S. Tooley - When the dead speak

“Are we talking about the mother? Or the daughter?”

Jake ignored the comment, saying, “I wouldn’t bother posting a surveillance on Sam. Tim already alerted her that she’s being watched.”

“Wonderful.” Carl lead him down a carpeted hallway, past the kitchen, around the corner into the library where Frank was pouring himself a cup of coffee. They convened around an ornate, cherry wood conference table. Reference books and encyclopedias lined the wall-sized book case.

Carl snapped open his briefcase and pulled out a report. “I was faxed the autopsy results on the three bodies found in Mushima Valley. As you know, they were positively identified as Booker J. Jones, Calvin “Bubba” Leeds, and Shamus “Shadow” Lewis, Jr. Jones and Leeds were shot in the back. Lewis took one shot in the back and two to the back of the head. All bullets retrieved were U.S. Army-issued forty-five caliber.”

Jake shook his head in disgust as he read the copy. “Have you convinced President Whittier to go public?”

Carl bent his head to where he peered over the top of his glasses. “You have to understand, this is a very sensitive…”

Frank slapped the autopsy report on the table. His words were slow, forced, his mouth forming each syllable. “Three black men were shot in the back by U.S.-military issued guns. The killers are identified both in this affidavit and in Hap’s. Everyone thinks these kids are deserters. And here they are, victims of a racially-motivated assassination. For godsake!”

“I know.” Carl looked to Jake for assistance.

“It’s out of Carl’s hands, Frank.”

Frank’s head swiveled, his eyes sweeping the ceiling as if looking for written answers or inspiration. “What about Hap’s sister, Mr. Underer? She’s counting on you to clear her brother’s name. And Lincoln. He went out of his way to make sure the guilty parties are punished. How are you going to reward him for his efforts?”

“You’re a friend of Jake’s, Frank, and it was on his word that I’m sharing any information at all with you. But nothing,” he raised a warning finger at Frank, “goes out of this room.” Carl let his comment sink in before continuing.

Jake stood up, peeled off his navy sportscoat and walked over to the window. He peered down at the traffic heading toward the Bishop Ford Freeway — rush-hour traffic heading north to the Loop or east toward the Indiana steel mills and office buildings.

He was having a hard time concentrating. He kept seeing satin sheets and royal blue teddies. His instincts were in overdrive and something told him Sam was unstoppable.

“If I had it in my power to change things,” Carl continued, “I would. I call every day to try to convince President Whittier that releasing this information is his only option. But you’re detectives. Let’s face it. What have we got? Lincoln’s word against a highly powerful senior state representative whose distinguished war record has been documented in history books. Do you know what the press would do with this? They’ll question whether Preston’s opponent put Lincoln up to it. They can write it to sound like Lincoln is the one who aided and abetted the deserters. We need a signed confession. And I doubt we’re going to get it from Preston.”

“Well, maybe someone will have to force him to do the right thing.” Frank began naming black congressmen and church leaders. “Don’t fuckin’ sweep this under the rug.”

“The President is worried about race riots,” Carl explained.

“Race riots, hell. He’s worried about the election.”

“Jake, give me a hand here,” Carl pleaded.

Jake turned back from the window, studied the worry lines creasing Carl’s forehead. Carl was intelligent, fair. Hated the bureaucracy of the job. Jake had no doubt that Carl was tormented by a choice of following orders and doing what was morally and ethically right.

Jake pointed to a copy of Samuel Casey’s report saying, “Did you notice the reference to Samuel giving a copy of all of this to a trusted friend just in case something happened?”

“Wait, now.” Frank touched the corner of Samuel’s report. “If the original went to Whittier, a copy was in the safety deposit box, where’s the copy that went to the trusted friend?”

“Better question is — who is the trusted friend?” Jake asked. They pondered that question for several minutes. “While we’re here trying to strategize about keeping the lid on this,” Jake warned, “Sam is up to no good. I can feel it. When she and Tim have their heads together, god only knows what havoc they can wreak.” He clamped a hand on Frank’s shoulder and patted it reassuringly. He looked across the table at Carl and said, “I believe the President should spend less time trying to stifle this issue and more time planning damage control. Because the truth IS going to come out. It’s just a matter of when.”

Sam whipped her Jeep around a corner and down Lake Drive to the hotel. She had entertained the thought of stopping by Preston’s house but decided it was best to let him sweat for a while. The fact that he hadn’t placed a call to her this morning told her he was already sweating profusely.

The dark sedan Tim had allegedly seen in the past had been replaced by a white van. After convincing herself that Tim’s imagination was on overdrive, she finally had seen the suspiciously parked floral van for a floral shop that didn’t exist.

She lost the van on the last turn down an alley on Wentworth. She was going to put a stop to this. Against her better judgment, she let Tim use his computer to access the guest list at the Suisse Hotel. The FBI had spent so little time with Benny, Sam had never suspected they would still be in town.

The elevator doors opened and deposited Sam on the fourteenth floor. She looked around for agents, body guards. No one. The hallway was deserted. Matter of fact, Director Underer had the entire top floor. Suite 1411 was the only room.

She pressed the doorbell twice. The door was pulled open by a tall, distinguished-looking man in horn-rimmed glasses. Carl Underer wore his navy suit like a uniform. She could envision his closet filled with twenty identical suits.

“Director Underer?” She stretched out a hand to him. “Sergeant Sam Casey.”

He clasped her hand and after a faltering moment said, “Of course.” Carl closed the door slowly. “To what do I owe this visit, Sergeant?”

“Please, call me Sam.” She walked around the conference table eyeing the serving tray of coffee and hot water, the laptop computer, telephone, file folders, a black briefcase. She made herself a cup of hot tea. “Why are there two goons following my every move? Watching my driveway?”

She assessed his living quarters with its dark mahogany wood, floral wallpaper, Queen Anne furniture, and wet bar. Hallways branched out like expressway intersections.

“I wasn’t aware you were being watched but I’ll definitely check into it.” Carl motioned toward the conference table. “Please, sit.” Carl stole a brief glance toward Sam’s lightning bolt pendant.

“If you are still in town because of the Hap Wilson case, I might be able to help.” Sam watched for his reaction. He was as stone-faced as the statues at the entrance to the hotel.

A door at the far end of the room by the fireplace opened and an Asian man of medium height and slight build emerged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company,” the man said. The air was thick with tension. Carl made no attempt at introductions.

“You aren’t interrupting,” Sam said.

“I’m just going to leave these here for the cleaning lady.” The man placed a stack of newspapers on the couch.

Sam saw the heading Korean Today. She moved to the couch and glanced at the address label.