The Dead Man

by Joel Goldman

  I'd learned that it helps some people to help me even if I didn't need the help, a gentle reminder that nothing happens to just one person.

  "Fair enough. I'll meet you downstairs in ten minutes."

  I watched the rest of Delaney's video. Corliss took him through the dream sequence several more times, but Delaney didn't change a detail. Each time, he pulled out his gun with his right hand, held it to his right temple, and stuck it back in his pants when Corliss told him to do so, Corliss never asking or checking whether the gun was loaded. The more they went through the motions, the more it began to look like they were rehearsing a one-act play though I doubted Delaney realized it would close on opening night.

  I e-mailed Delaney's video to Carter, downloaded it to my flash drive, and packed the incident reports into the canvas satchel that passed as my briefcase. The rest of the institute's employees must have taken to heart Sherry's suggestion that everyone go home early because the halls were quiet and empty and one of the elevators opened the instant I pushed the call button. For the second day in a row, it stopped on the third floor and Maggie Brennan stepped on. She had replaced her gray scarf and gray coat with an identical version in black.

  "It seems we're fated to make this trip together," she said.

  "I could do worse."

  She tilted her head at me. "I'm not so certain but thank you for the vote of confidence."

  "You're welcome. New coat?"

  She raised her arm. "I finally tired of the other one."

  "Some day, huh? It's good that everyone gets tomorrow off."

  She nodded. "A day of rest suits me. The police talked to me and I heard what happened with that young man. Do you think he killed that girl?"

  "He had a reason to run. That could have been it."

  "You don't sound convinced."

  "Let's just say I'm agnostic on the subject," parroting her uncertainty about the dream project.

  She smiled. "Are you teasing me?"

  "A little. Truth is I like to take my time before accepting a quick and easy answer to something as hard to figure out as murder."

  "Then you would have made a good scientist. I heard talk that the young man, what was his name?"

  "Leonard Nagel."

  "Yes. Leonard. I heard that he had been in trouble before."

  "He had. He may have been guilty or he may just have been running from his past."

  "The past is difficult to outrun. It chases us like the sound of the driven leaf."

  "You've lost me."

  "It's from Leviticus," she said, reciting the verse. "'As for those of you who survive, I will cast a faintness into their hearts in the land of their enemies. The sound of a driven leaf shall put them to flight. Fleeing as though from the sword, they shall fall though none pursues.'"

  The elevator stopped on the ground floor and we stepped out.

  "What does that have to do with Leonard?"

  "He'd sinned and survived. That made him weaker, not stronger, afraid of the simplest and smallest things, like the sound of a driven leaf. Perhaps that's what drove him into that intersection."

  "But he was pursued. I was chasing him."

  "I've known many people like your Leonard. He wasn't running from you. He was running from himself and none of us wins that race."

  Chapter Forty-one

  Lucy had parked my car in the circle drive, the passenger window down. She waved as I passed through the doors of the institute, the last of the low-angled sun slicing through the trees, disappearing at my feet. The day, though at its end, had warmed, as winter days in Kansas City will do, turning snow to slush and stoking frozen bones with the promise that spring was around the corner no matter how far the bend in the road.

  Gone were the squad cars, fire trucks, ambulances, news crews, and gawkers. Gone too were the frightened and anxious people who worked here, the loss of two of their own seeding their nightmares, leaving them rattled and relieved that they had survived the day. In their place was an empty after-hours quiet. The hum of homebound traffic hung in the air, a white noise reminder that loved ones will be home for dinner, the sun will set and rise, and we will begin again.

  That faith in normalcy, that bedrock certainty that there are more good guys than bad, that hard-eyed survivor's optimism, gets us through the night and emboldens us to take on the day. It will allow Carlos Morales to one day go searching for tools in the sub-basement closet where Anne Kendall was murdered without imagining her violated body pressed against the wall and allow Connie Nichols to drive through the intersection where Leonard Nagel died without muttering under her breath that he got what he deserved and not caring whether he did.

