by Rick Reed
An hour later Jack and Liddell pulled into the gravel lot of the Shawneetown Police Department. JJ’s souped-up Firebird police cruiser was gone. In its place sat a large black Suburban with smoked windows.
As they exited the car they were hailed from the wooded area across from the trailer. A big man—almost as big as Liddell—was coming from the tree line carrying a roll of toilet paper. He was dressed in the same uniform as Lieutenant Johnson, but where JJ’s was pegged skin tight, this man wore his loose and comfortable.
He approached them, twisting his gun belt straight across his massive stomach. “Toilet’s fudged up again,” he complained and straightened his uniform shirt. “City won’t pay to fix this pisshole of a trailer, so I got to go in the woods.”
“Chief Johnson?” Jack inquired.
The big man switched the toilet paper to his other hand and shook with Jack and then Liddell, before heading up the metal steps into the trailer. Liddell wiped his hand on his pants and they followed Chief Johnson into the Shawneetown Police Station.
The chief ’s portion of the trailer was well decorated and took up half of the total space. He looked across the desk at the two detectives and then sighed before saying, “Looky, fellas. This is a quiet little town. Or at least it was up till you guys came here stirring things up. Now my lieutenant is running around like he’s some kinda TV detective, and that damn Evansville newspaper of yours has got the media calling every five minutes.
Jack moved his chair closer to the chief ’s desk, and keeping his voice low, said, “Chief Johnson, it’s not our intention to cause any problems for you or your town. We’re investigating the death of one of your people.”
Before he could add that the murder of Cordelia Morse was tied to a second killing that had happened within hours of hers, the chief cut him off.
“She got herself killed in Evansville, boys. That’s your jurisdiction.”
Jack shook his head. “It doesn’t matter where she was killed. Her roots are here. Her family and friends are here.” Then, seeing the stubborn look on Chief Johnson’s jowly face, he decided to change tactics. This was Chief Johnson’s home ground. Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s.
“To be honest, our chief of police, Marlin Pope, told us to come and see you personally. He said he met you once, sir, and that you wouldn’t steer us wrong,” Jack said.
Chief Johnson looked sternly at both men and then his features softened. Jack didn’t know if Johnson had ever met Chief Pope.
“Pope, huh?” Chief Johnson said. “Black guy, right?”
Jack relaxed a bit.
“Okay, looky here, fellas,” Johnson said. “I’m sorry about JJ talking to that reporter guy. I gave him a good talkin’-to about it, but he’s still young. You know?”
Jack and Liddell nodded.
“So what can I do for you?” Johnson asked.
Jonathan Samuels was home when Chief Bob Johnson arrived at the apartment with the two Evansville detectives in tow. To Jack, the man looked to be barely twenty years old, and except for the multicolored spiky hair, Jon personified the word average. It was apparent from Samuels’s icy stare that there was history between himself and the chief of police.
“Nice pedal pushers, Nancy,” the chief said to Samuels and then, “This here’s some detectives from Evansville. They want to ask you some questions about Cordelia. You be nice and answer them truthfully, you hear me?”
Jack extended a hand and said, “Detective Murphy. Jack.”
Samuels shook his hand, but his eyes never left those of the big chief of police.
“Did you know, Detective Murphy, that pedal pushers were all the style in the fifties. Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn, Annette Funicello, for example, all wore pedal pushers as an alternative to the poodle skirts. But now they are called capri pants, because capris are cut a little tighter, showing a gal’s figure off better. So if Uncle Bob here wasn’t such a fascist he’d know that no one wears pedal pushers anymore.”
Chief Johnson’s features stiffened and his hand was moving to his handcuffs, when Jack interrupted the promise of a violent ending to this interview.
“My ex-wife brought a pair of pedal pushers back from a trip to New York City. She said they still call them that out there. So I guess they never go out of style,” Jack said, and smiled at Jon. He didn’t know if this was true or not, but it could be.
