“She’s a little old for him, isn’t she?”
Stan watched them. “She’s in her forties, and Hugo’s what, in his thirties?”
“I think that’s right.”
“Maybe he’s got a thing for older women.”
“She must have a thing for idiots. Good luck to her. Are they always like this?”
“Lovey?”
“I think it’s gross,” Goober offered, stretching to look past Cass into the far booth.
“He’s here every chance he gets, and yes, they’re pretty affectionate. So far, it hasn’t put the customers off their food, but I’m keeping an eye on them.”
Cass chuckled and opened the Dallas newspaper. She passed the funny pages to Goober and started searching the headlines. A feature article described a rape victim’s journey to recovery, and Cass scoffed at the woman’s simpering descriptions of visits to psychologists, palm readers, and group recovery sessions. She stopped reading after the fifth paragraph and looked for the crime reports. Goober’s guffaws at the cartoons made her smile, in spite of the grim reading. A domestic shooting, a knife fight, two arrested for drunk driving – a light night for crime in Dallas – but no mention of rapes. She started at movement next to the table and looked up to see Petchard standing next to her, his eyes focused on the slight gape in the neck of her blouse. “Officer Petchard. What can I do for you?”
He raised his eyes to meet hers and shifted from one foot to another. “You were right.”
Cass was silent while she tried to figure his angle. “About what?”
He lowered his voice. “About me letting Mojo take stuff from his house. I talked to Junie about it, and she agreed with you and thought I was rude to you.”
Her look was blank.
“So,” he continued, “I’m apologizing. I should have checked the stuff Mojo took with him and logged it out of the house. You were right.”
“You’re talking to a civilian about an open investigation?”
Petchard’s mouth hung open. “Are you serious? I’m trying to apologize.”
“Apology accepted. Are you discussing an open murder investigation with a civilian?”
“Sheesh,” he huffed. “I can’t do anything right, can I?”
“I don’t know, Hugo. Can you?”
He snorted a reply under his breath, hitched up his uniform’s trousers, and headed for the door, banging it closed behind him.
Goober had listened to the exchange and watched Petchard’s exit from the café with wide eyes. “He’s cranky.”
Stan appeared at the table with a bulging sack and two coffee carriers.
“Lover’s tiff?” he asked.
“No,” Cass said with a smile. “He’s mad at me again.”
Stan chuckled and took her payment. She said good-bye to Goober, reassuring him that Bruce was on his way to town. She balanced one coffee carrier on top of the other, tucked the top one under her chin to balance it, grabbed the sack of burritos and blinked goodbye to the Pettigrew brothers. At the door, Mojo caught up with her and asked if he could carry something.
She handed over the sack and breathed a sigh of relief as she shifted the coffee carriers so that one was in each hand. “Thanks, Mojo. How are you?”
They walked down the street to the square, squinting into the rising sun, and threaded their way through the early morning traffic circling the courthouse.
“I’m okay. The visitation is tonight and the funerals are tomorrow.”
“I heard. I think most of the force will be there.”
“I sure appreciate it, but I’m ready for it to be over.”
“I imagine so.” Cass looked up at him. “When did you learn to use a computer?”
Mojo grinned. “Strange, isn’t it?”
“What happened?”
“Joseph made me buy it. I really didn’t want a computer, but he thought we ought to do all our banking online, so we could take care of momma’s stuff as she got older.”
“I didn’t realize your mom needed help with all that.”
“She doesn’t. Or didn’t,” he corrected himself, face darkening for a moment. “But Joseph was planning ahead. And I guess he was right. It does make sense.”
“Were you doing your banking on the Wi-Fi at The Golden Gate? An open connection like that, it’s not safe.”
“Joseph warned me about it.” Mojo cut a glance at her. “I was researching Joseph’s crime.”
“Is there much about it online?”
“Not really. But in a weird way, studying all this hacking stuff makes me feel closer to him. Like I understand him a little better.”
Cass thought about her oldest brother Jack, in the state penitentiary for twenty-one years now for rape and murder. She had sought for years to understand what those words meant and to reconcile the actions to the brother she loved. In spite of the horror of his actions, she thought she understood him a little better, too. “I think I get it.”
Mojo held the courthouse door open for her. “Thanks. Listen, are y’all having some kind of murder meeting?”
Cass nodded and lifted her hip to wave the card key in her back pocket at the reader. The door clicked and Mojo grabbed it. “Why?”
“Would it be all right if I sat in?”
“What for?”
He hesitated. “Maybe there’s something I can offer. And I guess it would make me feel useful.”
Cass pushed open the conference room door. Common sense and some vague notion that it was against policy for a family member to participate in the murder investigation of his kin were telling her to decline Mojo’s offer. She looked up to see Mitch already positioned along one side of the table, scratching furiously beneath his brace with the hanger. “You okay?” she asked.
Mitch rolled his eyes and nodded. “This is better than sex. But don’t tell Darla.”
She put the coffee carriers down rubbed her wrists, looking at Mojo. “Are you sure you want to work with somebody like Mitch?”
The big black man placed the bulging bag on the table and peeked inside. “Do I get a burrito?”
“You just ate breakfast,” Cass protested.
