Jane checked the clock. It was past ten o’clock and she had another stop to make. But before she left the library, she sauntered over to the librarian. A sign above her head beckoned everyone to
Read the 20
th
Century Classics.
“Do you have a list of classics you recommend?” Jane asked with another intention forefront in her mind.
The poor, overwhelmed woman looked at Jane through her thick glasses. “Huh?”
Jane motioned to the poster. “The classics?”
The woman stood up and shuffled through a stack of paper. “Here.”
Jane took the page—a list of Top 100 titles. She hoped it would be on there and it was. “Ah, Thomas Wolfe’s,
You Can’t Go Home Again
. Great book. Is it available?”
“We’re really not open today…”
“This is about police business,” Jane said with a serious tone.
The woman nodded and checked the computer. “It’s available.” She looked at Jane. “I suppose you would like to get a list of people who checked it out.”
“That’s private information, last time I checked. And I don’t have the required subpoena.”
“Right. You do need that. Unless, of course, it’s a matter of Homeland Security…” The woman arched an eyebrow.
As much as Jane wanted to see the list, she was damned if she was going to play the Homeland Security card or trot out the ever-popular Patriot Act to muscle information from someone. Jane shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m not going there.”
The librarian appeared to have newfound respect for Jane. “Well, I need to visit the ladies room…
way
over there…and I’ll be gone for about five minutes.” She smiled and walked away.
Jane caught the not-so-subtle message. Moving around the counter, she scrolled down on the computer screen to view the history of names and dates when Wolfe’s book was checked out. Not once, but twice on the long list, Jordan Copeland’s name appeared. The earliest date was one year before with the latest date just three months ago—another nail in his coffin.
The second service was still underway at the Methodist Church when Jane snuck in the door and quietly sat in an empty pew. Aaron stood in the center of the altar in a cream-colored frock and, without notes, was in the final minutes of his heartfelt sermon to the rapt congregation.
“And so, my friends, we can’t escape from the things we fear… especially our greatest fear of death. But we can build a bridge between fear and faith. Whether it is our faith in Jesus Christ or the faith in each other that gives us the strength to carry on, in the end it is always faith that will persevere against the diabolical manipulation of fear.” Aaron paused, reflecting on his words with purpose. “As I said at the beginning, the words of my wife’s grandfather who endured great uncertainty… Who…” Aaron paused again, looked at Sara in the front pew and carefully formulated his words. “Who understood fear, but who rose above it and who stated so beautifully an affirmation that we can all repeat whenever we feel lost. ‘I will be all right and one day I will die.’ Death is inevitable. Loss is inevitable. I can
believe the first part and it calms me to the inevitability of the second part. ‘I will be all right…and one day I will die.’”
The words hit Jane as hard this time as they did when she first heard them in the backyard. As the music swelled and the congregation streamed out of the church, Jane made her way toward the altar.
“You joined us after all!” Aaron said to Jane with a friendly smile.
“Just for the dramatic finish. Can I talk to you privately?”
The cheerfulness dimmed. “I usually greet the congregation on the way out.”
“They’ll understand,” Jane replied, moving Aaron toward the side door of the church.
He agreed to talk with her in his office. It was a small room with a bank of narrow windows. His desk was cluttered with books, Bibles and handwritten notes. A needlepoint plaque on the wall declared:
What I tell you in the darkness, speak in the light, and what you
hear whispered in your ear, proclaim upon the housetops.
(Matthew 10:27)
“In the light,” Jane re-read out loud. “Light a candle in the darkness,” she murmured. “My light? Isn’t that what your wife found out the name Liora means in Hebrew?”
Aaron’s face froze momentarily. It was the same look he had in the backyard when Jane asked him about the red photo album. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, removing his ministerial frock and hanging it in the narrow closet.
Jane glanced around the office. She spotted an old book on the far right of his desk. At first she thought it was an antique Bible, but a closer look showed it was a battered edition of the Talmud. “Wow! You Methodists
are
a liberal bunch.”
Aaron swallowed hard. “Oh, that’s not because of Mollie’s interest in Judaism. I read many tomes of various faiths.”
