The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller)) (31 page)

“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?”

“To where Sam Spelling was shot.”

EIGHTY-FOUR

Grant led O’Brien up the side entrance steps of the U.S. district courthouse in Orlando, a forty-year-old building.  Dan pointed to the top step.  “Spelling had reached this point.  The federal marshals escorting him said Spelling had turned around and asked if it would be okay to smoke a cigarette over there on the side before he went in to testify.  He was nervous.  The sniper’s bullet caught Spelling about here,” he pointed to a spot between his heart and top of his shoulder.  Bullet was a .303 British.”

Dan took half dozen steps and pointed to the far left door.  “That spot on the door, the one that’s been sanded, filled and painted over, is where we dug out the round after it passed through Spelling.  Clean shot.  Didn’t even hit a bone.”  

O’Brien looked in the direction of a parking garage across the street.  Then he backed up and stood next to the door.  He marked his height at six two with his right hand, made a small line on the door with his pen, and used his driver’s license to mark off three-inch increments down to the spot that was sanded and painted.  He looked at the place where Spelling was standing when he was shot.  

Dan said, “I see where you’re looking.  I almost hate to say it, but they combed the garage.  It’s only nineteen floors. Spent two days up there.  Metal detectors.  Dogs.  Nothing.  Not even a sweat stain or boot mark left anywhere that we could see.”

“How well do you think they checked the roof?”

“That’s the first place they started.”

“Should have been the last.  How about the third floor?”

“Out of nineteen floors, the largest parking garage in the city, why the third?”    

“The building is about one hundred yards from this spot.  Spelling was five-eight.  If he stood right there, and the round hit here, the bullet dropped about a half inch.  The shot came from between the second and fourth floors.  Let’s go in the middle, to the third. 

#

O’BRIEN PARKED HIS JEEP close to the opening of the third floor that provided a view of the courthouse.  He got a pair of binoculars out of the glove box and said, “Let’s try to see it from the shooter’s perspective.”

“I guess that would be the closest thing we got to a scope right now,” said Dan.

O’Brien walked to the farthest right-hand corner.  “I don’t see any surveillance cameras in this vicinity.”

“Most are in the high traffic areas.  We checked the hard-drives to see what came and went an hour before and a half hour after—on either side of the time Spelling was hit.  Everything checked clean except the second vehicle to leave.  Two minutes after the shooting.  A blue van.  Tag stolen.”

“Who was it registered to?”

“Guy’s name is Vincent Hall.  Says it was stolen off his Mercedes.”

“Where was his Mercedes parked?”

“Third floor.”

“Where on the third floor?”

“Over there,” Dan pointed to a far corner

.

“I bet the blue van was right beside the Mercedes.  Perp may have arrived early—first thing—got here early to find the best spot.  Check that on the tapes.  He laid low here.  Waited for Spelling to be paraded up the courthouse steps, and fired one shot.  Guy’s damn good, an expert.”

O’Brien walked to the corner.  A red Cadillac was in the spot closest to the corner and the large concrete pillars.  He stared out the open breezeway across to the courthouse steps.  He looked through the binoculars.

O’Brien surveyed the area.  He found a crumpled cigarette pack.  No sign anyone had been smoking.  There was an empty five-gallon bucket of roofing tar.  It sat adjacent to an opening between one of the concrete pillars and the steel girder.  O’Brien squatted down behind the bucket.  “Let me see the glasses from here.”  Dan handed him the binoculars.  “I believe the shooter used this bucket to steady the rifle.  The bucket’s been left behind from some construction work.  Have your department set up a laser right here.  It should match the trajectory to the hole in the door.”

O’Brien looked down at a gutter with half-inch grates spaced to allow the water in but to keep most of the leaves and debris out.  The gutter ran the entire length of the floor.  He looked in one of the slots and said, “Too dark to see anything.”

“I’d doubt if you’d find a casing in there.  Perp probably picked it up.  Bouncing in one of these holes would be like hitting one of the ring tosses at the county fair.”

O’Brien heard a car door close.  He looked over in the garage and saw a woman locking her door.  “Dan, give me your badge for a second.”

“Sean, it’s one thing to be out here with me impersonating a cop.  But if you take my ID, you’re busted.  In case you haven’t looked…our skin color is a little different.”

O’Brien grinned.  “They always look at the shiny badge first.”

Dan sighed, handing O’Brien his detective’s shield.

“Ma’am!” shouted O’Brien.

The woman, dressed in a business suit, turned to look.  O’Brien approached her with the ID and said, “Police ma’am.  We’re investigating a shooting.  And we’ve run into a little challenge.  Maybe you can help.”

“I’m late for court.  I don’t—”

“May I borrow the mirrored makeup compact in your purse?”

“How’d you know I carry one?”

“Lucky guess.”  O’Brien smiled,

“Okay, I suppose.”

She opened her purse.  “Just take it.”

“Thank you.  If you can afford to wait thirty seconds, I’ll hand it right back.”

O’Brien took the compact, opened it, and angled the mirror so the sun would reflect through the slots in the gutter near the bucket.  He dropped to his knees, trying to peer through the grates.  He moved the mirror slowly, like a small searchlight in the dark.  He saw loose nails, a dime, leaves, and something the color of polished brass near a leaf.  “Dan, would you get a coat hanger out of the back of the Jeep?”

