Thomas Scott - Voodoo Daddy

Thirty seconds later Judge Moore sat at her desk while I stood on the other side. “You’re killing me here, Jonesy. I’m already over three hours behind. What the hell is going on?”

“I need to leave, Andrea. There’s been another shooting, and that makes three today.”

“Oh come on, Jonesy. This is Indy. We have shootings almost everyday. What makes this such an emergency?” She reached for a pitcher of water and poured two glasses. “Water?”

“No, thanks. Listen, we’re not sure, at least completely sure that is, that this latest one is connected. But the crimes scene techs are saying, and initial witness statements seem to back it up, that it was a high powered sniper rifle. And it was silenced. Broad daylight, lady goes down right on the sidewalk, shot in the chest, and no one heard a thing. What are the chances?”

“It sounds to me like you’ve got plenty of people on the scene right now.”

I took a deep breath. “Judge…” He paused, then started over. “Andrea, do you remember last year when you came to me about that little high speed chase your son was involved in?”

“It was hardly a high speed chase, Detective. He was a passenger in the vehicle, and he says, and I believe him by the way, that he did everything in his power to convince the driver to stop the car.”

“Uh huh. Took him over four miles to do it though.”

“Make your point, Jonesy.”

“My point is, you brought that to me, and I took care of it for you, did I not?”

“Really? You’ve got this one bit of juice with me and this is how you want to spend it?”

No, I don’t. “I guess I’ll have to,” I said.

“Alright, take off then. Use the side door. I’ll handle the lawyers.”

“Are you going to reschedule for a later date on the docket?”

“Are you kidding? No way. The prosecutor doesn’t need you, and the ink isn’t even dry on the public defender’s Bar exam. The defendant isn’t going anywhere except back to a cell.”

“So I wasted my, uh, ‘juice’, as you called it?”

“Yep. Ain’t it fun though? I hate it when someone has something on me. Anyway, we’re square now. Go catch your shooter, sharp stuff. I don’t like it when people shoot up my city.”

“It may be your courtroom, Andrea, but it’s my city,” I said as I reached for the door handle. “Stop in at the bar sometime, I’ll buy you a beer.” The judge made a go away motion with the back of her hand, so I went away.

Ten minutes later I rolled up to the scene and found Ron Miles speaking with two uniforms from the city. “Jonesy, Jesus Christ. What a cluster fuck. I’m trying not to get ahead of myself here, but this is too coincidental, don’t you think?” He pressed on before I could answer. “First Burns, and that banker guy, Dugan, and now this.” He turned and pointed at the victim laying on the sidewalk. I followed his motion and then looked inside the plate glass windows of the coffee shop. Three uniforms and two plain clothes were inside talking to the patrons.

“Tell me what’s what, Ron.”

“Okay. Victim’s name is Rhonda Rhodes. I.D. on her person confirms. Looks like she was a Hospice nurse according to documents in her possession and initial statements from the coffee shop’s employees. She’s a regular here. Five or six days a weeks, again according to the employees. Married, husband is a retired fireman.”

“He have an alibi?”

“Yeah, a good one too. He was just down the street from his residence speaking with one of his neighbors, guy named Wimberley about replacing their driveway.”

“Has he been notified yet?”

“Yep. He’s here now,” Miles said, then pointed to the back of the EMS van. “Getting his vitals checked by the EMS guys. He’s wrecked, man.”

“Alright, go on.”

Miles took his notebook out, flipped through a few pages for a second, then continued. “Victim pulls up, parks along the curb, over there, then goes inside, sits down to have a cup of joe and do her paperwork. Guy that waited on her says she was here for about twenty, twenty-five minutes tops, drank her coffee while working on her paper, then gathers her shit, pays her bill and leaves. Waiter says he was putting her money in the register as she walked out. Says he saw her get hit. Said the impact of the round lifted her up and sent her flying backwards. Didn’t hear a thing. He said it was like watching a movie scene with the sound turned off or something.”

“Okay, keep him here. I’m going to want to talk to him.”

“You got it, Jonesy.”

“Any other witnesses?”

“Nope. At least not yet.”

“All right. Keep the uniforms talking to people. Let’s go speak to the husband.”

Tom Rhodes sat in the back of the EMS unit on one of the side benches, his forearms resting across his thighs, his head down, hangdog. I nodded at the paramedics and asked them to give us a few minutes. They climbed out and Ron Miles and I sat on the opposite bench across from Rhodes. Miles spoke first. “Mr. Rhodes, this is Detective Jones. He’d like to speak with you for a moment, ask a few questions if you’re up for it.”

Tom Rhodes did not look up for it, I thought, but the loved ones of the victims rarely do. “Mr. Rhodes, as Detective Miles just said, I’m Detective Virgil Jones. I’m sorry for your loss, sir. I know you’re going to think the timing is lousy, but the sooner we can get the information we need, the better our chances are of catching who ever did this.”

Tom Rhodes looked up at us, at me, and shook his head. “You don’t look like a cop. You damn sure don’t look like a detective.”

I gave him a sympathetic grin. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Sometimes that’s the whole point though. Not to look like a cop.”

“I guess. I really wouldn’t know.”

“I understand you’re a retired fireman?”

“That’s right.”

“I want you to know that I have a tremendous amount of respect for guys like you and what you do.”

He nodded, looked at nothing. “It’s been my experience that people who make that kind of statement are people who have had a traumatic experience with fire.”

“You’re absolutely right. I was just a child, but it changed me. Tell you the truth, I always sort of thought I might end up in your line of work.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Aw, you know, my dad was a cop. Marion County Sherriff until he retired.”

He seemed to process this information for a minute. “Jones. You said your name was Jones? Is Mason Jones your old man?”

“That’s right. Did you know him?”

“No, not really. Just enough to recognize him if we were on scene together. Hey, always voted for him though.”

“I’m sure he appreciated that, sir. Listen, I’ve got some questions, but tell me about your day so far, with your wife.”

He put a little gravel in his voice. “Well it’s been just fucking splendid, Detective.” Then he caught himself and raised a hand in apology.

“What I mean, Mr. Rhodes-“

“Call me Tom, okay.”

“Okay. What I mean, Tom, is could you tell me about your day with your wife up to the point she left for work?”

He shook his head and chewed the bottom of his lip. “There’s nothing to tell. It was a normal day. We got up, had breakfast and went about our day. Then a little later, hell just a little while ago, she left for work. I know she likes to stop off here for coffee before getting to it. I think it helps her-or helped her I guess I should say-to clear her head, know what I mean?”

“I think I do. Anything out of the ordinary, today in particular?”

“No, nothing.”

“Was she acting strange, like maybe something was bothering her?”

“No, absolutely not. If anything it was the other way around.”