“His number’s there; he said you could call whenever you got in.”
Harry immediately punched the number into his cell phone. Cal Morris answered on the third ring.
“I’ve got an odd situation here, Harry,” he began. “First, let me explain that the prison called our office because they don’t have an address or a number for you. They said you never filled out their forms to arrange contact with your mother, or with the prison.”
“That’s right. I didn’t want contact.”
“Well, it seems that’s what has screwed up their notification about the parole. Now they’ve got something else. They contacted us as her prosecutor, because they couldn’t reach you and thought we might be able to. Seems your mother has asked to meet with you prior to her parole hearing. It’s not something you have to do, but I advise you to consider it.”
“Why? I have no interest in meeting with her.”
“If you’re going to oppose her release I advise you to do it. Don’t give her the opportunity to say that you haven’t had any contact with her for umpteen years and therefore have no solid basis to try and stop her from getting out.”
“I have her wacko letters,” Harry snapped.
“Yes, but letters and personal contact are like apples and oranges. You need to be able to say that you’ve read her letters and seen her and feel that she’s a danger to you. It will make your argument a great deal stronger. The prison has set a time-nine a.m. Sunday morning.”
“How efficient of them,” Harry said. “Tell me something, Cal. Why does the state seem so anxious to let her the hell out?”
“They’re overcrowded, Harry, and overcrowding makes life difficult for them. Whenever that happens they look to see who they can cut loose. The people who’ve already done heavy time are usually the safest bet. That’s how your mother ended up on the list.”
Harry closed his eyes, let out a breath, and surrendered to the madness of it. “I’ll think about it, Cal. I appreciate your call and your advice.” He closed the cell phone and looked at his father.
“I know,” Jocko said. “Cal filled me in when he called. I think you should consider his advice.” He stood and headed for the door. “I’m going home. Think over what I said.”
Harry nodded, but said nothing. It was Friday. The meeting with his mother-if he decided to go-was two days away. He walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Jeanie was lying on her side, facing him. He could see the bruise where the killer had hit her. It crept from her hairline out on to her forehead. He bent down and kissed the area lightly.
Jeanie stirred and opened her eyes. “Hi,” she said, her voice heavy with sleep.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m fine. I had a great day. Your father and mother were wonderful, and Rubio is just a hoot. I’m learning a whole new language.”
“Street,” Harry said.
“Yes, that’s what he calls it. He’s pretty cute for a twelve-year-old.”
“Twelve going on forty,” Harry said.
“He thinks you’re pretty special too. He says you can hear what dead people are saying.”
“Only on Thursdays.”
Harry leaned down and kissed her forehead again, staying well away from the bruise.
“Come to bed,” Jeanie said. “You look exhausted.”
“I will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Reverend Waldo’s secretary looked at Harry as though he had just crawled out from under a rock.
“Do you realize what we’re doing here?” she asked. “We are all in working early on a Saturday morning to prepare for Reverend Bobby Joe’s funeral. We do not have time to waste satisfying the curiosity of a police officer.”
She was a slender woman somewhere in her mid-fifties, with a flat chest and a pinched face. Her graying hair matched her dress and was worn in a tight bun, and her dull, brown eyes were obscured by rimless glasses. There was no wedding ring on her finger and Harry doubted anyone had ever given her one. The name plate on her desk said Emily Moore.
Harry placed his hands on the edge of her desk and leaned in toward her. He kept a smile on his face but it was not a warm one. Emily Moore inched her chair away from him.
“Ms. Moore, Reverend Bobby Joe didn’t die of a heart attack. He didn’t die of cancer, or as the result of an automobile accident. Someone came to his home and sliced his throat open with a very sharp knife. He was murdered, Ms. Moore, and I’m the police officer who’s been assigned to find out who butchered him like a Christmas turkey. So you stop whatever you’re doing, and you go find me a copy of that church bulletin, or I will slap handcuffs on you, put you in the back of my car, drive you to headquarters, and charge you with obstruction of justice, after which you will be strip-searched, photographed, fingerprinted, and put in a holding cell with some very unpleasant people. Do we understand each other?”
The woman’s lips began to tremble as she tried to speak, but no words came out. Her eyes filled with tears. Harry leaned in a bit closer. “Now,” he said. His voice was little more than a whisper.
Emily Moore began opening drawers in her desk; then the cabinet behind her. She rose from her chair and went to a small closet that seemed to hold an abundance of office supplies and began rummaging through them.
Harry thought about what he had said to the woman. He had little doubt Rourke would hear about it sooner or later. He always seemed to hear about Harry’s indiscretions. He’d probably think that threatening a spinster church lady with a strip search was a bit over the top. A smile began to form on his lips. It probably made her whole day, he told himself.
Emily Moore came out of the supply closet with her eyes brimming with tears again. “I don’t understand it,” she said. “We always have copies left over, but there aren’t any.” She stared at Harry, as if she expected him to whip out his handcuffs.
“You think someone took them or tossed them out?”
“I can’t think of anything else that could have happened. But they’re not supposed to be thrown out. We always overprint so we have a supply. I also always keep a few back issues in my desk. But everything is gone.”
“What about getting one from someone who still has a copy at home?”
“The issue is several months old, but it’s possible. Some of our older parishioners do keep them. I could make a few calls and see if I could find one.”
“I’d appreciate it.” Harry tried a genuine smile, but Emily Moore still looked tearful.
You’re an ogre, he told himself. His cell phone interrupted the thought.
“Doyle,” he said.
Vicky’s voice came over the line, sounding a bit shaky. “You better get over to Nick Benevuto’s condo,” she said.
“Why? What happened?”
“I just found his body. Oh God, Harry. He ate his gun.”
Nick’s body was slumped in a chair, his head thrown back, the ultra-suede upholstery soaked with his blood. Harry stepped in close. Nick’s mouth was open, showing several broken teeth and badly burned tissue. A Glock 9mm automatic lay at his feet.
Harry had seen the bodies of other cops who decided to eat their guns; civilians as well. The back of Nick’s head was gone, the exit wound having blown out a section of skull the size of his fist. He looked up at the ceiling. Blood and bone and brain matter were spread over a three-foot swath. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves as he studied Nick’s face. Normally the face of a victim spoke to him; told him things. Not this time. Nick’s features were distorted, the eyes bulging almost to the point of coming out of their sockets. The broken teeth and burnt tissue
