The court was not on schedule and I ended up waiting at the courthouse for just shy of three hours for testimony in a previous case. My cell phone was set on silent but I felt the vibration and pulled the phone out and checked the screen. A text from Ron Miles. After I read the message I leaned forward across the bar and tapped the prosecutor on the shoulder. “I’ve got a situation,” I said. “I need to leave.”
“You’re joking, right? We’ve got a situation right here. It’s your testimony that’s gonna keep this prick locked up. You want to blow that?”
“It can’t be helped. I’m in the middle of this thing and I’ve got to go.”
The prosecutor turned in his chair and looked at me. “Look, I know we’re behind schedule here, but the defense is just about to wrap it up, then we’ll be able to get you on the stand and out of here. If you’ll just wait for a little-”
The judge tapped her gavel, leaned forward from the bench and spoke into her microphone. She sort of whispered into the device, and it sounded like she was either mocking my attempt not to disturb the proceedings, or trying to be funny. Most likely it was the former. “Gentlemen, is there something you’d like to share with the court?”
The prosecutor turned his attention forward. “No, your Honor. I’m sorry for the-”
I stood from my seat and looked at the Judge. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”
The prosecutor turned back to me and spoke through his teeth. “What the hell are you doing? Do you want to be held in contempt? Sit down.” The judge raised her eyebrows at me.
“Urgent matter, your Honor.”
She seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, “Step up. This better be good Detective.”
I crossed the bar with the prosecutor on my heels and walked up to the bench. “I appreciate the Court’s indulgence your Honor.” The judge made a circular motion with her hand in a ‘get on with it’ sort of way. The prosecutor, I noticed, had taken a sudden interest in the tops of his shoes. “Judge, a somewhat urgent situation has come to my attention. I’m sure your Honor has heard about the murders earlier today of one of our State Troopers, along with one of our city’s more prominent citizens, Mr. Franklin Dugan, at his home.”
The judge leaned forward and looked at me over the top of her glasses. Judge Andrea Moore was the senior judge in the superior court system and was not known for her leniency.
“Yes, Detective. I have heard. But what does that have to do with me, my court, or this case?”
“Nothing at all your Honor.”
“Then why are we speaking, Detective?”
This wasn’t going exactly as I had hoped. “Your Honor, it has just come to my attention that there has been another murder, just a few blocks away from here as a matter of fact. My-”
“Are you psychic, Detective?”
“Uh, beg your pardon, your Honor?”
“I said are you psychic? You as well as anyone should know we do not allow electronic devices of any kind in the courtroom. So, either you’re psychic, or you’re breaking the law in my courtroom. Which is it, Detective?”
I opened my mouth to answer, then thought better of what I wanted to say and chewed on the inside of my cheek for a moment instead.
The judge leaned back, smacked her gavel against the sound block and said, “The court will be in recess for five minutes. Detective, I’ll see you in chambers. Now.”
Thirty seconds later Judge Moore sat at her desk while I stood on the other side. “You’re killing me here, Jonesy. I’m already over three hours behind. What the hell is going on?”
“I need to leave, Andrea. There’s been another shooting, and that makes three today.”
“Oh come on, Jonesy. This is Indy. We have shootings almost everyday. What makes this such an emergency?” She reached for a pitcher of water and poured two glasses. “Water?”
“No, thanks. Listen, we’re not sure, at least completely sure that is, that this latest one is connected. But the crimes scene techs are saying, and initial witness statements seem to back it up, that it was a high powered sniper rifle. And it was silenced. Broad daylight, lady goes down right on the sidewalk, shot in the chest, and no one heard a thing. What are the chances?”
“It sounds to me like you’ve got plenty of people on the scene right now.”
I took a deep breath. “Judge…” He paused, then started over. “Andrea, do you remember last year when you came to me about that little high speed chase your son was involved in?”
“It was hardly a high speed chase, Detective. He was a passenger in the vehicle, and he says, and I believe him by the way, that he did everything in his power to convince the driver to stop the car.”
“Uh huh. Took him over four miles to do it though.”
“Make your point, Jonesy.”
“My point is, you brought that to me, and I took care of it for you, did I not?”
“Really? You’ve got this one bit of juice with me and this is how you want to spend it?”
No, I don’t. “I guess I’ll have to,” I said.
“Alright, take off then. Use the side door. I’ll handle the lawyers.”
“Are you going to reschedule for a later date on the docket?”
“Are you kidding? No way. The prosecutor doesn’t need you, and the ink isn’t even dry on the public defender’s Bar exam. The defendant isn’t going anywhere except back to a cell.”
