by Thomas Scott
“I’ll tell them about how your partner grabbed me. You guys go around thinking you can just put your hands on anyone you want and no one will say anything, but you’re wrong. I’m going to file a complaint.” Her adrenaline was running now, the gravity of the situation settling in.
“Are you hurt?”
“Well, no, not really, but—”
“If you are, see the doctor. There’s one standing right next to you. If you want to file a complaint, you’re free to do so. I’m sure my partner meant you no harm.” When he glanced down the hall, Murton saw two hospital security officers headed his way. He walked over and gave them instructions that no one was to enter or touch anything in Martha Esser’s room. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “And don’t let anybody touch that cart, either.” One of the security officers grabbed his belt and hitched up his pants, then moved over to the room and stood with his back to the door. The other stood next to the cart and stared at the wall.
With that done, Murton tried calling Virgil again, and still got no answer. Finally, he called Cora. “I’m at Methodist. Jonesy and I were going to try to speak with Martha Esser. She’s dead, and I can’t say for sure, but there’s a good possibility that someone killed her in her own hospital bed. There aren’t any visible signs, but I’d bet Jonesy’s signing bonus that she was murdered. Why? I don’t know. At least not yet.”
“I already know about that. Jonesy filled me in. Stay at the hospital until homicide gets there and get them up to speed. When you’re through with that I want you to come directly to my office.”
“Where’s Jonesy?”
“I’ll fill you in when you get here. Do not call Jonesy. That’s a direct order, Detective.”
“Don’t call Jonesy? What the hell’s going on, Cora?”
“Tell me what you’re going to do, Murton.”
Murton squeezed his phone so hard he thought it might crack in his hand. When he answered it was through a clenched jaw. “I’m going to follow orders.”
“And what are those orders?”
“I’m going to wait here until homicide shows up, hand off to them, then go straight to your office.”
“What else?”
“I’m not going to call Jonesy.”
“Exactly. Metro Homicide is already on their way. I’ll expect you in an hour or less,” Cora said, then hung up.
Murton walked over to the nurse. “Listen, on behalf of my partner, I’m sorry, okay? We’ve got some crazy person running around killing people. File your complaint if you want, but don’t expect much.” He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “You were this close to a madman who probably would have killed you without thinking twice and you didn’t even know it.” He pointed at the room behind her. “Would you rather be dead in there or standing out here with a little bruise?”
18
Ninety minutes later, Murton barreled into Cora’s office without knocking. She stood with her back to the door, smoking a cigarette and looking out the window behind her desk.
“It’s illegal to smoke inside a state building. Do you mind telling me why I’m not allowed to speak with my partner during an ongoing investigation we’re both working?”
“You’re late. Sit down, Murt.”
“Tell it to Metro Homicide. Their modus operandi revolves around the theory that the body isn’t going anywhere. They showed up with a box of doughnuts and jelly stains on their ties. Where’s Jonesy?”
Cora turned from the window and sat down at her desk. She pointed at a chair and waited until Murton sat down before she spoke. “He’s at the Donatti residence.”
“Why? What’s happening there?”
Cora didn’t dance around it. “Pam Donatti is dead. That’s what’s happening there.”
Murton could feel the slack in his face. He stood up, ran his hands through his hair, and said, “Jesus Christ. She’s dead? Why didn’t you just tell me that on the phone? I could have been there by now.” He turned to leave. “All right, I’m on my way.”
“No, you’re not. You’re staying right where you are. When we’re finished here, I want you at your desk writing up your report on Martha Esser and how it may tie in with the murder of her husband in Shelby County. Are we clear on that, Detective?”
“Why are you shutting me out on this, Cora? What’s happening?”
“It’s called allocation of resources. The Shelby County case…the Esser murders…those are yours for now.”
“What do you mean for now?”
“It’s a fluid situation, Murt.”
“Cora, in case you’ve forgotten—and I know you haven’t—I used to be a federal agent. The bureaucratic bullshit that went with it was epic. It makes things at the state level look like reruns of The Romper Room. So you’ll forgive me if I get right to the point and say, fluid my ass. You ordered me away from one of the murders you just said I’m investigating. What’s the real reason?”
“Okay, have it your way. It’s for your own protection. Use your head for a minute, will you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means exactly this: Pam Donatti, the woman who was suing you for the wrongful death of her husband was just found with a single gun shot wound to the head. I’ve been back and forth with the homicide detective at her house. He thinks it was set up to look like a suicide.”
“And it’s not? According to Small she’s been so depressed lately that she’s been neglecting her kid and drinking her breakfast. I hate to say it, but suicide doesn’t surprise me.”
“Let’s hope you’re right, because if you’re wrong, you’re probably going to end up as the number one suspect.”
“Cora, that’s insane. I didn’t have anything to do with her death. Surely you know that.”
“Of course I know that,” Cora said. “But just because I know something doesn’t mean that certain accusations won’t be made, or that certain procedures can be ignored. We’ll protect you to the best of our abilities, but we’ve got to keep everything above board. The lawsuit against you is a matter of public record. That means that you stay away from the Donatti investigation. You don’t ask questions about the Donatti investigation. You don’t even talk about the Donatti investigation until we figure out what’s going on. Are we clear on that?”
