Thorns on Roses Page 11

“Of course.” Abby filled her cup, then joined him.

  Staring at his hands, which rested on the table, fingers entwined, he said, “Yesterday, you asked if I have a sister. I said I had a sister. Remember?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a deep breath. “She was murdered.”

  * * * *

  Abby stared at Tom, her brain stunned by his words. “Murdered? Who, how?”

  Tom looked up from the kitchen table. His eyes were dull, but a flame appeared to burn behind them. “A bunch of street scum. Punks that had no right to be born, much less to live.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  The rage in his voice shocked her. She put her hand on his arm. “I’d like to hear…if you’re willing to tell me.”

  Tom sat for a moment. “Sis was the good one. Where I screwed up about everything I touched, she flowed through life with a dignity and grace you seldom see. She finished at the top in high school, then did the same in college. After graduation, she took a job in Dallas and was on the fast track while working on her MBA at night. She had such a bright future. Everybody loved Sis.”

  He sighed and swiped at his eyes. “I was still in the Army then, in the field on a training mission when it happened. My Team Leader pulled me out and met me at the airstrip. When I came off the chopper, he took me aside and said, ‘Elizabeth is dead.’ At first, I didn’t understand. In the family, she was Sis, and all her friends called her Beth. I assumed he was talking about one of the guys’ wives or someone he thought I knew and asked why he extracted me early. He gave me a funny look and said, ‘Your sister. Elizabeth. She was murdered.’

  “My world spun out of orbit with his words. It felt like someone had placed a pillow over my face, suffocating me. Nothing on any of my missions prepared me for that. I’m not sure how I reacted or what I said, but the next thing I remember we were in base camp where an emergency leave slip awaited my signature. Two days later, I landed in Dallas.”

  Abby squeezed his arm and gave a sympathetic smile. “The Army can move fast when it needs to.”

  “Yeah. We always said the Army takes care of its own. Anyway, I checked in with the police and got the particulars. Sis worked late her last night, signing out of the building at ten. The security guard watched her cross the parking lot on his monitor, but lost her when she passed between two SUVs. Later, the tape showed she never came out.”

  “What happened?” Abby said. “Did he call the police?”

  “Coincidence happened. When she stepped between the cars, his board lit up with an alarm from the CEO’s suite. It was a motion detector showing movement in the executive office. You know which way the guard ran. He hit the police-alert button and scrambled up the elevator. By the time he verified it was a faulty sensor, one of the SUVs had disappeared. Sis’s car still sat a couple of rows away.”

  Tom stared into space a moment, then continued in a dead voice. “A homeless guy found her in a dumpster the next morning—naked, raped, and strangled. The crime scene pictures captured every detail, many of them close-ups.” He looked at Abby. “I hope you never face anything like that.”

  Abby saw pain and rage in his face and heard it in his voice. “Oh, Tom. I’m so sorry.”

  “You promised not to interrupt. If I… Look, I’ve only told this once before. You have to let me do it my way without any comments.”

  Abby rubbed the back of his hand and remained quiet.

  “The security camera caught the plate of the SUV, but when the cops ran it, they found a stolen car report. I have to give credit. The police went all out, determined to solve her murder. They caught a break a few days later with a tip on a chop shop. When they hit it, the SUV was next in line. They offered a plea deal, and the parts operator caved and ID’d the guy who brought it in. They nailed the driver the next day and, with the right amount of persuasion, he rolled over on his buddies. He said they grabbed Sis because she looked hot and was convenient for them. That’s what he said—she looked hot and was convenient.”

  Abby watched his fists, clenching and unclenching, his knuckles white with the strain. His agony and anger filled the kitchen. She could almost smell it.

  “Those bastards. It’s a good thing the police had them, or I’d have ripped their hearts out with my bare hands.”

  Abby flinched. She couldn’t help it. His emotion was like a physical, menacing presence in the room.

  He looked at her and his face relaxed. “Sorry. I tend to lose it when I think about what they did. That’s why I don’t talk about it. But I would have killed them. Have no doubts about that.”

