The Widow's Son (13 page)

That'll teach him to defy Lamar. Just took cutting the tie rod and the Buick flew through that railing like it weren't there. Shoulda finished the job with a KA-BAR, but couldn't with them two Samaritans clamberin' down the ridge to help. Likely ol' Em's a goner anyway.

Around midnight, a subdued and considerably more contrite Sergeant Turvey returned with the news that Emery's car had gone off an embankment on Sixty-third Street near Swope Park. He wasn't dead, but he was in serious condition with a fractured skull and internal injuries.

Once Natalie got her emotions under control, Turvey said a detective would be contacting her and us for more details about the “Mormon thing.”

Josie cradled Claire Phelan in her arms as we waited in the visitors' area outside the intensive care unit of St. Luke's Hospital.

Natalie emerged from the ICU after an hour.

“He's in a coma,” she said. “They're very concerned about swelling of the brain. I…I think we might lose him.”

Instinctively, I looked at Claire, who continued to rock in Josie's arms. Her eyes stared at the ceiling tiles and her lips were pulled back with her upper teeth clenching her lower lip, but she remained silent.

“Do you want us to contact his parents?” Josie asked Natalie.

“I already have,” she answered. “They'll be here tomorrow.”

“No need for you two to return to your house,” I said. “You can stay with us until they catch that guy.”

“Thank you. Take Claire with you, but I want to stay near the hospital for the next few days.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. The police were kind enough to check me in under a pseudonym at the Express Holiday Inn across the street.”

She took her house keys out of her purse and gave them to Josie. “Do you mind picking up some clothes and personals for us?”

“Right,” Josie said. “I'll get them right away.”

I got a call to report to the Central Patrol Division Station to talk to a Detective Fletcher. He didn't fit the profile of a big city cop. For one thing he was really skinny. Barney Fife skinny. A hundred thirty pounds soaking wet. For another he lisped. But not like a girl. Like Lou Holtz, the former Notre Dame football coach, his mouth produced excess saliva when he spoke. Sometimes he was able to avoid “sh” and sometimes not.

Fletcher met me in the foyer. First thing out of his mouth was how “pished” he was the way Buford Higgins had been treated. Then he invited me into his cubbyhole of an office.

“I read Turvey's report,” he said as he settled behind his desk. “It gets pretty garbled when he tries to describe what you shaid happened in Lawrence. But the Douglas County sheriff confirmed that thanks to Higgins, they're treating the fire and subsequent deaths as a homicide investigation.”

I repeated what I knew about Eulalia Darp and Norman Tate, how their deaths were in all likelihood linked to an inscribed Book of Mormon, and that I'd tried to broker its sale for Emery Stagg.

“You alsho say that Emery's other cousin, thish—this—Dietz fellow, had traveled all the way from California to Kansas to look at it on the day of the fire?”

“That's right.”

“Then why shouldn't we be worried about him, considering that he was in on this shupposed blood atonement pact at one time?”

“I can think of one very good reason. There's nothing wrong with him that a miracle couldn't fix, but perhaps you'd like to speak to him yourself.”

“Give him a call.”

I pulled out Dennis Dietz's business card and dialed his cell phone number.

He sounded groggy when he answered, a surprise since it was only ten p.m. in California.

“Denny, this is Mike Bevan. Your cousin's been in a car accident.”

“Cousin? Which…You mean Emery?”

“Yeah. He's in critical condition. Skull fracture among other things. Someone tampered with his car.”

“What are his chances?” he asked, his voice turning somber.

“He's clinging to life. Barely.”

“Sheez.”

“The police have asked if he had any enemies.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Everything I know about the pact to kill Natalie. I'm sitting here with Detective Fletcher of the Kansas City Police Department. He'd like to speak to you.”

Five seconds of silence.

“You were right to do so, of course, Bevan. Put me on the speakerphone.”

After waiving his right to self-incrimination, Dennis agreed to Fletcher's recording the conversation and over the next half hour corroborated everything Emery had told me.

“So, Mr. Dietz,” the detective summarized, “you're tellin' me that you were involved in shum kind of cult?”

