The Dead Detective (29 page)

“It’s time to give it up, Jim. There’s no place left to go.”

“Maybe I’ll just go to Jesus,” Morgan said, ending the sentence with a cold laugh. “Maybe I’ll take Vicky with me. Do you believe in Jesus, Vicky? Do you believe in everlasting life?”

“Fuck you, Jim,” Vicky rasped.

Jim pressed the knife against her throat, drawing a thin line of blood. “Uh-uh. Wrong answer, Vicky.” He let out a disjointed laugh. “Besides, no one’s done that to me since I was a small boy. Betty Higgins was the first, she and her husband. They took turns; first one and then the other. They took turns watching too. They liked to watch, you see. They said it was fun. But it wasn’t fun for me, Vicky. It was never fun for me.” His eyes seemed to glaze as he spoke.

“Drop the knife, Jim.” Harry took a step forward. Carefully, he placed the sawed-off shotgun on the floor, pulled his Glock from its holster, and leveled it at Jim’s head. His thumb disengaged the safety and his finger tightened on the trigger.

“Shoot the son of a bitch,” Vicky said.

Jim slipped his head behind Vicky’s, only one eye looking out just past her right ear. “Put it down, Harry. Put it down or she’ll die right now.”

Harry lowered his weapon and raised the radio to his mouth.

“Don’t …” Morgan said, but Harry was already speaking.

“This is Doyle. He’s in the house. He’s holding Vicky hostage.”

“Harry, are you sure?” It was Pete Rourke.

“He’s five feet away from me.”

Morgan glared at him. “That wasn’t very smart, Harry.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Jim. That’s the bottom line.”

“Then Vicky’s dead!” he shouted.

Harry took another step forward, until his legs were almost touching the bed that separated them.

“Stop!” Jim yelled.

Harry continued the conversation, grasping at anything that might distract him, anything that would keep him from slicing Vicky’s throat. “Are you going to Jesus with an innocent woman’s blood on your hands, Jim? She’s not a sinner like the others. She hasn’t hurt any children. She hasn’t lusted. She’s gone to church her whole life.”

Jim shook his head vigorously. “No, no, she hasn’t. She told me she stopped going to church. She’s a sinner, Harry.”

“What if you’re wrong, Jim? What if she lied to you about that? Maybe she was afraid you’d laugh at her. No, Jim, you can’t take the chance. You can’t go to Jesus that way.”

The words seemed to confuse Morgan. His eyes blinked several times, then suddenly hardened. “No!” he shouted. “No, no, no!” He jabbed the knife at Harry as he repeated the word.

Vicky felt his grip slacken and she slammed her heel into his instep, then drove an elbow into his solar plexus. Jim gasped and she threw herself to her right.

Jim recovered quickly and swung the knife, trying to catch her fleeing body, but Harry had already launched himself over the bed and grabbed his wrist, slamming it against the wall as he drove his Glock into the side of his head. Jim crumpled to the floor with Harry on top of him, one hand still holding his wrist, the Glock jammed up under his chin.

Vicky moved in and pried the knife from Jim’s hand. From the living room they both heard a key twisting in the lock securing the front door. Moments later Pete Rourke was in the bedroom, a small army of deputies behind him.

“Looks like the gang’s all here,” Morgan said from the floor.

“Lock your fingers behind your head,” Rourke ordered.

Morgan complied and Harry grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and helped him stand.

Rourke frisked him, quickly removing his Glock from a holster at his waist and a backup revolver in an ankle holster. As Rourke pulled out his handcuffs, Harry stepped in front of him.

“Not yet,” he said. He brought a right hand up from somewhere around his waist and it caught Morgan flush on the jaw, buckling his knees and sending him back to the floor.

“Damnit, Doyle, what the hell are you doing,” Rourke roared.

Harry ignored him and crouched down to Morgan. “That was for Jeanie,” he said.

“Who’s Jeanie?” Morgan wheezed.

“The woman you pistol whipped when you broke into my house.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
IVE

T
he size of the room surprised Harry
. It was small with a long table dominating its center. There were chairs for witnesses lining three walls, and a lone chair, positioned just inside the door and set several feet back from the table, clearly reserved for the inmate seeking parole. Everything—the walls, the floors, even the furniture—was institutional green, a near sickening color that gleamed under the harsh neon ceiling lights.

Walter Lee Hollins had met Harry when he arrived at the prison. His tall, slightly overweight presence had been a welcome sight. He saw Harry to the hearing room, explaining that the board would arrive together.

“It’s their way of avoiding witnesses. They only want to hear from them when they’re in session, only when the hearing is underway,” Walter Lee said.