Murton slumped back in his chair. “I told Jonesy this was going to happen. I told him we were right in the middle of this thing from the get-go. He didn’t see it, but I did. All I was trying to do was save Ed’s life. The doctors said he’d have died anyway. I did the best I could with what I had. I’m no more responsible for Ed Donatti’s death than you are, Cora. The fact that Pam was going to try to sue me should have no bearing on any of this.”
“You’re right. It shouldn’t. But you know as well as I do that it will. That’s why you are going to continue to work the Esser case.” She pointed her finger at him. “But I’m warning you, right here and right now, you stay away from the Donatti investigation. It’s for your own protection. Internal Affairs is going to want an interview and they’ll be conducting their own independent investigation…on you. The governor and I expect you to cooperate fully in their inquiry. If you do, you’ll have our complete support.”
Murton leaned forward in his chair, a snarl on his usually smiling face. “And if I don’t?”
“You will,” Cora snarled back. Then, a little softer. “You don’t have a choice, Murton. The governor and I hired you because of the strike. Pam Donatti’s death effectively ends that strike. By this time tomorrow—maybe even earlier—the troopers will be back to work because there’s no reason for them not to be. And the fact that you’re probably going to wind up as the main suspect in a murder investigation is not going to sit very well with the governor. Don’t you get it? It’s going to look like the strike and everything behind it was ended by assassination.”
“I really don’t care about the politics of it all, Cora. Besides, who’s going to believe that kind of bullshit conspiracy
? A few political nut jobs, that’s who.”
“At least we see eye-to-eye on something. Except you’re forgetting one thing. The media is going to have a field day with this.”
Cora was right, and Murton knew it. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Normally I’d tell you to talk to the union rep, except as a political appointee you can’t do that. Get a lawyer, Murt. You’re probably going to need one. In the meantime, figure out who killed Charlie and Martha Esser, and why.”
19
Decker, sitting in his trailer, was pleased with himself. In less than twelve hours the troopers had returned to work, the guard was officially released from duty, and the conspiracy nuts were having a field day…all at the governor’s expense. Martha Esser hadn’t been mentioned. Not yet, anyway.
It really was the best of both worlds, he thought. If the cops bought the suicide angle with Donatti, then no one would even think let alone bother to look at him when he showed up to collect his son. On the other hand if they didn’t buy the suicide, then their number one suspect would be Murton Wheeler, the hotshot former fed who was being sued by the victim. And since Wheeler worked for the state and was practically one of the governor’s button men—the media was already saying as much—there’d be enough confusion and political bullshit floating through the air they wouldn’t even get a whiff of Decker himself.
Then again…
Another thought occurred, one that increased his heart rate, if only a little. The only other evidence besides the lawsuit that qualified Wheeler as a suspect was the gun and the bits of silage he’d spread around. It was good evidence, but was it enough? Couldn’t Wheeler just say he’d given her the gun for her own protection? He could, but would anyone buy that story? He didn’t think so, but he didn’t know, either. It seemed unlikely that a guy being sued by someone would give a gun to that same person. Plus, Donatti was the wife of a cop. A dead cop, but still…wouldn’t it be likely that she had a gun of her own? Maybe she had a houseful of guns. Decker didn’t know. He didn’t even know if it mattered.
What he did know was there were going to be a few hard questions for Wheeler, questions about how she had his gun and why. What would he say? He’d either have to lie about giving her the gun or admit he didn’t know she had it. Neither of those options were perfect for Wheeler, but he’d find a way around it. Cops protect their own. All you had to do was watch a little evening news to figure that out. And if they didn’t charge Wheeler, they’d keep looking. They’d keep looking because eventually Wheeler would convince them that he didn’t do it. And when that happened it would only be a matter of time before they started looking at other possibilities.
The bottom line was this: If Wheeler didn’t go down for Pam Donatti’s death, he’d never get the boy. What he’d get was life without the possibility of parole, or worse…he’d get the needle.
One thing was certain…he couldn’t show up and claim Jonas as his son until and unless one of two things happened: Wheeler had been charged in the death of Pam Donatti, or it was ruled that Donatti killed Martha Esser and then herself after the fact. He’d planted enough evidence that it could go either way. He didn’t care which.
Another question: Why was it that the media was ignoring Martha Esser and putting so much coverage into Pam Donatti? From a media marketing standpoint he could see the Donatti reports for what they were…pure money. What was that saying the media didn’t want anyone to know? If it bleeds, it leads? Something like that. It was odd though, he thought, that the Esser bitch hadn’t been mentioned yet.
He turned on the TV and cracked a beer. Time to stop worrying about what he couldn’t control and start thinking about how to get the kid…and his money.
The kid, Decker thought, was a rich little prick and didn’t even know it. But with Pam Donatti out of the way, and as the boy’s biological father, the pension money was his. The waiting though…that was a bitch. Couldn’t do anything about it.
Christ on a bike, he thought. Nothing’s easy.
