Tom Lowe - The 24th Letter

“You killed the priest?”

“And I have you to thank. So now that brings me to you, Corporal Johnson. When you die, so does the secret. When Charlie Williams dies on death row, so does the whole story, and the public forgets quickly. Amazing, really. Try to recall the name of the last person the state put to death.”

Johnson was silent.

“You can’t, Corporal. And you work there.”

“You kill me and you’ll be exposed,” Johnson said, his voice rising.

“Why is that, Corporal?”

“Because I’ve mailed an insurance policy. I’ve mailed your name and what Sam Spelling said you did. I mailed it to a person of authority. Now, I can intercept that letter and destroy it before the police get it. But I have to be alive to do it. So why don’t you just give me the money like we agreed, I go away, pick up the letter before it’s opened and burn it. You won’t never hear from me again…ever. I swear to God.”

“To God? Does that impress me? Do you really think you’re smarter than me? Do you think this is some kind of chain letter game? No, Corporal, it isn’t?”

The figure stepped back to pick up Johnson’s gun off the porch. Johnson stood quickly. He pulled the pitchfork out of the barrel and lunged at the man. The pitchfork ripped the man’s shirt, scraping his ribcage.

The pistol barrel was shoved into the center of Johnson’s forehead.

“Sit down!” ordered the silhouette.

Johnson held up his hands and slowly took half a dozen steps backwards, feeling for the chair with both hands and sitting down. A mosquito alighted on Johnson’s cheek. As it began sucking blood, Johnson swatted at it. He missed. From the dark, the man caught the insect in midair, crushing it in his hand and wiping the remains on his pants. He said, “You’re not fast enough, Corporal Johnson. Nice gun you brought.”

The wind blew, causing the old windmill to spin. Johnson saw the moon flickering between the blades, the light creating a bizarre strobe-effect in his adrenaline-pumped mind. Then, Lyle Johnson saw a white flash and the moon exploded. He slumped back in the wooden chair, a mosquito alighting on his neck.

The shooter ejected all but one remaining bullet in Johnson’s gun. He picked each one up, wrapped Johnson’s right hand around the pistol and fired a round into the night sky. Then he let the gun drop to the porch, bouncing once and stopping next to a dark spot that grew larger as blood dripped onto the century-old heart-of-pine.

O’Brien met Detective Dan Grant at the emergency room entrance to Baptist Hospital. As they entered, O’Brien said, “Maybe we can find some coffee here. Dan, try to remember everything Spelling told you before he died. Father Callahan told me what Spelling had revealed to him-except for the identity of the shooter. Maybe there’s something, probably small, Spelling mentioned that might fit the puzzle.”

Detective Grant glanced to his left and right in the ER before responding. “Look, Sean, as I was leaving the church, Henderson and Valdez questioned me about you.”

“Questioned?”

“You know, how’d you get involved? Stuff like, if you’re a retired cop, then why don’t you retire. More territorial than anything else, but you’re not even carrying a PI license. You might think about that if-”

“I’m not going to put a condemned man’s life on hold while I run out and get a license. I didn’t choose this. Father Callahan called me after he heard what Spelling told him. It was a deathbed confession. Callahan wanted it in writing because he knew Spelling might not make it. He called me because I was a friend, and he knew I was the cop who caught and convicted Charlie Williams.”

“Look man, I’m on your side. I’m damn glad you’re on our side. Henderson and Valdez don’t know you. They know of you, but that’s it. Maybe when they saw you walk though that media herd and all the media tossing questions at you, the reporters remembering you from the Santana case, maybe it’s a pissing contest for them.”

“I just lost a dear friend. We have an odd set of new clues and eighty-three hours left to catch a killer. As you saw, this guy’s the worst of the worst. And he’s smart.”

“You’re no dummy, either. How’d you miss him the first time around? How’d Charlie Williams take the fall?”

“I missed him because the perp wanted me to and I didn’t recognize it. He set a trap, a path to Williams. I had an agenda. Wanted notches on my gun, I had a heavy caseload, and I didn’t look beyond Williams once we found the vic’s blood in his car. His semen was in her. Fingernail cut on his face. My gut told me it was too easy and that bothered me. But there were two other murders that came in the week I was working the Alexandria Cole case-one case that really pulled at me. It was a serial pedophile and the average age of his vics was nine. We were short staffed, and I guess I made excuses.” O’Brien felt fatigue growing behind his eyes.

“Man, it’s a lot easier to go back and say the ‘what if’s’ after time’s passed. So Williams, the guy on death row was set up. But why, after a decade, is the real killer comin out? I mean, Spelling’s confidential confession to a priest…how’d the perp know about that? How’d he slip in here and whack Spelling, if he did do it?”

“Because there’s a connection here…somewhere.”

“I’m gonna need more than that, Sean. So will you if you have any hope of getting the DA to reopen this thing. People forget. Witnesses die.”

“Sam Spelling never forgot.”

“And he’s dead.”

O’Brien inhaled deeply. “Look what’s gone down the last couple of days. Someone took a shot at Spelling. Why? My guess is Spelling somehow reconnected with the killer, probably related to money. Father Callahan said Spelling told him he blackmailed the real killer eleven years ago to keep the killer’s ID secret. Maybe Spelling had tried doing it again, this time from his cell.”

“If Spelling were getting out of prison soon, he’d need the money immediately. Then it would make perfect sense. I’ll check to see if he had a release date coming up.”

“It’s all about timing because the perp somehow knew Spelling was supposed to act as state’s witness in a cocaine and bank robbery trial. So, the killer resurfaces and uses the opportunity to hit Spelling. He would think, and so would everyone else, that the hit came from someone connected to the drug trial-an ordered hit, mob style.”

“And, all the while, the guy who killed your vic a decade ago was taking Spelling out for something no one knew about-”

“Except Spelling.”

“And Father Callahan. He’s there by default and his good graces.”

“Father Callahan told me something else.” O’Brien paused. “He said there was a guard, a guy from D.O. C, who was trying to eavesdrop on Spelling’s confession. Apparently the same guy was posted outside Spelling’s room for the first few hours.”

“Yeah, I saw him. Seemed preoccupied. Like he was in a hurry to clock out. At the end of his shift, we put a deputy on Spelling’s door.”

“We need to find that guard immediately.”

“Doctor Silverstein, phone call, Doctor Silverstein,” came the announcement of the hospital’s PA system.

Detective Gant looked at O’Brien and asked, “Why do we need to find the corrections guard immediately?”

“Because the guard was eavesdropping when Spelling was confiding-confessing to Father Callahan. If this guard heard enough, meaning enough information to link back to the person who killed Alexandria Cole-maybe he spoke with Spelling when he was partially sedated, somehow managed to get even more information from him. I don’t know, but I’m thinking that now he might have the identity of the man who killed Spelling and Father Callahan.”