by A W Hartoin
“You didn’t know, did you? I guess you’re out of the loop. Feel good? I hope you enjoy it.”
Chuck turned me around. “What leak?”
“I just got chased through the lobby by five reporters. They know I gave you Kansas. Thanks a lot. I don’t want to be connected to that. I’m just the messenger.”
Both agents whipped out their phones and began having tense conversations about leaks while Chuck and Sydney cussed up a storm.
I poked Chuck in his super-hard pec. “You know they’re screwing me and us on this. Dad is going to be pissed.”
He went silent.
“You’re on the task force. Do something!”
Sydney rubbed his bald head, making the sparse hairs on top stand up on end. “Something’s going on. We don’t know what it is.” He cocked his head to the angry agents. “And neither do they.”
“Really?” I couldn’t have been more sarcastic if I tried.
Chuck sighed. “Really. We were out at the site until three this morning. As soon as it was confirmed that your information was correct, the four of us were put on a helicopter back here. The Bureau claims they have a special team for exhumations and they’re on it.”
“Maybe they do.”
“Yeah, but we’re on the task force,” said Sydney.
I bit my lip, thinking about Mom in her hospital bed and Dad in custody. “They didn’t want you to see what was there.”
Hatchet Nose walked up, his face like rolling thunder. “We’re supposed to see what’s there. It’s our case.”
I got an idea. Maybe it was his expression or the set of his shoulders. I don’t know. He had a Watts kind of thing about him. “What’s your reputation?” I asked.
“Huh? I mean, why do you ask?”
“Are you honest? Is the truth the most important thing? Do you ever let go of a lead?”
“Yes. Yes. And no.”
I smiled. “And there it is. You might work for the FBI technically, but you’re more like my dad, not big on political moves. Am I right?”
He nodded.
The other agent, Toupee, came up. “This could ruin us.”
Hatchet Nose turned to his partner. “You’re okay with being stone-walled? Watts should be here, not held in Chicago indefinitely without being charged.”
“I agree, but we have careers to think of.”
“You do,” said Chuck. “And so do we, but this isn’t right.”
“Sounds like you have a choice to make,” I said. “And I have therapy to get to.”
Sydney grabbed my arm this time. “They leaked it to make it harder for you to move around. What have you got?”
“Something. Not nearly enough.”
“Miss Watts, we need what you have,” said Hatchet Nose.
“Decide where you stand and we’ll talk.” I took off down the hall to Mom’s room. There was a sleepy uniform outside the door. He barely blinked when I walked past. Great. But inside was a better story. Tiny blocked the entrance with his bulk and he was bright-eyed. “Glad you’re back,” he said, moving aside for me to squeeze through.
Nana was there, curled up on the bed with Mom. Her green eyes were overflowing and her short, blond pixie cut was still a mess. Not like her at all. She held out a hand. “Mercy, sweetheart, where have you been?”
“Getting information, Nana,” I said, sitting on the foot of the bed and taking her small, warm hand.
“About what?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She frowned and stroked Mom’s hair as she wept into a pillow. “Your place is here.”
“I’m here.”
“Let the FBI do their job. Don’t be like Tommy. Your mother needs you.”
I pushed down a seed of anger. “I know what Mom needs. Did something happen? I didn’t miss therapy, did I?”
Mom looked up. “No. It’s fine. I’m just so…I can’t stop crying. I want to, but I can’t.”
“That’s normal,” I said. “You’ve had a trauma and stroke patients often have trouble controlling their emotions.” I picked up Wallace and she scampered into Mom’s open arms. “Sorry I took her.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know about the news.”
I stiffened. “You mean, about Kansas.”
“Kansas?” asked Nana.
Not helping, Mercy. Shut up.
“There was a thing in Kansas, a crime. Nothing to do with us.” Liar. Liar. Pants on fire. “What are you talking about?”
Mom kissed the top of Wallace’s head and said, “Do you remember John Jameson?”
“Not really.”
