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  Max slowly drove down the double-dipper and watched his pursuers clamber out of Dick’s damaged car. He pumped a fist in the air, yelling, “Yeah! Who’s your daddy? Whose mom is stupid now, ya buncha dicks?”

  He turned the Camaro around and drove past them again. They threw rocks at him, but their aim was horrible. He made it back to Gloria’s Corral Club and turned left. He’d had enough fun. He pulled into Locust Hill Cemetery to check out the front bumper of his car. Even crawling over the tracks at the double-dipper, his front end had scraped the pavement. He pulled to the back of the cemetery near a mausoleum, left the lights on, and got out. He was crouched down, checking the front bumper, when he saw a single headlight coming toward him.

  Dick’s Caddy screeched to a halt sideways, blocking him in. Max saw the front bumper of Dick’s car was canted up into a lopsided grin, with one headlight missing. He laughed. That laugh was what started the fight.

  * * * *

  Car 35 cruised west on Diamond Avenue. Rookie officer Ted Mattingly had worked third shift, west sector for eleven months. He liked the hours, liked the job, and liked being out from under the glare of supervisors. He had a patrol routine and this was part of it: shining the car spotlight on the fronts of the few businesses, checking for signs of break-ins or drunks passed out on the parking lots. He made a circuit going north on First Avenue from Dunkin’ Donuts, left on Diamond Avenue, and north on Kratzville. He decided to patrol tonight through Locust Hill Cemetery. Young couples sometimes parked behind the mausoleum to smoke dope and do other things. He could run them off and catch a nap. Working third shift and having two kids at home had really messed with his sleeping patterns.

  He wouldn’t normally care where people got naked, but there were reports lately of vandalism and break-ins to some of the vaults. Last week someone had started to dig up a grave. They dug two feet down and abandoned the project. That was the problem with kids today. They were too lazy to even finish the job of desecrating a grave. The crazy little bastards were probably doing black magic or summoning up demons in someone’s basement with chicken bones.

  He was just coming up on Kratzville Road when his radio crackled.

  “Car 35. Suspicious circumstance. Locust Hill Cemetery,” the dispatcher said.

  Mattingly grabbed his microphone. “Car 35 enroute.”

  He stepped on the gas and turned north on Kratzville. The cemetery was less than a quarter-mile ahead just over the hill. He turned in and called dispatch. “Car 35 arriving on scene.”

  Mattingly saw the back of a red 1970s model Camaro SS with a wide white stripe painted front to back. It was parked in the middle of the cemetery drive with its headlights on. Mattingly flipped on his side spotlight and his takedown lights to illuminate the interior of the Camaro, but the windows were heavily tinted. The takedown lights caught a shape in the driver’s seat that might have been a person. The driver didn’t move, so he tapped his siren a few times. Still nothing. He hoped the guy wasn’t passed out drunk. He’d just had his car cleaned by a jail trustee from the last go-around with a vomiting drunk.

  Mattingly picked up the mic again. “Car 35.”

  “Car 35, go ahead with your traffic.”

  “Car 35. I’m in the back of the cemetery near the mausoleum. I’ve got a subject passed out in a red Camaro. Ten-twenty-eight on Indiana personalized plates.” He gave the dispatcher the Camaro’s license plate number. A 10-28 was police code for vehicle registration.

  “Do you need backup?” dispatch asked.

  Before he could answer, cars 32 and 37 advised they were enroute.

  He considered giving them a signal 9, which meant he didn’t need backup, but he knew they’d come anyway. He had just left Dunkin’ Donuts on First Avenue before driving to the cemetery. He suspected he was being set up. This was some type of prank.

  Mattingly kept an eye on the Camaro for any movement. Nothing. He flipped the high beam of his headlights on and off and tapped his siren several times. Still no movement.

  He heard sirens in the near distance and the screaming of the big Ford Interceptor engines heading his way. He got out of his car, flashlight in one hand, model 10 Smith & Wesson .38 revolver in the other and eased up to the driver’s side of the Camaro. Bits of matter mixed with blood coated the driver’s window. It wasn’t a prank. He tapped on the window with his flashlight and opened the driver’s door.

