Tom Lowe - The 24th Letter

Johnson snorted, turned around and left the room. Father Callahan watched Spelling sleep a moment. He placed his hand on Spelling’s forehead and whispered, “Our heavenly Father, you kept this man well under surgery. You have a larger purpose for him, I pray, and I pray that he will live the rest of his life in service to you. Amen.”

Lyle Johnson sat in a remote corner of the hospital snack bar and rewrote what he remembered reading in Sam Spelling’s letter. There was only one other person sitting at a table, a woman finishing a piece of pie. She got up and walked to a coffee dispenser less than twenty feet away. Johnson saw that she had left her book and cell phone on the table. He strolled by the table, lifted her phone, and exited the hospital.

Outside, Johnson stepped into a memorial garden with blooming roses and a three-tiered water fountain that splashed into a concrete base dotted with coins. There were no patients or members of anyone’s family outside. He was alone. He sat on one of the benches and thought about what he would say. Not often does an opportunity like this fall into a workingman’s hands. No way to live the rest of life-retiring on a state pension and have to work security for Walmart until you die.

He would do it. He could do it. After all, a stupid con like Spelling had done it, and he’d kept the secret for years. Johnson lifted the stolen cell phone out of his pocket. He knew where the person worked. Spelling had spelled it all out. All he had to do was call-one call to change his life. Easy. Fuckin’ A. Then why was his hand shaking so much he thought he would drop the phone?

Get a grip!

Johnson was surprised. The voice on the phone was calm. Too calm. After he introduced himself, Johnson said, “You seem like a very reasonable man.”

“You have the wrong person, Mr. Johnson.”

Johnson nodded. “I knew you’d say that on the phone. So I’ll do most of the talking. I’m not greedy. I just figure, according to Sam Spelling’s note, if you gave him a hundred grand to keep quiet eleven years ago, your secret ought to be worth even a little more today. You know-inflation-cost of doin’ business.”

“I’ll play along with a prank call for a moment, how’d you get my number?”

“Spelling had your number, pal. In a lot of ways he had your number. Now I got it, but I can be forgetful, very forgetful, just ask my wife. Here’s the deal: you get the written statement I stole from Spelling’s room. I get two hundred grand to go away forever. The state executes Charlie Williams in a few days. A few weeks later, nobody remembers his name.”

“Who else have you shared this prank-this alleged letter?”

Johnson was silent a moment. “Nobody, except maybe that priest, Callahan. And I didn’t share shit with him. He’s the priest that heard Spelling make a deathbed confession. Exactly what he said, I don’t know. But this is a hardcore priest, one of ‘em guys who keep spilled crap between them and God. Nobody else. Don’t sweat it. I have the shit on paper, the statement in Spelling’s own handwriting.”

The voice on the phone was silent.

Johnson said, “Meet me tonight. Midnight. Bring the money. ”

“Where? I ask this only because I may send the police there.”

“Sure you will. Listen, asshole. Be there! It’s an old pioneer village at the corner of State Road 46 and 76 near Pierson. It’s under rehab. There’s a replica of an old general store. Meet me on the store’s porch. In that letter, Spelling says where he found the murder weapon-your murder weapon. And he tells where it’s been hidden all these years for safekeeping. I know where to find it. Don’t be late.”

Lyle Johnson disconnected, a smile working at the corner of his mouth. He fished out a quarter from his pocket, tossing the coin in the fountain. “My wish is comin’ true.”

Father Callahan walked quickly down the long hospital corridor.

Turning the corner, he almost ran into the ER doctor he’d met earlier. The doctor was walking with another man, older, white hair, tired but compassionate eyes. Father Callahan said, “Congratulations on the successful surgery of Sam Spelling.”

The ER doctor nodded. “It was Dr. Strassberg here who performed the operation.”

Dr. Strassberg looked at the priest. A tiny speck of dried blood was in lower part of the doctor’s glasses. He said, “I always ask for a little help upstairs, Father.”

“Indeed. What is Mr. Spelling’s prognosis?”

“Bullet was a clean shot. Hit no major arteries. But the heart was long suffering from atherosclerosis. We did a triple by-pass. He’ll live. How long, though…Father you’re closer to that answer than me. But he’ll be okay. He’ll walk out of here”

“I’ll pray for his recovery.”

The doctors left, and Father Callahan started to dial his cell phone. He saw the tiny battery icon. It was down to the last bar. Two men approached. One was a uniformed officer. The other was African-American, tall, sports coat and tie. His jacket had a slight budge on the left. Callahan recognized him from the ER lobby area. “Excuse me, Father,” said the plainclothes man.

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Grant, investigating the attempted murder of Sam Spelling.”

“It looks like the offender wasn’t successful. The doctor just told me Sam Spelling is going to pull through. He’s turned the corner with his life. And our Lord had a bit to do with it. ”

“Then we don’t have a homicide, only a shooting. A nurse said you were in his room earlier.”

“I was in the emergency room earlier, too. Not long after he’d been shot.”

“Did he tell you anything?”

“You mean who tried to kill him?”

“That’s a good start.”

“No. He did ask for forgiveness. I listened to a private confession.”

“Might any of that confession lead us to the shooter?”

“I’m not a police investigator, but I highly doubt it. His concern was more of seeking God for strength, love, and ultimate forgiveness for his sins.”

“Did he suggest who might have shot him?”

“No.”

“Father, if you are approached by the media, there are still some TV trucks in the lot, please don’t say anything that will indicate Spelling is still alive.”

“Why?”

“We don’t want the shooter to know he failed.”

“I can’t lie.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“What are you suggesting, Detective?”

“Spelling’s testimony is crucial in a major trial. If his shooter believes Spelling did die, then he won’t try again. Spelling can heal in a safe area and be brought in to testify in a couple of weeks. Working with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and the FBI, we’ve indicated his recovery was not successful.”

Father Callahan was quiet for a moment. “I see.”

“Thank you, Father.”

As the detective and the officer turned to go back down the hall, Father Callahan said, “I was approached by one reporter in the ER earlier.”

“Oh, what’d he ask?”

“I think he saw Sam Spelling making a confession to me, and he wanted to know what he said. Of course, I told him that was confidential. The reporter is with the Sentinel. Said his name is Brian Cook.”

Detective Grant looked up at a security camera a second. He said, “The guy must be new. I know their crime reporters. Don’t recognize the name. Do you have a card?”

“I do. Here you go. My lips are sealed, Detective. Good night.” Father Callahan started to walk down the corridor. Then Grant asked, “Father, there was a Department of Corrections officer posted at Spelling’s door. He’s not there. Have you seen him?”