The Simple Truth

What do you want me to read?

Hundred and third Psalm.

Cassandra debated for a moment and then pulled up a chair and sat down. Rufus lay back on the bed. Thank you, Cassandra.

As she read, she glanced at him. His eyes were closed. She read a few more words, looked up and saw his lips moving and then stopping. She looked at the next sentence, quickly memorized it, and read it, while watching him. Rufus was silently mouthing each of the words at the same time she was saying them. She stopped, but he continued to the end of the sentence. When she did not start up again, he opened his eyes. You know the Psalm by heart? she asked.

Know most of the Bible by heart. All the Psalms and Proverbs.

Thats pretty impressive.

Ive had a long time to work on it.

Why did you want me to read it to you, then, if you already knew it?

Looked like you were a little troubled. I thought visiting the scriptures might help you some.

Help me? Cassandra looked down at the page and read to herself. He forgives all my sins. He heals me. He ransoms me from Hell. He surrounds me with loving kindness and tender mercies. Work was depressing. Her teenage children were more and more beyond her control every day. She was on the north side of forty, fifty pounds overweight, and there wasnt an eligible man in sight. With all that, as she watched this prisoner, this chained-up killer who was going to die in prison, she felt like bursting into tears in the face of his kindness, his unsolicited consideration for her plight. The Hundred and Third Psalm also held special appeal for Rufus, one line in particular. He mouthed it to himself: He gives justice to all who are treated unfairly. *����*����* Recognize it? Chandler asked as they approached the 1987 silver Honda sedan parked in the police lot. Fiske nodded. We got it for him when he graduated from college. We all chipped in, my parents and me.

Ive got five brothers. They never did that for me.

Chandler unlocked the drivers-side door and stepped back for Fiske to look inside.

Where did you find the car keys?

On the front seat.

Any other personal items? Chandler shook his head. Fiske examined the front seat, dash, windshield and side windows, his puzzlement clear. Has it been cleaned?

No. Just like we found it, except for the occupant.

Fiske straightened back up and looked at the detective.

If you put a heavy-caliber pistol flush against somebodys temple and pull the trigger in a confined space like this youll have blood splatters on the seat, steering wheel, windshield. Youd also have bone and tissue throw-off. All I see are a few stains here and there, probably where his head was touching the seat.

Chandler looked amused. Is that right?

Fiske clenched his jaw. Im not telling you anything you didnt already know. I take it this was another little test of yours?

Chandler nodded slowly. Could be. Could be another reason. Remember I said I had five brothers?

Yeah.

Well, I started out with six. One of my brothers was murdered thirty-five years ago. Working at a gas station and some punk came in and popped him for the twelve bucks in the register. I was only sixteen at the time, but I remember every detail like it was maybe five minutes ago. Anyway, most families who come in to identify their loved ones dont head over to my office and offer their services. They grieve and console each other, which is entirely proper. Oh, they rant and rave for a while about wanting to catch the SOB who did it, but they dont really want to get involved in the process. I mean, who would? And they dont usually have a law enforcement background. Add it all up, and I spotted you as somebody who might be able to really contribute. And you just proved it.

I can understand the rage you must be feeling, John, whether you liked your brother or not. Somebody took something from you, something important ripped it from you, in fact. Its been thirty-five years and I still feel that rage.

Fiske looked around at all the civilian cars in the police lot. He assumed each hunk of metal was waiting its turn to spill the secrets of another tragedy. He turned back to Chandler. I guess rage will do. He added quietly, looking down, Until something else comes along. His tone did not hold out much hope.

Fair enough. Chandler continued his analysis. The absence of all the physical evidence you just mentioned does have me puzzled.

It doesnt look like he was killed in the car.

Thats right. It looks like he was killed somewhere else and his body was then put in the front seat. Now, that single conclusion takes us into a whole new realm of possibilities.

Then were talking about something more deliberate than a random kidnapping and murder.

Possibly, although some punks could have kidnapped him, taken him out of the car to maybe hit an ATM. He refuses, they pop him. Get scared and then dump him back in his car.

Then there would have been some physical evidence at the ATM. Any sign of that?

No, but there are a lot of ATMs.

And a lot of people use them. If its been at least a day, youd think someone would have noticed.

Youd think, but you cant be sure. Were trying to isolate your brothers movements and whereabouts for the last forty-eight hours. He was last seen at his apartment on Thursday night. After that, nada.

If somebody carjacked him, what about prints? Most perps looking for ATM cards arent sophisticated enough to wear gloves.

Were still processing that.

Would you like another observation?

Fire away.

Fiske held open the car door and pointed at the inside part of the doorjamb, the section that you dont see when the door is closed. Chandler fumbled for his glasses, put them on and saw what Fiske was pointing at. Chandler slapped on a pair of latex gloves he pulled from his coat pocket, gently lifted the small piece of sticky plastic off and held it in his palm, observing it carefully.

Your brother just had his car serviced at Wal-Mart.

It recommends that the next oil service takes place in three months or three thousand miles, whichever comes first. They put the future date and future mileage reading on that sticker as a reminder for when youre supposed to come back in. According to the date on that sticker, and subtracting out three months, my brother went in for service three days before his body was found. Now look at the mileage for when the next service is recommended and subtract three thousand miles from it. Thatll give you approximately what the odometer should read right now.

Chandler swiftly did the math. Eighty-six thousand, five hundred and forty-three.

Now look at the Hondas current odometer reading.

Chandler leaned back in the car and checked. Then he looked back at Fiske, his eyes slightly wide. Somebody put about eight hundred miles on this car in the last three days.

Thats right, Fiske said.

Where the hell did he go?

The sticker doesnt have which Wal-Mart he used, but probably it was one close to his home. You should call around, they might be able to tell us something useful.

Right. Cant believe we missed this, said Chandler. He slipped the plastic sticker in a clear zippered bag he pulled from his coat pocket and wrote some information on the outside of it. Oh, and John?

Yeah?

He held up the zippered bag. No more tests, okay?

["C23"]CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Ahalf hour later, Chandler and Fiske walked through the front entrance of the United States Supreme Court. Inside, the place was large and intimidating. What really engaged Fiskes attention, though, was the quiet, so extreme as to be unsettling. It seemed to border on the hallucinatory trying to imagine a functioning world right outside the doors. Fiske thought of the last very silent place he had been today: the morgue. He said, Who are we supposed to be meeting?