“It comes down to a choice of what’s best for your mother and father compared to what’s best for the community you serve. You have to give the edge to your family,” she said. “That’s why you came back. You can’t worry about what other people think.” She laughed. “Aren’t I the one to be telling you that?”
“You are,” I said, “because no one understands better. And I have to let Mom guide me rather than persuade her to do what I think is best for me. That kind of decision will only haunt me later.”
We cleaned the dishes together, which meant Susan scrubbed the cast-iron pots, and I buried the food remains and tossed the paper plates in the fireplace.
Then I sat overstuffed on the understuffed sofa with Susan snuggled against me, her shoeless feet tucked into the lumpy cushions. We watched the fire as if it were a television program.
“So,” she said, “I guess there’s only one more problem we two perfect people share.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re both murder suspects. Not the kind of thing to make you Hoffman Enterprises’ funeral director of the year.”
“Or the person you’d want wearing a mask and wielding a knife above your body,” I said.
“No, I guess not. Has Tommy Lee got any leads?”
I decided not to mention the development of Duncan Atkins’ testimony against her father. It might go nowhere and it would certainly upset her. “Someone’s dirty in the Walker County Sheriff’s Department. Drugs like those we found in Gentle Deal’s trailer are missing from the evidence room.”
“Couldn’t that be a coincidence?”
“It could, but you add it to Skeeter’s death and Gentle’s arrest and it’s just one more coincidence demanding an explanation. Another funny thing’s surfaced. We have only the former manager of Hinkle’s Department Store saying the girl was ever in the Walker County jail. All records of her have been expunged.”
“Isn’t that typical when a juvenile’s been cleared of charges?”
“Only if the judge orders it. And the jail’s log sheet of her booking is missing. Hers wasn’t the only name on that list.”
“How does Tommy Lee investigate another sheriff?” she asked.
“Very carefully.” I kept Bridges out of the conversation because of my promise to Tommy Lee, and because I also considered him as much of a suspect as anyone.
“Does the killer have to be someone in the Sheriff’s Department?”
“What do you mean?”
“Skeeter Gibson worked there. He would have access to everything, wouldn’t he?”
“But he’s dead,” I reminded her.
“Yes, but the disappearance of the records and the drugs happened before he died. Skeeter could have been working for someone outside the department.”
I hadn’t given serious thought that Skeeter might still have been in the pay of whoever killed Sammy. Susan was absolutely right. Skeeter could have been the inside man. Claiborne’s words from the night in his car came back to me. “It might not be anyone in the Sheriff’s Department at all. It could be someone with enough power and money to put outside pressure on Skeeter or anyone else involved.” At the time, his statement had seemed like mere speculation.
“That opens up more possibilities,” I said. “I’m trying to narrow the field of suspects.”
“How much wider is it?” asked Susan. “The killer still had to know Gentle Deal.”
A wall of photographs appeared in my mind. “Nelson Darius knew her from his charity work.”
“He certainly has the money to buy a hundred Skeeters.”
My skin crawled at the thought. “What a twist that would be. Cassie comes to Darius with the story idea, and he knows the trail will loop back to him.”
“Why wouldn’t he have squelched the story then?”
“Because it was too good. Cassie would have wondered why. But he could have encouraged her to assign their reporter, limit the scope to the wrong county, and then he could have kept an eye on Sammy.”
Susan shook her head. “I just find it hard to believe Darius would be that sleazy. Sex with prisoners and a minor.”
“I agree. But anything’s possible. The more despicable the act, the more extreme the actions to keep it hidden.”
“Did Cassie say who they assigned to the story?”
“No. Maybe their court reporter. Jesus.”
“What?” she asked.
“That would have been Cliff Barringer. And he might have known Gentle.” I remembered the picture of the former anchorman standing beside his boss amid the underprivileged children. “As a court reporter, he’d know all about booking records and how to track down Gentle Deal.”
