A Judgment of Whispers (17 page)

Twenty-Six

Whatever else Jack Wilkins
might be, he wasn't the washed up old codger of a cop that Victor had described. As Mary followed him back into town, she noted that he even drove like a cop—straight, sure, and about twenty miles over the posted speed limit.

“Hope he's still got some friends on the force,” Mary whispered as he zoomed into the entrance of Lone Oak Acres. “He'll need them if he keeps driving like this.”

Construction had ended for the day, so Wilkins pulled up at the far end of the park that now surrounded the old tree. The developers had landscaped a long oval of common space with the tree at one end and a silly-looking Victorian bandstand at the other. Mary felt an odd sense of grief for the old tree. Though she doubted that it had ever saved the Cherokees from any Spaniards, it stood strong and noble, reflecting a vital part of her people's spirit. Surrounding it with band shells and eco-friendly cottages seemed demeaning, like putting a party hat on an elephant.

She got out of her car and walked over to Wilkins, who was standing next to his truck, rolled up map in hand. The dog wagged his tail as she approached. “Want to go have a closer look?” Wilkins asked.

“Sure.”

“Then I'd better hook Lucky up,” he said, reaching in the truck for his leash.

They went over to the tree. Mary had a vague memory of coming here once, with Jonathan, to see if they could spot the Spanish helmet hidden somewhere in the branches. She never found it, but back then she was far too busy gazing at Jonathan to have much interest in an old piece of armor. Still, as they drew closer to the oak, her sense of awe grew. The leaves broke the sunlight into small twinkling emeralds dancing among the dark limbs.

“They found Teresa Ewing there.” Wilkins unrolled his map on the ground. “This is a survey, drawn in 1985.” He pointed to a mark toward the right margin. “The tree's here. A wet spring had eroded several little caverns beneath it. Neighborhood kids hid out and played here for years.” He pointed to a slight depression between two huge roots of the tree. “They found Teresa there. Everything intact except her skull. I'll never forget it.”

“Who owned the tree then?”

“It was in the back of Albert Wood's two-acre lot. Mr. Wood was eighty and crippled, so he wasn't a viable suspect.” Wilkins pointed over Mary's shoulder. “The Ewing house was over there, across from Devin McConnell's house. Everybody's back yard ended at this tree.” He pointed in the other direction. “If that mound of dirt wasn't in the way, you could see Adam Shaw's and Butch Russell's houses. Janet and Butch Russell still live there, as do the Shaws, though they sent Adam to live with a relative in New York.”

“He's back now,” said Mary. “I met him yesterday.”

Wilkins frowned. “Really?”

“I went with Zack Collier for the DNA test. Adam came in right behind us.”

“Wow,” said Jack. “Things must be hopping down at the station.”

Mary turned in a slow circle. “So where was the Collier house?”

“Two doors down from the Shaws.” He pointed to a churned up chunk of earth marked off with stubby orange stakes. “Grace sold it and moved after her husband left. For a long time it was a rental. Now they're going to build something new on the lot.”

“Let's walk over there. I'd like to see what the tree looks like from there.”

They went over to the flattened piece of earth that had once been Zack and Grace Collier's yard. It was impossible to tell what their house had looked like back then.

“So how far were they from the tree?” asked Mary.

He looked through another folder he'd brought with him. “Sixty yards.”

“So you guys think Zack got mad, killed her, then ran back home with her, where his parents helped him cover it up?”

“Whaley thought that. It was dusk. Most people were sitting down to supper. The kids roughhoused a lot with Zack Collier, because he was so much bigger than they were. If anybody had seen him carrying Teresa, they would have thought they were playing some kind of game.”

“That's quite a theory, Detective.”

“I know.” He gave her a hard look. “And it's still the one people like best.”

Lucky began sniffing the ground, pulling Wilkins toward the bushes at the back of the lot. “Come on,” said Jack, stumbling after the dog. “I think he needs to pee.”

Mary followed the pair over to a thick undergrowth of weeds. With intense focus, Lucky sniffed every bush, inhaling whatever information was there. Finally after several moments, he lifted one leg against a patch of pampas grass. Mary was about to comment on how discerning Lucky was in his urinating when Jack touched her arm.

“Don't say anything. Just turn real slow and look up at the tree.”

