“The problem for me is that Ricky was a white boy, and it simply wouldn’t do for a black man to go around killing good white folks. Made me uppity—didn’t matter that Ricky was as dumb a hillbilly that ever lived. And enough of that old crew still had the juice to make trouble for a black man they never liked in the first place. Started questioning whether the shooting was justified. Lawyers had to get involved and mine negotiated me a strong settlement that guaranteed my pension plus some change. I wanted to fight, except it wasn’t the right play. Too much risk. I had to leave. Went to work for the school system. But through it all, when they kept hounding me about whether I felt guilty about shooting an unarmed man—that’s what they claimed, that Ricky was unarmed since he was only going for the gun on the ground, like they would ever dream of spewing that nonsense with a white cop and a black corpse. But through all that, I never wavered. Always gave them the same answer, ‘I feel fine.’ You know why?”
I shake my head.
“Because Ricky Rhodes was a son of a bitch that needed killing and it was either him or me.”
Only then does he glance my way—the old sage conferring his hard-earned wisdom on the younger man. Marlon pretended to be talking about himself, but he was really talking about what happened earlier in my garage. The moral of the story is absolution: Jerry Dalton was a son of a bitch that needed killing and it was either him or me. I don’t disagree, especially after what he did to Eliza. But the righteousness of the act is one thing, the hatred within me quite another. The message of grace whispers through the trees, but I sit indifferent to its pull. The wound is too fresh. I remain, as always, a work in progress.
Sophie brings me coffee in a Styrofoam cup. I’m mystified as to where she found it out in these parts at this time of night. Marlon stays seated next to me while everyone else at the scene is absorbed in murder work. He must’ve drawn the short straw of keeping me company. I don’t mind. He has a good bedside manner.
He asks, “Can I take you anywhere?”
“I need to bury my dog.”
In the distance, I see the faint outline of an old willow tree, set apart from everything else. Underneath the bending branches would make a nice resting place. Eliza liked to sit under that tree when I cut the grass this past fall, right after we moved into the place. We didn’t even make it a year together. I curse Jerry for the future he stole from me. But then I reckon the two of us are even on that score.
Marlon says, “Might be better to wait for daylight.”
“No.”
“Got any shovels?”
“In the garage.”
He gets up, and I use the solitude to wallow some more in a cauldron of rage. I see Eliza again, dead in my living room. The image is a searing iron to my sanity. I want to break something, anything. The joy of a puppy, the joy of a child, the joy of the perfect wife—all have been ripped from me in fits of violence, stolen future after stolen future.
Nasty prisoner of war camps in the past would require prisoners to spend all day digging a hole only to make the POWs fill the hole again by day’s end. The torture was a particularly pernicious form of psychological assault—to see the fruits of one’s labor vanish into the void, as if the work never existed at all. That’s how I feel. Everything I try to build turns into nothing.
I should join a monastery, the kind where the monks never speak to each other. Live out the rest of my time apart from the world, pursuing simplicity, thinking God thoughts all day. At night, my head could hit the pillow with a clear conscience. I tried to get away from everything by moving out here, but that wasn’t near far enough. Trouble found me. It always does.
Marlon returns and asks where I want to dig the grave. I indicate the willow tree. He nods, throws more wood on the fire, and walks off again. A minute later, a car maneuvers through the backyard and stops near the tree, the headlights illuminating the near-frozen ground. Marlon and J.D. pop out of the car, shovels in hand. I get up and head toward them. They start digging.
I shout, “You don’t have to do that on my account.”
They ignore me and keep at it. Given the cold, the work must be difficult. Marlon is not a young man, either.
“Guys, stop. She was my dog.”
Marlon answers, “And we’re your friends. Go to the house and think about what you want to bury her in.”
I pause but decide to let them help me. I say, “Thank you. The hole needs to be deep. There are coyotes around here.”
J.D. stiffens at the mention of the coyotes. Marlon just laughs. I grab the blanket from the chair when I pass by the fire on the way to the house.
