Marcie's Murder (43 page)

“Okay,” Hank said. “Back to Morris.
Is that it? Is that the only reason you say that Morris didn’t like women, that he vetoed Branham’s idea to recruit them to the force?”

Hall grimaced, gulping at his coffee with something just this side of desperation. “There was other stuff.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, stuff. We had a drug bust one time over on College Street. I got a call from a guy I knew with the
s
tate
p
olice
saying
a car load of dope was coming into town from Roanoke, their cruiser had been involved in an accident and could we make the bust for them? An informant told them it was going to
be delivered to
this house being rented by a couple of college kids, tw
o young guys.” Hall took another swig of coffee and closed his eyes. “I hung up the phone and told Morris. He got this look on his face, like a predator, and I had to run after him to keep from being left behind. He didn’t tell any of the officers, so there was no backup. On the way, though, he called a newspaper reporter friend of his and told him where it was happening. When we got there,
we were early. His reporter friend showed up
,
and Morris told him where to wait so he’d get the best angles for his pictures. Then the car
gets there
and it’s three kids. Two males and a female driving. The two males get out, go to the door of the house
,
and come back to the car with the two guys from the house. They open the trunk of the car, start taking bags out
,
and Morris springs into action.”

Hall drained his coffee mug and poured himself another cup from the carafe that had been sitting close to his elbow. “Sorry if I sound a little sarcastic.
I followed Morris across the street. He had his gun out and was yelling at the boys to get down on their knees with their hands on top of their heads. All this time his reporter friend was taking pictures. I took
out
my gun to cover them just as the girl got out of the car and started running across the lawn. Morris lit out after her and tackled her. He rolled her over and punched her four or five times. It was totally uncalled-for.”
Hall stared at Hank. “She was just a kid, Donaghue. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Somebody’s daughter. None of them had a record, they were just kids moving weed. See, he wasn’t rough with the boys. He joked around with them, made fun of them, that sort of thing, but with the girl it was nasty. Vicious. Like it was personal for some reason. At the time I wondered why he was being that way, but I didn’t dare ask.
I was skating on thin ice already with my own problems as it was.
”

“Didn’t the girl file a complaint?”

Hall shook his head. “Turns out she was the daughter of a Methodist minister in Roanoke. They were so
shocked
they kept it as quiet as they could. Afterwards I heard they left the state altogether.
Moved to California.
”

“Was he ever married?”

“Divorced while he was in Richmond. Married for three ye
ars
. No kids, thank
G
od.
”

“Anything else, Hall?”

Hall put down his coffee cup and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Tomorrow I
’
ll go
back to
drinking, Lieutenant. I heard the point you were making this afternoon loud and clear, believe me. I figured I’d stop drinking tonight just to prove to myself that I could, so that’s what I’m doing right now. But don’t ask me any more questions, okay? You’re trying to fit Morris to your profile of Marcie’s killer
,
and I have to admit that although at first it never occurred to me, once I think about it, it might be plausible. You might be on to something
, weird as it seems
. But don’t ask me any more questions about what I remember about him, okay? For godsakes. Right now my brain is like a hurricane of memories.
I remember every moment I spent with the guy. All these associations to things. I can’t even talk about them right now.
They’re coming so fast I can’t process them all properly.
I feel dizzy. I’m gonna throw up.
”

He paused, hands pressed to his eyes
,
and sobbed. “Stop. Stop. I need a drink.
Just
stop.”

“Isn’t there medication you can take for it, Hall?”

“Yeah.” Hall put his head down on the table. “In the cupboard at the end. A fresh bottle of Wild Turkey. Don’t bother, though, I’ll get it myself later.”

Hank sat there for a long while, saying nothing, then quietly got up and let himself out.

31

Karen had never been much of a student. As a
C
riminal
J
ustice major she’d struggled through the math and statistics prerequisites, obtaining the required C only through a great deal of last-minute cramming, and she hadn’t done much better in the psychology and sociology courses. She’d
flourished in
the criminology-specific courses, however,
and had
graduate
d
with an overall B average
. W
hen she entered the academy she
was
in her element, as though the extraneous frills had been
pared away, leaving only
what she considered
the important stuff. She’d graduated with the second-highest grade average in her class and received her badge with a sense of pride and accomplishment. She lacked the patience for calculus or Jung’s theory of archetypes, but had all the time in the world for ballistics and criminal profiling. She wasn’t a brainiac like Hank, wasn’t very well-read and didn’t give a damn about it, but she was a smart, experienced law enforcement officer and she knew it.

Before the class, Dr. Jane Morley introduced
them to the others who’d be sitting in. Cynthia Witherspoon was the
v
ice
-
p
resident of Academic Affairs. She was about fifty, short and thin, with neat, wavy copper-colored hair and gold wire frame glasses. She was all business and shook Karen’s hand without offering a smile, but Karen saw that her hazel eyes were alert and appraising. Dr. Colleen Richardson was a young, doughy-looking blond from Pennsylvania who was the
d
irector of the Sociology department and attended all presentations given by
the
Crimin
al Justice
Friday guest speakers. Professor Brogan, Marcie’s photography instructor, was also there.

