Текст книги "The Simple Truth"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Alittle over three hours after Billy Hawkins had announced his brothers death, John Fiske was walking through the hallways of theD.C.morgue, a white-coated intake specialist leading the way. Fiske had had to show identification and prove to the man that he was really Michael Fiskes brother. He had been prepared for that and had brought pictures of the two together. He had tried to reach his father before leaving town, but there had been no answer. Fiske had driven by the house, but no one had been home. He left a note for his dad, including no details. He had to be sure it was his brother, and the only way to be certain was where he was headed. Fiske was surprised when they entered an office, and even more puzzled when the morgue attendant pulled a Polaroid from a file and held it out to him.

Im not identifying a photo. I want to see the body.

Thats not the procedure we have here, sir. Were in the process of installing a video system so that IDs can be made via remote television, but its not functional yet. Until then, its done with a Polaroid.

Not this time.

The man tapped the photo against his palm as though trying to arouse Fiskes curiosity in it. Most people would much prefer to do it with a photograph. This is very unusual.

Im not most people, and having a brother murdered is unusual. At least it is for me.

The attendant picked up the phone and conveyed instructions to prepare the body for viewing. Then he opened the door to his office, motioning Fiske to follow him. After a short walk, they entered a small room that carried a medicinal smell several times stronger than that in a hospital. In the center of the room stood a gurney. From under the white sheet rose a number of edges representing the head, nose, shoulders, knees and feet of the body. As Fiske headed toward the gurney, he clutched at the same irrational hope that everyone in his position would leap for: that the person under the sheet was not his brother, that his family was still reasonably intact. As the attendant gripped the edge of the sheet, Fiske slid one hand around the metal side of the gurney and squeezed tightly. As the sheet rose upward, exposing the head and upper torso of the deceased, Fiske closed his eyes, looked upward and mouthed a silent prayer. He took a deep breath, held it, opened his eyes and then looked down. Before he knew it, he was nodding. He tried to look away but couldnt. Even a stranger could have looked at the slope of the forehead, the arrangement of the eyes and mouth, the flow of the chin, and concluded that the two men held some close familial bond. Thats my brother.

The sheet was replaced and the attendant gave Fiske the ID card to sign. Other than the items the police have retained, well release his personal effects to you. The attendant glanced at the gurney. Weve had a busy week, and were backed up with bodies, but we should have autopsy results fairly soon. This one looks pretty simple anyway.

Anger flared on Fiskes face but then quickly faded. The man was not paid to be tactful. Did they find the bullet that killed him?

Only the autopsy can determine cause of death.

Dont bullshit me. The attendant looked startled. I saw the exit wound on the left side of his head. Did they find it?

No. At least not yet.

I heard it was a robbery, said Fiske. The attendant nodded. He was found in his car?

Right, wallet gone. We had to trace his identity through his license plate.

So if a robbery, why didnt they take the car? Carjackings the hot thing right now. Beat the victims ATM password out of him or her, kill them, take the car and hit a few banks, load up on money, ditch the car and go on to the next one. Why not with this one?

I dont know anything about that.

Whos handling the case?

It happened in D.C. Must be D.C. Homicide Division.

My brother was a federal employee. United States Supreme Court. Maybe the FBI will be involved too.

Again, I dont know anything about that.

Id like the name of the detective at D.C. Homicide.

The attendant didnt answer, but jotted some notes down in the file, perhaps hoping that if he remained quiet Fiske would just go away.

Id really like that name, please, Fiske said, edging a step closer. The attendant finally sighed, pulled a business card out of the file and handed it to Fiske. Buford Chandler. Hell probably want to talk to you anyway. Hes a good guy. Probablyll catch the person who did this.

Fiske looked briefly at the card before putting it in his coat pocket. He settled a clear-eyed gaze on the attendant. Oh, were going to get whoever did this. The odd tone in his voice made the attendant look up from his file. Now Id like some time alone with my brother.

The attendant glanced over at the gurney. Sure, Ill be outside. Just let me know when youre done.

