by Jason Pinter
Cards and flowers arrived from all fifty states and thirty foreign countries. Numerous politicians paid their condolences in person. Rheingold’s closest friends and pastorial acquaintances read passages from his bestselling books. Rheingold’s wife and young son remained stoic in the front row. The governor of Texas declared the day one of statewide mourning.
The following year, Rheingold’s wife was given her own daytime talk show. His ten-year-old son published a book called Never Too Young to Follow the Lord, containing prayers and motivation for grade-schoolers.
There was very little reporting on the burial of the Roberts family. A grainy photo showed the four caskets being lowered. Two larger ones, for John and William. Two smaller ones for Meryl and Martha. John was noted as the grandson of Oliver P. “Brushy Bill” Roberts. Everything else was journalism-by-the-numbers.
One line from the article, though, threw me for a loop.
The Roberts family was buried in a closed-casket service presided over by Reverend Bert Brown. During his concluding remarks, Reverend Brown asked the heavenly father that the bodies of these four souls be looked after in heaven, and that any earthly remains not in these coffins find that everlasting peace.
Any earthly remains not in these coffins…
I immediately picked up the phone and dialed information for Hico, Texas. An automated voice answered.
“What listing?”
“I’d like the main number for the Hamilton County coroner’s office.”
“One moment, please.”
Muzak played in the background. I tuned out the newsroom chatter. Frank Rourke walked by the mail drop, turned and eyed me for what seemed like minutes, then kept walking.
“Hello, sir?”
“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “Who is this?”
“Well, my name is Helen, but I’m afraid there is no coroner’s office in Texas.”
“Do you mean Hamilton, Texas, or Texas as a whole?”
“I’m afraid that would be Texas as a whole.”
“Then who’s in charge of supervising wrongful death cases?”
“That would be the Justice of the Peace, sir.”
“Then can I be connected to the office of the current Justice of the Peace?”
“Ab-so-lutely.”
A minute passed as the line rang. Another woman picked up, her voice cheerful.
“Office of Justice Waverly, this is Brenda, how may I assist you?”
“Hi, Brenda,” I said, trying to make my voice sound as young as possible. Brenda sounded to be either in her late fifties or late teens. An aunt type. And aunts loved their young nephews. “My name is Henry Parker, and I’m with the New York Gazette. I’m a junior reporter.”
“Oh, a junior reporter all the way up there in New York? That’s wonderful. How can we help you, Henry?”
“If it’s possible, I’d very much like to speak with Justice Waverly.”
“Oh now, Justice Waverly is eating his breakfast and he doesn’t like being disturbed during breakfast. Do you know that man can eat an entire stack of blueberry pancakes in one sitting? I swear I ain’t seen nothing like it ever.”
“That’s fantastic, Brenda, really, but it’s incredibly important I speak with him. We’ve had four homicides here in New York. And I think they might be related to an old case involving deaths in Hamilton County. Hico, to be exact.”
There was silence over the phone as the word homicide seeped into Brenda’s thoughts. As much as she wanted to protect Justice Waverly’s breakfast routine, a good old gal like her couldn’t bear to let such atrocities simmer.
“Now, Henry, Justice Waverly will get mighty upset if I barge in there, make him get all messy and syrupy and this isn’t an emergency of the important kind.”
“Oh, I promise, Brenda, this is an emergency of the most important kind.”
Brenda sighed as the Good Samaritan in her kicked in. “Hold on just a sec.”
Rather than put the line on hold, I heard a clang as she placed the phone down on her desk. I heard the sound of a door being opened, then the voice of a man none too happy about being interrupted. There was a brief spat, the sound of someone yelling with food in their mouth, and then more footsteps as Brenda returned to her desk.
“Hello, Mr. Parker? Justice Waverly will be right with you.”
“Thanks, Brenda, you’re a doll.” Brenda giggled politely.
I heard a click as the line was picked up by another party.
“Hello?” a deep, male voice intoned.
