When the carnival closed, Andy offered to drive Kim and Brian back to their apartment. She declined his offer, but Brian asked if they could see one another again sometime. “Sure,” Andy said, “I can guarantee that.” Brian smiled, never suspecting Andy had any other motives. And Andy kept his word. Over the next few weeks he showed up more and more often at the Paul apartment. He began showering on Brian some of the attention he once showed Gabe. And by the time Ted Jackson finally got around to interviewing Brian in the presence of the boy’s mother, Andy’s efforts paid off.
Chapter 9
ABOUT THREE WEEKS after the Goat Cheese Festival, Ted Jackson called Andy and invited him to lunch. The two hadn’t talked since Ted told Andy he needed more evidence, which really didn’t fit the obsessive way my old man had approached this case. That doesn’t mean Andy let it rest. No. He was simply trying a little more subtle approach with Ted and the other detectives assigned to this case. Ted’s reaction to Andy’s news that there was an “earwitness” to the murder pretty much convinced my old man no one in the sheriff’s department wanted to do the heavy lifting in the investigation. It wasn’t enough to point them in the right direction and hope they followed the trail. Andy knew he had to drop the evidence right in their lap. Even then, they would need a little extra encouragement to even see what he’d given them.
Ted drove over to Trask and met Andy at the Bluebird Diner on Main Street. At least that’s what it’s called now. I’m not sure what they called it back then. Ted arrived first, and ended up waiting nearly fifteen minutes for Andy.
“Sorry. I got called out right before I was headed in this direction,” Andy said. That was a lie. He’d been in the back of the police station watching Bob Barker give away fabulous prizes on that day’s showcase. Making Ted wait was nothing more than a little mind game Andy decided to play with his old friend.
“That’s all right, I know how that goes,” Ted said. “So what’s good in this place these days?” He glanced at the stain-encrusted menu.
“Everything,” Andy said, laughing.
“They still have those giant tenderloin sandwiches, where the meat is three times the size of the bun?” Ted asked.
“Always. And the breading on the tenderloin is thicker than the meat itself.”
“Sounds good and healthy. Think I’ll have that.” Ted shoved the menu back behind the napkin holder.
“Mmmm, why not?” Andy motioned toward the waitress, who came over and greeted them with a big “hi, y’all” in a thick Kentucky accent. Sometimes the line between Indiana and Kentucky gets pretty blurry. Andy ordered their tenderloin sandwiches along with fries and iced teas.
After the waitress left, Ted said, “I’ve got some bad news for you, Andy.”
“That’s a hell of a lunchtime conversation starter. Really sets the old taste buds on edge.”
“Yeah, whatever. I’m serious. The case against John Phillips doesn’t look so good,” Ted said.
“What? Why?” Andy said.
“The guy’s a frickin’ Eagle Scout, that’s why. I must have talked to everybody in this dumpy little town who ever met him, and they all say the same thing.”
“Have you talked to Brian Paul, like I asked you to?” Andy asked.
Ted sighed. “Not yet. I will. I will. I promise. But I don’t know what good it will do. Everything I’ve uncovered about John Phillips says the guy would cross the street to keep from stepping on a ladybug.”
“I’m not buying that, Jax,” Andy said.
“Suit yourself. But you ought to hear the stories. Hell, I know how much time you’ve spent out at Madison Park, you’ve probably heard the stories,” Ted said.
“Like the guy whose old Pinto broke down and he didn’t have a way to work, which meant he would lose his job and his apartment, and he and his girlfriend had a baby on the way and he would have probably started selling drugs or breaking into rich people’s houses to make ends meet if John Phillips hadn’t stepped in and offered to take the guy to work every day, even though it was way out of his way and he even paid to get the guy’s car fixed? Yeah. I heard that one,” Andy said.
“And did you hear the one about the single mom that was about to get tossed out for not paying her rent, and John paid it for her?” Ted asked.
