A Judgment of Whispers (12 page)

Sixteen

Buck Whaley left Cochran's
meeting eager to get back in his car. Not that he was particularly inspired by Cochran's little pep talk about the Teresa Ewing case—he'd ridden on that roller coaster too many times before. Mostly he was pissed that two of his four suspects had basically given the finger to his most polite request for their DNA. He couldn't say for sure if Butch Russell's nutcase mother had given him the message, but he had spoken with Devin McConnell on the phone. The little asshole had assured him that another DNA sampling would be no problem and he would come down to the Justice Center immediately.

“Which was total bullshit,” Whaley said as he turned on to the highway. “Just another tick mark on Devin McConnell's long list of mistakes.” He'd pulled up his jacket days ago. Several DUIs, a couple of domestic calls, and his wife once had a restraining order issued against him. McConnell ran on high-octane booze, just as his parents had. How he'd managed to hang on to that stupid car lot, Whaley couldn't imagine. But he had, and not by going out of business and changing his sign every six months.

“Must have inherited his father's gift for blarney,” muttered Whaley.

He drove through town, the sun glittering off the bumpers of parked cars. Campaign signs had begun to pop up in store windows. Lucy Keil for the statehouse, Cecil Earp for City Council. When he stopped for a light he noticed several eye-catching signs for Mary Crow—green and blue with a funny little crow sitting on top of her name. He shook his head. If Mary Crow won the DA's race, he didn't know what he would do. She would fill the courthouse with female attorneys and probably make Cochran bust him down to traffic.

“Maybe that would be my sign,” he said. “Pack up Maxine and get the hell down to Florida. Work security for some fancy golf course in exchange for greens fees.”

The light changed. He rolled down Main Street, then out past the mall and the fast-food shops. As he crested a hill, he saw the Tote-A-Note car lot on the left, its bright green balloons bobbing in the sun. He turned in and parked behind a row of late model sedans, their prices splashed in yellow paint across their windshields. As he got out of his car, he noticed a man in jeans,washing a white Prius. Something about him looked familiar, but he couldn't place him. He'd gotten to the age where a lot of faces blended together—one guy in church looked a lot like another guy he'd run in on a D&D. “Devin here?” Whaley called.

“Inside.” The man glanced up, doing a double-take at Whaley's nose. Suddenly Whaley recognized him. No longer redheaded and wearing a security guard's uniform, but a balding, white-haired guy and a blue Carolina T-shirt. “Lawrence Russell?”

He gave a sheepish nod.

“Come with me.” Whaley held up his badge. “You and me and McConnell need to have a little chat.”

Reluctantly, Russell turned off his hose and trudged toward the office. Whaley followed him, his hand resting on his service weapon. Russell he'd always pegged for industrial-strength stupid. McConnell was the true loose cannon.

Russell opened the door, Whaley behind him. The interior of the office was dim, paneled in dark fake wood that held the stink of old cigarette smoke. Devin McConnell was sitting at a desk, sighting down the barrel of a Ruger 10/22, gun oil and a rag in hand.

“You get that Prius washed?” he asked, without looking up.

“He got interrupted,” Whaley said before Butch could answer.

Devin sat up straighter, his wandering eye veering over Whaley's left shoulder. “Oh,” he said, rosy spots blooming in his pale cheeks. “You.”

“Yeah, me. I was expecting you a couple of days ago, down at the jail.” With the flat of his hand he cuffed Butch on the back of his head. “You, too, Captain Jinks. Or didn't your mommy give you the message?”

“She gave it to me, but I've been busy,” Butch said. “I saw you looking in my room without a warrant.”

“I didn't need one. The high priestess of Cosmic Vibrations practically dragged me in there.” He frowned at Butch. “You know, Einstein, if you've got something to hide, you need to tell your mother not to invite cops into your crib. That just ain't smart.”

“Then that should tell you that I've got nothing to hide,” Butch replied.

“Yeah, well, we'll see.” Whaley turned to McConnell. “What's your excuse, McConnell? You said you'd be down at the jail just as soon as you could. You were so sweet on the phone, butter wouldn't melt in your mouth.”

“I got busy, too,” said McConnell. “Then I forgot.”

Whaley walked over and picked up McConnell's rifle. “Well, I guess we'll just have to figure out a way to put DNA at the top of your to-do list.” He raised the gun and drew a bead on Butch's head. “What would work for you, Russell? Some overnights in jail? Away from Mommy?” He turned the gun on Devin. “Should I march you out in cuffs when you've got some customers in this shit hole you call a car lot?”