  “You scare me, Tom.”

  “I’ll apologize if that’s what you want to hear, but you said you wanted truth.”

  She swallowed. “What happened next?”

  “I returned to duty expecting justice, expecting them to fry.” He took a deep breath. “What a laugh. What a fool I was to trust the system. Today’s system is rigged to protect the guilty—victims be damned.”

  “I don’t understand,” Abby said, hoping the worst hadn’t happened.

  “Do you know the fruit of the poisonous tree theory?”

  “Yes. It’s an interpretation of the Fourth Amendment’s protection against illegal search and seizure. If the authorities perform an illegal action, then anything found as a result is not admissible in court. The original evidence, that’s the tree, is poison so anything that follows—its fruit, is also poison, therefore the judge must exclude it.”

  Tom looked disgusted. “Yeah. Or some legal mumbo-jumbo that sounds about the same. The bottom line is some damn judge threw out the case against my sister’s killers. He said the tip the cops received on the chop shop fell under the purview of that doctrine, therefore everything afterwards was illegal. Since that’s all the cops had, the son-of-a-bitch let them walk away.”

  “But, Tom. You must understand that laws like that are to protect—”

  “Bullshit. Don’t say it. My sister died in the worst humiliation a woman can face at the hands of that scum, and he put them back onto the street. When do we pass laws to protect law-abiding citizens? All this shit about the poor criminal not being responsible for his actions is sickening. And tying the hands of the police is criminal in itself. It encourages the assholes.”

  Abby stared at him, wanting to explain, but feeling his pain to such an extreme she almost doubted her own feelings about the law. How could a justice system built on protecting society cause such agony? “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

  “Another coincidence. It happened that my hitch was up about that time. I’d planned to reenlist for another six, but decide to apply to the Dallas Police Force instead. They accepted me, so I left the Army and became a cadet. A few months later, I was a uniformed patrol officer, working some of the worse neighborhoods. In the meantime, the five who killed Sis continued doing what they did best, pulling petty jobs—burglaries, muggings, and such. But we couldn’t get enough to nail them.

  “Then everything changed one night when I stopped by a 7-Eleven to pick up a six-pack. Through the front window, I saw a robbery in progress. I called for backup, then announced myself, and yelled for them to lay down their guns. They chose to shoot it out. Maybe they thought I was kidding since I was in civvies. When it was over, I discovered it was three of the scags that killed Sis.” He smiled a bittersweet smile. “I did not mourn their passing.”

  Abby stared at him, trying to read his eyes. “After what you said earlier, that sounds pretty coincidental.”

  “Yeah. A few asshole reporters said the same thing when they dug up the history of the three. They trashed me because of my military background, called me an out-of-control trained killer hiding behind my badge to get revenge. Internal Affairs investigated and exonerated me. Really pissed off the libs when the department gave me a citation for preventing the robbery and harm to the 7-Eleven clerk.”

  “What about the other two? Did the police ever catch up with them?”

  Tom looked toward the
ceiling, then returned his eyes to Abby. “They caught them—after another vic paid the price. Wasn’t long after that another young woman turned up in a dumpster. But they screwed up that time. She survived and identified them from pictures, then picked them out of a live lineup. Also, a reluctant witness saw them dump her.”

  “So they got what was coming to them?”

  “Not hardly. But it wasn’t for lack of trying. The department went all out, even assigning an assistant DA to them full time. She stood guard at their cell door, or so it seemed. Anytime a cop went near one of them, she was there with a video camera documenting that no mistakes were made. We wanted those guys bad.”

  He sighed. “But once again, the protect-the-criminal system beat us. Since they’d walked on murdering Sis, that couldn’t be introduced in court. The charges were rape and assault. They couldn’t even hang attempted murder on them—no witnesses, other than the victim. Their defense attorneys claimed they put her in the dumpster because they knew someone would find her and get medical attention for her. He brought in witnesses to testify what fine upstanding citizens they were. By the time he finished, you’d have thought they were a combination of priests, philanthropists, and Mother Teresa. Big crock of lies is what it was, but it worked. When it was over, they headed for prison with a fifteen-year sentence.”

