A Judgment of Whispers (14 page)

Twenty

“Are you sure you
won't need me to come and get you?” Ginger Cochran asked as she pulled up in front of the Justice Center. She wore a big shirt and horn-rimmed glasses and her red hair was gathered in a ponytail, high on the back of her head. It was a bookwormish schoolgirl look that Cochran found incredibly sexy.

“No, I can get a lift over to the garage.” Jerry turned to smile at Chloe, who sat in her car seat, chewing a teething biscuit. “What are you two up to today?”

“Chloe's going to Mommy's Day Out,” said Ginger.

“What's Mommy going to do?”

Ginger smiled at him over her glasses. “You won't like it.”

“You're getting a tattoo.”

“No.”

“Your nose pierced?”

“No.”

“Then it must have something to do with Mary's campaign.”

“Bingo,” cried Ginger. “You're not the sheriff for nothing!”

Cochran sighed. Officially, he was supposed to have no opinion in elections—certainly no opinion in a race that would affect his office so profoundly. And though he had not publicly expressed his views at all, he could not say the same of his wife. She had been Mary's fiercest supporter since the get-go—making calls, raising money, advising Mary on what to say to the press. Though Ginger had tried to be discreet, her actions would likely turn his already cool relations with Turpin into permafrost if the man remained in office.

He looked at her. “If you really want to help Mary, go down to the paper and tell them to stop those newsfeeds about the Ewing case. They aren't making my job any easier, and Turpin's going to start calling her out for defending that Collier kid.”

“I can't make a miracle, sweetheart. The
Herald
's box sales are up and their website traffic's through the roof.” She reached over and ran her fingers through the hair on the left side of his head. “You've got a gray hair!”

He looked in the rearview mirror. “I'm surprised I don't have more between you, Chloe, and this Teresa Ewing stuff.”

“Poor baby,” said Ginger. “Come home early tonight. We'll put Chloe to bed and I'll give you a massage.”

Smiling at the prospect, he kissed Ginger good-bye, then leaned back to nuzzle Chloe's bare foot. “See you two girls later.”

He got out of the car and watched them drive away. In that moment he was a happy man; happy that they were his, happy that at the end of the day, he would return to them. Whistling, he started walking toward the side door of the Justice Center when he heard someone call him.

“Sheriff!”

He looked around to see Louise, his new secretary, bustling out the front door. “Hey, Louise.” He noticed a rare look of excitement on her long, slightly horselike face. “What's up? Somebody set off the smoke alarm in the jail?”

“I was going to text you, but I saw Ginger pull up,” she said, breathless. “One of those boys—those men—who came to give DNA in the Teresa Ewing case, wants to make a statement.”

“Which one?”

“Devin McConnell,” she said. “And he'll only talk to you.”

Ten minutes later, Cochran entered the interview room that held Devin McConnell. Though he and Devin were close to the same age, he had seemed younger. He'd dressed up, misbuttoning a white dress shirt and crookedly knotting a green tie. He reminded Cochran of a kid sent to the principal's office, waiting to plead his case.

“Mr. McConnell?” Cochran nodded. “You wanted to talk to me.”

“Yeah,” he said, working a piece of gum double-time.

“Have you today been advised of your rights?”

“I signed the paper.”

“Do you want an attorney? We can get you one if you can't afford one.”

“I don't need a lawyer. I—I just need to put an end to this.”

“An end to what?”

“Teresa Ewing.”

“Okay.” Cochran turned and nodded at a camera in the corner of the room, giving the signal to start the machine rolling. “Just so you'll know, we're recording this.”

He shrugged. “I figured as much.”

“So what do you want to tell me?”

“I, uh, I—” Devin coughed, his forehead shiny with sweat. “I want to clear something up. Something that happened a long time ago.”

“Okay.”

“That last afternoon—that last afternoon that Teresa was alive—Butch Russell and I saw something.”

Cochran opened the file. “And what was that?”

“Well …” Devin continued to fidget in his chair. “We'd been playing. I'd borrowed some marked cards from my brother. We were trying to get the girls to play Bottom Up, but we pissed them off and they went home all mad. Then Two Toes McCoy appeared.”