Devin glared at him, his bad eye going nuts. “We've got rights, Whaley. I've got a lawyer. He says until I'm charged with something, I don't have to give you guys squat.”

“Your lawyer must have one of those online degrees, then,” said Whaley. “If you're a suspect in the murder of a child, there's not a judge in North Carolina who wouldn't jump to sign a warrant for your DNA.”

McConnell shrugged. “Show up with a warrant, and I'll come down there.”

Whaley lowered the rifle. “Are you sure? If I have to go to Judge Wood for this, I'm pretty sure my pal Cooksey at the paper will get wind of it. Then you two will go from regular suspects to uncooperative suspects. Wonder how many of those crates you'll move off your lot after that?” He turned to Butch. “And you might get a job doing parking lot security at Walmart.” He laughed. “They don't pay well, but all the fat, crazy freaks on YouTube shop there. You might have some fun.”

Butch swallowed hard. “Don't give my name to the judge. I'll come down there.”

Whaley turned back to McConnell. “How about you?”

McConnell shoved a clipboard across the desk. “I've got two cars coming in this afternoon. I'll be there tomorrow.”

Whaley looked at a bill of sale from a car auction in north Georgia. For once, McConnell seemed to be telling the truth. “Okay,” he said. “I'll give you a break. But if I come to work tomorrow and find that you haven't had your mouths wide open in that lab, I'll have a warrant with your names on it before lunch.”

Both men remained silent. Whaley laid the rifle back on McConnell's desk. “You two need to realize that this time, we're clearing this case. Somebody is going to jail for Teresa Ewing's murder.”

Whaley walked out the door. Butch went to the window and watched as he got back in his Crown Vic and cruised slowly out of the lot. “He's just like a great white shark,” he whispered.

“What did you say?” asked Devin.

“I said Whaley's like a great white shark. You know, like in
Jaws.
He just swims along, biding his time, and then chomp! Some poor bastard gets bitten in half.”

“Shut up,” said Devin, trying to put the scope back on his rifle. “Whaley's more like a great white idiot.”

“I don't think so.” Staring out the window, Butch stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “He's gonna get us this time.”

Dev tightened a screw on the rifle's scope. “They're just bluffing, Butch. Like always.”

Butch turned. “Dev, I used to read forensic magazines at work. The science is light years past what it was back then. They can get DNA from half-eaten pizza crusts now.”

“So?”

“They're going to get us. They've found something with our DNA on it.”

“The fuck they have!” cried Dev. Suddenly he stood up and hurled the can of gun oil across the room. It splattered across a poster of Miss Monster Truck, a bikini-clad blonde who sucked one finger while straddling a giant tire. “They haven't found anything in twenty-five years, and they sure as hell aren't now!”

“Dev,” Butch said softly. “You know what we did.”

“Yeah, but they don't.” Dev got up from and started walking around his desk, like a big dog on a short chain. “Anyway, I know something we can do to make sure they never know.”

“What? Blow up the police station?”

“We double back, like a rabbit. Send them in a different direction, away from us.”

“How?”

“Come up with a story. Cry, pretend that we've been tortured by our guilty consciences. We should have done this years ago, we'll say. But we were scared. We were kids. We didn't want to be snitches.”

“And what do we tell them?” asked Butch.

“Do you remember what you told them before?”

“How could I not? I've only told it about five thousand times.”

“We'll tell them exactly the same thing. Only we'll add a new part. A part we were too scared to tell before.”

“And say what?”

“I don't know,” said Devin, pacing faster. “Maybe we could pin it on Mr. ‘Please Forgive Me' Adam. His life has been a whole lot cushier than ours since Teresa died.”

“He's too smart, Dev. His parents would get him a good lawyer and get him off.”

Dev kept circling the desk. “Then how about Two Toes?”

Butch shook his head. “I'm not messing with Two Toes. He's one sick fuck.”

“Your mother pals around with him.”

“My mother's as crazy as Two Toes. Why do you think I keep all those guns in my bedroom?”

“You know who that leaves, then,” said Devin.

“Yeah.” Butch gazed at the floor. “Zack.”

Dev walked over, scooped up the can of gun oil, and glared at Butch. “Quit standing there, looking like such a sack of shit! Zack was always in on everything we did.”

“I know.”

“He didn't have to be,” said Dev. “We didn't have a rope around his neck, dragging him along.”