“Maybe that’s why Darius is keeping information from him,” suggested Susan. “Or maybe Darius is afraid Barringer will stumble across something that incriminates him.”
“Suspects inside an institution investigating the crime. Just like the Walker County Sheriff’s Department. I’m afraid our best hope is for Tommy Lee to find that videotape.”
“But the killer couldn’t find it, and he had free access to all Sammy’s things when he gutted the apartment.”
“Sammy Calhoun was too smart to hide it on his own property. We’re hoping maybe there’s a safe-deposit box somewhere, but after seven years….” I shrugged. “You knew him better than any of us. Any ideas?”
“No. Just what he always said. People overlook the obvious.”
“I doubt we’ll find it on a shelf in Blockbuster.”
She laughed. “Would you like the last of the wine?”
“What are you trying to do, get me drunk?”
“I’m trying to have my way with you.” She nibbled my earlobe and chills shot down my spine.
“The sleeping arrangements are challenging.”
“Who said anything about sleeping?” She slipped her hands under my sweater and pressed her warm palms against my chest. “Not yet, anyway.”
I lay back against the sofa arm and pulled her to me. A spring groaned in protest, but I wasn’t about to give up the best love nest the cabin offered.
Then a scene burst into my mind like a flood of cold water.
“What’s wrong?” asked Susan, as she felt the tension knot every muscle in my body.
“The sofa. Skeeter Gibson sacked out on a sofa in the judge’s office because it was probably the most comfortable private place in the courthouse.”
“That would make sense,” agreed Susan. “He had the run of the building.”
“And if someone wanted a sexual liaison with a female prisoner close to the jail, he’d also want the most comfortable setting.”
“Skeeter brought the girls to the judge’s chamber? Then where did Sammy put the camera?”
I didn’t answer. I saw Skeeter sitting on the sofa, lifting the bottle of Wild Turkey and toasting Sammy. He wasn’t raising it to heaven, he was raising it to where the blackmail scheme had netted its evidence.
“You said there were mounting brackets on the camera in Gentle Deal’s trunk,” said Susan. “Would Sammy have fastened it to the ceiling?”
“I think that’s exactly what he did, but managed to hide it somehow. Maybe in a heating duct or on top of a bookcase.”
“So, Skeeter must have let him in to plant the recording equipment,” Susan said. “You don’t think he knew where Sammy hid the tape, do you?”
“No. I’m afraid Sammy took that to his grave.”
“You mean Pearly Johnson’s grave. How ironic.”
Yes, how ironic, I thought. A body hidden in a graveyard, and a videotape—“Jesus, that’s it,” I shouted. I eased Susan to the side and jumped to my feet. “We’ve been focusing on where the tape could have been hidden. We should have been focusing on where it could have been found.”
“What’s the difference?” Susan stood up and watched me pace back and forth in front of the fire.
“The difference is in the purpose. Sammy had the tape, but he didn’t take it to the rendezvous. He knew once he got his money, he’d have to deliver the goods. Better to let his blackmail victim recover it after he was safely away. That meant the tape would need to be found in a place easily accessible.”
“Where?”
“The last spot you would look. The scene of the crime.”
“In the courthouse?”
“Why not? You tell me. Wouldn’t Sammy like to put it right under their noses?”
“Yes,” said Susan, and the excitement grew in her voice. “That’d be just like him.”
“Maybe he set it where the camera had been, after he knew the site had been checked. He gets money for himself and Gentle Deal, and has the pleasure of telling someone to find the evidence in their own pocket.”
I picked up my jacket from the floor.
“Where are you going?”
“To the courthouse. Alone. I can’t take a chance someone else isn’t scrambling to put these same pieces together. What if they solve the puzzle first?”
“You’re crazy to go down that mountainside in the dark. Call Tommy Lee. Have him search for it.”
“Tommy Lee would have to get a warrant. What if someone in the Walker County Sheriff’s Department got wind of it? They might get the tape first.”
“Can’t he break in?”
