by Joseph Flynn
“Yes, sir.”
“Chief Ketchum will investigate locally. If he determines that the killer has fled town, he will advise your office and provide you with any relevant information in his possession.”
Horgan and his underlings rose to leave, but Clay wasn’t finished.
“You never did answer my question about rifling the chief’s desk. Ron, you see if there is any evidence of an illegal search. We don’t have to worry about taking Agent Horgan’s fingerprints now. The bureau will have them on record.”
Clay looked at the special agent in charge, and his message was perfectly clear: Your ass is mine, pal, and you damn well better play ball.
“Chief,” the mayor continued, “I think you can escort these people back to their car now. Have a safe trip back to San Francisco, gentlemen.”
Ron walked the feds through the Muni Complex to their car. To that point, not a word was exchanged. But when the FBI men got inside their vehicle, Ron said, “Say hi to all my friends in your L.A. office, guys.”
When Ron turned to go, he pretended not to hear Horgan calling him an asshole.
The mayor was waiting for Ron in the chief’s office when he got back.
“You have anything important in your desk?” Clay asked.
“No. Anything important goes in my safe.”
Clay nodded and said, “I came down on those jerks about as hard as I could … but Horgan, he’s one of those sonsabitches who relishes the idea of revenge. He gets back to San Francisco, he’ll devote himself to finding a way to screw you. Don’t let him.”
“I won’t.”
“Do your best to get this bastard soon. I wasn’t kidding yesterday. I want him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And play it straight. If you find the bastard has run, call Horgan immediately.”
“I will … but I don’t think he’s left town. I’ve got the feeling he’s still right here.”
Clay agreed. “So do I.”
Chapter 9
Ron’s call to the Oakland PD was routed to a Captain Walter Nance, the officer in charge of community relations. The captain’s tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it was guarded.
“Chief Ketchum, I’m told you’re calling regarding the death of an Oakland resident in your jurisdiction. Have I got that right?”
“That’s right, Captain. Have you seen the morning paper or the television news today?”
The captain said he hadn’t, so Ron filled him in on what had happened.
“Crucified?” The revulsion in Nance’s voice was clear.
“Yes. We just learned the victim’s identity an hour ago. His name was Isaac Cardwell.”
“Oh my God!”
Ron was surprised by the depth of emotion in Nance’s voice. It wasn’t the reaction he expected from a cop, at least not one who’d likely worked the streets, at some point in his career, in a tough town like Oakland.
“Did you know him?” Ron asked.
“You are talking about Reverend Isaac Cardwell?”
“Yes.”
“He’s the pastor of Mount Olive AME Church. My church. My wife sings in the choir.”
“I’m sorry,” Ron said. He waited a moment for Nance to collect himself and then went on. “The reason I called, before I notify his family, is I wondered if you know anything about the man. Something that might help with my investigation.”
“Are you asking me if Reverend Cardwell had a criminal record?” Now Ron had the Oakland cop pissed.
“No, I know he doesn’t. I already checked him for that.”
“You sonofabitch! You’re white, aren’t you? Wait, a minute, where’d you say you’re calling from?”
Ron knew what was coming, but he didn’t hesitate with his reply.
“I didn’t. But I’m the chief in Goldstrike. Up in the Sierra.”
“Yeah, I know you. You’re Ron Ketchum from L.A.”
“That was a while ago, Captain.”
Nance snorted contemptuously.
“Captain, I don’t know what you’re experience is, but mine is that people are capable of redemption.”
“You talking about yourself?”
“No. Not right now. I was wondering if perhaps Reverend Cardwell had a troubled youth and then turned himself around. I was wondering if maybe he had a past that caught up with him yesterday. I’m trying to cover all the bases to find his killer.”
“Yeah, I bet you are.”
Ron was reaching the end of his patience — it had already been a very long morning — but he maintained a civil tone. “You want to help me, Captain, or should I speak directly to your chief? I think you know I’ll find a way to do that if have to.”
