Doll's Eyes

By David Grace

Young J.T. Trainer was about to be killed for the life insurance money that would pay off his father’s gambling debts. J.T.’s only friend, sixteen-year-old Hannah McGuire, discovered the plan and managed to get J.T. on a bus out of town before luring the killers in the other direction. J.T.’s last, fleeting glimpse of Hannah was of her racing off into the night with the gambler’s enforcers hot on her trail.

Now, twenty years later, San Diego Homicide Detective J.T. Trainer is still searching for his vanished friend even as he investigates his latest case, the drive-by shotgun murder of an eleven-year-old child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Grace
• Release date: Sep 15, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452371191

David Grace

David Grace is an internationally acclaimed speaker, coach, and trainer. He is the founder of Kingdom International Embassy, a church organization that empowers individuals to be agents of peace, joy, and prosperity, and Destiny Club, a personal development training program for university students. He is also the managing director of Results Driven International, a training, motivational, and coaching company that mentors private, parastatal, and government agencies throughout Botswana.

Book preview

Chapter One

MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE

OUTSIDE THE EDEN BAR & GRILL

JUNE, 1984

Willie slouched behind the battered Ford’s wheel while Johnny Bob fidgeted in the passenger seat. Big John’s orders were simple and direct: wait for the kid to cross Essex, then run him down.

If the kid lands in front of the car, Big John told Willie, run him over again. Then have Johnny Bob follow you to Colored Town. Wipe your prints and dump the car with the keys in it. With any luck the cops will figure some Black got himself liquored up and did it.

Now they waited.

Johnny Bob, Willie said turning to his helper, stop jumpin’ around. You’re drivin’ me crazy.

Johnny Bob’s fingertips beat a hollow tattoo on the Galaxy’s dashboard.

If you screw this up, Johnny Bob, I swear that if Big John don’t kill you I will. Johnny Bob pulled out a Lucky Strike and hungrily sucked in the flame.

This is what I get for using a damn speed freak, Willie mumbled. Don’t you know, boy, that stuff will kill you sure?

You just mind your job, Willie, Johnny Bob said in his sing-song voice, and I’ll do mine. I’m the one’s gonna have to grab the kid and throw him ‘neath the wheels if’n you miss ‘im. So you just get ready your way and I’ll get ready mine.

Blam, blama, blam, blam, blam, blam — Johnny pounded out a new rhythm on the dashboard.

Willie turned away and stared at the Eden’s front door. He figured the kid would be coming out pretty soon. One good thump and he’d be dead and they could dump the car and get paid.

Blama, blam, blam, blam.

Come on, kid, Willie whispered under his breath.

Chapter Two

MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE

INSIDE THE EDEN BAR & GRILL,

JUNE, 1984

It was a typical Friday night at the Eden. I was trying to get my not quite comatose father, Solomon Sally Trainer, to his feet and out the door before he was too drunk to stand. Dad had been making a few bucks playing poker with Big Mac and Little Mac and a couple of truckers and drinking up his winnings as fast as he got them. I wasn’t quite fourteen and I had to get dad out of there or pretty soon he’d be too far gone for me to haul him home.

Lucy McGuire hadn’t come in yet. Around nine-thirty she’d probably show up. I didn’t expect to see Lucy’s daughter, my best and only friend, Hannah. Hannah was almost sixteen and every time Lucy got low on cash she would tell Hannah how easy it would be for her to do it, just keep her eyes closed and pretend it was someone else, Paul Newman maybe, instead of Little Mac or Eddie Connors, or Big John Harnell. Just think of how much money she (she being Lucy, not Hannah) could get for it.

So far, Hannah hadn’t given in to her mother’s demands. But Lucy had that wide-eyed look lately, like she’d been getting some extra strong stuff, and Big John was staring at Hannah every chance he got and whispering to Lucy in that quiet, scary voice he used when he wanted you to do something.