She did as he told her. At first she saw nothing—then her eyes caught a motion behind the tree. Someone was walking down the pile of dirt between the tree and the Shaw house. She saw that it was a man, long-haired, wearing jeans. She could also tell the stranger was schooled in the old Cherokee way of walking, heel to toe, all tracks in a single file. And yet something about his gait didn't look right—even walking slowly there was a hitch to his stride.

“That's Two Toes McCoy,” whispered Jack Wilkins. “Kneel down and let's see what he's up to.”

They crouched down, hiding behind the weeds, Lucky between them. As they watched, Two Toes made his way down the pile of dirt and over to the tree. He walked not stealthily, but with quiet purpose. When he reached the tree, he dropped to his knees and lifted his arms to its huge expanse of branches. Mary could hear the faint sound of a chant rising high and ghostly, raising gooseflesh on her arms. Then, abruptly, Two Toes grew silent. He sat like a statue for a moment, then he began to dig beneath the tree. A moment later Mary saw the flash of a long knife blade as he held up something, cut it, and plunged it into the hole he'd just dug. He re-sheathed his knife, made another open-arm gesture to the tree, and got to his feet. Quicker than Mary thought possible, he was walking back up the pile of dirt, stepping in the footprints he'd already made.

“I'll be damned,” Wilkins whispered as Two Toes crested the dirt pile and disappeared down the other side.

“I thought he would look different, somehow,” said Mary.

“Different?”

“Where I grew up, everybody thought he was the devil. I figured he'd have horns and a tail, at least.”

Jack laughed. “He's getting old. His tail's probably fallen off.” He squinted at the tree. “I know that tree is significant to your history. Is it also an object of worship?”

“We aren't Druids, Detective.”

“I meant no disrespect, but you've got to admit, what Two Toes did was strange.”

Mary nodded. “It did look like some kind of ritual.”

Wilkins nudged her with his elbow. “Let's go see what he buried.”

With Lucky between them, they made their way back to the tree.

“Shall I see if he's still up there?” asked Mary. “He did have a pretty big knife.”

“Good idea.” Wilkins handed her the leash. “Take Lucky. He can pull you up that mound of dirt.”

Mary took the dog and followed Two Toes's trail. It led to the top of the mound and then disappeared in the grass of the Russell back yard. She saw no car or motorcycle awaiting an owner—just two parked bulldozers waiting like huge yellow beasts, eager to chew up the remaining three houses. She and Lucky went back down to the tree.

“If he's up there, he's hiding,” said Mary. “There's no sign of him.”

“He might have gone back to the reservation.” Wilkins pointed to the thick, dark woods a few hundred yards away. “Quallah starts there, and it's honeycombed with old trails. That's what made him such a good suspect. One minute he'd be cleaning gutters on Salola Street, the next minute he'd vanished into the woods.”

Mary said, “I guess they called him a witch for a reason.”

“Well, let's see what the witch just buried.”

They knelt down. Two Toes had swept the earth between the tree roots free of all traces of his activity. If Mary and Wilkins hadn't seen him, they would never have known anything had been buried here.

“Here.” Wilkins unfolded a pocket knife. “It might be better if you dig.”

Mary looked at him, surprised. “Why?”

“Because you're Tsalagi. I'm just an old white cop from St. Paul.”

Mary laughed, but then she realized that Wilkins was expressing his respect—for her people and for this tree.

“Okay,” she said, accepting the knife as seriously as he'd offered it.

She dug slowly in a circle, a foot in diameter, careful not to disturb what might be evidence. The earth was grainy, damp, and smelled of iron and humus. Half an inch down, she found the lacy skeletons of decaying leaves. Beyond that, a few moldy acorns, then, suddenly she uncovered a small brown pile of shredded tobacco.

“That's it.” Wilkins leaned over and took a big sniff of the stuff. “This hasn't been here twenty minutes.” He sat back on his haunches. “And it looks just like what was in the sandwich bag that Lucky found.”

Mary knew all about what Wilkins and his dog had dug up from Victor. She also knew that revealing that knowledge could get Victor in huge trouble, so she played dumb. “What sandwich bag? What are you talking about?”

“I came over here last week, just to revisit the place before it changed for good. A cop was taking Lucky here to the pound when he got a vandalism call on those bulldozers. He let the dog loose to pee, and Lucky got a whiff of an old sandwich bag. He dug it up, and a pair of girl's underpants was inside. That's what got the case reopened.”

