The Night Watchman (26 page)

58

S
TEVE
S
TOCKTON WALKED
Crevis out of the interview room and released him to me. They'd put together a packet for the state attorney's office to review. Crevis would survive it—legally anyway. It was a clear-cut justifiable use of deadly force. He stared down at the floor and hadn't spoken since he came out into the hallway.

“You okay?” I said.

Crevis shrugged. “I just wanna go home.”

“I'll take you there as soon as we're finished up here. Do you want me to call your dad?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I didn't mean my home. I meant your home. Just take me back to your place. I'm worn out.”

Crevis and I met with Pam and Katie in the lobby. Katie hugged Crevis hard as she cried. I couldn't tell if she was weeping for Chance, for Crevis, or for everything that had happened.

I was weeping on the inside, but for a much different reason. I needed to attend to Crevis first. I'd worry later about what was left of the case.

Pam made sure Katie got home safe, and we all agreed to meet up later and discuss where we were in the investigation. I didn't dare put into words what I knew to be true.

The investigation was as dead as Chance Thompson.

I got Crevis home at a little after 4:30 a.m. and gave him some ice for his face. I cleaned and bandaged the burn on my leg and swallowed some aspirin. We talked for quite a while, just Crevis and me; Jim and the Duke weren't invited.

I shared with him my experiences after my shootings and other violent encounters—the loss of sleep, anxiety problems, flashbacks, nightmares. He needed to know what to expect. Maybe he wouldn't experience any of those things. Maybe he'd be just fine. But you could never tell. At least this way he'd know that what was happening in his head was normal after such a traumatic event. I shared more with him that night than I'd ever told anyone. But I had put Crevis in that situation. He was my responsibility. I wouldn't mess that up.

Around 7:00 a.m. Crevis slipped into a comalike sleep. No such luck for me. I stared at my murder mural as Crevis snored on the couch. I'd blown it. I took my best shot and failed… again. I had no idea what I was going to tell Pam.

I went out, got the paper, and read the headline: C
OMMISSIONER
V
ITALIANO
U
NDER
C
RIMINAL
P
ROBE
. Since the incident happened late in the evening, they didn't have much info, but the gist of the story was accurate. The meat of the crude tale would be revealed soon enough as the coming days would be filled with an all-out exposé. It was simply the first of many swipes the press would take at this investigation. The
Sentinel
could keep this going for weeks.

A much smaller story appeared in the local section: N
IGHT
C
LUB
O
WNER
K
ILLED IN
P
ARK
. Four prosaic lines and a quote from Oscar that the case was pending a review from the state's attorney. He'd left Crevis's name out. Maybe Oscar wasn't as mad at me as I thought.

While I was pleased that Vitaliano and his minions were getting their due attention, I was lost as to what to do next.

I folded the paper and dropped it on the floor. I was exhausted but I couldn't sleep. I stayed in the kitchen for a while until Pam showed up.

“You look terrible, Ray.”

“Well, I'm glad to see you too.”

“That's not what I meant.” Pam frowned. “You don't look like you slept at all.”

“I didn't. Too much on my mind.”

Crevis snorted but continued in la-la land.

“So where do we go from here?” Pam asked the dreaded question.

I paused. I wasn't about to lie to her. Not Pam. “I'm at a loss. We've locked down the links to Club Venus and the Lion's Den, but we're no closer on the murders. It's driving me crazy.”

Pam sighed and crumbled into my kitchen chair. We sat together in my kitchen for a long time, neither of us knowing what to say.

My shift at the Coral Bay Condos was exceptional only in its silence. Crevis stayed home. He wasn't up to coming back to work, and I didn't push him. I glanced through some of David and Jamie's e-mails.

David,

i couldn't sleep last night. i've been feeling that God has been stalking me, placing me in situations and meeting people like u so i could learn more about him. i did something this morning that i haven't done since i was a little girl. prayed. i asked God to forgive me and for Jesus to save me from myself. i feel odd… but good. i'm at the end of my rope. i can't live like this anymore. i'm leaving this life. i'm walking away. i want to follow God—whatever that means. need your help now. i have to cut some people out of my life, but then i'm outta here. i'll probably need a new place to stay. i don't want any of these people to ever find me again. i won't go back. i'll call u later today. i just thought u would want to know. Thank u for believing in me.