Hey, kid. Len called me away from dad’s table where he was betting on turning two pair into a full house. You want to make a couple of bucks? Take the mop and go clean up the can for me, then take the trash out back.

That’s how it was while I was waiting for dad. I’d clean up the bar, run errands, pick up a burger or a plate of ribs for one of the customers whose luck at the table was running hot.

Sure, Len. It was about eight-forty when I finished. Dad’s pile was smaller and his head was weaving in that little circle it made about three drinks before he couldn’t stand up any more. Then I heard Big John shout:

Lenny, bring me a bourbon with a beer back. He usually didn’t come in this early, but I figured that maybe he was doing a shylock for some guy who didn’t want to be in this part of town too late. When I turned he was looking at me with a peculiar sort of expression, like a fat man studying the deserts in the bakery window. Then I noticed Hannah sitting next to Big John. His hand was on her leg and she was looking straight ahead as if he wasn’t there. For an instant I caught her eye, as if to plead: Don’t do this, but she gave her head a little shake as if she knew what I was trying to tell her but she had already made up her mind.

Len brought Big John’s order, glanced at Hannah, then, stone-faced, returned to the bar. Big John downed the bourbon then drank half the beer in three fast gulps. A quick pass of a soggy napkin across his lips and he was ready.

Big John stood and draped his huge arm around Hannah’s shoulder, cupping her breast in his palm. Hannah flinched as if she had been touched by cold metal then drew her face into a pale mask. Big John steered her toward the little room off the back corridor where Lucy turned her tricks. Biting my lip I started down the hallway then paused and turned away.

* * *

Big John pushed Hannah in ahead of him, shot a quick glance at the small metal frame bed, then began to remove his shirt. Hannah stood frozen, staring at Big John’s huge hands and his pale, hairy chest, then lowered her eyes and worried the top button on her blouse. When Big John bent to untie his wingtips she pulled a nylon sock half filled with lead sinkers out of her purse and swung it with all her strength. Halfway through the stroke Big John sensed something and jerked aside.

A swipe of his hand sent the homemade sap flying, scattering the sinkers like a squall of dull silver rain. Emotions rippled across Big John’s face: surprise, pain, anger and cruel pleasure. Crossing her arms, Hannah slowly retreated to the cartons along the back wall.

Your mother put you up to this, kid? No, she wouldn’t have the guts. So this must be your idea. Well, you gotta learn the business sometime. May as well be now. Smiling, Big John removed his belt, folded it double, then snatched at Hannah’s blouse. She lurched away and hurled a glass she grabbed from a half open crate. It shattered against Harnell’s temple, leaving behind a shallow, bleeding wound. Big John wiped his fingers across his bloody skull.

You shouldn’t have done that, Hannah, Big John said quietly. I was just going to teach you a lesson. Now I have to cut you. Harnell produced a black-enameled pocket knife and popped out a four-inch blade. Hannah’s eyes widened and she reached for a second glass but Big John grabbed her wrist and squeezed until she dropped it, then he raised the blade.

Hannah’s free hand scrabbled desperately across the boxes and encountered the hammer that Len used to open the crates. His thigh between her legs, Big John smiled and brought the knife forward, intending to cut her from her cheekbone to the side of her mouth. With a sound like the crack of a spoon through an eggshell Hannah smashed the hammer into the back of Big John’s skull.

For an instant Harnell seemed amazed then he collapsed noisily to the floor. Hannah stared at the bleeding carcass then at the hammer now coated with thick blood and tufts of hair and dropped it as if it were scalding. There was no movement outside. The Eden’s patrons had been trained not to disturb Big John no matter what noises escaped the crib-room’s thin walls.

In a daze, Hannah pulled out Big John’s money clip. There was a thousand dollars there. Big John liked to flash a roll. After checking her blouse for blood, Hannah walked shakily to the door.

