by Tom Wallace
“Well, who the hell is he, then?” Eric said, leaning back in his chair.
“What did you find out about Johnny Richards, post nineteen-eighty?” Dantzler asked.
“Nothing illegal or interesting. He bought the tavern in ’eighty and has operated it successfully ever since. There is a small apartment above the bar, which is also his. The tavern brings in about two-hundred grand a year. Richards also owns a house on Summershade, and a Lexus. His wife, Maggie, died recently, as we all know. They had no children. Maggie worked at the VA Hospital until she retired. She also did some fill-in work for Colt Rogers. Other than that, there really isn’t anything worth noting. The man is clean. Not even a speeding ticket.”
“No one who changes his identity is clean,” Milt said. “You only do it because you’re dirty.”
Dantzler said, “There are two primary reasons why a man changes his identity. Either he’s running away from something he’s done, or he’s hiding from someone. Johnny Richards, or whoever he is, didn’t strike me as a man who would run away from anything. If I’m right, it means he is hiding from someone.”
“Hiding?” Eric asked. “From who?”
“Don’t know,” Dantzler answered. “But all the checkmarks are there… new identity, new location, no background data, no past history. And that’s not all. I’ll make you a wager Richards has undergone just enough plastic surgery to change the way he looked prior to nineteen-eighty.”
“Come to think of it, he did have the look of a guy who might’ve had some work done,” Milt said. “Particularly around the eyes.”
“All these changes lead me in one direction.”
“You’re thinking Witness Protection, aren’t you?” Milt said.
Dantzler nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
“Goddammit, that means dealing with the Feds,” Milt offered. “That’s never any fun.”
“The Witness Protection Program comes under the Justice Department banner, with the U.S. Marshals Service doing the actual legwork. It’s the Marshals who move the individual around, secure proper documentation, find living quarters… that sort of thing. But I’ll start at the top, contact someone inside Justice, and see what I can find out.”
“Shouldn’t we put surveillance on Richards?” Eric said.
Dantzler thought about this for a moment before answering. “Let’s hold off on surveillance until we find out more about the guy. If he is in the Program, it could make things a lot more complicated. I want to make sure we know what we’re doing and who we’re dealing with before we make any moves.”
“Damn,” Milt said, shaking his head. “I was hoping this would be easy.”
“It’s only a bump in the road, Milt,” Dantzler said. “If Richards is the shooter, and I’m dead certain he is, we’ll bring him in. But I have a feeling we can toss easy out the window.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Seeking outside assistance on a case was almost always a last-ditch option for Dantzler. Given his druthers, he would never seek help from the Feds. It was his firm belief that he and his fellow Homicide detectives were superior in every way to the so-called “experts,” although he did acknowledge that the federal agencies, with their generous budgets and multitude of gadgets, were technologically superior. While some viewed Dantzler’s disdain for seeking outside help as arrogance, he countered the accusation with the argument that more hands only make a bigger mess.
But above all else, Dantzler was a pragmatist. In the end, all good cops are. You do what it takes to put the bad guys away, and if it means bending a few rules along the way, or seeking help from outside sources, you do it, regardless of the dent inflicted upon your pride, or the bitter taste such a move might leave in your mouth.
Justice must always outweigh ego.
Dantzler was sitting as his desk when the phone rang. He put down the file he was reading and picked up the receiver. He knew who the caller was-Lisa Kennedy. Earlier that afternoon, he placed a call to her at the Justice Department and was informed she was on assignment in Denver. He left his name and number, and asked that Lisa contact him as soon as possible.
“What a pleasant surprise,” Lisa said. “I didn’t expect to hear from the guy who saved my ass. How long has it been now? Two years?”
“Almost three,” Dantzler said, referring to the Victor Sammael case they worked together. “How are things in your part of the world? I would imagine you’ve been staying busy.”
“Extremely. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day. I feel like I’m chasing after something I can never catch.”
“You are,” Dantzler said, laughing. “The illusion we can make a difference that truly makes a difference.”
