A Judgment of Whispers (11 page)

Fourteen

After Grace and Zack
left the Justice Center, Mary Crow drove back to her office. Though it had not been her first time to accompany a suspect for DNA testing, it was the first time she'd delivered an autistic adult. That Zack Collier had bloodied Buck Whaley's nose and avoided jail was remarkable. Whaley prided himself on being the heavy hand of justice—he would have tased and thrown anyone else into jail on an assault charge. But Zack Collier had gone home with his mother. Maybe Cochran really had talked to Whaley. Or maybe Whaley had thought better of bullying a compromised suspect in front of so many witnesses.

Still,
she thought as she pulled into her parking space,
Zack Collier is a real wild card
. Huge, yet childish. Smart, according to Grace, but totally unable to cope with the frustrations of real life. He'd shoved her and Whaley as if they were ragdolls, yet he'd been gentle as a puppy with his friend Adam.

“Jeez,” she whispered. She couldn't imagine living through forty minutes of that kind of behavior, much less forty years. However pouty and hateful Lily Walkingstick had been, things had never gotten that bad.

She parked her car and walked toward Main Street. She should go back to the office and work on the squabbling Burtons, but the morning had left her feeling off-balance. So instead of turning into
Ravenel & Crow, she walked down three more storefronts to
HairTwister's Style Salon. As she neared the little salon, she stopped, stunned. Her campaign signs—the incredible ones Grace had designed—plastered the front window. She couldn't believe it. Quickly, she opened the door. Ross and Meilani, the younger operators, were working on two old ladies. Juanita Wolfe, the owner, looked up from sweeping hair cuttings into a dustpan.

“Mary!” called Juanita. “How do you like the front window?”

“It's amazing! When did you put these up?”

“Some woman came around this morning, asking if I'd take one. I told her I'd take ten. This town needs a Tsalagi woman in office.”

“
Wahdoe
,” Mary thanked her in Cherokee. Juanita was one of the few tribe members who ran businesses in Hartsville. “I really appreciate it, Juanita. I'm the underdog in this fight.”

Juanita laughed. “So when weren't we Cherokees underdogs?”

“Good point,” said Mary. “Hey, do you have time to work me in?”

“Come sit down,” said Juanita. “My next appointment's not till noon.”

Mary settled into Juanita's station. As she clipped a warm towel around her neck, she asked, “So what does the next DA want? A bright pink Mohawk?”

“Just a trim.” Mary looked in the mirror. Her straight, black hair had just begun to touch her shoulders. “No more than an inch.”

Juanita fluffed up Mary's hair. “Whoa,” she said, fingering a spot on the top of her scalp. “Girl, you've got a goose egg.”

“Collided with a shelf this morning,” she said, unwilling to admit that her head had connected with Buck Whaley's nose.

“That's what they all say.” Ross winked at her from the next station. “You've just been out having too much fun.”

Mary laughed. “Can't slip anything by you, Ross.”

Juanita turned the chair around and began washing Mary's hair. The warm, sudsy water felt wonderful, and Juanita expertly avoided the tender spot on her skull. Mary could have happily sat there for the rest of the day, but Juanita quickly had her upright and looking into the mirror again.

“So how've you been?” Juanita asked, starting to shape the wedge Mary had worn for years.

“Busy,” said Mary. “Speeches, lunches, the whole campaign thing.”

“Are you still lawyering, or did you put your day job on hold?”

“No, I'm still taking cases.”

“Hey, Miss DA—what's your take on Teresa Ewing?” asked Ross.

“Who?” Mary played dumb, wondering what the street talk was about Teresa Ewing.

“The little girl who got killed so long ago. Haven't you read today's paper?”

Juanita handed Mary the paper they'd all apparently been reading. The headline blared in massive type:
New Evidence in Teresa Ewing Case.
She scanned it quickly. Jerry Cochran had downplayed the story, warning everyone that it was a slim lead at best, but the paper had run with the news, giving new readers a brief history of the case, then listing the “Salola Street Gang” and Two Toes McCoy as the last surviving suspects. She returned the paper to Juanita and sighed. Grace's worst nightmare really was coming true.

