“You’ve heard about Calvin Whitehead’s murder?”
The priest nodded.
“Did you know him?”
“I did. He converted to Catholicism when he moved to Arcadia.” Father Reeder paused. “That must have been more than thirty years ago.”
“I’ve never seen him at mass,” Martinez said, and Father Reeder smiled.
“Calvin wasn’t what you would call a practicing Catholic. He had moments when he needed the church, and he came to us then.”
“For confession?”
Father Reeder hesitated, then nodded.
Martinez rubbed his strong hands across his face and his silvery crew cut. “Father, we’re at a loss as to who killed Calvin. He lived in a remote area with few neighbors. He has no family as far as we can tell. Is there anything you can tell us about him?” Martinez held up a hand when the priest protested. “I know that confession is sacred, but can you think of anything Calvin might have said that would be helpful? He lived in Arcadia for more than thirty years but barely left an impression. Did something significant happen in his past? Was he fearful? Did he even tell you where he came from?”
Father Reeder bowed his head as if in prayer. Cass flashed a glance at Martinez, who sat stone still. After several moments, the priest raised his head and crossed himself. “Calvin was a troubled soul. More so than most. He came to the church seeking absolution, but was a reluctant convert.” He smiled softly. “Although he didn’t possess faith enough that God could grant him direct forgiveness for his sins, he seemed to accept that a priest would be an effective intermediary for confessing his transgressions and providing suitable penance.”
Martinez squirmed in the pew. “Father, I know all sin is equal, but are we talking venial or mortal?”
“Mortal,” the priest whispered. “I’ve never heard another confession like Calvin Whitehead’s. He was deeply disturbed by his actions, and yet he still believed that he’d done the right thing. In the early days he only hinted at his past. I kept telling him that he could not be cleansed entirely of his sin until he brought it all before God. It is only recently that he has laid bare his full confession to me.”
“If he’d been reluctant to tell you what happened for so long, Father, what brought it out of him now?”
It was Father Reeder’s turn to squirm. “Calvin’s colleagues were…,” he began. “No, that’s not right. There were several people involved in Calvin’s sin. And they were dying. Calvin himself was aging. He wanted to make a full confession before he died.”
Martinez spoke quietly. “There’s more to it, isn’t there, Father?”
The tip of Father Reeder’s tongue touched his top lip. “Yes. His friends, these other people, were not dying of natural causes. Instead, they died in accidents. The type of accidents that happen every day. But Calvin seemed convinced that they were being murdered.”
“Why?”
“He believed that the people he had wronged were seeking vengeance.”
“And he was afraid that he was next.”
Father Reeder nodded. “But I don’t think he was in his right mind.”
“Why?”
“Because the people he had wronged weren’t capable of seeking vengeance.”
Martinez nodded. “Because those people, the people he sinned against, were dead. By Calvin’s hands and those of his friends.”
The priest met Martinez’ eyes for the briefest of moments before he lifted the rosary to his lips and began to pray.
CHAPTER 77
MITCH WAITED FOR HIS computer to warm up, absently moving the coat hanger beneath the brace. Morning roll call was long over, officers spilled from the room in a rush of testosterone and off-color jokes, and Mitch breathed in the motionless air with relief.
He had been utterly exhausted when he got home last night, and not much better this morning. But the last twenty-four hours had brought him more exhilaration and satisfaction than he’d felt in weeks, so when the alarm sounded this morning, he levered himself from the bed, peg-legged it to the bathroom, and then faced a stand-off with his petite wife over breakfast.
A true Southern woman, Darla had a genteel nature wrapped around a spine of steel. She flat out refused to drive him to the office. He threatened to phone a cab. She called his bluff. He hopped to the kitchen counter and scanned the Yellow Pages. Victory within his grasp, he announced that the nearest dispatch office was over fifty miles away, and the round-trip fare would likely be as much as a car payment. The steel bent. But only so slightly and only after he promised to call if the pain in his leg didn’t subside by noon.