* * *

Hannah’s head poked out. Spotting me she made an agitated wave. I looked at dad but he was still hanging on to consciousness. No one paid any attention when I headed down the hallway. Hannah was already closing the door behind me when I saw Harnell’s body.

Jesus! What happened—

JT, there’s no time. We’ve got to get out of here.

Jesus, oh God, Hannah! What are you gonna do?

We’re getting out of here, both of us. I’ve got enough money for us to get a long way from here. Then I’ll get a job. I can work. Don’t worry, Johnny, I’ll take care of you.

Johnny. Hannah never called me Johnny unless things were really, really bad and she wanted me to know how much she cared about me — not sex stuff, but like my sister, my mother, I guess, even though I had never known my real mother.

But I can’t go. Dad—

You have to! Johnny, I did this for you. We have to get out of here. We’ll talk on the bus. Hannah grabbed my arm and tried to drag me to the door, but I just stood there, looking at Big John’s body and that awful pool of blood.

What do you mean, you did it for me? Besides, I can’t leave dad. What would he do without me?

JT, Hannah hissed, turning me away from the body, listen to me! Remember the doctor and those papers your dad filled out a few months ago?

Doctor?— The life insurance? What’s—

Lucy told me. Hannah never called her mother mom. She was always Lucy.

Big John’s going to have them kill you. Tonight. For the insurance money. Don’t you see? That’s why I did this. If you don’t leave right now, they’ll kill you and I won’t have anyone left.

But dad would get the money if I died, not Big John.

When did your dad ever have money for life insurance? Who do you think paid for the insurance policy? Don’t you think Big John can get anything he wants from Sally?

I stood there, frozen. It all made a kind of warped sense, the only kind of sense that existed in the Eden. I thought back to the day that dad had announced he was taking me to the doctor.

* * *

Doctor? I’m not sick. Why do I have to go to a doctor?

Because I’m your father and I say so. Get your coat. Willie Lee’s giving us a ride.

When we got outside Big John’s bill collector was waiting at the curb. Willie Lee seemed to know where we were going. Dad just stared out the window at the barren trees that were almost ready to pop their spring buds.

The doctor’s office was down on Blondel on the second floor above a cleaners. It didn’t look like he was one of those rich doctors you see on TV. Not that I was there very long. He just hit my knee with a rubber hammer, listened to my heart and my lungs, looked down my throat with a little flashlight, and it was over.

While I was buttoning my shirt the doctor scribbled something on a piece of paper and gave it to dad in exchange for a twenty dollar bill. In the empty waiting room a little man in a white shirt with a wrinkled collar and a green and brown tie that had a spot of ketchup on the bottom waited for us.

Dad handed him the paper. The little man nodded, then offered a small, zippered leather case as a platform for a printed form. Dad scribbled his name at the bottom then dropped the pen. The little man extended his hand.

Thank you, Mr. Trainer. It’s been a pleasure. . . . Dad ignored him and pulled me toward the door. Willie Lee was waiting when we got outside.

Any problems? he asked in a flat voice.

No, dad told him, no problems.

Willie Lee drove us back home. No one said anything the entire time.

* * *

Hannah stuck her head out of the crib-room and looked toward the bar.

Hurry, she hissed and dragged me to the back door. For a second she fumbled with the deadbolt then it slipped free and we were outside. I followed numbly. . . . . Dad?

My father was born Solomon Aloysius Trainer. His mother had hoped that such an exalted name would confer upon him qualities of wisdom and leadership. In a world of magic and spirits and mythical events it might have. In pre-World War II Tennessee it did just the opposite. Faced with the choice of Aloysius or Solomon, my father opted for the lesser of two evils and answered to his given name. His schoolmates, faced with the choice of calling him Solly or Sally of course chose Sally, a nickname he never escaped.

My father could have fought every time he was challenged and become, if not the toughest kid in school, at least the most combative, or he could smile, take the jokes, go along and get along. He chose the latter. Somewhere in his twenties dad married my mother though she was long gone by the time I would have been old enough to remember her. Dad would never talk about her when he was sober and if I asked when he was drunk I stood a good chance of getting a licking.

