The Cleanest Kill

by Rick Reed

  The silence stretched out.

  Murphy’s Law said: He who talks first loses. Jack was good at the game too.

  Just when it seemed neither would speak again, Needham folded.

  “If that’s true,” Needham said and repeated it for emphasis: “If that’s true, you will get very few helpful answers from my client. He was not a friend of Max, as you suggested, nor an acquaintance of his father. Dick and I were very close. And before you ask, I’m referring to Richard. I assume you know that Maximillian Day was a transfer student from Central High School where he was on track to be expelled. Just what are you after, Detective Murphy?”

  “Senator, this is a murder investigation. Scorched-earth type. No stone unturned. You understand that, right? And your client, my boss, is a stone that needs to be turned. It’s in his best interest to be eliminated from our investigation. Isn’t that what we both want? Truth. And justice for Max and Harry. The CIA motto is the truth will set you free.” The CIA were professional liars.

  “I agree that Richard should be eliminated from your inquiry. However, if you do your job correctly he can be eliminated without being interrogated. In my experience, anything you say will be used against you.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase, Senator. This case is as old as I am. I’m at a real disadvantage here and it may take years to get ahead of this thing.” Or not. “We need to interview everyone involved. The people that were in Max’s world at the time in particular. Both of the Dicks’ cooperation will speed this up considerably. Yours too. You agree?”

  “I appreciate your candidness, Detective.”

  Jack said, “I don’t know what that word means. Was that an insult, because I didn’t insult you, did I?”

  “Detective Murphy, don’t play stupid with me.”

  “Then don’t play stupid with me, Carl. You knew Max. You were involved in those fights with him the night he was killed.”

  “Okay, Detective Murphy. Like you said, we’ll cut to the chase. I personally have nothing to hide,” Needham said. “I have it on good authority that you know about the little spat at Rex Mundi during football practice, so there’s little more I can tell you about that. It was a nonevent. Two teenage boys squaring off. That’s practically a rite of passage in high school.”

  Jack knew he was right about that. He’d come home many times scraped up, torn clothes, bloody lips. The difference was he’d kicked the other kids’ ass and after the fight they were friends. They respected, not killed, each other. Getting a gun and killing after a fight was more of a millennial thing. Sad but true.

  “I also have it on good authority that you are in possession of certain items that make you believe there was a fight at the location where Maximillian Day’s body was found. I know you will be checking phone records for everyone you think knows anything. For the purpose of ending this witch hunt, I’ll admit that Richard and I went to high school together and have remained friends over the years. As such, we talk on the phone. There is nothing suspicious about old friends talking. You might research me or my client’s financial records, although I must warn you to tread carefully. You’re aware the Fourth Amendment to the Constitution forbids any search or seizure without a warrant. That would include trolling the internet in places where you don’t have legal access.”

  Jack didn’t interrupt. Needham was similar to Double Dick. He liked the sound of his own voice.

  “I also have been informed of Mrs. Day’s recent death, the death of her husband, and the assault on the sister, Reina. Believe me, Detective Murphy, talking to Richard or myself will gain you nothing. If we knew anything we would tell you. Richard is, after all, a policeman, like yourself. I’m an officer of the court. We have a duty just like you. But my duty as a lawyer is to protect my client’s reputation as well as his freedom. If you’re releasing damaging or untrue information to the news media, we will take action.”

  Jack said, “I’m confused, Senator. Did you just say you are willing to speak to us, or are you invoking your rights now? Or maybe you just told me in legalese to stuff myself?”

  Needham chuckled. “Richard said you were quite the smart aleck. A throwback to police days of old. The world has moved on since the days of Dragnet, Jack. You are putting yourself in a precarious position,” Needham continued.

  “I’m hurt, Senator. I think very highly of both Dicks,” Jack lied for the recording. “This is the second time I’ve been threatened over this case. That tells the detective in me that I’m on to something.”

  Needham laughed outright this time. “Under different circumstances, I think you and I would get along just fine.”

  “However?” Jack asked.

  “However, circumstances preclude us from bonding, so to speak. I’m not one of your drinking buddies. Neither I, nor my clients, will speak to you. If you have a search or arrest warrant, we will cooperate, but we will not speak to you.”

  “Do you like to fish?” Jack asked, catching Needham off guard.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Listen, I have a cabin on the Ohio River. I love fishing. I love the water. When this is all over and I catch the asshole that’s been killing people, maybe we could go fishing. Just you and me. You know. Do guy things that take us back to our grade school days. It’s only a four- or five-hour drive from Columbus. Why don’t you come and visit and I’ll show you my cabin and we’ll settle things.”

  “I’d be wasting a lot of gas, Detective Murphy. I’m already in Evansville. In fact, I’m at Two Jakes Restaurant having breakfast. Nice place. It would be too bad if you had to sell it to settle a lawsuit.”

  “And here I thought we were getting along swell, Carl.”

  “I think we’re done here,” Needham said and the call disconnected.

  Jack dialed a number. “Angelina?”

  “We need to talk, Jack,” Angelina said. “Where are you?”

  “On our way there. What’s going on?”

