A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1) (27 page)

I stood up. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"Back to town," I said, striding back to the car. Julie ran to keep up.

"For what?"

"To see if that really is Wheeler under that rock," I said.

"Who's going to tell us that?"

"We've only got one resource down here, so let's use it."

. . .

I retraced our drive, heading downtown and parking near the Visitors Center. The downtown scene was lively, with the antique and gift shops spilling light onto the sidewalk and street, tempting passersby on their way out to dinner. There was more traffic than there had been during the day and I had to circle the block three times before I found a parking spot outside the police department. It was a small building with a red-brick façade and old-timey globe lights that allowed it to blend in with the other quaint buildings on the street. Julie and I went inside. A petite blond lady in uniform sat behind a Plexiglas window. I walked up to it and asked for Hanson.

"Officer Doug Hanson?" the duty officer asked.

"Do you have another Hanson?" I asked.

"No."

"That's him, then."

She asked me to wait and picked up the phone. Julie sauntered over to look at the curling Just Say No posters, hugging herself, while I stayed by the desk. The receptionist stared at a spot above and to the left of my head while it rang, then her face brightened as someone picked up on the other end. There was a quick exchange, then she turned to me.

"What's your name, sir?"

"Singer," I said. "Tell him we spoke this afternoon."

She relayed the message, then looked up again. "He'll be right out."

Three minutes later, Hanson came through a door and around the counter. The mirrored shades and cowboy hat were gone, making him look ten years younger. He had a half-smile on his face. "Singer. Why am I not surprised?" he asked. "You find your man?"

"You could say that." I filled him in.

He whistled after I'd finished. "So this guy you've been looking for is dead?"

"Maybe."

"Mission accomplished, then, huh?"

"Not quite. I need some background on how he died. A coroner's report, case file, anything."

"You'll only get that if he didn't die a natural death."

"I know this guy. I'm going to bet on unnatural," I said. "Think you could dig any of that up for me?"

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Is that all? Why don't I turn in my badge and gun now and save my boss the trouble of asking? You know, since you're not a cop anymore and if he caught me feeding a civilian police reports it could be my hide."

I tried to look sheepish. "Don't do it if I'm putting you out."

"You're serious?"

"A girl's life might be on the line, Hanson," I said. "And this was our last lead."

He gave me a long, steady look, then sighed heavily. "Damn it. I'll need some time to dig this stuff up. Swing back around in a couple of hours."

I nodded. "Thanks. Uncle Bill would be proud."

The half-smile was sour. "Yeah, yeah."

He shooed us out of there and we walked outside into the deepening dusk. Julie looked at me. "So, we've got a couple of hours to kill."

"Looks like it," I said.

"Then let's pretend we're relaxing," she said, taking my arm. "And forget we're waiting to see the coroner's report on a killer that isn't supposed to be dead."

So we strolled the brick streets of Waynesboro, admiring store displays and occasionally ducking into shops to chase the chill away. If the decorations were any indication, Christmas was tomorrow, but the tinsel and plastic elves had probably been up for a month already. I caught myself looking down at Julie and smiling, which stirred a jumble of emotions, both bad and good. It had been a long time since I'd been attracted to someone enough to saunter down a city street, arm-in-arm, looking at dopey holiday decorations and enjoying it. But the cynic in me asked, how long would it last? I pushed those doubts aside, squeezing them into a hole, and gave myself permission to have a good time.

. . .

Two hours later we were sitting in the space opposite Hanson's desk, squeezed into two small plastic chairs. His workspace was neat as a pin, with a computer monitor arranged precisely in one corner of the desk and a day planner open to the correct date open in front of him. A slim folder rested on the edge nearest me.

I looked around the open office. "Not worried about your boss?"

"He went home early and I'm the only one on call."

"No crime sprees in Waynesboro?" I asked.

"Just the one in here," he said, tapping the folder. He looked at Julie and stuck out a hand. "You know, we weren't introduced there, out on the street."