“I'm a Mormon, sir,” Dennis answered. “As well as a Marine Corps veteran. The Church of Latter-day Saints is no more a cult than Catholicism. The fanatical group I became associated with as a boy, however, chose to misinterpret something our Mormon Moses was believed to advocate.”

“Mormon Moshes?”

“Brigham Young, our second prophet after Joseph Smith, Jr. Blood atonement was long ago declared an immoral tenet by succeeding presidents of the Church. I no more adhere to it than Emery Stagg, but it appears that our other cousin, Porter Grint, still does. Furthermore, as his previous manslaughter conviction attests, Porter's fully capable of murdering Mrs. Phelan.”

“Have you had contact with Grint shince his release from prison?”

“No. That would've spelled more trouble than I could handle if things got hot between us.”

“Oh, and why ish that?” he asked with the slightest hint of sarcasm. “You bein' a Marine and all.”

“Just call it circumstances beyond my control, sir. I'll leave it to Mr. Bevan to explain.”

“All right, Dietz. Once I get this statement of yours typed up I'll fax it to you for your review. I'd appreciate your shigning it and getting it back to me within forty-eight hours.”

“Go ahead and send it, but I may arrive in Kansas City before then to sign it in person. When I get there, I'll answer whatever other questions you may have.”

After the phone call, I told Fletcher about Dietz's disabilities.

The detective was silent for a moment.

“I knew a guy like that,” he said.

“Come again?”

“Clint Carter. Legs were crushed when his patrol car flipped in a chase. Double amputee above the knees. He'd spent nearly a year in rehab, trying all sorts of things to maintain mobility without constantly relying on a wheelchair. He tried walking on fourteen-inch-high prosthetics with training feet—‘shorties' they call 'em. Humiliating, but shtabilizing when you're learning to maintain balance and get to places the wheelchair won't go. It's easier on the heart rate, too.”

Fletcher stopped for a long minute. I thought he had finished and I started to get up until I realized this tough cop with twenty hard years on the force had choked up. It was past midnight and he was officially off duty, but he wanted to talk.

“The shorties combined with the wheelchair were a good compromise for him. He wheeled competitively in half marathons and even learned to shnow ski. But Frank had too much pride. I know shumpthing about what constant embarrassment can do to you.”

“What's he doing now?”

“Not a hell of a lot. Shot himself with his Glock.”

“Jesus, why?”

“He liked to swim at the Police Academy pool when no one was there, using his short prosthetics to get to the edge of the pool and slide in. One day a class of recruits arrived earlier than usual for training. One wiseassh whispers to his buddies that Clint reminded him of Inspector Clousheau disguised as Touloushe Lautrec. Even if he didn't hear what was said Clint knew what they were laughing at.

“I thought he was made of sterner stuff, but, unlike the wounded in military hospitals, he didn't have any peer support. He gave up after that.”

I thought Fletcher was going to get sticky on me again so I asked what he intended to do about Porter Grint.

His answer was to pick up the telephone and issue an APB throughout the metropolitan area, including Johnson and Wyandotte Counties in Kansas, for the ex-con's apprehension.

Dennis Dietz arrived the following morning. He went over his statement with the detective, adding more details as to how the three cousins had been brainwashed. He tried to visit Emery the next day in the ICU, but no visitors other than Natalie were allowed.

Afterward, Josie and I treated him to lunch at Café Provence. The place was crowded, but I had reserved a table. Heads turned as we came in, then abruptly turned away, as people do when encountering someone so disabled. Our server was overly solicitous as she poured our coffees, speaking painfully slowly and with careful enunciation.

After we had ordered soup and sandwiches, Josie tried to make light of the waitress's discomfort, saying the poor girl must have thought we were deaf.

“Actually,” Dietz said, “I can't hear out of my right ear. That whole side of me is pretty worthless.”

That threatened to put a damper on the conversation until Josie and I, feeling compelled to practically shout our sentences, suddenly got the giggles as we realized the entire place was listening in. Thankfully, Dietz saw the humor in that as well, and we returned to more normal voices once the food arrived.