Chief Johnson saw his opportunity. “So I guess you don’t know everything, do you?” he said to Samuels.
Liddell began coughing into his hand.
“Can I get you something, Detective?” Samuels offered.
“Water,” Liddell answered in a raspy voice.
Jon turned to go back into the apartment for the water. When he was out of earshot Liddell stepped up to Chief Johnson and said, “Thanks for all your help, pod’na, but now that you’ve played the bad cop, how ’bout letting Jack ask him a few questions in private?”
Liddell was every bit as big as the chief, but where Johnson had gone to fat, Liddell was solidly built. Chief Johnson must have seen the foolishness of angering the bigger man, but his ego was as large as his frame and he had to make one more stab at being in charge.
“Listen, smart-ass, I’m the chief here. I know this little whootchie-koo and he’s not the nice little downtrodden mother’s son like they show on TV. This’un here’d cut your throat if you turned your back on him. I’ll wait in the car like one a them turban-wearin’ cab drivers. But don’t take all day.” With that he turned on his heel and sauntered out of the apartment door.
“Think I made him mad, pod’na,” Liddell said.
“You think?” Jack answered.
“My big criminal record is possession of part of a marijuana cigarette,” Samuels confided to Jack and Liddell. “The judge threw it out of court. Johnson’s hated me ever since. But he hated me even more when Cordelia moved in with me. I think he had his eye on her. You know?”
Jack raised an eyebrow at this information.
“I’m gay, not stupid,” Jon said. “And I also figured out that you were trying to keep me and Baldilocks from going at it.”
“Baldilocks?” Liddell said.
“Yeah,” Jon said, a huge grin spread across his face. He handed the water to Liddell. “What can I do to help? Cordelia was special to me. And, no, she wasn’t gay.”
“Tell us everything you can about Cordelia,” Jack said.
Jon let out a sigh and invited them to sit, and as they did Jack’s foot struck something next to the couch. He looked down and saw that he had knocked over a bowl of what looked like dry dog food.
“You have a dog?” Jack asked.
Samuels chuckled. “She’s at the groomer’s.”
“I heard her barking the first time we were out here. What kind of dog is she?” Jack asked out of politeness.
“Oh, just a mutt,” Samuels offered. “I just got her. She belonged to a friend who recently passed away. But I’m sure you would rather hear about Cordelia.”
He then told the detectives how he and Cordelia had met in grade school, and how they had at first formed an alliance because they were “different” from the other kids. Jon because he was gay, and Cordelia because she was adopted. She had been there for him through his struggle to go straight, and later, his discovery that he was HIV positive.
“Cordelia was a beautiful person, Detective. She was smart, quick-witted, humorous, and loved her aunt and would do anything for her friends. But as soon as they found out she was adopted they taunted her and made up stories.”
“What kind of stories?” Liddell asked.
Jon took a sip of his beer. “They called her a killer. Said she killed her family. It was just kids being mean. You know how they are.”
Jack and Liddell looked at each other in surprise.
“I didn’t tell that newspaper guy any of this. None of his business,” Jon said.
A question came into Jack’s mind. “How well did Chief Johnson know Cordelia?
”
Jon cocked his head, and said, “You noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
“That the chief of police doesn’t seem interested in solving her murder,” Jon said.
Jack hadn’t really read that much into it, but he nodded.
“Well, he visited her frequently over the last several years,” he said, and paused as if wondering how much to tell. “He seemed to have a sweet spot for her. More than he should have, what with his nephew being raised with her and all. And he didn’t want her living here with me. He even suggested once that he would get her a place in Old Shawneetown by him and offered to pay for it.”
“That’s strange?” Jack asked.
“That old penny-pincher? He don’t give nothing away. So why is it that he’s not doing more himself to find out who killed her?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Later, as they stood in the parking lot outside, Chief Johnson called the Gallatin County prosecutor for a search warrant of Jon Samuels’s apartment. He offered to take the detectives to the best restaurant in Gallatin County. They were buying, of course. And it was just a coincidence that the restaurant was owned by the chief, and managed by his wife and daughter.