  Underlying all of that is our shared faith in justice— that whoever takes a life will be called to account by those who have sworn to take up that burden. I took that oath when I joined the FBI and though my badge had been taken from me, I couldn't set that burden down.

  A black sedan cruised into the circle drive, stopping between Lucy and me, Ammara Iverson at the wheel, Dolan in the passenger seat, and Kent in the back. Dolan stepped out, opened the rear door, and thumb-jerked an invitation. Lucy jumped out of my car, stopping when I waved her off.

  "It's okay," I told her as I unzipped my jacket and cradled my satchel under my arm.

  I slid into the backseat, Dolan slamming the door like he wanted to throw away the key.

  "We're double-dating? No wonder Dolan's so testy. He's jealous that you're in the back with me," I said to Kent.

  "Do me a favor, don't start," Kent said. "I don't need you jamming him every time you open your mouth."

  "And I don't need you guys popping up like the Pills-bury doughboy every time I turn around and riding my ass."

  Kent let out a sigh. "Maybe we can work it out so we don't have to."

  "Right. Next thing, Dolan will tell me he'll respect me in the morning and it's only a cold sore."

  Dolan cursed and pivoted in his seat, ready to climb into the back. Ammara grabbed his arm before he could finish the turn and backed me off with a hot look.

  "Let's take a walk, just you and me," Kent said, throwing his door open, climbing out of the car and cinching the belt on his trench coat.

  We took it slow, following the circle drive toward the street. He rolled his shoulders and twisted his neck, getting loose, making it easier to say what he had to say, the words sticking.

  "I'm not going to apologize for how we came at you," Kent said. "Take yourself and your daughter out of it, look at it the way you would have if you'd been us, and you would have done it the same way."

  "I don't need an apology but I'd like to think I would have done it different."

  "Oh, yeah. What would you have done?"

  "Let it go. Wendy is dead and the rest of them are dead or in jail. I lost my daughter and my job. I don't give a crap about the money. Finding it won't change a damn thing for the Bureau or me. You want to work a cold case, find one that matters."

  "Brass in DC doesn't see it that way, especially after this whole thing with the mailman. The way that touches you, forces our hand. We got no choice now and you know that."

  I stopped and turned toward him. "Look, I don't know what was in the envelope Wendy sent me. I don't know where the money is and I didn't kill Walter Enoch. You tried bracing me downtown with the worst good cop, bad cop duet I've ever seen, though I got to admit that Dolan is born to the asshole role. Then you tried the soft soap with Ammara and now this, a mix of the high-low. What's next?"

  Kent gave me a weak smile and gestured toward the street, keeping us moving. "Coroner makes Enoch's time of death sometime between ten o'clock Wednesday night and two o'clock Thursday morning. You got an alibi for that window?"

  "I was fast asleep. Alone. Like everyone else whose mail Enoch either stole or delivered. You need more than that. Can you put me at the scene? Can you put me with Enoch? Can you tie me to the money?"

  "Wendy contacted you twice we know of before she died. Stands to rea
son she told you what happened to the money and stands to reason you'd try to protect her memory, maybe even keep the money for your golden years. The letter she sent you ties you to Enoch. And it doesn't matter that the rest of the people on Enoch's mail route don't have an alibi. You're the only one whose stolen mail was opened."

  "If it was me, don't you think I'd have taken the envelope too? And what about Corliss? You must have watched the video that he took at Enoch's house on my laptop. Hell, he talked Enoch into participating in the dream project and into letting him in his house with all that stolen mail. There were no signs of forcible entry. Corliss is a lot better choice than me. Ask him if he's got an alibi and ask him to take a polygraph."

  "We did. He says he was asleep, just like you. He turned us down on the poly, says they're unreliable. You and I know better even if the courts won't let the results into evidence. Why don't you take a polygraph? Maybe put this whole thing to bed."

  "Last time I offered, they turned me down. The examiner says I shake so much the results wouldn't mean a thing."