“So I wasted my, uh, ‘juice’, as you called it?”
“Yep. Ain’t it fun though? I hate it when someone has something on me. Anyway, we’re square now. Go catch your shooter, sharp stuff. I don’t like it when people shoot up my city.”
“It may be your courtroom, Andrea, but it’s my city,” I said as I reached for the door handle. “Stop in at the bar sometime, I’ll buy you a beer.” The judge made a go away motion with the back of her hand, so I went away.
Ten minutes later I rolled up to the scene and found Ron Miles speaking with two uniforms from the city. “Jonesy, Jesus Christ. What a cluster fuck. I’m trying not to get ahead of myself here, but this is too coincidental, don’t you think?” He pressed on before I could answer. “First Burns, and that banker guy, Dugan, and now this.” He turned and pointed at the victim laying on the sidewalk. I followed his motion and then looked inside the plate glass windows of the coffee shop. Three uniforms and two plain clothes were inside talking to the patrons.
“Tell me what’s what, Ron.”
“Okay. Victim’s name is Rhonda Rhodes. I.D. on her person confirms. Looks like she was a Hospice nurse according to documents in her possession and initial statements from the coffee shop’s employees. She’s a regular here. Five or six days a weeks, again according to the employees. Married, husband is a retired fireman.”
“He have an alibi?”
“Yeah, a good one too. He was just down the street from his residence speaking with one of his neighbors, guy named Wimberley about replacing their driveway.”
“Has he been notified yet?”
“Yep. He’s here now,” Miles said, then pointed to the back of the EMS van. “Getting his vitals checked by the EMS guys. He’s wrecked, man.”
“Alright, go on.”
Miles took his notebook out, flipped through a few pages for a second, then continued. “Victim pulls up, parks along the curb, over there, then goes inside, sits down to have a cup of joe and do her paperwork. Guy that waited on her says she was here for about twenty, twenty-five minutes tops, drank her coffee while working on her paper, then gathers her shit, pays her bill and leaves. Waiter says he was putting her money in the register as she walked out. Says he saw her get hit. Said the impact of the round lifted her up and sent her flying backwards. Didn’t hear a thing. He said it was like watching a movie scene with the sound turned off or something.”
“Okay, keep him here. I’m going to want to talk to him.”
“You got it, Jonesy.”
“Any other witnesses?”
“Nope. At least not yet.”
“All right. Keep the uniforms talking to people. Let’s go speak to the husband.”
Tom Rhodes sat in the back of the EMS unit on one of the side benches, his forearms resting across his thighs, his head down, hangdog. I nodded at the paramedics and asked them to give us a few minutes. They climbed out and Ron Miles and I sat on the opposite bench across from Rhodes. Miles spoke first. “Mr. Rhodes, this is Detective Jones. He’d like to speak with you for a moment, ask a few questions if you’re up for it.”
Tom Rhodes did not look up for it, I thought, but the loved ones of the victims rarely do. “Mr. Rhodes, as Detective Miles just said, I’m Detective Virgil Jones. I’m sorry for your loss, sir. I know you’re going to think the timing is lousy, but the sooner we can get the information we need, the better our chances are of catching who ever did this.”
Tom Rhodes looked up at us, at me, and shook his head. “You don’t look like a cop. You damn sure don’t look like a detective.”
I gave him a sympathetic grin. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Sometimes that’s the whole point though. Not to look like a cop.”
“I guess. I really wouldn’t know.”
“I understand you’re a retired fireman?”
“That’s right.”
“I want you to know that I have a tremendous amount of respect for guys like you and what you do.”
He nodded, looked at nothing. “It’s been my experience that people who make that kind of statement are people who have had a traumatic experience with fire.”
“You’re absolutely right. I was just a child, but it changed me. Tell you the truth, I always sort of thought I might end up in your line of work.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Aw, you know, my dad was a cop. Marion County Sherriff until he retired.”
He seemed to process this information for a minute. “Jones. You said your name was Jones? Is Mason Jones your old man?”
“That’s right. Did you know him?”
“No, not really. Just enough to recognize him if we were on scene together. Hey, always voted for him though.”
“I’m sure he appreciated that, sir. Listen, I’ve got some questions, but tell me about your day so far, with your wife.”
He put a little gravel in his voice. “Well it’s been just fucking splendid, Detective.” Then he caught himself and raised a hand in apology.
“What I mean, Mr. Rhodes-“
“Call me Tom, okay.”