  “Jesus,” Mattingly said and vomited on the Camaro, on the body, and down his uniform pants.

  Chapter 2

  Present Day: Two days before Thanksgiving

  Deputy Chief of Police Richard Dick was in full dress blues, sitting in his assigned vehicle, a Cadillac Escalade, scribbling notes on a yellow pad. His driver, Captain Dewey Duncan, was on vacation, so he had driven himself this morning. He wasn’t comfortable with the idea that he might lose his driver when he was appointed Chief of Police. Marlin Pope, the current Chief, had never used a driver. Driving himself was a sign of weakness and would change when Dick took the reins of power.

  He was parked in the lot of Rural King on the west side of Evansville, dreading what he was going to do. It needed to be done, and in person, but he was totally out of his element. Apologizing was not his forte. He went over his notes again. He picked up his iPhone with sweaty palms. He thought back to the night that had created this situation. It wasn’t his fault. Things had totally gotten out of hand. He pinched the sides of his nose, remembering how it had bled all over his football uniform. He remembered the feeling of humiliation and that memory was so strong he could still feel the crunch of cartilage as the doctor set his nose, the nostrils swelling shut, and the way his nose still canted from the little bastard’s sucker punch. He’d had raccoon eyes for days, but Max had gotten much worse when they caught up with him. The thought of what they’d done to Max brought him out of his reverie.

  He’d read his personal copy of the case file on Max Day’s murder a thousand times. There was nothing new, or at least nothing that would tank his chances for appointment as Chief. He’d meet with Mrs. Day. He’d be honest, forthright, and confident with just the right mix of compassion, sadness, and regret. He reminded himself to take it slow. Let her ask all her questions. Listen politely. Slow and steady wins the race every time.

  Dick took a deep breath, released it slowly, and wiped his hand and iPhone on a handkerchief. He hit the green call button. It rang a long time.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice said.

  “Hello, Mrs. Day. May I speak with you?” Dick asked.

  “Who is this?”

  “Deputy Chief of Police, Richard Dick,” he said proudly, confident his title sounded impressive. “I want to—”

  “You have some nerve,” Mrs. Day scolded.

  He bit back his retort and said, “Mrs. Day, I think it’s time we talked. I’m willing to tell you everything that happened that night. Everything.” He had no intention of telling her all of it. No one knew all of it except for a few trusted friends.

  He was surprised when she said, “You’ll have to come here. I don’t drive much anymore. You come here and face me. Come to Max’s home. You know where. I’ve seen you drive by from my window.”

  “That’s agreeable,” Dick said. “I’m five minutes away.”

  “Make it thirty.” She hung up.

  Sweat was dripping down the side of his face onto the collar of his uniform shirt. “Bitch!” he said into the dead line.

  Chapter 3

  Present day

  “Can you believe she’s already talking?” Liddell Blanchard said proudly. “She’s smart, like her old man.”

  Jack Murphy responded. “That’s called babbling. It’s total nonsense. So, you’re right, she does take after you, Bigfoot.”

  Janie Blanchard was eleven months old. She was born a little premature, but had caught up fast.

  “Hey. I’m a proud fa
ther. You should be proud too—Uncle Jack.”

  Detective Jack Murphy was just shy of six feet tall and solidly built, with a shock of dark hair spiked in front. His gray eyes could turn dark when he was angry or threatened, and soft as a cloud when he was happy.

  His partner, Liddell Blanchard, was a true Cajun transplant from the Iberville Parish sheriff department, where he’d worked river patrol until he’d met his wife Marcie and settled down in her hometown, Evansville. Jack called his partner Bigfoot because Liddell stood over six and a half feet tall and had the physique of a full-grown Yeti, with the temperament of a teddy bear unless he was angry.

  Detective Sergeant Wolf opened the door to their office. A plaque on the door read Murder Squad. Jack and Liddell still investigated other cases, but were primarily assigned to homicide cases.

