A Judgment of Whispers (15 page)

Twenty-Two

Grace woke up late,
the colors of her quilt glowing bright in the morning sun. Sleepy, she checked the clock beside her bed. 8:32—much later than her usual wake-up time. Had Zack awakened her in the middle of the night? Had something bad happened? No, she realized as her memory sharpened. Though a photographer had ended it badly, last night they'd had a party with Adam Shaw.

“Unbelievable,” she whispered as she got out of bed. “After all these years, Zack has a friend.”

She brushed her teeth and threw on jeans and one of the shirts she wore for her classes. No need to button the wrists today, she thought, looking at her arms. Zack hadn't grabbed her in a week. Considering all that they'd been through lately, that in itself was a miracle.

Tiptoeing into the hall, she opened his door. He slept, snoring, surrounded by his stuffed animals—Smiley the dog, Tigger the tiger, and some unnamed gray thing that had once been a toy kitten. Usually she woke him up before she went to work, but today she decided to let him sleep. Yesterday had been an ordeal for him, with the cops and the DNA, and the reporter. Who knew what today might bring?

Quietly, she made a circuit of the house. No photographers were lurking around the back fence, and the front yard was equally calm—cardinals flashing red at the bird feeders, two squirrels arguing in the maple tree. Distantly, she heard a car approaching. Dreading to see who might pull up, she waited. To her great relief, Clara's yellow Bug turned the corner and chugged up the driveway.

“Thank God,” Grace whispered. She hurried into the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. She was tempted to pretend this was just another ordinary day, but she knew Clara needed to know what was going on. Strangers—police, reporters, maybe even the FBI—might come asking for Zack. She opened the back door just as the girl was about to knock.

“Good morning.” Smiling, Grace offered her a cup of coffee. “Two sugars, cream, and a little cinnamon, right?”

“Thanks.” Clara took the coffee, her brown eyes wide. “Is Zack still here?”

“Of course,” Grace replied, surprised by the girl's question. “Why wouldn't he be?”

Clara held up a copy of the
Hartsville Herald
. The front page dripped with news of Teresa Ewing. “I thought he might be in jail.”

Grace's mouth went dry as she skimmed the stories.

“It's all about that murdered girl,” said Clara. “They said Zack played with her. He was the only one they ever arrested.”

Grace felt a sudden dizziness. She tried to explain. “Clara, Zack was fifteen then. The police questioned him for hours back then, yelled at him. He would have said anything to make them be quiet. You know how he gets when people talk too loud?”

She nodded. “Smackertalking.”

“The police smackertalked for hours. He didn't know to ask for me or his father.” Grace brushed her hair back from her forehead, desperate to reassure the girl. “Look, I know this looks bad, but you've worked with Zack for two years now. Do you honestly think he could kill somebody?”

Clara considered the question. “He can get upset pretty fast.”

“Have you ever felt afraid of him?”

She stared at her coffee. “Sometimes he scares me,” she finally admitted. “But I've never thought he was going to kill me.”

“He never would kill you, Clara. He didn't kill that little girl.”

“But is it dangerous here now?” Clara asked softly, the slightest trace of a Spanish accent returning to her voice. “I mean, are the police going to come here?”

“I honestly don't know,” Grace said. “Why? Is that a problem?”

Clara swallowed hard. “I'm afraid of the police. When we lived in Miami, they took my brother out on our driveway and aimed a gun at his head. They screamed at him, yelled that he was a drug dealer. Turns out they had the wrong house, but they still almost gave my mother a heart attack.”

Grace said, “I don't think they'll come back today. But I understand if you'd rather go home.” She held her breath, praying the girl would be brave enough to stay with Zack for at least one more day.

Clara gave a deep sigh. “No, it's okay. You need to go to work, and I need this job.”

“Then let's say this—if any strangers come by, close the drapes and don't answer the door. If the police come, call me. If anybody starts vandalizing the yard, call me.”

Clara frowned. “Vandalizing?”

“Throwing paint on the driveway, destroying the mailbox. Stuff like that happens when the paper runs a story about Teresa Ewing.”

“So, what should I do with Zack? Today we usually swim at the lake.”

“Just keep him here,” said Grace. “Have him fill the bird feeders and clean his room. This weekend he spent all his money on some new videos. He can watch those.”

Clara smiled as Grace reached to give her a hug. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate your staying. You've got the emergency number. Call if anything happens—I'll keep my phone with me today.”