“Mental energy requires nourishment.”
“That’s my kind of logic. What are you talking about?” Mitch asked.
“Mojo wants to sit in on our meeting this morning, to see if he can add anything.”
“Normally,” Mitch said, “I’d say no way. But since Emmet Hedder’s missing, too, we need all the help we can get. Do you know him?”
Mojo nodded. “What happened?”
“Looks like somebody shot at him night before last.”
“The same night somebody killed Momma, Joseph, and Moore?”
The conference room door opened and Kado stepped in, followed by Truman. It was Mitch’s turn to nod.
“Did the same person shoot Emmet?” Mojo asked.
“Definitely,” Kado answered. “I compared his slug to the other three. They match.”
CHAPTER 68
THE THREE-INCH PILE OF mail loomed ominously, and Sheriff Hoffner took a long sip of coffee before reaching for the stack. After arriving at the office Thursday, he’d been too distracted to go through it all, and Elaine had added yesterday’s delivery to the top of the pile. As punishment for yesterday’s procrastination, dealing with the mess was his first task of the morning.
He worked methodically. The contents went in one of four stacks: act now, act later, read later, or toss. Almost everything went into the ‘toss’ pile for shredding. The work was mindless and for that reason, soothing. He reached the midway point and stopped to stretch. His office was small but adequate. Photographs of himself at various points in his career and posing with other dignitaries covered the walls, interspersed with the various awards and certificates he had received over the years. He reached out to adjust his most prized possession: a framed announcement of his appointment as sheriff after the previous sheriff’s heroic and untimely death. Noticing dust on the frame
s, he gently wiped the top and bottom edges of each picture, taking the opportunity to swap the positions of a couple of certificates.
Satisfied, he settled back into his chair and picked up an envelope, only to drop it and reach for the next item. The address was handwritten and Hoffner’s ears filled with the rushing sound of his thudding heart. He fumbled with the key to his file cabinet and yanked open the bottom drawer to pull out the baggies holding the previous four letters. He laid the envelopes side by side and compared them to the newest delivery: the handwriting was the same.
Hoffner’s fingers trembled as he tugged on a pair of latex gloves. He slit the top of the envelope. The letter crinkled as he slipped it out and he caught the faint scent of Elmer’s glue. The letters, again clipped from magazines and newspapers, read:
What did I tell you?
He scanned the other letters in order of their receipt:
How well do you know Moses Franklin?
Where is Moses Franklin?
Why do you trust Moses Franklin?
Moses Franklin is not a nice man.
This latest letter was simply confirming that Moses was not a nice man. Based on what? The fact that someone had murdered his mother and brother? Or was the writer indicating that Moses was the intended victim?
Hoffner ripped the gloves from his hands and shoved back from his desk. He strode from the office and locked the door behind him. In a rare acknowledgment of his limitations, he realized that he needed help. Then his brain shifted gears. It wasn’t about help. Effective leaders delegate. That was a lesson from his aborted training this week. And he knew just who to delegate to.
CHAPTER 69
JOSEPH FRANKLIN LISTENED WITH rapt attention. The group seemed to accept that he was Moses with little thought. To encourage that perception, he kept his mouth shut, which wasn’t hard but was risky; Moses was the talker and doer, Joseph the listener and observer.
His biggest problems were with the clothes and police gear. Although it fit well, Moses’ uniform felt awkward on Joseph’s frame. The material was soft enough, but putting the whole contraption together was confusing. Joseph had spent time Thursday afternoon surreptitiously studying the officers coming and going from the squad room. This morning, he’d stood before the mirror in Porky and Stella’s guest bathroom, adjusting his name plate and the gear on his belt until he felt confident that everything was about where it should be. But still, moving around with all this stuff hanging from his body meant that he had to keep his arms slightly out from his body, or leave a hand resting on one of the many items on his belt. Joseph did his best to keep the twitching and touching to a minimum, but even now, he caught himself lifting a hand to adjust Moses’ badge where it hung on the shirt’s left breast. He scratched his nose instead.
Driving away from the motel where he met Emmet last night, he’d felt distracted and unsettled. Realizing that the sharp retort they’d heard wasn’t a backfire but was indeed an attempt to disable Emmet’s pickup was disturbing. More so was the acknowledgment that Moses, Emmet, and Donna were involved in something bad. Probably illegal. So illegal that Emmet wanted to keep Joseph out of it, even though he clearly needed help.
He slept well last night, in spite of the grief that still hung heavy around his heart. Porky was dog tired when Joseph got back to his apartment. They shared a big helping of Stella’s chocolate cake with glasses of milk and little conversation, then headed off to their separate rooms. His sleep was dreamless, an unexpected blessing given the turmoil in his life, and he felt refreshed today, ready to soak up information to help Emmet track the killer.
The conference room door opened and a very tall, rather pale man ducked under the door frame, a folder clutched in one hand and a paper bag in the other. Joseph recognized him as Porky’s boss, the county’s medical examiner John Grey. He sat next to the chunky, rumpled officer called Ernie Munk, snagged the bag of burritos and pulled a cup of coffee from one of the carriers. A very neat young officer with exhaustion in his eyes sat next to Munk; they called him Truman. Moses had mentioned him, saying that he was impressed with the younger man and thought he would be promoted to detective before long.