“Well?” said Ross. “Who do you think did it?”

“I don't know,” replied Mary. “I was in the fourth grade at the time.”

“Ooooh,” said Ross. “Just like Teresa. Did you know her?”

“No. I went to public school. She went to Hartsville Academy.”

“I was teaching English at Hartsville High when that child was murdered,” said the old lady in Ross's chair. “I never saw anything like it. Everybody was combing the bushes for that child—all the clubs at school, the football boys. A psychic said she was at the bottom of Santeetlah Lake. And then they found her under that tree, which had been searched fifty times, at least. It just didn't make any sense!”

“That's because that big retarded boy killed her and hid her,” chimed in the old woman in Meilani's chair.

“He had a funny name—Zeb, I think,” said the first woman.

“Zachary,” corrected her friend. “Zachary Collier. He raped and killed that child, then he carried her to his house. His mother put the little girl's body in their freezer and kept her there for a month. She didn't want her boy going to prison for the rest of his life.”

“I heard something else,” said Ross, rolling his client's cottony hair. “That the mother slept with Logan to keep him from arresting the boy.”

Meilani's client went on, speaking with great authority. “I don't know about that. But I do know that my late husband's cousin Steve worked for Simpson's appliance company. That Collier woman ordered a new freezer right after they found that little girl. Steve delivered it and picked up the old one. He said that old freezer was horrible—full of bloodstains and it smelled like rotting meat.”

Ross shuddered. “Did he call the police?”

“No. He said he was afraid to get involved. And then the boy's father just up and goes to Canada!”

“He couldn't take it anymore,” said Meilani's client. “Didn't seem to bother the mother too much. She's still living here with that maniac, though I heard she keeps him locked up behind a fence.”

“There you go, Mary,” said Juanita, her scissors snipping around Mary's right ear. “Your first case as DA will be to convict that Collier kid.”

“I guess so.” Though Mary tried to smile, the alacrity with which these people had convicted Zack of murder and Grace of a cover-up sickened her. “Just remember—everyone's innocent until proven guilty.”

“Oh Lord.” Meilani's client glared at Mary with disgust. “You must be a liberal.”

“I'm just an attorney, ma'am,” Mary replied. “Sworn to uphold the Constitution. It guarantees due process, even for autistic people.”

The talk then veered to autism, about one autistic man who could do calculus in his head but could barely talk; somebody else had heard of an autistic teenager who was good as gold until the day he woke up and killed his mother with a butcher knife. By the time Juanita finished, Mary had an inch less hair and a whole new appreciation for the powers of rumor and innuendo.

“I'm sorry if they jumped on you,” whispered Juanita as Mary paid for her haircut. “People still have strong feelings about Teresa Ewing. They really want to hang whoever killed her.”

“I do, too, Juanita,” said Mary. “But I want to hang the right person.”

Mary nodded at Meilani and Ross as she left, but was glad to step out into the bright sunlight. Though HairTwister's abounded in lights and mirrors, today it felt dark inside. She knew gossip always swirled around a murder case, but those old women at HairTwister's had made Grace Collier sound as conniving as a spider.

“Well, hello there, Mary,” a voice called from behind her. “We were just talking about you.”

She turned. George Turpin stood there, Harvey Pugh beside him. The Tweedledum and Tweedledee of the courthouse crowd, today in seersucker suits and striped ties—the summer uniform of certain Southern gentlemen.

“Those are terrific signs,” said Turpin. “Really a fresh take on the usual red, white, and blue stuff.”

“Thanks,” Mary replied. “Grace Collier did them.”

Turpin's mouth curled in a smug grin. “That's what we heard. She's such a talented gal. Too bad about her son.”

“What about her son?” Mary wondered what Turpin was implying.

“Oh you know. All that Teresa Ewing business, right now with the election coming up.” Turpin rocked back slightly on his heels.

“It's a shame,” said Mary. “Takes everyone's attention from the larger issues.”

