by Rick Reed
Jack said, “I’ve got an eight-hundred-square-foot cabin on the Ohio that I inherited from my dad. I put in a hot tub, a dock, a boat, and a refrigerator.”
Dick ignored the sarcastic comparison. “I knew Jake Murphy. He was a good cop. A cop’s cop,” Captain Dick said. “Is that partner of his still the chief cook and bottle washer at the million-dollar property you have on the river?”
Touché.
Jack said, “Jake Brady’s my business partner and he does more than the dishes. He runs Two Jakes. I just collect the checks, drink just the right amount, and live a life of sin.”
That got a chuckle out of old farmer Dick. “You sound just like your old man. You’ve earned quite the reputation. You both have. I still go to the retirees’ meetings and they call you two the ‘serial killer hunters’.”
“That’s not what the killers call us,” Liddell said and Dick chuckled again.
“No. I guess not.” He shifted his gardening gloves, a move meant to let them know he was busy and to get on with it. “What can I do for you at this hour of the morning?”
Jack felt his neck turning red. He wasn’t going to get the drop on this old detective. He knew exactly why Jack was there at sunup. “Captain, we’re going to need the help of any detective or uniform officer that worked the case. That would include you.”
“Captain, huh. Showing respect. That’s good,” Dick said, but he didn’t invite them to sit on the porch and drink mint juleps or bourbon and smoke cigars while the crop was being worked.
Jack said, “It would help if we could get some background on this case, Captain. Not much of the file survived the years, it seems.” But a lot more turned up in Olson’s locker.
Captain Dick raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been retired for quite some time and have no control over what is or isn’t in the files anymore.”
Jack switched tactics. “Captain Franklin said some of the detectives back then kept their own files. This is such an old case I’m assuming more detectives than Detective Olson have taken a crack at it over the years. Maybe you know someone I can talk to.”
“I heard about Dan. That’s too bad. He was a good detective in his day, but his mind started failing him after he retired. Was he able to help you?”
Jack said, “My dad kept notes on unsolved cases. He always made copies of paperwork he thought might be needed if a suspect was ever identified. I found some of his paperwork on this case. Yes, Olson was very helpful. Good thing we interviewed him before he was murdered. He had a storage locker full of evidence.”
Dick’s veneer slipped for just an instant. His expression said he didn’t believe Jack had any such evidence, because he’d caused all the evidence to disappear long ago. Little did he know his minion, Olson, had kept all of it. Jack had thought it might be for blackmail, but Angelina had sifted through everything Olson had. If he was blackmailing anyone, he got squat.
Dick said, “I’m sorry for that family’s losses—the Days, I mean. However, I unconditionally and categorically refuse to help you with a political witch hunt concerning my son. He’s done nothing wrong. You can take my word for that.”
Jack kept eye contact with Dick and both men were silent. Jack wanted badly to tell him that his son, Double Dick, had done so many things wrong there was no place to start listing them. But it wouldn’t help the case to cause this old man, now a retired cop, a world of grief. At least not until he could put Double Dick in handcuffs and frog-march him around the Civic Center for the cameras.
Dick put the garden gloves back on and hefted the hedge trimmers. “We’re done here, gentlemen.”
“I think you should see this, sir.” Jack reached in a pocket and brought the locker keys out. He dangled them in front of the retired Captain’s face.
Dick reached for the keys but Jack closed his hand around them and put the keys back in his pocket.
“You know what these are,” Jack said, not a question. “Do you want to know what we found?”
Red crept up Dick’s neck like a slow burn. When it reached his cheeks he said, “Get the hell off my property. Get off and don’t come back without a warrant.” He pushed Jack and Liddell toward the steps, went in the front door, and slammed it shut behind him.
Liddell said, “Do you think he doesn’t want to talk to us?”
“He’s a lot stronger than he seems, Bigfoot. I think we’d better get off his property. He may be going for a .50 caliber.”
