When the Dead Speak

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

"Why was that left out of the report?" Preston sat behind the mahogany desk in his study, the picture on the wall was pulled away, the safe opened. Preston held the gold lightning bolt pin in his fingers. He had just placed a call to Captain Murphy.

Murphy's voice blared from the speaker phone. "It was the call of the primary on the case."

"And who's that?" Preston snapped his fingers and pointed toward the bar. Like a lap dog, Cain obediently rose from his seat and lumbered over to the bar.

"Jake Mitchell."

Cain returned with two glasses of Jack Daniels, handed one to Preston, and then sat down across from him.

"He handled security for me last Saturday night, right?"

"Yes," Murphy replied. After a few seconds, he added, "I understand from the medical examiner's office that the FBI sent a forensics expert to examine the body."

Preston closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temple. He opened his eyes again, swallowed the contents of the glass, and waved it in front of Cain to signal he wanted a refill.

"What's the Bureau looking for?" Preston asked.

"The deceased is an alleged deserter, not to mention an African American. We'll be lucky we don't have the NAACP, Jesse Jackson, and god knows who else looking into this case."

"Great, just fucking great," said Preston. "I have to have another dead nigger screwing up my..."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I just don't need this grief right now. I'm leaving it up to you to play this down. He's been identified. He was drunk, a victim of strange circumstances. Make sure the autopsy report shows a high level of alcohol, or..." He snapped his fingers. "Drugs, a high level of drugs. Then just let the story die. The headlines will be filled with something else in no time and people will forget."

"It may not be that easy." Murphy's voice sounded strained.

Cain eyed the contents of his glass while keeping one eye on Preston. Cain always seemed to know how to respond based on Preston's reactions. And right now, he didn't like the sound of Preston's voice.

Preston's voice softened, a sinister smile spread across his face. "Did I tell you we are creating a police commissioner post? This qualified person will be over the Board of Police and Fire Commissioners, even the Chief of Police." Preston's smile broadened. He had hit a hot button. "You know our city is just growing too fast and one police chief isn't enough, yet it doesn't make sense to have two."

"I agree." Murphy was practically salivating over the phone.

"It will take someone who is tactical, efficient, who really gets the job done. And, of course, being my home town, I will have a great deal of input."

The speaker phone was silent, except for Murphy's breathing which bordered on panting. Cain smiled at Preston's skillful art of manipulation.

"The only problem I foresee is the sergeant on the case. Casey may not let it die."

Preston straightened, stared at the phone as he repeated, "Casey?"

"Yes, Sam Casey."

"Sam? Wasn't he a reporter?"

"That was her father. But it may as well be her old man. She's just as tenacious."

Now it was Preston's turn to be silent and breathe heavily. He regained his composure quickly, saying, "A good organizer, an excellent candidate for police commissioner, would find a way to control his people."

Preston ended his call, leaned back in his chair, and studied the brown contents in his glass. His left hand squeezed tightly. The names Samuel Casey and Harvey Wilson pounded in his head. His temples throbbed, his jaw tightened. The glass burst in his hand, scattering shards and spraying whiskey on his desk and the front of his blue silk shirt. He looked at the blood running down his hand.

Cain seemed unaffected, as if the scene were a frequent occurrence. Preston casually started to pull the glass shards from his hand as he told Cain, "I think it's time to put together a plan."