The Evidence Room: A Mystery (24 page)

Wait
.

“This is your last chance, Doyle,” Josh said into the phone. “I’m here for information about the Atchison homicide. Nothing else.”

“All right, all right.” Doyle slumped back in his chair. “I want to do the right thing here. Help you bring the right person to justice.”

“If you know where Wade Atchison is, Doyle, you best speak up.”

“Wade ain’t the one who done this.”

Josh had been right. His father knew something.

“We’re looking at other possibilities. We may have a witness.”

“Who’s that?”

Josh hesitated. “Pearline Suggs,” he said. “She was working at the mini-mart, found the little girl after the murder. We think she may know more than she’s telling.”

“Well, just remember you can’t trust nobody.”

“Yeah, I learned that lesson pretty early, thanks to you.”

Something like hurt flickered on Doyle’s face. “I’m talking about Pearline.”

“You know her?”

“You remember Trace Crumpler?”

Trace had been the town football star, someone the scouts rode out to the boonies to see before he’d blown out his knee in the last game of his senior year. Summers, he was the lifeguard at the town pool where Josh’s mom took them for swimming lessons. Nowadays, Trace picked up odd jobs around town and spent the balance of his days grandstanding at the bar at Baboon Jack’s, regaling the clientele with old game stories, Trace the hero of each and every one.

“Sure, I remember him.”

“You remember all that talk about Trace back when he was in college?”

Something clicked in Josh’s memory. “He got some girl pregnant, didn’t he? Some underage girl?”

“Not just any girl. Pearline Suggs.”

“So what?”

“So the Crumplers have been taking care of her ever since. They got her that job at their mini-mart, then paid for her to go to get her paralegal certificate. She used to run around with Burdette too; he’s carried a torch for her for years. They’re all close.”

Josh sat back and let this information sink in. The Crumplers weren’t on the short list for heaven. They were thieves; one of the brothers had been busted for writing bad checks and stealing credit cards from Baboon Jack’s; another did a spell at Craw Lake for running meth in Kervick County. When Josh was a kid, there was a boy who had stood up to Padgett Crumpler, and they’d beaten him near death and left him in the swamp. There was a whole criminal mythology surrounding the family; they were like some kind of twisted redneck Mafia. It wasn’t a big step up to murder.

“So they killed Raylene?”

“I don’t know that. I’m just saying, you check into the Suggs girl’s story, because she’s a mouthpiece for them. She seen something different, she ain’t gonna say so.”

“All right. I do appreciate it.”

“Are y’all investigating it over in the PD?” His father didn’t know, that was plain to see on his face.

“No. They put me on leave because of your friend Pernaria.”

“That goddamn bitch.” He said the words with such venom, Josh was beginning to believe that she had swindled him too.

“It was my choice. I’ll figure it out.” Josh leaned forward, studying his father’s expression. “So you’re a changed man?”

“People can change, Josh. The world ain’t as dark as you think it is.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Be careful, son. The Crumplers—they’re dangerous sons of bitches. I mean, I should know, right?” His father grinned.

“Take it easy, Doyle.”

Josh hung up the phone. He walked out without meeting his father’s gaze and closed the door behind him, but it was too late, something was splintering inside him. He’d been clutching the dead man’s switch of his grief for so long, and now Doyle Hudson, of all people, had loosened his grip.

The redhead sat behind the entry desk, mesmerized by something on her computer screen. On the closed-circuit television, Josh watched his father being led back to his cell.

“How does it work,” he asked her, “putting money in an inmate’s account?”

She tore her eyes from the screen. “I can help you with that,” she said.

Josh peeled a twenty free of his wallet and handed it over. “Doyle Hudson,” he said. “For cigarettes, or whatever.”

“You bet,” she said, returning his smile.

Outside, Samba sat on the hood of the car in the sunshine, facing the remains of the lake. Josh climbed up and took a seat behind him.

“How was that banana pudding?”

“Well, it’s just like anything else in life,” Samba said. “A little better and a little worse than I thought it was going to be.” He rubbed his belly. “But all in all, it was worth it.”

Josh laughed. “You’re a philosopher, Samba.”