“He worked with your dad. His son died this morning. He was only nineteen.”
I breathed out a sigh of relief. I shouldn’t have, but I was afraid she’d say Grandad’s friend, Robert, who was still recovering from the stabbing in Sturgis, had taken a turn for the worse. “That’s terrible. What happened?”
“They’re not saying exactly,” said Nana. “Sounds like an overdose.”
“College student?”
Mom wiped her eyes and said, “Yes. John was so proud. Austin got full tuition for the engineering program at Edwardsville. I can’t believe it. He was so young. Everything seems like bad news lately.”
No more news for you.
I picked up the remote and switched the channel from CNN to HGTV.
“What are you doing?” asked Mom.
“The news is depressing,” said Nana quickly. “You don’t need that. Let’s stick to happier things.”
“That’s fine with me, but is everything okay?” Mom looked at me closely. “You asked me about Denny. Have you heard from him yet? I think he was at the house, but he must’ve left.”
Oh, crap. Oh, crap.
“Denny…um…”
Nana checked her watch quickly. “Where is that therapist? They’ve restricted Carolina’s meals. They have to clear her.”
“What did you have for breakfast?” I asked Mom.
She made a face. “Oatmeal.”
“Blech. They just have to see how your swallow is and then they’ll clear you to eat whatever you want.”
Before Mom could remember her question about Denny, there was a knock on the door and a voice identified herself as the speech therapist. Tiny said, “I checked the ID and it matches, Mercy.”
“Come on in,” I said.
A young woman with a tray walked in. She was rattled by Tiny’s scrutiny and I was okay with that. Keeping Mom safe was the most important thing.
I stood up and pulled over the tray table. “Sorry. We have to be careful.”
“I understand,” she said, setting down the tray and shaking my hand. “I’m Jennie Frankel, speech therapy.”
She went on to talk to Mom about the effect of her stroke on swallowing and breathing. Nana got emotional and left under the guise of seeing what Pop Pop was up to in the waiting room. I stayed and I can’t say it was easy to watch Mom try to swallow a dry cracker and cough her head off. I distracted myself with Wallace and reviewing what I knew. I was playing connect the dots, but all the dots weren’t visible yet. The dates were important. I had the weirdest feeling like the knowledge was on the tip of my brain, but I couldn’t access it. So frustrating.
Jennie cleared Mom to eat whatever she wanted, but with specific instructions to chew and swallow on the right side of her mouth. Mom had some exercises to do to help with her speech and swallow. Jennie would come every day until Mom was released and we discussed getting her into rehab, which Mom wasn’t thrilled with, but Jennie said she was all for it so Mom grumbled and agreed.
When Jennie walked out, physical therapy walked in. They were a pair, Jim and Carol. They talked to Mom and then invited me to leave since they thought Mom would walk better without me as a distraction. I told them about her daring escape from the Cardiac Lab and we had a good laugh.
“You’re probably good to walk if you could pull that off,” said Carol. “But we have to run you through the gamut to clear you for walks in the h
all and showering on your own.”
“Let’s do it then,” said Mom, handing me Wallace. “I need a shower badly.”
Jim waved me away. “She’ll be fine with us.”
“You understand the security situation?” I asked, getting nervous.
“Your grandfather talked to us,” he said. “We’ll be in this hall and the policeman is welcome to watch.”
“And me,” said Tiny. “Carolina don’t go anywhere without me.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” said Mom.
“I’m sure I’ll be making sure that’s true,” said Tiny.
He was obviously unmovable on the topic, so Mom gave in to being watched by Tiny and I went to the waiting room, where I found Uncle Morty, Grandad, and Pop Pop deep in a conversation about the new Star Trek show. My life was filled with nerds and Trekkie nerds, at that.
“Mercy, sweetheart,” said Pop Pop. “How’s the therapy going?”
“Fine. Speech is done and she can eat again. Physical therapy’s got her now.”
Uncle Morty growled, “Why aren’t you in there? Ain’t that why we have you?”