  “Carl Needham is in here right now. He asked Jake what a place like this is worth. Then he asked about me. He knows my name and a lot of personal stuff, Jack.”

  “Get a picture of him, Angelina. We may need it later to show a pattern of threats.”

  “You think I’ve been doing my nails?”

  Jack said, “I just got off the phone with him. Get me everything on him you can.”

  “What an asshole. He knew my name, Jack. He knew who I was married to and about my business and where I live.”

  “Keep him there. We’re less than ten minutes out.”

  “Hang on.” Jack heard a door open and she said, “He just left. He’s driving a black SUV. A new Lexus. You want me to stop him? Cut his tires? Smash his face? Please say yes.”

  “He’s a senator, Angelina. They have a thick hide. And he is an attorney, so he has no feelings. Besides, he’s the Dicks’ family attorney. He warned us off and said we were harassing them.” Jack thought the senator from the State of Ohio would just love it if he was detained by a civilian. “No. Let him go. Turds never go far from the toilet bowl.”

  “Jack, he was wearing dark jeans and a black hoodie jacket. Who’s that sound like?”

  “It could be coincidental,” Jack said, although the idea of a senator in his early sixties dressing like antifa didn’t sound normal. “It’s not enough to hold him. We can’t even question him. Let it go, Angelina.” I’ll see him later.

  “This is the guy. I just know it.”

  “We’ll talk when we get there. Stay away from Needham.”

  Chapter 42

  Dennis James knew he had always been different. When he met Carl and Richard in high school they hit it off right away, but he was still a little bit of an outsider. He always felt they’d let him hang around because girls liked him. All kinds of girls from all walks of life and even some of the female teachers. He’d gotten it on with Mrs. Hungate in th
e tenth grade. Bent her over the teacher’s desk and made her howl. He got all A’s that year. Then in eleventh grade he got some 900-year-old nun who was built like a gorilla and smelled like one too. He’d almost failed school that year. Even he couldn’t get his sailor to come to attention with the mug on that woman.

  He was a below-average student but he was a natural athlete. In any case, he’d wasted his talents and life on drugs and drink. Richard Dick was smart, devious, quick on his feet, good with his hands, all of which made him a helluva quarterback. Dick was being scouted by some heavy colleges, but he had opted to go to Notre Dame and get a couple of lame-ass degrees. He’d gone on to become a police officer like his old man and had done okay for himself. Dick had helped him out a time or two over the years.

  Carl Needham: Rich kid, charming, fit in with every crowd, had every advantage in life and made the most of it. His mom and dad were surgeons. Very high-class snobs. Carl had gone to Harvard, contributed articles to scholarly legal tomes, graduated top of his class, was hired by a prestigious firm in Ohio, then on to private practice, taking some of the bigger clients of the firm with him. Smart move. He ran for the Ohio Senate and was elected. He was a big deal.

  He, Dennis James, was a different story altogether. Instead of excelling after high school, starting a career or running for office, he spiraled into a nightmare life, frequently tapping his more fortunate high school friends for favors or money or both. The only thing he and his old buddies had in common now was that they had followed in their fathers’ footsteps. His old man was an addict who died in prison.

  He’d only maintained a shred of his dignity by attending the church his mother had insisted he grow up with. His dad was whatever drug he was worshipping at the moment. His mother was a devout Catholic and he had been brought up to believe that any sin he committed would be expunged when he went to church and confessed his sins to God. He was there now. Front pew, kneeling, hands folded in prayer, beseeching help from a God he’d never truly believed in.

  A priest came from the sacristy dressed in the vestments for the confessional, saw Dennis James and smiled. “Are you here for confession?”

  Dennis didn’t recognize this man and his gut reaction was to glance around nervously. He’d heard those same words from cops so often he almost laughed, but the humor was short-lived. Long ago he’d been an altar boy at this church. Today the place felt alien to him. He didn’t like it when things were different than he expected and he’d been expecting Father Davis, his regular man of God.

  “Where’s Father Davis?” Dennis asked, his eyes constantly roving around the church.

  “I’m Father Carrell. Father Davis had an accident and I’m helping out from St. Agnes Parish until he’s back on his feet.” He asked, “Are you a friend of Father Davis?”

  “He’s been here since I can remember. What happened to him?”

  Father Carrell took a step forward but stopped when Dennis drew back. “He was on a ladder. Changing a light bulb. He fell and I’m afraid it was the last straw for that bad knee of his.”

  Dennis relaxed. He knew Father Davis, even though he was of nursing home age, was a jogger, and had seen him limping around many times over the years. His mother always taught him to be nice. That was mostly beat out of him by his father, but he was in church now. “Name’s Dennis.” He put his hand out.

  “Dennis. I’m glad to see you here.” Father Carrell shook his hand. “Are you here for confession?”

  Dennis said, “No, Father Carrell. I only got a second. Just came by to say hello to Father Davis, but I got to get to work,” he lied and got up.

  “You seem troubled, Dennis. Can I help? We can talk here, or back in the rectory if you would feel more comfortable. Maybe you could talk to Father Davis. He’s in bed, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He would welcome the company.”