After the man left, Fiske pulled a chair next to the gurney and sat down. He had not shed a tear since learning of his brothers death. He told himself it was because positive ID had not been made yet, but now it had and still no tears. On the drive up, he had caught himself counting out-of-state license plates, a game the brothers had played growing up. A game Mike Fiske had usually won. He lifted the side of the sheet and took one of his brothers hands. It was cold, but the fingers were supple. He squeezed them gently. Fiske looked down at the concrete floor and closed his eyes. When he reopened them a few minutes later only two tears had collected on the concrete. He quickly looked up and a gush of air came out of his lungs. It felt forced, all of it, and he suddenly felt unworthy to be here. As a cop, he had sat with the parents of too many drunken kids who had wrapped themselves around a tree or telephone pole. He had consoled them, expressed empathy, even held them. He had truly believed that he had approached, even touched the depths of their despair. He often wondered what it would feel like when it happened to him. He plainly knew this was not it. He forced himself to think about his parents. How exactly would he tell his father that his golden child was dead? And his mother? At least there was an easy answer to that question: He couldnt and shouldnt tell her. Raised Catholic, but not a religious man, Fiske chose to speak with his brother instead of God. He pressed his brothers hand against his chest and talked to him of things he was sorry for, of how much he loved him, how much he wanted him not to be dead, in case his brothers spirit was lingering behind, waiting for this communication, this quiet rupture of guilt and remorse from his older brother. Then Fiske fell silent, his eyes closed again. He could hear each solid drum of his heart, a sound that was somehow dwarfed by the stillness of the body next to his. The attendant poked his head in. Mr. Fiske, we need to take your brother on down. Its been half an hour.

Fiske rose and passed the attendant without a word. His brothers body was going to a terrifying place, where strangers would forage through his remains for clues as to who had killed him. As they wheeled the gurney away, Fiske walked back out into the sunlight and left his little brother behind. ["C21"]CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Youre sure you covered your tracks?

Rayfield nodded into the phone. Every record of his being here has been expunged. Ive already transferred all the personnel who saw Fiske to other facilities. Even if someone figures out somehow that he came here, there wont be anyone left to tell them anything.

And no one saw you dump the body?

Vic drove his car back. I followed him. We picked a good place. The police will think it was a robbery. Nobody saw us. And even if they did, its not the sort of place where people are real cooperative with the law.

Nothing left in the car?

We took his wallet to further the robbery angle. His briefcase too. A map. There wasnt anything else. Of course we filled the radiator back up with fluid.

And Harms?

Hes still in the hospital. Looks like hes going to make it.

Damn. Just our luck.

Dont sweat it. When he comes back here, well deal with him. Weak heart and all, you never know what might happen to you.

Dont wait too long. You cant hit him in the hospital?

Too dangerous. Too many people around.

And youve got him well guarded?

Hes chained to the bed with a guard posted twenty-four hours a day outside his door. Hes being released tomorrow morning. By tomorrow night hell be dead. Vics already working on the details.

And theres nobody out there who can help him? Youre sure?

Rayfield laughed. Hell, no one even knows hes there. Hes got nobody. Never has, never will.

No mistakes, Frank.

Ill call you when hes dead. *����*����* Fiske sat in the car and cranked up the air-conditioning, which, in his fourteen-year-old Ford, merely caused the slow movement of muggy air from left to right. Sweat trickling down his face and staining his shirt collar, Fiske finally eased down the window as he stared at the building. Average-looking on the outside, it was not on the inside. There, the people spent all of their time searching for those who killed other people. And Fiske was trying to decide whether to join them in their pursuit or drive back home. He had identified his brothers remains, his official duty as next of kin completed. He could go home, tell his father, make the funeral arrangements, see to his brothers final affairs, bury him and then get on with his life. Thats what everyone else did. Instead, Fiske pulled himself out of the car and into the muggy air, and entered the building at 300 Indiana Avenue, home to the D.C. Police Homicide Division. After passing through security and being directed by a uniformed police officer, he stopped at a desk. He had tried his father once again from the morgue, but still no answer. Frustrated, he was now also worried that his father had somehow found out and was on his way up here. He looked down at the card the attendant at the morgue had given him. Detective Buford Chandler, please, he said, looking down at the young woman behind the desk.

And you are? The sharp angle of her neck, and her superior tone, immediately made Fiske want to stuff her in one of her own desk drawers.

John Fiske. Detective Chandler is investigating my brothers . . . my brothers murder. His name was Michael Fiske. She stared at him, no recognition on her features. He was a clerk at the Supreme Court, he added. She glanced at some papers on her desk. And somebody killed him?

