I could have prevented Palmer’s death if I had been more forceful in demanding that he be moved out of the tower right away. In some subconscious way, maybe I had wanted it to happen.
We got there in less than two minutes. Two of the sheriff’s cars were parked outside the tower, their strobe lights flashing. One of them was Dickey’s blue-and-gold cruiser. It was empty. The oak door at the base of the tower stood wide open. The black deputy was no longer there guarding it.
I wasn’t thrilled about climbing that iron staircase again but managed to follow Captain Morgo all the way to the top without stopping. Ken Macready was standing on the same landing where I had left him.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said, pointing through the dark passageway into the secret chamber. Ken’s uniform hat was missing, and the hair on the back of his head was stained with blood.
“I never even saw him. It was like fighting a ghost.”
“What happened to your radio?” asked Captain Morgo.
“He took it, Captain,” he said sheepishly. “Along with the sheriff’s radio and his brother’s too. And all our weapons. As soon as I saw what was in there, I called you on my cell . . . he didn’t find that,” he added almost proudly.
Ken was still holding the phone in his hand. After checking to make sure the wound to the back of his head wasn’t serious, I followed Captain Morgo on our hands and knees through the passageway into the chamber.
Ken was right. It was hard to believe the scene that awaited us. High above our heads, Hoyt Palmer was hanging by his neck from the same kind of multicolored rope that had been used in the two previous murders.
His body was slowly swinging back and forth under one of the hand-hewn oak beams that vaulted over the chamber walls. The other end of the braided rope was lashed to the nose of one of the stone gargoyles that flanked the throne chair against the outer wall.
Even more incredible was the sight of Big Jim Dickey and his brother. The two men were splayed out on their knees facing one another, about three feet apart. Taylor had taken their handcuffs and shackled the brothers’ wrists together through the arms of the throne chair. They looked as though they were kneeling before an absent king.
Turning to Ken, Captain Morgo asked, “How did all this happen?”
“He took our keys, goddammit,” said Big Jim from down on his knees. “Call my brother Cecil and ask him to get over here right away with bolt cutters.”
“We’ve got an emergency crew that can bring them over from the campus police building in a few minutes,” said Janet Morgo.
“Call Cecil, goddammit,” he growled, obviously worried that his monumental incompetence would be exposed to the voters if the campus emergency crew arrived first.
“Give me your cell phone, Ken,” I said, punching the number Dickey called out to me from the floor. While it was ringing, I began taking pictures of Palmer’s hanging corpse. I framed Big Jim and his brother prominently in the foreground.
“What the hell are you doing, Cantrell?” yelled the sheriff, trying to turn around from his locked embrace. His brother appeared to be resting his face on the arm of the throne chair.
“Just recording a crime scene, Sheriff, like any good cop would do,” I said good-naturedly. “And Cecil isn’t picking up.”
Cutting off the connection, I punched in Lauren Kenniston’s number and sent her a text to come immediately to the bell tower. Her first exclusive. I followed up with a call to the dispatcher’s number at the campus police building. Carlene answered immediately. I told her to send an emergency rescue team to the tower with bolt cutters.
I then placed a 9-1-1 call, which went straight to the sheriff’s office. After identifying myself, I told the dispatcher there that another murder had been committed at the bell tower on the St. Andrews campus and to send over their homicide team. I knew Lauren would be monitoring it on her scanner.
“Sheriff Dickey is in a bit of a bind,” I said. “Tell them to hurry.”
“You fucking bastard . . . I’ll run you out of Groton for this.”
I took more photographs.
“I don’t want you threatening one of my men, Sheriff,” came back Janet Morgo. “Officer Cantrell is only doing his job.”
“And I’ll have your job, too, you goddamn bull dyke,” he snarled up at her.
Ignoring him, Captain Morgo turned to Ken and said, “So tell us what happened here.”
He was obviously still woozy and sat down in one of the leather club chairs.
“When the sheriff got here, he told Marlon, the deputy guarding the entrance at the bottom of the stairs, to go back on sector duty . . . that he would handle things here himself,” he said. “He then told me to stay out on the landing while he and his brother questioned Mr. Palmer. A few minutes later, the chimes started ringing up in the tower like there was no tomorrow.”
“And the sheriff sent you up there to take a look, right?” I said.
“Yes, sir,” said Ken. “When I got to the top of the stairwell, the emergency lights suddenly went out. I felt a blow to the back of my head . . . I guess it put me down for a while. When I came to, the lights were back on. There was no one up in the belfry, so I went back down the stairs and looked in here. It was just like you saw it. That’s when I called Captain Morgo.”
So Taylor had closed the last account.
“How could one man have done all this?” whispered Captain Morgo in my ear.
“Special Forces training,” I said. “Taylor may be an old man, but taking Dickey and his brother in the dark would have been child’s play for him.”
I walked back to the throne chair.
“I warned your brother about this possibility, Sheriff,” I said. “You may be in for a long vacation after this gets out.”
This time he stayed silent, his steer-like arms and back rippling under his uniform shirt, his face a mottled red. Motioning Captain Morgo to join me in the stairwell, I reminded her that we had a possible address for General Taylor if he hadn’t already left Groton.
We passed the St. Andrews emergency crew coming up the stairs. They were carrying two heavy vinyl bags full of rescue equipment. Following in their wake was Lauren Kenniston, who gave me a big smile as she came hustling up the staircase. I was expecting Captain Morgo to tell her that the crime scene was off-limits to the news media, but she never said a word as Lauren passed us.
Back in the cruiser, she didn’t say anything for several minutes. When we had crossed over the bridge and reached the intersection that connected to Highland Drive, she turned to me with liquid eyes and asked, “What does my being a lesbian have to do with whether I can do my job?”
“Nothing,” I said.