Anita touched her fingers to her throat. She felt sick. Darkness and nausea rose around her in a flash flood of emotions. Her eyes welled with water, tears streaming down her cheeks like trapped water through a cracked dam.
He’s not comin’ back. He’s never comin’ back.
She could hear the sounds of frogs calling as the rain grew closer. She flipped on the porch light and looked through the parted curtains again. Only her seven-year-old Toyota was in the driveway.
There was something in the road. Maybe it was the outline of a parked car. Was it really a car or are the damned pills causing hallucinations? She strained to see the object as a blanket of clouds engulfed the sky.
Then the mobile home was covered in darkness.
Thunder rolled like a distant drum.
“Mommy, I’m scared.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
The medical examiner pulled the sheet above Sam Spelling’s head. He turned to O’Brien and Detective Grant and said, “This man might have died from the gunshot. I spoke with Dr. Weinberg and he said there were no complications. The patient was resting and a full recovery was expected.”
“Now he’s heading to the morgue,” Grant said, looking around the room.
O’Brien pulled back the sheet near Spelling’s handcuffed hand. “He looked at the skin around the handcuff. “Whatever happened to Sam Spelling, it looks like he wasn’t sleeping peacefully when it occurred, unless he was having one hell of a nightmare. Skin’s broken and bruised around the wrists here at the handcuff. The other cuff has scratched the metal bed railing. Looks like Spelling was using what strength he had left to escape from something.”
The ME said, “You’re right. Let’s get the cuff off. We’ll get the body into the lab and opened him up.”
The medical examiner and his two assistants left as the body was wheeled from the room. Three deputies were at the door and in the hall. Deputy Gleason and once CSI investigator were in the room.
“Deputy Gleason,” O’Brien said, “you found Sam Spelling dead, correct?”
“Yes.”
O’Brien said nothing. He studied the man’s eyes.
“I relieved the D.O. C guard. I’ve been posted here all night, sir.”
“Besides the hospital staff, has anyone entered this room?” O’Brien could see the deputy’s pupils close slightly, a slight change in his stance, thumbs cocked in his gun belt.
“Only person that entered the room was the priest.”
“Father Callahan?” asked Grant
“No, sir, not the priest you and I spoke to. Different one. I figured Father Callahan was off duty because another priest was making hospital rounds. Thought he was from the same church, St. Francis. He wanted to say a prayer for Spelling.”
O’Brien said, “There is no other priest at St. Francis. How long after this man left was it before Detective Grant called and you found Spelling dead?”
“About twenty minutes, give or take.”
“What did this priest look like?”
“About my height. Real black eyes. He wore a hat, so I couldn’t see his hair. Probably dark because he had a dark beard.”
“He wore it to hide his identity. Probably fake. Anything else?”
“No, sir.” The deputy paused. “It might be nothing…”
“What is it?” asked O’Brien.
“The priest had a bad wrist. Said he hurt it playing tennis. He asked me to open the door for him.”
“That’s because he didn’t want to leave prints,” O’Brien said. “There’s a surveillance camera at that end of each hall. Call security. We need to see what that camera saw. Dan, let’s have them check any other security cameras-lobby, parking lot, entrances and exits before and right after Sam Spelling’s untimely death.”
Grant turned to Gleason and said, “Get hospital security here immediately.”
“Yes sir.”
Grant looked at O’Brien and pointed toward a paper grocery bag. “That bag, Spelling told me the stuff in it was all he had left in the world. Then he looked up at me and said was all he needed. It’s like he was the happiest guy on the planet. Probably leftover endorphins from his near-death trip and confession to Father Callahan. Spelling seemed like the character in that old movie…you know-the one with Jimmy Stewart-”
“It’s a Wonderful Life.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
O’Brien opened the paper bag. He emptied it on the unmade bed. The bag contained Spelling’s Department of Corrections-issued clothes-a pair of pants, blue button-down shirt, white socks, and a pair of lace-up black shoes. There was a small, brown Bible, pages worn. O’Brien opened it. An aged picture of a woman and little boy fell from the pages. In the faded image, the woman stood with flowers in one hand, holding the child with her other hand. Behind them was a statue of an angel and many trees. The picture looked to have been taken in a park.
Grant said, “I’ll have the stuff and the room dusted in the morning.”
O’Brien said nothing.
“Sean, after I dropped the letter in the sack, they came in to treat and sedate him. The note, he’d folded best he could like a tried to seal it, could have been the written confession for the priest. That’s why I waited for him to go to sleep before I came back in to read it. Figured the priest visited and took it.”
“Maybe Father Callahan did, but if this D.O.C. guard read it, then he knows the perp’s identity and whatever details Sam Spelling revealed about the killing. The guard could have taken it, copied it…could have given it to his superiors to contact the police…or he might have decided to blackmail the guy like Spelling originally did. Maybe he’s an honest guy who decided to do something very dumb.”
“If he did, might as well have called his executioner.”
O’Brien felt around and beneath the mattress. He pulled a yellow legal pad from behind the flattened pillows and bunched sheets. He lifted the top sheet of paper by the edge, turned on the bedside light and held the paper toward the light. He examined both sides. “This is the paper Spelling used, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Legal sized, lined.”
“If we’re lucky, we might get something from it. Even with the naked eye, I can see where he made an imprint on this sheet, especially the first paragraph or so. He was either angry when he was writing it or his strength was better when he began. See, it’s more pronounced on the first third of the page? And if he mentioned the killer’s name there, we might have him.”
Grant looked at the page. “I’ll have to get it to the state crime lab on this.”
“We don’t have time, Dan. I have a FBI contact. She’ll help. But first, I’m going to see Charlie Williams.”
Grant grinned. “Our man on death row. Bet he’ll be real happy to see you.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The hospital security center was on the first floor, hidden through a labyrinth of corridors. Two security technicians sat in front of forty monitors, all taking live video feeds from every floor in the hospital-lobby, cafeteria, parking lots, and rooftops.
O’Brien looked at the identifying locations superimposed on the bottom of each monitor. “Why monitor the roof?” he asked.
The man at the console said, “To spot jumpers. We had two guys do swan dives to the street the last couple of years. I’m glad they double-locked the door to the roof.”
“What do you have on our elusive priest between seven and eight p.m.?”
