S. Tooley - When the dead speak

“She wasn’t able to tell you what happened last night?” Frank asked.

Jake shook his head. “She hasn’t spoken at all.”

Frank eyed Jake’s swollen hand. “You should have gone to the hospital.”

Jake winced as he tucked his arm back inside the makeshift sling. “There’s time for that. I could have broken every bone in my body and it wouldn’t have kept me from this moment.” He showed them a fax Chief Connelley had sent to Sam’s house last night. Jake pointed to the bottom of the page. “Look at the initials.” He explained the supervisor’s initials on Samuel Casey’s accident investigation. “Connelley was the supervisor who closed the case. It was under Connelley’s authority that no further examination was made of the evidence gathered from the scene of Samuel Casey’s accident. Connelley was Casey’s closest friend. And six months after Casey’s death, Don Connelley was promoted to chief of police.”

Frank shook his head in disbelief. “So Connelley was pressured by Preston to drop the investigation.”

“That would be my guess,” Jake replied. “Preston has probably been holding it over his head all this time. Since Benny confirmed that the body in the Jeep was Chief Connelley, all the answers we need went up in smoke. The only one who might have heard Connelley’s explanation is Sam.”

Frank asked, “So how does Murphy figure in all this? Are his hands lily white?”

“Far as we can tell,” Carl explained, “he’s only guilty of keeping a local politician apprised of community matters. Murphy had no idea Hilliard was involved in anything other than politics as usual, one hand washing the other sort of thing. Contrary to our hopes, he passed a polygraph.” Carl pressed his hand to his ear piece. “We better get in there.”

They gathered in the back of the auditorium — Carl, Jake, Frank, and Lincoln Thomas. A sea of uniforms from all branches of the armed forces sat in silence and with some admiration for the speaker as he told of his war experiences and his efforts to pass bills for increased health care and disability benefits for veterans. The press was moving around distractingly in the first two rows. Preston talked over their heads, addressing only the audience, gazing up at those in the balcony, across the long rows on the main level.

Carl handed Jake an envelope.

“What’s this?”

Several heads turned toward them. One matronly woman in dress blues placed a finger to her lips and gave them an annoyed “shhhhhhhh.”

They found a small secluded alcove by the door where they could whisper. “David Noland, Parker Smith’s attorney, sent this by courier,” Carl said. “It was Parker’s instructions that it not be opened until after his death. This is the nail in Preston’s coffin.”

Jake unfolded the letter and while Frank held a small flashlight, read the confession signed by Parker Smith admitting his involvement in the 1951 killings in Mushima Valley, and accusing Preston of not only ordering the executions but also personally shooting one of the victims twice in the back of the head.

“What about Hap and Sam’s father?” Jake asked.

“Cain was our only proof that could link Preston to the murders of Hap and Samuel Casey,” Frank whispered. “And there are no witnesses that Preston knew Cain now or twenty years ago. The butler never met him and Preston’s housekeeper has left the country.”

“But, Carl, your men have photos of Cain entering and leaving Preston’s house,” Jake reminded him.

“True, but no photos with Cain and Preston together. Preston can always say Cain was casing the place out.”

Jake handed the letter back to Carl. “At least Hap’s affidavit proves he was going to confront Preston.”

Folding the letter back into the envelope, Carl said, “My men did find the pin in Preston’s safe. Maybe we can find Cain’s prints in the house. Maybe we can find Cain’s prints on the bomb in Sam’s Jeep. My money says Cain killed the officer last night but he wore gloves so only Sam’s prints were on the gun.”

“Take a look at this.” Frank handed Jake a copy of the press release. “Looks like Tim’s programming worked like a charm.”

Jake smiled when he saw Hap’s and Samuel Casey’s reports. “I’m sure Preston thinks the press is looking at embarrassing photos of Meacham.”

Something Preston said rewarded him with thunderous applause. He held up his hands to silence the crowd, some of who stood up to cheer. Preston had just announced that he planned to run for governor.

“Mr. Hilliard, Mr. Hilliard.” A wiry reporter with a resonant voice started to speak.

“Questions, later, if you don’t mind,” Preston pleaded.

“But what about the press release we received this morning?” another voice asked.

Preston had prepared a quick speech regarding the unfortunate incident involving Governor Meacham but another reporter cut him off before he had a chance to speak.

A smartly dressed woman from Channel Seven News stood up. “What about these allegations concerning Korea?”

Preston blinked. Korea? “What?” he stammered. “What are you talking about?”

Six reporters tried speaking at once. Ivan Lambert was handed several sheets of paper. He teetered over to the podium and handed them to Preston. Expecting to see the pictures he had sent on Meacham, he was horrified to see a written affidavit by Hap Wilson and Samuel Casey.

“What on earth? This is preposterous!” Preston’s face twisted into an expression of startled horror. The flood gate of questioning opened up.

“Is there any truth?”

“Did you murder those boys?”

“How many did you kill?”

“Did you have anything to do with Hap Wilson’s death?”

“What about Samuel Casey?”

They fired questions at him from all directions. The murmur from the audience grew louder as shock and realization settled in. Those that had been standing for the round of applause, sat back down.

Preston held up his hands and yelled, “ENOUGH.” A hush fell over the crowd. “This is an election year. For someone to circulate this kind of blasphemy is an outrage.” He pounded the podium sending pages of his speech floating to the floor. “I am a decorated hero. How can anyone believe accusations surfacing now about something allegedly happening over forty years ago. My fellow veterans…” He stretched his opened arms toward them. “How can anyone believe the ramblings of a war deserter?”

“What about one of your men who you ordered to participate in the killings?” Carl shouted as he walked down the aisle toward the stage. Heads, cameras, and microphones turned his way. He held up Parker Smith’s envelope saying, “Carl Underer, FBI Director.”

Cameras started flashing. Gasps and comments could be heard as he passed the rows of spectators.

“Name, names, Mr. Director,” Preston challenged. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

“I have a signed confession from Parker Smith.” A portable microphone was shoved into Carl’s hand as he read Smith’s account of Mushima Valley and how the true heroes had been Hap and his unit and how they had been needlessly eliminated.

Preston laughed. “Parker Smith had been delusional since he was released from the Army on a physical disability. What we had seen in that valley had a traumatic effect on him. On all of us. And if he did sign anything, someone put him up to it. No.” Preston waved a finger back and forth as though scolding him. “You are going to have to do better than that.”

“All right. How about an eyewitness?” Carl turned toward the back of the auditorium. Heads swiveled again. Cameramen jockeyed for unobstructed views. “Do you remember a young house boy named Ling Toy?”