“Because she won’t take no for an answer,” Morley joked.

Brogan shrugged, a little embarrassed. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“I’ll try not to be boring,” Karen said.

“And this is David Morris,” Morley said, “the other member of our Criminal Justice faculty.
”

Karen saw that he
was exactly as previously described, a forty-year-old former athlete with short black hair, a thin face
,
and pale blue eyes that looked at her with frank interest. When he shook her hand
,
he squeezed it twice, as though to make sure she understood how friendly he was.

“Cut yourself shaving?” Karen asked, looking at
a
scratch
on his left cheekbone that was several days old.

His smile didn’t dim as he touched it with his finger. “Must have, I guess. I don’t remember.”

As the sleeve of his jacket pulled down and his shirt cuff dropped, Karen saw similar marks on his
wrist and the back of his hand
.

Hank
tapped
her on the elbow. “Just got a call from Branham,” he said quietly into her ear.
“He wants a few minutes with us downstairs.”

“We’ll be right back,” Karen
told Morley
, starting for the door.

“We’re about to begin,” Morley
said
.

“Won’t be long.”

They rode the elevator down to the main floor, where Branham and Detective Muncy were waiting for them. Karen found it interesting that Clarence Muncy
accurately
fit her mental image of him based only on the telephone conference call from Tuesday. He was about thirty,
stood
six feet tall
,
and
was
shaped like an eggplant. His head was shaved
,
and
his
scruffy goatee failed to hide a double chin. He wore a cheap
green
suit, his lace-ups were brown
,
and his tie was pale blue with yellow flowers on it.

“Pooch drove up to Bluefield this morning,” Branham said, after
the
introductions were made. “Billy’s sister has alibied him.
Billy
was up at her place
on
Saturday night when Marcie was killed.”

“She’s not gonna be the strongest witness in the world,” Muncy said. “A good lawyer’d pick her apart like last Thanksgiving’s turkey leftovers, but it feels right to me. I think she’s telling the truth. He wasn’t in Harmony when his wife was strangled.”

“I gave
Pooch
the rundown on our interviews late yesterday,” Branham sa
id.

“You folks talked to this Hanshaw and Rudy,”
Muncy said,
looking
at Karen.

“
That’s right
,” she bristled. “You guys need to pull your head out of your ass and start
looking at who got her pregnant, because that’s who killed her
.”

“Back off, Tex,” Muncy said, raising a palm, “I hear y
ou
.
Neil tells me that a
ccording to the
m
ayor’s wife, David Morris
sounds
like a
possibility
.”

“He
is
,” Hank said. “We’d like to put him on the spot this morning
.
A
pply
some
pressure and see what
happens
.”

“Neil
told me
.” Muncy frowned, shaking his head. “You really think this is a bright idea? Questioning a suspect in front of a class of students?”

“Why not?” Karen replied airily. “Should be good for a laugh.”

“I don’t think so.” Muncy stared at her. “I don’t like it.”

“
Morris is
an experienced law enforcement officer,” Hank said. “If you
put him into a room and try to sweat him
he’ll ride it out.
He’ll p
ull a shell around himself and look for mistakes in everything you do.
This way we might
catch him off-guard. He’ll be in his ha
il
-fellow-well-met university instructor persona, not his tough
-
guy cop persona
. Maybe
we can exploit that.”

“Or we can wait for the lab to finish processing all the evidence we gathered and see if his DNA matches. Helluva lot simpler.”

“What if you come up empty?” Hank looked at him
. “What if the tissue under her fingernails was her own
,
and you don’t h
ave any conclusive physical evidence
?”

Karen was about to mention the scratches she’d just seen on Morris’s face and wrist, then kept her mouth shut. She
wanted
this chance to put the screws to the sonofabitch in front of an audience. Muncy hadn’t seen Morris and wouldn’t know that it was probable the bastard had donated his DNA to the investigation. She balled up her fists and
clenched her teeth
.

“I still don’t like it
,” Muncy complained.
“
It could be a serious violation of his rights.”

“We’ll manage it,” Hank said.

Muncy looked at the ceiling.

“Give it a chance, Pooch,” Branham said. “Pull the plug if you don’t like where it’s going.”

Muncy reached out and punched the elevator button. “Let’s get on with it.”

Morley’s third-year Criminal Investigation class
consi
sted of sixteen students, ten
male and six
fe
male. It wasn’t a very big room, maybe
twenty-five
by
twenty-five
feet, with a whiteboard and projection screen
on
the
wall
and the instructor’s lectern
at the front
.
Each row consisted of two student tables seating two students each
. T
here were five rows altogether. Male students sat with male students, and female with female. Morley began the class by introducing the guests
,
who’d
lined up along the back wall
. Then she
introduced
Karen
.