“What do you want, Chief?” Nance’s snarl made chief sound like motherfucker, but Ron had heard it before.
“I’d like you to tell me whatever you know about Reverend Cardwell.”
“I know that he was a fine man, and before that he was a fine young man. The reason you didn’t find any criminal record on him is because he wouldn’t have dreamed of committing a crime. He was raised by his grandmother, and she brought him up right. She made sure no street trash ever got near him when he was a boy. He graduated high school with honors. He went to San Francisco State on full scholarship. He was ordained a minister. He believed his special mission was serving the poor.” The way Nance rattled off the details of Isaac Cardwell’s life told Ron that the man had to be a close friend of long standing. As further proof, the anger in his voice finally yielded to a catch of sorrow. “He … he married his childhood sweetheart and they have a three year old son. He was probably the most effective community partner this department had in our fight against kids using drugs.”
Captain Walter Nance’s voice was too choked with emotion to continue.
Ron wondered if maybe Reverend Isaac Cardwell had been too effective in Oakland’s fight against drugs. Drug dealers made bad enemies. But if that were the case, why wouldn’t they just kill him at home? Maybe include his family to really make their point. But if drug thugs were behind the killing, how did Cardwell wind up nailed to a tree two hundred miles from home?
Ron didn’t think he should ask Nance.
He only said, “Thank you for your cooperation, Captain. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Ron called the Cardwell residence and spoke to a woman who identified herself as Charmaine Cardwell and said she was Isaac Cardwell’s wife. When she asked what this was all about, Ron knew she’d yet to see her husband’s picture in the media, but the way such images were endlessly repeated, he knew this was but a fleeting dispensation of grace. She’d soon see the likeness of the man she loved, the father of her child, nailed to a tree.
As it was, when Ron broke the bad news to her that her husband was dead, she responded with a sharp gasp and a shriek. He heard the phone drop and then a small child’s frightened voice joined in sympathetic lamentations. Somewhere further in the distance came an elderly female voice, this one filled with urgency, but definitely in control.
The older woman asked what was wrong and got another shriek in response. Apparently, she understood because Ron clearly heard her say, “Save us, sweet Jesus!”
He was in the awful spot of having to eavesdrop on the family’s grief. He had to ask if they wanted a local funeral home to bring the body to Oakland, once the autopsy was completed. And he wanted to ask how Reverend Cardwell came to be in Goldstrike in the first place. But he expected that someone would finally notice the phone on the floor and hang it up.
He was wrong. The older woman managed to comfort both Mrs. Cardwell and the child to the point where Ron could no longer hear them. Then she came on the line. Under control.
“This is Mahalia Cardwell,” she said. “I am Isaac Cardwell’s grandmother. To whom am I speaking?”
Ron remembered Nance telling him Cardwell had been raised by his grandmother — and that she’d been tough enough to keep the gangs at bay. Hearing her now, Ron believed it.
“T
his is Chief of Police Ronald Ketchum of Goldstrike, California. I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Cardwell.”
“Did my grandson die in your town?” she asked brusquely.
“It’s where his body was found, ma’am. Most likely, it’s also where he was killed.”
“Somebody shot Isaac?”
“No, ma’am.” Details hadn’t been necessary to ruin Charmaine Cardwell’s life, but it was clear that this woman would want them, and there was no point trying to spare her. She’d see the pictures, too. “He suffered two blows to the head, and then he was nailed to a tree.”
Ron thought he’d hear the sounds of another heart torn asunder, but all he got was silence. Again, he expected to hear the phone hung up. But a minute later the woman came back on the line, her voice, if anything, colder than before.
“You know who killed my grandson?”
Mahalia Cardwell’s tone made the question sound almost rhetorical, as if she knew who did it. But Ron didn’t feel certain enough that he’d read her right to push it. He could always come back to it later.
“No, I don’t.”
“You will find who killed my grandson?”
Ron knew better than to make promises, but he said, “Yes, ma’am, I will.”
She seemed to accept that, and replied, “We’ll leave to come get Isaac as soon as I can get Charmaine ready to drive.”