  Father Carrell’s face was sincere, but he hadn’t come to see anyone, or go to confession. He just wanted to sit somewhere safe and think. It was a mistake coming here.

  “Gotta go, but thank you, Father,” Dennis said, got up and hurried out the back door of the church without noticing the black SUV parked on the street.

  Chapter 43

  Jack and Liddell entered the war room. Angelina sat in front of a bank of computer screens and didn’t acknowledge them.

  “Angelina,” Jack said.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry if he scared you.”

  Angelina bristled. “Who says I’m scared? I’m too pissed to be scared. This guy doesn’t know who he’s messing with. I’ll bring hellfire down on his ass. Credit rating—gone. I’ll put him on the no-fly list. Load child porn on his office computer and tip off the Ohio authorities. A few rumors in the right ears—he’ll be on his knees begging to talk to you.”

  “I believe you,” Jack said, “but I need you to focus.”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” she said. “I’ve got Deaconess Hospital records.”

  She had everyone’s interest.

  “Double Dick went to the hospital around three hours after the fight at Rex Mundi, give or take.”

  “And that was two hours after Max’s time of death from the coroner’s report,” Jack said.

  Angelina said, “Right. Dick was treated for a broken nose, various bruises, and a minor cut on his left hand. He told them he was in a vehicle accident. Dennis James was treated at Deaconess about the same time as Dick. He was complaining of a headache from the same accident. He didn’t have any obvious injuries. They came in on their own. No ambulance. Carl Needham wasn’t with them.”

  “Did you check accident reports?” Jack asked.

  “The police department doesn’t keep vehicle accident records from that far back, and there’s a possibility Dick never reported it. Do you want me to chase down the cars he might have owned in 1980? I might be able to check with body shops, but it’ll take a while. I’ll have to do most of that on the telephone.”

  It had been so long ago. Chances of finding Dick and/or his friends’ cars was slim and even if they did, there would be little of evidentiary value left. “If we don’t get anywhere soon, we might revisit that idea. There was no mention of Carl Needham at Deaconess Hospital?”

  She shook her head.

  “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t with them,” Liddell suggested.

  Angelina said, “And I can see another problem if you’re going to bring criminal charges against any of the three boys.”

  “What’s that?” Liddell asked.

  “They were all seventeen.”

  She was right, of course, but Jack wasn’t concerned with charging them. That was the prosecutor’s responsibility. If these seventeen-year-olds had continued to cover up their involvement in Max’s murder all this time, they were adults now and guilty of conspiracy at least.

  “We catch them and let the courts sort it out. When Harry Day was killed they were all twenty-one. And one of them has killed twice recently. And an attempted murder, aggravated battery, and theft on Reina.” Their convictions might belong to a jury, but their asses are mine.

  “I’ll track down the Dick Diver information, pod’na.”

  “Am I missing something here?” Angelina asked.

  “Liddell thinks he’s being funny again,” Jack said. “You know Dr. Schirmer thinks the weapon that killed Max was a shark dart that injects compressed air. Double Dick had some pictures in his office of him and Carl Needham in scuba gear. And at Olson’s house, Little Casket thought the weapon that killed him might have been injected CO2.”

  Liddell added, “Schirmer said we should talk to someone in Special Forces, Navy divers, or cave divers.”

  Angelina tapped at the keyboard while Jack said his piece. She turned the laptop around for them to see. “Come see what I found.”

  Jack and Liddell huddled around the screen. The picture was of a wicked
knife in a padded gun case. The blade was as big as a bowie knife in length, ten to twelve inches. Fitted in the case next to the knife were three CO2 cartridges.

  “It’s called a WASP,” Angelina said. “The air cartridge is inserted into the handle and is activated by a button on the hasp of the knife. You stab and inject the compressed air.”

  “Max had other injuries,” Jack said. “We think he’d been in a fight with Dick, Needham, and James at the cemetery. Max against the three of them. They all got in some licks. One of them had a tire tool and-or beer bottles. We just recovered a tire iron and broken bottles from Olson’s secret U-Haul bin.”

  Liddell said, “I’m going old-school. All the scuba suppliers here should be listed. I need to find out if any of these guys bought a shark dart or a WASP.”

  “Beat you to it,” Angelina said. “There’s one dive shop in Evansville. Perry’s PADI Shop, Professional Association of Diving Instructors, specializing in everything aquatic. Let me call them.” She did.

  “Bingo,” she said when she hung up. “They’ve been in business for fifty years. It’s a family business. Best of all, they kept records on everyone they trained. Listen to this: 1978—Carl Needham completed advanced open water, nitrox certification, night dive, cave dives, and rescue. Richard Dick followed suit in 1979. No mention of Dennis James.” With a wicked grin, she said, “So Dick really is a diver.” She and Liddell bumped knuckles.

  “Don’t encourage him, Angelina. I’ve got to put up with him all day. I don’t suppose Perry’s dive shop has a knife like the WASP?”

  “Not for sale. But they said we can borrow one for testing. You’re thinking about Olson’s murder, aren’t you?”