“Is this Justice Waverly?” I said.
“Brenda, I have it, hang up now.” I heard a click as Brenda hung up her end. “Mr. Parker, Brenda tells me you’re calling all the way from New York, that right?”
“Yes, sir. Justice, sir. I’m with the Gazette. I appreciate your taking my call.”
“I didn’t take no call, Brenda threatened to give me that terrible puppy-dog look all day if I didn’t. She tells me you said something about a homicide up there in the big city.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, if I’m not mistaken, you New Yorkers have quite a few homicides every year and you don’t go calling me for all of those. So what makes you think my office can help with this one?”
“Well, sir, if I might answer a question with a question,” I said, “were you the Justice of the Peace of Hamilton County in 2004?”
“I most certainly was,” Waverly said. “I have been justice of this county for ought seventeen years.”
“Then you probably recall notable criminal investigations during that time.”
“I have a mind like an eagle, son. What are you getting at?”
“Well, Mr. Eagle, sir, then you’ll remember the deaths of John Roberts, his family, and Pastor Mark Rheingold just a few years ago.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. And I knew I’d just pulled a big, dangling thread. I waited thirty seconds for a response. Waverly was still on the other end, but it was clear he wasn’t dying to talk about the fire.
“Justice Waverly, are you still there?”
“Yes, Mr. Parker, I’m here.”
“So you do remember those deaths?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So you don’t remember the alleged electrical fire that killed five people, including the most famous pastor in the state of Texas.”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“Justice Waverly, I’m not the police,” I said. “I’m a reporter trying to find out why four people have been murdered and how they might be connected to a fire that killed five people several years ago.”
“I don’t know how any of your murders are my concern, Mr. Parker. Now if you’ll excuse me I have a meeting in just ten minutes and I still haven’t had my coffee.”
“Fine by me,” I said. “Because my next call is to the FBI. I know Mike Sellers down at the Houston branch pretty well. And one thing he hates is red tape and bureaucratic double-speak. So I hope you’re not stringing any of that tape up for me.”
I had spoken to Deputy Michael Sellers once, over e-mail. He had given me a terse no comment, though complimented me on a previous story about the treatment of prisoners at Rikers Island. I figured that brief correspondence was as good an opportunity as any to name-drop.
I heard a pounding sound, like something hitting wood. Sounded like Justice Waverly was getting frustrated and taking it out on his poor desk.
“No, now I wouldn’t want that,” Waverly said. “I’ll answer any appropriate questions in order to help whatever story you’re writing. But I won’t go into tangential matters that are none of your business. So to answer your question, yes, I do remember the deaths of the Roberts family and the tragic passing of Pastor Rheingold. He was a pillar of this community.”
“Would you say the Roberts family was a pillar of the community?”
“Shoot,” he said. “John Roberts just moved his family down to Hico a few years back. He had some relatives down her
e got along pretty good, but I can’t say they had as much influence as Pastor Mark.”
“I read the news reports of the fire. You’re sure it was electrical?”
“Goddamn right I am,” Waverly said. “And I hope God’s green ears don’t hear you insinuating we didn’t give that fire a thorough investigation.”
“No, I’m saying you’re awfully defensive.”
There was silence on the other end again. Then Waverly spoke.
“We turned that house inside out. There was nothing left. Not a doll, not a picture album, nothing. An entire family was destroyed in one night, I assure you it was a monumental tragedy. We didn’t find any reason or need to pry more than we already had.”
“So you’re admitting the investigation wasn’t handled as thoroughly as it could have been.”
“I’m saying injury was bad enough without adding insult.”
“Unless the insult and injury would have been to your town.”
“I’m sorry, Parker, you’ve lost me there.”
“Let’s see if you can follow—at the Roberts’s funeral, the priest made a statement making it clear there were remains unaccounted for. That one or more of the coffins the Roberts family was buried in wasn’t full. Do you follow that?”