“Or a shark dart thingy,” Liddell said. They walked the long driveway, got back in the Crown Vic, and drove back onto Highway 62.
“Did you see his face when I told him I’d found my dad’s notes on Max’s murder?”
“I think he knew you were lying, pod’na, but those keys really spooked him. He definitely didn’t know about them. Good thing you had Walker collect the contents of the U-Haul locker last night.”
“Good thing one of the Posey County judges answered the phone.” Jack yawned. “I need a nap, Bigfoot. Wake me when we get to Two Jakes.”
“So now I’m your driver and your alarm clock. Power naps don’t work, pod’na. What you need is coffee and a good breakfast.”
“You mean you need a breakfast,” Jack said sarcastically.
Liddell turned toward Highway 66, also known as Newburgh Road, and headed west toward Evansville and Two Jakes.
Jack said, “I want to listen to the tapes and go over the photos from last night. Is Walker bringing the stuff to us after he’s finished processing it?”
Walker had found several cassette tapes in the storage bin, along with typed statements.
Liddell called Two Jakes and Vinnie answered.
* * * *
Sergeant Walker met them in the war room. Laid out on the table were four cassette tapes, eleven photos, Polaroids and 35mm photos, and complete case files for Max and Harry Day’s murders.
Walker said, “There are crime scene photos from both murders. The cassette tapes have been processed for prints and DNA. There are typed statements from Double Dick, Carl Needham, Dennis James, and one from Ginger Purdie. I haven’t played the tapes to see if that’s what’s on them, but the names are on each one. You’ve got autopsy reports too.”
Jack dug through the box with the files and found three typed statements. He started reading Richard Dick’s, stopped, and flipped through the pages. The first page was just the identification and the legal warnings. There were two pages following that. Maybe a dozen questions in all. He read the entire statement and then read Carl Needham’s statement. They could be the same statement, word for word from a script. He wondered if all three boys were in the room listening to what the other said. Dennis James’s statement was longer because Dennis gave more than a yes or no answer. In fact, there were some interesting tidbits of detail in that statement. Near the end of Dennis’s statement, the interviewer had instructed him to listen closely to the question and just answer the question that was asked. Jack read the questions again more carefully and they didn’t sound like they came from Dan Olson, although Det. Dan Olson’s name was listed as the one taking the statements. The questions and voice sounded like Captain Dick.
“Read these and tell me what you think, Bigfoot.”
Liddell read through the statements and when he was done he said, “Dick and Needham’s statements are identical. Olson just about told Dennis James to shut up.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about the questions?” Jack asked.
“Just that they were very direct. Yes or no questions.”
Jack thought he would wait to play the tapes before he told them who he thought had actually taken the statements.
“There’s three typed statements, but four cassettes. Did you see a fourth typed statement?” Jack asked.
“It’s Ginger Purdie,” Walker answered. “The cheerleader. I was curious and played it. Her statement is ev
en shorter than the others. Basically, she says Max started a fight with Richard Dick at Rex Mundi during football practice and broke Dick’s nose. He supposedly beat Needham and James up too. Then Max stormed off, unchallenged. The boys didn’t follow him and they were with her during the rest of practice. Sounded to me like someone was coaching her. Olson took that statement as well as the others.”
Jack knew Walker hadn’t talked to Olson or retired Captain Dick. He wouldn’t know what either man’s voice sounded like.
“I’d like to play the recorded statements, but we don’t have a cassette player here,” Jack said.
Walker reached in another box and pulled out a cassette player/recorder. He punched the play button and it worked. “Will this do?”
Jack put the recorded statement marked Richard Dick in the dock and hit play. The voice that came out was Detective Olson’s and Jack was disappointed. The wording of the typed statement was too precise for Olson. But when Olson’s narration ended a different voice asked the questions. “That’s what I suspected,” Jack said. “These were taken by Thomas Dick. He let Olson put his name on them as the investigator.”