“Naw, I’m just a crazy old man. Now, what about your pop? Anything useful in there?”

Josh pulled down his sunglasses. “Tells me he’s a changed man,” he said. “You believe in that garbage?”

“You mean second chances?”

“More like a hundred.”

Samba chuckled. “I do.”

“My dad says that Pearline Suggs is in the Crumplers’ pocket,” Josh said. “But this is coming from a career criminal. I have no reason to trust him.”

“What does your gut say?”

“That it’s worth looking into.”

“Then we’re trusting your gut, not your pop,” Samba said. He tossed Josh the keys to the Corvair. “And that’s good enough for me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

James and Aurora sat together on a bench outside the evidence room and waited for Malachi to arrive.

Fifty feet below, the bayou stared back up at them, a blank oval, a featureless face, its surface broken only by an airboat churning towards the opposite shore.

“He didn’t say anything on the phone,” James explained, “but he wanted to meet in person.” He tried not to let the concern seep into his voice. “I figured whatever he had to say about your father, you would want to be here.” The truth was, he had no idea why Malachi wanted to come in person. It was all very cloak and dagger, the kind of thing that made James nervous.

“So he ran the samples for you on the sly?”

James reddened. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “When he was a student, I helped him out. He was returning a favor.”

“I can’t believe you took that risk for me.”

James shrugged, but could not help the smile on his face. “Sometimes you have to bend the rules a little bit,” he said.

“I’m not sure what we’re looking for,” Aurora said. “You think Gentry was botching autopsies on purpose? That he was covering up for someone?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him.” James scoffed. “Hanlon’s Razor. Never ascribe to malice that which is adequately explained by incompetence.”

Aurora nodded. “I like that expression. It definitely fits a few of the people I work with too. So what was this Gentry guy like?”

James summoned up an image of Davis Gentry in his mind, his off-color jokes, his cowboy hat, his condescending smile.
A snake-oil salesman,
that was the term he was looking for. Slippery. Dishonest. And somehow nobody seemed to catch on, or if they did, they didn’t mind. Gentry could waltz into any public event and command the room’s full attention, a clutch of women in his wake. James had dreaded these events and observed them from the edges of the crowd like a visitor from another planet.

“He was one of those guys who always has an agenda,” James explained. “He was only interested in things that would further his career.”

“So he leaves his job here, and then what?”

“He left because he got appointed to the Fish and Wildlife Commission. The last I heard, he was running for City Council or something like that.” Politics seemed a natural fit for someone like Gentry.

“Fish and Wildlife,” Aurora repeated. “What do they do?”

“They issue hunting and fishing permits, that kind of thing.”

“What about for alligators? Alligator hunting?” The expression on Aurora’s face went beyond inquisitiveness; it was excitement. She was making some connection, he was sure of it.

“Sure. Alligator hunting is big business.”

“Doc!” Malachi rounded the corner and grasped his hand, pulling him into an embrace. Like James, Malachi was enthralled by his work and gave thought to little else; his dreadlocks tucked into a baseball cap, frayed shirt, and voluminous backpack gave him the windblown appearance of an exuberant student.

“Great to see you, Malachi. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Aurora Atchison.”

“Nice to meet you, Aurora.”

“You too.”

“So you went out to Weir Island and dug up a grave, huh? Badass.”

Aurora laughed. “I can’t confirm or deny that.”

Malachi sat next to Doc and hoisted the black backpack onto his lap. “Well, I know Doc wants me to get right to the point, so here it is.” He pulled a manila folder free from the bag.

“The biological material in the grave is a match to Wade A. Atchison,” he said. “The sweatshirt, and also some samples from the coffin itself. Based on the information Doc gave me, the stats on the unidentified body…”

“It was Wade Atchison in that grave.” James said what Malachi could not. Beside him, James heard Aurora suck in a breath.

“Yes,” said Malachi. “I’m so sorry, Miss Atchison. I know that’s probably not what you wanted to hear.”

Aurora nodded. “You know, I’m not sure if it is or not,” she said.