Detective Mitch Stone was at the head of the table, his wheelchair positioned sideways to allow his leg to stick out. Detectives Cass Elliot and Carlos Martinez sat along Joseph’s side of the table. The forensics guy, Tom Kado, sat at the end of the table opposite Mitch, sorting through a stack of white cards smudged with fingerprints. Sheriff Hoffner had poked his head into the room earlier, peeking around the door like a turtle sticking its head from its shell. He told Mitch to come see him immediately after they were done.
“Since he doesn’t seem to be tied to the others, let’s start with Calvin Whitehead. What have we got?” Mitch asked.
“Nothing from a forensics perspective, so far,” Kado answered. “Truman’s helped me go through everything we gathered from inside the store, and there was nothing useful. We need to work through the sludge from the patio, and,” he held up the white cards, “I still have some fingerprints to process.”
Mitch looked to Munk. “Anything from his paperwork?”
“Not yet, but Whitehead had tons of it.” Munk took a sip of his coffee and stirred in another packet of sugar. “His murder feels personal to me, especially with the swastika carved in his chest.”
Joseph fought to keep his expression neutral. It wasn’t related to his family’s murders, but the mutilation was so strange that he tucked it away in his capacious memory.
Martinez balanced on his chair’s back legs. “I want to talk to Father Reeder to see if he knew Calvin Whitehead. Cass, you want to come with me?”
She nodded. “I haven’t worked on the Whitehead case, but I’d like to dig into it.”
“Is that going to be too much with the Franklin and Moore murders?” Mitch asked.
“Not until we find a link between the two.”
“Mojo?” Mitch asked. “How did you know Emmet Hedder?”
“We’ve been friends since we were kids,” Joseph answered, switching to Moses mode.
“What can you tell us about him?”
Joseph shrugged. “Emmet’s a good guy. He joined the Marines straight out of high school and spent time in the Middle East or Africa. Libya, maybe? He went to Panama and Iraq the first time around. Retired after twenty years and became a registered nurse. He works out at that fancy retirement place, Pecan Grove.”
“Did he have any problems?”
“Nothing of a legal nature. Emmet and his wife have had trouble lately, but it sounds like the kind of thing couples always go through.”
“I know Carlos asked you about whether your family knew Donna Moore yesterday. Did anything come to mind over night?”
The photograph of Moses and Donna weighed heavy in his wallet. “None of us did business with her and I don’t think Joseph or Momma knew her socially. I sure didn’t.”
“Do you know why Emmet wouldn’t report Wednesday night’s shooting to the police?” Cass asked.
Because he wants to kill the man himself, Joseph thought. “No, I don’t. Maybe he’s in shock from his injury and laying low.”
She nodded slowly. “Grey, did you get Donna’s tox results back?”
The medical examiner had eaten and listened while everyone spoke, barely stirring. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “She was clean.”
“Kado,” Cass said, turning to look at the forensics examiner, “what about the cocaine?”
Joseph turned with everyone else to look at the dark-haired man.
“The concentrations on the bills I tested were slightly higher than average, but that’s still a very low level of coke. I don’t think it indicates the money has been near drugs in any quantity.”
“There has to be a link between the three families,” Cass stated. “We’ve put out alerts to area doctors and hospitals, asking them to let us know if someone matching Emmet Hedder’s description comes in. Until we find him, ther
e’s not much we can do except go through his paperwork and talk to his wife again.”
“I’ll see if she’s calmed down enough to talk,” Mitch said. “Anything else?”
Grey opened the folder he’d brought with him. “We confirmed that this is Calvin Whitehead through his dental records. While looking at the body, Bernie found a few other things that might be helpful. Has everybody’s food settled?”
Joseph wondered what he meant, but nodded along with the others.
Grey pushed the folder to the middle of the table. “They’re kind of hard to make out, but Bernie found several tattoos on Whitehead’s body.”
Everyone leaned in to get a closer look, and Joseph felt bile rise in his throat at the sight of the man’s blackened, peeling skin. No one else seemed affected by it, and Joseph wondered how long, how many dead bodies, it took before someone could develop an immunity to something like this.
Kado spoke. “I don’t see anything.”
Grey turned to a second photograph and indicated a darker patch. “This is as clear as we can get it with our equipment. There’s a circle, and inside it, a cross with uniform length arms.”
Kado’s face paled. “And a drop of blood in the middle?”
“We couldn’t make that out from the photograph. Why?”
“It’s a symbol the Klan uses.”
“Ah,” Grey said. “That makes sense.” He turned to another photograph. It showed a charred claw, with one patch of white, unblemished skin. “This is Whitehead’s right hand. This section of unburned skin was beneath his ring. When we took it off, we found that tattoo, a cross. It looks hand drawn rather than professionally tattooed.”
“Did he spend time in prison?” Kado asked.
“I’ll run a check to see if he’s listed in the system,” Mitch answered. “If he was Ku Klux, there’s a chance he was picked up at some point. And Munk will have to see what he can find in Whitehead’s files.”
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