Gnosis

by Tom Wallace

  Rogers struggled to calm his shaky nerves, to get control of his emotions and thoughts. This was no time for weakness, not when facing a guy like Dantzler. He’s a cop, and like everyone else in law enforcement, he sees weakness as one of the absolute signs of untruthfulness. And he has a reputation for sniffing out weakness the way a shark sniffs out a drop of blood miles away in the ocean. Dantzler was known as a furious, hard-edged investigator.

  Falter ever so slightly and Dantzler will know. Then he’ll pounce, relentlessly, until you cave in.

  Rogers felt as if he were about to lose his supper. He swallowed hard, took several deep breaths, and sat back down. Perspiration dripped from his chin to the desk. The butterflies continued to swarm inside him.

  Stop this, Rogers silently admonished. Okay, so Dantzler wants to talk. Big deal. What questions could he possibly ask that I can’t answer honestly? None. I know the Reverend’s story, know it by heart, which means I am fully aware of what I can reveal and what I must keep secret. Dantzler has only speculation to go up against my knowledge and that gives me the clear advantage. He cannot win against me. I can handle anything he throws my way. I am superior.

  Rogers felt his nerves begin to settle and the butterflies disperse. He had won the internal debate against the coward that lay deep inside him, that quiet but often persuasive voice he continually had to battle, to silence, to drive away from the dark places in his soul.

  He was ready for Dantzler. Let the great detective bring on the questions. Let him probe and dig for my weaknesses. He won’t find any.

  I am superior.

  At that moment, Rogers heard a knock at his door. He glanced at his Rolex. Five-forty. Dantzler, true to his reputation, was eager for confrontation. So be it, Rogers murmured to himself. I am also ready for confrontation.

  Striding confidently forward, Rogers moved through the outer office and opened the door. Surprise and confusion registered in equal amounts when he saw the man standing in front of him. It was not Jack Dantzler.

  It was-

  “What are you doing here?” Rogers asked.

  The man said nothing as he slowly raised his right arm. In his hand was the most beautiful pistol Colt Rogers had ever seen.

  “What the hell?” Rogers said, backing away.

  Those were his last words before his face exploded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  What had once been Colt Rogers’s face was now a grotesque mixture of blood, flesh, bone, and brain tissue. One eye, blown out of its socket, dangled down his cheek like a ball on a string. The other eye had been obliterated upon impact. His nose was gone, along with virtually all of his lower jaw. The back of his head had fared no better, having been utterly destroyed by the blast, which blew open a gaping fist-size hole that exposed a small segment of brain that miraculously had survived intact. Brain matter, blood, and tissue had sprayed across the office to the back wall, where, Dantzler knew, they would likely find the bullet that had inflicted such damage.

  Mac Tinsley knelt next to the body, his gloved hands bloody from inspecting the massive wounds. A diminutive man famed for his black horn-rimmed glasses and his meticulous work ethic, Mac had been the coroner for almost four decades. The joke was that Mac had been around so long he performed the autopsy on poor, murdered Abel. But Mac’s days on the job were numbered. With his sixty-fifth birthday less than a month away, he had recently made the decision to call it quits at the end of the year. He had concluded that enough was enough.

  “Tell you one thing for certain, Jackie-boy,” Mac said, removing the bloody Latex gloves. “There will be no open casket at Colt’s funeral service. In all my years doing this nasty work, I can only recall two occasions when I’ve seen such extensive damage to a man’s face. Both were suicides, and both victims used a shotgun.”

  Dantzler helped Mac to his feet. “Any guess as to how long he’s been dead?”

  “The man’s still warm. This happened within the past ninety minutes.”

  “The shooter cut it close,” Dantzler said. “I couldn’t have missed him by more than a few minutes.”

  Richard Bird entered the office, glanced down at the body, and quickly looked away. Bird, head of the Homicide division, had no stomach for the ugliness of the job. His talent was administrative, not investigative detective legwork. Politics rather than police procedure was his strength. He much preferred his cool office to a vulgar crime scene.

  “Damn, I could have gone a lifetime without seeing that,” Bird said, shaking his head. “What a mess.”