“So it does. Well, I'm glad I got a chance to compliment you on your signage.”

Again, Turpin smiled.

“See you at the Republican Luncheon.”

Mary watched as the two men continued on toward the courthouse, feeling a thrum of nervousness inside. That Turpin would try to make political hay over the Teresa Ewing case, she had no doubt. Probably he would paint all those boys-grown-to-men with a broad brush of suspicion, paint himself as the keeper of law and order, and paint her as a defender of child killers, working to help guilty people weasel out of the punishments they deserved.

Suddenly the absurdity of it all struck her. She was running for DA while representing a man everyone suspected of being a murderer. Probably, she should quit the case right now and pass Zack off to some other attorney. But Grace had worked on her campaign, believed in her message, was becoming her friend. Could she now turn Zack over to someone else?

“No,” she decided, staring at her own campaign signs. “He hasn't been charged with anything. He's given his DNA. He's entitled to counsel as much as the next person.”

And though that was true, she knew it wouldn't be enough. With Teresa Ewing, people didn't care about due process. People just wanted justice, with a huge dollop of vengeance thrown in.

Once more turning away from Ravenel and Crow, she walked to the offices of the
Hartsville Herald
. Though she hated to go to the paper since Ginger had left, she needed facts about Teresa Ewing's murder. If Turpin did make Zack Collier a campaign issue, she would need more reliable information than beauty shop gossip. Opening the door to the
Herald
, Mary put on her friendliest smile.

The prune-faced Ruby Potts looked up from the reception desk, no doubt aware that Mary would ask for something that would require some actual work on her part. “Well, Ms. Crow. Haven't seen you in a while. What can I help you with today?”

“I need something from the morgue.”

“The morgue's online now. Everything from January 1, 2002.”

“I need something from February 1989.”

“Oh.” Wearily, Ruby Simmons got out a pencil and note pad. “What items are you interested in?”

“Everything you've got on the Teresa Ewing murder.”

The woman gave a weak, mewing laugh. “You going to solve that one now?”

Mary nodded. “I'm sure going to try.”

Fifteen

Jerry Cochran re-took his
position in front of the white board, thinking strangely of his father. Richard Cochran had spent his working life in front of a chalkboard, teaching organic chemistry to undergrads who hoped to become doctors. He would come home with chalk dust on his trousers, elated when the lightbulb finally gone off in some student's head. “We don't have to worry about Mr. Stevens transferring to law school anymore,” he would tell his mother as he kissed her hello. “He finally figured out that pKa values are related to weak acids.” Though Cochran smiled at the memory, he wondered what his father would think of him standing with a blue marker in front of a bunch of cops. Y
our father would be so proud of you
, his mother always said. He liked to think she was right, that he was doing something that would please his old man.

He turned to face his own small class—a group of policemen ready to discuss what they'd learned about Teresa Ewing. Rob Saunooke leaned forward in his chair, the eager beaver of the class. Victor Galloway stretched his long legs forward, funny, but also observant and analytical. Buck Whaley sat sprawled, wheezing for air, his nose blooming like a red flower in the middle of his face. He reminded Cochran of a football player who'd taken a bad hit for the team.

Cochran looked at Whaley. “Did Maxine finally bean you with her frying pan?”

“Your pal Mary Crow did this,” said Whaley, full of hurt.

“She hit you?” Cochran knew the two had a history, but he never dreamed Mary would plant a fist in Whaley's mug.

“Her retard client freaked out and pushed her into me,” Whaley explained. “The top of her head caught my nose.”

“Did you book him?”

Whaley waved his hand, as if a fly were buzzing around his face. “It's no big deal. You monkey with an ape, you take your chances.”

Cochran assumed it had gone no further—certainly he would have heard if it had. “Well, I hope you feel better. File your injury report.”

Whaley nodded.

Cochran turned to the board. “Gentlemen, this is the latest from Winston. Good DNA on Saunooke's cigarette butts, but it doesn't match a soul in the database. Marginal DNA on the underwear—they're going to do more tests to see if they can get a readable sample, and it could take a while.”

