“Criminal” was definitely an appropriate term for Doug Reynolds. His rap sheet, dating back to his teenage years, chronicled a life filled with violence, death, drugs, and other assorted anti-social acts. Here was a man whose behavior was that of a jungle predator, a man lacking judgment, restraint, kindness, or respect for his fellow citizens. There was no line he wouldn’t cross to get what he wanted.
Reynolds had been arrested and tried for murder in 1983, then re-tried in 1985. In both cases, he was acquitted when the jury failed to reach a verdict.
He was also arrested in 1981 for assault and battery; 1987 for burglary; 1988 for rape; 1991 for possession of a controlled substance; and 1998 for spousal abuse. In each case, he pleaded to a lesser charge. Reynolds’s punishment for committing these acts? A grand total of thirty-nine hundred dollars in fines and a three-month stay in county lockup.
Talk about punishment not fitting the crime.
And the magic man who engineered Reynolds’s escape from serious punishment? None other than Colt Rogers.
Reading this information, seeing hardened, violent offenders get off with little more than a slap on the wrist, caused Dantzler’s stomach to churn and his anger to rise like bile in his throat. How many victims could have been spared injury and harm had thugs like Reynolds and Maxwell been taken off the streets and placed behind bars like they deserved. Why were men who thrived on violence continually allowed to walk away untouched by the hands of justice? How can a system even call itself just when the innocent suffer and the criminals go unpunished?
In moments like this, Dantzler wondered who committed the more egregious sin-the criminal or the attorneys who defended them. Right now, he rated it a toss-up.
Going through each file, he extracted a picture of the three men and carefully studied their faces. Maxwell was the smallest of the trio, standing five-six and weighing one-fifty. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and a scarred face that bore testament to a lifelong battle against acne.
Dantzler had seen plenty of guys like Maxwell, hot-headed runts who were quick with their fists, and who were always ready to inflict hurt on another person, usually someone physically bigger and stronger. They tended to throw the first punch, and they weren’t above grabbing the nearest available weapon, a bat, club, or tire iron, if they felt the need to stack the odds in their favor.
Size, or more specifically lack of size, played a key role in a mutt like Maxwell’s psychological make-up. From childhood on, he had been driven by a need to prove his toughness, his manhood. He would never, under any circumstances, back down from a physical challenge. That would be seen as cowardly. Being small helped in yet another way-opponents tended to underestimate him. They saw his small stature, not the giant chip on his shoulder or the fierce anger in his heart.
But was he a killer? Someone who could tie up two men, put a gun to their head, and squeeze the trigger? Dantzler didn’t think so. Bobby Lee Maxwell was a violent punk, but not a murderer.
Neither was Larry Gadd, a man who made mistakes early but somehow managed to turn his life around in his later years. He was that rare bird, a man who came out of prison a better person than when he was locked up. That didn’t happen often. Most criminals only harden their anti-social attitudes while behind bars. Prison is like a college for bad guys, the institution where even the most stupid inmates can earn a PhD in criminal behavior.
Somehow, Gadd had defied the odds and gone straight.
Dantzler looked at Gadd’s photo, taken for his driver’s license when he was thirty-four. By this time, Gadd was almost completely bald, and what little hair he did have had gone gray. His bearded face was beefy, indicating he was probably a heavyset man. His DL weight was listed at one-ninety but, Dantzler knew, that wasn’t accurate. He estimated it to be closer to two-twenty.
Gadd’s eyes caught and held Dantzler’s attention. Unlike Maxwell’s, Gadd’s eyes contained a twinkle, a spark of kindness or gentleness. There was no hate or hardness in them. No look of rage or an impending explosion so often seen in the eyes of most criminals. Perhaps by this stage of his life, Gadd had found the inner peace that eluded him when he was a troubled young man.
Larry Gadd was no executioner.
The irony did not escape Dantzler: Gadd, the only one to serve hard prison time, was the only one of the trio who lived a productive life.
Doug Reynolds was another matter altogether. Looking into his eyes was like peering into two empty holes, two cold pieces of black ice. They were chilling, yet somehow strangely hypnotic. You were drawn to them even though you wanted to look away. Even though you knew you should look away. They were evil eyes that advertised danger and violence.
Based on the record, Reynolds was a definite possibility. He resided in Lexington at the time of the murders. He had a long history of violent behavior, including rape and assault. He had twice been tried for the murder of a gas station attendant who, it was alleged, was killed for failing to pay Reynolds a large sum of money lost in a poker game. Since both trials ended in a hung jury, there was no way to know for certain whether Reynolds committed the murder or not. A hung jury did not equate to innocence.
From Dantzler’s perspective, the outcome of those trials was irrelevant. What was relevant was the fact that Reynolds had taken human life in the past. He had blood on his hands. He had killed, with the medals to prove it. If nothing else, his combat experience provided uncluttered evidence that he would not hesitate to pull the trigger.
You don’t get the Bronze Star for kindness.
The next step, Dantzler knew, was linking Reynolds to the two murder victims. Or to Eli Whitehouse. If no connection was found, it likely ruled out Reynolds as a suspect. Finding that link, if one even existed, wasn’t going to be easy. Too much time had elapsed, potential witnesses were either dead or had relocated to God knows where. And tracking down the live ones would be virtually impossible. They could be all over the map.
Regardless of the long odds against success, Dantzler knew a detailed study of Reynolds was the only logical approach. Conversely, he saw no value in digging into the background of Gadd, Maxwell or the two young victims. To do so would be a colossal waste of time and resources. No, if a connection to the murders or to Eli did exist, it would have to come through Reynolds.
Dantzler looked at his watch. It was closing in on noon, giving him just enough time to grab some lunch before his one-thirty meeting with Isaac Whitehouse. He was eager to meet Eli’s oldest child, the son who had followed his father into the ministry. He wanted to learn more about their relationship. About those scars Isaac surely carried with him. Dantzler also hoped Isaac could shed some light on why his father would silently suffer in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.
If, indeed, he didn’t commit it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Church of the Holy Father was housed in an old building that had once been a hardware store. The one- story structure, which was at least seventy years old, was made of concrete and had recently been given a fresh coat of white paint. The roof was black, and three large silver crosses rose from the front facade. The parking area was small, requiring most parishioners to park in an adjacent restaurant lot.
When Dantzler arrived there were only two cars in the church parking lot. He pulled up next to a blue Honda, cut the engine, and got out. Walking toward the front entrance, he recalled that as a young boy he had come here with his father to purchase a ladder and some paint. Less than three months later his father was killed in Southeast Asia.
Dantzler entered the building, looked around, saw no one. As he was about to head toward the pulpit, he heard sounds coming from his left. Turning, he saw a plump middle-age woman standing on tip-toes dusting a large picture of Jesus. Upon seeing Dantzler, she took one last swipe at the picture frame, and then came toward Dantzler, right hand extended.
“Name’s Clara,” she said, shaking his hand. She looked back at the picture. “You wouldn’t think the Son of God could collect so much dust, but he does. I spend half my time keeping this picture and frame dust free. Well, I suppose it’s the least I can do for our Savior.”
“I remember when this was a hardware store,” Dantzler said, looking around. “A guy named Walters owned