“Don’t tell me that,” Lisa said. “If I thought we weren’t making a real difference, I would be out the door faster than you can say goodbye yellow brick road. I’d go live on a beach and drink rum all day.”
“Now, there’s a plan I could fall in love with.”
“You may fool some people with such talk, Detective Dantzler, but not me. I’ve seen you in action, remember? I know how much you care about little things like protecting the innocent and putting bad guys away. And I also know-we both know-that what we do does make a difference. There is nothing illusory about it.”
Dantzler laughed, said, “Spoken with the passion of a true believer. J. Edgar Hoover would hold you in the highest esteem.”
“Yes. But would he let me borrow one of his dresses? That’s the real question.” Lisa snickered. “I shouldn’t make such crass comments on the phone. You never know who might be tuned in.”
“Listen, Lisa, the reason I called is to ask for a favor.”
“You name it, you got it. I never say no to anyone who saved my life. What do you need?”
“Your help in identifying a possible four-time murderer.”
“Sounds intriguing. But why me? Why not the FBI? That’s the kind of thing they excel at.”
Anticipating Lisa’s response, Dantzler was ready with his answer. For the next fifteen minutes, he gave Lisa a detailed rundown of the Eli Whitehouse case, omitting nothing, unraveling his tale from its opening act, his first meeting with Eli in the prison, through to the death of Rocky Stone. He gave her background information on the murders in 1982, and the more recent murders of Colt Rogers and Devon Fraley. He told her about the Whitehouse children, and how Eli’s finances would be divided upon his death. He told her about the obits, the “think of Jesus’s empty tomb” clue provided by Eli. Dantzler concluded his briefing by stating his reasons why he was now certain Eli was innocent despite evidence indicating otherwise, and why he was convinced a single shooter was responsible for all four deaths.
With one exception, asking Dantzler to repeat a name, Lisa remained silent throughout. She had been taking notes, waiting until Dantzler finished before asking questions. Only after he was silent for several seconds did she did finally speak.
“Okay, call me a dummy, but I don’t see where you need my help. Am I missing something, or is there more to the story?”
“The single shooter-he’s who I need you to help me nail down.”
“All right. Do you have a name for me to work with?”
“I have an alias-Johnny Richards. I need you to tell me who he really is.”
“Why are you so certain Johnny Richards is an alias?” Lisa asked.
“Because prior to nineteen-eighty, when he showed up in Lexington, the man didn’t exist. There is absolutely no trace of him in any data base, no paper trail whatsoever. Prior to his arrival here, the man was a ghost.”
“Not good,” Lisa said, adding, “people don’t simply change their identity and ‘show up’ out of nowhere. When they do, it’s usually the result of nefarious circumstances.”
“Exactly.”
“And you are thinking he is in the Witness Protection Program, right?”
“Has to be. And that’s where I need your help.”
Lisa thought for a f
ew moments. “I’ll look into it from my end and see what I can come up with. Also, I have a good buddy in the U.S. Marshal’s Service who owes me about a dozen favors. I’ll contact him and pick his brain. In all likelihood, he can find out more than I can anyway.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“What else can you tell me about Johnny Richards?” Lisa said.
“Not much, to be honest with you. He moved to Lexington in nineteen-eighty, bought a bar, which he still owns and operates, and was married to Mary Magdalene Richards. She went by Maggie. Her maiden name was Costello. Says he’s from Chicago, but judging by his accent, I’d say New York or New Jersey. About six-foot-one, one seventy-five, brown hair, probably in his fifties. Looks younger, though, and my hunch is facial surgery. Beyond that, it’s all a blank. You can see why I need your help filling in those blanks.”
“I have a few tasks I still need to clear here in Denver,” Lisa said. “Shouldn’t take more than another day. I’ll get to work on it when I’m done. Meantime, I’ll go ahead and call Jeff Walker-he’s my contact in the Marshal’s Service-and see if he can help us. Or at the very least, put us in touch with someone who can.”
