The Bottom (11 page)

I ask Lucy, as gently as I can, about her daughter’s movements in the day or so leading up to last Thursday.

“She called me on Wednesday morning,” she says. “She said she was staying with some friends that had a place down in the Bottom. I asked her if she was working on her GED. She said she was, but I don’t know.”

Lucy Caldwell sits down.

“She was so young. She was a smart girl, but after her father left, she just kind of went wild. I had to work, and she didn’t have anybody to ride herd on her.”

I don’t know how to broach the subject of Ronnie Sax and his camera. There isn’t any good way. I mention that the guy they have locked up was a photographer, and that he sometimes used local girls as models.

She gets my drift.

“Oh my God. That son of a bitch. That son of a bitch!”

I assure her that I don’t know anything that would suggest that Jessica was posing for him, although Peachy has told me enough to make me sure that the police will be coming by soon with images of her underage daughter that were gleaned from Ronnie Sax’s perverted files.

I ask her if she remembered the names of Jessica’s friends down in the Bottom. She said her daughter never mentioned their names. I’m wondering if her “friends” won’t turn out to be just the one, a lizard by the name of Ronnie Sax. From what Peachy told me, she certainly knew the way to Sax’s apartment.

There isn’t much left to ask her. On the way out the door, I think to ask her about the tattoo.

“I didn’t know anything about that until they brought me down there to see . . .”

I wait a moment for Lucy Caldwell to regain control of what’s left of her sense.

“She never would have gotten one, on her own. She didn’t like them. She said she didn’t want anything that made her hurt . . .”

I let myself out, feeling like almost as big a creep as Ronnie Sax. He wanted to exploit Jessica Caldwell to make a few bucks. I’m using her mother for an A1 byline.

Well, I tell myself as I light up, I at least owe Lucy Caldwell a proper resolution to all this.

I know that’s the cops’ job, but I just want to make sure they do it right. Ronnie Sax is a vile pornographer who preys on young women. Check. He deserves to spend an appreciable amount of time in the kind of prison where guys like Ronnie get a little payback, in kind. Check.

Is Ronnie Sax the kind of man who brutally murders young women on a regular basis? The cops are no doubt sure of that by now.

Me, I’m never sure ’til I’m sure.

CHAPTER TEN

X

Thursday

T
he “We got him” press conference is at nine thirty. I swear L.D. Jones plans these things so he can ensure that every TV station around gets the story before the paper does. That, and it ensures that I will put in a fourteen-hour shift. No big deal, though. We’ve run pretty much everything worth knowing already. And he’s not lengthening my day that much anyhow, because I’m meeting Philomena and Richard Slade for lunch at noon. I’ll just have time to listen to some bullshit, write it up for the website and head out to the Slades’ place.

Jones and the mayor are looking somber and proud, ebony and ivory back in harmony now that the bad guy’s been caught and there are no bucks to pass. They explain that they have strong reason to believe that the person they have in custody is the man responsible for the rape and murder of Jessica Caldwell. They are, the chief adds, also looking into the possible connection to three earlier murders. Then he names the other victims.

He goes on to compliment the anonymous citizen who gave the police the tip they needed. He praises the dogged detective work, not mentioning that they had the guy in custody and then let him go, or that Sax turned himself in.

Someone who must be from out of town or another planet asks him the guy’s name. I see the other TV types roll their eyes. When these guys notice your ass is clueless, you’re in trouble. Everything I’ve written so far about this case has turned up on the next TV news cycle, more or less verbatim, including, of course, the alleged perp’s name. But the chief, in his giddiness, has forgotten to give us that important detail.

“His name is Ronald Wayne Kusack,” Jones says. “He’s forty-eight years old. He has been going by the name Ronnie Sax. He worked as a freelance photographer.”

L.D. can’t resist adding that Sax worked for my newspaper, something that everybody in town already knows.

The chief gives us a few more useless details, and the dog-and-pony show ends. I stop by the paper and file for the ether, using the phrase “as previously reported” as often as I can.