Most of the time dad worked at odd jobs, whatever he could find: laborer, janitor at the dog track, driver’s helper on the non-union rigs, runner and general gofer for Big John Harnell. Most of the time when he wasn’t working dad would be playing stud or pool down at the Eden for spare change or picking up tips from some of his friends at the dog track across the river in Arkansas. Usually he did okay, up one week, down the next, until a few months ago.

Dad had gotten a tip on a long shot in the third over at Southland where he sometimes did kennel work. Big John took his marker for $500. The dog, Monkey Business, won but was disqualified when a surprise blood test rang all the wrong bells.

Dad became desperate to recoup his losses. With a vigorish of 10% per week and Willie Lee as Big John’s debt collector dad was highly motivated. And, like most gamblers, he figured that the best way to get even was to make another bet. And another. And another. Finally, dad was into Big John for almost $3,000. Big John gave him one more chance, double or nothing. The next day dad was into Big John for $6,000 with the first week’s interest adding another $600 to the total. Dad was summoned to Big John’s booth at the Eden. Willie Lee sat on one side, Big John on the other.

You owe me $6,000, Sally, Big John said quietly.

Yeah, John, I know. I’m gonna take care of that. I really appreciate—

How are you going to pay me, Sally?

Well, I’ve got this deal goin’ with a buddy of mine over at the track. In just a week or two—

That’s no good. You won’t be around in a week or two. You’re going to have an accident before that.

I’ll get the money, Big John, don’t worry.

I’m not worried, Sally. You’ll get the money or else. You’ve got two days.

Yes sir, I’ll—

Don’t tell me. I don’t care how you get it. Rob a bank, steal the mayor’s Cadillac, whatever. It’s not my concern. Just get it however you have to. Are we clear?

Sure, I mean, yes, Big John. We’re clear.

Two days. Big John stared at Sally, then Willie Lee slipped out of the booth and let Sally leave. Two days! Where was he going to get $6,000 in two days? Sally actually got as far as borrowing a gun and wandering around outside the First National Bank on Union Avenue but he couldn’t do it. All those years of going along and getting along had taken their toll. He didn’t have an armed robbery in him. At least not a successful armed robbery.

Later that night Sally gave the revolver back to Willie Lee and quietly drank himself into oblivion. He woke up the next morning on the floor next to his bed, washed his face and headed back to the Eden. When Big John came in that night Sally’s terror on the one side and his consumption of alcohol on the other kept him balanced halfway between unconsciousness and sobriety.

Do you have my money, Sally? Big John asked him.

No sir, I do not. I tried but I couldn’t do it.

How are you going to pay me?

I don’t know. Maybe I could work it off?

You couldn’t work off the interest you disgusting loser, Big John growled then reached out and slapped Sally’s face. So, am I going to have to kill you?

Please don’t kill me, Big John, Sally pleaded, almost crying. There’s got to be something I could do, some way I could make it up to you.

You make me sick. What do you own? What do you have in your life that’s worth anything?

Nothin’. I don’t have nothin’.

Big John stared at Sally as if a thought had just occurred to him.

Well, you do have one thing.

I do? What’s that?

Your kid, JT.

I don’t follow you. He doesn’t have any money or any way to get any. Damn kid’s more trouble than he’s worth, Sally mumbled remembering some past inconvenience he believed I had caused him.

Life insurance. We could put some life insurance on him. Then, if something happened to him you’d have plenty of money. You could pay me what you owed me and even have a little left over.

You want me to kill my own kid?

Don’t talk crazy. I’m just giving you an incentive, that’s all. Look, Sally, do you know what happens when you go to the bank and you want to get a loan? Sally had never borrowed money except from shylocks in his whole life. He gave his head a slow shake.

