The alcohol, the night, Eli’s cryptic words, Cohen’s music . . . they had conspired to send him into a dark, funky mood. It was territory he knew well, a place he visited often, and had since he was a small boy.
Next to him, on a small wooden table, was an 8x10 photograph in a gold frame. Picking it up, he brushed off some dust and held it under a lamp. It was his favorite photo, taken in Florida when he was six years old. In the photo, he was standing between his parents, Sarah and Johnny Dantzler.
Johnny Dantzler was only twenty-eight when the picture was taken. Tall, muscular, proud, more handsome than a movie star, he was a man who seemingly had everything within reach.
Everything, that is, except time.
Less than four months after the picture was taken, Johnny Dantzler was dead, killed in Vietnam.
Dantzler was barely six then, yet he’d felt a depth of sadness and hurt he doubted could ever be rivaled. But he had been wrong. He would feel it again. Eight years later when his beloved mother was murdered.
After staring at the photo for several more minutes, he gently put it back on the table. He took another drink and stared out at the shimmering water. Leonard Cohen sang “If It Be Your Will.”
“Let your mercy spill on all these burning hearts in hell.”
Those were the last words he heard before passing out.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Dantzler was flagging pages in the Bible when Milt and Scott came into the War Room. Several seconds later, Eric strolled in, carrying a bag overflowing with bagels. He tossed the bag onto the table, went to the coffee pot, filled a cup, and sat across from Dantzler.
Milt eyed the Bible in front of Dantzler, turned to Scott, and said, “Know what this reminds me of, Scott?”
Scott shook his head.
“A story I once heard.”
“Oh, yeah? What story?”
“The great W.C. Fields was an alcoholic and quite the reprobate his entire life,” Milt said, dragging a chair away from the table and sitting. “He was anything but a man of God, that’s for sure. Well, one day, late in Fields’s life, when he was old and near death, a friend of his walked into the room and was stunned to find Fields reading the Bible. ‘Why are you studying the Bible?’ the guy asked. ‘You’re not a religious man.’ Know what Fields’s reply was?”
“Don’t have a clue.”
“Old W.C. said, ‘I’m looking for loopholes.’ ” Milt laughed. “Now, that’s one terrific line, don’t you agree?”
Scott shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. One question, though. Who’s W.C. Fields?”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Milt said. “You don’t know who W.C. Fields is? That’s criminal. You ought to be busted back to traffic cop for an answer like that. Don’t you young kids know anything at all?”
“Hey, Milt,” Scott said. “Who’s Lady Gaga?”
“Hell, how should I know?”
“You gotta be kidding me. Don’t you old farts know anything at all?”
“
Zing
,” Eric said, taking a bagel from the bag. “You’ve been severely neutered, Milt. And by a rookie, at that.”
“He’ll never last as a Homicide dick.” Milt gently cuffed Scott on the side of his head. “He’s too ugly, he’s a wise ass, and he’s a dummy when it comes to cinema history. I give him two more months and he’s back walking a beat.”
“Nah, Milt, I think the kid’s got a future with us,” Eric said, turning toward Dantzler. “Why are you studying the Good Book, Jack? Are you looking for loopholes?”
Dantzler shook his head. “When Charlie and I went to see Eli, just before we left, the old guy said something interesting. He said, ‘think of Jesus’s empty tomb.’ At first, I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to me or mumbling to himself or maybe hallucinating. But after thinking about it, I’ve concluded he was trying to tell me something. Those five words hold the answer to this mystery. I’m convinced of it.”
“Jack, are you sure this guy isn’t playing mind games with you?” Milt asked. “Hell, if he really wants this thing solved, all he has to do is give you a name. How difficult can that be?”
“Dammit, Milt, he can’t. He’s protecting his family.”
“You like that cantankerous old bird, don’t you?”
“Like, dislike—they don’t factor into this. I simply can’t stand seeing an innocent man locked up behind bars.”
“None of us can,” Milt said. “But he had the option to do something about it long before now. He didn’t have to wait until the Grim Reaper was on his doorstep before seeking help. Spending unnecessary years behind bars—that’s on him.”
Eric picked up the Bible and leafed through the four pages Dantzler had flagged. “Find anything worthwhile? Any idea what Eli was trying to tell you?”
“Not really,” Dantzler answered. “The four gospels are all fairly consistent in their narratives concerning the women finding Jesus’s empty tomb. But they do differ on who those women were. Mary Magdalene is the one consistent; her name appears in all four accounts. Mary, the mother of James, is in Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Salome is in Mark’s gospel, and Joanna is in Luke’s. Luke also says there were other women with them, but gives no names. John mentions only Mary Magdalene. Like I said, there’s not much to go on.”
“A female shooter?” Milt said. “Are we wrong to discount that possibility?”
“I never discount anything, Milt. But the likelihood . . . I just can’t see it.”
“Okay, so where do we go from here?” Eric said.
“Back to the obits,” Dantzler said. “Men only, forget the women. Scott, you help on this. This is gonna sound nutty, but here’s what I want you to look for. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are obvious names to check for. Peter is mentioned in Mark’s and John’s versions, so look for anyone with that name. The stone was rolled away from the tomb—that was a big deal—so look for someone named Stone. Anyone named Lord or James. I know this is asking a lot, but right now it’s all we have to go on. The answer is in those five words. I’m positive of it. The name is buried somewhere in the obits.”
