The Significant Seven

by John McEvoy

  Orth wore old blue jeans, a gray cut-off sweat shirt, Chicago Cub ball cap, Western boots into one of which he’d tucked his sheathed combat knife. “Hola,” he said to the woman running the tamale stand on the roadway two barns down from Tenuta’s as he strode past. She smiled back at him. “Buenas tardes, Señor.”

  Doyle was locking Tenuta’s office door when he heard a deep voice say, “Hey, Doyle.” He turned around.

  “Yeah?”

  “Has Tenuta got any job openings here?” Doyle watched the easy, confident stride of the tall, fit-looking man as he approached.

  “Sorry, buddy. There’s hardly ever a vacancy in his work force. Tenuta’s too good a boss for that. Do you groom? I could give you a couple of the names of trainers who might be looking to hire help. Why don’t you come around tomorrow morning after I ask around.”

  Doyle put the door key in his pants pocket, then stopped. “How do you know my name? And what’s yours?”

  The man shook his head as he closed in on Doyle. “I’m not waiting till tomorrow morning, Doyle. My business is with you, right here, right now.” He yanked his knife out of the boot in a movement so swift Doyle hardly tracked it. Doyle stepped back. Thinking, I don’t believe I can outrun this mean-looking son of a bitch, whatever his name is. Doyle’s usually effective left hook would not match up against the weapon in this man’s right hand.

  Doyle kept retreating, slowly, hands up in front of him. He said, “What is this?

  “You want money, take my wallet.” He reached behind him, not for his wallet pocket. He doubted it was robbery that had sent this man here. Doyle’s left hand landed on a stall door handle. He pulled it. The door swung open and Doyle ducked into the stall, reaching back to slam shut the door.

  The intruder braced one large, strong hand against the swinging door, stopped it, and pushed it back against Doyle. With his two hands on the door, Doyle could hold the man out. But only by staying within the range of the knife. Doyle jumped back toward the rear of the dark stall, brushing against the legs of a large, irritated thoroughbred.

  Doyle kept his eyes on the man. Doyle’s right shoulder brushed against the agitated horse’s left side. The horse shifted his big butt and lashed out with a powerfully driven left hind foot that narrowly missed Doyle’s right shoulder, resounding when it thumped against the stall wall. Doyle dropped down in the straw and scuttled to the stall’s darkest rear corner. Christ, Doyle thought, it’s Editorialist. I’m in that crazy bastard’s stall. He’s liable to kick the shit out of me before whoever the hell is over there with the knife gets his chance to slice.

  Orth removed a small flashlight out of his pocket and aimed it first at Editorialist, then at Doyle. The horse threw his head up and away from the light. Doyle put his hand over his eyes. “Turn that thing off,” he said.

  “Then come out of there. I just want to talk to you.”

  “You always launch your conversations waving a knife around? Fuck you, pal.” He paused. “And what would we talk about?” Doyle thought if he could prolong this discouraging-looking encounter, the night security guard might arrive for duty and see what was happening. Then he remembered that the night’s assigned watchman was Tony LaVine. Oh, Christ.

  Orth, no trace of irony in his matter-of-fact voice, said, “What will we talk about? We’ll talk about death. Yours.” He slid sideways through the stall door.

  Editorialist lashed out again with a back foot. Orth, startled, aimed his light upward. Editorialist’s eyes rolled in his upraised head. This horse is either terrified or pissed, Doyle thought. God help me, whichever it is.

  The increasingly loud sounds emanating from Editorialist brought a wave of response from his nearby stablemates. Snorts, loud whinnies, feet scraping nervously on stall floors. None of this racket attracted any help for Doyle, who felt in his jacket pocket for his cell phone. The stranger quickly leaned forward delivered a karate kick that knocked the phone out of Doyle’s hand. He spotted it on the stall floor and kicked it out the way.

  The man now in the stall said, “I wouldn’t want to slash this horse’s jugular, Doyle. But if you don’t come out of there, I sure as hell will.”

  “What is this bullshit? You with PETA? Spare the horse and carve up Doyle? Go to hell.”

