Tom Lowe - The 24th Letter

“Sam Spelling. Said he saw the real killer hide the weapon-a knife. Spelling fished it out of a dumpster, and he then succumbed to temptation. Blackmailed the killer for a one-time payment of a hundred thousand. Spelling went through the money, bought a lot of cocaine, wound up in prison. He was supposed to testify in a big drug trial before someone shot him today. But his confession tonight with me, it related to your old case-the death of the supermodel and her ex-boyfriend on death row.”

“I assume that whoever shot him on the courthouse steps wanted him dead before he could testify in a drug trial, a trial that has nothing to do with Charlie Williams on death row. Now, after a near death experience, he wants to clean the slate and confess…provide the identity of the person who killed Alexandria Cole, right?”

“Amen,” said Father Callahan. That’s it.”

“Who’d he say killed her?”

“Didn’t say. Just told me the name of the victim. Soon as he gave me the victim’s name, I remembered the case, and I wanted to call you. I asked that he write out the full confession-name names. As you know, St. Francis is within walking distance to the hospital. I’m going back there after he’s out of recovery to pick up the statement.”

“I need to see that statement.”

O’Brien pinched the bridge of his nose. He never heard of Sam Spelling. Most jailhouse snitches were repeat losers. Habitual liars. Cons used by corrupt defense attorneys to say they heard someone, someone other than the attorney’s client, brag about committing the crime. O’Brien couldn’t remember one doing the opposite-confessing that another inmate, especially one on death row, was innocent.

“Are you there, Sean?”

“You said he was going under the knife, right?”

“I spoke with the doctor. Spelling’s in bad shape. Bullet barely missed his heart.

“Father, does anyone else know what Spelling told you? Does anyone know he’s going to sign his name to a statement that reveals the killer’s identity?”

“Don’t think so. He whispered the details to me-the victim’s name, where he found the murder weapon.” Father Callahan paused. “I don’t know if it’s anything, but a reporter with the Sentinel approached me. He said his name was Brian Cook. Said he saw me speaking with Spelling. He wanted to know if Spelling knew who shot him.”

“What did you tell the reporter?”

“Nothing. I said what was shared with me remains confidential.”

“Did Spelling tell you where the murder weapon, the knife, is now?”

“He’s putting that in his statement, too.”

“If the knife still has detectable traces of the victim’s blood, then we can tie it to the murder. If it has prints that match the identity of the person that Spelling says did it, we could have the killer.”

“And the disbelievers say divine intervention isn’t real.” Father Callahan chuckled.

“Assuming Spelling is not lying, if he makes it through surgery, when the story’s in the press whoever shot Spelling will know he didn’t kill him. If the guy who hit Spelling is a pro, and there’s a big payoff from taking Spelling out so he can’t testify in the trial, the hit man might come back. He may kill Spelling before he can write out the details of who killed Alexandria Cole. That’s if any of what he told you is true. I’ll meet you there.”

“If you’re at the marina, you’re an hour from the hospital. I’ll call and see when Spelling’s out of recovery, give him time to write the statement, and get with you. It’ll probably be past dinner by then. Tell you what…you need to have the physical copy of this statement or letter. I’d like to see you. Meet me at St. Francis at eight o’ clock. That’s only in ninety minutes. I’ll give you whatever Spelling wrote. You can take it from there.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Good to hear your voice, Sean. I want to see you in mass more often.”

“I’d like that, too, Father, I really would.”

O’Brien set his phone on the table. He looked at Max who stood on her hind legs, nose testing the marina air through the Jeep’s open side windshield. The storm passed and the sky was clear, a golden light clung in the air like an aged photograph creating a temporary world without shadows. It was about forty-five minutes before sunset, and a three-quarter moon was already climbing above the marina bay.

O’Brien thought about the man he sent to death row-Charlie Williams. Was he innocent, and would live long enough to see another full moon?

O’Brien locked his Jeep and started toward gate 7-F, the dock that led to where he kept his old boat moored. Max ran behind him, stopping to investigate the world with her nose. He walked by the Tiki Hut, an open-air bar disguised as a restaurant, which was adjacent to Ponce Marina. He could smell the scent of blackened grouper, garlic shrimp, and beer. A dozen tourists sat at the wooden tables, ate fish sandwiches, sipped from longneck bottles of beer, and watched seagulls fight for pieces of bread tossed in the marina water. The isinglass, which was lowered on rainy days, was rolled up allowing a cross-breeze to carry the scent of seafood over the marina.

“Well, hello stranger,” said Kim Davis, an attractive brunette who worked the bar. She was in her early forties, radiant smile, deep tan, and jeans that hugged every pore from her navel down. She smiled at O’Brien. “You look like you could use a beer.”

“I’d like that, Kim, but I don’t have time right now.”

She wiped her hands on a towel, stepped out from behind the bar, and knelt down to greet Max, handing her a tiny piece of fried fish. “You are so darn cute!” Max’s tail blurred, gulping down the fish in a single bite. Kim stood, her eyes searching O’Brien’s face. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, did you attend a funeral?”

“An old case of mine has resurrected. I’m just tying to make sense of it.”

“You want to talk about it? I’ll be off in an hour.”

O’Brien managed a smile. “I appreciate that, but I have to run. Come on, Max.”

“If you get thirsty, I’ll deliver to your boat.” She smiled.

O’Brien smiled and stepped to the gate. He worked the combination lock and waited for Max to trot by him. As they walked down the long dock, O’Brien watched the charter fishing fleet churn through the pass. The party boats were filled with sunburned tourists who would soon be posing next to their catches.

O’Brien’s boat, Jupiter, a thirty-eight foot Bayliner, was a boat he’d bought for ten cents on the dollar in a Miami DEA auction. It was twenty years old when he bought it. He’d restored the boat, doing much of the work himself.

Docked two boats up from Jupiter was Gibraltar, a 42 Grand Banks trawler. Its owner, Dave Collins, bought the boat new and spent half his time on it, while spending the rest of the time in a beachside condo, the property he retained from his ex-wife during a territorial divorce war.

Collins was in his mid sixties, thick chest, and knotted arms from decades of exercise, full head of white air, inquisitive blue-gray pewter eyes, and always a four-day stubble on his face. He was chopping a large Vidalia onion in the galley when he saw O’Brien coming down the dock. Collins stepped onto his cockpit.

“Who’s following whom? Miss Max and Sean, just in time for dinner. Is this the weekend you’re replacing the zincs on Jupiter? ”

“ Jupiter needs some quality time. But now something’s come up, and Max needs a dogsitter.”

Collins chuckled. “You don’t even have to ask. Hi, Max.”

Max leaned in toward Collins, her nose quivering.

Dave said, “She smells the sauce I’m brewing. Nick Cronus gave me his special, Old World, recipe when he was in with a catch last week. I’ve got some fresh grouper to ladle it on. Come aboard. We’ll eat and drink. Not necessarily in that order.”