  “The Chief wants the two of you. Right now,” Wolf said.

  “Do you know what it concerns?” Jack asked.

  Sergeant Wolf held the fingertips of one hand to his forehead and said, “Hmm. I’m getting nothing, Murphy. Now take your pet Cajun and get your asses up there. I’m not your damn secretary.”

  “Sarge is sure in a good mood today,” Liddell said. Sergeant Wolf was a fair supervisor and made coffee when he emptied a carafe, but he had a dark side you didn’t want to cross. “Maybe we’re going to get an office big enough to smile in without hitting the walls.”

  “It’s tiny, but still better than sharing cubicles,” Jack reminded him.

  “I guess.”

  “Maybe Double Dick’s on a tear again,” Jack said.

  Double Dick was the nickname Jack had bestowed on Deputy Chief Richard Dick. It became popular because of Richard Dick’s first two names and because of his propensity to punish a policeman more than once. He was like a velociraptor with rank.

  “You’re gonna get a spanking,” came a detective’s voice through the open door. Everyone laughed at that except Jack and Liddell.

  “I’ve got dibs on their office if they get fired,” a detective named Phil shouted.

  Captain Franklin had created a new unit in the detectives’ division. Jack and Liddell were now the murder squad. They had also been sworn in as federal special agents, attached to a new federal task force called USOC, or Unsolved Serial and Organized Crimes. It was, of course, called U Suck by the other detectives and police officers of the Evansville Police Department. Their new digs were the old file room. It was barely big enough for two desks, two chairs, and two men, but at least they could shut the door and block out some of the incessant clattering of keyboards, joking, farting, belching on command, and frequent cursing. It gave them some privacy when they were working on USOC projects.

  A recent federal case involving a mass murder in Evansville had necessitated Jack and Liddell splitting forces to handle multiple scenes. Jack went to St. Louis, where there had been a similar case. From there it had taken him and a Missouri State Highway Patrol lieutenant named Jill Battles on to New Mexico. Jack had exceeded his authority and jurisdiction, according to his federal boss, FBI Assistant Deputy Chief Director Toomey, and he was promptly suspended before he was even sworn in. The feds were in a quandary what to do with him. He’d been assigned the case and had gone off-reservation when he took Lieutenant Battles—who was also suspended at the time—to New Mexico against procedures, orders, and legal authority. The reason he and Lieutenant Battles weren’t in jail was they had successfully ended the murderous rampage of a killer responsible for over 600 deaths. Nothing says success like success.

  “You guys should start a comedy club,” Jack said as they left the office. “I hate meetings, Bigfoot. This is the kind of crap I was talking about when we were sworn in as feds. I don’t have time to waste doing paperwork for bureaucrats. We’ve got a multiple-stabbing death to work right here.”

  “The stabber is in jail and he doesn’t have a bond. We’re just doing cleanup on the case for the prosecutor, pod’na. Think positive, like me. Maybe they have something good for us.”

  “Okay. I’m positive it’s going to be bad news, Bigfoot. If this is another federal case like the last one, I’ll resign.” Jack said.

  Liddell feigned a hurt face. “I know you didn’t want to work for the feds, but I kind of like the challenge. Where’s your sense of adventure? Your civic pride?”

  “I left those in my other suit. Feds have too many rules and way the hell too many bosses,” Jack said, but in truth he enjoyed the freedom of travel. He enjoyed being able to badge his way into other law enforcement agencies cases and the expanded jurisdictional authority.

  USOC-Evansville was part of a larger regional task force that encompassed five states in the Midwest region. There were similar regional offices divided up like beats covering the whole of the country and other U.S. territories. The rule was that one region never poached on the jurisdiction of another region unless they were requested to assist.

  Since Jack had expanded his own jurisdictional boundaries without the consent of Director Toomey, the FBI had rethought the regional procedure. Now, each region could continue an investigation in any other investigation with limitations. Jack promised to call the director of whatever region he needed to trespass in, and Toomey had given him dispensation to do so if he contacted him at the earliest possible time. Jack had promised Toomey. He’d try to keep it in mind.