  Orth slowly moved farther into the stall. Doyle ducked to the other rear corner of the twelve by eighteen foot box, putting Editorialist between him and his attacker. When the flashlight came on again and found Editorialist’s eyes, the horse freaked. He reared up so violently Doyle thought his head might hit the stall ceiling. Editorialist made a screaming noise and brought his front legs down, his left front hoof crashing onto Orth’s right shoulder with a cracking sound. Orth grunted loudly. Dropped his knife. Grabbed for his damaged shoulder with his left hand. He sank into a pile of straw near the stall door, on his back, writhing. Doyle heard him mutter, “Oh….man.”

  Doyle thought about making a grab for the knife. Editorialist changed Doyle’s mind. He unleashed another vicious backward kick that scraped the air over Doyle’s lowered head. Then Editorialist was back up on his hind legs, frightened and furious. His front hooves pawed high up in the evening air. When they came down and landed again, they produced a sound Doyle would never forget. Orth’s face was smashed apart by the aluminum shoes of the enraged animal. He would never answer Doyle’s question of Who the hell sent you after me, mister?

  Doyle crept to the front of the stall and got to his feet, keeping a wary eye on Editorialist. He picked up Orth by his ankles, swiveled the body, and dragged it out of the stall onto the dirt pathway, followed by the smell of blood and horse sweat and fear. The killer horse turned around and moved to the rear of his stall, facing out the screened back window. Editorialist’s nostrils flared as he shuffled his back feet, sending up little clods of straw.

  Doyle, drained, leaned back against the stable wall and reached into his jacket for his cell phone to call track Security. His shirt was wet with sweat. Then he remembered he’d dropped his phone in the stall. He crept back in and found it in a near corner.

  Back outside, Doyle glanced at the corpse’s hideously destroyed face and splintered shoulder before quickly looking away. He heard a cell phone ring. Not his. Trying to ignore the man’s gory features, Doyle bent down and patted his pockets. He found the cell phone in the left back pocket of the man’s jeans.

  Flipping open the phone, Doyle saw the caller’s name. Stunned, he took a breath before hitting “Talk” and saying, softly, “Yes? What is it?”

  There was a brief intake of breath on the other end of the line before the connection was abruptly ended.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  August 28, 2009

  Doyle secured the lock on the stall door of the still excited Editorialist, then leaned back against the barn wall. He was breathing hard. There was a trail of blood where he had pulled the corpse out of the stall. Doyle looked away, trying not to retch. The man’s face had been pounded so hard by the horse’s hooves as to be unrecognizable as anything once even remotely human.

  He spotted the knife that had fallen from the attacker’s hand. Doyle used his handkerchief to pick up the weapon by the handle and place it on the ground next to the body. It was a weapon obviously designed to rip through tissue and organs and bones. “You got what you deserved, you bastard,” Doyle snarled.

  Track security people arrived within minutes after Doyle called them. An ambulance soon followed, then township police. Doyle answered questions for nearly three hours before he was allowed to phone the incredulous Tenuta to inform him about what had taken place at his barn.

  “Who was the guy Editorialist killed?” Tenuta said. “What was he doing there?”

  “I can’t answer the first question, Ralph, but I think I know the answer to the second one. I’ll tell you later. I can’t talk about all that right now. Whoever he is, this guy will be identified pretty quick I would think. DNA, fingerprints, they’ll find out who he is.
Was.”

  Finally excused by the lead detective, Doyle got into his Accord and drove out of the racetrack. On Willow Road heading east, he used the speed dial on his cell phone to reach the sleepy but soon instantly alert Damon Tirabassi—instantly alert after he’d heard what Doyle had to say.

  ***

  Engel and Tirabassi were waiting for him when Doyle reached his condo building. The three of them rode the elevator in silence after Doyle said, “Wait until we get upstairs. I’ve got to change my clothes.” There were blood spatters on the cuffs of his khakis. “Karen,” he said, “would you please make some coffee? I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  Showered and dressed in clean clothes, Doyle picked up a cup of the coffee from the living room table. “Thanks, Karen.” He opened a sideboard and took out a bottle of Bushmills. “I’m having a taste. You two? No, of course not, you’re on duty.”

