A Specter of Justice (5 page)

Nakayla and I stood under the arch and watched the ambulance disappear into the rain. There was no siren. There was no need.

Chapter Six

Nakayla spent the night with me at my apartment. Neither of us wanted to talk about the horror we'd witnessed, yet both of us were unable to put the tragedy out of our mind. Nakayla finally went to bed around four in the morning while I sat up in the living room, my good leg propped on an ottoman and my prosthesis lying on the floor beside me.

Although Detective Newland had clearly indicated Molly Staton's death wasn't my case, the fact that a murderer had been lurking on the bridge right under my nose or, more accurately, right over my nose, entangled me with the crime as much as any investigation I'd ever been assigned in the U.S. Army. The sheer arrogance and bravado of the killer made it impossible for me to let go.

Shortly before six, the gray of dawn seeped between the slats of the wooden blinds and I knew any attempt at sleep was futile. I fitted the prosthesis on my left stump and moved as silently as I could to the bedroom. Nakayla lay curled on the right side of the mattress, her face turned away from the window. I closed the curtains, grabbed clean clothes from the closet, and retreated to the kitchen to dress.

I left three words printed on a paper napkin. “Gone to office.” No work awaited me there. The urge to do something simply became an urge to do anything. The office created the illusion I had a plan that would bring Molly's killer to justice.

Early Saturday morning traffic in Asheville consisted of the occasional delivery truck and a change of shift at the hospital. I made it to my reserved parking space in under ten minutes and walked up Biltmore Avenue, stopping briefly to smell the aroma of baking bread emanating from City Bakery Café. Alas, they wouldn't open for another ninety minutes.

The coin-operated newspaper rack by the main entrance to our office building seemed jammed full of extra copies. The macabre murder must have dramatically increased the press run. I dug enough quarters out of my pocket to buy one.

A color photo of Helen's Bridge filled the space between the middle fold and banner headline—“Ghost Tour Tragedy.” The photographer framed the arch with blue police lights streaking through the fog underneath it. The image of Molly's hanging body appeared only in my mind. I was relieved none of the pictures from the Japanese group or Collin McPhillips had leaked to the press.

The headline wasn't as tawdry or sensational as it could have been. I scanned the front page as I rode the elevator to the third floor. The main article contained nothing beyond what I'd known when I left the scene last night. Newland was quoted with the perfunctory statement about the investigation being in its early stages and that any comment would be inappropriate speculation.

The sidebar articles proved less benign. One column rehashed the grisly courthouse shooting as the backdrop for the Atwood twins' fundraiser. There was another piece about the Asheville Apparitions and their steering committee organizing the event. Someone had told the reporter I was responsible for security, which made me look like an incompetent bozo, not the best image for a professional investigator to project.

My unflattering publicity was inconsequential compared with the story about the custody fight for Jimmy and Johnny Atwood. Hewitt Donaldson figured prominently as did Tom Peterson. Clyde Atwood's mother, Nelda Atwood, was quoted as saying the fundraiser had been planned by Helen Wilson in an effort to buy off the courts with the help of Satan worshipers. Nelda claimed the death of Molly Staton was a sign that her grandsons needed to be raised in a God-fearing home and not with a person who made deals with the devil.

A preacher named Horace Brooks said the custody battle wasn't for the earthly lives of the twins but for their eternal souls. “Helen Wilson might have that hotshot Hewitt Donaldson but the Atwoods have Jesus,” the preacher proclaimed. I wondered how Tom Peterson felt about having Jesus as his senior counsel.

The upshot of the clamor was that Helen Wilson and her grandsons were once again at the center of a storm not of their making. And, sadly, the other person neglected in all the name-calling and custody histrionics was Molly Staton. Hardly a word was printed about her.

I left the newspaper on Nakayla's desk and noticed the message light flashing frantically on her phone. Ignoring what I suspected were the calls of desperate reporters, I retrieved water from the sink in the men's restroom and started a pot of coffee in the small Cuisinart brewer Nakayla kept atop one of her filing cabinets.

