A Judgment of Whispers (3 page)

Three

Jerry Cochran took a
set of calipers and pulled the underpants to the top of the bag. “Are you kidding me?
Teresa E. Cabin 8?
”

“Maybe she'd gone to summer camp,” Saunooke said, almost breathless. “Maybe she wore those there.”

“A lifetime ago,” Cochran replied. He dropped the pants back inside the bag. “This sandwich bag doesn't look like its been in the ground more than an hour or so.”

“That's what I thought,” said Saunooke. “Makes you wonder if it didn't get here, like, today.”

“You get anything else?” asked Cochran.

“A cigarette.” Saunooke held up the broken cigarette he'd placed in another evidence bag. “The dog might have shredded it, digging up the underpants.”

Cochran turned to Wilkins, his eyes cold. “This one of your smokes, buddy?”

Wilkins shook his head. “I quit years ago.”

“Then tell me again who you are.”

Saunooke said, “He says he … ”

“Jack Wilkins, Pisgah County Sheriff Department, retired.” Jack handed the sheriff his wallet. It held all his IDs—driver's license, Medicare card, an FOP membership card. “I worked this case when it was new.”

“He claims he worked it with Whaley.” Saunooke sounded like a kid tattling to his teacher.

Cochran looked up from the wallet. “That true?”

Jack nodded. “Whaley had just been promoted from patrol. I already had fifteen years as a detective.”

“So what brings you back here this morning? You come to check out the yard sale?”

Jack felt his cheeks grow hot. What should he say? That his wife had gone to Minnesota and he didn't know what else to do with himsel
f
? That this morning he woke up early because something evil was in the air? “I've never forgotten this case. I wanted to see the neighborhood one more time, before they built all these new houses.”

“Go sit over there by the bulldozers,” said Cochran. “I'll talk with you later.”

“Yes sir.” Jack nodded, hiding a smile. This young police chief had mastered the command stare pretty well. His gaze was flinty, without a trace of humor. The patrol kid still had some work to do. He stood there sweating, obviously excited, still holding the dog by its collar. Jack turned to him. “Would you like me to get the dog out of your way?”

Cochran turned his attention to the animal, which was wagging his tail, as if he were part of the team as well. “Why have you got a dog here anyway, Saunooke?”

“I got a 10-91,” he replied. “I was taking him to the pound when Gahagen said somebody was trying to hotwire a bulldozer over here.”

Cochran turned back to Wilkins. “That wouldn't have been you, would it?”

“No sir,” said Jack. “I'm way too old to drive a bulldozer.”

Again, Cochran gave him the cop stare, but then he nodded at the dog. “Then take Rover over there and wait for us.”

“Yes sir.” Jack took the dog by the collar and walked over to the huge vehicle. The dog trotted beside him, lying down by the front tire while he sat down on the running board. Jack, even more than Saunooke and the chief, was dumbfounded. This dog had dug up a pair of Teresa Ewing's underpants! How had they gotten there? Could they be evidence they hadn't found?

“Good boy,” he said softly. He rubbed the dog between his ears, then settled down to watch. Over the hill, shoppers were haggling over vinyl record albums and old water skis; here, a murder investigation had sprung back to life.

At first Cochran and the patrol officer stood talking outside the plastic fence that surrounded the tree, Saunooke pointing at various spots while the chief's gaze intermittently returned to him. Then a green Mustang pulled up beside the officer's squad car. A muscular, dark-haired young man dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt got out of the car. He carried a large, aluminum briefcase. CSI, decided Jack. Maybe SBI.

“This better be good,” the young man called as he hurried over to Cochran. “You pulled me out of a speech by Prentiss Herbert.”

The sheriff laughed. “Then you owe me a beer, Victor. Maybe a six pack.”

Jack crept closer, eavesdropping. His hearing was still good, and this Victor sounded interesting.

“Mary made her first speech this morning,” the young man went on. “At the Chat N Chew.”

“How'd she do?” asked Cochran.

“Great,” said Victor. “Laid Prentiss Herbert low.” He pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his back pocket. “So what have we got here?”

“A case so cold it was frozen,” said Cochran. “Until Saunooke's dog came on the scene.”

Victor glanced over his shoulder at him and the dog, then back at short, broad Saunooke. “Who's that holding the dog now?”

“An old guy who was just up here,” said Saunooke. “Claims he worked this case years ago.”

Victor looked at Cochran. “Seriously?”

