Tom Wallace - Gnosis

When Tommy opened the door and stepped onto the small porch, Dantzler felt as if he were looking at the face of his uncle Tommy. The similarities were eerie, almost identical. Dantzler wondered if perhaps they were for all lost souls. The sad eyes ringed by dark circles, eyes that seemed to view everyone and everything with suspicion. The gaunt face and pale skin, the black hair sprinkled with gray, the body thin but still muscular. The aura of lost hope. And yet, Dantzler recognized something in Tommy Whitehouse that he always saw in his uncle-despite the damage inflicted by time and abuse, more than a hint of youthful beauty was still present. The golden boy was lost, but not completely vanished.

Tommy nodded and waved Dantzler in without speaking. He followed Dantzler into the den and sat in a leather chair. Dantzler awkwardly stood in the middle of the room for several moments before finally settling into a wicker chair across from Tommy.

Dantzler could tell Tommy had been drinking. There were no overt signs, no alcohol in sight, no smell, but Dantzler had enough experience dealing with his uncle to know almost instinctively when an alcoholic was covering up his drinking. Tommy Whitehouse had probably begun hitting the bottle early in the day. Or maybe he had been drinking all night. With alcoholics, so good at concealing their symptoms, it was often difficult to know when the first drink of the day was taken. Tommy was not yet drunk, but he was heading in that direction.

Tommy cleared his throat, said, “I remember you from when I was a kid. You were this big tennis hero, the court prince who won all those tournaments. You were one of my idols. You and Johnny Bench.”

“Johnny Bench, huh? That’s heavy-duty company you’re putting me in with. The guy was the best.”

“Yes, he was.” Tommy dug into his shirt pocket, pulled out a roll of Certs, and popped one into his mouth. “Baseball was my best sport, but I did play a lot of tennis, too. I was pretty good, in fact. Not like you, of course, but, you know, I could hold my own. I have a racket somewhere-Rachel probably has it stored at her farm-that Pancho Gonzalez autographed for me. He was in Cincinnati for a tournament and I got him to sign it. Did you ever meet him?”

“I hit with him once at a juniors tournament in Las Vegas when I was twelve. After I’d won a couple of early matches, I was on one of the practice courts when he showed up. He watched me hit for a few minutes, then asked if I would mind hitting with him. I couldn’t believe it. Pancho Gonzalez asking to hit with me. I’m thinking, okay, this has to be a dream. But it wasn’t… it was real. I hit with him for about an hour. One of the great moments in my life.”

“Did you win the tournament?”

“Runner-up. Lost seven-five in the third set. Skinny little left-hander named McEnroe beat me.”

“Bummer.”

“Did Rachel tell you why I wanted to speak with you?” Dantzler asked.

“Something to do with my father, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe he is innocent and I’m trying to uncover the truth.”

“Good luck.”

“Do you think he’s guilty?”

Tommy shrugged. “No, I don’t. But a ton of evidence says he is.”

“True,” Dantzler said, “But after looking into it-”

“Would you excuse me for a second?” Tommy said, standing. “I’m in desperate need of a drink of water.”

“Sure. I’m in no hurry.”

Tommy was gone less than two minutes before returning to his chair. He popped another Certs into his mouth, leaned back, and hands clasped behind his head. “What were you saying, Detective Dantzler?”

“When did you start drinking again?” Dantzler said.

“What makes you think I’m drinking? Didn’t Rachel tell you? I haven’t touched a drop in almost six months.”

“Cut the denial act, Tommy. You had a drink. I know you did.”

“I had water.”

“You had booze.”

“Okay, so I had a drink. So what? It’s not the end of the world. Anyway, I’ve got it under control now. I know when to stop.”

“You’re an alcoholic, Tommy. You should never start.”

“When did you become my AA counselor?”

“I’m not.”

“Then put the brakes on your stop drinking lecture and get back to being a detective. You want to know about Eli, ask about Eli.”

“All right. Let’s talk about the night of the murders. Where were you when they happened?”

“At home, in my room, watching TV.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“When the phone call came, I heard a lot of noise coming from downstairs. I went down to see what was going on. Mom told me something terrible had happened at the barn on Eli’s property. She said Eli was on his way to the scene. I didn’t find out about the two guys being killed until the next morning. I think Isaac came by the house and told me.”

“Did you know either of the two victims?”

“Never met either one.”

“Do you think Isaac knew them?”

“You’d have to ask him. But I rather doubt it.”

“Why do you say that?”

Tommy laughed. “Because Isaac only associated with the upper crust of society, if you get my drift. Those two guys were a few levels below his standard.”

“What’s your relationship with Isaac?”

“We have the same DNA.”

“You’re not close?”

“No, Detective Dantzler, we aren’t close.”

“Did you know Greg Spurlock or Angie Iler? They were the ones who discovered the bodies.”

“No. I didn’t know them.”

“What was your initial reaction when you heard your father was being charged with the crime?”

“I thought the cops were crazy.”

“Why did you think the cops were crazy?”

“There is no way Eli Whitehouse would tie up two total strangers, put a twenty-two caliber pistol to the back of each one’s head and systematically blow them away. That’s more than preposterous; it’s insane. And all that crap about drugs? Eli hated taking any type of medication, including prescription drugs. The notion he was involved in some kind of drug deal gone sour is off-the-charts preposterous. Nothing about that entire scenario added up. Nothing.”

“You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought,” Dantzler said. “Give me your version of a scenario that does make sense.”

“Someone murdered those two guys and then set my father up to take the fall.”

“I agree with you. But that leaves me with two obvious questions. First, who is that someone, and second, why did Eli take the fall without putting up a fight?”

“Hey, I’m just a drunk, remember? You’re the cop. You find the answers.”

“You knew the combination to the safe, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, we all did. So did Abe Basham, Eli’s attorney. And there may have been one or two others who knew, but I couldn’t swear to that.”

“Eli kept the gun in the safe, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“On the night of the murders, Eli swore the gun was in the safe. It wasn’t. How do you think it came to be missing?”

“Well, obviously, someone opened the safe and took it.”

“Who, other than family members and Abe Basham, could have taken the gun?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me about your relationship with Eli,” Dantzler said.

“He was a preacher. I was a cocky, headstrong fifteen-year-old kid. You do the math. We got along, but there were definitely moments when we clashed.”

“Sounds normal.” Dantzler noticed a lone photograph on the table next to Tommy’s chair. “Is that you and Eli?”

Tommy picked up the photo and stared at it for almost a minute. His eyes clouded over with tears. Finally, he placed the photo back on the table.