Grandad and Pop Pop laughed and I said, “They made me leave. Close family is distracting.”
“Was it a man?” asked Uncle Morty.
“One was, but I’m telling you it’s normal.”
“Yeah, right. Like you know normal.
I sneered at him. “I’m more normal than you. Ask anybody.”
He grumbled and went back to his laptop. “What’d you get from the doc?”
“Mom doesn’t have the heart defect, but they can’t rule out Afib.”
“Yeah, we know, but I meant Dr. Grace,” he said.
I shrugged, not wanting to talk autopsy. “Where’s Nana?”
“She went for a walk to clear her head.” Pop Pop hugged me. “This is very hard on her.”
“She knows to stay inside, right?” I asked. “Did someone go with her?”
Pop Pop’s hazel eyes went wide. “You think she’s a target?”
“I don’t want to take any chances. Where did she go?” I started for the door, but Grandad called after me. “It’s fine, sweetheart. I told her the score. She’s with Dixie and Tenne. They’ll stick together.”
I slumped into a chair. “Thank god. You just about gave me a coronary.”
Pop Pop sat next to me and patted my hand. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. What about you? Nana said you were kinda upset.”
“Well, it’s upsetting, isn’t it?” he said in his lovely Southern accent. Just the sound of his voice soothed me.
“It is, but we’ll figure it out,” I said.
“You will,” said Uncle Morty. His voice was not soothing, quite the opposite, in fact.
“Chuck talked to you, I take it.”
“He is pissed as hell that you won’t give up your info.”
“Serves him right. He was a real jerk and now he has no access,” I said.
Grandad eyed me and crossed his arms. “So you have something?”
I glanced at the door and he went to close it without my asking. Nobody else was in the room, so we were relatively safe.
“Do you know anyone named Waylon?” I asked Uncle Morty.
He stopped typing. “Waylon Jennings.”
I rolled my eyes. “Someone closer to home and, you know, not dead.”
“Waylon Flowers,” said Pop Pop.
“He’s dead, too,” said Grandad.
“Is he? I thought he retired.”
“No, he died. AIDS, I think.”
“Poor man,” said Pop Pop. “Such a talent.”
Uncle Morty looked at me. “You want to put a stop to this and tell me what Waylon you’re talking about or what?”
I told them about my conversation with Brian Shill, dirtbag extraordinaire, including the dates and mention of the mysterious Waylon.
Uncle Morty typed for ten seconds and had my answer. “Waylon Parks, former DA and current criminal defense attorney.”
“Is he defending Shill in his latest case?” asked Grandad.
“Nope, that’s a woman, Marissa Milsap. She’s filing every kind of motion ever invented. He’s getting his money’s worth.”
Waylon said. Waylon said. Think, Mercy.
“Is Parks on any of Shill’s motions?”
Uncle Morty scanned through some things on his laptop. “Doesn’t look like he’s on anything.”
“How about the last case? The attempted rape?”
Pop Pop squeezed my hand. “You interviewed a rapist? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Uncle Morty scoffed, “She does it all the time.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“No? Well, whaddaya gonna do? Anyway, it was this Waylon that prosecuted Shill in 2005. They ain’t friends.”
“Except they are,” I said.
“What the hell you talking about? Parks sent him to prison.”
“I read Dad’s file. He was pissed about that. Shill got five measly years for attempted rape of a fifteen-year-old and there was another charge of luring a minor for sexual purposes over the internet.”
Uncle Morty typed for a minute. “Yeah, that one got dropped.”
“Seems light,” said Grandad. “Who was the judge?”
“Walter Ellison.”
Grandad sat down next to Uncle Morty. “That geezer. He’s still on the bench?”
“He was retired in ’10 and died six months later. What was the deal with him?”
“Ellison was the kind of judge you want if you’re a guy like this Shill,” said Grandad. “Not that it mattered. I don’t remember the particulars, but Tommy fought like hell with the DA over the case. Tommy wanted to go to trial, but they ended up with a plea bargain. Tommy was sick about it.”