Scott and Sophie are conferring in the kitchen when I arrive.
He asks, “How you doing?”
“I need to bury Eliza. Do you still need her?”
“No.”
A few evidence techs are packing up in the living room. Eliza remains where she was before—her mouth ajar, the tongue dangling out toward the floor. I try to picture the scene. Eliza barking her head off, and Jerry Dalton quickly silencing her, probably with that folding knife that Scott removed from him. The significance of what happened dawns on me. For the first time tonight, I realize that Eliza saved my life. That thought is too much for me, and my knees give a slight buckle. I go to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and will myself to hold it together until I’m all alone.
When I come back to the living room, the techs are gone. Only Scott is there. He asks, “Need any help?”
I shake my head and use the blanket that covered me at the fire pit as a burial shroud. I wrap her up gently before picking her up for the journey to the willow tree. My face touches her snout, much like when she would wake me up in the mornings. The rage inside of me melts into sadness, and I battle back against the tears aching to escape. Every step is brutal. Scott leads the way.
Everyone on the team stands underneath the willow, near the newly-dug hole in the ground—Marlon, J.D., Sophie. Even Taylor and Barbara, neither of whom have any business being around a crime scene. Scott joins them in their half-circle, and I realize that they are here for the funeral. This amazing act of friendship is what finally breaches the dam. I lay Eliza into the ground and break down as the arms of my team surround me in the cold, dark night.
56
I pass what little of the night that remains at Scott’s house in the city. Three fitful hours of sleep later, I start the day with a silent prayer for God and caffeine to carry me through the next few hours—my throat too dry to actually mouth the words. I stumble into the shower and don’t wait for the water to warm. The coldness supplies a blast of hard reality that sparks me back to life. When the water does get hot, I run the shower at full steam to attack the aches and pains residing in my muscles. But most of the hurt persists.
Sitting on the bed in a towel, I turn on my phone and receive an avalanche of messages in exchange for the trouble. The news must be out. I don’t even bother with the voicemails and give just a cursory glance to the texts—responding only to quell the palpable worry from Mom and Ben. I contemplate the messages from Minton and Cate but leave them unanswered for the moment. Everything else is ignored. Scott sits at a table eating toast when I walk into the kitchen. He asks, “You ready for this?”
“Have you heard back yet?”
“Yep. Just as you figured.”
I nod but already knew. The solution couldn’t be any other way.
He offers, “Coffee?”
The next good cup of coffee he makes will be the first. I counter, “Can we stop at Krispy Kreme? I want a donut, too.”
“The old one on Ponce? Doesn’t Shaq own that now?”
“That’s what I heard.”
Once we’re on the road, I text Minton that I’m all right and give him permission to now leave the Mansion. He texts right back to say that he, Susan, and Cate left two hours ago. Figures. I stare again at Cate’s text: “Chance, it’s so awful. I pray that you are okay.” I try to conjure an appropriate response but come up e
mpty. So much more needs to be said than the medium allows. I put the phone back in my pocket. We get donuts and coffee through the drive-thru. No sign of Shaq.
After making another stop, we head to the new judicial building.
***
Kenny joins Scott and me outside Warren Jackson’s former chambers. He pants in an excited voice, “You guys have been making some news. Tommy and Jerry Dalton. And we were just at the shooting range yesterday! I can’t believe it. Good thing you got your practice in.”
“I used a shotgun.”
“Good Lord! I bet that left a mark!”
Something like that.
Scott says, “Thanks for meeting us. My key stopped working on this door.”
“I believe it. Damn door is a nuisance.”
Kenny takes out a large circle of numerous keys and goes to work on the door, struggling with it just as I’ve seen Scott and Larry Miller struggle with it before.
I observe, “I thought Larry Miller was going to get this door fixed.”
“He mentioned that to me the other day and said he was waiting for you guys to be done. I guess he can hop on it now.”