It was obvious that Dennis was worried about Emery's condition, but between slurps of vichyssoise he mentioned how sad it was that Porter clung to such a misguided belief.

“He never really had much of a chance in life,” he said. “Porter worshipped Lamar and Regina, even when they punished him for breaking the rules. They were the only people who ever showed any affection for him.”

“Porter killed a man,” I reminded him.

“In self-defense,” Dennis quickly rebutted. “He used the knife only after the bikers ganged up on him. His public defender was incompetent.”

“Apparently he had a better one second time around,” I said.

“The barmaid recanted her testimony.”

“Don't you think she might have been coerced?” Josie asked.

“I don't know who would have done it or why. It doesn't matter anyway, now that she's dead.”

Josie nearly spit out her coffee. She put down her cup. “That's a callous thing to say, don't you think?”

Dennis placed his hand on hers.

“I'm sorry, Josie. I tend to clutch at any straw when defending the indefensible deeds of my family. As Emery can tell you, it's been a terrible burden. Please forgive me.”

She nodded, and then lifted her hand from his grasp to resume eating her
croque-monsieur
sandwich.

After the waitress refilled our coffee cups, the conversation got around to our Marine Corps experiences. I had nothing to compare to his, of course. I'd been a judge advocate who rarely got away from the relative safety of battalion headquarters. Nonetheless, I'd seen action, and even had the good luck to walk away from a helicopter crash. Despite the seriousness of his wounds, a Purple Heart was the only medal Dietz received for the bad luck of being near an exploding mine. After Josie's coaxing, however, he admitted having been awarded a Silver Star during a previous deployment.

Then I asked, “How do you feel about the Taliban recovering much of the lost territory your unit took at such a huge personal cost?”

“No surprise there. It's been the pattern in Afghanistan throughout history, beginning with Alexander the Great. The problem with the world today is that, to paraphrase J. B. S. Haldane, too many leaders have an inordinate fondness for battles.”

Dennis was silent for a moment as he contemplated his next words. In the background were the typical noises of a busy bistro over the noon hour—the clattering of dishes, waitresses cooing about dessert offerings, the laughter over inconsequential events, the clinking of water glasses.

Finally, he said, “Going through a war doesn't necessarily fit a person for the real world; nor however horrible one's experiences, does it make you any wiser. I vowed after they amputated my arm and the first leg that I'd not let the injuries destroy me. It was harder to accept a month later when they couldn't save the left leg, but I sucked it up. Except for a few dark periods, that's pretty much been the case. Recovery took the better part of a year. I wouldn't wish my injuries on anyone, but it opened opportunities for me.”

“In what way?” Josie gently asked.

Before answering, he reached across the table to brush a crumb off her collar with his biomechanical hand. The gesture struck me as a bit much, but it had my fiancée cooing her appreciation. I could tell she was smitten by this handsome devil.

Even then he hesitated to respond, as if he feared his answer would sound boastful. But Josie, the little flirt, wasn't about to let him stop.

“Please, Dennis. We'd really like to know. Wouldn't we, Michael?”

“Sure,” I said, “but we're interrupting his meal with all this talk. Perhaps—”

“Oh, it's no bother,” he interjected. “It's just that I was far luckier than other guys in my situation and I feel somewhat guilty about it.”

As I suspected, Dietz wasn't one to waste the chance to puff a bit for a beautiful female admirer who, by now, was practically salivating with admiration for the plucky war veteran.

“I had the good fortune,” he continued, “to be selected for an experimental rehab program at Cal Tech. A group of brilliant researchers were creating and testing bionic arms and legs that mimic the function of natural limbs. It was too late to help me, but I became a careful observer of this revolutionary biomechanical technology. I'd also had a knack for innovation, having designed my own surfboards as a kid. Guess I was a lot like Emery in that way. Based on what I'd learned at the tech lab, I designed a robotic ankle-foot prosthesis to help people suffering from drop foot. My little brother has cerebral palsy and the foot, as much as anything, really tormented him. The researchers helped me tweak my design for a prototype. They put me in contact with venture capitalists for a start-up.”