  We made it to the street. A silver Lexus was parked on the curb, a vanity plate on the front bumper reading Bolt, jagged lines of yellow on either side of the name. The driver was short, his head clearing the steering wheel by inches. He raised one hand, giving me a wan salute. I gave him my back, wondering who or what he was waiting for.

  "We did watch the video and Corliss told us all about it," Kent said. "Question is what was it doing on your laptop?"

  "That guy in the Lexus," I said, tilting my head in Bolt's direction. "He's a lawyer named Jason Bolt. He's making noise about suing the institute for the wrongful death of two other volunteers. Milo Harper hired me to take a look at those cases, help put together a defense. When I found out Enoch was also a volunteer, I got curious."

  "When did you find out Enoch was a volunteer?"

  I thought of Lucy waiting for me in the circle drive, realizing that Ammara and Dolan were quizzing her. They had worked us, bringing Ammara to lower my guard, separating Lucy and me so they could question us at the same time before we could get our stories straight.

  "Yesterday morning."

  "So how come you got pictures of Enoch's body on your laptop? Those had to have been taken Friday night when Ammara called you out to the scene only she says you didn't take them. That leaves your landlady, Lucy Trent, who, and I got to confess, this is the part I really like, is another ex-cop that can't resist temptation. You living with a thief that takes pictures of the murder victim on the sly don't exactly help your credibility."

  "She's got nothing to do with this."

  "Then why was she taking pictures of the dead man?"

  There was no answer I could give that wouldn't dig a deeper hole for her or me. "She was playing games. Thought she was being cute."

  "That the best you can do?"

  "She made a mistake. Let it go."

  "That's the kind of mistake connects you and her to Enoch."

  "You want a connection, try one between Enoch, the two wrongful death cases, and the woman who was found dead here this morning."

  "You telling me all four are connected? What? You want us to go chasing a serial killer so we'll forget about you?"

  "It's not as much of a stretch as you trying to make me for Enoch and the missing money."

  "That explains why the chief of police reached out to the SAC. There's talk about a joint task force."

  "That will tie you and Dolan up for a while."

  "Not likely. We'll let the locals have Enoch, probably toss in a profiler and a few forensic people to back them up, if we can get some resolution with you on the drug money."

  "What do you want from me?"

  "Wrong question. The right question is what am I giving to you?"

  "Don't make me wait until Christmas."

  "Wise ass. Put this in your stand-up act. You've got forty-eight hours to come up with the money and the letter Wendy sent you. If her letter told you where the money is, we'll give you the benefit of the doubt that you haven't had it all along and you walk. After that, we do things Dolan's way."

  "Why the free pass?"

  "It's not free. It costs five million and you can thank Ammara for talking the SAC into it. She says you deserve one last chance to do the right thing."

  "The Bureau is that hung up on the drug money?"

  "You don't get it, do you, Davis. It's never been about the money. It's always been about you. You're the one who isn't dead and isn't in jail. You're the one that got away. That's what the Bureau can't stand. Neither can I."

  "I know why you think Wendy told me about the money. I can't help that. But nobody can think I was part of what went down with my squad."

  Kent's good guy façade vanished, his eyes hard, his lips pulled back. "It was an agent on your team that went bad, it was your daughter that helped him, and it was you who couldn't hack it anymore and wouldn't own up to it. Anybody else would have been transferred to Sitka or shit-canned. But you shimmy shake your ass into a cushy retirement on a bullshit disability that ain't so bad you can't collect a fat check from Milo Fucking Harper. And nobody, I mean nobody from DC to KC, can stomach that. So you want to buy peace with us, it's gonna cost you five million dollars."

  Chapter Forty-two

  I watched Kent trudge up the circle drive toward the cars, his head bent into the wind, winter having caught its breath, blowing again, affirming Kansas City's weather reputation—if you don't like it, don't worry; wait fifteen minutes and it will change. I zipped my jacket against my throat and stuck my hands in my pockets, the last thing he said hitting me harder than the fresh blast of cold air.

