“He was dyslexic,” Sara answered promptly.
“How the hell did you know that?”
“A couple of things. Even the little I saw of it, the handwriting and spelling on the appeal was so bad. That’s a sign of dyslexia, although it’s not conclusive. But when I talked to George Barker, remember he told me that story about Rufus fixing his printing press?” Fiske nodded. “Well, he recalled Rufus saying that he didn’t want to look at the manual for the printing press, that the words would just mess him up. I went to school with a girl who had dyslexia. She once told me more or less the same thing. It’s like you can’t communicate with the world. Although, from our encounter last night, it looks like Rufus has conquered his disability.” “If he can survive in prison all those years with people trying to kill him, he can do anything he sets his mind to.” Fiske looked back at the records. “Looks like he was diagnosed with it after the murder. Probably during the court-martial proceedings. Maybe Rider discovered it. Preparing a defense requires some client cooperation.”
“Dyslexia is not a defense to murder.”
“No, but I know what is.”
“What?” Sara asked excitedly. “What?”
“First, a question: Leo Dellasandro — is he having an affair with his secretary?”
“Why are you asking that?”
“He had makeup on his coat collar.”
“Maybe it was from his wife.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”
“I really doubt he was having an affair, because his secretary just got married.”
“I didn’t think they were.”
“So why did you ask me?”
“Just covering all the bases. I don’t think Dellasandro got it from his wife either. I think he was wearing it.”
“Why would a man — a chief of police, no less — be wearing makeup?”
“To cover the bruises he got when I hit him in my brother’s apartment.” Sara’s breath caught as Fiske continued. “I haven’t seen Dellasandro since that night. He wasn’t at the meeting at the Court after Wright was murdered. I’ve been with Chandler a lot and the man never came by to check up on the investigation. At least while I was there. I think he was avoiding me. Maybe afraid I’d recognize him somehow.”
“Why in the world would Leo Dellasandro have been at your brother’s apartment?”
In response, Fiske held up a sheaf of papers. “The list of personnel stationed at Fort Plessy. Luckily, it’s alphabetized.” He turned toward the end of the roster. “Sergeant Victor Tremaine.” He turned another page. “Captain Frank Rayfield.” He flipped back through some pages and stopped. “Private Rufus Harms.” Then he went back near the beginning, circled a name with his pen, and said triumphantly, “And Corporal Leo Dellasandro.”
“Good God. Then Rayfield, Tremaine and Dellasandro were the men in the stockade that night?”
“I think so.”
“How did you know Dellasandro was in the military?”
“I saw a photo of Dellasandro in his office. He was much younger, in uniform. His Army uniform. I think the three of them went there to teach Rufus Harms a lesson. I think we’ll find they all fought in Vietnam, and Rufus didn’t. He wouldn’t follow orders, was always in trouble.”
“But what the hell did they do to Rufus Harms?”
“I think they — ”
The car phone rang. Sara glanced at Fiske and then picked it up. Her face went pale as she listened. “Yes, I’ll accept the call. Hello? What? Okay, calm down. He’s right here.” She handed the phone to Fiske. “Rufus Harms. And he doesn’t sound good.”
Fiske gripped the phone. “Rufus, where are you?”
Rufus was inside the Jeep parked next to a pay phone. He had one hand on the phone, the other on Josh, who was now slipping into longer periods of unconsciousness, but still had the pistol wedged against his side. “Richmond,” he answered. “I’m two minutes from the address on the card you gave me. Josh is hurt bad. I need a damn doctor and I need him quick.”
“Okay, okay, tell me what happened.”
“Rayfield and Tremaine caught up to us.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re dead, dammit, and my brother’s about ready to join ’em. You said you’d help me. Well, I need help.”