Uncle Morty tilted the screen toward Grandad. “You seen a lot of trials. What do you think about the sentence?”
Grandad scratched his two-day-old beard and said, “It’s within the judge’s discretion. The DA and defense agreed to it.”
“The DA went against Tommy. I remember that, too. It happened, but not often,” said Uncle Morty.
“Has Parks got anything hinky in his background?” asked Grandad.
Uncle Morty typed for a moment. “Member of the bar in good standing. No arrests. Unmarried. Credit’s good. Let’s see if he’s been sued.” He typed and scrolled through some pages. “Several suits. Inadequate counsel. A few were dropped. A couple settled.”
I groaned. “This guy’s a lot more boring than I hoped.”
“Yeah, pretty run-of-the-mill. He was sued by his former partner’s wife, but it was dropped, too.”
“That could be something. How recent?” I asked.
“’95.”
“I thought he was a DA.”
“Not until 2003. He was in private practice and not so successful. Didn’t help that his partner killed himself,” said Uncle Morty.
Please let this be something.
“Are they sure it was a suicide?” I asked.
He did some more typing and said, “No doubt. John Evans shot himself in the office and left a note to his father, saying he couldn’t live with the burden. He mentioned shame and some decision. The secretary was there when it happened and Parks was in court. Definitely in the clear.”
“Then why did the wife sue him?” I asked.
“Defamation of character. She claimed Parks told people that her husband killed himself because he was gay.”
“I take it he wasn’t,” said Grandad.
“Not according to her, but the judge had a talk with her and she dropped it.”
“You’re missing the point,” I said. “This has nothing to do with anything.”
They looked up at me.
“He called the DA by his first name. He said Waylon, like they’re friends. DAs don’t usually become friends with the people they prosecute, do they?”
Grandad thought about it. “No, not that
I’ve seen. They’ll sometimes arrange services if they have sympathy, for some reason. Your father did that occasionally. He visits some of his collars in prison.”
“I know and he does call them by their first names, now that I think about it.”
“Would you call them friends?” asked Pop Pop.
“Sort of,” I said. “I visit Greta at Hunt and I guess she’s a friend. She gave me some information. I totally forgot about that.”
Uncle Morty sat up and his belly pushed over the edge of his keyboard. “What information? You holding out on me?”
“I told you. I forgot. It’s been kinda busy.” I told them about Greta and the orderly she overheard, possibly threatening Blankenship.
“Could be something else,” said Grandad. “Journalist undercover, trying to get the kind of information that you get out of him.”
“Could be,” said Uncle Morty. “But it ain’t.”
“Don’t journalists go undercover in prisons and whatnot?” asked Pop Pop.
“Yeah, but the prison’s in on it. I’ll bet a month’s royalties that they don’t know a thing about it or this guy would have access to Blankenship.”
“And he can’t get in,” I said.
Uncle Morty nodded. “And he can’t get in. I’m gonna run down every damn employee they got.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Take me hours, but I got to do it. If you ain’t got anything else, beat it.”
“Have you got some paper?” I asked.
He jerked a thumb at his laptop bags and Grandad got out a pen and paper. “What have you got?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a timeline. I need to see it.”
I drew a line across the long legal pad, noting the years that had cropped up. Cassidy in 2002. The gloves being discontinued in 2005, the same year that Shill was convicted. And, of course, the year he didn’t want to give me. 2004. The year he was brought into the Unsubs.
“Add 2003 and 2006,” said Uncle Morty.
“What for?” I asked.
“Parks started with the DA’s office in ’03 and left in ’06.”
“Was he any good?”
“Beats the hell outta me.” He gave a laptop to Grandad. “Read his record.”
Grandad looked at me and winked. “I guess I’ll read his record.”
“See if he was easy on all attempted rapes or if Shill was special,” I said.
“No problem.” Grandad was grinning. “Feels good to be back in the saddle. Maybe I won’t go on the road with Double Black Diamond after all.”