  Tirabassi said, “Jack, let’s get to it. It’s after midnight. We know what happened out there at Heartland Downs. I called the track security chief right after I talked to you. So you were approached by a man, carrying a knife, and he somehow got killed by a horse. Who do you think this guy was?”

  “Like I told the cops at the track, I’m sure when they run this guy’s prints they’ll find him. He’s either ex-military, or ex-con. Probably the former. He had that look about him. He told me he came there to kill me. He was very cool, scary cool. Like he’d done this before. What saved me, thank God, was that he didn’t know anything about horses. Or, at least, a horse like Editorialist.”

  “Why would this man want to kill you?” Karen said. “Is this connected to the spongings?”

  Doyle muttered, “I wish it were.”

  “What?” Tirabassi barked.

  Doyle sat back in his chair. He felt drained. “First, the good news, folks. The sponging at Heartland Downs is over. Kaput. Finito.”

  “What do you mean, Jack?”

  “Just what I said, Karen. I’ve taken care of that matter. The person, the people involved in the spongings are out of business.”

  Tirabassi put his head in his hands before asking, “Did you kill anybody, Jack? That you won’t tell us about?” He got up from the couch and walked over to a window. “What next?” he said.

  “What next? What kind of crack is that, Damon? I haven’t killed anybody. At least not since that meth freak at Monee Park, which was done in self-defense. But I almost got killed earlier tonight when I was again aiding you people. Almost like what happened in Kentucky, when I was helping you out down there to nail the insurance thief. That, of course, was involuntary. This sponging business is completely voluntary. And you’re looking at me like maybe I screwed up?”

  He replenished his Irish coffee, took a deep breath, sat back. “Hey, haven’t I always been straight with you? Rhetorical question,” he smiled, and Karen smiled back. “Damn right I have. So, you can take it to the bank, the sponger is done.”

  Tirabassi said, “Jack, come on. Who is the sponger? We need an arrest. We need a name.”

  “You’re not getting one from me. And that is fucking that.”

  Karen, not smiling now, face flushed, said, “You’re setting yourself up as the presiding officer, judge, in this case? You’ve made a unilateral decision to shield somebody you know is guilty of a federal crime? This isn’t going to fly, Jack.”

  “Try to shoot it down, then.” He was as angry as she was. “You two have a water-boarding kit down there in that crappy car you drive? Bring it on up!”

  Karen slammed her notebook and pen down on the table.

  “Jack, I’ve heard about loose horses, but you are way out of any herd I could imagine. Why won’t you identify the sponger? Why didn’t you call us right away from the track when your attacker died? For all we’ve done for you…” She got to her feet. “I’m going to the washroom,” she said, “before I do something rash.”

  Karen started down the hallway, then came back. “Have you thought about the $50,000 reward for the sponger, Jack? It could be yours.”

  Doyle shrugged. “What’s fifty grand to a man of my unlimited potential?”

  Karen glared at Doyle and slammed her hand against the wall before stalking off. Even usually dour Damon smiled at that crack of Doyle’s.

  Doyle and Tirabassi avoided looking at each other while they waited for her. When Karen was again seated, Doyle said, “Hear this. If you two will go along with me on the sponger, I’ll give you the chance to crack six murder cases. Six of The Significant Seven horse owners. Can you wrap your heads around that?

  “Two days ago, I went to see Mike Barnhill’s widow Peggy. I called ahead and said I was a good guy. Helping the FBI on a racetrack project. I told her she could call either of you because I knew you would vouch for me.”

  Karen said, “She never called me.” Damon also shook his head. “But,” Karen said, “I’ll bet you talked yourself in anyway. Why didn’t you tell us what you were planning? The way we’ve worked together, Jack, there’s no need for you to be so secretive.”

  “Hah! Me, secretive? Compared to you? You Bureau people being secretive is like, what is the old saying, ‘bringing coals to Newcastle?’” Doyle paused before adding “foals to Newmarket…Jazz to Newport…Bigots to a Klan Klonklave.”