They make you take out a life insurance policy so that if anything happens to you there’ll be money to pay off the loan. That’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to take out a $20,000 life insurance policy on JT. I have a friend who’s an agent. He’ll handle the whole thing. I’ll even loan you the money for the payments. I’ll give you three months to come up with what you owe me.

Three months? Sally said in a voice that a condemned man might have used to say The Governor called? To Sally, three months was forever. Hell, with that much time he could get Big John’s money for sure, one way or the other.

Three months. You get me my money in three months and we’re square. You don’t, your kid has an accident and I get the insurance. Is that okay with you? Do you have any problem with that? Because if you do, then I’ll just have to make other arrangements. Big John nodded toward Willie Lee.

Uh, no, I don’t have any problem with that. I’ll get your money, Big John. Don’t worry.

I’m not worried, Sally. Because if you don’t, you won’t have to worry about JT anymore. Big John waved his hand and Willie Lee slid out of the booth.

Of course, three months or three years, it was all the same. Sally had no more chance of getting that kind of money than he had of being elected governor. So three months later Willie Lee and Johnny Bob were sitting in a stolen Galaxy out front of the Eden Bar & Grill and waiting for me to step off the curb.

* * *

Once out the back door Hannah led us down Waldorf toward Latham. She kept zigzagging on a diagonal toward the bus station. Finally she stopped at a pay phone and called a cab. It was about twenty to ten when we got there.

It being a Friday night the station was pretty busy. There was a big board with names of cities and times and below it a counter with two lines for tickets. I felt like a leaf that had been ripped off its old familiar branch and blown away into the black night.

What’s the next bus that’s leaving, Hannah asked the clerk.

Gate Six, five minutes, the man said, barely looking up.

Where’s it going?

Bus 1401, Little Rock, Dallas, El Paso, Tucson, and San Diego. The man adjusted his butt on his high padded stool and then yawned behind his palm.

Okay, two one-way tickets for San Diego.

That’ll be $126.

Hannah carefully reached into her pocket and put two one hundred dollar bills on the counter. Used to stacks of grimy fives and wrinkled tens the clerk gave Hannah a close look then shrugged, filled out two tickets, and pushed them and the seventy-four dollars change across the counter.

Gate Six, that way, he said motioning to our left. Beyond the glass doors were three silver buses, one of which was in the last stages of loading. A stocky man in a gray uniform closed the luggage bin and climbed inside. Hannah pushed me ahead of her. I waited on the bus’ second step for the lady ahead of me to find her ticket. Idly, I turned and looked into the waiting room just as Willie Lee and Johnny Bob rushed inside.

Hannah, look! Were they after me or her? Maybe both of us. Hannah stood frozen for a second then pulled out a pile of bills and shoved half of them into my hand.

What are you doing?

We have to split up.

What do you mean? You can’t go out there.

I have to, Hannah said in a cracking voice. Willie’s going to check with that clerk. They’ll run us down before the bus gets out of town. I’m keeping my ticket and half the money. I’ll catch up with you later. A day after you get to San Diego I’ll meet you there.

Don’t leave me! I pleaded.

Here, she said, pulling her medallion over her head and thrusting it into my hand. As long as I had known Hannah she had worn that quarter-sized gold-plated medal on a thin gold-colored chain. One side displayed a sun shedding beams of light as it rose over a mountainous horizon. The other bore the sun in a clear sky which it filled with golden rays that transformed into little hearts as they neared the edge of the coin. It had been a present from her father, her real father, the only thing she had from him. It couldn’t have been worth ten dollars but it was her most precious possession.

You hold this for me. I’ll come back for it. She forced my fingers around the chain.

Hannah, don’t leave me! But she was already turning away. She paused and hugged me fiercely then jumped from the bus.

Son, you got a ticket? the driver called. Hannah had already reached the far side of the loading bay. Go on! Hannah mouthed and waved at me.

Son, off or on. I took half a step toward the door and stared at Hannah’s terrified face. NO! she mouthed. GO BACK!