This is the Homicide Division, isnt it? She settled her gaze back on him, her look of annoyance pronounced. He continued: Yes, somebody killed him he glanced down at the nameplate on her desk Ms. Baxter.

Well, what exactly can I do for you?

Id like to see Detective Chandler.

Is he expecting you?

Fiske leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. Not exactly, but

Then Im afraid hes not in, she said, cutting him off.

I think if you put a call into Fiske stopped and watched as she turned away from him and started typing on her computer. Look, I really need to see Detective Chandler.

She typed as she spoke. Let me educate you on the situation here, okay? We have lots of cases and not too many detectives. We dont have time for every drop-in off the street. We have to have priorities. Im sure you can understand that. Her voice drifted off as she looked at the computer screen. Fiske leaned forward until his face was only a couple of inches from the woman. When she looked around, they were eye to eye. Let me make you understand something. I came up from Richmond to identify the remains of my brother atDetective Chandlersrequest. I did that. My brother is dead. And right about now the medical examiner is cutting a Y incision in his chest so that he can lift out his insides, organ by organ. Then hes going to take a saw and cut an intermastoid incision like a wedge of pie through his skull, right about here. Fiske made an imaginary cut along Ms. Baxters head with his finger, overcoming a very strong impulse to snatch up a handful of the womans permed blond hair. Thats so he can lift out his brain and trace the path of the bullet that killed him and perhaps get some shell fragments. Now, I thought Id come and have a chat with Detective Chandler and see if he and I can come up with some leads on who might have killed him.

She said coldly, Well, thats not your job, is it? We have enough problems without family members getting involved in police investigations. Im sure Detective Chandler will be in touch if he needs you. She again turned away from him. Fiske gripped the edge of her desk and took a deep breath, trying his best not to lose it. Look, I can understand the caseload problem you must have here, and the fact that you dont know me from Adam

Im really busy right now, sir. So if you have a problem, I suggest you put it in writing.

All I want to do is talk to the man!

Am I going to have to call a guard, or what?

Fiske slammed his hand down on the desk. My brother is dead! And I would really appreciate if you would take that piss-poor attitude youre wearing and replace it with just an ounce of compassion. And if you cant force yourself to mean it, lady, then just pretend.

Im Buford Chandler.

Both Fiske and Baxter turned. Chandler was black, in his early fifties, with curly white hair, a matching mustache and a tall, thickened frame that managed to retain a certain athleticism from his youth. He wore an empty shoulder holster, a smudge of pistol oil on his shirt where the grip had lain against it. He looked Fiske up and down from behind a pair of trifocals.

Im John Fiske.

I heard. In fact Ive been standing over here listening to the whole thing.

Then you know what he said to me, Detective Chandler? Baxter said.

Every word.

And dont you have something to say?

Yes, I do.

Baxter looked over at Fiske with a look of satisfaction on her face. Well?

I think this young man gave you some pretty good advice. Chandler hooked a finger at Fiske. Lets talk.

Chandler and Fiske made their way through busy hallways to a small, cluttered office. Have a seat. Chandler pointed to the only chair in the room other than the one behind his desk. There were files stacked on the chair. Just put those on the floor. Chandler held up a warning finger. Be careful you dont taint any evidence. These days if I belch while Im looking at tissue samples, all Im going to hear is, Inadmissible! Free my mass-murdering sonofabitch of a client.�

Fiske very carefully moved the files while Chandler settled behind his desk.

Now, I dont want you feeling sorry for what you said to Judy Baxter.

I wasnt planning on it.

Chandler suppressed a smile. Okay, first things first. Im sorry about your brother.

Thank you, Fiske said in a subdued manner.

Probably the first time you heard that since arriving up here, isnt it?

Actually, it is.

So you were in law enforcement? Chandler casually remarked, then smiled at Fiskes surprise. The average citizen doesnt usually know about Y incisions and intermastoid cuts. With the way you got in Ms. Baxters face, the manner in which you carry yourself, and your build, Id say you were a patrolman.

Past tense?

If you were still on the force the folks in Richmond wouldve told me when we contacted them. And besides, I know very few police officers who wear suits off duty.