  “Am I clear to take the body, Jackie-boy?” Mac said. “Did you get everything you need?”

  Dantzler looked toward the back of the office, where Milt was overseeing one of the crime scene tech’s efforts to retrieve the bullet. “Milt, any reason to keep the body here?”

  “Nope. Feel free to take Mr. Rogers out of his neighborhood.” Milt held up his right hand. “Got the bullet, Jack. Big sucker, too, just like we suspected. In fairly good condition considering the road it traveled. I’m guessing this came from a forty-four or a three-fifty-eight.”

  “That makes Clint Eastwood our prime suspect,” Bird said.

  “For taking out a lawyer, I vote to give Clint an award.” Milt laughed. “I always felt one of Clint’s old flicks perfectly summed up my feelings toward our barristers-Hang ’Em High.”

  “That’s not funny, Milt,” Bird said. He looked at Dantzler. “But Rogers was a lawyer. I’m sure he had plenty of enemies.”

  “I’m sure he did. But this wasn’t done by an angry client. This is connected to the Eli Whitehouse case.”

  “You don’t know that for sure, Jack.”

  “Come on, Rich. Think about it. I’m supposed to meet Rogers at six, to talk about Eli’s case, and when I get here, he’s dead. That’s more of a coincidence than I care to accept.”

  “What time did you get here?”

  “Six, straight up. Mac says Rogers couldn’t have been killed more than fifteen minutes before I got here. That-”

  “How did the killer know you were going to be here?” Bird asked, shaking his head. “And how could he possibly know what you were planning to discuss with Rogers?”

  “Don’t know. What I can tell you is this has to do with my re-opening the Eli Whitehouse case.”

  “But there are differences. You’ve said from the beginning a professional hit man took out those two boys in ’eighty-two. This doesn’t look professional to me.”

  “Well, you’re wrong, Rich. We’ve been all over this place and we can’t find a shell casing. That tells me the shooter, despite being in a time pinch, acted in a cool and collective manner. Like a pro. He didn’t panic.”

  “You could be right, Jack. But you could also be dead wrong. I don’t want us heading down one path at the exclusion of all others. You want to continue with the Eli Whitehouse case, that’s okay with me. But I’m assigning Milt and Eric to look into Colt Rogers’s murder as a separate case. We clear on that?”

  “Perfectly. That’s the way we should approach it.”

  Dantzler and Bird watched as the covered body of Colt Rogers was loaded onto a gurney and taken out of the office. Mac Tinsley closed his medical bag, picked it up, and followed the body outside into the darkness.

  “Damn, a bullet in the face,” Bird said. “That’d be a hard way to go.”

  “Is there ever an easy way?” Dantzler asked.

  *****

  West Short Street, deserted two hours ago, was now a buzz of activity and energy. Curious onlookers, having learned via the gossip grapevine that a murder had occurred, poured out of the nearby bars and restaurants eager to see what happened. Within a matter of minutes, they were three deep behind the blocked off section and multiplying fast. Nothing draws a big crowd quicker than yellow crime scene tape and rumors of a grisly murder.

  Microphone-toting reporters from two local TV stations were on the prowl for interviews, moving rapidly toward anyone who looked even remotely official. A f
emale scribe from the newspaper had Richard Bird cornered against an adjacent building. Bird, at six-six, towered above his inquisitor, who was scribbling at a furious pace, certain she was being given inside information about the murder, when, in fact, she wasn’t. No reporter ever got a scoop from Richard Bird. He possessed a great talent for saying nothing relevant or important while giving the impression he had recently descended Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments. Bamboozled reporters, eager to uncover the big scoop, confused gibberish for gospel.

  Outside, in front of Colt Rogers’s office, Dantzler huddled with Milt and Eric. A strategy needed to be put in place, he knew, and now rather than later. While Dantzler didn’t necessarily buy into the long-held consensus that if a murder isn’t solved in the first forty-eight hours, it likely never will be, he did agree that time is of the essence. The killer already had a head start. The trick is to not let him get so far ahead he can’t be caught.

  “Ah, shit, man, here come the jackals,” Eric said. “Bad idea coming outside to talk.”