"Julie Atwater."

He waited for more. "She was Wheeler's defense attorney at the original trial," I said. "That's what an asshole he is. Even his own lawyer wants to see him put away."

He raised his eyebrows and said, "I think you mean was."

"You're sure?"

"I'll let you be the judge of that," he said. He opened the folder and wet a finger before flipping through the pages. "Michael Anthony Wheeler. Male Caucasian. Age, twenty-eight. Blue eyes, brown hair. Occupation, unknown. Found dead in a dumpster outside Randy's Roadhouse on Sperryville Pike, February 19, 1997. Cause of death would be the blunt force trauma administered to his head and face by approximately twenty-three blows with a pipe or similar object."

"Jesus," Julie said.

Hanson turned forward a page, then back. "Positive ID on him, though dental identification was delayed because of the, ah, trauma."

"How'd they make the ID?"

"Looks like Wheeler had been living with Green, who'd reported him missing four days prior to the discovery. Somebody at the station made the connection and brought her in to look at the body. She confirmed the clothes he had on were gifts she recognized. Fingerprints came back for one-hundred percent confirmation that it was Wheeler. Even with the ID, though, the investigation went nowhere. No witnesses, no murder weapon, no remains other than the body itself. They chased the sister for a while, but she was cleared."

"No possible mistake on the ID?" I asked. "I can't afford to be wrong on this."

"Look for yourself," he said, gesturing at the file. "The paperwork is pretty clear."

"Who contacted MPDC?" I asked.

Hanson licked another finger and rifled through the pages, then shook his head. "No contact was made."

"No contact?" I stared at him. "The guy was a former DC cop."

He shrugged. "It's not in the notes. Let's see. Looks like he hadn't been in town long. Living with Green. No known job. No friends, no associates. Hadn't even been in the Roadhouse the night before, according to bouncers and bartenders. The body was just dumped there."

"And she didn't mention to anyone that he'd been a cop?"

"If she did, no one wrote it down."

"Who ran the investigation?"

"Jay Palmer," Hanson said. "Good detective."

"Where is he? Can I talk to him?"

Hanson shook his head again. "Jay had a stroke five years ago. Died a year into retirement."

I cursed. "Would anybody else know anything? Wasn't this some kind of news around here, for crying out loud?"

"It was before my time, but I remember some of the older cops talking about it when I first transferred. Vicious thing like that, looked like a mob hit from the movies. But Wheeler wasn't a local boy and interest fizzled out once Jay couldn't pin it on anyone. People chalked it up to a big city payback or a bad drug deal or something like that. The less we had to do with it, the better."

Julie stepped in. "Somebody gets their head beat in so bad you can't figure out who he is and no one's interested?"

"After a couple of months, yeah."

"What was Palmer's excuse? Why didn't he follow up?"

"You know…" Hanson started, then closed the folder and smoothed his hands over his desk. "You know, I couldn't tell you. He was a good guy and a good cop. I was going to get all righteous on you, but truth is, this is a tenth the paperwork we'll get for a hit-and-run, never mind a gangland-style execution. Looks like he dropped the ball on this one."

I gestured to the file. "You mind?"

"Be my guest."

I opened the file and glanced through the reports. I was done with the pages in a minute. Hanson was right, there was nothing in the file. I generated more paperwork filling out a prescription. Palmer might've had a reputation as a solid cop, but you wouldn't know it from this case file. The whole thing stunk. Kransky should've seen Wheeler's murder come up on his radar in the first ten seconds of his search, but there'd been nothing. It made me distinctly uncomfortable, because it took some serious clout to shove something like this under a rug.

"How would you feel if I went and talked to Layla again?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Not good. I don't mind helping you out, but you start bothering her and she calls my department and complains, it'll come out that I knew you were up there once already."

"And Palmer's dead," I said. "He have a partner?"

"No," he said. "We're too small. He might've taken somebody on for a big case, but this was picked up and dropped too quick for that."