When they finally made it home that night, Jonas jumped up from the floor, ran over to Virgil and Sandy and gave them both a big hug. Virgil scooped him up and said, “How you doing, little man?”
“I’m…I’m—” He looked over at Delroy.
“Irie, little mon.”
Jonas threw his arms up. “Yeah, I’m irie!” he shouted.
Virgil set him down, looked at Delroy, and nodded toward the kitchen. Delroy followed him over.
“I can tell by the look on your face dat someting not right, mon. What going on?”
Dr. Bell, Virgil’s physician, knocked quietly on the back door and stepped inside. “Virgil, Delroy.”
Delroy shot Virgil a look. “Where’s Murton?”
That, Virgil thought, is why I love you, Delroy. Delroy knew that Robert was at the bar and the only other person Virgil loved who wasn’t present at the moment was Murton. Virgil threw his arm around his Jamaican friend’s shoulder and pulled him close. “Thank you, Delroy. Murton’s fine. He’s um, still working, I think.”
“If you tink he still working, then how you know he fine, you?”
As usual, Delroy had a point. “Well, I haven’t spoken with him since this afternoon—things got a little crazy—but I’m going to talk to him in a little while. Listen Delroy, we’ve got some bad news. Jonas just lost his mother. She was killed earlier today. The official story right now is suicide, but it looks like she was murdered.” He hesitated, then added, “It also looks like someone is trying to frame Murt for her murder. We don’t know why.”
Delroy stared hard at Virgil for a moment, then said, “But you tink Murton okay, you?” He shook his head. “Maybe I go say goodbye now. Go to the bar and get back to work, huh?”
“That’s probably a good idea, Delroy,” Virgil said. “Thanks for watching Jonas for us.”
Delroy gave Virgil a look, patted Bell on the shoulder, walked into the other room, bumped fists with Jonas, kissed Sandy and then walked out the front door.
Thirty seconds later Virgil’s cellphone dinged at him. A text from Delroy. It read: Talked to Robert, me. Murton at the bar. Says he home soon.
Virgil and Sandy spent the better part of the evening carefully explaining to Jonas what had happened to his mother. They left the heavy details out and delivered the news as simply and gently as they knew how. Bell sat quietly in the corner of the room, watching Jonas, looking for any signs that he might need immediate professional help. By the time they got him in bed and asleep, Virgil was flat out relieved. Jonas seemed to be okay. Maybe even better than okay. Virgil thought he looked and acted remarkably well.
“He’s not though,” Bell said to them both. “He’s in shock. His world has just been turned completely upside down…again. That’s twice in less than a year. He hasn’t even begun to process what you’ve just told him. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he woke up tomorrow morning and asks when he’s going home or where his mom is. Did either of you notice that he didn’t cry?”
“I thought maybe that was good,” Virgil said. “Like maybe he was being strong or something.”
Sandy shook her head. “What do we do, Bell?”
“Well, for a while, you’re going to have to be with him all the time. And I do mean all the time. Sandy, I think you should sleep in the same bed with him tonight. For the next few weeks he’s going to need to see one or both of you almost every single moment he’s awake. He seems to have bonded with Delroy, so time with him would be good too. His grieving process will be the same as a healthy adult…all the stages and all that, but as a child he’s going to need someone he trusts to help him navigate his way through it all. Right now he’s in denial. That’s why he hasn’t cried. But he will. The information made it in, but he doesn’t really believe it yet. He hasn’t processed it. In his mind it’s not real and his mother is still alive, which is the same way of saying it hasn’t really happened. Does he have any other family?”
“No,” Sandy sa
id. It came out fast and she jumped a little when she said it.
“Well—” Virgil said, but that was as far as he got.
“He doesn’t have any other living relatives that we know of,” Sandy said, this time with a little steel in her voice.
Bell raised his eyebrows. “I see.” After a moment of tense silence, he stood and slipped into his jacket. “You have my number if you need me. I’ll put together a list of child psychologists and email them to you tonight. A few sessions would be a tremendous help in getting him started along the right path. That sound okay?”
“That sounds fine, Bell,” Virgil said as they walked toward the front door. “We can’t thank you enough for coming out. We didn’t know who else to call.”
“Don’t worry about it, Virgil. I’m always available for you.” They stepped outside and Bell stopped for a moment. “Anything else I should know?”
Plenty, Virgil thought. “We don’t quite have a handle on it just yet. It’s…sort of complicated.”
“Everything that matters usually is, Jonesy. Look, I want you to think about something. Unless you or someone you know…someone with some juice intervenes, CPS is going to come knocking, and soon. They don’t like complicated, Virgil. They have their forms and their procedures, and they like to make sure every box is checked. They want the facts and they want them in order. It’s been my experience that they’ll go to extraordinary lengths to make sure they find what they’re looking for.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they want family. Things aren’t as simple as they used to be. You know, back in the day when you and Murton were kids. Murton and your father in particular, if you take my meaning.”
“I’m willing to entertain suggestions.”
“Then replay what I just said. Goodnight, Virgil. And good luck. Take care of that boy.”
They argued about it, Virgil and Sandy. It was the kind of argument neither of them would win. Sandy, still a cop and not wanting to be…reduced.