Chasing the Captain

by Terry Shepherd

  “Presumed deceased, Warden,” Attorney Morris said. “This will be the first execution in Tennessee history where no body was ever found.”

  This stunned Jess. She knew of no case in modern times where a man was condemned to death without a body. She compartmentalized the thought.

  Keep quiet, Jess. This isn’t your battle to fight.

  Mrs. Yates lit up.

  “Many witnesses saw that man push my daughter to her death, Mr. Morris. I’m glad I can watch him pay for his crime.”

  The warden ignored her.

  “I’ll ask you all for silence during the proceedings, ladies and gentlemen. Officer Hanks is here to ensure that we all maintain decorum. The courts have spoken. They have approved you as witnesses to the execution. Our job is to carry out the sentence.”

  Tony Eldridge made a note of the quote. Jess knew it would be the “money line” in tomorrow’s paper. She gave the reporter a nod of recognition, a silent thank-you for a Dropbox full of research on the Culpado case Eldridge had quietly shared with her weeks earlier.

  The room stank of sweat and stale cologne. A lingering bouquet of puke added another uncomfortable layer of complexity to the air.

  This was not a place where one came to be entertained.

  The blinds rose. Vincent Culpado’s eyes met Jessica’s.

  He was hyperventilating. A small speaker in the room crackled to life, and the witnesses could hear the voice of a guard.

  “Vincent Raymond Culpado, you have been tried and convicted of the murder of Marie Yates-Culpado and sentenced to death by electrocution. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  The guard asked the prisoner if he had any last words.

  “I have made many mistakes in my life. But I did not kill my wife. God, forgive me for my sins. I surrender myself to His will.”

  There was one last inspection of the chair and the terrified life form bound in its deadly embrace.

  Then, Vincent Culpado sat alone, facing those whose lives were so profoundly affected by the turn of events that brought everyone to this moment.

  His eyes never left Jess’s. She couldn’t bring herself to look away.

  Culpado’s features morphed into a familiar face. Jess saw her own father sitting in that chair. How could that be? He died when the assassin destroyed the Ramirez family home. Was the post-traumatic stress of losing the one person Jess could never please, the one person whose life she could not save finally forcing its way into her consciousness?

  She cursed Vega, the woman Jess battled to the death in the Colorado River. And she cursed the man they called “The Captain,” the one who remained a mystery; the one who got away.

  Jess thought about the vow she made on the day her family finally buried its patriarch.

  Whatever happens, I will bring The Captain to justice.

  The warden nodded. Somewhere, behind a two-way mirror at the edge of the death chamber, the anonymous cop who had drawn the short straw threw the switch.

  The witnesses could hear the dynamos spin and vicariously felt the twin bolts of lightning that contracted every muscle in the prisoner’s body at the same time.

  Blood ran freely from Culpado’s nostrils, darkening the stark-white prison jumpsuit in an ever-expanding scarlet stain. His body convulsed up and down like one large ice cube in a cocktail shaker. Small, gray, curling strands of smoke floated from beneath his headgear.

  In her peripheral vision, Jess saw Mrs. Yates’s face contort into terror. Despite the warden’s warning, she screamed.

  The tiny pulses of electricity that fired the synapses in his brain amplified into infinity, erasing every memory, every emotion, every sign that a person named Vincent Raymond Culpado had ever existed.

  7

  He’s Dead

  “He’s dead.”

  With two words, the doctor removed the stethoscope from the prisoner’s chest. A guard lowered the blinds.

  Mrs. Yates sobbed silently. Her husband held her hand. Officer Hanks was as stoic as Jess expected. The warden was nowhere to be found.

  Culpado’s lawyer put a hand on Jess’s shoulder. “Are you all right, Detective?”

  Cops are well inoculated against the stresses of police work. But Jess still couldn’t hide a shudder. The attorney must have seen it.

  His voice was kind. But she could sense a hint of revulsion in its timbre. “I’ve witnessed a dozen of these in my lifetime. You never get used to it.”