Liddell jumped at the chance.
“This guy never eats, Chief,” Liddell complained. “He’s trying to starve me to death.”
Chief Johnson smiled and patted his own stomach. “I know what you mean. Just follow me and we’ll be putting down a plate of flapjacks and bacon in ten minutes’ time.”
“What’re we waiting for?” Liddell quipped. “Thanks, Chief Johnson.”
“Call me Bob,” Johnson said.
Liddell concentrated on the road as Jack made several quick telephone calls. The first to Captain Franklin to tell him about their talk with Jonathan Samuels. Franklin agreed that they needed to search the apartment and said he would send crime scene guys if Jack thought they were needed. They both knew that the Shawneetown PD did not have the resources, man power, or experience to deal with something like this.
Jack hoped that Chief Johnson would see the wisdom in obtaining a search warrant, and would allow the Evansville Police Department to assist in the search. Jack would prefer to have Sergeant Walker bring a few crime scene techs from Evansville to carry out the search.
The next call was to Sergeant Walker. “How fast can you get to Shawneetown, Illinois, Tony?” he asked when Walker came on the line. He filled him in on what he needed and was about to call his own county prosecutor, just to keep them in the loop, when his cell phone rang in his hand. It was his ex-wife.
“Hi, Katie,” he said, and cupped his free hand over his ear to hear above the road noise.
“I read the paper this morning. Are you okay?” Katie said, her voice full of concern.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. It was always like this. She would call out of the blue, and then he would be left feeling guilty and not even know why.
“Are you at least getting some sleep, Jack?”
“Like a baby,” he said, but in fact he hadn’t been sleeping well at all. Last night he’d gone to sleep on his front porch covered with a plastic tarp. “And we’re getting ready to go to a restaurant and have a sit-down meal.”
“Well, I won’t keep you,” her voice trailed off, waiting for him to say something, but when he didn’t, she said, “I’ll call Susan and keep her entertained.”
Jack didn’t know what to say to that. So he said, “Thanks for calling. Take care of yourself and don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy.”
“Did you remember to buy Susan a birthday present?” she asked.
“I’m thinking of getting her a running outfit.” She was silent and he knew that meant she had a better idea.
“Okay, I give up. What should I get her?” he asked.
“I was just thinking that a nice light blue warm-up outfit in size ten would be perfect,” Katie said, surprising him.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Susan loves to run, and light blue is her favorite color,” Katie said.
“I know,” Jack said, although he couldn’t remember her ever wearing light blue. “I’m getting it today.”
He heard Katie laugh and then she was gone.
“I really am getting it today,” he said to the dead line and then punched in one last number.
“Angelina, I need your help again,” Jack said.
“Anything, boss,” she said, and he could detect a hint of boredom in her voice.
“I need you to go to Hibbett or Dick’s Sporting Goods and get a light blue running outfit for me.”
“What size are you?” she asked.
“It’s for Susan,” he said.
“Sorry, boss, but I draw the line at buying gifts for your stable of women.” She hung up.
“What stable?” he said to the dead line and closed his phone.
“Garcia’s going to get it for you?” Liddell asked.
“She’ll get it,” Jack said.
“Want me to call Marcie?”
“I’ll take care of it!” Jack said. “By the way, I talked to Susan last night and she said she’s got someone in mind to help us out. Schull is out of the country, so it’s somebody else.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Liddell agreed.
“Yeah,” Jack agreed, but he thought about how Susan and Schull had once been lovers and it still niggled at him. He didn’t normally have a jealous bone in his body, but when it came to sharing Susan he found out he had a whole jealous skeleton. He didn’t like the feeling, and hated to admit it even more.