“Mrs. Cardwell, that’s not necessary. We can have your grandson returned to you.”
“We’re coming, Mr. Chief of Police,” she said vehemently.
“Very well,” Ron conceded. “Let me give you directions.”
“We know how to get there.”
She knew how to get there? He hadn’t known how to get to Goldstrike the first time he’d had to make the trip. So, how would a grandmother from inner city Oakland know how to reach a small resort town in the Sierra? He was about to ask when Mahalia Cardwell interrupted his thoughts.
“Do not give my grandson’s body to anyone else before I arrive,” she commanded.
Who’d want it, Ron wondered.
Before he could ask any of his questions, the phone was hung up.
Chapter 10
Ron found out who else would want the body ten minutes later when Sergeant Stanley knocked on his door and stepped inside. In a quiet voice, the sergeant said, “Chief, there’s someone here regarding the Cardwell case. I think you should see him.”
“Is there a reason you’re whispering, Sarge?”
“The media crowd’s gotten bigger. Annie’s taking them over to the civic auditorium. I want to give her a minute to get them out of our hair before you talk to this gentleman. I thought a little discretion might be in order. I’ve got him talking with the deputy chief in his office at the moment.”
“Okay,” Ron said, “bring him in when you’re ready.”
The sergeant slipped back out before Ron could ask who the mystery man was. So he mentally sorted through the possibilities. Goldstrike had any number of celebrity residents, though many of them were seasonal, from entertainment people to business magnates to politicians. He thought it had to be somebody with a high profile or what would be the need for the sergeant’s subterfuge?
And who among the Goldstrike glitterati would know anything about a man of the cloth who ministered to the poor in Oakland?
Sergeant Stanley returned with the man who answered the chief’s questions: the Reverend Jimmy Thunder, the most famous black televangelist in the country. His dark, handsome face, proud bearing and deep, booming voice were known to millions. Including, as the sergeant knew, the media pack that had just been shuffled off to another part of the Muni.
This morning, Thunder looked nothing like the image he projected on his weekly television show. Oh, he wore his usual conservative blue custom made suit and his hand-tooled shoes. But his hair wasn’t its usual perfect closely cropped white halo around his head. The normally taut skin of his face was deeply creased, his flashing eyes were muddied and red, and his athlete’s shoulders were slumped. Jimmy Thunder looked like he’d spent the last several hours lost in deep despair.
Deputy Chief Gosden had accompanied the reverend and Sergeant Stanley into the chief’s office. He gave Ron an inquiring look as to whether he should stay. Ron nodded.
Ron stood and said, “Thank you, Sergeant,” dismissing Stanley. He extended his hand to the televangelist. “What can I do for you, Reverend Thunder?”
“I’ve come for my son’s body.”
The implications of those six simple words hit Ron like a pile driver. If Isaac Cardwell were Jimmy Thunder’s son, the press would really go crazy. A black man is murdered — crucified — and he turns out to be the son of one of the most prominent African American religious figures in the country. Ron remembered the words he’d heard just minutes ago from Mahalia Cardwell: Sweet Jesus, save us. Then he remembered the old lady’s injunction against releasing the body to anyone but her. If there were going to be a grotesque family squabble over the remains of Isaac Cardwell, the situation would be an even worse circus.
On the other hand, Ron thought perversely, where there was family strife, a cop could often find a reason for violence and even homicide.
Ron made sure he kept all such thoughts off his face.
He gestured to a guest chair. “Please, Reverend. Have a seat.”
Thunder and Oliver sat down, as did Ron.
“Tell me, Reverend Thunder,” Ron said, “did you know your son was in town?”
“Yes. He’d been staying with me.”
Ron nodded. “Why don’t we start at the beginning?”
In the beginning, as anyone who’d read his autobiography knew, the Reverend Jimmy Thunder had been born Jimmy Leverette in East Texas. His father had abandoned his mother, his two sisters and him to run off to Shreveport with a Louisiana whore who needed a new pimp. That experience soured his mother on life in general and men in particular, including her young son, Jimmy, who bore a strong resemblance to his departed father.