“And tobacco was also in the bag?” asked Mary. Victor hadn't mentioned that detail.

“Yeah. Shredded, like this. For cigarettes, instead of pipes or cigars.” He looked at her. “Don't Cherokees use tobacco in religious ceremonies?”

“Historically,” she replied. “But it was smoked, to waft upward, like a prayer. I've never heard of anyone burying it in the ground.”

“Maybe Two Toes is trying to commune with a spirit that didn't make it to heaven,” said Jack. He withdrew an old-fashioned linen handkerchief from his back pocket. “Anyway, this could be new evidence. If this matches the sandwich bag tobacco, then Two Toes will have some explaining to do.”

Quickly, Mary took a pinch of the stuff for herself.

“Hey!” Wilkins said. “That's tampering with evidence.”

“I'm not tampering with it,” she replied. “I'm just taking a little for myself, in case I need my own analysis of it.”

Wilkins snorted. “To get your guy off the hook, Counselor?”

“To give my client the best defense I can provide, Detective.”

Twenty-Seven

“The thing is,” said
Harvey Pugh as he placed his coffee cup on George Turpin's desk, “Your numbers are flat.”

“Flat?” Turpin looked up from the chocolate croissant he was eating for breakfast. “What do you mean flat?”

Pugh pulled a red folder from his briefcase. “According to Effective Government Research, your numbers have moved less than one percent since the campaign kickoff.” He handed Turpin the report. “Read this.”

Turpin put his pastry down and opened a folder of pages filled with graphs and statistical projections. He thumbed through it, unable to make any sense of the squiggles and lines. “Harvey, I've got court in thirty minutes—just tell me what this means.”

“These pollsters have determined that your voter base is male, white, fifty years and older. Traditional conservatives who don't want change.”

“What's so bad about that?”

“Nothing, except that even among your base, you're not getting any buzz. You're just one great big yawn to voters who used to turn out for you big-time.”

“Don't tell me they've gone over to that little simp Prentiss Herbert.”

Pugh shook his head. “Herbert was dead right out of the gate. But look at this.” He flipped to a three-line graph. “According to their research,
this
is who people are talking about.”

Turpin did a double-take at the page, then gaped at Pugh, horrified. “Mary Crow?”

“Mary Crow.” Pugh turned to yet another page in the report. “People like her story—a Cherokee girl whose mother was murdered, who then goes to law school so she can fight crime. George, if they held the election today, Mary Crow would cook you.”

“But she's never run for anything in her life,” said Turpin. “When she filed she had two hundred dollars in her war chest.”

“But she's got that Poli Sci class from Western working for her. You could have had those kids working for you, but you wouldn't even meet with the professor.”

“He said he just wanted them to see how an election works. What good would that have done? They can't even vote here.”

“No, but they can organize. And post on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. Mary Crow has six hundred and seventy-two friends on Facebook. You're only listed on the county government page.”

“Well, then get me a fucking Facebook page! And some friends!”

“I will, but you've got a worse problem than Facebook.”

“What?”

“Your track record on the governor's domestic violence act. Mary Crow hammers you with that every chance she gets.”

“It's a crappy piece of legislation,” Turpin insisted. “It does not treat both parties fairly.”

“George, you've taken sixty-six percent of accused females to trial and only twenty-five percent of men—”

“The women won't press charges! They're afraid they'll get
beaten up worse if they do. I've begged every one of them to stand up to
their abusers, but they're too scared. If the State has no witnesses, the State has no case.”

“You should have made a better effort, George. Mary Crow's talking about establishing a safe house for such cases.”

“I didn't give anybody a free pass. Most of the male cases were alcohol related. I made sure AA meetings and anger management courses were part of their pleas.”

“But couldn't you have done a little more for the women?” Pugh held his hands out, helpless. “Given them a little protection?”

“I did the best I could!” Turpin slammed the report shut. “This office isn't exactly rolling in money!”

Pugh shook his head. “Mary Crow's got a good argument, George. And you handed it to her on a platter. If you lose this election, it'll be on this issue—perceived unfairness.”

Turpin sat back in his chair, loosened his tie. The tips of his ears glowed a vivid pink. “Can we turn this around, Harvey? Or should I start packing up my office now?”