“Really?” Jane took a closer look at the old book. “That
book is well-read.”
“Yes, I picked it up in an old bookstore in Denver.” Aaron casually moved toward the Talmud and covered it with a few pages on his desk. It was the same unconscious gestural extension of shame he had done with the red photo album when he slid it under the backyard bench.
“I guess that photo album of yours did the trick, eh?”
Again, he froze. “Excuse me?”
“You said the photo album gave you inspiration for your sermons when you were stuck.”
He nodded and smiled, nerves still evident. “Ah, yes. It does.”
“Well, it worked. You had the audience’s full attention with those heartfelt words of Sara’s grandfather. He must have been quite an influence on you.”
“I only met him and his wife a couple times but…” Aaron appeared momentarily lost. “They were the epitome of courage.” He looked at Jane. “But something tells me you’re not here to discuss my wife’s grandfather.”
Jane smiled. “No. I’m here to discuss your daughter’s boyfriend’s father.”
“Bailey?” Aaron licked his lips as his mouth grew dry.
“Yeah.” She folded her arms in front of her. “I need to know what he said when he strong-armed you on the street and convinced you to get Mollie to break up with Jake.”
Aaron sat down at his desk chair, flustered for a moment. “Ah, I can’t… I can’t reveal those conversations. They fall under the minister’s privilege of privacy…”
“Oh, give me a break, Aaron. It was on the street, not in the church. Not in a confessional…”
“And it was between a minister and a…”
“Is he a member of this church?”
“No…”
“So, did he make a generous contribution to the church?”
“Of course not! It’s nothing like that.”
“Then it doesn’t fall under the ministerial privilege.” She leaned closer to him. “Aaron, if you push me, I can legally compel you to speak. We have a missing boy who you care a lot about, and there may be some germ of information in what Bailey said to you that could help us out.“
“I cannot allow you to…”
“You know, Aaron, I hate to say it, but you’re looking complicit in Jake’s disappearance.” Jane was lying through her teeth, but she sold a good threat when she had to.
His eyes widened, both in fear and slight anger. “My God! How can you suggest that?! He was like my son! I’d never hurt that boy!”
“Well, you’re hurting him now! What in the hell did Bailey say to you?!”
Aaron looked at Jane with shame. “I…I…I can’t do this.” He got up and started to leave.
Even though his big-boned, tall body towered over Jane, she held him back. “Goddamnit, Aaron! Tell me what you…” Jane’s cell phone rang. Checking the number, she saw it was Weyler. She answered quickly. “Yeah?”
“Jane, you need to get over here to Bo’s office immediately. We’ve got another clue on the front door of Town Hall…and it’s not good.”
Jane hung up. “Fuck,” she murmured.
“What is it?” Aaron asked, his voice shaking. “Is it Jake?”
She shook her head at him and headed out the door. “Let me give you some advice, Aaron. Take another read of your little needlepoint Bible saying on the wall over there… the one from Matthew?
What you hear whispered in your ear, proclaim upon the housetops?
I
will
persuade you to tell me what you know. Mark my words,
whatever
you’re hiding, I’ll uncover it.”
CHAPTER 24
By the time Jane ran down the street and crossed to Town Hall, it was evident that whatever was waiting at the front door had attracted a small crowd. Bo and Weyler were doing their best to move the onlookers back from the scene as a deputy took photos of the front door. The crush of bodies made it impossible for Jane to see, but as she slid through the crowd and moved toward the deputy, the sickening display became visible.
A black-handled knife penetrated the door. Wrapped around the handle of the knife was a five-inch, blond ponytail secured with an elastic band. Three items were lodged in the steel point of the knife: a printed note, the Ace of Spades and a single Chesterfield cigarette. Pressed into the playing card was a clean, bloody thumb print.
Jane sidled closer to Weyler and spoke quietly. “Who found it?”
“Bo. He was coming in for a couple hours to pack up some boxes.”
Jane saw movement near the window inside Bo’s office. “Who’s in his office?”
“He called Vi. She’s more adept at operating the video playback of the new security system.” Weyler nodded to the camera above the front door of the building.