Ye Olde Shawneetown Diner was housed in a massive two-story brick building that was built in the early 1800s when the rivers were the primary means of moving both people and consumable goods. Three thousand square feet upstairs and a similar amount down. Johnson had renovated the upstairs into living quarters that he and his wife shared with their only daughter.
The building sat back far enough from the street to allow for outside tables and chairs on three sides of the building, with a covered balcony on the front and both sides as well.
“You own this, Chief ?” Jack asked.
Chief Johnson shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. “Well, me’n the bank. And the place doubles for my home right now until it can generate enough money to pay for itself.”
Jack was half owner of the Two-Jakes Restaurant and Marina in Evansville, and was impressed with the restoration work that Chief Johnson had done to the old building. The business part of his mind was already working on a cooperative angle whereby he could link his own waterfront restaurant with the one he stood looking at now. Two-Jakes enjoyed a steady stream of travelers, from both up and down river, who would tie up at his floating docks and come into the restaurant or bar. With just a little cross-advertising he could build both businesses’ clientele. But he wasn’t here to talk about the restaurant business.
The interior was as magnificent as the exterior, with oak pedestal tables covered with heavy linen tablecloths, heavy wooden chairs, floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed a view of the waterfront, a small raised dance floor next to an expensive-looking bar. The only things missing were customers.
Chief Johnson noticed Jack looking around and said, “We don’t do the business I’d hoped yet, but it’s early days. We do a better evening and weekend crowd. They always come to drink and dance.”
“So what’s on the menu?” Liddell said, sniffing the air.
“Gertie!” Chief Johnson called, and a woman came from the kitchen.
“What do you want?” the woman asked. She was wearing a colorless frock with a stained apron tied loosely at the waist. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly in a ponytail that lay across her shoulder, and her skin was smooth and clear. Jack guessed her age at about thirty, but her demeanor suggested someone twice that age.
“Gertie, honey, this here’s Jack Murphy. And that tall galoot is Liddell Blanchard. They’s homicide detectives from Evansville.”
&nbs
p; Gertrude Johnson eyed the visitors and a smile came to her eyes. She wiped her hands on the stained apron and said, “Sorry. I was in the back cleaning.” She blushed slightly, and then shook hands with both men.
“You should have told me we were having company, Daddy.” She excused herself and went back into the kitchen.
“That’s my daughter. Her and her momma run the place. I just pay the bills,” Johnson said. “She’s a looker, ain’t she?”
“I’m already married,” Liddell said, and Jack nudged him in the ribs.
Johnson didn’t seem to hear the remark and offered the men seats at a table near the kitchen. “I’ll get her to rustle up some grub,” he said, but before he could leave the room his cell phone rang. Johnson looked at the caller ID on his phone and said, “That was quick. Guess we’ll have to get the food to go. Your search warrant’s ready.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Judge Abner Hudgins, circuit court judge for Gallatin County, had interrupted a fishing trip to come in to work and sign the search warrant. He stood in his office beside hundreds of leather-bound law books, dressed in stained khakis and Keen sandals, with his thick white chest hair showing through the neck of a white button-up shirt. A safari hat was laying on one of the heavy mahogany chairs. Two fly-fishing rods leaned against the wall.
Hudgins was a man of few words, but he had been very interested to read the search warrant for the apartment that Cordelia Morse had shared with Jon Samuels. As he finished the last page and put his sweeping signature to the document he looked up at Jack and Liddell.
“This search warrant doesn’t say a lot of things, does it?” he asked.
“It’s complete, sir,” Jack assured him.
Judge Hudgins made a dismissive motion and said, “Oh, it’s complete enough. And you can see that I signed it.” His eyes drew into narrow slits as he sized the men up before continuing. “How much do you know about the killing?”
Jack was about to answer when the judge raised a hand to stop him. “I mean the killing of Cordelia’s daddy?”
“Pretend I don’t know anything,” Jack said to Judge Hudgins. Seeing the sharp look he earned for his remark, he added, “which shouldn’t be hard because I know nothing.”