Right on all counts. Im glad you were assigned to this case, Detective Chandler.

You and forty-two other active cases. Fiske shook his head, and Chandler continued: Budgetary cuts and all. I dont even have a partner anymore.

So in other words, dont expect any miracles?

I will do my best to catch whoever killed your brother. But I can give no guarantees.

Then how about a little unofficial help?

How do you mean?

I worked a lot of homicides with the detectives down in Richmond. Learned a lot, remember a lot. Maybe I can be your new partner.

Officially, thats absolutely impossible.

Officially, I absolutely understand.

What do you do now?

Im a criminal defense attorney, said Fiske. Chandler rolled his eyes. And I take pride in my work too, Detective Chandler.

Chandler nodded over Fiskes shoulder toward the door. Shut that, will you? He remained silent until Fiske did so and returned to his seat.

Now, despite my better judgment, I will take your offer of assistance under advisement.

Fiske shook his head. Im here now. Considering that after forty-eight hours the success rate on homicides heads to China, thats not going to cut it. Fiske thought this might set the man off, but Chandler remained calm.

You got a business card where you can be reached? Chandler asked. Fiske passed across his card after writing his home number on the back. In return, Chandler handed him a card with a series of phone numbers on it. Office, home, beeper, fax, cell phone when I remember to carry it, which I never do.

Chandler opened a file on his desk and studied it. Reading upside down, Fiske saw his brothers name on the label. I was told he was killed during a robbery.

Thats what the prelim indicated anyway.

Fiske caught the odd tone in Chandlers voice. And has that opinion changed?

It was only a prelim to begin with. He closed the file and looked at Fiske. The facts of this case, at least what we know so far, are pretty simple. Your brother was found in the front seat of his car in an alleyway near the Anacostia River with a gunshot contact wound to the right side of his head and an exit wound on the left. Looked to be fairly heavy caliber. We have not found the slug, but that search continues. The killer could have found it and taken it with him so that we couldnt do a ballistics test, if we ever get a gun to do a match.

It would take a cool hand to root around in an alley looking for a slug while a dead body is sitting a few feet away.

I agree. But again, the bullet may still be found.

I understand his wallet was missing.

Lets put it another way. No wallet was found on him. Was he in the habit of not carrying one?

Fiske looked away for an instant. We havent seen each other much the last few years, but I think you can assume he was carrying a wallet. So you didnt find it in his apartment?

Give me a little slack, John. Your brothers body was only found yesterday. Chandler opened his notebook and picked up a pen. The alley where he was found is a high-use drug area, among other things. To your knowledge was he a drug user? Casual or otherwise?

No. He was not a drug user.

But you cant be sure, can you? You just said you hadnt seen much of each other. Right?

My brother set the highest goals for himself with everything he did, and then he surpassed those goals. Drugs did not enter into that equation.

Any idea why he wouldve been in that area?

No, but he could have been kidnapped somewhere else and driven there.

Any reason why someone would want him dead?

I cant think of a one.

No enemies? Jealous boyfriends? Money problems?

No. But again Im probably not the best source for that. Do you have a prelim on the time of death?

Pretty vague. Im waiting on the official word. Why?

I just came from the morgue. I felt my brothers hand. It was soft, supple. Rigor had long since passed. What was the condition of the body when it was found last night?

Lets just say he had been there awhile.

Thats surprising. From what you said, its not an isolated area.

True, but in that area dead bodies in alleys arent all that uncommon. Then again, about ninety-nine percent of the homicides in that area involve black victims for the very simple fact that whites just dont frequent the place.

So my brother should have stood out, youre saying. Any ATM withdrawals? Credit card purchases?

Were checking all that. When did you last speak with your brother?

He called me over a week ago.

Whatd he say?

I wasnt in. He left a message. Said he needed my advice on something.

Did you call him back?

Not until recently.

Whyd you wait?

It wasnt high on my priority list.

Is that right? Chandler twirled his pen between his fingers. Tell me something. Did you even like your brother?

Fiske looked at him squarely. Somebody killed my brother. I want to catch whoever did it. And thats really all Im going to say about it.

The look in Fiskes eyes made Chandler decide to move on. Maybe he wanted to talk about something to do with work? See, what makes this case intriguing is your brothers occupation.