The last thing Mitch had done before heading home the previous night was run a search through the national crimes database to identify murders with characteristics similar to Calvin Whitehead’s. The computer clicked through the last of its starting routine and the envelope-shaped icon blinked. He opened the email program and groaned; sixty-four cases waited in his inbox.
He leaned back in his chair and pulled the hanger from beneath his brace, then clicked on the first email and started to read.
CHAPTER 78
TRUMAN BURST INTO THE evidence room with a wide grin on his face. He slid the forensics kit onto a counter and presented a fistful of fingerprint cards to Kado, then gagged. “You started on the stinky bucket without me?”
“Smear some Vick’s under your nose and take over. Do the same as with the gunk from the storeroom. Spread it over the strainer and look for unusual stuff.”
“Have you found anything?”
“Nothing relevant. Just twigs, leaves, some skin and burned clothes. Keep your eyes open for a slug, or fragments.” Kado flipped through the cards and explained about Bernie’s discovery of a bullet track through Calvin Whitehead’s left calf. “Some of these are good.”
“Thanks. I dusted everywhere you told me to.”
Kado jiggled the mouse to wake his computer and maneuvered to IAFIS, scanned three of the prints and started a search.
“Why not compare it to the other print?” Truman asked.
“It’s the same,” Kado assured him, “but this way, there’s no question about a match. Let’s get some coffee.”
In the squad room, they found Mitch hunched over a pad of paper, desk phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, scribbling notes and muttering into the handset.
The coffee was gone, so they prepared a fresh pot and were waiting for it to finish brewing when Cass and Martinez came into the room, smiles on their faces.
“What’s up?” Kado asked.
“Calvin Whitehead murdered somebody, or somebodies,” Martinez announced as Mitch rolled up in his wheelchair. “We just don’t know who. Or when. Or where.”
“The priest told you this?” Mitch asked.
“Not exactly,” Martinez answered, flashing a glance at Cass, “but he let us read between the lines.”
“I’m pretty sure Calvin Whitehead is from some little town in Alabama, so maybe he murdered someone there,” Kado announced. “We had one clean print from behind the counter in Whitehead’s Store that matched a file out there, but their forensics guy disputes it.”
“What a surprise,” Martinez muttered under his breath.
Kado bristled, but Truman spoke before he could answer. “It’s a perfect print, Carlos. The Alabama people are being difficult.”
“But to be thorough,” Kado added, “Truman picked up more prints that are almost definitely Calvin’s. I’m running them through IAFIS right now. When we get a match to that same file in Alabama, I’ll call and find out what the deal is.”
“How long will this take?” Martinez asked.
“I’ll check,” Kado said, taking a cup of coffee and heading for the squad room door.
Martinez scratched his steely crew cut. “What can we do now?”
Mitch accepted a cup of coffee from Truman. “You can talk to Emmet Hedder’s wife, Celia, about how Emmet is connected to the Franklins and Donna.”
Martinez looke
d at Cass. “Can you come with me?”
“Sure. She teaches school.”
“That should make her easy to find.” He looked at Mitch. “What are you up to?”
“Looking for crimes similar to Calvin Whitehead’s. I went back three years and got sixty-four matches. It’s slow going, but I’m working my way through them.”
“Any luck?”
“Not yet, but I’m only on number ten.”
“Why don’t you,” Truman began, lowering his voice, “ask Mojo to help. He looks a little lost.”
Mitch turned to see the officer running both hands over his bald head while staring at his computer screen. “Mojo?” he called.
Mojo shifted his gaze. “Sir?”
“You got time to help me make some calls?”
“Yes, sir,” Mojo answered. “About what?”
Mitch worked his wheelchair into a u-turn. “Meet me at my desk and I’ll explain.”
Truman followed Cass and Martinez and ducked inside the forensics room, stopping to scoop a glob of Vick’s from the jar and smear some under his nose. He listened as Kado spoke into his phone.