Grace hurried on to the college. Though her first class was a long one—a three-hour landscape course—at least it was outside, away from her studio. If Clara had read about Zack in the paper, then so might Dean Ferguson or Alice Richards, the chair of her department. She always felt as if she were skating on thin ice with the administration; even though she got excellent critiques from her students and her classes had waiting lists, Zack's situation made her keep short office hours and skip most faculty meetings. Alice Richards never missed a chance to comment on her absences. “I'm so sorry,” she would say. “I completely forgot about it.” Alice always smirked, as if she knew Grace was lying.

Grace met her students at the door of her studio and led them to a small creek that bordered one edge of the campus. An old, vine-draped stone bridge spanned the stream, making the setting both romantic and challenging. “Concentrate on the reflective quality of water,” she told them as they set up their easels. “And remember, you'll have to work quickly. The sun is moving, so your light and dark values will move as well.”

Keeping her cell phone on vibrate, she walked from student to student, suggesting a darker shade of paint here, correcting an error in perspective there. Though she tried hard to concentrate on her teaching, it was difficult. Like the dragonflies that darted over the water, her thoughts kept careening first to Zack, then to Clara, then to the faceless, lab-coated scientist who would determine if her son's DNA was on those underpants. Just when she'd decided the class would never end, the students began folding up their easels, done for the day. Grace followed them back up to the arts building, relieved that she'd gotten no calls from Clara or any questions about the articles in the paper.
Maybe it'll just die down this time,
she thought.
Maybe some new war or epidemic will break out and everybody will forget about stupid little Teresa Ewing.

She had just unlocked her studio door when Alice Richards bustled around the corner, a sheaf of papers in hand. Though it was eighty degrees outside, she wore a red wool beret with a ceramic zebra pin attached to the front. Alice's hats were legend; Grace always figured it was her attempt to look arty, as opposed to actually having any artistic talent herself.

“Grace!” Her pudgy face widened in a smile. “I was hoping to catch you. Have you got a minute?”

“Sure,” Grace said weakly, knowing that her having a minute was not up for discussion. “Come on in.”

She entered her studio and flipped on the overhead lights. Alice followed and closed the door behind her. “I need to speak with you before your next class.”

“Okay.” Grace's stomach grew queasy. Alice's pale blue gaze was friendly and yet sharp.

“Grace, I read the paper this morning. I knew you had a special needs son, but I had no idea he was a suspect in a murder investigation.”

Grace fought a moment of panic. “He w-was one of several children who were questioned, Alice. I can promise you that he is innocent.”

“You can promise me?” Alice's brows lifted, as if Grace might reach in her purse and pull out Zack's airtight alibi, wrapped up in a bow.

“He's not that kind of boy. He's not a killer.” She knew her words sounded ludicrous. Osama bin Laden's mother had probably said the same thing.

“Of course he's not,” Alice gushed, full of empathy.” But the thing is, I'm responsible for making sure that our faculty members don't reflect poorly on the college.”

Grace felt as if she were free-falling from an airplane. Was Alice going to fire her? Right now, before her still life class?

“I know this must be an incredibly stressful time for you. Would you like to take a leave of absence until all this is settled?”

Grace knew she couldn't quit working. She had bills to pay, medications that Zack's Medicaid did not cover, and now the ongoing services of Mary Crow. “I'd really like to stay on. This Teresa Ewing business will blow over. It always does.”

“But can you teach effectively? Not be distracted?”

“Absolutely. It's what I do—what I love.” She was about to explain that she'd just hired a new model for her anatomy class when her cell phone rang. It was the siren-sounding ring, the one she'd assigned Clara; the girl only called when the shit hit the fan. “Excuse me,” she blurted, dreading what news the call might bring. “I need to answer this.” She turned her back to her boss and spoke in a hushed voice, “Clara? Is everything okay?”

“I don't know what to do!” Clara sounded nearly hysterical. “Zack went out to fill the bird feeders and found dead animals all over the yard.”

“He found what?”

“Squirrels, rabbits, all bloody. He ran back inside, crying, then he started beating his fists against the walls. I've never seen him like this!”

“Dead animals upset him, Clara. Give him a Valium and let him watch a video.”

“There isn't any more Valium … the bottle is empty. Zack! Noooo!”

Grace heard a crash, then a scream. “Clara?” she cried. “Clara, are you okay?”

There was a rustling sound, then Clara came back on the phone. “He just tore up one of your paintings.”

“Don't worry about the painting.” Grace turned, trying to think of what to tell Clara when she saw Alice Richards quietly letting herself out the door. “Wait, Alice,” she called, “I'm just having a little emergency at home.”