The woman watched as Dan got the coat hanger out and handed it to O’Brien.  He untwisted the hanger, fashioned a small hook, stuck it into the grate, and carefully lifted

the shell casing up from the dark.  O’Brien stood, the casing winking like gold in the sunlight.  “Hand me an evidence bag,” he said.  As he dropped the casing into the bag he said, “.303, British Springfield.  Sometimes you get lucky at ring toss.”                  

EIGHTY-FIVE

After O’Brien dropped Dan Grant off at the sheriff’s office, he placed a call to Florida State Prison at Starke.  He was transferred three times and finally got the deputy assistant warden on the phone.

“Mr. O’Brien, I understand you’re on the approved call list.  But each call has to be accepted by Charlie Williams.  It’s not up to us…who he talks to.”

“I understand that.  Can you get him to a phone?”

“Not a question of getting him to a phone, it’s getting a phone to Williams.”

“What do you mean?”

“Governor’s signed William’s death warrant.  He’s moved from his cell on death row to a deathwatch status.  Which means he’s down to extremely limited phone calls.”

“He still can speak with his attorney, right?”

“Are you his legal counsel?”

“I’m on his legal team.”

Here was an audible sigh.  The assistant deputy warden said, “Guess we’re gonna have to install a phone in Williams’ cell.  Media types are callin.’  CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC, you name it.”

“I understand your frustrations.  Part of the state system in Florida is due process up until an inmate is in fact executed.  No one wants an innocent man to go to his grave.”

“Gimme your number.  I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

O’Brien drove east on I-4 and took it to Highway 46 toward U.S. 1 and Ponce Inlet.  His cell rang.  It was Detective Ron Hamilton.

“Tucker Houston’s the right guy for Charlie Williams,” said Hamilton.

“For Williams’ sake, I hope so.  His other attorney sort of resigned after having all his petitions for a new trial denied.”

“Sean, it might not be anything, but since you mentioned somebody was popping Alexandria full of heroin…something came up in a conversation I had with Joe Torres.  Joe’s working drugs and gangs in the area now.  Torres was talking with Todd Jefferies, DEA.  Jefferies was the lead investigator in the coke bust that sent Russo away.  Jefferies worked with the FBI on that, and the one agent who’s chief of the Miami office.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mike Chambers.  I’ve met him.  He’s fairly aloof.  Typical bureau.  Other special agent was Christian Manerou, seems to be a stand-up kinda of guy.  Anyway, although Todd Jefferies and the rest of the feds popped Russo on the coke charges, they’d found two kilos of pure uncut heroin in the pallet disguised as swimming pool chemicals.  Jefferies told Torres that it was suspected to be the icing on a cake for a deal done between some Miami crime families with the New York mob.  The heroin was found hidden at the bottom of the coke pile, all disguised as powdered chlorine.  Russo, in a plea bargain, said he suspected the uncut stuff was “hidden” there by an unknown courier as a partial payoff for a mob hit.  The trigger man was a lowlife called The Coyote, AKA, Carlos Salazar.”

“What happened to the heroin?”

“Jefferies says it came up missing.”

“Missing?”

“Somewhere between photographing the stuff, weighing, tagging and bagging…and being tucked away in evidence storage, it was lost, probably stolen.  This meant the heroin charges against Russo were dropped.”

“I don’t see how the DEA can lose evidence, or was it the FBI?”

“Don’t know that we can blame the feds for this.  The heroin was being stored in Dade County SO, locked away in their secure evidence vaults near an area where they keep the confiscated drug planes, cigarette boats and whatnot.  Jefferies says he suspects one of the Miami mob families associated with Russo had somebody inside, offered a hundred grand to drop the stuff in a canal out back.  Let the gators have a heroin fix.  Anyway, don’t know if it can ever be traced to Alexandria Cole, especially now, but I thought I’d mention it.”

O’Brien was silent.

“You still there?” asked Hamilton

“Yeah, I’m still here.  Just thinking.  Did Jefferies say which FBI agent, Mike Chambers or Christian Manerou, played the bigger role in the investigation?”

“No, why?”

“Nothing yet.  Would you ask him how things were divvied up during that case?”

“You mean between Chambers and Manerou, who was running the show.”

“Yeah.”

 “Okay, speaking of the feds, Lauren Miles had a break-in at her house.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she wasn’t home.  Somebody walked off with her DVD player and a pearl ring.  She’d called me about the Sixth Street Gym.  She wants to work a co-op stakeout with Miami P.D.  Surveillance cameras, the whole nine yards, to try and catch these freaks in the act of staging one of their kill matches.  The Irish guy has a rap sheet that, if you included ‘references,’ would connect him to a few of Florida’s finest hate groups.”

O’Brien saw an incoming call with a 352 area code.  The area code service for Starke and the Florida Sate Prison.  He disconnected with Hamilton and answered.

“Mr. O’Brien?”

“Yes.”

“I got Charlie Williams standin’ here.  You can have three minutes.”

O’Brien waited a few seconds and Charlie Williams came on the line, “Hello.”

“Charlie, it’s Sean O’Brien.  I wanted you to know that I’m close—very close to finding out who killed Alexandria.  Did you know Alexandria was addicted to heroin?”

“I suspected she was on something real bad ‘cause her moods changed so much.”

“But she never admitted it?”

“Not directly, she just told me to stay the hell away because she said there were people that would take me out quick and they’d never find my body.”

“But she didn’t say what people or what person?”

“No.  She was scared shitless.  That’s why I was tryin’ to get her outta there.”

“I understand, Charlie.”

“I’m thankful for what you’re doin’.  That lawyer, Mr. Houston, is real helpful.  He’s doin’ what he can to throw a wrench into this thing.”