“Would you have him call me as soon as he gets in, please?... Yeah, that’s the number. Thanks.”
Truman slipped a rubber apron over his uniform and pulled on latex gloves, then popped the lid from the bucket on the evidence table, drawing back as the odor hit him. He caught his breath and looked inside. Thankfully, Kado had nearly completed processing it. The sludge was a smoky stale mixture of gray and black lumps and water. He scraped a ladle-full, pulling up a hunk of the semi-solid mass, then moved it to the strainer and poured. He poked at it and found a soggy piece of material. Truman used tweezers to spread it over the strainer, picking a few twigs and bits of lead from wrinkles in the cloth. Kado hung up the phone and joined Truman at the evidence table. “Bullet fragments?”
“I think so,” Truman said.
Kado examined one under the magnifying glass. “I’d guess a .22, but there’s not much to work with.” He looked at Truman. “Do you think this is how they subdued him?”
Truman plucked at the cloth. “The fragments were twisted inside this fabric with other debris from the patio. That tells me that the lead was on the ground and got washed away from the body along with all the other stuff. If the lead was already fragmented, that means they probably shot him before they hung him, while he was on the ground.”
“More torture.”
“Maybe.”
“Jesus.” Kado took a long breath and pointed at the cloth. “What is that?”
“T-shirt?”
Kado took the tweezers and examined a partially burned tag. “It’s a sheet. See that? Something about thread count.”
“But why would he have a sheet at the store? He didn’t sell that kind of stuff.”
“Grey brought his clothes over this morning. If there’s more sheet, maybe they used it to immobilize him.”
Truman placed the fragment on a clean piece of paper and teased it out. Kado settled on the other side of the table and slipped the still damp clothes from a bag. He peeled a blackened chunk away from a strip of dark leather. “Calvin’s belt, I think. Carlos said most of his work trousers were black polyester blends. This must be part of his pants.”
Truman helped Kado separate a twisted clump of sooty fabric into three distinct pieces: one was ribbed, perhaps from an undershirt; a second was smooth and thin, similar to the fabric from a dress shirt; the third was also smooth but slightly thicker. Kado laid this piece of fabric and the fragment of sheet side-by-side. “They’re probably from the same sheet, or maybe a pillowcase. And it was on his body. But why?”
“Maybe,” Truman offered, “because that’s what the Klan wears.”
“You think the Ku Klux killed him?”
“We didn’t see any evidence of his involvement in the store, and Detective Martinez didn’t find anything unusual in his house. But Whitehead had the tattoos.” Truman shrugged. “Maybe he wanted out, and the Klan didn’t want to let him go.”
CHAPTER 79
THE CABIN WAS A small building, ancient but still solid, with a tin roof and sweet water from a deep well. Once home to some great-great-uncle or another, the old man had used it decades ago to house his occasional mistresses, and now as shelter for the men he hired as crew boss. The old man found Hitch sitting on the front porch, sipping coffee, and felt relief slide deep into his bones. As he pulled the heavy pickup to a stop, the old man thought that with his weathered Marlboro-man appearance, Hitch and the cabin belonged together. “Morning, son. Have any trouble on the way back?”
“No, sir. I left the vehicle near Texarkana and hitched the rest of the way. Would you like some coffee?”
The old man eased into a rocker. “With a little cream.”
Hitch retreated into the gloomy interior and returned with two full cups. He handed one to the old man and sat on the porch’s top step, back against the rail.
“You hear about the murders?” the old man asked.
“I picked up a Forney Cater on the way in. Which one is bothering you?”
“Calvin Whitehead, the man killed at his gas station.”
“The article was brief. What happened?”
The old man told him about the hanging and burning. “Whitehead and I were colleagues of a sort. There’s a possibility that his death might be the first move against myself and my associates.” The old man watched Hitch absorb this information. He’d never known how much Hitch had gathered about the old man’s activities and The Church of the True Believer when he’d done the old man’s bidding in the past. If Hitch thought the old man’s interest in Whitehead’s death was unusual, he hid it well.