“Okay. What I mean, Tom, is could you tell me about your day with your wife up to the point she left for work?”
He shook his head and chewed the bottom of his lip. “There’s nothing to tell. It was a normal day. We got up, had breakfast and went about our day. Then a little later, hell just a little while ago, she left for work. I know she likes to stop off here for coffee before getting to it. I think it helps her-or helped her I guess I should say-to clear her head, know what I mean?”
“I think I do. Anything out of the ordinary, today in particular?”
“No, nothing.”
“Was she acting strange, like maybe something was bothering her?”
“No, absolutely not. If anything it was the other way around.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it was me. I was the one who was acting strange. Well, hell, that’s not right. I wasn’t acting strange. I was sort of pissed off if you want to know the truth of it.”
“Pissed off how? Why? Were you two arguing?”
“No. Probably would have turned into one though. If she hadn’t left for work, I mean. It’s been a bit of a sore spot lately, ever since I retired. I’m stuck at home with nothing to do except busy work, while she’s out doing real work. We’d talked about retiring together, you know? Maybe do a little traveling, but that never worked out.”
“Why not?” I said.
“Well, I guess because she just couldn’t give it up. Her work, I mean.”
“And she was a Hospice nurse?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. So you two had an argument right before she left?”
“That’s not what I said, Detective. You’re putting words into my mouth. I said it probably would have turned into one. An argument.”
I looked at the bandage on his hand. “What happened to your hand, Mr. Rhodes?”
“I scraped the ever lasting shit out of my knuckles pulling weeds from the driveway cracks. That’s what I was doing when she left.”
“What about her patients, Tom?”
“What about them?”
“She was in a difficult line of work,” I said. “She cares for people at a time when there’s nothing left for them to do but try and die with a little dignity.”
“Sounds like you’ve had some experience with that too, detective.”
He was right. I did have some experience with that. Very personal experience.
“Well, I’m sorry for your loss, Detective, whenever it may have been. But to tell you the truth, I never knew much about her patients.”
“Why’s that?”
“Aw, it was those damn hippo laws.”
“You mean HIPPA,” Miles added. “With an a at the end.”
Rhodes waved his hand. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever. Rhonda took her job very seriously. She never spoke about individual patients with anything more than very vague generalities. And even then, never by name. And if I’m being honest with you, and I am by the way, I didn’t want to hear it. The whole fucking thing depressed the ever lasting shit out of me. I guess that says something about me, huh?”
“Is there any chance, Tom, that this could be one of her patient’s family members? Someone mad at Rhonda because their loved one died?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t sound right to me. Doesn’t feel right. Everyone I’ve ever talked with think these people, these Hospice workers walk on water, you know? I guess it could be possible, hell, anything’s possible, right? But I don’t think so.”
I scratched the back of my head, and thought, what the hell. “Where do you bank, Tom?”
“Firefighter’s Credit Union. Why?”
“What about church? Did you or your wife attend anywhere?”
“I was raised Catholic, but I let it slip. Same with Rhonda. Does that mean anything?”
I didn’t answer him and instead looked at Ron with an ‘anything else?’ look on his face. Miles shook his head. I was about to excuse himself when Tom Rhodes spoke. “She’s really gone?” he said, his voice all at once small, like a child.
“Tom, look,” said Miles. Why don’t you go on home. You’ve got a tough few days ahead of you. Gather your family around you and let them help you. You don’t want to be here right now. When they move her body, it’s, well…it’s just something you don’t want to see.”
“Where are they going to take her?”
“They’ll take her to the hospital, Tom,” I said. “There will be an autopsy, and after that they’ll send her to the funeral home of your choice. But Detective Miles is right. Go home. Let us do our job. We’ll figure this thing out.”
“All she wanted to do was help people. Why would someone do this?”
How do you answer a question like that?
I followed Miles into the coffee shop and was introduced to the waiter who served Rhonda just before she was shot.
“How about we sit down for a few minutes? I’ve got a few questions.”
“I’ve already answered just about every cop in the city, so far,” he said.
“Well, not everyone,” I said. “It looks like you were the last one to speak with her before she died. I just want to ask you a few things. Sometimes witnesses know something they don’t even think they know, and it can be something little that might not mean anything to you but can make all the difference in the world to us. Here, have a seat,” I said and pointed him to a table in the corner. No other patrons were in the cafe. The smell of burnt coffee hung in the air.