“Then any evidence he found would be inadmissible. He’s a sworn officer of the law and can’t go around it. But I’m a private citizen. If I break in, I’m not bound by those same restraints. Even if I’m charged with a crime, anything I find can be used by the prosecution. You see, there’s no other way. We don’t know who to trust in Walker County.”
Susan went to the door and held up my car keys. “I thought we were sharing our burdens. I’m in this as much as you are. If I don’t go, these get tossed.” She smiled. “You see, there’s no other way.”
The drive up the mountain that afternoon had taken ten minutes. Coming down at night, we inched along at a speed that was little faster than a brisk walk. My headlights often swept a void where the road turned so sharply it simply disappeared. Fear of taking an unintended shortcut stretched our travel time to over half an hour. With simultaneous sighs of relief, we finally reached the highway for Walker County. I figured that whatever lay ahead couldn’t possibly be as nerve-wracking as our white-knuckled descent.
It was about eighty-thirty when we arrived at the complex. Cars rimmed the parking lot in front of the county jail, but the courthouse side was deserted. I killed my headlights and parked in a spot outside the glow of the street lamps. A new guard would be on duty, replacing Skeeter Gibson with what had to be greater effectiveness. I hoped that meant he would be stationed at the front desk when not making his prescribed rounds. If I could get into the judge’s chambers, I would be home free. No one wanted to hang out in a room where less than a week ago, a man’s brains had splattered the walls.
“Now what?” asked Susan.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “I might be charged with just entering instead of breaking and entering.”
“I’m the one breaking in?” She asked the question with more excitement than alarm.
“No. You had car trouble. The jeep just died on you, and you coasted into this spot. You’ll ask the guard to come look. How could he possibly resist aiding such a lovely damsel in distress?”
“What if he’s a she?”
“Call her a sister and give her the secret handshake.”
“Right. We are women, hear us roar. What am I doing out at eleven-thirty? Bar-hopping?”
“Don’t lie about your identity. You’re a doctor. You’ve been called over to consult on a case at Walker General Hospital. You got lost, and then had the misfortune of having your engine stop. I’m going to pull the wire on the distributor.”
“And you’ll walk in the front door while we’re working out here?”
“Exactly.”
“What if he locks the door behind him like a good security guard should?”
I was glad no light could show the blank look on my face.
“Let’s add one thing,” said Susan. “The car broke down, I ask for help, but I also have a stomach virus and have to get to the bathroom immediately. No one will risk witnessing an attack of diarrhea no matter how lovely the damsel.”
I leaned over and kissed her. “The green apple quick-step. Excellent. I remember the bathrooms are around the corner from the courtroom. I’ll slip in as soon as you’re out of sight.”
“How will you leave?”
“The back hall off the judge’s chambers. A door has to open from the inside or they’re violating fire codes. I’ll call you on your cell phone when I’m back in the parking lot. I’ll keep mine off until then.” I grabbed my phone from its dashboard charger and pressed the power button.
In less than thirty seconds, I had disconnected the main wire to the distributor. Susan cranked the ignition until I was confident the jeep wouldn’t miraculously start.
“Let me go first,” I said. “See that boxwood to the right of the door? I can stay clear of the lights and crouch behind it. When I’m in position, work your magic.”
“Right, but remember Houdini was good at breaking out of things, not into them.”
Keeping well within the shadows, I crept along a hedge that bordered the curb. When I reached the end, I looked back at Susan. She sat in the driver’s seat and appeared to be using her cell phone. Smart girl. If someone saw her, they would assume she had parked to make a call.
Between me and the boxwood lay twenty yards of open ground. Although no lamps directly illuminated the area, enough ambient light flooded it to make me visible. I needed Harry Potter more than Harry Houdini to get across that space.
With a final glance at the jail to make sure I was unobserved, I jogged through the dead flowerbed and wedged myself behind the shrub. My pulse pounded in my ears, and breath came in short jabs. Calm down, I thought. So far all I’d done wrong was trample dead pansies.