“I have nothing to say about such idiotic rumors. And if you don’t mind me saying, I don’t see how this has any relevance to your murders in New Yawk.”
“I’ll get to that,” I said. “Now whose remains were never found?”
“This has nothing to do with you,” said Waverly.
“Whose remains, Justice? I can be on the phone to Mike Sellers in thirty seconds, and based on your lack of cooperation he can have those graves dug up in less time than it takes for you to stir your cream and sugar.”
“You arrogant prick,” Waverly spat. “Just who do you think you are? Do you have any idea who we are, what this town is? We have a thousand residents. You live in a city of millions, where nobody gives a shit about anybody else. Do you have any idea what something like this could do to our county?”
“Without the legend of Brushy Bill Roberts, your town dies,” I said. “That’s a fact. And by covering up a murder investigation, it will do the same thing.”
“Who said anything about murder?” Waverly said. There was concern in his voice. It was trembling. He knew something.
“Whose remains were never found?”
“I don’t have to talk to you?”
“Whose, Justice?”
“The son,” he gushed. “William Henry. We found a piece of femur we believe was his, but…”
“But what?” I said.
“But we weren’t sure. So we buried it.”
“You buried an empty coffin?”
“It wasn’t empty!” Waverly said. “There was a femur bone inside! Besides, the boy’s body was nowhere. Either he died in that fire or he disappeared off the face of the earth. We figured his remains being too burnt up to find was a more likely scenario.”
“Only those remains turned up alive in New York, pulling the trigger of a Winchester rifle four times, killing four people.”
“Listen, Parker,” Waverly said. “You don’t know what it’s like here. You don’t know what this would mean to our township and its residents.”
There had to be something else going on. Hico stood to prosper hugely if it was revealed Brushy Bill Roberts was, in fact, Billy the Kid. Waverly was hiding something else.
“What was Pastor Rheingold doing in that fire?” I asked. “Strange that he just happened to be at the Roberts home the night it goes up in flames.”
“Enough!” Waverly said. “You got your damn story. Rheingold has nothing to do with it. Goodbye, Mr. Parker. I hope you sleep well tonight.”
Waverly hung up. Sleep was the last thing I would find that night.
CHAPTER 43
Mya stirred. Not because her body awoke naturally. Not because sunlight from the outside had forced it, or because she had to pee, or any other number of reasons why nature might interrupt one’s slumber.
No, Mya awoke because of the knife point she felt digging into her side.
“Wake up, Mya,” he said. She opened her eyes, the lids dry and crusty. Her hands were still bound, her wrists hurt like hell. She hadn’t been able to wipe the moisture or makeup away. The last thing she remembered was following this man back to his hotel room, having a drink, feeling his lips on hers, and then nothing. There was no other pain, and besides her bonds she was otherwise unharmed.
She was lying on the floor of some dingy hotel room. The bed was unmade. Ugly orange curtains dangled above her. The rusty air conditioner rattled, spewing a warm breeze. Under the bed she could see a small blue duffel bag, underwear and socks spilling out of it.
By the foot of the bed, Mya saw what appeared to be a gun. Not like the kind she saw in the movies. This one was long. The barrel seemed to have some kind of wood finish. The boy noticed her staring and said, agreeing, “She’s a true thing of beauty.”
Mya tried to squirm but it was no use. Her energy was gone. And a blade was ticking her ribs. If she bucked in the wrong direction, it could…
“How you feeling?” he asked. Mya blinked. What was his name? He’d told it to her at the bar. Where he’d been charming, funny, handsome and sweet. Of course all of this was before he kidnapped her. “Nod once for okay, nod twice for not okay.”
Mya nodded twice, vigorously. She remembered his hands on her, her whole body tingling, feeling alive. She remembered his hands, strong and gentle, but then all of a sudden perfunctory, like they were only waiting to…
And here she was.