After the three of us were seated Ron and I stayed quiet for a minute or two. Sometimes one of the best things you can do when you want answers from someone is to just be quiet. Sure enough, after another minute or so the waiter began to talk. “You know what’s weird?” he said. “I don’t really feel anything. I mean, I’ve known Rhonda for a long time. Well, that’s not quite right. I don’t really know her at all. What I mean is, I’ve been serving her for a long time. We’d talk, you know? Nothing substantial, not really. Just the casual ‘how you doing’ kind of chit chat bullshit that customers and waiters have. Jesus. I’ve never seen anyone get shot before. Aren’t I supposed to feel something? I feel like I should be upset. I mean more upset than I am. Is something wrong with me? Am I in shock or something? Is this what shock feels like?”
The waiter sat with his elbows on the table, the heels of his hands pressed into his forehead. His fingers worked their way into his hairline and pulled his hair back taught. It gave him a haunted, almost effeminate appearance. “You may very well be in shock,” I said. “Do you feel like you require medical attention?”
He let go of his hair and forehead. “No, no, I’m fucking good. Besides, I don’t have any insurance.”
“Just take us through it, from the time she walked in the door until you saw her get hit. Take your time. Don’t leave anything out.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” the waiter said. “I mean, there just isn’t anything to say. She came in, same time as she always did, sat at the same table she always sits at, unless someone else is sitting there, except they weren’t, so she did.” He pointed to the table in the opposite corner of the establishment. “That table right there.”
“Alright, that’s good,” I said. “Go on.”
“Well, like I said, there just isn’t anything to say, really. She sat down, spread out her paperwork and started doing whatever it is she did with it. The paperwork, I mean. I asked her if she wanted her usual. She said yes, so I brought her a cup of our house blend and a muffin. The muffin was on me. It wasn’t part of her usual. I just wanted to give her a fucking muffin, you know? We made nice for a few minutes and I got back to work. Before she left I asked her if she wanted anything else. She says ‘no I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow though.’ I said something like ‘you bet’ or whatever and then she walked out and I just happened to glance up from behind the counter and I saw her flying backward through the air. She hung there for a second, hell not even that long I guess, ‘cause you know how everything seems like it’s going in slow-mo? Well, anyway she hung there for a sec in the shape of a big C, you know with her arms and legs flying forward and her body going backwards. Anyways, that’s what it looked like to me. A big C. It’s kinda ironic if you think about it, because that’s what she always called cancer. The big C. Just like that series they’ve got on Showtime. It’s called The Big C. Anyways…”
“And you didn’t hear any gunfire?” I said.
The waiter shook his head. “Nope. Hell, it looked like she got hit by a huge gust of wind or something. It was unreal. I didn’t know what the fuck was happening.”
“What about a car backfiring? Did you hear anything like that? Some kind of noise that may have been a gunshot but in the moment it just didn’t register?”
The waiter shook his head. “Huh uh.”
“What did you do next?”
“What do you mean?”
I tried not to let my impatience show. “I mean, what was the very next thing you did. Did you call 911?”
“No.”
“Did you run outside to help the victim?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I guess, I…well, what I mean is, I just sort of froze. Besides, we’re not supposed to leave the cash drawer unattended.”
“I see,” I said, even though I didn’t. “How much money was in the drawer?”
“I don’t keep an exact accounting.”
“If you had to guess,” I said, the impatience in my voice now obvious.
“Well if I had to guess, there might be, I don’t know, seventy or eighty bucks in there or something like that.”
I leaned across the table. “So a woman, a Hospice nurse, comes into your coffee shop damn near every day of the week, sits at the same table, orders the same thing, then one day leaves and gets shot to death right in front of your eyes and the only thing you could think to do was guard the seventy or eighty bucks in the cash drawer?”
“Hey, man, come on. That’s a little harsh. I didn’t shoot her.”
“No, I guess you didn’t, but you sure didn’t do much to help her after she was shot.”
“Look, guys, I’m sorry about Rhonda. I really am. She seemed nice. She did good work. She was a consistent tipper. But that’s all I know. Maybe I didn’t do the right thing. Maybe I panicked, or froze or whatthefuckever. But I didn’t do anything wrong. There were about ten other people in here who were already dialing 911 and I know about as much emergency first aid as a Cocker Spaniel. Besides, even from behind the counter you could tell she was dead before she hit the pavement. You could just see it. So, what, I’m supposed to lose my job over something I couldn’t do anything about?” He stood up and started to walk away, then turned back. “Hey, you guys ever ask yourselves why no one ever wants to talk to the cops?”