Gnosis

by Tom Wallace

  “Then I’m sure you can appreciate the irony that in real life, in our house, Isaac was Esau and Tommy was Jacob. Isaac desperately wanted my father’s blessing and never received it. Tommy couldn’t have cared less yet it was bestowed upon him every day. The irony becomes even greater when you factor in how their lives turned out. The rejected son follows in his father’s footsteps, while the chosen son becomes a lost soul.”

  Rachel turned away and blinked back tears. She withdrew a tissue from her purse and wiped her nose.

  “Tommy truly was a golden boy, Detective,” she continued. “That’s not exaggeration, or baby sister idolizing big brother. Ask anyone who knew Tommy back then. They’ll agree. He was handsome, smart, personable, kind, the best athlete in school-there was simply nothing he didn’t excel at. And it all came so natural to him, so easy. Isaac studied diligently and made B’s; Tommy phoned it in and made all A’s. Isaac worked harder at sports; Tommy was the superstar. If Isaac wanted to date a beautiful girl, he had to keep his fingers crossed that Tommy didn’t ask her out first. You get the picture, Detective. Tommy was special.”

  “Did Eli encourage the rivalry?”

  “You aren’t listening, Detective. There was no rivalry. Didymus Thomas Whitehouse had no competitors.”

  “Interesting name,” Dantzler said. “Both mean twin. Didymus is Greek, Thomas is Aramaic.”

  Rachel applauded. “I am impressed, Detective. You’ve obviously studied subjects other than criminal investigation, police procedure, and tennis strategy. Am I correct?”

  “Philosophy.”

  “Wonderful field. Which brings me to the obvious question-how did a budding Jean Paul Sartre become Sherlock Holmes?”

  “My mother was murdered when I was fourteen. Her killer was never caught. I knew the day after she was killed that being a detective was what I wanted to be.”

  “Doesn’t take Dr. Freud to untangle that plot.”

  Dantzler said, “Back to Tommy. You speak of him in the past tense. Is he dead?”

  “The golden boy certainly is.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “You turned your family tragedy into something positive, Detective. That’s admirable. Unfortunately, Tommy wasn’t able to overcome our family tragedy. It devoured him, changed him completely, turned him into another person, one none of us knew or could every really get close to again. He became this dark, quiet, melancholy loner. His grades went from all A’s to far below average. Sports no longer meant anything to him; before the incident they were his passion. After high school, Tommy joined the Marines. Did eight years before the alcoholism got so out of control they had no choice but to discharge him. I can’t begin to explain the change, Detective. I don’t have the vocabulary for it. It was just… a one-hundred and eighty degree turn.”

  “You’ve made it clear that Eli worshipped Tommy. Did Tommy feel the same about Eli?”

  “Tommy was fifteen when it all went down. Sure, he loved Eli, but Tommy was like some solitary planet circling in his own galaxy. People gravitated to Tommy, not the other way around.”

  “Does he still live around here? I will need to get in touch with him.”

  “We own quite a bit of rental property, and one of the places is a duplex off Redding Road. We let him live there. I’ll get you the address and phone number before you leave.”

  “Thanks. What does your brother do to earn a living?”

  “Nothing of real consequence. Along with letting him live rent free, we let him manage some of our properties, pay him a small salary. He’s been clean and sober for six months now, and that’s a long stretch for him. I do think he’s trying, making some progress. But we’ve been down this road before and… he always lets us down. Always lets himself down.”

  “What’s your husband’s relationship with Tommy?”

  “Kirk has been more than patient with my brother, cut him miles and miles of slack. He really likes Tommy, and would love to see him get straightened out. He really would. But-”

  “Does Isaac help out?”

  “Prays for him, maybe, but not much else.”

  “In all this time, you haven’t asked why I wanted to talk about your father,” Dantzler said. “Aren’t you curious?”

