Thomas Scott - Voodoo Daddy

“You sure?” I said.

“Positive, Jones man. On the plus side, techs found some brass.”

“No shit?”

“I shit you not, oh wise one.”

“Prints?”

“Yep. Probably a thumb from pressing a shell into the clip.”

“Alright, that’s something. Let’s get it going through NCIS.”

“Already on it.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Just spec if you want it.”

“Let’s have it,” I said.

“Alright, if you go with the theory that the banker, uh, Dugan, was the target, they probably shot Burns first then Dugan.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I talked with Becky back at the shop and she pulled everything, and I mean everything that Burns had been involved with for the past three years. It’s all basic, no bullshit kind of stuff. Hell Jonesy, he’s been on third shift protection for the last two years and there’s been nothing going on there. He hasn’t even written a traffic ticket in over thirty-six months. No one’s got any reason to be pissed at Barney, so that leaves the banker, right?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Plus,” Rosencrantz went on, “Somebody’s always pissed at their banker about something. I mean hell, just last week I was at my bank-”

“Stay with me here, Rosie.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Anyway, I know Barney was close to retirement, but he was still sharp, you know? Well, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but crime scene said his weapon was still holstered.”

I thought about this for a few seconds. Rosie’s theory could fit. So too could about ten others. “Alright, stay on the canvass and let me know what you get.”

“You got it Jonesy. Are you headed over here?”

“No, I’ve got this fucking court thing. Probably the rest of the day. Meet me tonight at the bar and we’ll cover everything there.”

“You got it, Chief.”

I killed the phone, parked my truck and headed into court. I was fifteen minutes late. If the court was running on time, the Judge would not be pleased.

From the moment of birth, the hunger of death feeds from an army of life. Day by day it creeps ever closer, a silent, merciless hunter, its endurance without end, its clemency non-existent. It chews on the mind, feeds on the body, digests the spirit, and regurgitates the soul. It is the single, inescapable, inevitable end of everyone, and no one knew that better than Rhonda Rhodes.

Rhonda worked six days a week as a home Hospice nurse where she currently served nineteen patients, all of them in their final battle with the Big C. It was a gut-wrenching way to make a living, but Rhonda knew, just knew, down to what she called her ever-lasting soul, that what she did for a living was the reason she was ever set down on God’s green earth.

Rhonda and her ever-lasting husband, Tom, had been married for twenty-seven good years. Tom, a career fireman for the city of Indianapolis had retired only three months ago, and already the spare time was all but eating him alive. He wanted Rhonda to retire as well, but Rhonda was a Hospice nurse when they met, and, as she so often told anyone who might ask, ‘probably will be till the day I die.’

Her days tended to start late and run later, a sore spot for Tom that just didn’t want to heal. “The Big C works on its own schedule,” she always told him, just as she did now. Tom was on his hands and knees in the middle of their driveway, pulling the weeds out of the cracks in the aging cement, the sleeves of his t-shirt damp from the sweat he wiped from his forehead.

“Won’t be long and we’re gonna have to replace the drive,” he said to her without turning around. She stood just behind him in the driveway, ready to leave for work. Rhonda still wore the traditional nurse’s uniform-white skirt and blouse, white hose, and white leather shoes. It may have been a throwback from years past, but she refused to dress in those silly scrubs everyone else was wearing these days. It seemed every week one of the other nurses was going on about this new print or that new design. It was as if somewhere along the way nursing had become secondary to making a fashion statement, and a bad one at that. Rhonda would keep her whites, thank you very much. Besides, she thought the patients always seemed to appreciated her attire. More than a few had told her so over the years, and if it worked for them, bless their ever-lasting hearts, it worked for her.

“The Wimberley’s down the street had theirs done a couple of weeks ago,” Tom said. Rhonda realized she’d drifted a bit. Tom was talking about something the Wimberley’s had bought. A new car? “Got a deal from Bill. You remember Bill? From over at the three-two?”

“I’m sorry dear, what was that? The Wimberley’s bought a car from Bill?”

Tom dug at a particularly stout weed that did not want to give its ground, and when it did finally let loose, he scraped his knuckles across the jagged edge of a crack in the cement and tore the skin off the tops of three fingers. He yelled loud enough that the next door neighbor’s dog began to bark. Tom stuck the back of his fingers in his mouth, sucked off the blood, then pressed them into the side of his jeans. “No, they didn’t buy a car from Bill. He poured their new drive for them.”

“Let me see your hand,” she said.

“Are you listening to me?” Tom said. “I’m trying to tell you we need a new driveway.” His knees popped when he stood.

“Tom, you’re bleeding. Let me see.”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing. You going to work?”

“Yes. I’ve got four patients today. One of them is new, that little girl I was telling you about last night, God bless her. She’s first, and I’ll probably be there for most of the ever-lasting day, then I’ve got follow-ups on the other three. We can have left over’s or I can stop and get us something on the way home.”

Tom pulled his hand from the side of his pants and inspected his knuckles. “Either way,” he said. Then he softened his voice. “It wasn’t so bad when we were both working, but I miss you not being here with me.”

“I miss you too darling, I do. But my patients need me.” Rhonda watched the blood fill the cracks in the broken skin of Tom’s fingers and saw that her husband needed her too. “Tom, really, let me see your hand. I’ve got bandages in the trunk. Let me patch that up for you.”

“Go on to work, Rhonda,” he said. “I’m fine. I think I’ll live.”

Tom was right.

He lived.

The Sids batted the idea back and forth-this was a week ago-right before what they called ‘Go Time.’ Junior wanted to be creative. Senior wanted to be practical. Junior argued that creativity could be useful and work to their advantage. If they varied their methods enough, the fucking cops would be running around chasing their tails and probably wouldn’t put two and two together right away, if ever. It would give them all the cover they’d need.

Senior argued that creativity could, and probably would lead to mistakes and missed opportunities. “Besides,” he had said in the end, “With this many killings, you’re talking about a lot of creativity. Be better if we keep it simple. We’ve got the guns and the silencers, and the van is ready. Let’s just take our shots and be done with it.”

“Those fucking silencers are pretty cool,” Junior said. “Gotta love Indiana…legal silencers and all.”

“That might end up changing,” Senior said.

“Yeah, probably will,” Junior said. “Too late now though.”

So they settled on practical. That was a week ago. But now, they sat in the van across the street from Beans Coffee shop, Junior at the wheel, Senior at the trigger, and they watched as Rhonda Rhodes pulled to the curb and walked inside. The glare of Rhonda’s stark white nurse’s uniform was almost too bright for the scope. Senior had to squint to keep from being temporarily blinded by the whiteness of the damned thing. He followed her track into the store, but did not pull the trigger. He’d catch her on the way out. That was the plan.