Tom Lowe - The 24th Letter

Ralph said, “Maybe that’s were she sipped her coffee.”

“Maybe,” said O’Brien. “But it might mean she bit the hand of the guy snapping her neck. Check her teeth for skin cells, and if the perp wore plastic gloves, see if any tiny bits of plastic might be between her teeth.”

O’Brien started for the door.

“Where’re you going?” asked Dan.

“To see if our only eyewitness might have seen something.”

Ralph cleared his throat and said, “Who’s the only eyewitness.”

“The postman.” O’Brien turned and left.

Dan Grant followed O’Brien to his Jeep. O’Brien pulled out his cell phone. He paced the length of the Jeep for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

Dan said, “Some nice work in there. Superman’s vision got nothing on you.”

“Wish I’d had better vision investigating Alexandria Cole’s death. If I had, we wouldn’t be standing here today with all these people dead. We have a big problem.”

“Tell me about it. The woman’s dead.”

“The problem is that the person who killed her is definitely not who I thought was behind this.”

“Talk to me, Sean.”

“Russo’s confined to a hospital bed. The guy I thought did the hits, Carlos Salazar, is dead. Whoever killed Alexandria has murdered four people in the last three days: Spelling, Father Callahan, Johnson, and now his wife Anita…and perhaps Salazar.”

O’Brien pounded the fender of his Jeep with an open hand. He turned to Dan. “I’ve been chasing a ghost. The real killer just wiped out the last person alive who knew his name. I’m sure he destroyed any letter that Johnson may have sent to his wife.”

“So the son of a bitch who’s gone on this killing spree is as clueless to us now as that stuff the priest left in his own blood.”

“Right now the stuff the priest left in his blood is the only thing pointing us in the right direction.”

“Which direction?”

“Call your office and have someone call the post office. Find out who has this route. We need to know where that person is right now!”

O’Brien pushed the jeep, hitting speeds of near one hundred miles an hour though the back roads of rural Lake County. Dan Grant sat in the passenger side, hands gripped on the door and center console. He said, “Hey, man. If you kill us driving like this, who the hell is gonna stop this perp?”

“What’s the next turn?”

“Should be the next left. Quarter mile up, tops. Dispatch told me that the post office says this mail carrier ends his route on River Lane, a long mile stretch.”

O’Brien turned down River Lane and took out a plastic trashcan someone had set too near the street. “Whoa!” yelled Dan.

“There he is!” said O’Brien, looking at a slight incline where the white mail truck poked along. The postman was opening a mailbox when O’Brien brought his Jeep to a screeching halt directly in front of the truck. Both O’Brien and Dan got out and approached the frightened letter carrier. He reached for his cell. “I called 911! Cops are on their way!”

“We’re here. Fast enough for you? ” Dan said, flashing his shield.

“I didn’t do anything!” the postman shouted.

“Everyone’s done something,” said O’Brien. “But that’s not why we’re here. Do you remember the Johnson’s residence. Lyle and Anita Johnson?”

“Sure. I got three Johnson’s on this route. But I know their box.”

“Do you recall making a delivery there today?”

“Yep. That’s an easy one because Mrs. Johnson was at the mailbox to greet me.”

“What’d she say?” asked Dan.

“Not a lot. Looked a little anxious. I remember the only letter she got today.”

“How so?” asked O’Brien

“Because it was a handwritten letter…large block letters with a guy’s kinda handwriting. None of that stuff is the postal service’s business. But I remember reading something right below the zip code.”

“What was that?” asked Dan.

“S-W-A-K.” he said, almost shyly. “You know, sealed with a kiss. Used to see that all the time. Now, hardly ever. Maybe it’s because of email.”

“Did she say anything to you?” asked O’Brien

“Not really. Mrs. Johnson seemed…seemed anxious, I guess is the best word.”

O’Brien asked, “Did you see anyone around? You know, maybe a delivery person…a car or truck there that you don’t normally see?”

He thought a moment. “No. What happened? Is she okay?”

“She’s dead,” said Dan

O’Brien and Grant were less than a mile away from the Pioneer Village when O’Brien’s cell rang. It was Tucker Houston.

“Sean, state’s refusing to hear it. I’ve got it hand-delivered to the Fifth Circuit. A clerk’s ready to receive it.”

“Good!” said O’Brien. “You can put this in that habeas corpus mix-we have another body. Wife of the prison guard who overheard Spelling’s confession to Father Callahan. Neighbor found her murdered. Now I know Russo didn’t do it.”

“Then who did?”

“Buy me a little more time and I will find out.”

“What this latest murder will buy us is coverage on the whole damn broadcast spectrum. If we can get the exposure we’ll get the ear of somebody’s court.”

The yellow crime scene tape was still around the front porch of the old general store. O’Brien looked at the porch from a half dozen angles. He watched the windmill turn. He listened to the cluck of nearby chickens and tried to picture the scene the night Lyle Johnson died on the front porch.

Dan said, “They found his body sitting right there in that chair.” He pointed to a rocking chair on the porch.

O’Brien said nothing. He knelt down in the Bahia grass next to the porch and looked at the surface of the old cypress slats. He stood and slowly walked up the three timeworn steps leading to the porch. He looked at the bloodstain beneath the chair and then at the wooden barrel behind the chair.

“Place has been gone over by a team, Sean. Except for the blood, Johnson’s pistol lying next to the chair, they got nothing. I know you wanted to come here, but we might be wasting time we don’t have.”

O’Brien said nothing.

Dan said, “What do you do, man? Go into some kinda zone? Do you put yourself in the vic’s place or the perp’s. Because the expression on your face looks damn funky right now.”

O’Brien studied at the pitchfork and looked across the porch, staring at a spot in the knotty wood. He pulled a paper napkin out of his pocket and used it to move the pitchfork from the back of the barrel to the front. He stepped across the porch, knelt and looked at a small hole in the wood. “Look at the angle of this hole.”

“Lots of old wormholes in these planks. Some ought to be replaced.”

“This is new, Dan. Rain and mildew haven’t had time to set in, but there is rust in there. Wood doesn’t rust. And look at the angle. That could only have been made from something coming from a trajectory near the rocking chair.”

“What are you saying?”

O’Brien pointed to the far right prong on the pitchfork. “The rust on this point has been knocked off. The other three prongs all have a covering of rust on the tips. This one doesn’t, and like the hole in the porch, the elements haven’t discolored it.”

“You think Lyle Johnson picked up this pitchfork and threw it like some kind of javelin at the perp, right?”

“That’s exactly what I think. Maybe he made contact. Maybe not. But get a forensic team to check for any DNA that might be in the hole and on the pitchfork. Get this stuff to the lab quick as you can.”

Dan looked out toward the windmill. “O’Brien, you’re like a bird dog. Wish I could have worked with you in Miami. Where to…Sherlock?”