Jack let the tape play a few minutes. Thomas Dick asked the questions in such a way that Richard had to answer yes or no or give a brief statement. “I think they were all reading off a piece of paper,” Jack said. “The typed statements are word for word when they talk about the fight at Rex Mundi.”
No one was surprised. This confirmed there was a cover-up going on. The statements were never to see light of day unless a witness came forward and this had to be kicked upstairs to the prosecutor. Then the police would say they had done a complete investigation and produce taped statements. No one came forward, and Harry Dick’s pleas to the police didn’t merit a more thorough investigation. Case closed. But Olson had still held onto the statements and tapes and everything else he’d collected from Max and Harry’s cases.
“I wonder if retired Captain Dick knew that Olson kept all this stuff?” Liddell asked.
“Olson can’t tell us anymore,” Jack said. “I don’t think I need to hear the rest of the tapes.”
“Dennis James’s typed statement said they all went to the hospital. Dick’s nose was broken and they all had bruises or cuts. He said he was going to have a black eye. He claimed Max started the fight and they defended themselves. Olson never asked any of them the details of the fight. He never asked if the three of them followed Max to his car, or if they pursued him to the cemetery. He never asked how Max could beat the three of them up. And get this: There’s a date the statements were taken, but not a time started and ended. Not even on the taped statement we just heard. Purdie was talked to about a week after the event.”
“Okay. Leave all this stuff with me, Tony,” Jack said.
“Yep. You’ll need to sign a chain of custody form.” Walker had one already filled out, minus Jack’s signature. “Do you really want to keep all this stuff here?”
Jack was already on shaky ground because of his hate/hate relationship with Double Dick, and the even shakier verbal warrant in Mt. Vernon. “I guess you’d better keep it all. Lock it up somewhere only you can get to. Don’t put it in the property room.”
“Thanks, Tony. Sorry you were called in.” He knew Walker had worked the whole night.
“Are you kidding?” Walker said and grinned. “This is getting interesting and I want to be in on the kill. So to speak.”
Jack said, “Time to see Double Dick.”
Chapter 39
The address Jack had for Double Dick was in Oak Meadows, a gated golf cart community in the McCutchanville area of Vanderburgh County. Jack had been inside Oak Meadows two times: Once to a wedding at the country club, the second time at the scene of a murder. In summertime, as you drove past stately homes, an abundance of golf carts would be zipping around on the streets. It was like the Indy 500 for geriatrics. In winter and fall the traffic, both Lexus and golf cart, thinned out while residents stayed in front of their fireplaces sipping fine wines and cognacs.
The stone guard booth at the entrance to the community was sometimes occupied by a lone security officer/pensioner whose job seemed to be sitting in front of a small television and waving at every car that came in or out. You got what you paid for. The guard shack was unoccupied today and Liddell drove through the open gates and past a lone golf cart operated by an older gentleman with a golf bag in the empty seat. There was a six-pack of Guinness on the floorboard and an open one held between his legs. Jack gave the man a thumbs-up. The man scowled and slowed to let them go ahead.
“So much for community policing,” Jack said.
“Maybe he thought you were going to arrest him for the open container law?”
“I should confiscate his beer,” Jack muttered. “That’s the street coming up. Take a right.”
Liddell turned. The homes here were plus-sized, with bigger lots that backed up directly onto the golf course. Dick’s house was at the ninth hole and built in a manner as arrogant as the man himself. The brick and stone structure sported at least three covered or enclosed decks. Parking included two double-bay garages. That gave him two spaces for cars and two spaces for his ego. Next to these was a smaller overhead door, most likely for the HOA—home owner’s agreement—required golf cart. The landscaping was pristine, and Jack thought, a little prissy for a guy living alone.
Double Dick was at a glass patio table on a second-floor covered deck with a paper—Wall Street Journal—and a steaming mug of something—skinny vanilla soy latte with whipped cream and sprinkles. Dick’s attention fixed on the Crown Vic pulling into his unstained driveway.