  “I deal with horses and politicians, Detective. I’ve developed two things over the years-thick skin and patience. You’ll tell me when you feel like it. But, yes, I am slightly curious.”

  “I think there’s a chance your father may be innocent.”

  “I have maintained from the beginning that he did not kill those two young boys,” Rachel said, fighting back tears. “I have been the lone voice crying in the wilderness. There is no way my father is a cold-blooded killer. Can you prove his innocence?”

  Dantzler shrugged. “Not unless I can dig up something new concerning the case. The evidence against him is fairly overwhelming. I’ve seen plenty of people convicted on a lot less.”

  “Why do you think he is innocent?”

  “I didn’t say he is innocent. I said he might be.”

  “But there has to be some reason why you feel this way.”

  “I do, but I don’t have time to get into specifics right now. What I need is to ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes, yes, go ahead. Ask me anything.”

  “If your father is innocent, he has spent twenty-nine years behind bars. And he’s done so without complaining, without appealing the decision, without trying to find the real killer. Why would he do that? Throw away his life like that? He should have been the loudest voice crying in the wilderness.”

  “How many times do you think I’ve asked myself those very questions, Detective Dantzler? Fifty times a day, every day of my life. And I have no answer.”

  “Did you ever ask Eli?”

  “A million times. He never answers, just looks away.”

  “This woman he had an affair with. Was she married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Were there other women?”

  “My mother said no, but maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part. There very well could have been other women she didn’t know about. All I can tell you is that I’m not aware of others.”

  “Is your mother still alive? If she is, I’d like to speak with her.”

  Rachel shook her head. “No. She died in nineteen ninety-three. Why? Do you think my father might have been set up by an angry husband or boyfriend?”

  “Not unless the husband or boyfriend was a professional hit man.”

  “Are you saying this was a professional job?”

  “Has all the earmarks, yes. That’s one of the reasons why I have doubts that Eli committed the murders.”

  “Then my father’s silence makes sense. He kept quiet to protect his family.”

  “Okay, let’s assume that’s true. My next question is, how was Eli Whitehouse mixed up with a professional killer?”

  Rachel closed her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t imagine how he could have been. That would make no sense.”

  “Can you recall any members of his congregation who were suspicious? Maybe someone who joined the church a short time prior to the murders?”

  “God, I was only nine at the time, Detective. That was such a long time ago. I knew most of the members, but there were new ones showing up all the time. Some stayed, some didn’t. But if you’re asking me if I remember anyone who could have been a professional killer, the answer is no.”

  “How well do you know Colt Rogers?”

  “The attorney?”

  Dantzler nodded.

  “Not at all, really,” Rachel said. “I’ve dealt with him on a few occasions over the years, mainly to sign some documents. Why are you asking about him?”

  “Just gathering information, Rachel. What about Abe Basham?”

  “Nice man, superb attorney. He really tried to help my father. But his hands were tied by my father’s silence.”

  “There’s something we’re missing here, something critica
l,” Dantzler said. “And unless I can uncover it, I can’t prove Eli’s innocence.”

  “Can’t you take another, closer look at the evidence?” Rachel asked.

  “That’s not where the answer is.”

  “Where is the answer, then?”

  “Not where. Who.” Dantzler thought for a few seconds, and then said, “Eli told me to check the Herald’s obit page for the two-week period of April fifth to April eighteenth. He said I would find the answer there. Do you have any idea who he might have been referring to?”

  “I have absolutely no clue,” Rachel said. “Why wouldn’t he give you the name? If he wants you to prove his innocence, it’s the least he could do.”

  “I suspect he’s afraid to.”

  “What did my father get himself into all those years ago? How could this have happened?”

  Dantzler had no answers.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “We struck out with Doug Reynolds,” Eric said, as Dantzler came into the War Room. “He has an alibi and it’s solid.”

  “Out of town?”

  “Hospital. He went in for an emergency appendectomy on the day before the murders. Wasn’t released until three days later.”