Feeling like the lowest sort of coward I surrendered my ticket and slipped into a window seat a few rows back. The door closed and the bus began to back out.

As soon as she saw that I was safely aboard Hannah approached the glass doors and stood there, silhouetted against the light.

Willie Lee had finally reached the clerk and I saw him point toward the loading gate. Willie followed his gesture and saw Hannah. With a shout to Johnny Bob he barreled across the lobby. Hannah sprinted down the loading bay and out into the night.

I hunched down in my seat and watched as Willie and Johnny Bob exploded through the doors and pounded across the tarmac after her. The bus finished backing out and pulled into the street. In an instant Hannah, with Willie Lee and Johnny Bob in hot pursuit, had all disappeared into the darkness. That’s the last time I saw Hannah. I’ve been looking for her ever since.

I think that’s a big part of why I became a cop.

My name is John Thomas Trainer. I’m a homicide detective. I speak for the victims, for the dead who can no longer speak for themselves.

Chapter Three

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA, 2004

When Thursday afternoon’s shooting was reported I closed the file I had created in my long search for Hannah McGuire, grabbed my coat, and headed for the crime scene, the home of Dr. Ellen Garrow on Calle Maria in the heights above Pacific Beach.

The stucco and red-tile roofed house was set in a maze of quiet streets lined with jacaranda, magnolia, and date palm, someplace where shootings usually involved a nine millimeter automatic hidden in the night table not a blast from a twelve-gauge shotgun fired from ambush.

About a block from the Garrow house an ambulance passed me headed back toward Mission Bay, the closest place it could get onto the 5. A black and white with a civilian in the front seat followed behind. That would be the husband. The uniformed officer had been smart enough not to let him drive himself. When I was finished at the scene I would go to the hospital and interview him.

A crowd of neighbors lined the sidewalk. A magnolia sheltered the left side of the Garrow’s front yard. Sergeant Bud Hopkins was supervising the scene. I never saw Bud, or any sergeant, without thinking of Albert Leyva’s determined resistance to promotion. Albert could have made sergeant in his sleep, if he had wanted to. At least twice Lieutenant Costas had asked him to take the test. Albert always refused.

Never lose sight of what you want to do, what you’re good at, JT, he always told me.

Is being a sergeant that different, Albert? Besides, it would be a nice bump in pay.

I don’t need the money. Maria and I, we’ve got everything we need, plus a few bucks in the bank for a rainy day. Why, do you need some extra cash?

No, no, I’m doing fine. I just thought that with all your time on the Force maybe you’d like to retire as a sergeant.

Retire? Hell, JT, I’m not ready to retire, not yet. I do important work. I help people. Until I can’t do it anymore I’ll stay right where I am.

And that was that. Like he said Albert did important work. And so do I. My clients are the dead, the people who have no one to tell their story, no one to bring their killers to justice except me.

What’ve we got, Bud?

Bud Hopkins was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with thinning blond hair and a rangy frame starting to bulk up around the middle. Bud opened his notebook.

Dr. Ellen Garrow pulled into her driveway at approximately five-fifteen, he began. The Regal over there’s hers. Apparently the shooters were waiting in a pickup parked in front of the neighbor’s house, number 3917. Hopkins nodded toward the next house to the north just beyond the driveway where the Buick now sagged on a ruptured front tire.

"Okay — she gets out of the car and starts for the house then remembers a book she had bought for her daughter and turns back to the car. That probably saved her life. By this time the shooters have pulled forward and are in front of her house. She looks up, sees a guy sticking a shotgun out the passenger window and runs for cover between the car and the garage door.

"The shooter lets one go and she catches a double ought pellet in her right shoulder. You can see the shot pattern on the garage door. Anyway, she manages to get more or less behind the car before he pumps and fires again. This time he shoots the shit out of the driver’s front quarter panel and a couple of slugs hit the driver’s-side front tire, but none hit her. By now the neighbors are starting to look out their windows to see what the hell’s going on.