  “Even though you went about it ass-backwards, we caught the bad guy, saved the girl, found a home for a little boy, and became national heroes. Not bad for two local boys, if you ask me,” Liddell said.

  “Actually, many people died. Lieutenant Battles saved me. Not the other way around. And she’s still on suspension. I can’t believe they suspended her for an entire year,” Jack said.

  “She doesn’t lie as good as you. And remember, you were actually assigned to the case. She was there for revenge.”

  Jack checked behind them as they headed toward the Chief’s complex. “Sergeant Wolf isn’t accompanying us. That can’t be good, and don’t make that into anything positive.”

  Liddell put the fingertips of both hands to his temples. “Positive thoughts, grasshopper. Positive thoughts. Positive…”

  “Just shut up,” Jack said. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  Judy Mangold, the Chief’s secretary, buzzed Jack and Liddell into the complex’s lobby. Some people thought she’d been there so long the building was erected around her. Her face was as expressionless as a poker player in a high-stakes game.

  “Morning, Judy,” Liddell said.

  She didn’t respond.

  The door to the Chief’s conference room was cracked and Jack heard Double Dick’s angry voice vibrating the walls.

  “You’re in trouble, pod’na,” Liddell said. “Twice.”

  “Why me? Why not you?”

  “Because he doesn’t like you twice as much as he doesn’t like me.”

  “Shut up, Bigfoot.”

  The door opened so hard it slammed against the wall as Deputy Chief Dick came out in a rush. He glared at them with unmistakable hate and then he was gone.

  Dick pushed his way through the exit and as the door snicked shut Jack heard the Chief’s secretary say, “Good riddance.”

  Jack and Liddell entered the conference room where Chief of Police Marlin Pope and Captain Charles Franklin were sitting with a laptop open on the large table. Deputy Chief Dick’s voice was coming from the laptop speakers. Chief Pope closed the lid, silencing it.

  Marlin Pope was Jack’s height, early sixties, skin the color of yellow coal, and the physique of a serious runner. He had risen through the ranks, the first black officer to be promoted to Captain, then Deputy Chief, and then Chief. He’d served as Chief of Police under two different city administrations and was on his third.

  Captain Franklin, Jack’s direct supervisor, was sporting the tan he’d brought back from his Miami vacation. He
was slightly taller than Jack, late-forties, square-jawed, with perfectly groomed dark hair with streaks of silver at the temples. He resembled George Clooney, but without the millionaire cockiness.

  A thin manila file folder lay open on the table next to the Captain. An old supplementary report was on top of four or five other sheets of paper. Jack knew the supplement was an old one, because it was typed in all capital letters on a typewriter. No one did that anymore.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” Chief Pope said.

  The Captain closed the file and he and the Chief sat quietly. Jack could hear the clacking sound of Judy Mangold’s typing down the hall.

  “If you’re going to fire us, Chief, Jack can explain everything,” Liddell said, pointing comically at Jack.

  Captain Franklin responded, “You might wish you were fired.”

  Chief Pope said, “We’re going to let you in on something. You are not to discuss anything you see or hear outside of the four of us. Understood?”

  Liddell said, “Yes, Chief. What are we not discussing?”

  Chief Pope said, “Mayor-elect Benet Cato will replace Thatcher Hensley on January first.”

  This was old news to the detectives. The mayoral race hadn’t even been close. Benet Cato had no previous political experience, but Evansville’s citizens were tired of the good ol’ boy system of local politics. Jack thought it was time someone else’s pockets were lined with public funds. Benet said the people’s voice should be listened to. She promised greater transparency in local government. Heads would roll. Her speeches were held in public, in front of the Civic Center Complex. They were like a snake revival meeting and Benet had her own snake: Tilly Coyne. Coyne was a political activist, feminist, ex-journalist, who held several PhDs and reportedly spoke seven languages, depending on who she was lying to. Jack had never heard her speak, but her expression said more than words. Tilly was a sledgehammer and Cato planned to use her on the pebbles she deemed expendable.