“What’s your next move, Jack?” Milt said.
“I need to speak with Tommy Whitehouse, but he’s a hard dude to pin down. I have his sister, Rachel, trying set up a meeting. That’s my first priority. Then at some point, I want the two of us to talk with Johnny Richards. See if he can shed some light on all this.”
“Did you ask Eli about him?” Eric said.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know the guy all that well. Richards was Colt Rogers’s friend, not Eli’s. Still, I don’t think it would hurt to meet with him.”
“Colt’s funeral is tomorrow at ten,” Milt said. “You want us there?”
“You bet. Sean Montgomery and I are going to the visitation tonight to see if anyone interesting or suspicious shows up. Laurie, Eric, and I will attend the service tomorrow afternoon. Milt, you and Scott find strategic and discreet locations near the gravesite. Photograph everyone who attends. Sammy Turley will be there to get it all on video.”
“Can you handle a camera, Scott?” Milt asked, smiling.
“Better than Annie Leibovitz.”
“Who?”
“It’s true. You old farts really don’t know anything.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sean Montgomery was right—Colt Rogers was not highly regarded by his peers. During the two hours Dantzler and Sean spent at the funeral home, not more than a dozen people showed up for the visitation. If Rogers did have friends and professional colleagues who respected him, they were no-shows on this particular night. Judging from this turnout, the man known for his plea-bargaining tactics was a pariah within the legal community.
Dantzler and Sean stopped by McCarthy’s for a few pints of Guinness before driving out Harrodsburg Road to Kerr Brothers Funeral Home. The before-visit drinks were at Sean’s insistence.
“I want alcohol before the visit and a good long shower after I get back home tonight,” Sean said. “Maybe if I’m a little drunk, I can tolerate the slime until I’m able to wash it off.”
“Such a horrible thing to say about the deceased,” Dantzler joked. “You’re supposed to show respect for the dead.”
“Colt Rogers was a horrible person when he was alive,” Sean countered. “As for respecting the dead, I say a person gets in death what he or she earned in life.”
“You’re a hardcore philosophical bloke, Sean. No wonder you made a great defense attorney.”
“Come on, Jack,” Sean said after finishing off his third pint. “Let’s do this before I change my mind and order another round.”
*****
The handful of visitors who did show up at the funeral home included three or four of Rogers’s fellow attorneys, all of whom looked to be in the senior citizen age group, and none of whom gave the slightest hint they wanted to be there. Each one signed the register, spent a few brief moments by the casket, then quickly departed, head down as though they were afraid they might be recognized. Their haste to leave seemed to be propelled by extreme embarrassment for having known Colt Rogers.
Several others trickled in during the two hours Dantzler and Sean were there. Most were middle-age women who came not so much to pay tribute to the dead man, but rather to console the one person in the room who was a genuine mourner—Barbara Tanner.
Barbara sat alone, dressed in black, obviously distraught by the death of her long-time boss. Her makeup had long since been washed away by her tears, and her eyes were red and puffy. She paid several visits to the beautiful oak casket, which was closed and covered by a blanket of red roses. A folded American flag and a single 8x10 photograph of a smiling Colt Rogers rested on top. After looking at the photo of Rogers for several seconds, she would wipe the tears from her eyes and return to her chair.
“That’s Barbara Tanner,” Sean said to Dantzler. “How she survived all those years working for such a sleazeball is a mystery to me. She’s a really nice, decent lady. Have you spoken to her yet?”
“Laurie did.” Dantzler pointed toward the other mourner sitting alone, this one much younger and prettier. “Who’s the good-looking lady?”
“That would be Cheryl Likens. She is Colt’s current paralegal, and if the grapevine is accurate, his latest main squeeze. I’ve never personally dealt with her, but rumor has it she is not a candidate for a Rhodes scholarship. Dumb as a rock. Of course, she would have to be to sleep with Rogers.”
“That’s what Barbara told Laurie. She said we could rule Cheryl out as the shooter based on sheer stupidity.”
“Good old Barbara,” Sean said, chuckling. He nudged Dantzler in the ribs. “Come on, Jack, let’s get out of here. I can feel the slime growing on my body.”
The funeral and the graveside service conducted the next morning also turned out to be a waste of time and effort for Dantzler and the Homicide team. Thirteen people showed up for the funeral, five made the trip to the cemetery. In all, ten of the thirteen were women. Only one attorney had the courage to make an appearance at the gravesite, and according to Sean, the man had been retired for many years. The other two men were photographed and later identified as distant cousins of Rogers.
*****
“Well, that was a chunk of my life I’ll never get back,” Milt said when the group gathered later that afternoon in the War Room. “Just another reason why I need to sign those papers, turn in my badge, and join Charlie Bolton on his fishing boat.”
“You talk about depressing,” Eric said, loosening his tie. “To live all those years, work as an attorney, get murdered in a most brutal way, and have virtually no one show up at your funeral service. I don’t care how much of a bum the guy was, that’s sad.”