They pull far enough forward to get an angle on the space where she’s hiding between the front of the car and the garage door. The shooter lets go two more rounds. The first one catches her on her right side and right leg. The second shot goes over her, she’s flat on her face by then, and that’s when the kid bought it.

Bud led me down the sidewalk to number 3917. A sheet covered a small form on the grass. At several points it was stained with red blotches and a small crimson stream had begun to work its way through the grass on the downhill side.

God, I hate this, Bud said as he lifted the sheet. Name’s Amy Frascelli. Eleven years old. She and a friend, Jennifer Dahlberg, were just leaving the house when the shooting started. Amy ran over here to see what was happening. It was the fourth shot, the last one, that got her.

The child was lying on her back, her chest puckered with six double ought entrance wounds. Her face, unmarked by the projectiles, was refrigerator white and still bore the look of surprise and pain that had tainted her last seconds of life. Her eyes were open, staring blindly, doll’s eyes, the hallmark of dead children. I stared at her a moment then nodded for Bud to drop the sheet.

Did anybody get the plate on the truck?

Not so far. We’re still canvassing. All we’ve got is that it was a brown, bronze, or beige Chevy. One witness said he thought it was an older half-ton but I don’t know if that means it was an old model or just beat-up.

How does he know it was a half-ton truck?

The bed was narrower with a step or running board along the side. That makes it a half-ton Step Side, at least according to the neighbor.

Okay, we’ll check with the dealer to find out if the guy knows what he’s talking about. I looked at my watch in the golden, late afternoon light. I’d better get up to the hospital to see how Dr. Garrow’s doing and take a statement from her husband. Whoever did this was after her. Maybe he’s got an idea of who it was. Can your guys follow up here on the witnesses? See if you can get anything on the plate or the men in the truck. I’m assuming that it was two males, but maybe it wasn’t.

Sure, Bud said then glanced back at the small red and white mound on the Frascelli lawn.

"If you can, would you see if one of your men can get some truck catalogs from Maldonado Chevrolet, maybe they have some old brochures. Have the witness take a look through them and see if he can pick out the vehicle. At least maybe we can narrow it down to a year or a model.

No problem. Bud scanned the crowd and waved to one of his men, then turned back to me. I hate this, he said nodding toward Amy’s body. Jeez, I hope we get these guys.

I got back into the Department Crown Vic and headed for the hospital.

* * *

Scripps Hospital, the Scripps, looks more like the headquarters of a high tech electronics company than a medical center. The facility is composed of seven or eight buildings, most devoted to laboratories and research facilities, scattered over several acres of lawns and bubbling fountains. Today I was only interested in main hospital, a seven story glass and tan brick structure in the shape of the letter H — the east and west wings connected by corridors hosting offices and waiting rooms.

When I arrived Ellen Garrow was already in operating room two on the first floor after which she would be transported to the fourth floor east surgical facilities. That’s where the patients’ family and friends were told to wait and that’s where I headed.

The corridor joining the east and west wings was all glass on the north side with the waiting area chairs positioned so that the visitors could stare out toward Los Penasquitos Canyon Park. Nurses’ stations capped the east and west ends of the corridor and beyond them were the patient rooms. It was a geography I knew well.

I found Frederick Garrow pacing the small waiting area, the pastoral view beyond the windows ignored. A soft, doughy man not quite six feet tall, Garrow’s sparse black hair was combed straight back from a rapidly receding widow’s peak. I could smell tobacco smoke clinging to his tweed sport coat. Garrow’s hands made little fidgeting motions and sporadically dived into his pocket only to emerge empty a second or two later. He wanted to pull out his pack of Camels and light one up but he knew better than to try it in a hospital waiting room.

Mr. Garrow? I asked. I’m detective JT Trainer, San Diego Police. How’s your wife?

