Mercy Street

by Mariah Stewart

  “He’s right, of course. The newer case has a greater chance to be solved because it’s—well—newer. Witnesses are easier to locate, the evidence is fresher. A lot of cases—not just missing persons, but murders, other suspicious deaths—get put aside because there’s always another case. A lot of cases just go cold because there’s not enough time to follow every lead, to check and recheck things over and over. A lot of families stay in that state of limbo, never knowing what happened to their daughter or son, their parent or sibling. If missing, are they dead or alive? If dead, how did they get that way?”

  “With the right people, the right resources, how many of those missing people might be found? How many murders solved?”

  Mallory shook her head. “There’s no way to know for certain.”

  “But some probably could.”

  She nodded. “Some, probably, yes.”

  “Robert, are you thinking about starting your own little private police force?” Susanna asked, one eyebrow raised.

  “Not exactly, but that’s good, Suse. I’m thinking of something more along the lines of a private firm that acts like a…” He searched for the right word. “A catalyst. That’s what I think we should be. A catalyst for solving cases that everyone else has pretty much given up on.”

  He turned back to Mallory. “What would it take to start up such an undertaking?”

  “God, I don’t know.” She shook her head. “You’d need personnel…”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as more than one investigator. If you’re going to be looking at old crimes, you’re going to want someone who can reconstruct the scene and analyze it. A forensics specialist, maybe. Maybe a criminologist.” Mallory grinned wryly. “And if you’re really going for it, why not go all the way and throw in your own lab?”

  Robert nodded thoughtfully. “Which would require at least one or two lab techs. Yes, I can see where we could need a lab.”

  Seeing he was serious, Mallory said, “How many investigators, how many experts, it’s going to depend on the caseload.”

  “Right.”

  “How would you decide which cases to take on?” Mallory asked, intrigued. “As you say, there are so many people who have gone missing and never have been found. So many unsolved deaths. Where would the cases come from?”

  “From people who contact us and ask us for help. We’d look into the cases and decide which one to take on.”

  “Which one?”

  “One at a time.”

  “How would you make that decision?” Susanna asked. “How do you decide which case is most worthy of your attention, who’s most worthy to be found?”

  “I guess we’d talk about it. You, me, Mallory—and whoever else we hire.” He turned to Mallory. “Would you think it over? And if you’re interested, make a list of what you think would be required for something like this. And maybe jot down your thoughts on the criteria we should consider when choosing a case.”

  “Robert, this is overwhelming, but yes. I’ll think about it.” She laughed self-consciously. “I probably won’t be able to stop thinking about it. It’s the most intriguing idea I’ve ever heard.” She tucked the check he’d given her into her wallet. “How would you know what to charge people?”

  “We’re not charging. See, that’s the whole point. I’ll set up a foundation and people who need our help will apply, sort of like the way they’d apply for a grant or a scholarship.”

  “Like I said, intriguing.”

  “But you’re interested.”

  “Definitely.” Mallory nodded.

  “How ’bout Detective Wanamaker, you think he’d be interested in talking to me?”

  “I have no way of knowing. I can mention it to him.” Mallory stood and gathered her bag.

  “Please do that. Tell him to give me a call if he thinks it sounds like something he’d like to do.”

  “I will. Thank you for the offer. I feel a little dazed by the whole idea.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Susanna said.

  After he’d walked Mallory to the front door, Robert returned to Susanna’s office.

  “I messed up your weekend,” Robert said. “But I appreciate you coming in on Saturday. You can always take Monday off, you know, if you want both days.”

  “I just might do that.”

  “So what do you think of my idea, Suse?”

  “I think it’s a very novel idea.” She seemed to choose her words carefully. “What are you planning on naming this new venture of yours?”

  He thought it over for a moment. “I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think about it.”

  “Think about what?” Kevin appeared in the doorway.

  Robert explained his brainchild.

  When he finished, he said, “We were just discussing what to call this organization. Any thoughts?”

  “Something with mercy in the name,” the priest replied, “because like Mary said, mercy is what all of those lost souls are praying for. And this new venture of yours, isn’t this supposed to be for those who really have no other place to go to seek help?”

  “So our foundation should be the vehicle…the road…to finding a miracle.” Robert toyed with the words. “Mercy Road. Miracle Road. Mercy Way…”

  “Mercy Street,” Kevin said. “Like the old Peter Gabriel song. Mercy Street.”

  “I like that.” Susanna smiled. “I like that a lot.”

  “You’re a Peter Gabriel fan?” Robert frowned. “I didn’t know you went in for all that world-music stuff.”

  “Like I said, it’s an old song, but a good one,” Kevin said. “And a good name, I think, for what you have in mind.”

  “So Mercy Street it is?” Robert looked around the room at the others.

  “I think it should be The Mercy Street Foundation,” Susanna pointed out.

