley stood. “I won’t have you come into my home and insult me with scurrilous accusations. Get out. Now.”

  Cole didn’t move.

  Charley reached for the telephone on his desk. “Get out or I’ll have my men throw you out.”

  Cole withdrew another document from his briefcase and extended it to Charley.

  Charley didn’t even glance at it. He put the telephone to his ear. “Lonnie, put me through to James.”

  “If you don’t hear me out,” Cole said, “I’ll go public with this document. You’d be wise to take a look at it before you summon your thugs.”

  Charley glared at Cole. “Hang on for a minute, James,” he said into the telephone. He took the document and read it, and his hand started shaking slightly. He laid it on his desk and covered the mouth of t
he telephone receiver. “This proves nothing,” he said, his voice tight and strained.

  “It proves you sought treatment for a small-caliber gunshot wound at Dolley Madison Hospital on April 6, 1937, at one a.m. It proves Reba Emley shot you that night. It proves you’re the man who molested her when she was a little girl.”

  Sweat trickled down the side of Charley’s face. “I . . .” His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “I shot myself. I was cleaning my gun. It fired accidently.”

  “Our ballistics tests will say otherwise.”

  Charley started to say something, then seemed to decide against it.

  “Hang up the phone, and I’ll tell you why your lie won’t work.”

  Charley hesitated. “I’ll give you one minute. Then I’ll call my men.” He placed the receiver in its cradle.

  “Reba shot the pedophile who raped her with a Velo Dog, a little pocket revolver known as a bike gun. A Frenchman invented it for bicycle riders to use against dog attacks. It fires such a low-energy round that there are cases where people had to shoot themselves in the head twice to commit suicide. When Reba shot you with her bike gun, the twenty-two-caliber bullet didn’t go all the way through. According to the intern who treated you, it lodged in the external oblique muscle of your back. I guess that’s why you took the risk of going to Dolley Madison. If the bullet had gone through, you could have nursed the wound yourself, but when it got hung up in your back, you knew the infection could kill you so you had to go to the hospital.” Cole gave Charley a hard look. “And that’s what did you in. The intern who removed the bullet retained it, and Reba still has the Velo Dog that fired it. I’ll be handing them over to Frank Woolsey next week for ballistics tests. How do you think the tests will come out?”

  Charley leaned forward, put his hands on the desk, and bowed his head. He sat down slowly, leaned back in his chair, and put his hand over his eyes.

  Cole picked up the documents and returned them to his briefcase. “When the ballistics analysis is done, I’ll hand everything over to Wiley Rea. You remember him. He went to school with us. Judge Blackwell appointed him as commonwealth’s attorney in January when Nate Abbitt resigned. He’ll stand for election for the first time next year. He’s looking for a way to make a name for himself, a platform to run on. Prosecuting a high-profile, wealthy pedophile will garner statewide publicity, maybe even national press. There’s no statute of limitations on the criminal prosecution of child molestation in Virginia, so there’s nothing to hold him back. He’ll come after you hard.”

  Charley looked up at Cole, his eyes tired, hollowed-out, tortured.

  “Next Friday, a week from tomorrow,” Cole continued. “I’ll hand Reba’s little bike gun and the bullet off to my forensics team. What happens from there on will be out of my control.”

  Cole walked back to the French doors and looked outside. A string of seagulls flew over the river heading east. Cole lingered at the doors to give Charley time to absorb the full import of everything Cole had told him. He watched the birds shrink to little white dots and then disappear in the distance.

  Cole turned and looked at Charley, who was still slumped in his chair with his hand over his eyes.

  “I put a timeline of Reba’s story together with your history in Selk County,” Cole said. “You started molesting Reba in 1935 when she was ten years old. She shot you in 1937. At first I figured you left Kelly and Rachel right after she shot you, but the records proved me wrong. You didn’t walk out on them until six years later in 1943.” Cole paused. “I wondered what made you run away then.”

  Charley dropped his hand to his lap and looked at Cole, his eyes full.

  “Rachel was nine years old in 1943,” Cole said, “a year younger than Reba when you first molested her.” He paused for a long time and then said, “I’d like to believe some small spark of decency lay inside you back then, down deep under all the slime.” Cole walked over to Charley’s desk and looked down at him. “Your daughter’s a successful lawyer. The best attorney in Jeetersburg. She has a great future ahead of her.” Cole softened his voice. “Unless something comes along that breaks her down.”

  Cole picked up his hat and put it on. “I’m hoping that small spark of decency is still alive,” he said. “I’m hoping it will protect Rachel from the beast that lives inside you one more time.” He gave Charley a knowing look. “You have until next Friday.” He turned and headed toward the door.