  It was all about me, the punch line to a lame joke turned into probable cause for an indictment. I knew that people in the Bureau were both angry and skeptical about my movement disorder, furious that I hadn't come clean sooner while doubting that it was real or disabling, ignoring that I hadn't quit, that I was forced out, shit-canned instead of sent to Sitka, untroubled by their contradictory complaints.

  What I didn't understand until now was how deep the institutional need was for me to take the fall for what had happened on my watch and how deep the resentment was that I had skated on a cluster fuck that would have torpedoed anyone else's career, taking their pension down with it. I thought back to Wendy's funeral and the stiff condolences that I had received. In my grief I had failed to hear what they were really saying, that she had gotten what she deserved. They were singing from Connie Nichols's hymnal.

  And here I was, living what to them was the good life, collecting disability and a paycheck. Sure, I had the shakes, whatever that was. But I had stayed on the job and on the case when I should have put myself on the disabled list, getting away with the unforgivable sin of letting a dirty, rogue agent operate under my nose, aided and abetted by my daughter, without paying the price they would impose.

  That I might now profit to the tune of five million dollars was, for them, both unacceptable and unspeakable. That they might be wrong was unthinkable. Facts may be stubborn things but hate, anger, and disbelief are deaf, dumb, and blind.

  Ammara had negotiated a forty-eight-hour cease-fire, her tagline that it was my last best chance to do the right thing telling me she stood farther away from me than I had hoped. It also told me that Kent and Dolan were nowhere on Enoch's murder. If they had enough to arrest me or anyone else, they would have done it. This latest tactic was a desperation squeeze. Either I'd go belly up, giving them the money and my head, or I'd do their job and find Enoch's killer, Wendy's letter, and the money to save my skin. It was an all-in, throw-down bet, the Bureau's honor for my life.

  "Jack Davis?"

  I turned around. Jason Bolt was looking up at me. I hadn't heard him get out of his car. He was short behind the wheel and shorter on his feet, the close-trimmed brown beard running from his jaw line to his chin and his medicine ball belly making him more Keebler elf than courtroom giant.

  "Yeah."

  "I'
m Jason Bolt," he said, keeping his hands in his pockets. "I saw you on TV today. Milo Harper called you a hero for chasing down the guy that murdered Anne Kendall."

  I had seen the television cameras but hadn't paid attention to whether they were filming me and I hadn't heard what Harper had said.

  "If I was a hero, I would have caught him before he got to the intersection and, as far as I know, the police haven't said whether he killed anyone."

  Bolt nodded. "Spoken like a wise man."

  "What can I do for you?"

  "I assume you know that I represent the families of Tom Delaney and Regina Blair. I'm going to sue your boss and at least four of his people."

  "So I hear. Why not leave the staff out of it? If you're entitled to any money, the institute will pay it."

  "Accountability," Bolt said. "People have to be held accountable. They can't hide behind their employer's insurance policy. That's why I'm suing Corliss, Brennan, Casey, and Kaufman for punitive damages. Insurance doesn't cover that and an employer can't indemnify for it. I'm going to serve the papers on them myself. I stopped by to get a good look at this monument Milo Harper built to himself since I might end up with the keys."

  "Look all you want."

  "Just so you know, I'll win no matter what you come up with."

  "No matter what I come up with?"

  "I do my homework, Jack. When I heard your name on the news, I checked you out. Try doing a Google search on yourself. You had a lot of press coverage last year. Given your background, I assume that Harper hired you to dig up dirt on Tom and Regina so he can blame their deaths on anything but the lucid dreaming project."

  "You expect me to respond to that?"

  "Not until I take your deposition. But I do have some advice for you. When you're done digging around in Tom's and Regina's past, you might want to take a close look at Harper and company before all the mud starts to fly."

  "Why the heads-up?"

  "I represent two families who lost their loved ones. We can make the case about why and how they died or we can make it about a lot of other things."