“His IDs check out,” said Cochran, “though I've never heard of him.”

Victor shrugged. “Whatever. Tell me what's up.”

Cochran turned his back and brought Victor up to speed. Jack caught the words “a nine year old white female … casserole to a neighbor. Found her … under that tree.”

“Her name was Teresa Ewing. She died of blunt force trauma to the left frontal squama,” called Jack, suddenly wanting to prove that he was not just some old fart revisiting his glory days. He wasn't stupid. He was just retired. “Her jeans were unzipped, and she didn't have on any underpants, but there was no evidence of sexual assault. No semen, and her hymen was intact.”

The three younger men gaped at him. He kept going, repeating details only an investigator would know. “Logan had just gotten his first DNA kit. He thought it was total bullshit, but he knew we'd be in trouble if he didn't at least make a stab at using it. But the scene was polluted before he even opened the kit. Everybody in the neighborhood ran over to peer at the dead girl under the Spanish Oak.”

“Did you have any suspects?” called the sheriff.

“We questioned plenty of people, took blood and hair from six. But Logan had messed up the DNA sampling so badly that they couldn't come up with any matches. It wasn't like it is now.”

The one named Victor frowned at the sheriff, as if wondering if he should really be talking to him. Jack was thinking now would probably be a good time for him to shut up when a second car pulled up. A heavy, red-faced man pulled himself out of a white Crown Vic and waddled toward the group under the tree. Jack chuckled. He would recognize that slew-footed walk anywhere.

“Hello, Whaley.”

The man stopped, stared, blinked. “Hamburger Jack?”

“None other.” Wilkins got up, started to walk over to Whaley, then remembered he was a quasi-suspect. He looked at the sheriff. “May I go greet the detective?”

Cochran nodded. Jack went over, gave Whaley a brusque, masculine hug. He saw immediately the toll that years of law enforcement had taken on the man. He was thirty pounds overweight, with bloodshot eyes and a network of red capillaries on his nose that screamed
I drink way too much. I've drunk way too much for
years.
Still, Jack was glad to see him. Though their partnership had been like a bottle of oil and water, he was glad that Whaley was still upright and breathing.

“How you been, old buddy?” Whaley clapped him on the back. “Still chomping the burgers?”

“I'm doing okay. Got four grandkids and a little mini-farm out Azalea Road.”

“How's your wife?”

“Fine.”

“Still playing golf?”

“Shooting in the low eighties.”

“That's great.” Whaley frowned over at Cochran. “So how come you're out here with these jokers?”

“Like I told them—I wanted to see this neighborhood one last time. You know, before they bulldozed it into something new.”

“You may be too late,” said Whaley. “Most of the houses are already gone.”

“The Shaw and the Russell places are still here. And you can tell where the Ewing house was.”

Whaley's eyes narrowed, making him look even more porcine. “Still got a jones for Teresa, don't you?”

“Don't you?”

“Not me, brother.” Whaley laughed. “I know who did it.”

“Collier?”

Whaley shrugged. “He still can't look at me without shitting his pants.”

“So why don't you charge him?” Jack spoke sharply, feeling as if he'd rejoined an argument they'd debated twenty years ago.

“You know why as well as I do.”

Jack nodded toward the tree. “Well, I think you just got some new evidence. Maybe you can make your case this time.”

Whaley started to say something else, then stopped. “So are you just going to sit on that bulldozer? With that dog?”

“I am until your boss says I can go. I think I'm being politely detained.”

“Well,” said Whaley. “I'll go see what I can do.” They shook hands. “Nice seeing you again, Jack. Give my best to Jan.”

“Will do.”

Jack sat back down on the bulldozer, patting the dog but still shamelessly eavesdropping. He was curious to see what Whaley would add to the investigation. So far not much, beyond watching the young patrolman put up a wider perimeter of crime scene tape while the one named Victor rummaged in his briefcase. It was only when the sheriff pulled Whaley aside that he knew they were talking about him. He imagined the conversation as the two conferred, casting sly, over-the-shoulder glances back at him.

“This guy for real?” the sheriff would ask.

Whaley would nod. “He used to be our best detective, but this case pushed him over the edge.”

“How far over the edge?” Cochran would ask, meaning
Is he loco? Do I need to worry about him?

“Not crazy far.” Whaley would start out generous, then turn nasty. “But you never know about these old guys. You know—most of 'em are on a lot of meds.”

“You think he could have planted these underpants?”