I was quiet, out of ideas. I'd go see Layla anyway if I had to, but I doubted it would be worth the potential ill-will I might stir up with Hanson and his boys.

"Sorry it didn't help," he said.

I opened my mouth to say something, but my phone rang. I pulled it out and took a look. It was Kransky. I nodded an apology to Hanson and stepped away.

"Kransky," I said. "I'm in the middle of something. What's up?"

"Time to come home, Marty."

The way he said it made the blood drop out of my face and pool somewhere around my knees. "What's wrong?"

"My contact in Records called back," he said. "He crosschecked some payroll files, attendance rolls, bunch of other sources that aren't housed in the same locations as the personnel files. Still didn't find out who deleted the files, but he was able to tell that
two
records were wiped out, not one."

"Two? Whose was the other?"

"Lawrence Ferrin's."

My heart leapt to my throat. "Wheeler's partner."

"That's not all. Something about our search got under my buddy's skin. He dug around on the internet. Looks like Lawrence quit MPDC a year after the Wheeler trial, kicked around for a while, then got thrown in the can ten years ago on a rape and battery charge somewhere in Indiana. Served his time, paid his dues, and got out. Want to guess when he was released?"

"Tell me," I said.

"Two weeks ago. They're on a mission, Marty."

"Christ," I said. "Wait, ‘they'?"

"Wheeler and Ferrin," he said. "Aren't you listening?"

"Shit," I said, wincing. Why hadn't I called Kransky to tell him about Wheeler? I knew the answer, but didn't want to admit it: I'd been waltzing around town with Julie, dreaming of another bout of passion in the car with her. "Maybe not."

"What are you talking about?"

I took a deep breath, then told him what we'd stumbled across, from Wheeler's grave to Hanson's homicide report.

There was a dead silence on the other end.

"Kransky? You there?"

Still nothing.

"Jim?"

"I'm here," he said. But his voice was flat, atonal. I could sense the feeling of disbelief and bitterness. A few more seconds of silence passed, then, "You're sure?"

"Short of exhuming the body. The report this cop Hanson scratched up for me has more holes than I can count, but it's official enough."

He swore. "I've spent the last twelve years thinking he's out in the world. Alive."

"You and me both."

"Where's this leave us?"

"Not sure, though I've got a real desire to look up Lawrence Ferrin," I said.

"It bother you he's the son of an ex-chief of police?"

"Maybe," I said. "And we both know Jim Ferrin was dirty as the day is long."

"Is he in on it, too?"

"I don't know," I said. "If he is, we've got more trouble on our hands than I thought."

vii.

"I asked you not to interfere."

"Hello, Son," the old man said. "Good to hear from you, too."

The other's voice was terse. "Call your idiots off. They were stumbling all over campus yesterday, trying to look like tourists."

"Those two never could do a tail." He coughed, a wet sound. "Tell me, what is it you're trying to do, exactly? What am I supposed to not interfere with? Your note wasn't very specific."

"If I tell you, do I have your promise not to get in my way?"

The old man sighed. "Yes."

He told him.

"And that's going to give you your life back? That's what you've been dreaming of these last twelve years?"

"You don't approve?"

"I do if this is it," the old man said. "If it's over after this. If it isn't, I'll have to bring you in myself. My way."

"It's all I need." A pause. Readying himself for an argument. "Are you going to get in my way?"

The old man paused. "No, Son. No, I believe I'm going to help you."

Our conference with Hanson ended quickly. I thanked him for his help, grabbed Julie's hand, and bolted. It would've been nice to have talked to Layla again to answer some questions that Hanson's report had raised. Or tracked down Palmer's widow, try to see if the detective had kept private notes on Wheeler's killing. But Kransky's news about the deleted records balled all those ideas up and dumped them in the shitter. We jumped in my car and headed north. Julie and I hashed and re-hashed what Wheeler's apparent death meant. I tried not to say much about the issue that was truly bothering me, but had forgotten Julie was a lawyer: she could sniff out an omission from a mile away.