Cochran looked up. “Appeared?”

Devin shook his head. “I don't where he came from. We just looked up, and there he stood. Mad as hell.”

“What about?”

“I don't know. He started giving us a lot of grief about the tree … that it was holy to his people, and not a place for little white boys to play cards. He pulled out a knife.” Devin brushed his hair back and gave a weak laugh. “It seems pretty lame now. But back then, I was scared. I thought he might cut us up.”

“Go on,” said Cochran.

“Well, anyway, Two Toes threw his knife at the tree. It landed right over Zack's head. We all just took off running. Everybody went home as fast as they could. I didn't realize until later that I'd left my gym lock behind.”

“Your gym lock?”

“Yeah. We had to clean out our lockers every Tuesday night and leave them open for inspection. If you didn't have your lock the next day, you'd be in trouble.” He sighed. “Junior high is just so fucking stupid, you know?”

Cochran grunted, thinking of his own miserable days in seventh-grade gym.

“Anyway, I had to get that lock. I didn't want to go back to the tree by myself, so I called up Butch to come with me. He didn't want to go either, but I made him.”

“How much time had passed when you decided this?”

“I don't know—maybe half an hour.”

“And how did you make Butch go with you?”

“I told him he had to. You know, we were tight—better friends than with Adam or Zack.” Devin cleared his throat. “It was almost suppertime, so we both hurried out of our houses and sneaked back up to the tree, in case Two Toes was still there.”

“Then what?”

“We got to the opposite side of the tree and dropped down to the ground. We heard a noise, like something hitting the ground really hard. I thought maybe something had fallen out of the tree. A second later, I heard someone crying. I knew that wasn't Two Toes, so I looked around the tree.” He looked at Cochran and swallowed hard. “I saw somebody tall, carrying Teresa over his shoulder.”

“How tall?”

“I don't know—not Michael Jordan tall, but taller than Butch and me.”

“How was this tall person dressed?”

“Jeans, and a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up.”

“Who was crying? Teresa or the person carrying her?”

“I don't know. I guess it was more like a whimper than a cry.”

“Was the hooded person a man or a woman?”

“I thought it was a man. It looked too big to be a woman.”

“Were they white? Black? Cherokee?”

“I couldn't tell. It was almost dark and honestly, I was looking more at Teresa.”

Cochran didn't blink. “Where did this person appear to be going?”

“Toward Zack's house.”

“Did Teresa look conscious?”

Devin shook his head again. “Teresa looked dead.”

“What did you do then?”

“I ran the hell home. So did Butch.”

“What about your gym lock?”

Devin looked surprised at the question, then shrugged. “I forgot all about it. Nobody gave a shit about the gym lock after that, anyway. Everybody was too busy looking for Teresa.”

For a while Cochran studied his notes. Then he said, “You know, Mr. McConnell, you could have saved the police a lot of time if you'd included this in your original statement.”

Devin's bad eye rolled toward the ceiling. “I know I should have. But I was scared shitless.”

“Of what?”

“Of being a snitch, of getting in deeper than I already was. Everybody had gone crazy. Cops were questioning us night and day, my old man was beating the crap out of me, people were saying we'd gang-raped and killed her. Hell, I wasn't even sure of what I'd seen. For a long time, I thought maybe I'd dreamed it.”

“But now, suddenly you're sure?”

“I'm sure I saw a tall person in a hooded sweatshirt carry that girl off. I'm sure I heard someone crying. I'm sure Butch Russell saw and heard the same thing I did.”

“But not Adam Shaw?”

“If Adam Shaw was there, I didn't see him.”

“And you didn't actually see anyone kill Teresa Ewing?”

“No. But someone who looked was as tall as Zack found her and carried toward his house.”

“Why do you think he would do that?”

“Because he's Zack,” said Devin. “Because he wouldn't have known what else to do.”

Twenty-One

Jack Wilkins was sitting
at the counter of the Waffle House when his pal Irving slid onto the stool next to him.

