Sean Montgomery was right-Colt Rogers was not highly regarded by his peers. During the two hours Dantzler and Sean spent at the funeral home, not more than a dozen people showed up for the visitation. If Rogers did have friends and professional colleagues who respected him, they were no-shows on this particular night. Judging from this turnout, the man known for his plea-bargaining tactics was a pariah within the legal community.
Dantzler and Sean stopped by McCarthy’s for a few pints of Guinness before driving out Harrodsburg Road to Kerr Brothers Funeral Home. The before-visit drinks were at Sean’s insistence.
“I want alcohol before the visit and a good long shower after I get back home tonight,” Sean said. “Maybe if I’m a little drunk, I can tolerate the slime until I’m able to wash it off.”
“Such a horrible thing to say about the deceased,” Dantzler joked. “You’re supposed to show respect for the dead.”
“Colt Rogers was a horrible person when he was alive,” Sean countered. “As for respecting the dead, I say a person gets in death what he or she earned in life.”
“You’re a hardcore philosophical bloke, Sean. No wonder you made a great defense attorney.”
“Come on, Jack,” Sean said after finishing off his third pint. “Let’s do this before I change my mind and order another round.”
The handful of visitors who did show up at the funeral home included three or four of Rogers’s fellow attorneys, all of whom looked to be in the senior citizen age group, and none of whom gave the slightest hint they wanted to be there. Each one signed the register, spent a few brief moments by the casket, then quickly departed, head down as though they were afraid they might be recognized. Their haste to leave seemed to be propelled by extreme embarrassment for having known Colt Rogers.
Several others trickled in during the two hours Dantzler and Sean were there. Most were middle-age women who came not so much to pay tribute to the dead man, but rather to console the one person in the room who was a genuine mourner-Barbara Tanner.
Barbara sat alone, dressed in black, obviously distraught by the death of her long-time boss. Her makeup had long since been washed away by her tears, and her eyes were red and puffy. She paid several visits to the beautiful oak casket, which was closed and covered by a blanket of red roses. A folded American flag and a single 8x10 photograph of a smiling Colt Rogers rested on top. After looking at the photo of Rogers for several seconds, she would wipe the tears from her eyes and return to her chair.
“That’s Barbara Tanner,” Sean said to Dantzler. “How she survived all those years working for such a sleazeball is a mystery to me. She’s a really nice, decent lady. Have you spoken to her yet?”
“Laurie did.” Dantzler pointed toward the other mourner sitting alone, this one much younger and prettier. “Who’s the good-looking lady?”
“That would be Cheryl Likens. She is Colt’s current paralegal, and if the grapevine is accurate, his latest main squeeze. I’ve never personally dealt with her, but rumor has it she is not a candidate for a Rhodes scholarship. Dumb as a rock. Of course, she would have to be to sleep with Rogers.”
“That’s what Barbara told Laurie. She said we could rule Cheryl out as the shooter based on sheer stupidity.”
“Good old Barbara,” Sean said, chuckling. He nudged Dantzler in the ribs. “Come on, Jack, let’s get out of here. I can feel the slime growing on my body.”
The funeral and the graveside service conducted the next morning also turned out to be a waste of time and effort for Dantzler and the Homicide team. Thirteen people showed up for the funeral, five made the trip to the cemetery. In all, ten of the thirteen were women. Only one attorney had the courage to make an appearance at the gravesite, and according to Sean, the man had been retired for many years. The other two men were photographed and later identified as distant cousins of Rogers.
“Well, that was a chunk of my life I’ll never get back,” Milt said when the group gathered later that afternoon in the War Room. “Just another reason why I need to sign those papers, turn in my badge, and join Charlie Bolton on his fishing boat.”
“You talk about depressing,” Eric said, loosening his tie. “To live all those years, work as an attorney, get murdered in a most brutal way, and have virtually no one show up at your funeral service. I don’t care how much of a bum the guy was, that’s sad.”
“You reap what you sow in this life, Eric,” Milt said. “That’s something I firmly believe.”
“So do I. But, still, to have no one grieve for you when you’re gone. Man, that’s so… sad.”
Laurie said, “Did you see Barbara Tanner, Eric? That was no act. Those tears were real. She’s gonna miss the man.”
“Think Cheryl Likens will miss him?” Milt said, grinning.
“Are you kidding? She’ll have a new sugar daddy within a week, if she doesn’t already have one.”
“Maybe you should make a play for her, Milt,” Scott said. “Obviously, she prefers older guys, and you certainly fit into that category.”
“Scott, I’d go broke buying Viagra trying to keep up with a woman like Cheryl Likens. No, no, Scott. I need a woman, not grief or trouble. She’d be grief and trouble.”
Dantzler entered the room and the mood suddenly turned somber. He went to the end of the table, pulled back a chair, but didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned against the wall, his dark, tired eyes staring into space. After a minute of silence, he pushed away from the wall, sat, and scooted the chair forward.
“Sorry for putting you through an ordeal like this,” he said. “I know you all had better ways to spend your time than hanging out at Colt Rogers’s funeral service. Sean Montgomery warned me it would be a waste of time. I should’ve listened to him.”
“The next big dinner tab is on you,” Milt said. “And the bar bill. Speaking of which, I could certainly use an alcoholic beverage right about now.”
“Later,” Dantzler said. “What I want from you now are thoughts or ideas about this case. That goes for all of you. Give me anything you’ve got, no matter how out there you think it might be.”
“It’s really not very complicated,” Laurie said. “If you’re convinced the killings in ’eighty-two and these two recent killings were done by the same person, then we just need to dig deeper to find the missing link. If there is one.”
“I still say you should pressure Eli for a name,” Milt said. “Give him your assurance that if he coughs up the name, we’ll protect his family. We’ll make sure they are never in harm’s way.”
“How can I make that assurance, Milt?” Dantzler argued. “I have no clue what we’re up against here. For all I know, the killer could be part of Murder Incorporated or the Russian mob. At any rate, you can forget about Eli giving us a name. It’s not gonna happen.”
“Well, then, our only option is old-fashion hardcore detective work. Tell us what you want us to do.”
“Same plan as before,” Dantzler said, standing. “Eric and Scott on the obits, Laurie digging into Devon Fraley’s past, you going through Colt Rogers’s files. Check with Barbara Tanner. If she’s up to it, get her to assist you.”
“What about you?” Eric asked.
“Rachel Foster phoned me a few minutes before I came in. She has me set to meet Tommy Whitehouse tomorrow afternoon. He was a hard dude to track down, and given his checkered past, I’m not sure what to expect from him. I doubt he’ll give me anything worthwhile, but who knows? Maybe he’ll surprise me. Then sometime on Thursday, Milt and I are going to talk with Johnny Richards.”
“He wasn’t at the funeral today, was he?” Eric said.
Dantzler shook his head. “No. And based on the names listed in the guestbook, he didn’t come by the funeral home last night, either.”
“Some friend.”
“Hell, after what I saw today,” Milt said, “I don’t think Colt Rogers had any friends.”