  Eric was referring to the two TV reporters running in their direction, one male, one female, both being trailed by hefty cameramen struggling to keep pace. The female, a reed-thin blonde with a mouthful of perfect pearly whites, won the race, easily beating her opposition by five full seconds.

  “Detective Dantzler,” she said, three seconds before the cameraman caught up, turned on his light, and focused. “What can you tell us about the murder of Colt Rogers?”

  “No comment.”

  “Is it true that he was shot to death?”

  “No comment.”

  By this time the male reporter had joined the group. Breathing hard, he rammed his microphone within inches of Dantzler’s face, causing Dantzler to push it away.

  “Look, guys,” Dantzler said, clearly peeved. “You’re not going to get anything from me worth reporting, because at this stage I don’t know much more than you know. We’ve just begun the investigation. We’re not even twenty minutes into it, yet. When we have anything worthwhile to report, you’ll hear about it. Until then, back off and give us room to breathe. And one more thing. In the future, if you have questions, ask the tall guy over there.”

  Dantzler pointed toward Richard Bird.

  “One more question,” the persistent female reporter said. “Is-”

  Dantzler glared hard at her. “Are you hearing impaired? I said no fucking comment. Now get away from me and let me do my job.”

  Milt and Eric were both laughing when Dantzler walked away from the reporters.

  “Ah, Ace, such atrocious language to use in front of one so young and innocent,” Milt said. “You probably scarred her for life.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that, Milt.” Dantzler turned serious. “Rich wants us to keep the investigations separate, which we’ll do. We need to keep the boss happy, because when he’s happy, he’s not climbing up our rectums. But we all know this killing is linked to the Eli Whitehouse case.”

  “I’m not as sure about that as you seem to be,” Milt said, shaking his head. “Truth is, I have serious reservations about it. I don’t think they are linked at all.”

  “They have to be, given the circumstances.”

  “Jack, you’re asking us to believe the shooter of those two kids in ’eighty-two is the same shooter who took out Colt Rogers. A twenty-nine-year gap between killings. That’s stretching credibility and reason beyond the breaking point, don’t you think?”

  “I’m scheduled to meet Rogers and talk about Eli’s case. Rogers is gunned down fifteen minutes before I show up. And you don’t see a connection?”

  “Let’s say it is the same shooter,” Milt said. “Why kill Rogers? Why now?”

  “Because Rogers had information or knowledge about the case and the shooter was afraid I might squeeze it out into the open. He couldn’t take that chance. Dead men don’t give away secrets. So, Rogers had to be done away with.”

  “Still a stretch, Jack.” Milt grinned. “But, hey, you’re the Ace, right? And who can argue with the Ace? You tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”

  Before Dantzler could lay out his plan, his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. Sean Montgomery.

  “Hey, Sean, thanks for getting back to me in such prompt fashion,” Dantzler said. He listened for a few moments, then said, “Yep, right in the face, too. Pretty damn messy. Listen, Sean, do you know Rogers’s receptionist? I think her name is Devon. Barbara Tanner? You positive? The lady I spoke to was named Devon. Yeah, I’ll check it out. And thanks.”

  Dantzler closed the phone and put it in his coat pocket. Looking up, he saw that Milt and Eric had moved several feet away and were standing next to Scott Crofton. Scott, recently promoted from patrolman to the Homicide crew, was engaged in a conversation with a man Dantzler didn’t recognize. The man was fidgety and nervous and talking a mile a minute. Scott was scribbling furiously in his notepad. When the man finished speaking, Scott gave him a pat on the shoulder and the three detectives watched him walk away.

  “Who was that?” Dantzler asked.

  The question had been directed at Scott, but the rookie detective remained silent, certain Dantzler was addressing one of the veterans. After several more seconds of silence, Milt elbowed Scott in the ribs.

  “Are you a mute, Scott?” Milt said, chuckling. “Answer the man’s question before we all die of old age. And keep in mind that it’s Detective Dantzler doing the asking, not God.”