“And how he fed carnival workers. And how he volunteers in a weekend youth basketball program in inner-city Indy. And how he walks on water and leaps tall buildings with a single bound. Hell yes, I’ve heard them all. So what?” Andy said.
“So what? I’ll tell you so what. A guy who carries an old lady’s groceries in for her during a thunderstorm doesn’t exactly fit the picture of a man who could smash his son’s head in with a dresser drawer. You wanted me to investigate the case. I’ve investigated the case. I followed the evidence. And the evidence tells me this guy is not a killer,” Ted said.
“I think you’re missing the whole point, Jax,” Andy said.
“Great. The chief detective of the Trask Police Department is going to lecture me on following the evidence,” Ted said.
“Go to hell. You don’t have that much more experience than me. I could have jumped over to county the same time you did—hell, even before you did—but I chose to stay here. I chose to stay,” Andy said.
“I know, I know, I was out of line,” Ted said.
“That’s all right. But think about it, Jax. It doesn’t mean a rat’s ass how many poor, starving people John Phillips feeds or how much good work he does. The guy’s history, his own police record, shows he is prone to fits of rage where he is capable of doing anything. Anything. If his buddies in the bar in Pendleton eight years ago hadn’t pulled him off some guy back then, he would already have one murder rap, and wouldn’t have had an opportunity to commit a second,” Andy said.
“But the man has changed,” Ted protested.
“Yeah, he’s cleaned up his act. Cut out the booze. Got all religious. Gone respectable. But are you telling me that something couldn’t still set him off, something that would make him so mad that there is no limit to what he could do? The guy still has a trigger. He may have buried it pretty deep, but it is still there. If someone hit him hard enough, hurt him bad enough, they could set it off,” Andy said with a self-confidence that spoke more than his words.
“What? Do you know something you haven’t told me yet?” Ted asked, taking the bait.
“You need to talk to Loraine Phillips again. Ask her to tell you everything that happened that night.”
“I think we got a pretty full statement from her already,” Ted said.
“No. Ask her about the argument she had with John when she dropped Gabe off earlier that evening. Ask her very specifically about what she said about Gabe’s relationship to John,” Andy said.
“Andy, I’ve already told you, bitter ex-wives are capable of saying anything. You’re lucky. Your ex-wife quietly left the state and leaves you alone. We all aren’t that fortunate.”
“Ask her, Jax. I don’t care how much of a mister nice guy someone is, anyone who hears what she told him would probably lose it. The old rageaholic in him had to come storming back with a vengeance. And I do mean vengeance.”
“What did she say?” Ted asked.
“Nah, I won’t tell you. You have to ask her yourself.” The waitress placed two iced teas, two straws, and a handful of sugar packets on the table, then walked away. Andy took a long drink of his tea, without sugar. He always drank his tea without sugar, I’m not sure how he could stomach it. Then he said, “And before you go crowning John Phillips as Boy Scout of the year, you need to talk to a Miss Angela Peters.”
“Who’s that?” Ted asked.
“A hooker. At least she used to be a hooker. She’s off the streets now, thanks to John,” Andy said.
“Doesn’t that just confirm what I’ve already said about him?” Ted countered.
“Not exactly. Talk to her. Here’s her address and phone number,” Andy said as he slid a piece of paper across the table.
“She lives over on the west side of Indy now. Used to walk the streets downtown. She was one of the lost souls John brought home to save.”
“Oh, yeah, the last straw Loraine Phillips talked about in her statement,” Ted said.
“Yep. ‘The hooker was the last straw.’ That’s her,” Andy said.
Now it was Ted’s turn to ask, “So what?”
“So she was very appreciative of John’s efforts to save her,” Andy said.
“And . . .”
“And she showed it, shall we say, in ways which she’d refined during her professional career, if you catch my drift,” Andy said.
“How did you find this out?” Ted asked.
“She told me. Said she would swear to it in court.”
“Holy crap,” Ted said.
“Exactly,” Andy replied as their sandwiches arrived.