But at least they have the guy. Some wag has found a photo of Sax in his journalism days and has posted it on the newsroom bulletin board. Underneath, someone’s written, “Single hot guy ISO female companionship. Must be openminded. Age no barrier.”

Normally I have a fairly sick sense of humor. Thinking of Andi, though, I rip the photo and caption off the wall, crumple them up and dump them in the trash can. Nobody tries to stop me.

I RUN BACK to the Prestwould long enough to pick up the mail. Then it’s a two-smoke drive out to the Slades’ home. When I get there, I can see Richard’s influence. Philomena is a fastidious person, but she’s also one old woman who was trying to keep up a house and yard by herself. Richard’s been out of prison for more than two years now, released after spending his adult life to that point behind bars.

He seems to have thrown himself into home improvement with the fervor of someone trying to make up for lost time. The yard is as green as an Augusta fairway, even after the Richmond summer that incinerates less-cared-for lawns. Rose bushes bloom. Other plants I can’t name, but look pretty, abound. The smell of mulch hangs in the air. The house itself looks as if it has been painted so recently I should be careful not to touch anything. The roof is new. The state did give Richard Slade a pittance for the oopsie of sending him to prison for twenty-eight years for a crime he didn’t commit, and he seems to have spent a goodly sum of it fixing up the home of the one person who never thought he was guilty. He told me, six months after his release, that he had offered to move his mother into a new and larger house, but she refused.

“She said this was the only house she ever needed,” he told me at the time.

Since my reporting helped keep Richard from being thrown back into prison, which would have set some kind of record for injustice inflicted on one innocent man, I am treated with more kindness than I deserve. Hell, I was just trying to make A1. It doesn’t hurt that the Slades are my cousins.

He shakes my hand and gives me a man-hug. Philomena graces me with a kiss on the cheek.

“Willie Black!” she says. “Our salvation.”

I feel myself blushing. I have done much to blush for, but I seldom do.

I compliment Richard and Philomena, suggesting that perhaps they will be on the city’s annual home and garden tour.

Philomena tells me to stop lying. I can see she’s pleased.

We have lunch and catch up. I give them the short version of Peggy’s depression. Philomena promises to come visit her soon and chastises me for not bringing her today. Peggy begged off at the last minute, but I should have dragged her over anyhow.

Over banana pudding, Richard cuts to the chase.

“We wanted to see if you could help us,” he says. “It’s about what they’re doing in the Bottom.”

I knew this was where we were headed. I’ve just been waiting for us to work through the pleasantries.

“What they want to do is wrong,” Philomena says. She is a woman of strong convictions and few words. But I know she will go at this like a pit bull with heat rash. Richard and I both know what Philomena Slade will do when she thinks justice is being disrespected.

She has become part of the group that is trying to stave off Wat Chenault’s Top of the Bottom plans. The group calls itself Stop the Top. Maybe Philomena volunteered that she knew somebody who could get them some ink.

“My grandmother used to tell me what her grandmother told her, and it was passed down before that, I’m sure, about how terrible it was back then. One of them, I think it was that older grannie’s mother, saw two of her children sold there, sold down south somewhere. Never saw them again.”

I know oral histories can have more staying power than might seem possible. Philomena, though, has taken it a bit further. What her grandmother told her going back another three generations, Momma Phil wrote down.

“Some others had things, too, that they wrote down that was told to them,” she says. “We want to get some of that into your paper.”

I tell them I will do what I can. They take this as less than an ironclad promise. I feel bad about that, but the next thing I write speaking ill of Wat Chenault’s plans could be the last thing I write for the only place I know that will let me stay in Richmond, do honest work and pay the rent. This is going to take either some fancy dancing or the kind of courage I had more of at twenty-three than I do at fifty-three. The newborn lamb blah-blah-blah.

The school bus pulls up outside and Jamal and Jeroy come bounding to the house. Philomena’s keeping them after school while Chanelle, her niece, works. If it takes a village, Momma Phil is certainly this burg’s mayor.

“First grade,” she says, “and they already can read so good.”

They whine for some quality time with Uncle Richard, who obliges them.