  Her own voice was calm. “Thanks. How do I get the hell out of this place?”

  Jess silently cursed her chief and his sycophants, who had done everything they could to drum her out of the force over the last decade.

  Damn you, testosterone simians. Time is relegating your attitudes to the anachronisms they always were. You can try to demoralize me, but you will never break me!

  She left the viewing area, another layer of post-traumatic stress grotesquely welded into the searing tapestry of battle scars she knew would never fully heal.

  8

  The Man in the Limo

  It’s a common saying in the profession. “How I wish I could un-see what I’ve seen.”

  Detective Jessica Ramirez couldn’t get the picture of Vincent Culpado’s writhing body, her father’s writhing body, out of her mind. Somehow, he maintained eye contact until the last second, perhaps trying to transmit some final message.

  What was it?

  That a jury sentenced him to death without finding a body didn’t sit well. When Jess got into a mood like this, trouble almost always ensued.

  She expected a taxi to collect her outside of the prison. The uniformed chauffeur beckoning her into the back seat of a black limousine was a surprise. He bowed. “A courtesy for the Detective.”

  Jess hesitated. At no time during this experience had anyone treated her with even a modicum of respect, let alone a shiny Lincoln.

  “It’s all right, Detective Ramirez,” a deep voice said from the dark depths of the limousine. “The Warden approves.”

  Jess’ training could decipher height and weight, even when the body was partially obscured by darkness and bent into a sitting position.

  He was 5’9”, around 200 pounds that Jess imagined was once prime beef. He had black hair with silver roots that belied the bottle it came from. Sagging flesh surrounded brown eyes. He was a high-mileage model. She guessed late 50s to early 60s. A perfectly tailored Brioni Vanquish suit with a neatly folded handkerchief and matching silk tie around the neck of a red and white striped silk shirt enhanced his features. A Rolex watch gleamed on his left wrist. A diamond onyx ring bulged on his right finger. Jess could hear a hint of New York in his accent.

  “I’m Jack Crawford. Vince Culpado was my friend.”

  Jess’s every sense was on high alert. She felt for the comfort of her service weapon. “Are you taking me to the airport?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Vince’s attorney told me you were here, and I wanted a few minutes to speak with you, alone.”

  Jess’s eyes focused on the road ahead. The airport signs flashing by on the side of the interstate were a small consolation. “Mr. Culpado didn’t seem to have many friends, Mr. Crawford.”

  “Call me Jack.”

  “Your name didn’t pop up in any of the court documents I read, Jack.”

  “That’s because someone in power wanted it that way.”

  Jess’s stress level went down a notch. She was interested but still cautious. This guy came out of nowhere. That’s usually how the danger you don’t see appears.

  “Yes, Detective. We’ll be at the airport soon, so I’ll come straight to the point. I was the one who saw Marie with another man, and I told Vince about it. His attorney tried to get that into the record, but the DA convinced the court that I was a tainted witness.”

  “Why would he want to do that, Jack?”

  “Like I said, Vincent Culpado was my friend.”

  “And why are you talking to me?”

  “I want to hire you to investi
gate his murder.”

  If she were back home, she would have called for backup. The chauffeur kept his eyes on the road. Crawford did not appear to be armed. Jess kept her voice under control. “They executed your friend for killing his wife, Jack. Several layers of jurisprudence agreed he was guilty. What’s to investigate?”

  “Oh, the state may have pulled the switch, Detective, but Marie Yates made it happen.”

  “You seem to imply that Mrs. Culpado is still alive.”

  “I believe she is. And I want you to find her.”

  In the back of Jess’s brain, a flash of insight began to emerge. “Trust your hunches,” Ali always said. Was her sixth sense that Culpado was wrongly convicted on the money?

  No, Jess. Not now. Think about this at the airport.