“But it wasn't like he had any say-so in anything,” cried Butch. “He did stuff because we did stuff. He didn't know any better.”

“Fuck that, Butch.” Dev held the gun oil in his hand, staring at it. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “Anyway, what would it matter, in the long run?”

Butch frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He's got no life now, and none ahead of him. His mother's what—sixty? In ten years or so she'll be dead and he'll have to go into some home anyway.”

“So you think we should put him in prison now?”

Dev brushed a shock of black hair from his forehead. “I'm saying it wouldn't be that big a deal. They'd put him in Naughton—that's a crazy house, not a prison. His mother could visit, but she wouldn't have to put up with the dumb fuck anymore. We'd be, like, doing her a favor.”

“I don't know, Dev.” Butch lowered his gaze to the floor. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, then Dev went over and put a hand on Butch's shoulder.

“Listen to me. We've got a chance to end this for good. Tomorrow, when we go to give DNA, we ask to give a statement. We don't lawyer up, we don't do anything except tell them what most of them already think anyway.”

“That Zack did it?”

Dev nodded.

“What about Adam? He likes Zack.”

“So what? It's our word against his. Maybe we can put Adam in it too.”

Butch looked at him, tears making his blue eyes look even bluer. Dev squeezed his shoulder. “Buddy, it's a Get Out of Jail Free card. Nobody would ever whisper about us again. They'd give you your badge back. People would buy cars off this lot. Everybody would call us heroes. Men who finally had the courage to come forward and tell the truth.”

Butch wiped his eyes. “Yeah, like we're real heroes.”

“Heroes take chances,” said Dev. “If we don't take this chance, Teresa Ewing's going to haunt us for the rest of our lives.”

Butch's chin quivered. For a moment he said nothing, then he said, “I don't know, Dev. It seems awfully risky.”

“Grab a chair, Butch. We'll sit down and see what we come up with. If it's no good, then we'll forget all about it.”

“No shit?” Butch sounded about ten years old.

“No shit, buddy.” Dev slapped him on the back. “Come on. Let's get busy.”

Seventeen

Grateful that the DNA
ordeal was over, Grace spent much of the day running errands with Zack. As they bought birdseed and turpentine, toilet paper and toothpaste, Zack strung more words together than he had in the past six months. The whole time he talked about Adam. He wanted to call Adam, he wanted to go swimming with Adam, he wanted to invite Adam over for dinner.

“I don't know his phone number,” said Grace truthfully.

“292-3617,” said Zack. “Butch is 297-2600. Devin is 292-4282.”

As always, she was amazed at his memory. Phone numbers from his childhood, license plates on out-of-state cars he would see only once. It was a remarkable part of his brain. She used to think he might have a future in computers, back when she thought he had a future at all.

“Can I call him, Mama? Please?”

“Maybe when we get home.” Again, she thought of the tall stranger. Once he'd hugged Zack, she recognized the boy inside the man—the up-turned, almost lupine eyes, the slightly nervous laugh, his wiry height. She wondered if Adam had ever gotten to play basketball in New York. He and Zack had shot hoops for hours, his adolescent voice cracking as he bragged that he was going to play for Dean Smith at Chapel Hill. If only he would come over and visit Zack, just once. It would mean so much to him.

Finally they headed home. She'd crested the hill before their house when she saw a small red car parked in front of their house. She frowned, growing tense. Strange cars on her street were never a good sign.

“Who's that?” Zack rolled down his window to get a better look.

“I don't know,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.

She pulled up to the car. A sandy-haired man sat behind the wheel. Grace was about to ask if needed help when he pointed a camera at them. The flash went off like lightning, making them see stars. Her heart sank. A reporter. The second wave of Teresa Ewing invasion had arrived.

“Owww!” cried Zack. “All I can see is spots!”

“I know, honey. We need to go inside as fast as we can.”

She sped forward, hoping to get the garage door up and then down before the reporter could catch them. But the young man was fast. He was on their tail, barreling up the drive right behind them. As the garage door opened to allow her SUV inside, the young man pulled up so close she didn't dare reclose the thing. Before she could unbuckle her seat belt, he was inside the garage, digital recorder in hand. She turned to Zack and handed him her Duke baseball cap, repeating the instructions Cecil Earp had given her so long ago.

“Put this on, Zack. Go inside. That man may yell questions at you, but don't answer him. Do not say a word.”

“I can't see, Mama!” Zack fisted his hands, held them against his eyes.

