Murder Deja Vu (13 page)

He called Dana. She didn’t answer. Coincidence? He thought not. His wife had run off with a head-severing murderer.

He picked up the phone and called Sheriff Payton. “Any news?”

“Nope. Daughtry’s not driving his old pickup. It’s parked at his place. You know where your wife is? I hear Daughtry and her have a thing going. Think she might be with him?”

“
Ex
-wife, Jim. She’s my ex-wife, which means why would I have a clue where she is? Her love life is her business, but if she’s with him, she’s in a pile of trouble.”

“I forgot you were divorced. You’re right, though. If she’s with Daughtry, she’s in trouble. I called over there, but she didn’t answer. I’ll run someone by her house. See if anything’s wrong.”

“Yes, do that. I’ll worry. You can’t live with someone for twenty years and not care what happens to them.”

“Uh-huh.”

Robert didn’t like Jim Payton’s tone. He didn’t like Jim Payton, and the feelings were mutual. Payton knew damn well Dana had divorced him, and he relished rubbing salt in the wound. Everyone in the area knew it, thanks to Harris Stroud. The backstabber published it in the newspaper. That was the problem with small town newspapers. They printed everything: births, deaths, school graduations, and divorces. But Robert owned this one. He shouldn’t have been humiliated reading about his divorce in his own damn paper. Irreconcilable differences. That was what Harris wrote. He took Dana’s side because they’d been friends forever. If Robert hadn’t come along, Dana might have married him. In spite of his three marriages, Harris always had the hots for her.

No matter how much he wanted to fire Harris’s ass for humiliating him, the man was untouchable, and they both knew it. Harris might be a small town newspaperman and a womanizing drunk, but he was a good reporter who could’ve worked any big city desk if he stayed off the sauce. He knew how to play Robert’s game too. He’d dug into Robert’s life, turned the tables, exactly the way Robert had always done when dealing with people. Find out their secrets. Everyone had them. Secrets made people vulnerable.

* * * * *

C
larence sat in Sheriff Jim Payton’s office and listened to his conversation with Robert Minette. He tried to appear as if he wasn’t paying attention, but he’d have to be deaf not to hear. The sheriff didn’t seem to mind that he heard either. He could easily have asked Clarence to wait outside, but he didn’t.

File folders lay stacked in trays on Payton’s desk, along with the only personal items—a framed picture of his family and another of his two kids. His gaze shifted back to Payton, whose body language and facial expressions stated clearly his disdain for Minette. The dismissive sound he made when he hung up clinched it. Clarence intended to use that to his advantage, but for the moment, he didn’t say anything, allowing Payton a chance to cool off.

“Do you know where they are?” Payton asked.

“No.”

“If you did, you wouldn’t tell me anyway, would you?”

“Since I work for Daughtry’s attorney, privilege exists. But I was being truthful. I don’t know.” Clarence didn’t want to incur the wrath of the sheriff. “Have you ever met Reece Daughtry, Sheriff?”

“Yes, I have. After I was elected, I paid him a visit. I wanted to meet the man who got out of prison on a technicality to make sure I wouldn’t have any problems with him.”

“What did you think?”

“He was building his house—him and another man, a Latino—and living in a small trailer he parked on his property. He set up a tent out there too. What he was doing was downright beautiful. He’s a quiet man, dignified, sometimes bordering on surly. Not one for chitchat, which was okay with me.”

“Did you get the feeling he was capable of doing what Minette is trying to pin on him?”

Payton thought for a long minute. He stared at Clarence, sizing him up like a good cop. “You’ve been to his place, right?”

Clarence nodded. “Last night.”

“You see all those animals he has out there fitted with collars so they can’t get off the property and get hurt?”

Again, Clarence nodded.