  “I have a job, Jack. I’m a sworn peace officer in the State of Illinois. I’m already way outside of my jurisdiction, and there are a dozen reasons why it would be inappropriate for me to be a private investigator on a case where I was the cop who made the arrest.”

  Crawford glanced at his watch. He waved a hand at the driver to pick up the pace.

  “I know a few things about you, Detective. I know you believe in fair play. I know you sometimes color outside the lines. And I believe that, like me, this mess is eating away at your insides. You won’t be sleeping well until you have a better sense of whether the man you saw electrocuted tonight really deserved to die. Nobody can tell you what to do on your own time. I’m just offering to pay your expenses and add to your retirement fund.”

  Crawford had her nailed. Somehow, he knew her story. Was it another of Chief O’Brien’s sick attempts to trap her? “What’s your interest, Jack? Why is this so important?”

  “Vince helped me get started in the business. While he did okay, I did very well. I owe my fortune to Vince Culpado. And I owe it to him as a friend to avenge his murder.”

  Not with me, you don’t. I have a job to do and my own father’s murder to avenge. Engaging outside of my jurisdiction nearly got me killed. I’m going home to get some sleep and think things through.

  “I’m not your girl, Jack. This is just another chapter that will populate the nightmares I already have. It sounds like you can hire the best of the best to chase this goose. I suggest you set a higher standard. If you need some recommendations, I know a few people.”

  “I already know who I want, and I’m looking at her,” Crawford said. He pressed a business card into Jess’s hand. “Think about it and call my cell if you decide you are interested. I have friends in high places who can smooth any bumps in the road you may have back in Illinois, and if you won’t take my money, perhaps I can return the favor in another way.”

  Jess didn’t like the sound of that at all. Her face must have telegraphed it because Crawford softened.

  “Look, Detective, I’m nobody special. I just have the knack for building mutually beneficial relationships. And my business throws off enough cash flow that I can pursue whatever interests me. Right now, I’m deeply interested in finding out if Marie Yates-Culpado is alive. If she is, there has been a grave miscarriage of justice. That’s a wrong that you, of all people, would want to see put right. If you see a thread I could follow, call me. And if you decide to chase this goose, I promise to make it worth your while, whatever the ultimate outcome might be.”

  The limo pulled up to BNA Departures with time to spare. The chauffeur opened the door.

  “It’s too bad you couldn’t press the DA with the same intensity you’ve been pressing me, Jack. Mr. Culpado’s death bothers me, too. But my life and work are back in Illinois, and that’s where I’m headed.”

  Crawford smiled. “You’re a good person, Detective. And I know you’ve worked off the clock and out of your jurisdiction before. Give it some thought.”

  How did Jack Crawford know that?

  The door closed, and the limo glided away into the night. Jess had maybe another thirty minutes to put the man in the Brioni suit out of her mind and scan Dropbox for the flurry of documents that the reporter Eldridge shared.

  There was nothing mentioned about this so-called best friend anywhere.

  But in the middle of the sea of notes, there was an interesting name. Liyanna Evans. And an international phone number she didn’t recognize.

  It was just one sentence, an afterthought, out of context. In Jess’s experience, that was often where you find the most interesting information. She called the number, and a woman answered.

  “Liyanna Evans.”

  “Ms. Evans? I’m Jessica Ramirez. I’m a detective with the Paloma, Illinois Police Department and have a crazy question for you.”

  The voice on the other end was a mixture of Scottish brogue and a language Jess couldn’t place. “We’re sisters in the craft, Detective Ramirez. I’m a Detective Inspector with Metropolitan Police in London. They call us ‘DI’s over here. Always glad to help a colleague.”

  “I have notes here from a newspaper reporter in Nashville, Tennessee, that tell me you think you saw a Marie Culpado in your neck of the woods, perhaps a decade ago. I know it’s a long shot, but do you remember anything about it?”

  There was a protected silence on the other end of the line. Jess could feel DI Evans flipping through her memory banks.