  “Fifteen years is a long time,” Abby said. “I’m glad they got what was coming to them.”

  “You’re interrupting again. Allow me to continue. It wasn’t the victory I wanted—they were still alive—but at least they were off the street. Of course, I hoped they’d become the girlfriends of the biggest, scuzziest goons in Huntsville. And if they died of AIDS, that would have pleased me more.” He quieted and rested his face between his hands, his eyes locked on the top of the table.

  “What are you seeing?” Abby asked in a soft voice as she touched his hand. “That’s not the end of the story, is it?”

  “No. Five years later, they were back in Dallas, free to do it all again. The Parole Board ruled that they were exemplary prisoners who had learned their lessons and were ready to become contributing citizens.” He grunted. “Sure. Like those bastards would contribute to anything other than their own scuzzyness. All they’d done was fool a bunch of civilians whose closest rub with criminals was reading about them. Those two laughed their asses off at us. Anytime one of the uniforms came near, they stopped, pointed, and laughed. Everyone on the force was disgusted—me, most of all. I couldn’t take it. I resigned and got a PI license. I figured there was no point risking my life so the revolving door justice system could put them back on the street. Easier to follow husbands from bars to strip joints to motel rooms.”

  “What happened to them—the two guys?”

  “They checked in with their parole officer for the first three months or so, then quit.”

  “Why’d they stop?”

  “Don’t know. I’m not on their Christmas Card list.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at Abby. “I decided it was time to get over it. I moved to Florida, and you know the rest.”

  Abby studied him, wondering how much of the story he’d left out, but not really wanting to know.

  FIFTEEN

  Detective Jim Richards strode through the squad room, a pissed-off expression on his face. He hesitated as he passed Summers’ desk. “In my office. Now.” Without waiting for acknowledgement, he walked on.

  Summers pulled at his earlobe and said to no one in particular, “Looks like the captain took another chunk out of his ass.” He rose and followed his boss, not hurrying. He knew Richards needed a couple of moments to gather himself, whether Richards knew it or not.

  Summers ambled to the water cooler and filled two cups, then headed into Richards’ office.

  Richards sat behind his desk, his head resting in his hands.

  Summers set the water down. “Drink this or throw it. Either way, it might make you feel better.” He sipped from his cup. “Captain on the warpath?”

  Richards looked up and scowled, then picked up the cup. “Since I can’t throw it at the target I’d like to, I suppose it would be best to drink it. And yeah, he’s upset—if you call an erupting volcano upset. He asked if we’ve read the papers the last few days. The local reporters say while we’re sitting around twiddling our thumbs, crime runs rampant. The chief and the mayor want to announce the arrest of whoever killed Mary Lou Smithson. It’s their opinion the department failed them.” He grimaced. “And, of course, it’s the captain’s opinion that I am an incompetent boob who dragged his feet on a simple case.” He chugged the water, took a deep breath, and released it in a controlled exhale. “Okay, that helps. Thanks. Enough of this bullshit politics now. Tell me about Jeffries. I’d like to think about anything for a few minutes except that young girl.”

  Summers dropped into the visitor’s chair and told essentially the same story Tom told Abby, but added a few details.

  “My contact in Dallas says Jeffries was obsessed with the guys who murdered his sister. As soon as he hit Dallas, he began to recruit snitches all over the city. By the time he graduated from the police academy, he probably knew more about each of the killers than their mothers could guess. He had no social life, only the satisfaction of tracking them. But he was smart enough to maintain a distance. He stayed back and stalked from afar. There was never a peep from any of them about harassment.

  “However, my guy believes it was no coincidence that Jeffries walked into the robbery going down at the 7-Eleven. He feels certain he followed one of the guys and watched them go in and hold up the clerk. He waited until they were committed, then took them out.”