“Are you shitting me?” Whaley's red nose grew redder. “They can reconstruct dinosaurs from a chip of bone, but they can't read a little girl's panties?”

“So they say.” Cochran saw the keen disappointment on the men's faces. “But it's not over yet. We've still got more sampling to do.”

“Who?” asked Saunooke.

Cochran looked at his notes. “Zack Collier and Adam Shaw complied Tuesday. Two Toes is already in the system. Lawrence Russell and Devin McConnell were no-shows. We still need a cheek swab from them.”

“I told Russell's mother he needed to come downtown,” said Whaley, “but I think she was on planet nine from outer space. That is one crazy old bird.”

“Who had Devin McConnell?”

“I called him,” said Whaley. “Said he'd come down, but I guess he lied.”

“Okay, that takes care of the DNA.” Cochran looked at Saunooke. “Did you interview Two Toes?”

Saunooke nodded. “He said he hadn't been near the tree, though he knew exactly why I was there.

“How did he know that?”

“He said the wind told him,” replied Saunooke. “I imagine he just reads cops pretty well.”

“He probably heard it from Janet Russell,” said Whaley. “She's got a picture of Two Toes, along with a bunch of other freaks, standing in front of a teepee.”

“Are you sure it's Two Toes?”

“I'd know those filed-down fangs anywhere,” Whaley replied.

“Did you ask her about it?” said Cochran.

Whaley nodded. “Living under that tree has gotten in her head. Two Toes conducts healing retreats—sweat lodges, vision quests, that sort of shit. He's helped her make peace with the tree.”

“Does she know Two Toes is an ex-con? Out on parole?”

“She said Two Toes had a vision in prison that led him to doing this work … that as long as he did it, he would never be locked up again.”

“Good grief.” Cochran turned to Saunooke. “Did Two Toes tell you this?”

“No. Mostly Two Toes just wanted me gone. But he does live in a trailer, surrounded by teepees.”

“I didn't think you Cherokees did teepees,” said Galloway.

“We don't. Two Toes put them up for his clients. They pay to go there and be cleansed.”

Whaley snorted. “Yeah, cleansed of their money by somebody crazier than a shit-house rat.”

Saunooke, reticent in the face of Whaley's bluster, said nothing.

Cochran turned to the board. “Well, this is interesting. Janet Russell getting spiritually cleansed by Two Toes McCoy. Wonder how Butch figures in all this?”

“I don't know,” said Whaley. “But I'll go find out.”

Cochran shook his head. “I want you to take McConnell, Whaley. He hasn't responded either. Saunooke can trace the Two Toes–Janet–Butch connection.” He looked at Galloway. “Victor, I've got a real good one for you.”

Galloway leaned forward. “What?”

“The old guy—Wilkins—said there had been a powwow in Cherokee the weekend after the girl was murdered. He's got a theory that the killer could have been some itinerant worker on the powwow circuit.”

“And you want me to see if there's a connection between powwows and murders?”

“Right. You might find a pattern.”

“That was a mighty long time ago.”

Cochran shrugged. “It's a small needle in a big haystack, but you SBI guys have resources I don't.”

“I'm on it,” said Galloway.

“Okay.” Cochran put his marker down and looked at his men. “Gentlemen, this thing has gone the way I'd feared it would. Lots of papers being sold, lots of people speculating on who did it, lots of grumbling about why we stupid cops haven't been able to arrest anybody. I would consider it an achievement of the highest order if we could clear this case and let Teresa Ann Ewing rest in peace, for good. Any questions?”

No one spoke.

“Okay, then. Be careful, and let me know what you find out.”

He watched as they filed out the room, Whaley shouldering his way through the door as if he were carrying a football, Saunooke lighter on his feet but hard on Whaley's tail. How many cops, he wondered, had gone out the door with the same orders to find Teresa Ewing's killer? It would be a miracle if his crew could nail down this one—then he really would think he'd done something to make his father proud.