  “Yeah. I remember. The murder story was a bit of a sensation over here, and her picture was fodder for Fleet Street. I could swear I saw her double boarding the tube at The Strand. Nobody on your side of the pond seemed to care.”

  Jess couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “I’m not surprised. Not to get too graphic, DI Evans, but I just saw her husband fry for murder, and my cop sense is telling me the whole thing stinks. Did you dig any deeper?”

  “That was ten years ago. I’m surprised I remember as much as I told you.”

  The gate agent was calling Jess’s flight.

  “Well, I had to ask. Sorry to bother you. If you think of anything else, can you save my cell number and call me?”

  Jess imagined her colleague making a note of the Caller ID.

  “Glad to. And my friends call me Lee.”

  “Thanks very much, Lee. I’m Jess. If I ever get to London, I’ll buy you a Guinness.”

  “Stay safe, sister. And Cheerio, as we say.”

  Nothing about this case felt right. Jess’s conventional cop instincts were screaming to stay as far away from Jack Crawford and the whole Culpado mess as she could.

  She saved DI Evan’s number to her contact list and boarded the plane. Jess’s cop sense whispered that this wasn’t the last time the name Vincent Culpado would cross her lips.

  9

  London - Detective Inspector Liyanna Evans

  Detective Inspector Liyanna Evans couldn’t remember what triggered her to chase down the backstory for Marie Culpado. Maybe it was the serendipity of reading about it in the tabloids. They plastered Marie’s picture across page three. Of course, the rag made it more lurid than it turned out to be.

  Until she received Jessica Ramirez’s cryptic phone call, the London-based detective inspector had nearly forgotten about the body double she had noticed dashing into the carriage at the Strand Tube Station.

  It was a story she had never shared with her Met colleagues. All new police constables struggle for credibility with their counterparts. Telling one of them she thought she had seen the supposedly dead American splashed across the tabloids was fodder for ridicule.

  The one person she trusted was her partner, PC Zoe Doyle.

  “You’re half South African Zulu, half Scottish and a female,” Zoe told her as they scanned the football jerseys on break at the Granberry’s department store. “You had three strikes against you from day one.”

  Lee chuckled. “That’s how I play cricket. This one looks like it will fit ya, Zoe.”

  She handed PC Doyle an Arsenal jersey, knowing that her partner was a Manchester United fan.

  Zoe didn’t say that Lee’s same-sex preference was also a landmine. There were still many
older cops who thought being gay was a step beyond the famous UK reserve.

  “You know my ‘team’ preference, mate,” Zoe said, tossing the shirt back into the bin and grabbing a Manchester United jersey. “And you’ve definitely learned how to move the levers. Few of us ladies make Detective Inspector in less than a decade. And you’re not afraid to go your own way.”

  “This Yank detective rattled my cage, Zoe. The Culpado case still bothers me, too.”

  “You’re not going to get involved in this, are you? It’s as cold a case as they come.”

  “I did some cursory research on the web last night, partner. The Nashville paper’s description of Culpado’s electrocution gave me nightmares. I think a Crunchy bar and a visit to Belmarsh may be in order.”

  Zoe’s eyebrows rose. “Not Harry Duggan!”

  “If Marie, in fact, came to the UK, she would have needed documents. Harry was active back then. Perhaps his memory is better than mine.”

  Harry Duggan was serving Her Majesty’s pleasure for forgery at HM Belmarsh. His specialty: false passports. The timeline Lee constructed would have put Marie Culpado right in the middle of Harry’s prime.

  Granberry’s was a step down from the Marks & Spencer chain but could be a formidable competitor in the retail space, especially in London’s less affluent areas. 100,000 square feet of commerce covered two stories, filled with everything from clothing and appliances to cakes and candies. And it was close to Belmarsh.

  Zoe threw the Manchester United jersey over her shoulder. “I don’t know, partner. It feels like you are tilting at windmills again. That’s a great way to short circuit a career.”

  The two joined the end of a long queue at one of the check-out kiosks.