“Sounds good. And, Lisa, if it’s at all possible, I’d like to work fast on this one.”
“I understand. You want to put away another bad guy.”
“Yeah. But I would also like to see Eli Whitehouse die a free man.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Heavy storm clouds floated above the night sky like giant black zeppelins, hovered briefly before moving on, only to be replaced by bigger, darker zeppelins. Off to the east, sporadic flashes of lightning bumped up against the darkness, pushed it aside for an instant, then vanished, leaving the night even darker than before. Thunder rumbled deep and low-Eli’s Yahweh must be suffering from a bellyache, Dantzler thought-and the first drops of rain began to tickle the lake behind the house.
Standing on his deck, glass of Pernod in hand, Dantzler felt like a man who had fallen into a pit of quicksand. He wanted to move-needed to move-but forces beyond his control had him at a standstill. Frustrated and trapped, once again at the mercy of others, and there was nothing he could do about it. Just wait, while watching the minutes and hours tick away.
Two days and he had heard nothing from Lisa Kennedy or Jeff Walker. Not a word, not a peep. Only silence. He was disappointed, but more than that, he was surprised. He knew Lisa, knew she was a pro, true to her word. If she gave her promise, it was good as gold. But Lisa had her own job to do and it had to take priority over helping him. He understood that. He also figured if Lisa had spoken with Jeff Walker, she probably didn’t impart the same sense of urgency to him that Dantzler had stressed when talking with her. There was also a good chance Walker handed the case off to yet another agent who might make it a high priority, or just as likely, stick it at the bottom of his to-do list.
The Feds tended to move at their own speed, which invariably meant moving at a slower pace than Dantzler cared for. Usually, it was a crawl rather than a slow pace. Of course, if the situation were reversed, if the Feds needed or requested his assistance, they expected to receive it pronto. Urgency was important if they were the ones seeking answers.
Dantzler flopped down into a chair, sipped at the Pernod, closed his eyes, and listened as the rain began to come down harder. The rain, he knew, was here to stay, and would likely last the night. This was fine with him-he loved the rain and had since he was a small boy. Few sounds were more soothing than rain hitting on the roof. A gentle summer breeze suddenly kicked in, bending the grass, jostling the trees, their branches waving like shadowy arms in the darkness.
Nice, he thought. Peaceful. A rare moment of inner quiet, when the detective voices in his head were silent and his thoughts drifted in other directions. There had not been many moments like this lately, not since he… Then quick as the next lightning flash, those detective voices smashed through the barrier, shattering the inner quiet, directing his thoughts back to the Eli Whitehouse case. Back to Johnny Richards.
Back to what was proving to be an impossible, frustrating challenge.
Dantzler had spent much of the past two days poring over the female obituaries. He was all but certain Johnny Richards was the shooter, but he had to make sure. He had to be absolutely convinced he had not leapt at the first clue without giving the full weight of his attention to other possibilities. He wanted to be one-thousand percent positive he was going in the right direction. In his line of work, where a person’s fate was at stake, there could be no screw-ups. Ever.
You can’t blunder on match point.
His research into the female obituaries uncovered three names he deemed possibilities-two Marys and, incredibly, one Salome. As expected, they turned out to be dead ends. Both Marys were long-time widows, in their eighties, neither of whom had so much as a speeding ticket on their record. They were law-abiding, upstanding citizens in every regard.
So was Salome Renee Garrett, who, according to her obit notice, owned and operated a successful florist business, had never been married, and was survived by her life partner, Becky Allen. Like the two Marys, Salome’s record was spotless.
His researched had only confirmed what he suspected all along-Mary Magdalene Richards was the clue Eli hinted at.
And Johnny Richards was a four-time murderer.
*****
Initially, Dantzler had been disinclined to keep watch on Richards. He thought it best to wait until he heard back from Lisa Kennedy, or whomever she handed the case off to. See what they could come up with, which might turn out to be something big or nothing worthwhile or helpful at all.
