Tom Wallace - Gnosis

“I have good news and bad news,” she announced. “The good news is, Macy’s is having a forty-percent off sale on shoes beginning tomorrow morning. I plan on being first in line. The bad news is, Johnny Richards didn’t exist prior to nineteen-eighty.”

“Come again?” Milt said.

“I have checked every possible data base-federal, state, local, military, Interpol-and our Johnny Richards was not on anyone’s radar until he arrived in Lexington in October, nineteen-eighty. Prior to that, he’s a phantom. Trust me, gentlemen, I have waded through each and every data base in meticulous fashion, and he does not show up on any of them.”

“Are you sure?” Eric said. “There must be a million guys named Johnny Richards. Maybe you overlooked something.”

Laurie shook her head. “I checked and double-checked and checked again, and I came up empty. Our Johnny Richards ain’t who he says he is.”

“Well, who the hell is he, then?” Eric said, leaning back in his chair.

“What did you find out about Johnny Richards, post nineteen-eighty?” Dantzler asked.

“Nothing illegal or interesting. He bought the tavern in ’eighty and has operated it successfully ever since. There is a small apartment above the bar, which is also his. The tavern brings in about two-hundred grand a year. Richards also owns a house on Summershade, and a Lexus. His wife, Maggie, died recently, as we all know. They had no children. Maggie worked at the VA Hospital until she retired. She also did some fill-in work for Colt Rogers. Other than that, there really isn’t anything worth noting. The man is clean. Not even a speeding ticket.”

“No one who changes his identity is clean,” Milt said. “You only do it because you’re dirty.”

Dantzler said, “There are two primary reasons why a man changes his identity. Either he’s running away from something he’s done, or he’s hiding from someone. Johnny Richards, or whoever he is, didn’t strike me as a man who would run away from anything. If I’m right, it means he is hiding from someone.”

“Hiding?” Eric asked. “From who?”

“Don’t know,” Dantzler answered. “But all the checkmarks are there… new identity, new location, no background data, no past history. And that’s not all. I’ll make you a wager Richards has undergone just enough plastic surgery to change the way he looked prior to nineteen-eighty.”

“Come to think of it, he did have the look of a guy who might’ve had some work done,” Milt said. “Particularly around the eyes.”

“All these changes lead me in one direction.”

“You’re thinking Witness Protection, aren’t you?” Milt said.

Dantzler nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Goddammit, that means dealing with the Feds,” Milt offered. “That’s never any fun.”

“The Witness Protection Program comes under the Justice Department banner, with the U.S. Marshals Service doing the actual legwork. It’s the Marshals who move the individual around, secure proper documentation, find living quarters… that sort of thing. But I’ll start at the top, contact someone inside Justice, and see what I can find out.”

“Shouldn’t we put surveillance on Richards?” Eric said.

Dantzler thought about this for a moment before answering. “Let’s hold off on surveillance until we find out more about the guy. If he is in the Program, it could make things a lot more complicated. I want to make sure we know what we’re doing and who we’re dealing with before we make any moves.”

“Damn,” Milt said, shaking his head. “I was hoping this would be easy.”

“It’s only a bump in the road, Milt,” Dantzler said. “If Richards is the shooter, and I’m dead certain he is, we’ll bring him in. But I have a feeling we can toss easy out the window.”

Seeking outside assistance on a case was almost always a last-ditch option for Dantzler. Given his druthers, he would never seek help from the Feds. It was his firm belief that he and his fellow Homicide detectives were superior in every way to the so-called “experts,” although he did acknowledge that the federal agencies, with their generous budgets and multitude of gadgets, were technologically superior. While some viewed Dantzler’s disdain for seeking outside help as arrogance, he countered the accusation with the argument that more hands only make a bigger mess.

But above all else, Dantzler was a pragmatist. In the end, all good cops are. You do what it takes to put the bad guys away, and if it means bending a few rules along the way, or seeking help from outside sources, you do it, regardless of the dent inflicted upon your pride, or the bitter taste such a move might leave in your mouth.

Justice must always outweigh ego.

Dantzler was sitting as his desk when the phone rang. He put down the file he was reading and picked up the receiver. He knew who the caller was-Lisa Kennedy. Earlier that afternoon, he placed a call to her at the Justice Department and was informed she was on assignment in Denver. He left his name and number, and asked that Lisa contact him as soon as possible.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Lisa said. “I didn’t expect to hear from the guy who saved my ass. How long has it been now? Two years?”

“Almost three,” Dantzler said, referring to the Victor Sammael case they worked together. “How are things in your part of the world? I would imagine you’ve been staying busy.”

“Extremely. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day. I feel like I’m chasing after something I can never catch.”

“You are,” Dantzler said, laughing. “The illusion we can make a difference that truly makes a difference.”

“Don’t tell me that,” Lisa said. “If I thought we weren’t making a real difference, I would be out the door faster than you can say goodbye yellow brick road. I’d go live on a beach and drink rum all day.”

“Now, there’s a plan I could fall in love with.”

“You may fool some people with such talk, Detective Dantzler, but not me. I’ve seen you in action, remember? I know how much you care about little things like protecting the innocent and putting bad guys away. And I also know-we both know-that what we do does make a difference. There is nothing illusory about it.”

Dantzler laughed, said, “Spoken with the passion of a true believer. J. Edgar Hoover would hold you in the highest esteem.”

“Yes. But would he let me borrow one of his dresses? That’s the real question.” Lisa snickered. “I shouldn’t make such crass comments on the phone. You never know who might be tuned in.”

“Listen, Lisa, the reason I called is to ask for a favor.”

“You name it, you got it. I never say no to anyone who saved my life. What do you need?”

“Your help in identifying a possible four-time murderer.”

“Sounds intriguing. But why me? Why not the FBI? That’s the kind of thing they excel at.”

Anticipating Lisa’s response, Dantzler was ready with his answer. For the next fifteen minutes, he gave Lisa a detailed rundown of the Eli Whitehouse case, omitting nothing, unraveling his tale from its opening act, his first meeting with Eli in the prison, through to the death of Rocky Stone. He gave her background information on the murders in 1982, and the more recent murders of Colt Rogers and Devon Fraley. He told her about the Whitehouse children, and how Eli’s finances would be divided upon his death. He told her about the obits, the “think of Jesus’s empty tomb” clue provided by Eli. Dantzler concluded his briefing by stating his reasons why he was now certain Eli was innocent despite evidence indicating otherwise, and why he was convinced a single shooter was responsible for all four deaths.