Gone to Ground (11 page)

"What are you doin here?" I threw my demand at John.

"We're the police, Deena. We don't need your permission to be here."

Well, hello to you, too. At six-two, John stood a half-foot taller than me. I hated that I had to look up at him. His muscles and rock-jaw good looks didn't make me like him any better. It would've been one thing if he'd kept his fine physique for
me
when we were married, when I happened to be madly in love with him. But no, he'd had to go cattin around all of Jasper County.

"You got a warrant?" I turned to Chief Cotter. He was givin me his I'm-serious-as-a-heart-attack look, his bottom lip pushed upward. The expression made his big jowls look even heavier. He carried a clipboard with a piece of paper and pen attached.

"Now, Deena, let's not get all hot 'n' bothered here." The chief gave me the dismissive glance of an elephant to a gnat. "We came to talk to Stevie."

"He doesn't want to talk."

"He was doin just fine till you got here. In fact, he let us in."

"If he let you in, it's because you intimidated him! You know he has no idea of his rights." Any figure of authority made my brother nervous.
"Do
you have a warrant or not?"

"Deena." John's voice climbed sharp. "Get outta here and leave us to our work."

"I take it that's a
no
. So you can just leave."

"This ain't your house." My ex took a step toward me.

I stood my ground. "Stevie, tell em to get out. They need your permission to be here."

"But it's too late." He twisted his hands, his forehead a mass of wrinkles. "I already let em in."

"It's not too late—"

"Steven." Chief Cotter thrust the clipboard in my face to block my sight of my brother. I pushed it down. "We hear you ran home from work Tuesday night like your pants were on fire. That true?"

Oh, no.

My brother's shoulders hunched. His eyes bounced from the chief to John. "I don't remember."

"Well, the person who saw you sure remembers."

"I don't know."

"You come straight home after work last Tuesday?" Chief Cotter leaned back, arms crossed.

My brother looked at the floor and shrugged.

"This person said you didn't. Said the time you were runnin across town was about 12:30 in the mornin."

Twelve-thirty? No way! Stevie had shown up at my door at midnight.

"And this person who saw you? Said you had somethin all over the front of your clothes. Looked like blood."

No, no, no. "Stevie! Tell them to get
out.
"

"Was that blood on your uniform, Steven?"

"I don't know!"

"You have to know, Steven. Either it was or it wasn't."

My brother darted a panicked glance down the hallway toward his bedroom. He looked as obvious as a cookie thief wipin crumbs from his face.

Chief Cotter honed in. "I'm just goin to look around, with your permission, Steven." He held up the clipboard and snatched the pen from it. "Sign here."

Sign a paper? "No!" I grabbed my brother's arm and shook it. "Don't sign anything. Tell them to go! You can
do
that."

The chief's beady gray eyes shot lasers at me. He shoved his big self between me and Stevie and forced the pen into my brother's hand. "Sign it, Steven."

Stevie did as he was told.

Flexin his shoulders, Chief Cotter pushed past me and lumbered down the narrow hall. John stood back and let him pass.

My brother's mouth flopped open and closed like a fish on a riverbank.

I faced him, my back to John, my eyes bugged. Everything in my expression read,
"The uniform, Stevie! They can't find the uniform!"
His face paled even more, but he couldn't bring himself to speak.

I whirled on John. "What's the matter with you, why can't you leave him alone?"

John's face reddened."You are pushin me way too far."

One of his favorite lines from our marital fights. I stomped around him and headed after the chief. John caught my wrist. "Deena,
don't.
"

"Don't you
don't
me." I shook off his grip and kept goin. He grabbed me again. "
Get
your hands off me!"

He sunk his fingers into my shoulders and jerked me around. My hand pulled back to slap him—then hung in the air.

"Go ahead, do it. I'll arrest you for assaultin an officer."

"I wouldn't
be
assaultin an officer, I'd be punchin my ex."

He seethed. "This isn't about you and me, Deena. It's about women dyin in this town."

"Stevie's got nothin to do with that!"

"We think he does." He gave me a shake. "Can't you see past your own blindness? You
can't
protect him from this."

"I can protect him from cops who need a fall guy. That's all this is about—so your father can announce he's got a suspect—"

From Stevie's room at the other end of the trailer came the sound of drawers bein opened and closed. I wrenched away from John and flung myself down the hall, sick in my stomach. John could be right, he could be
right
, and I'd never bear the thought of it. "Chief!" I rounded the corner into my brother's messy room.

Adam Cotter stood back from his rummage in the closet and cast me a bland look.

"You
can't
be in here." I couldn't keep the panic from my voice. "I'll testify against you in court, I swear it. You forced my brother to sign that paper!"

"Your brother got somethin to hide, Deena?" He tilted his head in that smirky "come on now" expression I'd always hated. I wanted to hit him. "Well?" He leaned toward me.

"No."

"Then what're you so worried about?"

"You know he's not competent enough to keep you out of here."

"He's competent enough to be employed. Live on his own. He signed the consent."

A squeak filtered down from the center of the trailer—the opening of the bi-fold door to the stacked compact washer and dryer. I leaned out of the bedroom to see John checkin inside.

My heart leapt to my throat.

He pulled a Bradmeyer Plastics uniform off the top of the washer and straightened. Held it up to examine it. I wanted to fly at him, scratch out his eyes. But I couldn't move.

Slowly John's head turned my direction. He eyed me for a moment, then looked back to the dark blue fabric. "Dad."

"Yeah." The chief pushed me out of the doorway. I floundered two steps into the hall and leaned against the wall.