Bolstered with a mug of java, I quickly sped through the voicemails that began at nine the night before and ended at one-thirty in the morning. Each message began with the man or woman touting journalistic credentials ranging from local radio stations to CNN and ended with a plea to return the call as soon as possible. I had no intention of speaking with any of them and each message was promptly deleted. Each message, that is, except the last one. A whispery male voice said, “Mr. Blackman. You have crossed Helen's Bridge into the valley of the shadow of death. You and your black harlot. Be warned that the scythe of justice is sweeping away all who are found guilty.”

My first thought was who the hell uses the word harlot these days? My second thought was he made a threat against Nakayla and that wouldn't stand. I pulled my cell phone from my belt, activated the audio app, and recorded the man's voice. Then I e-mailed the file to Detective Newland with the short text—
Got this at the office at one-thirty this morning
. I knew he had bigger fish to fry, but I wanted him aware of everything that might have any connection to Molly's murder.

I pulled a clean legal pad from my desk drawer and started writing the names of those people who knew Molly Staton would be at Helen's Bridge. Our organizing committee had the most detailed information. They also had ironclad alibis. Nakayla and I were on the scene with a busload of Japanese witnesses. The same held true for Angela Douglas and Collin McPhillips. Hewitt Donaldson and Tom Peterson had been transmitting from their assigned locations and Lenore was in place for her role as The Pink Lady at the Grove Park Inn. Shirley and Cory were coordinating the entire event from their headquarters at Pack Square. Jerry Wofford had been checking in with the food and drink vendors positioned along the walking route downtown. The other person with in-depth knowledge was Nathan Armitage, but he was manning the communications network at the same site as Shirley and Cory.

We'd kept the identity of those playing ghosts a secret to add to the impact when family and friends saw them in costume. Discovering whether someone had shared the cast list would be a priority. But names were only starting points. Without a motive, there would be no link between being aware of Molly's location and being her murderer.

I jotted the word “motive” on the pad. A personal animosity to Molly seemed the most likely candidate, but the context of the ghost tour raised the possibility that someone was taking out their anger on the event's participants and Molly happened to be the most vulnerable. But why the costume change? Although the ME report probably wouldn't be ready for a day or two, I felt certain the autopsy would show that Molly was killed elsewhere, maybe even in the early afternoon or morning. Either the killer didn't have access to Molly's planned wardrobe or the gown bore some other significance.

And until it could be determined whether Molly was the specific target or a symbolic target, Newland's investigation would have to cast an extremely wide net. He needed a breakthrough lead to narrow the focus. I looked at the office phone. A lead like a threatening call. Or a disgruntled boyfriend who in this case happened to be Newland's partner.

I stared at the list of names for a few minutes before adding Clyde's parents, Nelda and Cletus Atwood. As an afterthought, I wrote down Horace Brooks, the preacher quoted in the newspaper. He was the type of person who might still throw around the word harlot, and the voicemail wasn't so whispery as to thwart identification completely.

A knock sounded from the outer door. I glanced at my wristwatch and realized at some point my fruitless thoughts had become dreamless sleep. It was eight-fifteen. I swiveled the chair toward the door, expecting to see Nakayla and maybe a bag of warm muffins.

Homicide Detective Newly Newland entered. He wore the same wrinkled suit from the night before. Gray stubble covered his unshaven face. Bags under his eyes looked like they were packed for a two-week vacation.

Before I could utter a word, he said, “Yeah, I know. I look like hell. But I take consolation knowing you look bad twenty-four/seven.” He glanced over his shoulder to check Nakayla's empty office. “Where's your lovely partner?”

“Asleep, I hope. Someone's got to keep a clear head.” I stood. “Want a cup of coffee?”

He waved the offer aside. “If I have any more caffeine, I'll induce a heart attack.”

“Then have a seat while I get a refill.”

Newly crossed the room and plopped on the leather sofa. Returning with a fresh mug, I found he'd laid his head back and closed his eyes. I thought he'd fallen asleep.

