Nailed by Joseph Flynn

emotion to continue.
    Ron wondered if maybe Reverend Isaac Cardwell had been too effective in Oakland’s fight against drugs. Drug dealers made bad enemies. But if that were the case, why wouldn’t they just kill him at home? Maybe include his family to really make their point. But if drug thugs were behind the killing, how did Cardwell wind up nailed to a tree two hundred miles from home?
    Ron didn’t think he should ask Nance.
    He only said, “Thank you for your cooperation, Captain. I’m sorry for your loss.”
     
    Ron called the Cardwell residence and spoke to a woman who identified herself as Charmaine Cardwell and said she was Isaac Cardwell’s wife. When she asked what this was all about, Ron knew she’d yet to see her husband’s picture in the media, but the way such images were endlessly repeated, he knew this was but a fleeting dispensation of grace. She’d soon see the likeness of the man she loved, the father of her child, nailed to a tree.
    As it was, when Ron broke the bad news to her that her husband was dead, she responded with a sharp gasp and a shriek. He heard the phone drop and then a small child’s frightened voice joined in sympathetic lamentations. Somewhere further in the distance came an elderly female voice, this one filled with urgency, but definitely in control.
    The older woman asked what was wrong and got another shriek in response. Apparently, she understood because Ron clearly heard her say, “Save us, sweet Jesus!”
    He was in the awful spot of having to eavesdrop on the family’s grief. He had to ask if they wanted a local funeral home to bring the body to Oakland, once the autopsy was completed. And he wanted to ask how Reverend Cardwell came to be in Goldstrike in the first place. But he expected that someone would finally notice the phone on the floor and hang it up.
    He was wrong. The older woman managed to comfort both Mrs. Cardwell and the child to the point where Ron could no longer hear them. Then she came on the line. Under control.
    “This is Mahalia Cardwell,” she said. “I am Isaac Cardwell’s grandmother. To whom am I speaking?”
    Ron remembered Nance telling him Cardwell had been raised by his grandmother — and that she’d been tough enough to keep the gangs at bay. Hearing her now, Ron believed it.
    “This is Chief of Police Ronald Ketchum of Goldstrike, California. I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Cardwell.”
    “Did my grandson die in your town?” she asked brusquely.
    “It’s where his body was found, ma’am. Most likely, it’s also where he was killed.”
    “Somebody shot Isaac?”
    “No, ma’am.” Details hadn’t been necessary to ruin Charmaine Cardwell’s life, but it was clear that this woman would want them, and there was no point trying to spare her. She’d see the pictures, too. “He suffered two blows to the head, and then he was nailed to a tree.”
    Ron thought he’d hear the sounds of another heart torn asunder, but all he got was silence. Again, he expected to hear the phone hung up. But a minute later the woman came back on the line, her voice, if anything, colder than before.
    “You know who killed my grandson?”
    Mahalia Cardwell’s tone made the question sound almost rhetorical, as if she knew who did it. But Ron didn’t feel certain enough that he’d read her right to push it. He could always come back to it later.
    “No, I don’t.”
    “You will find who killed my grandson?”
    Ron knew better than to make promises, but he said, “Yes, ma’am, I will.”
    She seemed to accept that, and replied, “We’ll leave to come get Isaac as soon as I can get Charmaine ready to drive.”
    “Mrs. Cardwell, that’s not necessary. We can have your grandson returned to you.”
    “We’re coming, Mr. Chief of Police,” she said vehemently.
    “Very well,” Ron conceded. “Let me give you directions.”
    “We know how to get there.”
    She knew how to get there? He hadn’t known how to get to Goldstrike the first time