Hitch drained his cup. “What can I do for you?”
“For now, I need you back crew bossing. There’s some heifers need sorting and branding on the west property. Pick up a crew and get started. I’ll let you know if something else comes up.”
Hitch brushed off his jeans and stood, collecting the old man’s empty cup. “We’ll get it done.”
“I know you will, son,” the old man said. “And I’m glad you’re back home.”
CHAPTER 80
THE COLLECTION OF TINY blanket-draped mounds remained motionless as Celia Hedder closed the classroom door behind her.
“Any news?” she asked, gently touching the swollen area beneath her eyelids. Her lipstick was smudged and her skin had the sallow look of someone who hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before. Worry had bled all the anger from her features. Yesterday, she was furious and on the verge of divorce. Today, she was a frightened wife who wanted her husband back.
“Yes, ma’am,” Cass said, handing her a cup of coffee from The Golden Gate Café. “We know that the same person who murdered the Franklins and Donna Moore tried to kill Emmet.”
“But you don’t know who?”
“Not yet.”
Celia drew a deep breath. “What can I do to help?”
“Tell us about Emmet’s relationship with the Franklin family.”
“They were inseparable as kids. All three of them.” Her face softened. “When we got married, Emmet couldn’t decide which of the Franklin twins would be his best man, so he asked them both. After Joseph left to go up north, Moses and Emmet stayed close. They spent hours out there playing basketball with that program for at-risk kids. I guess Joseph did too, once he moved back, but I don’t think Emmet ever really reconnected with Joseph.”
“Did y’all do business with Miss Moore?”
“No.”
“Emmet wouldn’t know her socially?”
Celia gave a startled laugh. “I can’t imagine that we move in the same circles. Unless…” Her expression turned thoughtful. “Maybe she has a relative at the retirement home and Emmet met her that way.”
Cass shook her head. “She doesn’t have any living family. At least not in Arcadia.” She watched as the other woman rubbed her eyes. “Celia, where would Emmet go to hide?”
“I don’t know. I guess they could hide him out at Pecan Grove. Have you checked with Jerome?”
“We’ve asked him to contact us if he hears from Emmet. Does he have any family in the area?”
“No. He has a brother in Colorado and a sister in Atlanta.”
“Do you think he would run to them?”
She took a sip of coffee and then shook her head. “They fell out a few years ago. I haven’t been allowed to call and talk to them, or send birthday cards or Christmas presents to their kids.”
Martinez stood nearby, massive arms crossed over his chest, face set in a frown. “What happened?” he asked.
“Emmet didn’t tell me, but I heard him yelling at one of them over the phone. Something about chickenshit cowards. He hung up so hard he pulled the kitchen phone off the wall.” A light dawned in her eyes. “That’s about when he started to change.”
Cass nodded. “You mentioned that yesterday. And that he was sneaking off without saying where he was going.” She hesitated. “Was he having an affair?”
“If so, he’s found women all over the South.”
“Ma’am?”
She released a long sigh. “When Emmet started acting funny, I wondered if he was cheating. He’d call from work and tell me he was taking a short trip but wouldn’t tell me where he was going. Then he’d be home in a day or two. Once, I think he was gone for three days. I asked, but he never told me where he had been. He just clammed up. And for Emmet, that’s saying something. That man never shuts up; he even talks in his sleep.”
“You thought he was seeing someone in different locations? The same person?” Cass prompted.
She fingered the coffee cup’s lid. “An affair was the only thing that made sense. I checked the phone bill for strange numbers – nothing. I checked the internet history for porn sites, dating services, chat rooms – nothing. I even checked his clothes when he came home. No lipstick, no perfume. He must’ve rented a car for every trip because the mileage on his truck never went up more than a hundred miles. There was nothing unusual on the credit cards like hotels or restaurants, but he did take money out of the bank every time. When I got the statement, I knew where he’d gone, or at least that he’d been in that spot to withdraw money. Make sense?”
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