For a moment, I was afraid the courthouse glass doors would be too well sealed for me to hear Susan’s conversation. How would I know when she and the guard were clear? Then I heard the squeak of a chair as someone shifted in it.
A few minutes later, Susan came down the sidewalk, clutching her hospital ID badge in her hand. I knew she’d hold it up for the guard to see, a gesture that would give her official credibility. She rapped on the glass. The chair squeaked again. I heard a voice muffled by the door.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” said a man.
“I’m a doctor and this is an emergency. Please let me in.”
The bolt in the lock turned.
“I’m on my way to Walker General and had car trouble.”
“Someone can help you over in the Sheriff’s Department,” the guard said through the open door.
“I’ve also been hit with an intestinal virus. You’re taking me to the ladies’ room right now or we’re both going to be very embarrassed.”
“But—” His protest was cut short as Susan dragged him back inside.
“Hurry,” she pleaded. “I’m not kidding and I won’t be the one cleaning it up.”
Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor. When I knew they were safely out of sight, I left the shelter of the boxwood and walked into the courthouse. The guard’s keys still dangled in the door. Susan had been magnificent.
The lights were off in the courtroom. I walked along the aisle, touching the backs of the pews for reference. I knew the door to the judge’s chamber was on the right behind the bench, but I wished I’d had the sense to bring a flashlight from the jeep. Now I’d have to risk turning on a light. Susan could keep the guard occupied for only so long, and his comment about sending her to the Sheriff’s Department was exactly what I didn’t want to happen.
My eyes adjusted enough to see the knob in the paneled door. It was unlocked. I suspected the sitting judge had requested other quarters after last Sunday’s tragedy. With the door securely closed and locked behind me, I turned on the light.
The sofa and the foxhunt oil painting were gone. The wall had been scrubbed so hard that the washed area stuck out like a huge blemish. I glanced up in the direction Skeeter had lifted the whiskey bottle. A heating vent with a grate cover was in the corner of the ceiling over the desk. The perfect position for a bird’s-eye view of the room.
I stripped off my jacket and wedged it under the bottom of the door to the courtroom, hoping to block any light leakage. Then I locked the hall door and used my flannel shirt to jam its threshold. I noticed there was a second light switch mounted on the wall close to the knob. The fluorescents could be turned off or on at either door. On the night Skeeter had died, his murderer must have reached around from the hall and switched off the lights without having to expose himself.
There was no checkpoint in this office for the guard to record his rounds. Without seeing a suspicious sign, Susan’s drafted Good Samaritan would have no reason to enter. I could spend the whole night undisturbed.
But I took no comfort in the security of the locked room. I wanted to get my search over and leave the building as quickly as possible. In my mind, the room reeked of death and the evil behind it could still be stalking the halls of justice. I climbed up on the desk and examined the vent. Two small screws fastened it to the ceiling. I opened the blade of my penknife halfway and used the back edge as a makeshift screwdriver. When the first screw was loose enough, I extracted it with my fingers. The second one proved more difficult. The threads had crossed the inset sleeve and jammed it in place. I could see the groove in the screw head had been damaged by someone trying to either undo or tighten it. Perhaps Sammy Calhoun had been in a hurry seven years ago, and no one had touched it since.
The desk groaned under my feet as I shifted for a better angle. For several minutes, I attempted to loosen the screw by pressing the blade deeper into the groove. I only succeeded in cutting my thumb and dripping warm blood onto the desk. More than fingerprints would need to be cleaned up.
I opened the blade all the way and wedged the sharp edge between the screw and the vent. I tried to pry the screw free, figuring my knife was stronger than its metal threads. The gap widened about a quarter of an inch. I forced the blade in farther and twisted it as hard as I could.
The screw shot free before I could catch it. The vent cover fell after it. I grabbed at the grate but batted it into the wall. The clang resounded like a gunshot and repeated even louder against the hardwood floor. I might as well have shouted “Hey! I’m in here!”