I don’t know. They took her into surgery a few minutes ago. No one’s telling me anything. Garrow glanced past me toward the elevators that would transport her when the surgery was finished, then he turned back to me.

Did you get a look at your wife’s attacker or the vehicle? I asked, taking out my notepad.

No, but I don’t need to. Bastards!

You know who shot your wife?

Everyone knows. They haven’t made any secret of it.

And who would that be?

Aaron Ray Samuels and his bunch. They’ve been threatening Ellen for months. I told her this was going to happen. I told her, but she wouldn’t listen! Garrow glanced again toward the elevators then shoved his hand back into his coat pocket.

It may be a while, Mr. Garrow, I said directing him to one of the dove-gray chairs. Why don’t we sit down and you can start from the beginning. Who’s Aaron Ray Samuels and why has he been threatening your wife?

Garrow reluctantly took a seat then ran his fingers through his hair.

Aaron Ray Samuels is the deacon or minister or whatever of a bunch of fanatics. They call themselves ‘The Mission Of The True Way Of The Lord.’ They started calling Ellen about six months ago, demanding that she stop doing ‘Satan’s work.’

What did they mean by that?

Ellen owns the Women’s Choice Clinic. She performs abortions.

Oh.

Yeah, ‘Oh.’ They didn’t stop with calling her at work. Pretty soon they started harassing her at home. Next came the letters. A week later they threw a balloon of red paint at her car. Then the death threats started.

Did she report this to the police?

Of course, for all the good it did. They were unsigned, printed on a laser printer. Untraceable, the detective told us. But it was obvious who sent them: ‘God will punish baby killers!’; ‘If you don’t stop, you’ll soon join Satan in Hell,’ — that sort of thing.

But you couldn’t prove they were sent by this . . . ‘Mission Of The True Way Of The Lord’?

I can’t prove that Al Capone sold whiskey either but everyone knows he did.

I didn’t put much faith in the everyone knows school of crime detection but now was not the time to debate the point. I got the name of the detective who had been handling the death threats and finished my interview with Frederick Garrow.

I’ll need to talk with your wife when she comes out of surgery, I told him. Please call me as soon as she’s able to have visitors. She may have seen something that would help us identify her assailants, I held out my card. Garrow took it without looking at it then got up and began to pace.

Before I left I checked in at the nurse’s station and confirmed that Ellen Garrow would be in surgery for at least another hour. I left one of my cards with the duty nurse and asked her to call me as soon as Ms. Garrow was able to have visitors. Unless Bud Hopkins’ men turned up another lead she was likely to be the best

Reviews for Doll's Eyes

[tmtrvlr · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Doll’s Eyes is an intriguing story that begins when 16 year old Hannah McGuire saves the life of 13 year old JT Trainer and then disappears. JT grows up to become a homicide detective with a life-long passion to find Hannah. When a young girl is killed when caught in the cross-fire of an assassination plot, JT finds a web of murder, fraud, child abuse, and corruption of high officials. This is a police procedural that gets a little bogged down with details at times, but I did enjoy the story and the underlying need to know what happened to Hannah. The characters are believable and I especially enjoyed the relationship JT had with the couple that took him in when he had no family. This is the second David Grace book I have reviewed. Shooting Crows at Dawn was the first.

[brknhrt_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Doll’s Eyes is an intriguing story that begins when 16 year old Hannah McGuire saves the life of 13 year old JT Trainer and then disappears. JT grows up to become a homicide detective with a life-long passion to find Hannah. When a young girl is killed when caught in the cross-fire of an assassination plot, JT finds a web of murder, fraud, child abuse, and corruption of high officials. This is a police procedural that gets a little bogged down with details at times, but I did enjoy the story and the underlying need to know what happened to Hannah. The characters are believable and I especially enjoyed the relationship JT had with the couple that took him in when he had no family. This is the second David Grace book I have reviewed. Shooting Crows at Dawn was the first.