  “Wait,” Charley said.

  Cole looked back at him.

  “Are you saying you might not go to the prosecutor?”

  “That depends on you.”

  Charley leaned forward. “I have to know with absolute certainty.” He hesitated, apparently searching for the strength to continue. “What will you do if . . . something happens to me?” His voice shook.

  Cole locked eyes with him. “I’ll close the case. Burn the file. Tell no one what I found.”

  Charley held Cole’s gaze for a long time. Then he swiped his hand across his brow and looked out the windows, his chin quivering, his eyes clouded and fearful.

  “Goodbye, Charley.”

  Cole walked out of the office and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The Next of Kin

  September 13, 1967, Wednesday morning

  A week after Cole met with Charley Hix, he got a phone call at headquarters from the sheriff of Chesterfield County, South Carolina, who he’d met with before he went out to see Charley. In his forties, short and stout with wavy blond hair and a perpetually flushed face, Curly Dodson had given Cole a rundown of Charley’s three years in the Cheraw area, and Cole had been impressed with his knowledge and professionalism.

  “Charles Hix is dead,” Dodson said over the telephone.

  Cole sat behind his desk, looking out the windows at Beacon Hill shining pale blue in the sunlight. “How did he die?”

  “Passed away in his sleep. Housekeeper found him in bed Sunday morning.”

  “What killed him?”

  “The coroner says he had lung problems, a respiratory ailment of some sort.”

  Lung problems. Visceral congestion, severe pulmonary edema, petechial hemorrhage of the lungs, Cole guessed.

  He was surprised Charley chose such a hard way to die. Maybe he didn’t know what succinylcholine would do to him. He wasn’t a doctor and the publicity about the Coppolino case didn’t dwell on the horrific last moments of the drug’s victims. Or maybe Charley had found some courage in his final days.

  The greater puzzlement to Cole was how Charley managed to dispose of the syringe and vial. According to Shirley, paralysis set in from thirty to sixty seconds after an injection. He had help, Cole guessed, a henchman like Jim Lloyd, who would keep silent about an assisted suicide in exchange for a big fee.

  “Grundy? You still there?” Dodson asked.

  “I’m here.”

  “His housekeeper said he seemed perfectly healthy the day before he died. You see anything wrong with him when you met him?”

  “Nothing obvious.”

  “Strange.”

  Cole didn’t comment.

  Dodson said, “Reason I called is the housekeeper says the only kin Hix ever talked about was a daughter name of Rachel lives in your county. I need to notify her of her father’s death, but I can’t find any record of a Rachel Hix up your way.”

  “Her mother filed legal papers years ago to change her name. She’s Rachel McNiel.”

  “That explains it. Can you give me her contact information?”

  “Might be better if I notify her. She hasn’t heard from her father since she was a little girl, and they didn’t part on good terms.”

  “Okay by me. These calls are never easy.”

  Cole hung up the phone and looked down at the file on his desk marked “Hix, Charles.” He opened it and reread Mabel’s research on Reba’s Velo Dog. Manufactured in 1904, the little French “bike gun” was extremely rare. That’s what gave Cole the idea to tel
l Charley that Dolley Madison retained the bullet. The gun was so unique that its bullet would have identified Charley as Reba’s molester beyond any doubt. Ironic, Cole thought, that a shrewd multimillionaire real estate mogul whose entire life was built on lies had chosen to kill himself because of a lie he didn’t question.

  Cole took a last look at the documents, closed the file, and marked it for the burn barrel.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Sweet Tea

  September 13, 1967, Wednesday afternoon

  The manager at Kelly’s Place told Cole that Kelly didn’t plan to come in until two, so he drove out to her house at noon. Mature maples and oaks cast shade over the sidewalks along Buford Street in Jeetersburg’s “old town,” where stately Gilded Age homes with gables, cupolas, cut-glass windows, tin roofs, and wraparound porches sat back from the street on expansive manicured lawns adorned with flowerbeds and neatly trimmed hedges.

  Kelly was in her home office, listening to the stock market report on the radio, dressed in her bartending uniform, a tight, tailored three-quarter-sleeve red blouse and a black leather skirt that came to midthigh. Most sixty-year-old women wouldn’t dare to wear that outfit, Cole thought, but she looked good in it.

  He told her he needed a few minutes of her time. She led him out to the porch. He sat in a rocker and she went inside for a pitcher of sweet tea, then settled in the porch swing.

  “Rumor has it you might not stand for reelection next year,” she said.

  “I considered retirement for a while, but I’ve decided against it. My back got better and I . . . I’m in a different frame of mind.” He fell silent.

  “You’ve come with bad news,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes.”