“I know, honey. My eyes hurt too.”
Dear God,
she thought,
all I need is for Zack to have a meltdown in front of the press
. “Look at me.” She turned Zack's face toward hers, put a cool hand on his cheek. “If you stay quiet and go upstairs, I'll let you invite Adam to dinner.”

“Really?”

She handed him her cell phone. “You have to go inside first.”

He got out of the car. Pulling the cap low on his forehead, he walked with downcast eyes up the steps to the kitchen door, the reporter shouting questions at him.

“Hey, Zack, I hear you went downtown today. Did you give the police some DNA? How did that go? Did the cops ask you any questions? Did you see any of your old pals from Salola Street?”

Grace got out of the car. When the reporter realized he was getting nowhere with Zack, he turned to her.

“How about it, Mrs. Collier? Are you looking forward to your son being exonerated for Teresa Ewing's murder?”

Grace stopped at the top of the steps and turned to him. “The only thing I'm looking forward to is you getting off my property. I'm giving you ten seconds, then I'm calling the police.”

“A lot of people think your son killed that little girl,” he called. “You might generate some sympathy for him if you … ”

Grace went inside the kitchen and locked the door. She waited, listening. He called out a couple more questions, then a moment later she heard a car start. She went into the living room and watched as the red car backed out of the driveway and turned west, toward town.

“Round one to the Colliers,” she whispered with a grim smile. She knew there would be more. This man would come back, or they would send other, more experienced reporters to badger them. They would accost her in the grocery store, wait for her at work, snap photos of Zack through their privacy fence. She guessed it sold a lot of papers for them. All she knew was that it frightened her son and made his already small world even smaller.

Zack had Adam on the phone two minutes after the reporter had pulled out of the drive. To Grace's astonishment, Adam accepted Zack's invitation. Her son put the phone to his chest and asked, “What time should he come, Mama?”

“Seven o'clock,” Grace replied. “And tell him if he wants beer or wine, he'll have to bring it.”

Zack relayed her message to Adam, then clicked off the phone. “He's coming,” he said, jumping up and down. “And he's bringing some beer.”

“Then we'll have to hurry and get ready,” said Grace. “You go sweep the patio and I'll think of something we can have to eat.”

Zack hurried outside while Grace inventoried the kitchen. Normally she didn't keep much food in the house—she'd come home too many times to find that Zack had eaten the cabinets bare. Still, she had flour and yeast, tomato sauce and cheese. They could add some green peppers from the garden and some sausage from the freezer and have a pretty decent pizza. She was good at pizza. It had been one of Mike's favorite meals.

She mixed up the dough and went outside to pick some ripe peppers. As she walked between the rows in her garden, she peered through the fence, half-expecting someone to be pointing a camera at her. She didn't see anyone, but she knew eventually, they would come. They always did.

By seven she'd chopped her peppers and punched down the dough. Zack had set the table, and was watching a tape—some unknown family having a pool party, singing “Happy Birthday” to a little boy named Landon. Zack was enthralled, but when the digital clock over the TV read 7:15, he came into the kitchen.

“Where's Adam, Mama?”

“He'll be here, honey. People don't usually come at the exact minute.”

He went back to his video, returning to the kitchen at 7:25. “He's still not here, Mama.”

“I'm sure he's just running late, Zack. Go watch your video a little longer.” She rolled out two large circles of pizza dough, now beginning to keep an eye on the clock herself. 7:30, then 7:35. Where was Adam? Had he decided not to come? Had Richard Shaw forbidden him to come?

“Don't be stupid,” she told herself, working the dough to the edges of the pans. “Adam's a grown man. He can go where he pleases.” Still, she worried. Had he gotten a better offer? A date with some girl? She wouldn't blame him if he had, but Zack would be crushed. He would cry for days.

She heard the recliner squeak in the den, then Zack came in again. “It's 7:45, Mama.”

“I know, Zack.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Why don't you give Adam another call? Find out what's up.”

She knew that was risky; if Adam didn't answer, or if Adam blew Zack off with some excuse, she could forget about pizzas. The rest of her night would be spent keeping Zack from punching new holes in the walls. She held her breath as he made the call, then she heard a car pull in the driveway. She looked out the window, half expecting the reporter, but a white Toyota pulled up. As she watched, Adam emerged, a grocery sack in his arms.

“Never mind, Zack,” she called, weak with relief. “He's here.”

Adam came in full of apology for being late. “I would have been on time,” he said, putting the beer in her refrigerator. “But my dad tripped over an old weed eater and sprained his ankle.”