  “Even better,” Robert readily agreed. “The Mercy Street Foundation it is…”

  TWENTY-NINE

  So how was your day?” Charlie asked after he and Mallory had been seated and their waiter had handed them menus.

  “You first,” she told him. She wanted his take on Robert Magellan’s offer—but was more interested in finding out why Joe had called Charlie in early on a Saturday morning, and just what were the “startling rumors” that “swirled around the sniper case” a TV reporter had hinted at. She decided there was no point in beating around the bush. “What did Joe want so early this morning?”

  “He’s a really smart guy, you know?” Charlie looked up from his menu. “I’ll bet he was one hell of a cop.”

  “He’s a really smart guy, and he was—still is—a hell of a cop.”

  “Right. He…ahhh, he…” Charlie paused while their water glasses were served. The requisite lemon slices bobbed atop the crushed ice. When the busboy walked away, Charlie lowered his voice. “The chief has this theory about this whole sniper thing.”

  “Which theory is that?” She was trying to read the menu and listen at the same time. She finally made a quick decision on dinner then folded the menu and placed it next to her plate.

  “He’s never bought into that whole homeless-guy-gets-his-hands-on-an-assault-rifle-and-starts-shooting-at-the-residents thing. So he started picking at the seams of it. You know, how did Whitman just happen to be in the park at the same time the supposed sniper was there? And how did Gomez—the homeless guy—acquire his marksman skills?”

  “So how did Whitman end up in the park?”

  “He says—Whitman says—he saw the guy enter the park from Ninth Street, looked like he was carrying something suspicious, so he followed him. Says the guy turned on him and started shooting, so Whitman fired back. Says he chased him through the park as far as the fountain, where he—Whitman—was able to bring him down.”

  “I’m assuming the spent shells were all there to back up his story.”

  “Sure enough. But here’s where the story gets really interesting: There was a woman sleeping behind the fountain who swears that Go
mez was in the park when she got there, a good hour or so before she heard the shots. Says she knows he didn’t leave because he told her he’d stepped on some glass and cut his left foot and he couldn’t walk, so he was going to sleep on one of the benches. Says he showed her the gash.”

  “How credible is she?”

  “Under other circumstances, maybe not very. But I checked with the morgue. Gomez had a damned good slice on the bottom of his left foot. No way would he have been running through the park.”

  “Who found the woman?”

  “The chief asked me to ask around, see if there were any witnesses that might have been overlooked.”

  “And you found her?”

  “She’d never left the park. She’s waiting for some stargate or something to come for her. So when you say ‘credible,’ I guess it’s all relative. She’s a little shaky. But the gash on Gomez’s foot is just where she said, just as she described it.”

  “She would have had to have seen the rifle, though, right?”

  “She says he didn’t have one. Says he didn’t have anything with him.”

  “But the news reports all say that after the shooting, he called for backup…”

  “And that your best friend, Detective Toricelli, was first on the scene.”

  “Frank backed up whatever Cal told him,” she said, thinking aloud.

  “Right. Says he found Gomez with the rifle still in his hand, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill.”

  “So no matter what anyone suspects, without any evidence to the contrary, Cal Whitman is the hero who brought down the Conroy Sniper.” She bit the inside of her bottom lip. “Would it be cynical if I said something like, Way to get your old job back or Way to hang on to the pension?”

  “Apparently that’s exactly what the chief was thinking when he started talking to a few of his old CIs on the sly.”

  “And…”

  “And someone put him on to a hooker downtown who’s been harassed a bit by Frank over the past year. Threatens to bring her in for soliciting, but will look the other way in exchange for a little ‘consideration.’ According to her, he’s been shaking her down for sex for the past year.”

  “Ursula,” Mallory said.

  “How did you know?” Charlie frowned.

  “Sally mentioned it.”

  “You told the chief?”

  Mallory nodded.

  “So that’s where that tip came from.” Charlie grinned. “Just one more reason for Frank to love you, babe.”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume you’ve spoken to Ursula.”

  “Got an earful. Frank likes to talk, you know?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Yeah, I know,” Charlie said. “I was shocked, too. Anyway, apparently he came around one night last week, tries to get her into his squad car. She’s balking, and he tells her to get the fuck in the car or he’ll do her like they did the others, and the sniper would get blamed.”

  “Whoa!”

  “Yeah. But it gets better. Last night, he has her in his squad car doing her thing when he gets a call. He practically pushes her out of the car and takes off like a bat out of hell.”

  “And this blows a hole in the case how?”

  “Because Ursula said he got pissed off and yelled at the caller, ‘Cal, you dumb shit, you were supposed to wait for me. What if someone comes along before I get there?’ Then he tells the caller to put the piece where it’s supposed to be, then wait until he gets there before he does anything else.”

  “Holy shit. They set Gomez up?” Mallory went wide-eyed at the thought.

  “The chief thinks—this is the worst part—they set it all up. That there was no sniper.”

  “But all those shootings…those people who were shot at, scared shitless…”

  “All by the same rifle that allegedly was fired by Gomez at Whitman.”