“Right now female voters consider you soft on domestic violence. Change that and you might get some traction.”

“At every luncheon I say how Mary Crow's defended two men, both accused of murdering women.”

“And Mary comes back with how they were both innocent.”

Turpin continued. “And now she's even defending Zack Collier, the man everybody thinks killed Teresa Ewing.”

Pugh said, “And that, George, is the silver lining to this grim little cloud.”

“How so?”

“Remember who designed all of Mary Crow's signage?”

“Of course I do. Zack Collier's mother, Grace.”

“What?” Turpin's jaw went slack.

“So here's our new game plan, from now until November.” Pugh flipped to the last few pages of the report. “We hammer home the fact that right now you're gathering evidence to solve the worst crime ever committed in Pisgah County, while Mary Crow is defending one of those suspects in that murder! The suspect's mother even works for her campaign! A District Attorney is supposed to prosecute criminals, not defend them!”

“Harvey, she'll come back with that everybody's-innocent-until-proven-guilty chestnut.”

“Then, you soften a little. Say Mary's a capable attorney, say her heart's in the right place, defending the son of a campaign volunteer. But ask the hard question—would she be willing to indict this man? A former client, the son of a friend? And if she indicted him, could she then prosecute a client she's just defended?”

Turpin shrugged. “All she has to do is recuse herself. Convene a grand jury and if they indict, she changes the venue. It's uncommon, but it's not that big a deal.”

“I know that. You know that. But Fred at the hardware store doesn't. Neither does Frances, the clerk at the drugstore. You've got to make old Hardware Fred and Drugstore Frances think that Mary Crow defends child killers, that she gives her criminal friends special treatment, that her campaign is full of shady characters who know a lot more about Teresa Ewing than they're telling.”

Turpin stared at his croissant, remembering when former governor Carlisle Wilson had stood in almost the same spot as Pugh and threatened to out him as a pedophile. Though it was totally untrue, he knew in the community it would have blotted his name until the day he died. The memory still made him shudder. “It's ugly, but I guess I can do it.”

“You need to do one more thing too,” said Pugh.

“What?”

“Keep the Teresa Ewing pot simmering.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sit on your evidence. Even if those underpants come back clean, tell the press it's still an active and ongoing investigation. When their questions get specific, punt. Say you've got new information but you can't reveal it at this time.”

Turpin sighed. “Wouldn't it be wonderful if Zack Collier's DNA would turn up on those underpants?”

“If it does, fall on your knees and thank sweet Baby Jesus for saving your ass,” said Pugh. “Then get the hell up and call a news conference.”

Turpin finished Pugh's sentence with a smile. “And put a torch to every hope Mary Crow will ever have of becoming DA.”

“That's the name of the game,” Pugh replied.

Two miles from the courthouse, in the lab of the Justice Center, Butch Russell sat with his mouth open.

“This won't take a minute,” said the lab tech, a young black woman whose name tag read Shauna. “Much easier than a trip to the dentist.”

Butch thought of the dentist as Shauna rubbed the long-stemmed Q-tip on the inside of his cheek. Dr. Miles was his dentist, though he couldn't remember when he'd last been. “Miles for Smiles” was his slogan. “Spit for shit” could have been Shauna's.

“Okay,” she said, as she put the swab in a little bag. “All done.”

“Where do you go to see Sheriff Cochran?” Butch asked. His mouth was so dry he was surprised Shauna had gotten any kind of DNA out of it. “I've got an appointment with him.”

“I'll call his office,” said Shauna. “They'll send someone down to get you.”

Butch sat, nervous, his palms sweaty as she spoke on the phone. Labs had always made him jittery—his doctor's lab when he was little, with all the hypodermic needles lined up like small, glittering missiles. Back then, the worst that would happen was a penicillin shot in his butt. Now, who knows what they could hang on him, with his DNA in the system. He jumped as Shauna hung up the phone.

“Someone will be down in a minute.”