Jamie

Something had happened with Jamie. Maybe she had indeed come to the end of her rope. I read David's reply.

Dear Jamie,

I praise God for what He's done in your life. The angels in heaven are rejoicing and singing praises with you now Tears of joy fill my eyes as I write this. I'll do whatever I can to help you. We'll find a place for you to stay and get you on your feet. If you feel it's not safe, call me. I'll be here for you, Jamie. I promise. Call me later today. I can't wait to see you! God bless.

Your brother in Christ,

David,

David Hendricks's last e-mail in life was to a dancer-prostitute who I wouldn't have spent ten minutes to do anything for. Because he cared and extended himself to her, Jamie DeAngelo was walking away from being a pretty play toy in men's hands into a different life altogether. David hadn't bribed her, hadn't wooed her with love or riches. He told her about his God and displayed a rare kindness to her.

I didn't believe in David Hendricks's God, but I couldn't help but see the impact that belief had on David's life—and Jamie's. Whether I believe in God or not, David was sold out to his faith like his sister. Pam and David lived it. Jamie could see it. I could see it. I mourned for people I never knew. I grieved that I couldn't find their killer.

My thoughts tortured and conflicted, I shut down my computer and pulled my Sudoku puzzle book out for some diversion. I continued with the exasperating puzzle I'd been on for a couple weeks. Even though I hadn't had much time to work it, I should have been through it by now. It didn't make any sense that I couldn't solve it because it wasn't even in the most difficult section of the book. My head was just messed up, and I couldn't put any cogent thoughts together.

I tossed the book to the ground. “It's no use.” I spun in my chair and worked my fingers through my hair. The monitors were quiet. No Crevis around. I was alone with my thoughts. I couldn't solve multiple murder cases, and I couldn't figure out a simple Sudoku puzzle. It made no sense.

What was I missing? Did my logic get crippled with my leg? I took a deep breath.
What am I missing?
I ran the formula as far as I could. I thought about the formula I was working with and toyed with an idea that was a breach of everything I believed in, everything I held dear. But if I was right, this would be the only way to verify it.

I caned around the desk. I flipped the cane around and used the handle to hook the book so I could grab it without bending over too much (something I was getting better at by the day). After checking my puzzle, I thumbed to the back and compared it with the answer key a gross violation of puzzle law. But something was wrong.

I flipped back to the puzzle. There was a typo. Only one number, a five was in place instead of a two. A next-to-nothing mistake from the publisher made it impossible to solve the puzzle. It had no answer with that set of numbers. I could have worked it to my dying day but never solved it because I had the wrong formula. I had the wrong starting point. I corrected the error and finished the puzzle in less than five minutes. Now it was back to my case.

I revisited the details of the investigation. The murderer worked only for Chance, and the cop's name died with him. But that didn't mean I was without resources and options. I took out a pen and listed the events in chronological order. The gun from the suicide was taken from the evidence items. Those present—Pampas, Dean, Stockton, Katie, Oscar—were listed on the crime scene log. Two other patrol officers were present, but they didn't appear anywhere else in the case and wouldn't have handled the evidence.

The night Trisha and I were ambushed, I got orders from Oscar to follow up on the Gerald Pitts shooting, even though it wasn't fatal and the victim was uncooperative—very unusual. Oscar didn't want a drug war to erupt. I checked out on the board, writing down that I was heading to Dante Hill's address. Whoever ambushed me would have had to see the address and make it out there before me, or had to know I was going there. I didn't go to Dante's immediately. I went out to the parking lot and met with Trisha; we talked for a few minutes, and she asked to come along.

We arrived at Dante's house. Parked two houses down and approached. We turned up the sidewalk to his house when the suspect fired three shots, two striking me, one Trisha. For someone to have ambushed us, they had to have read the board or heard Oscar tell me to follow it up. But that could have been anyone in Homicide, or Dean and Katie walking by. Steve or Rick. The list was short.