Payton leaned back in his chair. “I can’t imagine a man like that could do what they said and then do it again, although it’s not out of the realm of possibility. Murderers can be damn stupid. Daughtry didn’t strike me as stupid. Before I went, I pulled his record. Harvard grad, top grades, the kind of kid every parent would be proud of. I don’t know if that history colored my point of view, but either he’s psycho or he’s been royally screwed.”

“You want to know what I think?”

“You’re going to tell me anyway. That’s why you came to see me.”

Clarence smiled. Payton had good instincts and was plain spoken. Clarence liked him. “I know someone else committed the murder Reece went to prison for. I know it because I know Reece Daughtry. I’ve been poking around to see if I could find something to clear him, let him get his life back. Otherwise, he’ll always be suspect, always have good cops like you checking him out.”

“Just doing my job.”

“I’d have done the same thing. I think my poking got someone nervous, and he crawled out of his cave long enough to come down here and kill Rayanne Johnson to incriminate Reece and take the heat off himself. I also think her murder gave Robert Minette the idea that if he could bring Reece to trial, he could get his name in the papers—use the publicity as a stepping stone to who knows what. Run for higher office, maybe, or get himself appointed to the bench.

“I don’t believe the same man killed Lurena Howe. Her murder doesn’t fit the M.O., but Minette seems to think he can get a doubleheader out of this. I might be reaching, but I think two people are trying to frame Reece. One is the original killer, and the other is Robert Minette.” Now Clarence leaned back in his chair. He let his words resonate before he asked the next question. “Do you think Minette’s the type of man who could do that?”

Payton blew out a long breath. “You’re asking if I think Robert Minette is either capable of murder or of hiring someone to do it?”

“Uh-huh.”

The sheriff opened his desk drawer and withdrew a package of gum. Clarence recognized the stall tactic. Probably wondering
if
he should answer. Payton pulled out a stick and offered the package to Clarence. He declined.

“I don’t hold much for a man who abuses his wife. It’s a mark of cowardice. Mrs. Minette never filed charges, and I heard why. People talk in small towns. I also heard what he had on her that kept her with him all those years. He made sure everyone knew when she left him.”

Clarence felt the heat of Payton’s gaze. He hadn’t heard about Minette physically harming Dana, although it didn’t surprise him. Minette fit the profile. What surprised him was that Dana had stayed with him. Payton mentioned he knew why. Clarence would find out.

“I’m county, Mr. Wright. Regal Falls has a small police department, four men. I have a large staff, good men all. Minette makes his home in Harold County, but his jurisdiction encompasses three counties. After the people elected me sheriff, I watched him prosecute a murder trial—the type more prevalent in these parts. A family argument turned ugly, nothing premeditated. He prosecuted that man like he was Jack the Ripper. I thought then that Minette didn’t like to lose. In fact, I pegged him for someone who’d likely do anything to win. I haven’t changed my mind. Whether that makes him capable of murder, I don’t know. But I’ve been a cop too long to rule it out. I’ve seen men who were supposed to be good guys go bad. Nothing surprises me.”

“Would you share the medical report on Rayanne Johnson?”

“Doesn’t take a genius to conclude the cause of death. Someone cut her throat from ear to ear. She bled out. Even us backwoods cops can do that.”

“I wasn’t insinuating your people don’t know what they’re doing, Sheriff, but I think something more’s going on.”

“Like what?”

“Any sign of drug abuse?”

“Not that we found. Alcohol’s all. Why?”

“Whoever committed that murder in Cambridge twenty-one years ago drugged Reece Daughtry, and I believe Rayanne Johnson got the same treatment.”

“You mean a date-rape drug?”

“Yup.”

“The only way we’d find out is to do a thorough screen on hair or teeth, and only if we suspected the victim was drugged. I’ll concede it’s a possibility, but even if I ordered the test and the results came back positive, what would it prove? Not that the same murderer killed Rayanne Johnson as the killing up north. Only that you
perceive
it to be by the same method, which wasn’t proven in the first murder. We’d still have to prove who did it, something the cops in Cambridge have failed to do.”