Whaley would damn him with a shrug. “Who knows? Like I said, you never know what's going on inside an old head.”

The one named Victor ended their private conversation. He pulled a camera from his briefcase and asked for the exact location of the underpants. For the next hour, the four of them worked like bees around a hive, Cochran directing them like a field marshal. He sent Saunooke to canvass the yard sale people, to ask if anyone had seen anyone around that tree. “Tell them we're investigating some vandalism.” Whaley was to go back to the office and get a list of everyone who'd worked on this construction—from the architect to the crew bosses. “Get me the names of anybody who's got more than a traffic citation.”

Saunooke headed for the yard sale, then caught sight of him sitting on the bulldozer, the dog now flopped across his feet.

“What about him?” he asked Cochran. “And the dog?”

“The what?” Cochran turned, irritated.

“Mr. Wilkins and the dog I'm supposed to take to the pound.”

For a moment Jack thought Cochran might tell Saunooke to take them both to the pound, but instead Cochran relented.

“Detective, you're free to go. Whaley, you take the dog to Animal Control on your way to the office.”

Jack looked down at the dog, lying next to his feet. He hadn't misbehaved, not once. He'd stayed right beside him, watching the activity and snapping at an occasional fly. He reminded him of himself—old, but not washed up. Still with something to contribute. “Could I take the dog?” Jack asked the sheriff.

“To the pound?” Saunooke looked surprised.

“No. Home, with me.”

Saunooke turned to Cochran. “That okay, sheriff? He's just a stray.”

Cochran shrugged. “Leave your phone number and address with Saunooke, and the dog is yours.”

“Thanks,” said Jack, again taking the dog by the collar. “And good luck with your investigation.”
You're going to need it,
he thought.
You're going to need a whole lot more than a pair of underpants to put this case to bed.

Four

“Where have you been,
Mama?” Zack Collier paced up and down the living room, shaking his hands as if they were covered in spiderwebs. Grace recognized the nervous, agitated signs of an impending meltdown; she only hoped she'd gotten home in time to stop it.

“I'm sorry, Zack. I had to go to a meeting, then I had to get some gas.” She looked up into her son's gray eyes. His pupils still looked normal—they hadn't dilated into the black orbs that usually presaged his fits. “Cars won't run without gas, you know.”

“But it's one thirty. Clara left at one. You're always back by one fifteen. Now we'll be late!”

“The yard sale goes on for three more hours, Zack. We'll get some tapes today.”

“Promise?” He looked at her, his hands stopping in mid-shake.

“Yes. Take a bathroom break and we'll go.”

“Awwriiight!” Zack lifted a triumphant fist. “New videos today.”

Grace watched as her two-hundred-pound son ran to the bathroom. She knew he would strip naked before he used the toilet, then wash his hands ten times before he dressed himself again. His ablutions would cost them far more time than her stop at the gas station, but Zack couldn't see it that way. His clock ran differently than everybody else's.

Still, she guessed she should feel lucky. She'd averted a meltdown that could have left a new set of bruises down her arm. Earlier she'd noticed Emily and Ginger looking at her oddly, no doubt wondering why someone would wear a long-sleeved shirt in August. “They probably think my husband beats me,” Grace whispered, holding up her arm to examine the splotchy purple marks. “Wonder what they would have said if I'd told them my son put those there?”

She pulled her shirtsleeves back down and walked out to the mailbox. People could think whatever they wanted. Like most everything else in her life, it was out of her control. She opened the mailbox, flipped through the mail. Two bills, a flyer from the hardware store, and a political ad from DA George Turpin, grinning smugly as he stirred a vat of his barbeque sauce. Nothing for Zack, nothing from Mike, nothing from Hillview Haven, the communal living home for autistic adults. She'd taken Zack for his entrance interview weeks ago; now she was waiting to hear if he'd made the cut. She closed her eyes, offering a small, guilty prayer that Dr. Keyser and his crew would take him. Zack would need a place to live when she got older and could no longer manage him. Better to get him accustomed to that place now, while she could visit regularly.

“Mama!”

She looked up from the mailbox. Zack stood on the front porch, fully dressed and smiling.
He looks so normal,
Grace thought.
Handsome even, with my dark hair and Mike's eyes. Until you tried to talk to him, you'd never guess anything was wrong.

“Did I get any tapes?”

“Not today, sweetheart. But we'll get some at the yard sale. Have you got your money?”