Meaning, is his murder related to something at the Supreme Court?

Its a long shot, absolutely, but what you just told me about your brothers phone call might just make it slightly less of a long shot than it seemed a minute ago.

I doubt if he wanted my two cents on the latest abortion case.

Then what? How to pick up women?

You must not have seen a picture of him. He never needed help with that one.

I have seen a picture of him, but the dead dont photograph all that well. But he said he wanted some advice. Maybe itwaslegal.

Well, you can always make a trip to the Court to see if there are any conspiracies going on up there.

We have to tread lightly, you know.

We?

Im sure your brother has personal effects there, and it would not be unusual for next of kin to visit his place of work. Im assuming youve been there before?

Once, when Mike first started. My dad and I.

And your mother?

Alzheimers.

Sorry to hear that.

Any other developments?

In answer, Chandler rose, took down his jacket from a hanger on the back of the door and slipped it on. Id like to take you down to your brothers car.

And after that?

Chandler checked his watch before looking up and smiling. Then well have just enough time to go to Court, Counselor.

["C22"]CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Rufus watched the door as it slowly opened. He braced himself for the sight of a mass of men in green fatigues moving in on him, but then his apprehension slid away when he saw who it was.

Time to check me again?

Cassandra came and stood next to the bed. Now, isnt that a womans plight in life, always checking up on men? Her words were funny, her tone was not. She looked at the monitors and made some notations in his chart, glancing at him as she did so.

It feels good. I aint used to that. He took care not to rattle his restraints as he sat up a little.

I called your brother.

Rufuss expression grew serious. Is that right? Whatd he say?

He said hed be coming to see you.

He say when?

Sooner than later. Today, in fact.

What all did you tell him?

I told him you were sick, but getting better fast.

He tell you anything else?

I found him to be a man of few words, Cassandra remarked.

Thats Josh.

Is he as big as you?

Nah. Hes a little guy. Six-three or so, not much over two hundred pounds. Cassandra shook her head and turned to leave. You got time to sit and talk? Rufus asked.

Im supposed to be on my break. I just came to tell you about your brother. Ive got to go. She seemed a little unfriendly.

You okay?

Even if Im not, there isnt anything you can do about it. Her tone was now edgy, rough. Rufus studied her for a moment. Is there a Bible around here?

She turned back, surprised. Why?

I read the Bible every day. Have for as long as I can remember.

She looked over at the table next to the bed, went across and pulled out a Gideons Bible. I cant give it to you. Cant get that close. The people from the prison were real, real clear on that point.

You dont have to give it to me. If you would, Id appreciate if you could read a passage to me.

Read to you?

You dont have to, he said quickly. You may not even be interested, you know, in the Bible and churchgoing.

She looked down at him, one hand on her hip, the other closed around the green Bible. I sing in the choir. My husband, God rest his soul, was a lay minister.

Thats real good, Cassandra. And your kids?

How do you know I have kids? Because Im not skinny?

Uh-uh.

What, then?

You look like youre used to loving little things.

His words startled her, a smile quickly breaking through the cloud over her features. Iamgoing to have to watch you. She noted that he looked at the Bible like he was thirsty and needed a drink, and she was holding the freshest, coldest glass of water in the history of the world.

What do you want me to read?

Hundred and third Psalm.

Cassandra debated for a moment and then pulled up a chair and sat down. Rufus lay back on the bed. Thank you, Cassandra.

As she read, she glanced at him. His eyes were closed. She read a few more words, looked up and saw his lips moving and then stopping. She looked at the next sentence, quickly memorized it, and read it, while watching him. Rufus was silently mouthing each of the words at the same time she was saying them. She stopped, but he continued to the end of the sentence. When she did not start up again, he opened his eyes. You know the Psalm by heart? she asked.

Know most of the Bible by heart. All the Psalms and Proverbs.

Thats pretty impressive.

Ive had a long time to work on it.

Why did you want me to read it to you, then, if you already knew it?

Looked like you were a little troubled. I thought visiting the scriptures might help you some.