Payton was right. If the Cambridge police couldn’t find Karen Sitton’s murderer with all they had working for them, how could Clarence expect a police department a thousand miles away to succeed? “You’re right. But Lurena Howe is a different murder.”

“Me and my people are working on that. If it turns out Minette’s involved, I’ll see we nail him for it, although it won’t be easy, given who he is.”

“I don’t envy your dilemma. Have you had any problems with date rape drugs?” Clarence asked.

“Not in this county, but that doesn’t mean it’s not here. Women don’t cry rape because of the stigma associated with it. Defense attorneys say it was consensual, usually making the victim out to be a temptress or worse. So women keep their mouths shut. Sometimes a family member or two will seek revenge and do my job for me. Some get away with it.” Payton chewed his gum. “If a woman doesn’t complain, it’s none of my business. Besides, if you’re right about the killer, I doubt he’d try to score drugs in the area. More likely he’d bring them with him, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do.” Clarence stood. “I’m going to poke around, Sheriff. I want to see if I can match the description of the man Rayanne Johnson left Rudy’s with to some of the people involved in the original murder. I’m sure the guy wore a disguise, but there are physical characteristics like height that don’t change. Might eliminate some of the people I’ve been looking at. I wanted to let you know before I started. If I find anything, I’ll tell you.”

“Fair enough. As long as you do. What happens up north is out of my jurisdiction. But while you’re down here, you’re in mine.”

“Understood.”

Clarence left the sheriff’s office with a clearer portrait of Robert Minette. The district attorney lived up to everything Clarence presumed. Blindly ambitious, unethical, and immoral. Hitting a woman made him despicable. And Clarence believed he contracted a murder.

He headed to Emory and Rudy’s Bar.

C
larence thought of the steps he’d taken since Jeraldine asked him to dig back into Reece’s cold case. He’d gone over the transcripts of the trial, picking at anything that might have been overlooked. He thought more men might have been involved than came out at trial, but time had passed, people had scattered, and memories were fuzzy. He guessed Reece would find out more from his brother―if the police didn’t catch Reece first. Clarence worried they would.

A few people sat around Rudy’s. The same guy manned the bar. Different T-shirt. “You’re back,” he said, filling a glass with draft and setting it in front of Clarence. “Looks like your man’s in a pile of trouble.”

“Yup, on both counts.”

“Another guy came around asking questions right after your last visit. Said he worked for the prosecutor. What’s his name? Minette?”

Clarence nodded. “Figures.”

“Didn’t like the guy. Didn’t tell him much neither.”

Clarence hoped the bartender liked him better. “I need to get a better picture in my head of the guy Rayanne Johnson left with that night. I know you were hopping because of the crowd, but do you remember if anyone took special notice of him? Maybe someone interested in Rayanne?”

“Cops interviewed as many people as they could find that were here Friday. They went through the credit cards, but most paid cash. This isn’t an American Express crowd. You know how it is with some people and cops. They plain don’t like talking to them, even old harmless Micah. I’m guessing some of ’em said they weren’t here that night.” He glanced sideways at Clarence as he snapped open a couple of bottles and slid them down the bar to two guys who looked as if they were badly in need of a cool one.

“Rayanne had an off and on squeeze. Jimmy Buffet. That’s not his real name, just what everyone calls him ’cause he’s always singing Margaritaville whenever he has a
snootful
and gets hold of a mike.”

Clarence took out his notebook. “What’s his real name?”

“Waylon Greer.” The bartender checked his watch. “It’s almost three. Waylon’ll probably be in ’round four. Rarely misses a day, which is why Rayanne kept breaking up with him. He’s one of ’em don’t like cops. Might not’ve told them all he knows, if he even admitted he was here. Either that or he was drunker’n shit and don’t remember.”

“Keep filling my glass till he gets here, then point him out. If anyone else comes in who might have been here that night, give me a heads up, will ya?”

The bartender thought it over. “Okay, sure.”