He closed his eyes, feeling as if he were about to plunge off a cliff. Why had Devin's addition to the Teresa Ewing story sounded like such a good idea? Now it seemed ridiculous—a fairy tale not even the dumbest cop would believe. He couldn't even remember half of it. And why had he let Dev talk him out of a lawyer? His mother could have gotten him one—she'd saved her money from the house sale like a squirrel burying nuts. A chill went through him. He was getting in way over his head. He needed to get out of here—come back when he had a lawyer, or at least a better recall of Dev's newly revised version of events. He stood up and was halfway out the door when he heard a deep voice call his name. He turned, then his heart stopped. His worst nightmare stood before him. Detective Buck Whaley in full sail, Taser on one side of his belt, a box of donuts in his hand.

“Hey there, buddy.” His voice boomed down the hall. “I was just coming to get you.”

Butch didn't know what to say. “I was g-going to talk to Sheriff Cochran.”

“He got called away at the last minute. But since you're just giving a statement, I can take it.”

Butch swallowed hard, considering his options. Leaving would make him look as if had something to hide. But could he get through a statement with Whaley glowering across the table?

“It's no big deal, Lawrence. Your pal Devin did the same thing, a couple of days ago. Come on. I've got a dozen crullers and a pot of coffee brewing. This shouldn't take long at all.”

“Well, okay.” Butch eyed the donuts. “I-I guess I've got time for that.”

“I thought you might.” Whaley grinned.

Whaley took him not far down the hall, to an interview room with a desk, several chairs, and a mirror. Butch guessed the mirror was two-way and that other officers would be observing this session. Whaley told him as much, several moments later, when he again read him his rights and asked if he wanted counsel.

“Just so you know”—Whaley pointed to a camera in the corner of the room—“we're recording this.”

Butch sat down, numb, trying to remember what Dev had told him to say.

“Okay, then.” Whaley took the seat opposite and shoved the box of donuts toward him. “Let her rip.”

He took a chocolate cruller, then started to repeat the statement that seemed encoded in his DNA. He and Dev and the others often played around the tree, and that afternoon they had tried, without luck, to get the girls to play Bottom Up. Then Two Toes showed up, threw a knife, and told them to get lost—the tree didn't like white kids playing around it. As he talked Whaley listened, seemingly more interested in his apple fritter than Butch's story. By the time he got to the new part, Whaley was licking sugar off his fingers.

“W-what I want to add is this. After Two Toes ran us off, I went home. A few minutes later, Dev called, begging me to go back up to the tree with him.” He stopped. For an awful second couldn't remember why Dev was supposed to have called—then it came to him: a gym lock. “He said he'd left his gym lock up there and he'd have to scrape gum if he didn't have it on his locker the next morning.”

Whaley chuckled amiably. “I remember having to scrape gum a couple of times. Wasn't much fun.”

“So we went back up there. We were looking around for the lock when we heard a noise. We hid, 'cause we thought it was Two Toes. But then when we peeked around the tree, we saw a tall man in a black hoodie, carrying Teresa over his shoulder.”

“Carrying her where?” asked Whaley.

“Up toward Zack's house.”

Whaley frowned. “Anything else?”

An electric current of panic zipped through him. Had he forgotten something? Some vital detail that would turn Dev's malarkey into the gospel truth? He didn't know. He couldn't remember.

“I don't know.” He shrugged, embarrassed, helpless. “It was a long time ago.”

“Sure was,” Whaley agreed. “Why don't we go over it again. You might remember something else.”

“The whole thing?” His voice cracked like a girl's.

“Just from when Dev called you to help him find his lock.”

For three hours Whaley made him tell the story, stopping him at different places.
Did he have a snack after school that day? Was his mother at home? What was he doing when Dev called him to go back up there? What TV show was he watching?
He blurted out answers fast, barely thinking. Though Whaley remained pleasant after he'd asked him the same questions, two and three times, it became hard to remember what he'd said before. As Butch's sweaty shirt began sticking to the back of the chair, Whaley finally seemed satisfied.

“Lawrence, I really appreciate your coming in,” he said. “It must feel good to get this off your chest.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, feeling as if he'd crossed some invisible finish line. “It does.”

“There's just one thing I can't square up, though.”

Butch felt his bowels turn to water. “What's that?”

“My brother's kids went to Pisgah Junior High, just a grade behind you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“They didn't have gym lockers at Pisgah Junior High. They didn't get gym lockers until Pisgah High.”

Every cell in his body seemed to freeze. “Are you sure?”

“I called the old superintendent of schools. Pisgah Junior High didn't even have a gym until 1997.”