“Anyway, as Doc here can tell you, I’ve always been a little aggressive when it comes to typing and sampling. You know, never leave any stone unturned. I learned that one from him.”

James felt an unexpected surge of pride. “I can’t take credit for your work ethic, Malachi,” he said.

Malachi did not answer but pulled three plastic bags from the backpack. “So we have three pieces of evidence here from the burial site, besides the coffin itself. The sweatshirt, a rag, and a small set of keys. The samples from the sweatshirt are a match to Wade Atchison, and your other contributor is female, right here on the cuff. Not Raylene Atchison, not a relative, but otherwise I don’t know who she is. But look at the sweatshirt. Nothing remarkable about it. Standard issue, polyester blend, boring.” He put that bag aside. “Second, we have this rag. There’s some kind of film on it, this black goopy stuff. I had it tested, and it appears to be motor oil, the kind commonly used for boats. And last but not least, we have these two keys.”

“I don’t remember cataloguing those,” James said.

“Me either,” Aurora echoed. “Where did you find them?”

“That’s where this gets interesting.” Malachi held the sweatshirt up again. “They were tucked inside a rip inside the left cuff of the sweatshirt. Concealed.”

“Concealed by whom? The dead man?” James inspected the keys, a tiny set, the kind used to open a lock on a garage or shed.

Malachi shrugged. “That’s up to you guys. I just run the evidence. Well, I guess I should say I
used
to run the evidence.”

James looked at him in surprise. “You’re not working at the lab anymore?”

Malachi nodded. “That’s why I asked to meet you in person. Someone found out that I was working this case unauthorized. I thought they’d just give me a slap on the wrist, but they canned me.”

“Oh, Malachi. I’m so sorry. I asked you to break the rules, and—”

Malachi waved him away. “That’s the thing, Doc,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe how often people break the rules. They run paternity tests, that kind of stuff. It was something about this case.”

“What makes you say that?” Aurora asked.

“My supervisor followed me out of the building,” Malachi said. “Told me to stay away from this one, and to be careful. It freaked me out, I’ll tell you that.”

The words startled him, a perplexing terror beginning to take hold. Behind him, the sun was beginning to set over Weir Island, dislodging a memory in James’s brain. When James was a child, the other kids had dared each other to take their boats out there, to touch a corner of the crumbling dock, to peel off a sliver from the moldy skin of the decaying trees that reached across the graveyard. James’s own mother had told him that because no masses were said for the repose of the souls in that place, they would always be wandering the earth. The lack of a body in Wade Atchison’s grave made this a possibility even more alarming. Wade was dead; but there was someone else, someone who wanted to make sure that this case was never reopened. Someone who might be a killer, who knew that Aurora and James and Josh were asking questions.

And that person was very much alive.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Too much evidence.

“It’s a good problem to have,” Josh assured her. The three of them—Aurora, Josh, and Samba—sat in a semicircle at the peeling Formica table in the evidence room, their loot set in front of them. The phone records from the night of the murder. The sweatshirt. The keys. Malachi’s lab results. They were like talismans waiting to be deciphered. The fear that had smothered her at the house had been replaced by a kind of quiet exhilaration. For the first time, she was awake to the possibility that they would solve the case. There had been two murders that night on the bayou. Her father wasn’t out there trying to scare her away from learning the truth about that night.

But someone was.

Above them, a bird sputtered around the ceiling, emitting a shrill, terrified cry. What was it that they said about a bird indoors? A harbinger of death? There was already too much death in this room. She wondered about the box with the contents of Josh’s case.
They think those bones might be Jesse,
Bobbie had told her. He was in limbo, just like she was, seeking the answer but shunning it at the same time.

Josh tapped the phone records. There was a brightness in his eyes, an easy confidence in his voice. He was right. They were on the right track.

“Pearline Suggs knows something,” he said. “She knows more than she said that night, and she knows how Wade Atchison ended up in that grave. I hate to admit it, but I think my dad was right.” He held up a file. “Ongoing investigation into the Crumplers’ financial activities from Boone, my partner. This shows that they were paying Pearline. Every month, like clockwork, for her son, Curtis. I think this is why she hasn’t been returning our calls.”