“I see you're back to your usual today.” Irving glanced at Jack's half-eaten hamburger and French fries. “Loading up for the Geezer Invitational?”

“Not this year. How about you?”

“Playing partners with Ray Mears. How come you're sitting out?”

“Too many chores at home,” said Jack, “with the new dog and the chickens.”

“Aw, tell him the real reason, Chief.” Linda came by and poured Irving a cup of coffee.

“What?” Irving blinked at the two of them through his thick glasses.

“Haven't you heard the news?” Linda reached for the paper that someone had left on the counter. “Chief's cold case has just gotten hot. He's the man!”

Jack glanced again at the paper he'd already read twice. The headline trumpeted—
Teresa Ewing Murder Reopened
. A reporter named John Cooksey rehashed the case, complete with old pictures of him and Buck Whaley—both of them looking earnest, determined, and incredibly young. He flinched at the bushy blond sideburns he'd worn back then. He'd thought they looked dashing, but really they just looked silly. How kind Jan had been not to mention it.

Irving pushed his glasses up on his nose and devoured the story. “They've really got new suspects? After all this time?”

“They just found some new evidence,” said Jack, trying to tamp down Irving's enthusiasm. “Same old suspects—only now they're men instead of boys.”

“I remember that Salola Street gang,” said Irving. “Crazy kids. One was, what, retarded?”

“Autistic, according to the paper,” Linda chimed in. “They're the really odd ones. I've got one who comes in here with his family. Sits in that back booth, orders the same thing every time.”

“Ha!” Irving poked Jack in the ribs. “A burger and fries?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. But the autistic kid goes crazy if it isn't
exactly
the way he wants it. Tomato on the plate instead of the bun, fries all lined up like logs. I'm telling you, those autistics look normal, but they're a few bricks shy of a load upstairs.”

Jack suddenly thought of one of his chickens, Tallulah. The other hens considered her odd and had pecked her mercilessly, the dominant hen Sequoia leading the charge. Then one morning Tallulah got fed up. She flew at Sequoia like a rooster, feet forward, as if she had spurs. The two had quite a dustup, but afterward, none of the chickens ever messed with Tallulah again. Too bad that autistic kid couldn't beat up the people who talked about him.

“So, you think they'll get him this time?” asked Linda.

“Who?” Jack was still thinking about Tallulah.

“The retarded boy!”

“I don't know that he's guilty. I'm retired, remember? Right now I know as much about this case as you two.” Which wasn't exactly true. He knew considerably more about this case, and kept checking his phone in hopes that young Sheriff Cochran or even Buck Whaley would call him and ask him to consult on it. But his phone had remained silent, except for this John Cooksey, who'd started pestering him yesterday.

“Well, it'll be interesting to see what happens,” said Irving. “Personally, I never thought the retarded kid did it, anyway.”

“You did the last time we talked about it,” said Jack.

“No, I really always thought it was that Cherokee guy.”

“Two Toes McCoy?”

“Yeah. He did yard work in that neighborhood. I think he was hanging around, saw the girl, and grabbed her.”

“And then hid her for a month and brought her back?” Linda pursed her lips, skeptical.

“Sure,” Irving insisted. “The Cherokees can hide anything they want to in these mountains.”

Jack tucked back in to his hamburger, leaving Irving and Linda to debate the merits of Two Toes as the murderer. He'd just dipped his last French fry in his ketchup when his cell phone rang. He hoped it might be the sheriff, but John Cooksey's name appeared on the screen. Disappointed, he switched off the phone. He wasn't going to spin his wheels talking to some idiot reporter.

He finished his burger and got up from the stool, leaving eight dollars under his plate, the price of his meal and the two-dollar tip. “I'll see you guys later,” he said. “I've got things to do.”

“Let me know if you ever want to play golf again,” Irving said, sounding wounded.

“I will.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Good luck in the tournament. Hope you take home the trophy.”