Alice flashed her dimpled smirk. “Don't worry about a thing! We'll talk later. After your emergency's over.”

Grace watched her leave, knowing that her job was probably walking out the door with Alice, but there was nothing she could do about that now. Now she had to get Zack under control. “Clara? Are you still there?”

She heard another crash, then Clara spoke again. “I'm here.”

“Listen,” said Grace, “pop him some popcorn and turn on his videos. I'm going to call his prescription in to the pharmacy. I can't leave now, but I'll get somebody to come over with the medicine.”

“Okay,” Clara said, her voice shaky.

“I'll come straight home as soon as I can.”

“Okay.”

“Don't worry, Clara. Everything's going to be fine.”

She disconnected the call and began scrolling through her numbers to find someone to help. She didn't have many friends, and none had ever been to her house when Zack was having a meltdown. She was going through her contact list when an idea occurred to her. Adam Shaw! Zack had used her phone to call him yesterday. Could she presume upon him again? Would he be willing to help Zack out once more?

She didn't know, but she had to ask. In five minutes her next class would start filing in the door. With shaking fingers, she punched in his number. “Please let him answer,” she whispered. “Please let him help us one more time.”

Twenty-Three

Four hours after they
began, Jerry Cochran had Devin McConnell sign his statement. “Thanks for coming in,” he said. “Too bad you didn't do it a couple of decades sooner.”

“Better late than never,” replied Devin.

“Don't leave town,” Cochran said flatly. “We may need to talk further.”

Cochran escorted him to the front entrance of the Justice Center, watching as he left in a late model red Mazda. Then he pulled out his cell phone and texted Whaley.
Interview rm 1 now
. By the time he got a cup of coffee and made his way upstairs, Whaley was waiting.

“What's up?” The detective slurped something from a giant Dunkin' Donuts mug.

“Come watch this.”

They went to the control room, where Cochran cued up Devin McConnell's interview.

“He came in this morning for his cheek swab,” said Cochran. “Then said he wanted to give a statement, but only to me.”

Whaley laughed. “Little shit's too scared of me.”

“Have a look at this,” said Cochran. They sat at a table, and watched as Devin McConnell gave the latest version of the afternoon Teresa Ewing died. Cochran had the thick case file spread out on a table, trying to corroborate the points of the story as Devin went along. Whaley sat motionless, ignoring his cold drink, his eyes focused on Devin. After he went through his first recounting of the story, Cochran turned off the monitor.

“It's just four more hours of the same,” he said. “The guy didn't wobble at all.”

Whaley leaned back in his chair and made a sucking sound with his straw.

“What do you think?” asked Cochran.

“He's lying.”

“How do you know?”

Whaley snorted. “Because his lips were moving. Hook him up to a polygraph. You'll see.”

“Whaley, you need to—”

“Devin McConnell is the biggest liar of that bunch. Zack Collier's an idiot, and Butch Russell's only a couple of IQ points smarter than a tree stump.”

“What about Adam Shaw?”

Whaley shrugged. “He gave a statement right after his cheek swab. His story hasn't changed. The girls went home, the boys stayed longer, playing with that deck of cards. Two Toes showed up and they all scattered. Adam claims he went home, which his mother corroborated.”

“That's not the strongest alibi I've ever heard,” said Cochran. “My mother would probably say the same thing.”

“Still, I'm guessing McConnell cooked up this new, improved version with Russell. They were both over at the Tote-A-Note lot yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“Russell lost his campus security job, so now he's McConnell's detail man. I went over there to remind McConnell that we needed his cheek swab and saw the two of them.”

“So you're thinking Russell's going to come in and give a statement similar to this?”

Whaley chuckled. “I would put a year's supply of donuts on it. Maybe not today, but tomorrow, or the day after, Russell will come in for swab and then say he wants to make a statement, probably only to you.”

“Why me?” asked Cochran.

“'Cause you were what—ten when Teresa Ewing died? You don't know this case like I do. Nobody does, except Wilkins.”

“But why hang this on Collier now? They could have done that decades ago.”

Whaley shrugged. “Something about those panties is making them nervous. Or maybe they're just fucking tired of always being the ones whose names come up in the news feeds. McConnell's got a couple of kids, old enough to surf the net now. I imagine he'd rather not have it out on Facebook that their pop might be a murderer.”

Cochran sighed. “You know, for three seconds I thought we might be making some headway.”

“Welcome to the brotherhood of Teresa Ewing,” said Whaley. “All of us suckered in by leads that go nowhere, clues that turn out to mean squat. It'll drive you crazy, if you let it.”

“Is that what happened to Wilkins?”