“What do you think her chances are?” Harry asked.

“You want me to be honest, Harry?”

“Yes, I do.”

“The prison’s overcrowded, Harry. Hell, all the prisons are overcrowded. The administration, and I mean the big boys in Tallahassee, are pushing them to free up some space.” Walter Lee finally raised his head and looked Harry in the eyes. “I think her chances are damn good, Harry. And I don’t think what you or anybody else says is gonna make a damn bit of difference.”

Harry said nothing. Minutes later the door opened and the members of the board entered, a mix of everyday men and women who would decide whether or not he would live his life with his mother’s shadow hovering over him. They were followed by two prison guards, a state psychologist who Harry had seen testify in court, and Calvin Morris from the state’s attorney’s office. Morris positioned himself on the opposite side of the room, distancing himself from Harry. It was not a good sign, Harry thought.

The board chairman called the meeting to order and introduced the other members, along with Morris and the psychologist, who he identified as Dr. Edgar Meeks. He then turned to Harry and asked his name for the record.

“Harry Santos Doyle.”

“And what is your relationship to the prisoner?”

“I’m her son … Twenty years ago I was the other child she murdered.”

The board chair glanced around uncomfortably; the latter part of Harry’s statement had taken him by surprise. “We have received some evidence, some letters written by the prisoner, Lucy Santos, to a John and Maria Doyle. Are they related to you?”

“They’re my adoptive parents,” Harry said.

The board chair made a note on a legal pad set before him, then looked at the other board members. “Are we ready for the prisoner?”

The other board members either nodded or mumbled that they were. The chair nodded in turn to the prison guards who had stationed themselves on either side of the door. They left immediately to collect the prisoner.

Lucy Santos entered the room minutes later flanked by the two guards. She was dressed in an orange prison jump suit that hung loosely over a seemingly frail body. Her hair was heavily streaked with gray, and her dark eyes darted nervously around the room, passing over the board members, Meeks, and Morris, and settling on Harry. She stared at him intently, and when she seemed certain it was him, her eyes suddenly brightened and her mouth spread into a wide—and to Harry—near maniacal smile.

“Harry, Harry,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“The prisoner is to be seated,” the chairman said.

Lucy Santos glanced back at the chairman as though she didn’t understand what he had said. “It’s my boy. It’s my boy, Harry.” She looked back at Harry and again the smile returned.

“The prisoner will
sit down
, or the prisoner will leave the room,” the chairman said.

Lucy’s hands fluttered in front of her face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She hurriedly sat in the chair. “Forgive me. It’s just that I’ve been away from my boy for so long.”

Harry stared at his mother, his stomach tied in a twisting knot. She wasn’t the woman he remembered from childhood. She didn’t even seem to be the same woman he had seen two days ago, and he realized that his mind had been playing tricks on him during that short, angry visit. Now she just seemed old and even more badly worn by the years. Two days ago he had seen flashes of her as he remembered her, as she had been when he had last seen her as a boy, a pretty woman, young and lively at thirty-three. But the subsequent twenty years in prison had not been kind.

The chairman began speaking though Harry had difficulty filtering his words through his own thoughts, his own memories. He continued to stare at his mother, trying to see the woman he remembered standing in the kitchen of their home twenty years ago. She had been laughing then— laughing at Jimmy as he mimicked the small boy next door—and he could almost hear the rhyming words that came from his brother’s mouth, words that told the story of a spider climbing a water spout, his mother laughing at those words, laughing at her small son, all the time knowing that within minutes she would be dragging his drugged body into the garage so she could start the engine of her car and leave him there to die. And she did the same to you, Harry told himself. She did the same to you.

“… and your actions led to the death of your six-year-old son James, and your ten-year-old son Harry. Only the timely intervention by Tampa police allowed your son Harry to be resuscitated. Your son James, largely because of his age and small size, was not as fortunate.”
The chairman stopped reading from the papers before him and stared down the long table at Lucy Santos. “You have served twenty years of a life sentence for murder and attempted murder. The prison administration has listed you eligible for parole, due to time served and your lack of disciplinary problems while in custody. Dr. Meeks has found you mentally fit.” The chairman glanced at the state psychologist and received a confirming nod. “The state’s attorney’s office has raised an objection based on the heinous nature of your crimes.” This time he looked at Calvin Morris and again received a confirming nod. It was little more than a pro forma objection, Harry noted. The chairman turned back to the prisoner. “At this time, can you offer us any reasons why your parole should be favorably considered?”

Lucy sat mute for several long moments. Gradually her lips began to move, although no sound came from them at first. Her hands twisted in her lap.