  “Careful,” Richards said, “you’ll make me like this guy. But earlier, you said he followed proper procedure. How does that fit?”

  Summers opened the folder he’d brought with him. “Says here he called in a robbery-in-progress on his cell phone and asked for backup. Then, according to the 7-Eleven clerk, Jeffries came through the front door, ducked behind a display, and announced he was a police officer. He demanded they lay down their guns. Instead, one of them snapped off a shot. It was the last thing he did. Jeffries dropped him with a bullet through the heart, then took out the other two with one shot each. He moved so fast it was over before the support arrived.” Summers closed the folder. “The counter guy was the lone witness.”

  “Was there an investigation?” Richards asked.

  “Yeah. Internal Affairs was all over it. Of course, the media had some choice things to say, lambasting Jeffries, the department, and the city for not controlling him. However, after the hullabaloo died down, the end result was three bad guys out for the count, and Jeffries received an official commendation. Also, 7-Eleven kicked in with a contribution to his favorite charity. He walked away a hero.”

  “Formidable. Anything else?”

  “The other two guys who were in on his sister’s murder. After they got out of prison and came back to Dallas, they vanished. By then, Jeffries had quit the force, but was as driven as ever. My guy says he suspects the two had help in disappearing. He figures they could be anywhere from the bottom of one of the Dallas lakes to the foundation of some building. He’s sure they’re dead—only no bodies have turned up.”

  “Did they question Jeffries about them?”

  Summers chuckled. “I asked the same thing. The response was they had no evidence he’d done anything so they didn’t bother him. My impression was they’re thankful there are two less criminals on the streets.”

  “Let’s see how it relates to our case,” Richards said. “We’ve got the Grayson character who dropped from view. Just before that, we had a cousin and a claims adjuster looking for him. We know the insurance guy was phony. I’m betting the cousin was, too. And we have Jeffries who may have a track record of vigilante actions against a group who did the same thing to his sister that was done to the daughter of his best friend. I think we have a pattern here. How about you?”

  “It’s possible he’s invo
lved in Grayson’s disappearance. And if he is, you can bet your sweet ass he’s after the others.” He stared at the ceiling a moment. “But we have absolutely nothing to even make him a person of interest unless… Want I should ask him?”

  A smile broke onto Richards’ face. “Sure. That’s a great idea. I can hear it now. ‘Mr. Jeffries, did you kidnap and dispose of Johnny Grayson? No? Well, thanks for talking with me.’ I think we’ll wait. I don’t want to tip him. But we must find the rest of Smithson’s killers. Turn up the heat on the street. While I hate to save their sorry lives, it’s something we have to do.”

  “Gotcha, chief. Since the uniforms haven’t turned up anything, I’ll visit some tattoo parlors.”

  Richards appeared to think for a moment. “Might be a good time to share the autopsy report with Jeffries. Give him a call and set up a meet. If time allows, I’ll join you. If your Dallas contact is right, his reaction might tell us something.”

  * * * *

  Abby backed out of Tom’s driveway, wondering about the story he’d told. She was certain he sanitized it, but uncertain how much. And the CDs? What did they imply? She had a hunch, but needed to explore it.

  Her impulse was to park up the street and follow him when he left home. But, as he pointed out, he’d spot her and scrape her off with countersurveillance moves. She knew he outmatched her in the spy-counterspy game. He’d lived it to stay alive. She’d only seen it in the movies.

  She drove away, forcing herself not to look back, except one quick peek in the rearview mirror. For the next thirty minutes, she wandered the area, turning left then right without considering where she was. Her mind stayed busy, racing between what she knew, what he’d said, and what she didn’t know. At the end of that time, she’d made a decision. She needed someone to bounce her idea off, and Bert Bernstein, her boss who got her into this, was that person. She turned toward her house.

  An hour later, after changing into office attire, she walked into Bert’s outer office. “Hi, Beth. Is Bert in?” Beth. The name slammed into Abby. Beth is short for Elizabeth. Tom’s Sis was named Elizabeth. “Is your full name Elizabeth?”