Even from ten feet away, Jane could see that the camera wasn’t positioned correctly. She turned to Bo who was holding back the growing crowd. “Who set up that camera?”
Already aggravated, Bo turned around quickly, took a quick look and turned back to the crowd. “One of the techie guys I guess.”
The deputy announced to Bo that he was finished and Bo urged the crowd to disassemble. Weyler handed Bo a series of plastic evidence bags. After slipping on a pair of gloves, Bo carefully slid each of the five pieces into separate bags. They went into Bo’s office where he immediately closed the blinds on his
office window that faced the street. Vi was still checking the technical manual on how to operate the new video system while she fiddled with the buttons on the keyboard.
“Well, that was goddamn awkward!” Bo exclaimed as he lit up a fat cigar. “I haven’t had to dodge this much awkwardness since old Miss Hyman named her cat
Buster
and then got him a subscription to
Cat Fancy
that they addressed to the cat:
Buster Hyman.
The postmistress damn near had a stroke.” He turned to Vi. “Any luck with the video?”
“I’ll have it up in a second,” Vi replied.
Bo turned to Weyler. “How long is it gonna take for the Denver lab to match that bloody fingerprint?”
“Depends how backed up CBI is. Rush orders are about a two week turnaround.”
“Two weeks?!” Bo yelled. “Jesus Christ, Beanie, I’m hangin’ it up in a week!” The walls were clearly caving in around Bo.
“I’ll make some calls,” Weyler said in an assuring voice, “and see what I can do.” He laid out the five plastic bags across Bo’s cluttered desk. “We can send the knife too. The guy’s been good about wearing gloves, but he could have slipped up.”
“He’s not slipping up,” Jane offered.
“What in the hell are you yappin’ about? He’s dumb as a box of hair to stand under a goddamned camera and leave a clue!”
“He wants to be found. Every clue is getting more in our faces. He wants to make his mark publicly so that people gather’round and see it! He wants to shock us. That’s why he cut off Jake’s ponytail and left the bloody fingerprint.” She examined the fingerprint more closely, sizing it up with her own thumb. “Check out the size of this print. That’s too big to belong to Jake. And look how clean it is.“ Jane considered the print a blaring cry for attention. It was if the kidnapper was screaming, “
Look at me! Discover who I am!”
He
had
to be in the system, she deduced, because there was no other reason to leave such a clear imprint of who you were. Perhaps, she wondered, there was
something about discovering the owner of that print and what that might lead to. God, it was like one long scavenger hunt with the disturbing prize of a broken or buried boy at the end.
“Vi,” Bo interrupted, “when you’re done here, get me Trash Bag’s file. I want to compare prints.”
“Wait,” Jane countered, “you can’t eyeball a print…”
“The hell I can’t! Back in the day, before we had all this bullshit technology, we eyeballed a whole helluva lot of things!”
“And sent innocent people to prison because of it! This is not a fucking good ol’ boys’ club!”
Bo’s eyes flared with white-hot anger as he slammed his fat fist onto the desk. “Well, that ain’t my fault!” There was something way too defensive in the way Bo said it. “If I want to eyeball Jordan Copeland’s fuckin’ fingerprint, I will damn well do it so back off, girl!”
“
Bo
!” Vi spoke up.
He turned to her. There was a meaningful pause from Vi. “What?” Bo asked, his voice tamed.
“I got it synched up.”
Vi stood back with the remote control and hit the
PLAY
button. The full-color playback was crisp and clear. But it was also clear to Jane that whoever set up the camera outside the front door desperately needed direction. A figure of what appeared to be a male, somewhere between five foot eight and six foot three or so, wearing all black, including a hat and long coat, walked up to the front door and stabbed the knife into the door, securing the assortment of clues. The entire movement from start to finish was fast, taking less than six seconds. And his head was down the entire time; which made Jane assume that whoever left the clue knew that there was a camera above him.
Bo instructed Vi to play back the video repeatedly, painstakingly using the slow-motion feature that Vi discovered to try and detect anything that could identify the individual. But there was nothing. All they knew was that, based upon the video’s timer, a possible male wearing all black approached Town Hall
at 6:29 am that morning and stabbed a public clue into the front door.