“One more thing,” Andy said.
Ted shook his head. “What now?”
“Talk to the kid Brian Paul. You have to talk to this kid.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve interrogated him already? I thought you were going to leave that to me,” Ted said as he dumped ketchup on the fries that came with his tenderloin sandwich.
“I ran into him and his mother the other day. They brought it up, not me. I told them to call you. You need to hear what this boy wants to say,” Andy said.
“Which is . . . ?”
“Three words,” Andy said, “pattern of abuse. It seems our Mr. Phillips really does lead two lives. And that second life is going to land his ass in jail for a very long time.”
“Are you sure about all of this, Andy? And if you are, why haven’t you come to me with it before now?” Ted said.
“Why do you think? I gave you a lead on a witness almost a month ago, and you haven’t done a damn thing with it yet. Yes, I’m sure. Check it out. Talk to these people, then put it together with the physical evidence you have, and tell me what you’ve got,” Andy said.
“It sounds like we would have a pretty good case,” Ted said.
Andy just smiled in response, then took a big bite of his tenderloin.
ANDY HAD ANOTHER ACE in the hole that he didn’t mention to Ted Jackson because Jackson already knew about it. Jackson just didn’t know that he knew it. And that ace was named Reginald Chambliss, the Harris County district attorney. Chambliss grew up in a tiny wide spot in the road called Silver City, in very rural Harris County. The town sounds like it ought to be out in Nevada or California or anyplace where they actually mine silver. But Silver City got its name from some guy with the last name of Silver that thought he ought to have a town named after himself. The last of the Silvers died off eons ago, and the fourteen houses, one post office, and two used-car lots that make up the town bear zero resemblance to a city, but that’s what they call the place. Chambliss grew up there, and I guess he took the jokes about his hometown pretty personally, because after graduating from Indiana University School of Law, he came back to the area determined to make a name for himself. He had that air of self-importance that made him refuse to allow anyone to call him Reggie or Reg. He was Reginald Chambliss, Esquire. Honestly, I think his entire goal in life was to see a sign go up on the way into his hometown that said: silver city, home of reginald chambliss, benevolent dictator of the world, or, at least, past governor of the great state of indiana. I guess what I’m trying to say is, the guy had political ambitions that went way beyond the Harris County District Attorney’s Office. And everybody knew it, especially every cop in the county.
There’s only one problem with political ambitions in a place like Harris County, Indiana. No one outside the county knows or cares about who runs what. Even the people living in the county don’t really care. I would say nine out of ten people who vote for any office smaller than lieutenant governor don’t have a clue about who they are voting for. They see a familiar name or party under the heading of county commissioner or cemetery board of directors, and they punch the hole next to it. Any politician who wants to expand his field of influence has to get noticed in a big way. And the best way for a district attorney to get noticed is by successfully prosecuting a case that captures the attention and imagination of those living beyond their little slice of paradise. Andy knew this case had that kind of potential. And he was right. Heck, if Geraldo had heard about it, the case might have gained national attention.
Unlike their previous meetings, Ted Jackson didn’t ignore Andy’s leads this time around. And neither did the D.A.’s office. Two weeks to the day after their lunch at the Bluebird, Andy was called in out of the field and told to report to the Trask police station. He knew something big was up when the dispatcher didn’t make that call. The big chief himself radioed Andy and asked him to come to his office. Reporting to the Trask police chief’s office isn’t nearly as big a deal as it might sound. The entire police station consists of three rooms and two holding cells (yes, just like Mayberry). The chief’s office isn’t much bigger than a converted walk-in closet.
“What’s up, Ed?” Andy asked as he tapped on the door frame of the chief’s office door. Andy was the only person on the force who called the chief by his first name. They’d known each other forever, and Andy had been on the force longer than anyone else, except for Ed Spence. Formal titles just didn’t seem to fit.
“Yeah, Andy, come on in,” Spence said. “I’ve got someone here who needs to talk to you.”
