The Last Clinic Read Online Free PDF Page A

street from the clinic had a long snaking line running out to the parking lot. Some of Jimmy’s flock who’d heard the news had rushed to the scene and were holding each other and crying. Most of the onlookers were just standing around, enjoying a few minutes in the morning sun, socializing—Mississippi’s unofficial pastime.
    The Jackson Police Department had cordoned off a parking area. A half-dozen Hinds’ County cop cars were lined up like a used car lot. Detective Tommy Reylander’s 1962 pink Caddy, with its humongous tail fins, was parked at the head of the line, letting everybody know Tommy was The Man.
    Darla showed her identification to the patrolman in charge of the parking area. He let her park at the far end of the line. She made her way through the crowd, crossed the yellow police tape, and signed the logbook. She was now officially part of the problem.
    Tommy was waiting by the entrance to the clinic, checking his watch, looking antsy—a man with somewhere he needed to be.
    “Shelby told me you might be coming back. I was always hoping we’d get to work together,” he said. He didn’t sound like he meant it.
    “Looks like a South Philly block party,” she said.
    “Josh Klein and the WJAK team just left. You know how it is. People hang around, hoping they’ll get to see themselves on television.” As if he wasn’t.
    “Did you make a statement?”
    Darla was hoping he’d resisted the temptation to go before the camera. It would be nice if Tommy had kept his mouth shut until they both could figure out what was going on.
    His round face broadened into a smile.
    “Not until Klein promised to give us lead story on the six o’clock news. That’s when you get the biggest numbers.”
    Tommy was dressed in one of his outfits—black shirt, string tie, and a checked sport coat. Darla thought she remembered the getup from the movie Viva Las Vegas. He did look a little like Elvis in the face, especially with those razor-cut sideburns and the pompadour hair dyed jet-black. But then there was his body, a shorter version of the bloated older Elvis. He was more like Elvis as a Hobbit, she decided. Darla pictured Kendall whacking him with his Gibson back in high school and how he’d probably never lived it down. It was funny but also pathetic. Jackson, with a metro population of over 400,000, still had a small town way of remembering every embarrassing thing anybody ever did.
    “I’m sure you’d like to have a full debriefing, Detective, but I’m afraid I can only give you about ten minutes,” Tommy said, looking down at his watch. “I’ve got me a personal commitment out in Madison.”
    I’ll bet he’s doing his act at lunchtime for one of the nursing homes, thought Darla. All those blue haired ladies swooning when he croaks “Love Me Tender.” She could see him wiping his face with a handkerchief and tossing it to one of the old gals.
    “Wouldn’t want to keep your public waiting,” she said.
    His lip twitched, quivering the Elvis way.
    She wondered if it was intentional, the Elvis snarl. Did Tommy even know when he was doing it?      
    “Happened over here,” he said, pointing at the cross, still propped up against the entrance gate where the victim had left it. There were police chalk marks around it, making the outline appear like the ghost of Jesus. The kind of photo you might see hanging in an art gallery, poignant and ambiguous.
    “The jogger found the body leaned up against the cross, Reverend Jimmy’s arms splayed out over the cross-piece, his chest blown open. One shooter. Three shots. A 12-gauge. Impossible to trace. Double ought buck shot. No shell casings. The first shot stopped him. Second shot—the kill shot—knocked him back into the cross. The third shot, I’m guessing that one was for just for meanness. Probably came from a passing vehicle that had pulled over. I’m thinking it was a pickup or an SUV. The forensics and blood splatter team said from the angle of