  “Right, sure,” Scott said, looking down at his notes. “Lance Ford. He’s a stockbroker, and he had a seven o’clock meeting with the deceased. But-”

  “Deceased?” Milt interrupted. “You’re one of us now, Scott, so you don’t have to be so damn proper. Call it like it is. Say, the guy had a meeting with the poor schmuck who had his face turned into cherry pudding. Make it sound a little more colorful.”

  Scott looked up, unsure how to respond.

  Dantzler came to his rescue. “He’s busting your chops, Scott. It’s Milt’s way of welcoming you aboard. Now, proceed.”

  “Well, Mr. Ford said he had car trouble,” Scott continued, “which is why he was almost an hour late for the meeting. When he heard what had happened, he spoke with one of the patrolmen. Then he was sent to me.”

  “What was the purpose of the meeting?” Dantzler said.

  “Mr. Ford is apparently in hot water with the IRS, and he was meeting with the deceased… with the late Mr. Cherry Pudding Face to see what, if any, options he might have.” He looked at Milt. “Is that better?”

  Milt nodded. “That’s why we brought you up to the A team, Scott.”

  “Any reason to suspect him as the shooter?” Dantzler asked.

  Eric laughed out loud. “Lance Ford? No way. I went to school with him, and I can promise you he ain’t no killer. He was the all-time king of nerds. A certified meek geek.”

  “Not everyone is a basketball or tennis great,” Scott said, his eyes going from Eric to Dantzler.

  “Oh, a double zinger,” Milt said. “Way to go, Scott.”

  Dantzler, a serious look on his face, put a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “You know, Scott, you looked awfully spiffy in that patrolman’s uniform. Would you like to walk a beat again?”

  “No, sir, I-”

  “Cut him a break, Jack,” Eric said. “After all, he did call us great.”

  “I don’t know. A double zinger from a rookie. That’s fairly serious.”

  “But I was just-”

  The three veteran detectives burst out laughing.

  “Relax, Scott,” Dantzler said. “We’re just having some fun with you. There’s always a lot of ribbing going on, and you being the new kid on the block can expect a disproportionate amount hurled your way. Stand your ground and send out as much as you receive.”

  Scott let out a sigh of relief. “I thought I’d pissed you guys off. Thought maybe I was in big trouble.”

  “When you really piss me off, you’ll know it,” Dantzler said. “Milt, you
and Scott dig into Rogers’s files, past and present. He’s an attorney, so there are bound to be dozens of clients he’s angered over the years. Concentrate on his clients who went to jail. Sean Montgomery says Rogers was a master at plea bargaining and his clients usually got the short end of the stick, even though they probably didn’t realize it at the time. Could be one of those clients figured out Rogers didn’t have his best interest at heart and came back to square the account. Sean also told me Barbara Tanner has been Rogers’s receptionist since forever. Have Laurie speak with her. When I phoned Rogers’s office, I spoke with someone named Devon. She was probably filling in, sent over by some temp agency. Have Laurie make contact with her as well.”

  “What are you gonna do?” Milt asked.

  “Meet with Eli Whitehouse again. Convince him that if he wants this thing solved, he needs to give me more than he already has.”

  Eric shrugged his shoulders. “What am I supposed to do, Jack? Work on my jump shot?”

  “What you were doing before Colt Rogers bought it-keep looking through the obituaries. If Eli refuses to give me more information, then it’s up to you to find the answer.”

  “If Eli refuses to help,” Milt said, “you need to say to hell with you, Reverend, have a nice eternity.”

  Dantzler nodded and slowly walked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was almost eleven and Dantzler was concerned. He had spent much of Saturday afternoon and evening trying to get in touch with Charlie Bolton, without any luck. Repeated phone calls had gone unanswered, both on the cell phone and the landline. It was not like the old detective to be incommunicado for such a lengthy period of time. Charlie, a life-long bachelor, always let someone know when he left town.

  Dantzler reasoned that Charlie must have taken off for the lake and had either left his cell phone behind or had it turned off. If Charlie was at the lake, that was the most likely scenario. Then he remembered that Charlie had told him he wouldn’t be going to the lake until Tuesday or Wednesday. This left yet another possibility, one he tried hard to dismiss. Charlie, nearing eighty, could be lying stone cold dead in his house.