  “He was a long shot at best,” Dantzler said, sitting. “But it’s good to eliminate him as a suspect. Knowing for sure allows us to move forward.”

  “Jack, are you still sold on all of this?” Eric asked. “I went back and checked the murder book and the trial transcript again last night. Went over it hard. And I have to tell you, I can’t find anything to contradict the verdict. The evidence says guilty.”

  “You may be right, Eric. But…”

  “You’re challenging work done by Charlie and Dan. Think about it. Those guys were good detectives. They didn’t botch things.”

  “I can’t disagree with anything you’re saying,” Dantzler said. “But something isn’t right about this case. It smells. And I can’t walk away from a case that has a sour odor to it.”

  Dantzler took the Doug Reynolds folder from Eric.

  “Ask yourself this, Eric. Why would a guy warn me to keep away from a case that I hadn’t even begun looking into? He wouldn’t, unless there was a reason for him to be worried. And why would he worry if Eli is guilty? That’s one area that troubles me. Another is the fact that I caught Greg Spurlock in a series of lies. Why would he lie? What is he covering up? I need answers to those questions. The evidence, yeah, it points to Eli. But the circumstances of the crime do not. This was a professional hit, and I just cannot bring myself to believe Eli Whitehouse is a professional hit man.”

  “Maybe not. But I can’t see a seventeen-year-old kid like Greg Spurlock as a professional hit man, either,” Eric said.

  “Greg Spurlock didn’t kill anybody. But he knows more than he’s telling. That much I’m sure of.”

  “Want me to check him out?”

  Dantzler shook his head. “Milt is. Once he’s put everything together, I plan on having another chat with the good doctor. Only this time it won’t be at Paisano’s, he won’t be drinking wine, and I won’t be so nice.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Go back to the obits and check the females. You don’t have to be so detailed this time around, though. Mainly, I want to know if any of them had criminal activity in their past.”

  “You think the shooter could’ve been a woman?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “Those two guys were tied up, Jack. If the shooter was a woman, she had to have an accomplice. No way she could have done it all by herself.”

  “Well, just look into the female obits, see if anything hinky pops up. If nothing does, then I’ll probably need to throw in the towel and walk away from the case, sour odor or not.”

  “I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow.”

  “Did I tell you what a terrific job you did gathering information on those obits?” Dantzler said, standing.

  “If you did, I didn’t hear it.”

  “It was excellent work, Eric. You went above and beyond on this job. I want you to know I really appreciate it.”

  “And I’m sure you’ve read every word of my manuscript.”

  “Gonna start on it tonight.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Devon Fraley answered the phone at the same time the gentleman walked into Colt Rogers’s office. Devon, desperate to make a good impression, had been sent over by a temp agency yesterday to fill in for Barbara Tanner. Barbara, Colt’s longtime receptionist, was out with the flu. If Devon could perform well on this job, earn Colt’s respect-and a possible recommendation-she had a chance to find the full-time employment with benefits she needed. To move up the ladder and provide a better life for her and her young son was her goal. Working here could be the ticket.

  She held up her hand to let the visitor know she would be with him as soon as she finished with the call.

  “Colt Roger’s office, Devon speaking. How may I help you?” She listened for several seconds. “No, Detective Dantzler, Mr. Rogers is not in. He is meeting with a client. I expect him back around four-thirty or five.”

  The man standing by the desk turned and walked away. He went to a table, picked up a copy of Time magazine, and began leafing through it.

  “Well, Detective, I know Mr. Rogers has a meeting here tonight at seven,” Devon said. “Yes, I will put you down for six. And, yes, if there is a conflict, or if Mr. Rogers can’t make it, I will have him give you a call. Is there anything else? No? Then I will make sure Mr. Rogers gets your message. Thank you.”

  When Devon finished writing on her message pad, she looked up. The man who had been standing there was gone.

