him to death at 6:00 A.M. Friday. That about four days.”
O’Brien could feel tightness in his chest. “What does this have to do with me?”
“You might be the best man to free the condemned man and catch the real killer.”
“Why me, Father?”
“If it’s true, Sean, it was you who caught the wrong man, and he’s about to be executed.”
SIX
O’Brien pulled in the Oyster shell parking lot of Ponce Marina and shut off the Jeep’s engine. The rain stopped and he unzipped the windows. “Wrong man? Who, Father?”
“Charlie Williams.”
“Williams? That was ten, maybe eleven years ago.” O’Brien’s thoughts raced. In his mind’s eye he saw the murder scene. Blood covered the victim’s bedroom. Young. Beautiful. Stabbed seven times in the chest and throat. Her blood was in the ex-boyfriend’s truck. His prints in her condo. His semen in her body. He was found drunk. Passed out in his pickup truck. He said they’d fought, but he didn’t kill her.
Father Callahan said, “I remember the press coverage. You were at the top of your game as a homicide detective with Miami PD. It was followed closely in the media because the victim was an internationally-known celebrity.”
O’Brien was silent. A dull pain started above his left eye. The adrenaline flowed, and he could almost hear his blood rushing through his temples. “This man-this inmate-what’s his name? What did he say?”
“Sam Spelling. Said he saw the real killer hide the weapon-a knife. Spelling fished it out of a dumpster, and he then succumbed to temptation. Blackmailed the killer for a one-time payment of a hundred thousand. Spelling went through the money, bought a lot of cocaine, wound up in prison. He was supposed to testify in a big drug trial before someone shot him today. But his confession tonight with me, it related to your old case-the death of the supermodel and her ex-boyfriend on death row.”
“I assume that whoever shot him on the courthouse steps wanted him dead before he could testify in a drug trial, a trial that has nothing to do with Charlie Williams on death row. Now, after a near death experience, he wants to clean the slate and confess…provide the identity of the person who killed Alexandria Cole, right?”
“Amen,” said Father Callahan. That’s it.”
“Who’d he say killed her?”
“Didn’t say. Just told me the name of the victim. Soon as he gave me the victim’s name, I remembered the case, and I wanted to call you. I asked that he write out the full confession-name names. As you know, St. Francis is within walking distance to the hospital. I’m going back there after he’s out of recovery to pick up the statement.”
“I need to see that statement.”
O’Brien pinched the bridge of his nose. He never heard of Sam Spelling. Most jailhouse snitches were repeat losers. Habitual liars. Cons used by corrupt defense attorneys to say they heard someone, someone other than the attorney’s client, brag about committing the crime. O’Brien couldn’t remember one doing the opposite-confessing that another inmate, especially one on death row, was innocent.
“Are you there, Sean?”
“You said he was going under the knife, right?”
“I spoke with the doctor. Spelling’s in bad shape. Bullet barely missed his heart.
“Father, does anyone else know what Spelling told you? Does anyone know he’s going to sign his name to a statement that reveals the killer’s identity?”
“Don’t think so. He whispered the details to me-the victim’s name, where he found the murder weapon.” Father Callahan paused. “I don’t know if it’s anything, but a reporter with the Sentinel approached me. He said his name was Brian Cook. Said he saw me speaking with Spelling. He wanted to know if Spelling knew who shot him.”
“What did you tell the reporter?”
“Nothing. I said what was shared with me remains confidential.”
“Did Spelling tell you where the murder weapon, the knife, is now?”
“He’s putting that in his statement, too.”
“If the knife still has detectable traces of the victim’s blood, then we can tie it to the murder. If it has prints that match the identity of the person that Spelling says did it, we could have the killer.”
“And the disbelievers say divine intervention isn’t real.” Father Callahan chuckled.
“Assuming Spelling is not lying, if he makes it through surgery, when the story’s in the press whoever shot Spelling will know he didn’t kill him. If the guy who hit Spelling is a pro, and there’s a big payoff from taking Spelling out so he can’t testify in the trial, the hit man might come back. He may kill Spelling before he can write out the details of who killed Alexandria Cole. That’s if any of what he told you is true. I’ll meet you there.”
“If you’re at the marina, you’re an hour from the hospital. I’ll call and see when Spelling’s out of recovery, give him time to write the statement, and get with you. It’ll probably be past dinner by then. Tell you what…you need to have the physical copy of this statement or letter. I’d like to see you. Meet me at St. Francis at eight o’ clock. That’s only in ninety minutes. I’ll give you whatever Spelling wrote. You can take it from there.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Good to hear your voice, Sean. I want to see you in mass more often.”
“I’d like that, too, Father, I really would.”
O’Brien set his phone on the table. He looked at Max who stood on her hind legs, nose testing the marina air through the Jeep’s open side windshield. The storm passed and the sky was clear, a golden light clung in the air like an aged photograph creating a temporary world without shadows. It was about forty-five minutes before sunset, and a three-quarter moon was already climbing above the marina bay.
O’Brien thought about the man he sent to death row-Charlie Williams. Was he innocent, and would live long enough to see another full moon?
SEVEN
O’Brien locked his Jeep and started toward gate 7-F, the dock that led to where he kept his old boat moored. Max ran behind him, stopping to investigate the world with her nose. He walked by the Tiki Hut, an open-air bar disguised as a restaurant, which was adjacent to Ponce Marina. He could smell the scent of blackened grouper, garlic shrimp, and beer. A dozen tourists sat at the wooden tables, ate fish sandwiches, sipped from longneck bottles of beer, and watched seagulls fight for pieces of bread tossed in the marina water. The isinglass, which was lowered on rainy days, was rolled up allowing a cross-breeze to carry the scent of seafood over the marina.
“Well, hello stranger,” said Kim Davis, an attractive brunette who worked the bar. She was in her early forties, radiant smile, deep tan, and jeans that hugged every pore from her navel down. She smiled at O’Brien. “You look like you could use a beer.”
“I’d like that, Kim, but I don’t have time right now.”
She wiped her hands on a towel, stepped out from behind the bar, and knelt down to greet Max, handing her a tiny piece of fried fish. “You are so darn cute!” Max’s tail blurred, gulping down the fish in a single bite. Kim stood, her eyes searching O’Brien’s face. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, did you attend a funeral?”
“An old case of mine has resurrected. I’m just tying to make sense of it.”
“You want to talk about it? I’ll be off in an hour.”
O’Brien managed a smile. “I appreciate that, but I have to run. Come on, Max.”
“If you get thirsty, I’ll deliver to your boat.” She smiled.
O’Brien smiled and stepped to the gate. He worked the combination lock and waited for Max to trot by him. As they walked down the long dock, O’Brien watched the charter fishing fleet churn through the pass. The party boats were filled with sunburned tourists who would soon be posing next to their catches.