“Hamburger Jack was sketchy for a while, but I think he's okay now.” Whaley stuck out his hand. “How about it? Are we on for the donuts?”

“Sure,” said Cochran. “Though I think this is one bet I might lose.”

Whaley laughed. “All I can say is it's gonna get interesting when the DNA report comes in.”

“So what did he say? How did he act?” Butch Russell shredded his napkin into small bits, a nervous habit left over from the seventh grade, when his dreaded English class met immediately after lunch.

“I did most of the talking, Butch. I was giving a statement.” Dev McConnell dragged a French fry through the puddle of ketchup on his plate. They sat at Mike's Grill, a place noted for its patty melts and cheap beer.

“But did he believe you?” Butch reminded Devin of a chipmunk, with fat cheeks and tufts of hair fuzzing up over his ears.

Dev remembered Cochran's cop-cold eyes, the way he made him go over the story for hours. They didn't quit until well past noon. “I don't know. He asked me a lot of questions.”

Butch reached for another napkin to shred. “Like what?”

“What Two Toes said, what Adam said, what Teresa said.”

“What did you say?”

“The same story we've told since day one.” Dev took a swallow of beer. “Butch, the only thing different is what we added yesterday. That's the only thing you have to worry about.”

Butch gazed out into the parking lot, where two men in denim jackets pulled up on chromed-up Harley hogs. “Didn't he ask why you didn't say anything before now?”

Dev nodded.

“What did you tell him?”

“That we were scared.”

“What else did you say about me?”

“I said we were best pals. I needed to get my gym lock. I asked you to go with me back to the tree because we were scared of Two Toes.”

“Your gym lock?” Butch frowned, as if this detail were part of a complicated algebra equation. “You didn't say that yesterday.”

“So what?” Dev looked around the restaurant to make sure no one was sitting nearby. “Write this down, shit-for-brains. I made you go back to the tree with me. We sneaked up on the tree, to make sure Two Toes wasn't there. We heard a noise. Then we looked around and saw a tall man in a dark hoodie carrying Teresa toward Zack's house. She looked dead.”

“What about Adam?”

“Forget Adam, Butch. I don't know where the fuck he was. He isn't part of this story.”

“But won't they ask?”

“Yes,” said Dev, fighting the urge to stuff French fries up Butch's nostrils, “they'll ask. You say you don't know. It's okay. Nobody has the whole picture. Nobody remembers everything in exactly the same way.”

“I don't know.” Butch shook his head. “I think I ought to put Adam in there somewhere.”

“No!” Dev slammed his fist down on the table. “You put Adam in there and we're dead men.”

“But … ”

“Butch, Adam is real smart. If he finds out that we put him in the story, it'll piss him off and he'll figure out a way to frame us. You've lived next to his parents all your life. You know what they're like.”

“Yeah.” Butch stared at his little pile of shredded napkin. “I guess I do.”

“Okay, then. You need to stick with what we've already worked out. Don't add anything, don't leave anything out.”

“I'll go down there, then. Ask for Cochran.”

“Wait a minute—I thought that was the way to go yesterday. Now I'm not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you go in there and do exactly the same thing I did, it's going to look like we worked it out beforehand. That's not good.”

“But you said it would look better if we both volunteered the story when we had our cheek swabs!” he cried. “Now I'm sitting here looking like I'm hiding something.”

“I know, I know. Let me think a minute.” As Dev took another swallow of beer, he realized he might have laid too heavy a load on Butch's brain. Already the guy was close to freaking out. Adam would have been better to partner up with. He could have handled Cochran like a pro. But it was too late now. If he left Butch out at this point, he'd blow it for both of them.

“Just wait and see what they do,” he finally said. “If they call you in, then we'll know they've bought the story. If they don't call you, then just go give your DNA. There's no point in your going through hours of saying the same if they aren't going to believe it.”

For an instant Butch looked relieved; then his brows drew together in a new frown. “So I have to just sit here and sweat?”

“Don't think about it,” said Dev. “You'll just make things worse.”

Butch had just opened his mouth to say something when suddenly his phone rang. He dug it out of his jeans and answered it. “Yeah,” he said to the caller, a moment later. “I can do that. No problem at all.”

He clicked off and looked at Dev. “That was Sheriff Cochran. He wonders if I'd be willing to give an interview when I give my DNA.”

“Damn!” Excited, Dev gave a fist pump. “It's working, brother. It's fucking working!”

“Yeah,” Butch said weakly, his already pale complexion now the color of paste. “The thing is, Cochran also thinks I need a lawyer.”