  “But that would mean that Cal…” She sputtered. “Cal was the shooter all along?”

  “The chief thinks probably he and Toricelli were splitting the duties, so that they would each have something on the other.”

  “You can’t rat me out because I’ll rat on you.”

  “Insurance.” Charlie nodded.

  “So what next?” Mallory asked.

  “The chief is bumping it over to IA. He doesn’t want anyone in his department involved in the investigation from here on out.”

  “I’m just stunned.”

  “Yeah, so’s the chief. He said he knew Frank was a jerk and that Cal was still pissed about being busted back to patrol, but he never suspected either one of them would do something like this.”

  “Why would they have done something so terrible?”

  “Cal wanted his detective job back, Frank wanted the lead detective job. They figured if they manufactured a sniper, shot at a few folks, got the town into a frenzy, then they could go together on the collar and look like superstars. The chief looked up the time line—the only nights there were shootings were nights when Frank was on duty.”

  “So he could cover Cal, and vice versa.”

  “That’s the theory.”

  “So where are they now?”

  “Being interrogated by IA.”

  “Incredible.” Mallory shook her head. “What do you hear about Regina? Is she going to make it?”

  “She didn’t make it out of surgery.” He studied her face as she took in the news.

  “Shit.” She frowned. “You never like to think about killing another human being, but it’s hard to work up too much sympathy for someone like her. Still…”

  “There is no ‘still.’ You did what you had to do, Mal. Regina Girard was a one-woman killing machine. Whenever you start feeling sorry for Regina, just think about Sally.”

  “Good point.” She nodded.

  “Your turn. How was your day?”

  Mallory told him about her meeting with Robert Magellan.

  “Interesting proposition,” he said. “Why you?”

  “Magellan was paying the freight for the investigation. His cousin is the parish priest at Our Lady of Angels.”

  “And Mary Corcoran is the parish secretary.”

  “Right. Father Burch asked Robert to pay for the investigator, and he agreed, on the condition I not tell anyone he was involved. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but…”

  “Hey, a deal’s a deal. You gave your word. Besides, it’s not as if it would have made a difference in the outcome.”

  “True.” She thought for a moment. “He overpaid me. I think I should split it with you.”

  “The city’s paying me.” Charlie waved her off. “So what did you tell Magellan?”

  “I told him I’d think about it. But I’ll probably do it, if he’s serious. I’ve made good progress on the book I was working on, but frankly, it just isn’t doing it for me. I think maybe the idea appealed to me because it kept me connected to my years as a cop, and when I left the force, I really needed that connection. I had enough money saved to keep me going until I sold my book.” She smiled wryly. “It never occurred to me that it wouldn’t sell. And I wouldn’t be the first ex-cop to write a book about an infamous case she—or he—solved. But I miss working on cases, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. I wasn’t even aware of how much until the past few weeks.” She grinned. “Robert wants to know if you’d be interested in signing on.”

  “As tempting as it sounds, I’d have to say no. I like being a cop. I probably will always be a cop. But I’m flattered that he thought of me. It’s a really unusual idea, but a great one. A lot of people like the Corcorans and the Bauers could benefit from it.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “Besides, this way, we don’t have to worry about breaking the rule.”

  “Which rule is that?”

  “The one about not seeing someone you work with.”

  “Is that what we’re going to be doing, Charlie? Seeing each other?”

  “Every chance we get.”

  THIRTY

/>   This has been some week, hasn’t it?” Robert said as Susanna walked past on her way to the back door.

  “I’ll say.” She leaned her briefcase on the kitchen counter. “I left some checks on your desk for you to sign. Also, there are some letters you need to look over. They can wait until Monday to go out, but if you want to make any changes, just handwrite on the letter and I’ll take care of it when I get in.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take a look.” He glanced up at the clock. It was almost seven on Saturday evening. “I appreciate you coming in today, but it looks like we shot your weekend.”

  “It’s fine. I don’t mind at all.”

  “So, what are you going to do with the rest of the weekend?”

  “Oh, the usual.”

  “Nothing exciting?”

  “Nope. How about you?” she asked.

  “Golf, I think.” He walked to the back window. “I’m thinking of having a few holes put in out there on the back couple of acres. I’m not using them for anything else.”

  “Good idea.” She paused at the door. “Well, if there’s nothing else…”

  “Nothing else.” He shrugged. “Have a good one.”

  “You too. Tell Trula I said the same.”

  “Will do.” He followed her out the door. “Oh, hey…”

  She turned around. “Hey what?”

  “Hey, I owe you dinner.” He smiled. “In Paris, I believe the bet was. Transportation provided.”

  “I don’t know that either of us really won,” she pointed out. “The bet was, that Mallory wouldn’t pad her bill.”

  “And she didn’t. So you won.” He leaned against the doorjamb. “What day’s good for you?”

  “You tell me. You’re the boss.”