“I wish he could find a good woman,” Philomena says, as he leads them over to the sawed-off basketball goal. “He’s so good with children.”

I depart, promising her I will do what I possibly can.

“I know you will,” she says. It is good when people have faith in you, but it’s bad when you puncture that faith. I know. I have been there. Just ask my former wives.

I TAKE THE mail inside with me when I get back to the paper. Along with a couple of bills, two pieces of correspondence bear the imprint of my alma mater, neither of them asking me to speak at commencement. One is offering me an unbeatable deal on life insurance. The other is promising me the vacation of a lifetime in southern Italy and Sicily, spent with fellow alums, for about a month’s pay. Does my old school do anything anymore, education-wise, or is it just in the business of selling my name to as many people as possible? Well, yes, one other thing: It’s also good at cashing those checks for Andi’s education.

The one piece of mail that looks like it could be from an actual human being wishing to communicate with me has no return address.

Most of the mail I get from readers, I get at the office. It is more likely to start off with “Dear Shithead” than “Dear Willie.” It’s rare, these days, to receive personal correspondence at home.

I open it. The lined notebook paper inside does not give me hope, nor does the shaky cursive script.

However, the content definitely gets my attention.

“You people,” it starts by way of salutation, “you think your so fucking smart. Think you got the right guy, huh? Well, then, how come I’m writing you, and it’s not coming from the Richmond jail?”

This is a very good question.

Of course, anyone could write a note like this. What follows, though, does make me wonder.

“Did the cops look in their pockets?” the letter continues. “Have the cops spent those silver dollars yet? Maybe you ought to check, dumbass.”

Not surprisingly, the letter isn’t signed. I find out later that it was mailed at the main post office branch on the North Side.

I wait until after six to give Peachy Love a call at home.

“Tell me about the silver dollars,” is my greeting.

Peachy is silent for a few seconds.

“OK,” she says at last, “but you can’t let anyone know you know about this. I think they’re a little suspicious around here. The chief called me in yesterday and asked me if I ever talk to ‘that asshole at the paper.’ Of course, I knew who he meant, but I played dumb. He said your name, and I told him the only time we talk is when you’re over here sniffing around or it’s a press conference or something like that.

“I’m not sure he believes me.”

I assure her that the most I will do is show the cops the letter. Peachy then tells me what I need to know.

In each of the murdered girls’ clothing, someone had left a silver dollar. The police had kept that bit of information secret, a way to separate the real killer from idiots who feel compelled to confess to crimes they didn’t commit. No one, real or otherwise, came forward until they nabbed Ronnie Sax, and the secret of the silver dollars did what secrets almost never do: It stayed secret. I’ve always known, in my heart of hearts, that Peachy doesn’t tell me everything she knows. I don’t guess I’d respect her if she did.

“He really mentioned silver dollars?” Peachy asked.

“Yeah. Do you think it’s possible you’ve got the wrong guy?”

“I’ve never seen a more perfect perp. He’s got a history with girls and young women. He lives in the neighborhood. He had pictures of those two girls on his computer.”

I point out that Ronnie Sax has no history of violence, and that no one can place him at or near the train station around the time of the murder.

Sax looks like a natural. I was pretty much ready to pull the switch myself. Now, with the letter, I’m not so sure.

ABOUT NINE, WAT Chenault calls.

“I understand you’ve got that big nose of yours stuck in my business again,” is his idea of a cordial greeting.

I tell him that, with the lawsuit and all, I am proscribed from talking to him.

“Proscribed? Where did an Oregon Hill mulatto like you learn such big words, Willie?”

I resist the urge to either tell him to go fuck himself or pay him a visit and give him an up-close and personal greeting. I grind my teeth and wait.

“I know you’ve met with that Slade woman,” Chenault says. “I know what her and those other colored—excuse me, African American––women are up to. Well, it ain’t going to work, and if I see even a hint that you might be siding with her, my lawyer will be paying your new publisher a call. You get me?”

I’ve gotten Wat Chenault for a long time. What he doesn’t get about me, though, is this: If he pisses me off enough, all the lawyers and lawsuits and threats of termination in the world won’t keep me quiet.