Deloris Leverette raised her son to obey her every command, and her daughters to be life long virgins. Discipline was enforced with a thump to the back of the head with the family Bible. Mrs. Leverette called this “driving out the devil.” Fortunately for the children, all the family could afford was a vinyl-bound copy of the Scriptures.
Deloris also read from the Bible, and made her children read it to each other. Passages about children who didn’t honor their mother burning in hell were her particular favorites. And nobody dared tell Mama that wasn’t quite what the words on the pages said.
For all the physical and emotional battering he took, Jimmy Thunder said his childhood prepared him perfectly to excel as a football player. He was literate, tough and not afraid in the least of being hit by an opponent or yelled at by a coach.
Jimmy was also aided by a farseeing Texas high school football coach who, only twenty some years after Jackie Robinson broke the major league color barrier, figured out that he might have an advantage over the other schools on his schedule if he let a few talented colored boys play for his team. Jimmy’s coach had told the local paper he knew young Leverette was a natural athlete, just watching him walk down the school corridors. “He moves so smooth, it’s like he has roller skates on the ends of his legs instead of feet.”
Jimmy was so clearly the best athlete on his team that the coach at first wanted him to play quarterback, even at the risk of alienating the local folks who might grudgingly accept a colored boy or two on the team, but surely were not ready to have one lead the school to glory. But the coach’s new star spared him that potential problem.
He didn’t want to play quarterback, running back or receiver. He wanted to play defense. He wanted to hit somebody, as hard and often as possible. The coach knew the team’s fans could get behind that idea: having their own tough nigger keeping the opposition’s white boys from scoring. He acceded to Jimmy’s wishes.
The team never won a championship, but it did have a winning
record all three years Jimmy played varsity ball, and Jimmy took all-state honors as a defensive back who hit like a linebacker. He was given a full scholarship to Southwest Texas State.
Jimmy graduated with a degree in television arts and sciences. More important, at the time, he was drafted in the first round by the Dallas Gunslingers. He made all-pro five times, and became known as the most devastating tackler in the league. On eight separate occasions, he knocked opposing players out cold and sent them to hospitals with concussions. Two of the eight players he’d separated from their senses, with clean hits, had to retire due to the severity of their injuries.
For years, Jimmy was the toast of the town. The team paid him a small fortune, and the high rollers he met were happy to supply him with all the women, booze and cocaine he could consume. His lifestyle led to frequent run-ins with the police, but team officials and lawyers always smoothed things over before indictments could be returned. But even the team’s dedicated PR staff couldn’t keep the stories of Jimmy’s notorious behavior out of the papers and off TV.
Jimmy didn’t mind. He’d clip the newspaper stories and send them to his mother. Let’s see her drive that ol’ devil out now, he’d tell his friends with a laugh.
But Jimmy didn’t have the last laugh. Time and riotous living took their inevitable toll. In his tenth year in the league, the number of touchdown passes he gave up increased by 50% over the previous year. The next season his number of tackles fell dramatically. The year after that he’d barely made the cut from training camp.
And in the first game of his final season, a rookie halfback from Chicago flat ran over him. A picture in one of the Dallas papers showed the sonofabitch actually stepping on Jimmy’s helmet as he broke free to score the winning touchdown. The caption under the picture read: Fallen Hero.
The talk at the Gunslingers’ practice facility the week after the Chicago game was that Jimmy Leverette better show that he had something left when New York came to town next Sunday or he was gone.
Jimmy wrote frankly in his autobiography that at that time he’d never known a greater fear. In addition to the anabolic steroids that he swallowed like sugar pills, Jimmy amped himself up that week with both coke and speed. He practically lived in the team’s weight room after practice. In a scrimmage the Friday before the New York game, Jimmy knocked out both a receiver and an offensive lineman with colossal hits. He was such a madman that the coaches had to send him off the field, conceding, okay, maybe he still could play.