From his pocket he pulled the money she'd given him for mowing their grass. “Fifteen dollars.”

“Then we're ready.” She walked toward the house. “Where shall we go for lunch?”

He thought a moment. “McDonald's. They've got robots in the Happy Meals.”

The rainy morning turned sunny as they ate in the far corner of McDonald's parking lot, Grace ordering two Happy Meals for Zack and a salad for herself. As Zack played with his robots, Grace wondered if she could distract him away from the Salola Street yard sale. Though it might be a good place to find tapes, Salola Street was the last place she wanted to go. They'd lived there when Teresa Ewing was murdered. Her death had cast a shadow on their lives that lingered to this day.

“Hey, Zack,” she said, starting the car as he grew bored with his toys. “How about we drive over to Sarge's Flea Market? I hear they've got a lot of videotapes there.”

“I want to go to Salola Street.”

“But that'll be mostly clothes and furniture, Zack. Those people are moving out. Sarge's has a whole section for videotapes.”

“We went to Sarge's last week,” he replied. “I want to go to Salola Street.”

“But if you want videos, Sarge's might … ”

“Salola Street, Mama!” he cried. “I want to see our old house.”

“They tore our old house down, Zack. It's not there anymore.”

“But I want to see where it was. Adam might be there.”

“Adam won't be there, Zack. Adam lives far away.” Zack's one and only friend Adam Shaw had been sent away years ago, just after they found Teresa's body. Now he was 39, some kind of special photographer working in New York. His parents, though, had remained on Salola Street, resolute in their stand against police harassment, steadfast in their hatred of her and Zack.

“I-want-to-go-to-Salola-Street!” With every word he hit the side of the door with his fist. Next he might turn his rage on the window, or worse, her right arm.

“Okay, Zack.” She caved in, as usual. “If you can calm down, we can go.”

He sat back in the seat, his hands limp in his lap. He sat like that for a few minutes, then he said, “I'm sorry, Mama. I'm calm now.”

Grace backed out of the parking spot, dreading the prospect of seeing either Leslie Shaw or Janet Russell. Leslie, she'd heard, had become such a bad alcoholic that Richard had sold her car. And Janet had become some sort of priestess in a cult that believed everything from caterpillars to coconuts emitted vibes that controlled the destiny of the world.
At least I haven't gone that crazy,
she told herself, trying to pluck up her courage.
At least not yet.

They left McDonald's and drove to the neighborhood where Zack had grown up. A trendy new green development was going up, and most of the old ranch houses had been razed to make way for the new construction. To Grace's dismay, tables of yard sale merchandise stretched across the front lawns of the Shaws and the Russells—the two homes she wanted most to avoid. Nonetheless, she pulled to the shoulder of the road a little way down the street and reminded her son of his manners.

“I know how excited you get, Zack. But you can't push people out of the way. And remember to say
excuse me
if you bump into anybody.”

“Excuse me,” Zack repeated, fumbling with the latch of his seat belt. “Excuse me, excuse me.”

He bounded out the door before she got the car parked, running to Adam Shaw's house as fast as he could. She hurried after him, thinking this was like letting a big, rambunctious dog run loose. Like most dogs, Zack was not truly mean or vicious. He just lived in his own world, obeying urges that often defied his control.

She watched him as he perused the tables, searching for VCR tapes. In his excitement he brushed against one little girl, sending her armload of computer games to the ground. “Excuse me,” Grace heard him say, as if on cue. “Excuse me.”

“What's the matter with you?” the girl's mother cried. “You almost knocked her down!”

But Zack did not help the girl pick up what she'd dropped; Zack just ran on to the next table. Grace hurried up to the woman. “I'm so sorry,” she said, kneeling to retrieve the games. “He didn't mean to be rude.”

“Is he with you?” The woman's upper lip curled in disgust.

“He's my son,” explained Grace, handing the games back to the child. “He's autistic.”

“Well, he needs to be more careful.” The woman turned to her daughter. “Are you alright, Jenna?”

“I think so,” the little girl whined, turning injured eyes on Grace.

“Come on.” The mother grabbed her hand. “Let's just pay for these and get out of here.”

“I'm sorry,” Grace called as the woman strode off, her daughter following like a wounded duck. She looked around for Zack. He was now several tables away, rummaging through a laundry basket of videotapes. As much as he liked cartoons and exercise videos led by bikini-clad women, what he prized most were family videos—total strangers toasting the bride at weddings or belly-flopping into swimming pools at back yard cook-outs. He would watch them for hours, sometimes rewinding the same scene over and over
. That's not uncommon for autistic people
, his therapist once told her.
We think it's how they figure out behavioral cues. You know, how people react to each other.