“I committed sins, very terrible sins,” she began. “At the time I thought I was doing good. But now I see that I was wrong. Now I want to make up for my sins.” Her eyes turned to Harry. “I want to make up to my son the terrible thing I did to him.” Her eyes then brightened, almost dancing with pleasure, and her face broke into a beaming smile. “As you can see, my son is here to support me.” She placed a hand over her breast. “This fills my heart with joy and hope. It is a gift from God.”

The chairman raised a hand, stopping her, and turned to Harry. He turned to Harry. “Normally we wait until the prisoner is finished until we hear from the victims. But your mother has raised a point I would like to clarify. Do you, indeed, support your mother’s parole, Detective Doyle?”

Harry peered at the man as though he was mad. “No,” he said. He stood abruptly and stepped toward the table the board was gathered around, and placed the box containing his mother’s letters at the chairman’s elbow. “These are letters the prisoner has written and mailed to me over the past twenty years—one each year on the anniversary of my brother Jimmy’s death. I only came here today to give you these letters. You read them and then tell me if she deserves to be on parole.” Harry stared at the board chair and then each board member in turn. Then he started for the door.

“Mr. Doyle, do you want these letters returned to you?”

Harry didn’t break stride. “I never wanted them in the first place.”

As he moved past his mother, Lucy’s hand shot out in a beseeching gesture, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt. Harry pulled back his arm as if something vile had touched him.

“Harry, Harry …” Her voice was plaintive and he knew he would hear that voice for a very long time. He pushed his way through the door and left the room.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
IX

A
week had passed and the media coverage
of Jim Morgan’s arrest had finally begun to fade. It was late evening and Harry was holding Jeanie’s hand as they strolled along the beach. It would be a good sunset with no cloud banks marring the horizon. Harry tried to remember when he last enjoyed a sunset. It was before Darlene Beckett’s body had been found, of that he was certain. He had visited Darlene’s grave earlier in the week, the mound of dirt that covered it still appearing fresh and recently turned. He wasn’t certain why he had gone. Perhaps because he had come to recognize that she was a victim too—a victim of her own illness, as well as a victim of someone who was even sicker than she. Perhaps he had gone to see if she would speak to him again. She did not.

“My husband came by to see me this morning,” Jeanie said, bringing him back.

“And … ?”

“He wants to get back together. He said all the right things … that he was sorry … that he’d been a fool … that he realizes now how much I mean to him.”

“And … ?”

“I told him it was too late.”

Harry looked at her and saw that she was smiling. Jeanie was not a truly beautiful woman … except when she smiled. “You sound proud of yourself.”

“I am,” she said.

Harry slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer as they continued walking. “You should be.”

They headed down to the beach for several minutes before Jeanie spoke again. “You never told me how Vicky is.”

“She’s got a week off to let her arm heel, two weeks if she needs it. She’s happy as a clam.”

“Are clams happy?”

“I never heard one crying,” Harry said.

“What’s going to happen to Jim Morgan?”

“Don’t know, but I suspect they’ll find him mentally unfit to stand trial, which will mean a hullabaloo in the media, probably a slew of editorials demanding that all cops get psychological evaluations.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Jeanie teased.

“Except that it could put me out of work,” Harry came back.

“Did he ever explain why he killed those people, why he carved those words in their foreheads and covered their faces with masks?”

“In the end his explanations were all religious gibberish,” Harry said. “Lola Morofsky thinks it goes back to the abuse he suffered in foster care, but who knows? It’s easy to abuse kids. They’re trusting and they’re vulnerable and they can’t do a lot to defend themselves. They’re easy targets for people who want to hurt them. And it always changes the way they look at the world.”

They walked on again in silence for another minute or two until Jeanie got up the courage to ask the one question she knew she had to ask.

“Have you heard anything about the parole board’s decision?”

“Yes, my friend Walter Lee Hollins called yesterday. The board approved her parole. My mother gets out as soon as the paperwork is finished.” He thought about the trip he had made that day to his brother’s grave. He had stood there for a long time, working up the courage to tell Jimmy that he had not kept his promise, and that he was sorry. They were the hardest words he had ever spoken.

“They released her even after they read the letters she wrote to you?” Jeanie asked.

Harry looked out into the gulf. “Walter Lee said they never read the letters. They gave them to the guards and told them to get rid of them. The prisons are overcrowded.”

Jeanie stopped and slipped her other arm around Harry’s waist. She held him, hoping she was providing some comfort, certain she was not.

“Life goes on,” he said. He wanted to smile, but found that he could not.