  *****

  Colt Rogers plopped down in the leather chair, opened the brown paper bag, and took out his supper. Egg salad sandwich on marble rye, chips, a generous slice of cheesecake, and a can of Dr. Pepper. Not a meal to rate very high on the nutrition scale, but one he was anxious to dig into. It had been a long, eventful day, and he was famished. At this point, bologna and crackers would have been acceptable supper fare.

  Rogers was alone in his office, having let Devon leave thirty minutes before her five p.m. quitting time as a reward for her excellent work. Devon was, he judged, an energetic and enthusiastic worker, far superior to the standard replacements usually sent by the temp agency. He would definitely keep an eye on her. She was someone he would consider as a permanent replacement if Barbara followed through on her promise to retire within the next couple of years.

  Rogers had a much more muted opinion of Cheryl Likens, his firm’s paralegal. Cheryl, twenty-six, was lazy and condescending toward virtually everyone she came in contact with. A mediocre paralegal at best, she was an uninspired writer, totally lacking imagination, cleverness, or insight. Her research skills, such as they were, also left much to be desired. Were she not so hot in the sack, Rogers would have fired her months ago. Like it or not, he knew it was only a matter of time until he would have to let her go. Despite her prowess in all matters sexual, she was too much of a liability to the firm to keep on board much longer. He could not allow his carnal desires to cost him money or clients.

  He took a swig of Dr. Pepper and sighed out loud. The prospect of severing ties with Cheryl was more than a little disheartening. It was downright depressing. After all, how often does a fifty-nine-year old man have a sexual relationship with a twenty-six-year-old woman, especially one with the looks and body of a Playboy playmate? Once in a lifetime, if the man gets lucky. And if he were being completely honest with himself, he would admit that he hired Cheryl for her body, not for her brains. It had been a regrettable mistake, one that had to be rectified. Saying goodbye to Cheryl was going to be more painful than paying alimony. But he had no choice. It had to be done.

  Sandwich and chips devoured, Rogers dug into the cheesecake. It was smooth and creamy, exactly the way he liked it. Plain, too, without some nonsensical chocolate syrup or strawb
erries lathered on top like an unwanted oil spill. That would only ruin it. No whipped cream, either. Cheesecake was meant to be eaten plain, sans any and all adornments. He had always preferred it that way.

  When he finished the cheesecake and Dr. Pepper, he dumped everything back into the brown sack and dropped it into the wastebasket. Leaning forward, he shuffled through the notes Devon had given him before leaving for the day. Three related to phone calls he needed to return; those he would put off until Monday morning. There was a message reminding him of his seven o’clock meeting with Lance Ford, a stockbroker who was embroiled in a war of wills with the Internal Revenue Service. Lance, it seems, had conveniently neglected to list all of his income for the past three years, an oversight the IRS frowned upon. Lance was, Rogers knew, fighting a losing battle with those vultures. His best bet-confess his sins and beg for mercy, not that he should expect any. Those IRS folks are notoriously short on forgiveness.

  The last note informed him that Detective Dantzler would be here at six. Rogers looked at his Rolex-it was now five twenty-five. He stood, went to the window, and looked outside. Night was rapidly closing in, those dark clouds off to the east bringing with them the threat of rain. West Short Street was deserted, not a soul in sight. Unusual, especially for a Friday.

  Rogers felt like the only person left on the planet.

  Standing there, deep in thought, he began to feel a strange heat rushing through his body, scorching his insides. He had the peculiar feeling that his blood was on fire. Butterflies suddenly fluttered in his stomach, a battalion of imaginary winged creatures gone berserk. His legs grew weak, and his breathing became quick and shallow. For a split second, he was certain he was going to pass out.

  And he knew why his nerves were so unsteady.

  Dantzler.

  No secret why he’s coming-to talk about the Reverend. To stick his detective’s nose where it doesn’t belong. To dig up skeletons from the past. To uncover secrets buried by the passage of time.

  To shine a light into dark places best left alone.