"Take a look at this."

My tongue dried up. I cast a wild glance toward the front room but couldn't see Stevie. The chief hunched up the hall and took the uniform from John's hands. He held it close to his face, frownin. Then exchanged a meaningful glance with his son.

"What is it?" The words blurted out of me.
Shut up, Deena, shut up.

The chief ignored me and headed for Stevie. I stumbled after him. As I passed John, I gave him a look that could have melted stone.

"What's this, Steven?" Chief Cotter pointed to the front of the uniform.

Even as I sidled into the room I could see huge splotches of reddish brown against the dark blue.
Great, Stevie.
A lot of good puttin the thing on top of the washin machine did.

A spasm flitted across my brother's cheeks. "I don't know."

"Looks like you got somethin on your clothes here."

Stevie shrugged.

"And it sure does look like bloodstains."

No response.

"You cain't tell me what it is?"

"No."

"Or how it got here?"

"No."

I jumped to my brother's side. "Stevie, shut up. Don't say anything."

The chief's eyes hardened. "Deena, I've been mighty patient with you. Now I'm askin you
real nice
to be quiet."

Chief Cotter's "real nice" was as trusty as a snake in the grass. "Stevie,
don't
say anything."

Adam Cotter's head pulled back. "John, get her out of here."

John took hold of my arm. I jerked away. "You can't throw me out of my own brother's house."

"Leave or I'll arrest you." John reached for his cuffs.

"Wouldn't you just love to arrest me." I turned narrowed eyes on my ex-father-in-law. "You go right ahead—and see what a judge says when I tell the court you questioned someone who can't even understand his rights. Anything you think you've found in here will be thrown out."

The chief surveyed me. I'd hit every policeman's sore spot. Last thing they wanted was for evidence to be thrown out. But he had his signed permission, and that was that. "You know about this, Deena?" He gestured toward the uniform with his double chin.

I glared at him. He mocked me with a half-smile. "I'll take that as a yes."

My veins ran cold. If they arrested me for hidin evidence—who'd help Stevie then?

"Steven." The chief focused on my brother. "I'm sayin again, this looks like blood to me."

Stevie threw me a panicked look. I shook my head hard: keep quiet.

"Is it blood, Steven?"

"I'm not tellin'."

"Where'd it come from?"

"I don't know."

"It's on your uniform. You should know."

Stevie's expression blackened—his response to being cornered in a lie.

"What day did you wear this uniform, Steven?"

"Tuesday."

My heart fell to my feet.
Why
had he answered
that
question?

"Tuesday? You sure?"

My brother nodded. Suddenly he thrust his face inches from the chief's. "I didn't do it!"

No, Stevie,
no
.

"Didn't do what?"

I wanted to run outside, cover my ears. I couldn't stand to hear what my brother denied. Because I knew from childhood that whatever he said he didn't do—he'd done it.

"I didn't kill that girl!"

By the time Mike left for work, my mind was made up.

I pulled my laptop computer out from under the couch and plugged it in. The thing dated back to my sophomore year in high school. Mike didn't like seeing me on it. All I did was check Facebook pages of my friends, but to Mike, that was too much. "What're you sayin about me?" he'd demanded more than once. I'd learned to put my computer away while he was home.

Sitting on the couch with my feet on a footstool, I positioned the laptop on my huge belly. It took forever to boot up. Finally I pulled up the Internet and Google. I stared at the screen. How to begin? Then typed in a search:
Mississippi private lab
.

Over 200,000 hits came up. I did a double take. How was I supposed to wade through all that?

The fifth listing on the first page caught my eye: "Crime Fighters Critical of Mississippi Crime Lab." An article from March 2009. Great, just what I was afraid of—some lab botching tests of my swabs.

I clicked on the link.

According to the article, law enforcement agencies complained a lot about the state crime lab in Jackson. With a backlog of as much as ninety days, it took too long to get to cases. One district attorney said the lab "caused so many headaches" he didn't care that it cost more to send evidence to a private lab.

That cinched it. A private lab was the way I should go. I could see results before turning them over to police. And no way did I want to wait ninety days for a result.

The article mentioned Scales, a private lab in Brandon, about fifteen minutes from Jackson. I read on. This could be my answer. Then I saw the cost. From $500 to $700 for each DNA sample. No way I could get that kind of money.

Suddenly it hit me. How could I be so dense? I didn't
have
a sample of Erika's DNA, so how was a lab supposed to tell me if my swabs contained her blood?

My head fell back.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I had no idea what I was doing here. And even if I had something from Erika, I could never afford running
two
samples. If I wanted to go ahead with this, I was stuck with only one choice. I had to give the swabs to the Amaryllis police.

No way.

I set the computer on the coffee table and lay down on the couch. For a long time I stayed on my side, one hand under my cheek. Slowly a plan begin to form. In my mind I took apart the plan, looked at it up and down and sideways. I saw no alternative—other than doing nothing. And that was no longer a choice.

Pulling in a large breath, I heaved my big body to sit up. I put my computer away, then pushed to my feet. I lumbered into the kitchen for my purse and went outside. Got into my car and backed out of the driveway. Funny, my lack of emotions, now that I was really
doing
something. I shoved them way down inside me. I was just driving to the Bay Springs Piggly Wiggly, that's all. One action at a time.

Don't think, Tully. Just do.

At the store in Bay Springs I bought a yellow pad of paper and the smallest package of regular sized envelopes I could find. I mixed these in with other grocery items we needed anyway. A high school boy—was I really in his shoes only a year ago?—helped me out to my car.