“Have the other justices picked a new chief, yet?”
“Yeah, Susan Benson for the time being. I have the assignment, at least for now. Not much to it. She doesn’t even let me pick her up in the morning or take her home at the end of the day.”
No big mystery as to why. Kenny need not worry. Benson is well-guarded at night. But his devotion to duty is such that he appears upset that Benson doesn’t let him perform a big part of his job, even if it means less work for him.
He walks us in to the murder scene and asks, “Anything else I can do for you?”
The blood in the room is gone now. The court files, too. Some light packing of Jackson’s personal things is in progress.
I ask, “Who’s packing his stuff up?”
“Larry is overseeing it. Mrs. Jackson didn’t want any of it, not even the pictures. Nothing. The desk must be worth thousands. Larry thinks maybe the Chief’s alma mater might want to take the stuff. I think it’s kinda weird that she doesn’t want anything.”
Scott interjects, “She’s moved on.”
The image of Raul opening the door to Scott and me occupies my memory. I wonder if Raul is a short-timer or in it for the long haul. Warren and Beverly had no kids. A lot of money is sitting at the end of that rainbow for the guy who has the stomach for it.
I ask, “You said Larry Miller was waiting for us to wrap up the investigation before fixing the door out there but that now he can hop on it. Why did you say that?”
He looks at us confused for a second and answers, “Well, because of the Daltons. You caught them, right? I assumed they were the ones, you know.”
His head points to the Chief’s desk, where Jackson took his last breaths after being shot at close range.
“The Daltons didn’t murder Warren Jackson.”
“They didn’t? But who killed the Chief then?”
“You did.”
***
Bewilderment takes up residence on the outer rim of Kenny’s face, but his darting eyes betray his guilt. He huffs, “What are you talking about? I loved the Chief. Why would I ever do that?”
“Because of Allie.”
Allie Cummings—Kenny’s daughter. AC.
Beverly told us the first time we questioned her: “Let me tell you something about my dead husband if you haven’t figured it out already. He’ll stick his pecker into anything that moves.” Even teenagers apparently. I should’ve listened.
I also paid no heed to Allie’s name when Kenny told me her story on that first day we met. But once I remembered it on yesterday’s walk around the Beltline, the pieces fell into place. Kenny spoke to me alone about the details of Allie’s death, and I never told Scott the name of Kenny’s daughter. If I had, the investigation would’ve ended much sooner. Instead, Scott employed his detective skills to advance the case against Cate. The pieces did fit. He almost had me convinced.
I use my hand to indicate that Kenny should take a chair in front of the desk. He dutifully obeys. Scott sits next to him—a stun gun at the ready. I sit behind Jackson’s old desk but in a new chair. The previous chair—the one soaked in blood—is now in an evidence locker somewhere.
Kenny stares at me with a faraway look but persists, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Warren Jackson killed your daughter. They were having an affair. She died when your family was with the Jacksons at their lake property. She snuck out to meet him after everyone else was asleep. Something happened with your daughter’s car running into that tree, and he left her for dead.”
He slams back hard in his chair. For a second, I fear that he might tip over. He yells, “That’s not true! You’re talking crazy! Her boyfriend killed her. She was meeting him. Allie has been dead almost a year. Do you think that I would’ve kept working for the Chief all this time if he had killed Allie?”
“No, I don’t. I think you found out what he did the night that you killed him.”
The shake of his head indicates his disagreement, but the force of his protest is on the wane. He slumps down into his chair and mutters, “I didn’t do anything. Why are you guys doing this to me? I thought you were solid fellas. But you’re way wrong on this one.”