Despite his conviction that Richards was the shooter, at this stage of the game, barring more pertinent information, round-the-clock surveillance was not in the cards. Captain Bird vetoed the plan in no uncertain terms. Bird argued, and rightfully so, there wasn’t enough evidence against Richards to justify a full-court press surveillance-wise, which would involve too much manpower and too much expense, neither of which could be spared unless more relevant information came to light.
Still, Dantzler wasn’t about to hang around and do nothing, no matter what Captain Bird said. It was bad enough having to wait for the Feds to get him information regarding Richards; that particular stumbling block was beyond his control. But it didn’t mean he had to sit idly by while Richards fled the city, or possibly the country. Doing nothing was not an option at this stage of the game.
Dantzler’s plan was simple, cheap, and if not completely satisfying, it would at least keep Richards within his sights. He would have someone drop by the tavern and spend a couple of hours inside, to see if Richards was there, to monitor his movements, and to observe the men and women he interacted with. No tape recorder, no camera… just old-fashion cop observation. Eyes on the prize.
Two nights ago, Bruce Rawlinson was the observer, arriving at a little past eight and staying until eleven. He reported back that Richards remained seated on a stool at the end of the bar for much of the night, drinking very little, and only rarely interacting with the clientele. On a couple of occasions, he worked the bar while the bartender took a bathroom break. At nine-thirty, he left the bar, went upstairs, and was gone for approximately twenty minutes before returning to his stool.
According to Rawlinson, Richards “acted normal, just like you might expect a tavern owner to act.”
Last night, Dantzler dispatched Laurie to the tavern, telling her to stay as long as she felt comfortable. He also recommended she not go alone. A woman as beautiful as Laurie would need help fending off the many drink offers and Big Bubba advances he knew would come her way. For women frequenting a dive like Johnny’s Tavern, there was always strength in numbers. Laurie agreed, taking Annie Westrom, her old colleague in the Missing and Exploited Children’s Unit, with her. They stayed for almost two hours, each one nursing a beer, while politely declining the dozen or so sent to their booth by hopeful suitors.
Laurie�
�s report differed little from Rawlinson’s. Richards spent the entire two hours perched on a stool at the end of the bar, reading a magazine or newspaper. He had one drink-Jim Beam, straight-briefly spoke to a couple of men, nodded at several women, and helped out once when the bartender took a break. All perfectly normal actions for a bar owner, Laurie concluded.
Although nothing noteworthy had been gleaned from the visits, Dantzler was satisfied he had made the correct decision sending his undercover snoops into the bar. Based on their reporting, he was now sure of two things-Johnny Richards was still in town, and he had no inkling that he was on their radar.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Johnny Richards closed The Daily Racing Form and ordered another Jim Beam, this one mixed with Diet Coke. It was almost eleven and the bar was packed, mostly with regulars, the same faces he saw virtually every night of the week. One of the regulars, Patty Morris, a twice-divorced mother of three with a strong yin for vodka, walked past on her way to the restroom, pausing long enough to offer condolences for the recent death of his wife. He thanked her with a nod, saying nothing, because there really wasn’t anything to say.
Besides, he had more important things to do than engage in conversation with a vodka-soaked floozy like Patty Morris. Far more important things. Like deciding what course of action to take next.
He had spent the past hour alternating his attention between studying the fillies running at Churchill Downs tomorrow and the two fillies seated in the middle booth next to the wall. He circled his picks on tomorrow’s card, noting his wager amount next to each one. But as much as he loved handicapping the ponies, the two-legged fillies dominated his thoughts.
The one seated in profile, the one with short blonde hair and cute turned-up nose, he had never seen before. He had a gift for remembering faces, and hers wasn’t one he had run across. She was completely unfamiliar to him. Not so with the other filly, the one he could see dead on, the beauty with the long brown hair and classic movie star beauty. Her, he was familiar with. Her, he had seen before. Twice, in fact.