Help me? Cassandra looked down at the page and read to herself. He forgives all my sins. He heals me. He ransoms me from Hell. He surrounds me with loving kindness and tender mercies. Work was depressing. Her teenage children were more and more beyond her control every day. She was on the north side of forty, fifty pounds overweight, and there wasnt an eligible man in sight. With all that, as she watched this prisoner, this chained-up killer who was going to die in prison, she felt like bursting into tears in the face of his kindness, his unsolicited consideration for her plight. The Hundred and Third Psalm also held special appeal for Rufus, one line in particular. He mouthed it to himself: He gives justice to all who are treated unfairly. *����*����* Recognize it? Chandler asked as they approached the 1987 silver Honda sedan parked in the police lot. Fiske nodded. We got it for him when he graduated from college. We all chipped in, my parents and me.

Ive got five brothers. They never did that for me.

Chandler unlocked the drivers-side door and stepped back for Fiske to look inside.

Where did you find the car keys?

On the front seat.

Any other personal items? Chandler shook his head. Fiske examined the front seat, dash, windshield and side windows, his puzzlement clear. Has it been cleaned?

No. Just like we found it, except for the occupant.

Fiske straightened back up and looked at the detective.

If you put a heavy-caliber pistol flush against somebodys temple and pull the trigger in a confined space like this youll have blood splatters on the seat, steering wheel, windshield. Youd also have bone and tissue throw-off. All I see are a few stains here and there, probably where his head was touching the seat.

Chandler looked amused. Is that right?

Fiske clenched his jaw. Im not telling you anything you didnt already know. I take it this was another little test of yours?

Chandler nodded slowly. Could be. Could be another reason. Remember I said I had five brothers?

Yeah.

Well, I started out with six. One of my brothers was murdered thirty-five years ago. Working at a gas station and some punk came in and popped him for the twelve bucks in the register. I was only sixteen at the time, but I remember every detail like it was maybe five minutes ago. Anyway, most families who come in to identify their loved ones dont head over to my office and offer their services. They grieve and console each other, which is entirely proper. Oh, they rant and rave for a while about wanting to catch the SOB who did it, but they dont really want to get involved in the process. I mean, who would? And they dont usually have a law enforcement background. Add it all up, and I spotted you as somebody who might be able to really contribute. And you just proved it.

I can understand the rage you must be feeling, John, whether you liked your brother or not. Somebody took something from you, something important ripped it from you, in fact. Its been thirty-five years and I still feel that rage.

Fiske looked around at all the civilian cars in the police lot. He assumed each hunk of metal was waiting its turn to spill the secrets of another tragedy. He turned back to Chandler. I guess rage will do. He added quietly, looking down, Until something else comes along. His tone did not hold out much hope.

Fair enough. Chandler continued his analysis. The absence of all the physical evidence you just mentioned does have me puzzled.

It doesnt look like he was killed in the car.

Thats right. It looks like he was killed somewhere else and his body was then put in the front seat. Now, that single conclusion takes us into a whole new realm of possibilities.

Then were talking about something more deliberate than a random kidnapping and murder.

Possibly, although some punks could have kidnapped him, taken him out of the car to maybe hit an ATM. He refuses, they pop him. Get scared and then dump him back in his car.

Then there would have been some physical evidence at the ATM. Any sign of that?

No, but there are a lot of ATMs.

And a lot of people use them. If its been at least a day, youd think someone would have noticed.

Youd think, but you cant be sure. Were trying to isolate your brothers movements and whereabouts for the last forty-eight hours. He was last seen at his apartment on Thursday night. After that, nada.

If somebody carjacked him, what about prints? Most perps looking for ATM cards arent sophisticated enough to wear gloves.

Were still processing that.

Would you like another observation?

Fire away.

Fiske held open the car door and pointed at the inside part of the doorjamb, the section that you dont see when the door is closed. Chandler fumbled for his glasses, put them on and saw what Fiske was pointing at. Chandler slapped on a pair of latex gloves he pulled from his coat pocket, gently lifted the small piece of sticky plastic off and held it in his palm, observing it carefully.

Your brother just had his car serviced at Wal-Mart.

It recommends that the next oil service takes place in three months or three thousand miles, whichever comes first. They put the future date and future mileage reading on that sticker as a reminder for when youre supposed to come back in. According to the date on that sticker, and subtracting out three months, my brother went in for service three days before his body was found. Now look at the mileage for when the next service is recommended and subtract three thousand miles from it. Thatll give you approximately what the odometer should read right now.