  “Cut it out, Jack,” Tirabassi said. “That’s enough of that. The Irish coffee must be getting to you. Get serious, damn it. Tell us what happened with Mrs. Barnhill.”

  “She said for me to come out to her home the next afternoon. I did. When I got there, she looked like she was still under the influence of those numbing drugs their physicians make available to spouses of the recently deceased. I’ve seen a few new widows at their husbands’ wakes, and they all look half-stoned. So what, if it helps them?

  “Mrs. Barnhill went on and on about how gracious the other widows of The Significant Seven had been. Bringing food to her house, flowers to the funeral home, comfort on the phone. Mrs. Barnhill was also very impressed with Renee Rison’s solicitude, although Renee is not a widow.”

  Karen said, “Jack, you’re rambling. Get to it, please.”

  “Peggy Barnhill still can’t quite come to grips with what she refers to as ‘Mike’s accident.’ I didn’t want to disabuse her of that notion. I didn’t want to tell her, at this time, that I think Mike was murdered. That I think the other members of The Significant Seven now in the ground were also murder victims. I couldn’t bring myself to mention that possibility. But Peggy brought it up herself. ‘These six hearty, healthy, happy men all dying over the course of one summer? How can that be?” she asked me. “Was somebody killing them?”

  “I told Peggy Barnhill I thought that was a good question. That’s when I asked to see The Significant Seven’s ownership contract. She said she’d only recently gotten a copy. A Chicago attorney named Frank Cohan had written it. It was signed by all seven men and notarized.”

  Doyle poured another half cup of coffee, leaving out the Bushmills. “When I got to the final paragraph of the contract, I understood what was going on. I don’t know if lawyer Cohan was in a hurry when he he wrote it, or what. And I guess the trusting partners didn’t question his work. But there was, I’m assuming unintentionally, a loophole you could drive a Brink’s truck through. And somebody spotted that. And acted to exploit it.”

  Tirabassi leaned forward. “In what way, Jack?”

  “I’m going to have to look at my notes for this. Wait.” He took his notebook out of his jacket pocket.

  “The contract states that the heir or heirs or heiresses of the last surviving member of The Significant Seven shall ‘Devote proceeds from the stallion career of The Badger Express and other profits from the racing stable, if any, to the creation, financing, and administration of a retirement farm for racehorses.’”

  The agents looked at each other, puzzled. “So?” Tirabassi said.

  “So,” Doyle replied, “it says proceeds. Not all proceeds. Frank Cohan, or hi
s typist, left out the all. Big mistake. And none of The Significant Seven caught that omission. But somebody else did. Actually, that may have been the reason for Judge Toomey being the first to die. The fear that maybe Toomey, an attorney, might some day review, amend, and correct the language by adding the all. I think that’s what led to Toomey dying first.And what led to the rest of the six deaths.

  “The trustee,” Doyle continued, “under the terms of this contract, would be free to use some, not all, of the proceeds to fund the horse retirement plan. That trustee, of course, will be Renee Rison, little Miss Bereavement. Once her father dies, which could be any hour now, she’s going to be in complete control of a revenue stream measuring in the millions. Even if The Badger Express were to keel over tomorrow, he’s insured for $20 million. With the trust as the beneficiary of that policy, and her soon to be in control of the trust, devious little Renee could easily set aside a million bucks or so for the care and keeping of several dozen old racetrack warriors, just to make it look good, and use the considerable rest for herself.

  “I do not believe that that is what The Significant Seven had in mind,” Doyle said.

  There was a brief silence before Karen said, “Are you saying Renee Rison killed all those men?”

  “No. But Renee Rison is cunning enough to find people to do that kind of work for her. Then she winds up with all the money. I asked her some questions about the partnership deal when we were at Ravinia. She brushed me off. Talked just about her Dad’s impending demise. She must have gotten worried about what I might suspect or discover. She decided that I was a threat to her plan. I’m sure she sent the man with the knife to the barn to kill me.”

  Tirabassi said, “How can you tie Renee and the dead man together?”

  “By cell phone. When the dead man’s cell phone rang, I picked it up. The caller ID said Renee Rison. She must have realized I was not the man she was calling. She hung up without saying anything.”