He walked out into the parking lot, feeling as if he were in limbo. Before he'd gone over to that old tree, golf had been an enjoyable pastime—walking outdoors, navigating the perils of old age with his friends. Now trying to flail a tiny white ball into a distant hole seemed ridiculous, a waste of time insulting to the hours remaining in your life. Better to read. Better to watch his chickens. Better to figure out who killed that little girl.

He got in his truck. Lucky, who'd curled up in the passenger seat, woke up and wagged his tail. He gave the dog a pat as he turned on his engine. It was only when he'd pulled back out on to the highway that he realized the twitching had returned to both his thumbs.

He stopped at the hardware store to get a bag of chicken feed, then he headed home, Lucky leaning out the window, the wind blowing his ears back like furry brown wings. He turned into his driveway, ready to drive over to the chicken coop when he saw a black Miata parked in front of his house, the driver's door open.

“Cooksey,” he whispered. “The little twerp must have found out where I live.”

He drove slowly toward his house, wishing Lucky would leap out of the truck barking and snarling. But so far the dog had greeted everyone he'd met with wiggling delight. Jack doubted he would greet this Cooksey character any differently.

He pulled up beside the Mazda. “At least pretend to be a watchdog, Lucky,” he told the dog as it jumped to the ground and ran over to the little sports car, his tail wagging.

Jack approached the car more slowly, waiting for the reporter to emerge and start peppering him with questions. Instead, a good-looking woman sat behind the wheel, her hair as black as the car. Cooksey must be taking a different tack, he decided. Sending one of his female cohorts to charm information out of him.

“Can I help you?” Jack asked neutrally.

“I'm trying to find Detective Jack Wilkins.” The woman looked up from greeting Lucky. Her eyes were the kind of mottled hazel that could shift colors. Gray to green and even to gold, maybe.

“You found him.”

She got out of her car. “My name is Mary Crow. I was wondering if you'd talk to me about the Teresa Ewing case.”

“I told your pal Cooksey I had nothing to say.”

She frowned. “My pal Cooksey?”

“Honey, I'm a veteran at this. I know all the tricks. Cooksey sent you out here to pump me.”

“I'm sorry. I don't know anyone named Cooksey.”

“From the
Hartsville Herald
? His byline was all over the front page this morning.”

She reached for her purse, handed him a business card. Dark blue letters on a light green card spelled
Mary Crow, Attorney at Law
.
Tsalagi clients welcome.
Somewhere in his head, a faint bell of recognition chimed.

He returned her card. “If you welcome Tsalagi clients you must be representing Two Toes.”

She shook her head. “Zachary Collier, actually. The one everybody thinks is guilty.”

“And you want me to tell you he's not?”

“No, I just want to talk to somebody who was there. Stump Logan's dead and Buck Whaley would rather dance with the devil than talk to me.”

He laughed at the notion of Whaley dancing with anything. “So that leaves me to help get your client off the hook.”

“Sir, I'm not sure that he doesn't belong on the hook,” she replied. “But I believe he's entitled to a fair trial. Thanks to Mr. Cooksey, that grows less likely by the minute.”

He shrugged. She did have a point—certainly most of the people at the Waffle House were ready to string Collier up. He frowned, trying to place her. Then it came to him. “Aren't you the girl who defended that eagle trainer a couple of years ago?”

She nodded. “I was Nick Stratton's counsel.”

“And that crazy Cherokee boy, a few years before that?”

“Ridge Standingdeer was also my client.”

He gave a soft whistle. “You must have a real appetite for uphill climbs.”

She laughed, and in an instant went from attractive to gorgeous. Something about her smile made his heart skip a beat. “Let's just say I have a soft spot for the unjustly accused.”

“And a hard spot for the guilty?”

“Oh yes.” Instantly, that gorgeous smile turned cold. “I take being guilty personally.”

Though he knew it was crazy, knew he was being an old fool dazzled by a pretty woman, he decided to talk to her. Cochran and Whaley certainly weren't interested in anything he had to offer. He'd have to be careful of what he revealed, but at least he'd be kind of in the game again. It would be a nice break from watching chickens all day.

“Then come on in the house,” he finally said. “And I'll tell you what really happened the night Teresa Ewing vanished.”