“You’re not getting me, Miss Loverne. Nod once if you’re okay, as in not hurt. Nod twice if you are hurt. Forget about your hands. Can you walk?” Mya felt the blade dig in. She tried to cry out, but the tape prevented her from emitting anything but a pathetic whimper. She felt saliva coating the tape sealing her mouth.
She nodded once. That was all.
“You had me worried,” the boy said with a grin.
William. His name was William.
“We have a busy night ahead of us,” William said. “Are you up for it?”
Her first instinct was to try and scream. Or at least nod twice. But the knife made its horrible presence felt once again and she tilted her chin down once. A single tear streaked down Mya’s cheek. The boy wiped it away.
CHAPTER 44
After leaving the office, I called Amanda. We hadn’t spoken the whole day, mainly because I’d been swamped with Justice Waverly, then presenting the information to Wallace, Evelyn and Jack. Then I began to prep the outline of a blockbuster story that would both force the reopening of the fire in Hico, but present new information proving that Billy the Kid had lived long after his alleged murder. It was too soon to claim that Athena Paradis’s killer was Billy’s great-grandson, or that I thought he was. I knew it was true, but had to be able to convince others. Truth required proof, however, and since he was still at large the only proof was four silent corpses.
One thing was for certain, and Waverly had confirmed it, that William Henry Roberts was not among the victims who died in the fire.
So if William did not die in that fire, why was there no investigation into his whereabouts? Hamilton County police department came up empty, and they moved mighty quick to assume the body had simply “burnt up.” Even I didn’t think they would be that careless. At least not by accident.
Not a single newspaper report asked questions about the fire. They were too busy bemoaning the death of Mark Rheingold and four, less important, members of the Hico community. Everyone seemed more than happy to wash away any unpleasant memories and get on with their lives.
That brought up another question. What was Pastor Mark Rheingold—a statewide institution, a man who made millions of dollars a year and had thousands of rabid followers—doing at the Roberts house the night of the fire? I searched every archive available but couldn’t find anything lin
king Rheingold to the Roberts family. It was a pretty big coincidence that Rheingold paid a house call the night a four-alarm blaze burned everything to the ground.
I dialed Amanda’s line at work. It went right to voice mail.
“Hey, babe, it’s me, I’m heading home now. You’re probably still at work, just wanted to know if we should plan to have dinner together. Anyway, give me a call back. Love you.”
Click.
I needed a night to relax, unwind. Everything this past week had come so suddenly. All those deaths—deaths of people I knew. The NYPD was beside themselves at this point, and the newspapers hadn’t pulled punches in their criticism. And though New York had arguably the finest police department in the country, it was also a city in which it was all too easy to disappear. I knew that firsthand. Sooner or later the net would close in on Roberts. We could only hope it did before that Winchester fired again.
The Gazette’s sales had gone through the roof the last few days. The city hadn’t seen such juicy copy in a long time, and people were buying up papers in droves. Between Athena Paradis’s murder, the turmoil at Franklin-Rees after Jeffrey Lourdes’s death, the NYPD wanting blood for Joe Mauser, and the societal fallout from David Loverne’s murder, it was a gold mine for newshounds.
Joe Mauser’s death had been relegated to the back pages. A cop dying in the line of duty just didn’t sell as many papers as a murdered pretty blond white girl. It was strange that this pissed me off so much, considering Joe Mauser’s bullet had left a nasty scar on my leg. Just one year ago, Mauser wanted to kill me. I held no ill will toward the man. If someone had done to my family what he thought I’d done to his, I would have wanted blood, as well.
I got off the subway and began walking toward our apartment. The summer sun was dipping below the clouds, the shimmering towers of NewYork fading into night. The streets began to fill as people straggled home from work. Finally, after over a year I felt I was becoming a part of this city. It hadn’t been easy, thanks to assholes like Frank Rourke. Since the dog crap prank, my desk had been left alone. I had gone along with it, laughed it up, threw it in the trash and left it at that. If you let guys like Frank know they’d drawn blood, they’d grow addicted to the taste. I could bleed on my own time.