So I did. I told her of my boyhood relationship with Murton, how we played together, how my mother raised us, how we fought together in the war, our falling out, his visit to the bar and my mother’s grave site, my interviews with Amanda and Samuel Pate, and my talk with Amy Frechette. Thirty minutes later, after I had finished, she asked the most basic of questions. “So what now?”
“I hate to say it,” I said.
“Well, at least we’re on the same page then. Boyhood friends or not, Jonesy, you’ve got to follow this wherever it leads you. Get warrants for Wheeler. One to search his residence and one for his arrest.”
“You asked me to look into Pate, Cora. I’ve had one brief conversation with him. For reasons I can’t readily explain, they’ve invited me Saturday to a gathering at their church. I think I might go and see what I can see. It’s probably a waste of time.”
“Maybe, maybe not. You know how these things work. Get the warrants cut on Wheeler anyway.”
“I just don’t think Murton is involved in the way it seems like he might be.”
“It’s not a request, Jonesy. Get it done.”
I wanted to argue, but she was right, and I think we both knew it.
Sorry, Mom, I thought.
I filled out the appropriate forms for the warrants, walked them over to the prosecutor’s office, then spent the better part of the day with Sandy reviewing the case notes that had been put together on the murders of Franklin Dugan, Barney Burns, Rhonda Rhodes, and Elle Richardson. But I had a difficult time concentrating as my thoughts bounced back and forth between my growing feelings for Sandy, and my sudden rekindled loyalty to my lifelong friend, Murton Wheeler, whom I felt I was about to betray. I picked up the phone and called Cora in her office. “Got a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I’ll be right there,” I said, then I hung up and told Sandy I’d be back in a few minutes.
I walked into her office and sat down in front of her desk. “This morning you asked me to get warrants for Murton Wheeler. On the surface I think that’s sound procedure, but there’s something else at play here.”
She was tapping her pen against the blotter on her desk. “Like what?”
“Murton Wheeler worked for Pate. His girlfriend, Amy Frechette, is now one of the Pastors of Grace Community Church. Pate borrowed over five million dollars from Dugan’s bank to buy an all but condemned building. Amy Frechette says she doesn’t know where Wheeler is. The two goons who followed him into the bar the other night also work for Pate. You read my report on the shots fired at the cemetery?”
“Yeah?”
“Who do you think was doing the shooting?”
“My guess would be the two who tried to brace you about Wheeler at the bar. Pate’s guys,” she said. She tapped the pen harder and faster on her blotter.
“Mine too.” I looked at the pen and the little ink marks it made on the desk pad. “Would you mind not doing that, please?” I said.
She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows at me. I looked down for a moment, then raised my hands, my palms toward her as an apology. “So if Wheeler, who works or worked for Pate is responsible for the murder of Franklin Dugan, why would he seek me out at the bar? When I saw him at the cemetery he hadn’t followed me, he was already there.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want to pick him up or search his last known residence?” she said.
“No. I’m not saying that at all,” I said, but my eyes fell away from hers when I spoke.
“Like it or not, Jonesy, Wheeler’s a part of this.”
“Whether or not I like it has nothing to do with it, Cora.”
“You’re right about that,” she said. “But you don’t have to convince me.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Wheeler is, or was, a friend, right? You two have a history together. You can’t serve a personal agenda and the State at the same time, Jonesy.”
“There is no personal agenda,” I said, but I regretted the lie as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
“So what was in the safe deposit box then?” she said. “I didn’t see that in your report.”
Try to throw Cora a curve ball on an even up count and she’ll check her swing every time. When I did not answer her question, she tried another. “So what is it, exactly, that you want to do?”
I laid it out for her. When I finished she gave her pen a little rat-a-tat-tat on the blotter, winked at me and said, “So let’s take a walk over and talk to the D.A. It should be fun. Did you know he used to teach a criminal law course at Notre Dame? I’m sure we won’t have any trouble convincing him.”
Preston Elliott, the prosecuting attorney for Marion county was someone I had known for over five years. We weren’t exactly friends, but we had worked together any number of times over the years on different cases. He was a hands-on administrator who still worked his own caseload, put in more hours than anyone else in his office, and held one of the highest conviction rates in the history of the county. He stood five feet, four inches tall, had an attitude consistent with someone who carries a short man complex, and he seemed to tower over his opponents in the courtroom. He took his job seriously and his scotch neat.
When we walked into his office at the end of the day he greeted us from behind his desk without standing up. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and I saw him peek at his watch has he motioned us to the chairs in front of his desk. Twenty minutes later I had laid it out for him.
He looked at me, then at Cora, then back at me. “It’s not enough. Surely you know that. Cora, you told him, right? It’s not enough.”
“It’s where the answers are,” I said. “But Pate’s not talking. If we can get a look at his books, I think-”
Elliott interrupted me. “Have you served the warrant on this Wheeler fellow yet?”
“Not yet” I said.
“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said. “This Wheeler character has served time in Westville for assault. Franklin Dugan, who wrote the note on a five million dollar deal is shot to death in his driveway. Nobody knows where Wheeler is, not even his girlfriend, who coincidentally is the pastor of the church that was bought by Pate with the money he borrowed from the dead banker. Do I have that right?”
“Yes, but-“
Elliott held up a finger. “Let me finish,” he said. He was pacing back and forth now behind his desk, as if he were in the courtroom giving a summation to a jury. “Wheeler worked for Pate, but again, no one knows where Wheeler is. So for reasons you’ve yet to explain, you want to sit on the arrest and search warrants of a convicted felon and instead you want another warrant so you can toss the offices of one of the city’s most famous, and I might add, influential people.”
“Murton Wheeler didn’t have motive,” I said. “Why would he want to kill Dugan?”
“That’s a great question, Jonesy,” Elliott said. His back was to Cora and me, and he spoke to us both through the reflection in the window behind his desk. “Why don’t you use the warrant, pick him up and ask him?”
“I intend to, Preston. But I’m telling you right now, this all leads back to Pate. Murton Wheeler might be a player somehow, but Pate is the one we should be looking at.”
“What proof do you have?”
“He’s under investigation by the Texas Department of Insurance for Fraud out of Houston. His last church burned to the ground,” Cora said.
“Yes. And that would be a matter for the State of Texas, and maybe, just maybe, a matter for the FBI, depending of course on which way the federal winds are currently blowing,” he said, his voice impatient and thick with sarcasm. “Either way, it’s just a tad bit out of our jurisdiction, Cora. The fact of the matter is, neither of you can offer any proof whatsoever of Samuel Pate’s involvement in the murder of Franklin Dugan. As an officer of the court I appreciate your efforts, but this office has certain standards we like to follow and we can not infringe upon the rights of our citizens based solely on supposition or minimalistic circumstantial evidence. Get me something concrete and I’ll sign off on a warrant. Until then, I suggest you round up this Wheeler fellow and work your case from that angle.” After a moment he turned from the window, looked at Cora and said, “Are you free for dinner tonight?”