“Well, the element of surprise is gone,” Liddell said as they walked to the front door.
“He’s probably been up for hours trying on uniforms,” Jack said.
Two short sets of steps led up the lawn to a spacious iron-railed porch. They went to the door and waited. Nothing. Liddell rang the doorbell and, of course, it played “Hail to the Chief.” Still no answer. Liddell reached for the doorbell again when they heard a garage door going up. Jack started down the stairs and watched Double Dick drive past in a new black SUV without acknowledging their presence.
Jack and Liddell double-timed it back to the Crown Vic. Liddell backed out and headed for the cross street, but the SUV was gone.
“Should we have a police car pull him over, pod’na?”
“We can beard the lion in his den.”
“What does that even mean?” Liddell asked and slowed down. “I mean, I’ve heard it lots of times. Are we going to put a beard on him if we catch him watching sports on television? Does he even watch sports? What kind of beard?”
“Would you just shut up and drive?”
“Ooh, that stings.”
“Shut up, shuttin’ up,” Jack said and smiled.
“I’ll bet you don’t tell Katie to shut up and drive.”
Liddell turned north toward town. They made it to Martin Luther King Boulevard coming up on the Civic Center and were slowed by the traffic.
“Can I talk now?” Liddell asked.
“Can I stop you?”
“No. I agree with you that Dick Senior warned him.”
“Did I say that?”
“You were thinking it.”
Jack had thought it. “Did you notice he was already in his uniform? I mean, come on. Who dresses like that out in public to have coffee?”
Liddell said with a grin, “Those might have been his pajamas.”
Jack said nothing. Liddell didn’t need encouragement. He needed an off switch.
Liddell again. “Nah, he wouldn’t wear those. I think he wears Thor jammies. He is a god, after all.”
“Let’s get in there and talk to Dick while he’s still in a defensive mode. You do the questioning, Bigfoot. He might talk to you.”
“Can we stop by the office
and make coffee? He’s not going anywhere but to his office. A few minutes won’t make a difference. Really.”
“You have an emergency stash of doughnuts in your desk. Don’t you?”
“Hey, I haven’t had breakfast yet,” Liddell said. “We haven’t even had coffee. How am I supposed to put on my thinking cap when I’m too tired to even find it?”
Liddell pulled through the Chief’s parking area and spotted Dick’s black SUV. He drove on and parked behind the detectives’ office.
“Five minutes,” Jack said, getting out of the car. “Let’s get some coffee and check our messages. Let him sweat a little, but we don’t want to give him time to barricade the door. He knows we’re coming.”
“With two Dicks involved in this case, maybe we should number them. Dick one and Dick two.”
Jack said nothing, but that didn’t stop Liddell. “That reminds me of a joke. Two dicks walk into a bar and—”
“Maybe we should skip the office and go see Double Dick first if you’re not hungry?” Jack said and Liddell became silent.
Chapter 40
Deputy Chief of Police Richard Dick swiveled his office chair sideways, facing the framed photos behind his desk. One photo on the credenza showed him in his Rex Mundi Monarchs football uniform, arm cocked, football in hand. He had been the starting quarterback in his junior and senior years. Next to that one was a picture of the entire team. Another with him, Needham, and James hanging out after a practice. Dick and Needham were wearing their football gear, but James had changed into pegged-leg jeans and a white T-shirt with the short sleeves rolled up, a cigarette stuck behind his ear, hair greased back, making him resemble a young James Dean.
The three had gravitated toward each other in their freshman year. Dick was friendless until he met Carl. Carl never met a person who didn’t like him. Dennis was into alcohol, marijuana, and thefts, but the girls flocked to him because he was a bad boy. Dennis was the one who introduced him to Ginger. Dick wondered what had happened to Ginger. But he knew the answer: Max was what happened. Things were never the same after that night.