“That you stepped out.” She blinked. “Was that okay?”
He nodded. He realized he was sitting there in his University of Michigan Jacket. And that he was sweating.
Rising quickly, he unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out the envelope of photographs Delp had given him. For a second, he couldn’t find his copy of the raid file and in his paranoia wondered if Gibralter had found it. With relief, he found it stuffed under some papers. Without a word or a look back at Florence, he left.
CHAPTER 32
The contents of the raid file were spread out on the bed. Louis rubbed his face, trying not to give in to his fatigue and disappointment.
It was here. It had to be. He just couldn’t see it. Something had gone wrong that night and there was something in this file about it that Gibralter did not want Steele to see.
What had happened? And who was involved? His gut was telling him it was Jesse. The guy had lost it just busting a harmless hippie. Had he done something at the cabin that Gibralter felt compelled to cover up?
Louis slid off the bed and went into the darkened kitchen, got another Dr Pepper and returned to the bedroom. He popped the top and took a long drink, his eyes scanning the papers and photos.
Jesse’s report was on top, the last thing he had been reading. He stared at it, taking another drink then froze, the can at his lips.
It was typed.
Louis picked it up. He hadn’t noticed it before. Dale had said Jesse couldn’t type, that he was always allowed to write out his reports. Louis himself had seen it, Jesse’s distinctively heavy, right-slanted scrawl. He had seen it on the hippie report, on Mrs. Jaspers’s reindeer report and Stephanie Pryce’s statement.
Setting the soda can down, Louis read Jesse’s report again. Something about it didn’t ring true. The wording, the grammar, the phrasing were wrong. Jesse was an emotional man, someone who couldn’t stifle his feelings even when writing a routine report. And what had Dale said about Jesse being upset after the raid? This report wasn’t written by someone emotional, with a kid’s blood fresh on his uniform. This was too perfect, too…cool.
Louis flipped to the end of the report. It was signed but with just “Jesse Harrison,” not with Jesse’s trademark triple-underlined signature and usual postscript: NO MORE THIS REPORT.
Louis pulled out Ollie’s report. The wording was virtually identical to that in Gibralter’s and Jesse’s reports. Lovejoy’s version was the same. Louis shook his head. Every cop had his own way of writing reports. What were the chances that four cops would have the same style?
He rummaged for Pryce’s report. It was typed like the others. But as Louis read, he became aware that its phrasing and grammar were different with small idiosyncrasies not obvious in the others. He set it aside and dug out the diagram showing the positions of the officers surrounding the cabin. Jesse, Ollie and Lovejoy all ended up in the backyard with Gibralter. But Pryce had been ordered to maintain his position in front. There was no way he could have seen what happened in the backyard.
All right, so Gibralter might have been the author of all the reports except Pryce’s. But would Steele even notice that? There had to be something else.
Louis turned to the crime-scene photos, stopping finally with Johnny Lacey’s shotgun-shattered face. It was a Xerox but it clearly showed the hole from the shotgun blast. It was centered on Johnny’s left cheekbone, maybe about the diameter of a half-dollar, spreading outward, taking out his left eye and brow. It was also obvious that the shotgun had been fired at very close range, at a slightly upward angle.
There was another mark, this one barely noticeable, on the right cheek. But was it just a shadow created by the copy machine?
He pulled out a separate manila envelope, the one Delp had given him. Sifting through the postmortem photographs, he found a close-up of Johnny Lacey’s face. It showed the second mark clearly and it wasn’t a shadow. It was a rectangular bruise, about an inch-and-a-half long with two short, parallel lines.
Louis fished through the papers on the bed and found the autopsy report, looking for an explanation for the bruise. There was nothing.
He picked up the autopsy photo again, staring at the strange bruise. Its shape was too perfect, too regular, too familiar. Suddenly, he knew what had caused it. It was from the cylinder of a handgun.
His mouth went dry as he slowly realized what had happened. Jesse had beaten Johnny Lacey to death. Jesse could not have been holding a shotgun in his right hand, as the reports said, because he had been holding his handgun, the gun he used to beat Johnny to death. The shotgun blast had come later, after Johnny Lacey was dead. Someone had blasted off Johnny Lacey’s face in an attempt to hide evidence of the beating.
Louis picked up the autopsy report again. The cause of death was listed only as “accidental shotgun wound to the left orbital area.” There was no mention of any other injuries. Louis stared at the name on the form. Merlin Boggs, M.D.
Suddenly, the pieces were falling into place. This had to be what Gibralter did not want Steele to see. Jesse had beat Johnny Lacey to death and they had covered it up. They got a gullible local doctor to do the postmortem and a small-town reporter to take the crime-scene photos. They kept it in the family, led by Gibralter who believed that loyalty was more important than anything, even the life of a teenage kid.
“Goddammit,” Louis said softly.
He stared at the papers spread over his bed. What was he going to do now? Turn it over to Steele? If this could be proven, Jesse and Gibralter could end up facing conspiracy or even manslaughter charges. But did he really have enough evidence?
He slowly shook his head. After what happened today he had no credibility with Steele. If he went to him with only a photograph and his suspicions Steele would kiss him off for good. He needed hardcore proof.
He started to gather up the papers and photographs off the bed but then stopped. Someone was knocking on the door.
Jesse? God, he couldn’t look him in the eye, not now.
The knock came again. Louis went to the front door.
“Louis?”
It was Zoe.
“Louis? Are you there?”
He waited, hoping she would leave. He hadn’t seen her since the night Ollie was murdered. He had awakened sometime before dawn, alone on the sofa, and they hadn’t spoken since. Several times he had dialed Gibralter’s home only to hang up when he heard her answer.
“Louis?”
He flipped on the porch light and opened the door. She stood, looking up at him. There were things he wanted to say, questions he needed answered. Instead, he turned away, going into the living room.
“It’s freezing in here,” she said softly, pulling off her jacket and red wool hat.
Louis knelt to toss two logs in the grate. It wasn’t until the fire was burning that he finally turned to face her.
“Louis, what’s the matter?” she asked. When he said nothing, she came to him, her hand raised to touch his face. He jerked back.
“Don’t,” he said. He moved away, going into the bar.
“Louis, what is the matter?” she asked again.
“You lied to me,” he said.
She didn’t move. When she didn’t say anything, he turned and faced her. “You lied to me,” he repeated.
She stared at him then slowly her face crumpled. She went to the sofa, sitting on its edge.