The sympathy I show him in my face is genuine. Good and bad are poor descriptions to capture the whole of what a person brings to the table. Each of us is a mess of contradictions—some positive, some negative—at war with each other in the battlegrounds of our hearts. For that reason, mercy in the form of forgiveness is the universal need of humans everywhere. And so few of us want to give it, myself most of all. The image of Jerry Dalton bleeding on my garage floor travels like a dying star through my vision. I sigh. Even him, I suppose. But while labeling someone good or bad is wrong-headed, a person does have tendencies. On the whole, Kenny tips on the good side of the scale—despite the little detail that he is a murderer.
I explain, “My guess is that the Chief Justice and your daughter met because of your work. The affair between them began sometime a little over a year ago. That’s when the Chief started using your services less and less. You told me that, remember? Jackson gave Allie a burner phone to communicate with him. We have the texts. She broke it off with him. He wanted it to go on and invited her to the lake. She didn’t want to go. You told me that, too. Eventually, she acquiesced.”
He grits his teeth and his face reddens—not in anger, but piercing pain. I remember what he told me about prodding Allie to come visit the family that weekend at Jackson’s lake house: “We pressed her pretty hard. She came but wasn’t happy about it.” The guilt he felt in the aftermath must’ve been off the scales, even more so when he later realized that he brought his daughter to the man who would be responsible for her death. I proceed.
“Jackson’s phone didn’t have Allie’s name in the contacts, only ‘AC.’ Except for one text a few weeks ago, the messages between Jackson and AC stopped last spring. Allie died last spring. I never cross-checked the dates because you weren’t even in the vicinity of my radar. Until yesterday. Then I checked. The messages stopped the day before Allie’s death. But that just confirmed what I had already figured out from the other evidence. Your daughter was Warren Jackson’s lover.”
That last bit is an attempt to get a reaction out of him, to get him talking. We would like a confession if he’s in the mood, but Kenny just squirms and stares out the window. The recorder is running just in case. I try to give him another push.
“Fast forward to the night of the murder. You took Beverly Jackson into her husband’s chambers. Twenty minutes later, you unlocked the same door for Senator Parsons. Beverly left immediately, and you followed her right out. But here’s the thing about that door—it doesn’t unlock automatically. Detective Moore and I learned that our first time in the chambers. I locked myself out, and he had to let me in. Yet both the Senator and Beve
rly later re-entered the chambers, and neither of them needed to unlock the door. Somebody had already unlocked it.”
Kenny counters, “The Senator could’ve done that himself.”
“No doubt.”
He’s itching to defend himself. That’s a good sign. I continue the story.
“I made a lot of mistakes in this investigation. One of the biggest was scratching you off the suspect list too soon. Scores of people saw you on the landing, just like you said. And no one reported seeing you leave the landing at any point.”
“That’s cause I didn’t leave,” he pleads.
“I believed that for the longest time, too. But when I started putting the details together—Kenny Cummings had a daughter named Allie, the door to the chambers was locked when Kenny let the Senator in, the door to the chambers was later unlocked after Kenny left with Beverly—I started thinking about the evidence in a different light. Then I realized there was one moment you could’ve entered the hallway to the Chief’s chambers without much notice. When Senator Parsons emerged on the other side of the floor, he drew the attention of everyone on the landing. We’re talking about someone who might be the next president, after all. That was your chance. You also knew at that point that the Senator was no longer in the Chief’s chambers. Am I getting warmer?”
He lets the question hang without an answer.
“The Senator came out onto the landing at around 7:00. You know something else that’s weird? Ten minutes later, Adam Lumpkin walked out the exact door you were supposed to be guarding, and he didn’t see you. Lumpkin had an almost photographic recall of everyone on the landing but didn’t see you at all. And you didn’t see him, either. Why’s that? Because Lumpkin entered the landing when you were in the Chief’s chambers. By the time you came back out after killing Jackson, Lumpkin had already left the landing with Senator Parsons. You never knew that he was there.”
I pause. Kenny’s back to squirming. His eyes are cast downward, the kind of look one has when trying to think of something—anything—to get out of a huge mess in a pinch. He keeps on thinking and remains silent for the moment, leaving the stage to me.
Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2) Page 26