Though Grace found it unsettling and slightly creepy, Zack took endless pleasure in the antics of strangers. Never did he talk about the people, or express any desire to meet them. He just dissected little slices of their lives, over and over again. She watched as he rifled through the basket, discerning as an oenophile seeking an aged bottle of port.

While Zack shopped the videos, she stepped back to look at what was left of her old neighborhood. In the distance she could see the top of the Spanish Oak, still standing majestically behind the Russell house. After Teresa had turned up dead beneath it, Leslie and Richard Shaw had led a drive to have the tree cut down. “It holds too many horrible memories,” they said. “People will say it's haunted. It will lower our property values.” But the Cherokees had risen up in protest. Though it was no longer on tribal land, they called the tree
Undli Adaya,
or Big Brother Tree, and regarded it as holy. Ultimately it had been spared, much to the delight of the new developers, who were now using its stylized silhouette as their logo.

Grace turned away from the tree to watch Zack as he finished looking through the one basket of VCR tapes and began making his way through the other merchandise strewn along the tables. She
followed him at a distance. His initial excitement had cooled, making his movements slower and his passage through the crowd less disruptive. Still, she noticed that once people realized they were standing beside a forty-two-year-old man ogling exercise videos, they quickly moved away.

What's going to happen to you, Zack?
she wondered, rubbing her arms against a sudden chill. She was almost sixty, an adjunct art professor living on a small salary and child support from her ex-husband. Though she made enough to keep them afloat now, what would happen to them when she retired? What would happen to Zack when she grew too old to drive him to these stupid yard sales? Or when in a rage, he might strike out and break her arm or hip?

Don't think about that now,
she told herself.
Today's a good day. He's happy. He's
trying
. Just be grateful for that.

She watched him, hoping some new item might catch his eye and make him forget all about the Shaws, but as soon as he crossed the Russells's driveway, he headed straight for their house. They had done considerable remodeling—turning their side porch into a sunroom and paving a circular drive across their front yard. What had not changed was the look that Leslie Shaw was aiming at Zack. Though her hair was now gray and she'd gone from svelte to dumpy, the hatred in her gaze glowed like an ember. Grace decided she'd better hurry and get between the two of them. Richard and Leslie Shaw had always blamed Zack for Teresa's death. It was clear that time had not altered that opinion.

“Hi, Ms. Shaw.” Shy about speaking to people, Zack bobbed on the balls of his feet, his eyes downcast. “Is Adam here?”

“No.” Leslie's reply was final.

Zack stared at her as if he'd been struck mute.

“Hello, Leslie.” Grace came up and stood beside her son, the fruity smell of alcohol wafting across Leslie's table. “How've you been?”

“Fine.” Leslie's mouth was a pinched slash across her face.

“Zack wondered if Adam might be here.”

“Adam lives in New York.” Leslie spoke as if her words were coins that she hated to part with. She glared at Zack, who'd stooped to rummage through another basket full of old VHS tapes, then turned to Grace. “You got some nerve, bringing him over here.”

“To a yard sale?”

“To this yard sale,” said Leslie. “I just hope Richard doesn't catch you.”

“For God's sake, Leslie. He's just looking at your old tapes.”

“He cost me my son.” Leslie's dark eyes narrowed.

“That was your call. All the other boys stayed here.”

“And look at them—freaks and misfits.” She pointed at Zack. “And all because of him!”

Her face burning, Grace walked over to Zack. “Come on, honey. We need to get out of here.”

“No!” he cried. “I want to buy some of these!”

“Pick two, Zack,” said Grace, cursing herself for bringing him here in the first place. “You can't buy the whole box.”

“I don't know,” he started to flip through them. “I have to look at them.”

“Leave now and I'll sell you the whole box,” said Leslie.

“The whole thing?” Zack frowned, as if she were making fun of him.

“How much money have you got?”

Zack stood up and pulled bills from his pocket. “Fifteen dollars.”

“Fifteen dollars it is, then,” said Leslie, grabbing the money from his hand. “Now take them and get out of here.”

“Zack, that's all your lawn-mowing money,” said Grace.

“I don't care.” He grinned, easily lifting the heavy box. “I can make more money. I might never get another box like this!”