“That's too bad,” said Grace.

Adam shrugged. “It's not serious, but it'll slow the move down a lot.”

“How long will you be at your mom's?” Zack asked.

“Don't know, buddy,” said Adam. “But we can hang out when I'm not helping at home.”

“All right!” Beaming, Zack gave Adam a high five. “Just like we used to.”

“Yeah.” Adam gave a wistful smile. “Just like we used to.”

Grace put the pizzas in the oven while Adam and Zack tossed a salad. They lit citronella candles and dined on the patio. Zack still ate as he had when he was twelve, filling his plate with more pizza than salad, stretching the stringy cheese out from his mouth like a tightrope. Adam ate like a New Yorker—folding the slice into a wedge, and eating in neat, quick bites. “This is really good,” he said.

She laughed. “Even by New York standards?”

“Actually, by Brooklyn standards. The best pie men live in
Brooklyn.”

“I know you're a photographer, but what exactly do you take pictures o
f
?” asked Grace.

“I'm what they call a trek photographer. I go on expeditions and safaris. Mostly with spoiled rich people, but sometimes on scientific expeditions.”

“That's incredible, Adam,” said Grace. “Have you done anything Zack and I might have seen?”

He named a couple of outdoor magazines. “When I'm not shooting CEOs overcoming hypoxia, I've gotten some pretty incredible still shots. The aurora in Iceland, the moon coming up over K2.”

Grace laughed. “I guess Pisgah County feels pretty sedate, compare to all that.”

He gazed at the bubbles rising in his beer. “I don't know that I'd ever call Pisgah County sedate.”

“I guess not,” she said. “Salola Street sure looks like a war zone.”

“Feels like one, too,” he said.

“Oh?” She sensed that he wanted to say more, but Zack suddenly rose from the table. “I'm gonna go watch a video,” he announced.

Adam looked up. “My mom says you bought some of our old ones.”

“With all my grass money,” Zack said proudly. “Fifteen dollars.”

“Are you watching any of ours now?”

“No. This is Landon's birthday party,” said Zack. “Landon and Lydia.”

“Friends of yours?” asked Adam.

“No. Just people.”

“Maybe I'll come over and watch some of our old ones with you, sometime.”

“Awesome,” said Zack, shuffling back inside the house.

Grace watched her son walk through the kitchen and turn on the TV in the den. “I guess you can see not much has changed here.”

He took another sip of beer. “I went to see Butch and Devin today.”

“Really.” She checked to make sure Zack was out of earshot. “I heard Butch works security at the college, but I never see him.”

“He just got fired. Devin scrapes by with his dad's used car lot.” He looked at her, his eyes serious. “Teresa Ewing has turned them into very bitter men.”

“I can see why they might be.”

“They hate my guts for leaving. They hate—”

Suddenly they heard a
whirr
and a
click
, from the other side of the fence. Adam turned toward the noise, then jumped up to stand between Grace and the fence.

“Get back inside,” he said softly. “There's a photographer over there.”

“Where?”

“Behind me, shooting through the fence. I'd know the sound of a shutter snapping anywhere.”

She hurried to the kitchen, Adam behind her. When they were safely inside, he locked the door and pulled down the shade. “In New York getting your picture in the paper is a big deal. Not quite the same here.”

“Welcome home,” said Grace. She went to the living room window, Adam following. They saw nothing beyond fireflies, but a moment later they heard a car drive off in the difference.

“And so it begins again,” said Grace wearily.

Adam looked at her. “What?”

“The whispers, the pointing. Reporters hounding us. People driving by, gawking at the house. I just hope that's all it is.”

“What do you mean,
all
?”

She put her palm against the cool glass of the window. “The last time I had to replace this window twice. I had a rattlesnake in my mailbox and I had to pay two hundred dollars to have the word
maniac
sandblasted off the driveway.” She gave a bitter smile as Zack laughed loudly from the den. “I truly believe that if certain people ever caught my son out by himself, they would kill him.”

“That's a shitty way to live,” said Adam.

“Yeah, it is.”

He stood straighter, suddenly full of new energy. “Look, I can help you with this. Secure your place a lot better than it is now. How about I come over first thing tomorrow?”

“Thanks, but you've got to help your own family.”

“No, I want to.” He ran a hand through his hair, the same gesture he'd made when he was twelve. “I feel like I need to, I don't know, make it up to you.”

“But you don't owe us anything.”

“I owe all of you something,” he said. “For once, I need to be a part of this.”