Now David's and Jamie's murders. The odd trajectory of the bullet, the scuff wound to David's knee, and the embedded pillow stuffing in his head wound. No forced entry. The gunshot residue was and had always been a problem. Maybe the suspect put the gun in David's hand and fired a shot, but there were only two rounds and two casings found at the scene. That didn't make sense.

Then the suspect shot at me with a .45 cal and missed at pretty close range, less than fifteen feet. When Trisha and I were shot, the suspect was just a few feet away from me and hit me in the hip and arm—which means the suspect is either a lousy shot, or he just wounded me on purpose.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Why David and Jamie? Who else was she seeing? Why did he kill her? Why kill Trisha? The suspect was familiar with all the goings-on in Homicide and had the ability to tweak evidence and reports.

I sat straight up in my chair as a moment of clarity raced through my head. I couldn't believe I hadn't put it together before.

59

I
FINISHED MY SHIFT
and probably my career as the night watchman at the Coral Bay Condos.

Crevis awoke as the credits were rolling on
The Shootist
—easily John Wayne's greatest achievement on the big screen. Not that I hadn't watched the film a hundred times before, but on this day it had a deeper meaning than ever. The Duke, beginning to show his age and a hint of frailty, portrayed John Bernard Books, a larger-than-life gunslinger dying of cancer. Books decides that rather than let the disease take his life, he would challenge the three best gunfighters in town (some lowlifes to begin with) to one last duel to the death. He dresses in his fanciest duds and meets his foes at the local saloon. Books dies but takes the three with him in an incredible final gun battle. John always did everything with style and guts. I needed to get ready if I was going to finish this thing once and for all.

I located my nicest suit, the one I used to wear for court, in the back of my closet. I removed it from its protective plastic with great care. It was navy blue, and I had a red, white, and blue tie to go with it. The pants fit a little snug around the waist, but I could still make it work. I clipped my OPD tie tack to my tie and made sure it was on straight.

Oscar had taken my Glock and my pocket gun and placed them into evidence for Crevis's shooting. I still had a smaller Glock 26 9mm that used to be my backup. It held eleven rounds, and I had a spare magazine for it. That should be plenty.

“What are you getting all dressed up for?” Crevis said.

“I have an appointment.”

“With who?” He scratched his head.

“The killer.”

“I'll be ready in two minutes.” Crevis leapt to his feet and grabbed one sock off the floor and then the other. He hopped on one foot as he slipped the first one on. “Just give me a second.”

“Don't worry about getting ready because you're not coming with me.”

“What?” he said. “You can't go alone.”

“I won't be alone, but I don't want you to be there. I've put you through enough, Crevis. Stay here and hold down the fort.”

“I don't understand.” His brow furrowed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” I rested my hand on his shoulder. I didn't expect that he would understand. “You've been the best friend—and partner—anyone could ask for. But I want you to stay home today. You'll understand later.”

“I'm not staying, Ray. You're not going to face this guy without me. And if you try to leave me here, you're gonna have a problem getting out of this apartment.” Crevis squared up on me, and the cretin meant business.

I didn't have time to reason or wrestle with him. I guess he was going with me, but I really didn't want him to experience any more and be as messed up as me. “Fine, but I'm leaving in five minutes.”

“I'm moving.” He grabbed his blue jeans and hopped in them, pulling them up to his waist in no time.

Time to make the call. I punched in the numbers. Dean Yarborough picked up on the second ring.

“Dean, this is Ray. I need your help again.”

“What's up?”

“We missed some key evidence at the Coral Bay” I said.

“What evidence?”

“Meet me there in an hour and I'll show you. It's really important and will solve all these murders. Bring your processing kit. We'll be in the same room where David Hendricks and Jamie DeAngelo were killed. Bring Katie too.”

“Do you know who did it?” he said. “Who the killer is?”

“If we do everything right, we just might find out.” I hung up.

Then I called Oscar, Pampas, Stockton, and Pam to meet me there as well, relaying the same information.

It was going to be a little reunion no one would soon forget.