“Those Japanese sure take a lot of pictures in a short period of time.” He made the pronouncement, too tired to move anything but his lips.

“Is that what you've been doing? Reviewing photographs?”

He leaned forward. “Yes. And then one of our technicians pulled them off and saved them in a computer folder under the person's name. Tuck's been taking statements from each of them.”

“Any protest that you're confiscating their pictures?”

“Not from the Japanese. I explained that they are evidence and I need to keep them in a chain of custody so that they're not altered or publicized.”

“Collin McPhillips felt differently?”

“Of course, he did. When he learned he wasn't getting his photos, he started screaming freedom of the press. I told him he could either have his camera back with all the pictures except for Molly's body, or I'd log everything—camera, lenses, bag—into the evidence room and he'd see them after the trial, if there ever is one.”

“He caved?”

Newly nodded. “With the encouragement of his writer friend.”

“Angela Douglas?”

“Yes. She told McPhillips that having some of the pictures was better than none, and she could write her article without police restraint.”

I took a sip of hot coffee and considered how far to press Newly. “You learn anything from the photographs?”

Newly shook his head. “You know I can't go there. And I know you're champing at the bit to get involved.”

“Then just tell me if you think the case is solvable.”

He smiled. “All cases are solvable. The question is when. This murder is so bizarre that I'm confident a solution is out there. A run-of-the-mill drive-by shooting, now that's another matter.”

I understood and agreed with what Newly was saying. The more unusual the crime, the more likely the perpetrator will be discovered. That principle was expressed by none other than Sherlock Holmes. Although he's only fictional, the principle is not. “Is your when soon?” I asked.

“Our when depends upon the speed with which we can exercise the process of elimination. I think motive and opportunity will reveal our killer.”

I stared at him.

“I know,” he said. “Not much above a drive-by. So, I'm interested in your voicemail.”

“That's why you're here?”

“I thought it would be best to listen to it straight from your machine. I could tell there was ambient room noise on what you recorded for me. I'd like to have one of our techs pull a copy from the line so the only ambient sound is from the caller's location.”

I was pleased Newly was taking the threat seriously. “Okay.”

“Does your system record caller ID?”

“It's stamped on the message readout. I didn't recognize the number.”

Newly brightened. “Well, that's at least something. Can I hear it?”

He followed me into my office and we stood over the phone. I replayed the message.

“Again,” he said as soon as the caller finished.

We listened a second time. I noticed how melodramatic and contrived the delivery sounded, as if read from a script. I thought of Clyde Atwood's cheering section, the men behind him that first day of the trial, and their tough-guy posturing when I took the stand. “Sounds like a bad impression of Marlon Brando's Godfather, doesn't it?”

“Maybe that's what it's supposed to sound like,” Newly replied. “What someone believes a threat should be.”

“What do you know about that preacher Horace Brooks?”

Newly's eyebrows arched. “You think it's him?”

“Well, the speech is either bad Hollywood or bad Old Testament. The guy's quoted in today's paper asserting Helen Wilson is in league with devil worshipers trying to steal the twins away from the Atwoods.”

Newly thought a moment. “One of the guys at the police station said Brooks showed up on the eleven o'clock TV news last night. Maybe he made the same statement then that appeared in the morning paper.”

“Does he have a history of calling press conferences?”

“He's not shy about sticking his face in front of a camera. Brooks came to Asheville about fifteen years ago as a tent preacher. He never left.”

“Must be one hell of a tent.”

“He got promoted to bricks and mortar. The Church of the Righteous. It's out off the old highway to Canton. Most people call it the Church of the Self-Righteous.”

“Fire and brimstone?” I asked.

“That's my understanding. I'm not saying they keep rattlers under the pulpit, but I bet they take the Bible so literally they believe Jesus spoke King James English.”

“The Atwoods must be part of his congregation,” I said.

“Yeah, but I can't see him for something like this.”

“Maybe not,” I agreed. “But who's to say his fiery rhetoric didn't encourage someone else?”