As he stepped inside, Andy was surprised to see Reginald Chambliss in the flesh sitting in the far chair in front of the chief’s desk. Chambliss stood and stuck out his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you, Officer Myers. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Andy was struck by how Chambliss appeared so much smaller than his reputation. That’s not to say he was a short man, but from all the talk Andy had heard about him, both in inner-office gossip and through the newspaper, he expected to see a combination of John Wayne and “Iron” Mike Ditka. Instead, he discovered a very average-looking lawyer, maybe five feet, ten inches tall, 170 pounds, wearing a blue off-the-rack JCPenney suit, with a yellow paisley tie and black wingtip shoes. He was hardly the overwhelming physical presence Andy expected.
“No, sir, the pleasure is all mine,” Andy said as he shook his hand.
“Sit down, sit down, both of you,” Chief Spence said. Turning to Andy, he said, “Mr. Chambliss and I have been discussing that incident out at Madison Park a couple of months ago. He tells me that the sheriff’s department nearly dropped the ball on it, that they were ready to dismiss it as an accident and let it go at that, but you wouldn’t let it go. He said you suspected something more and you kept digging until you found—”
Chambliss interrupted. He wasn’t the kind of man who could allow a conversation to drag on very long without contributing to it. “That’s right, Officer Myers. I’ve spent a lot of time with Ted Jackson the past couple of weeks and he brought me up to date on both the evidence and the testimony he has uncovered thus far. Good man, that Jackson. Gave you most of the credit for the leads he’s been following.”
“Ted’s a good guy,” Andy said. “He and I started on the force right here in Trask together an eternity ago.”
“That’s what he said,” Chambliss said. “Now listen, Andy, I don’t have a lot of time so I’m going to cut right to the chase. I’m ready to issue an arrest warrant for John Phillips for murder one. I don’t even think this one will be close. The real kicker came yesterday. I listened in as Ted questioned that boy from next door, what’s his name?”
“Brian Paul,” Andy said.
“Yeah, that’s it, Brian. He’s a brave little boy. My heart went out to him. Can you imagine it, watching his best friend being murdered by his friend’s own father? I was a little skeptical about how much he would be able to see through that hole he said he and the Phillips boy had bored through the wall between their closets. Then I looked through it myself this morning . . .” Chambliss shook his head in disbelief. “Open-and-shut case, I would say. If the gu
y’s smart, he will plead out. If he doesn’t, I plan on going after a death sentence.”
“We’ve never had anything like that around here,” Chief Spence said. “Hell, this is our first murder in nearly fifty years.”
“I hope it’s another fifty years before you have another one,” the D.A. said.
“Amen to that,” the chief replied. These two guys had political schmoozing down to an art form.
“Anyway, Officer Myers, I just stopped by on my way back to the office to thank you for your diligence in this case.” The D.A. stood to leave. “Oh, and I almost forgot. Since Phillips lives over in Crosse in the next county, the state police will have to be present for the arrest after the warrants have been issued. How would you like to be there when they bring him in? I can probably arrange that for you.”
“I would like that very much,” Andy said. “All I’ve ever wanted was justice for Gabriel Phillips. I want to be there when it happens.”
“An arrest is a long way from a conviction,” the D.A. said, “but I’ll make sure you’re there. The warrant should be issued by tomorrow morning, and I’d like to bring him in sometime early in the afternoon.” Turning to the chief, he said, “You think you can live without Officer Myers here tomorrow afternoon, say between noon and three?” The times didn’t surprise Andy. If you wanted a story to get maximum exposure on the local television newscasts, you planned it for early afternoon. That way, the news crews could get their videotapes back to the station for editing in time for the six o’clock news. If the story broke much earlier, it might get buried on the noon news with the farm reports and all the other excitement of the morning. Much later, and it wouldn’t air until the late news after half the voters had gone to bed. For a guy from a nothing little town in the middle of nowhere, Chambliss had pretty good media savvy.
The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips Page 10