I froze on the desk, listening for any indication that the guard was on his way. If I was lucky, he was still waiting outside the ladies’ room or was fiddling with the jeep’s distributor wire. I heard nothing. Then a nearly imperceptible creak came from outside the hall door. I held my breath and stared at the doorknob until my eyes burned. It never moved, and the courthouse remained as quiet as a tomb.
I peered into the open vent above me. A block of wood had been inserted along one edge. Two holes were visible in its side. Here was how Sammy Calhoun had mounted his camera. I reached in, feeling above and behind for a tape. My fingers collected only dust. The vent was empty.
I had been so sure I had cracked Sammy Calhoun’s secret. The mounting bracket on the camera and the holes in the wood looked like a perfect match. Skeeter’s toast to the vent had verified his complicity in the scheme, and Susan’s insight that Sammy thought people overlooked the obvious had raised my hopes that the proof lay in this room. I could taste bitter disappointment and felt foolish standing on a desk with nothing in my hands but a penknife and my blood clotted with dust from seven years ago. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. The voiceless skull of Sammy Calhoun would always taunt me, withholding the words that could have convicted his killer.
I turned to climb down and retrieve the grate. I would try and reattach it to the vent and then wipe the room clean. I took a final look from the viewpoint of Sammy’s camera. Then I saw it. Atop a bookcase, out of sight from the floor, lay a leather-bound volume. A dingy piece of tape held its covers together. Dust obscured the title and signified the book had been untouched for years.
I stretched out and steadied myself by grabbing the nearest corner of the case, curious as to what would have been stored in such an unreachable spot. The bookshelf wobbled under my weight, and for a second, I thought I’d topple the whole thing over with a noise so loud the dispatcher in the Sheriff’s Department would hear it. Something caught, and I realized brackets held the shelving to the wall. Their screws must have loosened slightly over the years.
I pinched the edge of the book’s top cover between the tips of my fingers and slid it to where I could grab it. Then I stood up and brushed the dust from its surface. The faded gilt title on the spine sent a tingle up my own.
The Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe
. “The Purloined Letter” was literally at the scene of the crime. With trembling fingers, I removed the gummy tape and opened Poe to the place marked by an old-fashioned ribbon attached to the binding.
A section of pages had been razor cut to form a pocket hidden within the volume. Its dimensions perfectly encased an 8mm videotape. Sammy Calhoun had provided the solution to his murder. Now I had to get it safely into hands I could trust. I would call Tommy Lee and let him take charge.
Suddenly, a creak came from the other side of the door to the courtroom. The knob jiggled as someone tried to open it. I hopped down from the desk and grabbed my shirt from under the other door. The guard would have a key and possibly enter with his gun drawn. I wrapped my shirt around the book, unlocked the knob and started to slip out into the hall.
“Barry, it’s me,” called Susan.
The unexpected sound of her voice stopped my flight. Why was she here? Had the guard figured out he was being duped? Was he out at the jeep and had told her to stay in the warmth of the courthouse?
“Barry?” she called again, this time louder.
Whatever had happened, I couldn’t ignore her. “Just a minute,” I said. “I’m coming.” I removed the cassette from the book and stuck it in my back pocket. I tossed Poe up on the top shelf, turned out the light and opened the door.
The courtroom was silent and dark. Susan must have retreated somewhere into its midst.
I went halfway down the aisle and stopped. “Susan?” I called softly. There was no answer. Had she already left?
Overhead, the lights blazed to life, blinding me for an instant. Then I saw Susan at the back of the room. Her face was bloodless and winced with pain. Shielded by her body, a man stood grinning at me. I had seen him on television. We had met in person, and I had no reason to believe he hadn’t been pursuing justice. That was his job. He was District Attorney Darden Claiborne.
But the smile on his face was as cold as the blue steel revolver pressed against Susan’s temple.