by Jill Orr
The big tell, however, was the need for a press conference at all. Normally, the sheriff would just talk to someone from the paper on the phone or have us come by the station. The fact that Greer Mountbatten was a big deal from the city, combined with the salacious details of the case, had attracted the attention of the national media. I’ll admit I wasn’t loving it.
“Excuse me,” I said as I attempted to push my way up to the front of the crowd. “I just need to get in here…”
“Nuh-uh. No preferential treatment, little lady.” I heard a whiny nasal voice cut through the din of the crowd. Toby Lancett, the mayor’s nephew, stood in front of the steps like a bouncer.
“Hey, Toby,” I said, forcing a laugh to indicate I knew he was joking—or to warn him that he’d better be. “Your aunt has you doing crowd control, huh?”
“Mayor Lancett asked me to make sure things remain orderly.” He lifted his chin into the air. “So yes, in a manner of speaking, I suppose so.” Toby, barely topping out at five-foot-seven, suffered from a severe case of short-man’s syndrome, which manifested itself in part through his holier-than-thou attitude and in part through his policy of wearing athletic clothing exclusively, no matter where he was or what he was doing. He must have thought this made him seem macho somehow, like he might have to dash to the gym on a moment’s notice to pump some iron. The problem was that Toby didn’t actually work out, a fact that was painfully obvious by looking at him. Especially in spandex.
He stood before the crowd of reporters in gray sweats and a navy blue long-sleeved technical T-shirt stretched tight across the expanse of his belly emblazoned with the phrase “My game is sick. Too bad it ain’t contagious.” He had not one but two fitness trackers on his right wrist, and donned bright neon green high-top basketball shoes that I would have bet good money had been fitted with lifts. The whole thing would have been laughable if Toby wasn’t such an unpleasant little fellow.
“Do you know if Carl’s planning on giving out any new information today?” I asked, looking around.
Toby ignored me and pulled out his mini-bullhorn and pointed it toward a leather-jacketed reporter who had placed his foot up on the third step to tie his shoe. “PLEASE STAY OFF OF THE COURTHOUSE STEPS!”
The reporter didn’t so much as turn his head in Toby’s direction.
“Hey, have you seen Flick around?”
This seemed to distract Toby from the shoe-tier for a moment. He pointed a stubby finger toward the large Bower Glory tree at the far side of the courthouse. “I saw him skulking over there about ten minutes ago.” He looked in the direction of the tree. “Don’t know where he got to now….”
I followed Toby’s gaze but didn’t see any sign of Flick.
“PLEASE DISPERSE! I REPEAT, PLEASE DISPERSE. THIS AREA IS FOR OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY!” Toby was now pointing the bullhorn directly at the poor reporter, who stumbled backward, causing a domino effect. The woman behind him wobbled and spilled her coffee down the front of her jacket.
“What’s your problem, man?” the guy said as he stood up.
“Yeah, who are you anyway?” the coffee-stained woman snapped.
“I’ll leave you to deal with your adoring fans,” I whispered and walked off to look for Flick.
Five minutes later, there was still no sign of him, so I texted again. No response. Sheriff Carl Haight was walking out of the courthouse flanked by Deputy Chip Churner (whom everyone just called Butter) and Deputy Ted Wilmore. Carl was an old friend of mine who had been promoted to acting-sheriff a few months ago after Holman and I busted the then-sheriff, Joe Tackett, for corruption and conspiracy to commit murder. Carl was a good guy, as honest as they come, but maybe in a bit over his head. I felt a pang of empathy thinking of him having to give a press briefing to all these big-city reporters.
Carl approached the makeshift podium and turned on the mic. A crackling sound curled out from the speakers, alerting the crowd that the show was about to begin. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Thank y’all for coming out today. We have a few updates on the Mountbatten investigation, but first I’d like to thank the men and women of the Tuttle County Sheriff’s Department for their hard work on these investigations. We’re a small office, and this level of criminal activity means all hands on deck. These folks,” he gestured to Butter and Ted, “and all the rest of the employees back at the office have really risen to the occasion.”
I had moved up closer, just off to the left of the steps. I held up my phone and opened the recording app so I’d be sure to get it right. Knowing that several other newspapers would be running this story made me even more freaked out than usual about accuracy.
Carl’s eyes scanned the crowd from under the brim of his hat, and he paused for a millisecond when they landed on me. I was probably the only friendly face out here.
After a beat he continued. “I’m going to read a brief statement that will bring y’all up to date with where we are in the investigation. After the statement, I’ll take questions.
“As you know, the Tuttle County Sheriff’s Department responded to a call at Riverside Park on November seventh at 6:14 a.m. from a jogger who had found the body of a deceased female who was later positively identified as Greer Mountbatten of McLean, VA. Initial findings of the forensic autopsy conducted by Dr. Mendez of the Richmond, Virginia, Medical Office show Ms. Mountbatten died after being struck several times in the back of the head with a heavy object. We believe this was most certainly a homicide and are investigating it as such. We further believe Ms. Mountbatten had been dead for several hours before her body was discovered. It was clear from our findings at the scene that Ms. Mountbatten had not been killed at Riverside Park. We believe her body was brought to that location after she died.”
This was new information, and you could hear the indistinct sounds of surprise ripple through the crowd.
“Prior to the discovery of Ms. Mountbatten’s body, a Mercedes S Class registered to Greer Mountbatten was found abandoned on the side of Interstate 95. The interior of the car was covered in blood, and while it is still undergoing extensive testing, we know that at least some of the blood found in the car matches Ms. Mountbatten’s blood type. Further testing will be needed to make a positive identification, but we believe there is a high degree of probability that Ms. Mountbatten may have been killed inside that automobile.”
Another titter of anonymous chatter and the click of photos being taken fluttered through the pack of reporters. Carl waited before continuing. “A second homicide victim was discovered at the entrance to the Sterns cemetery on November ninth at 7:30 a.m. The victim was later positively identified as thirty-one-year-old Justin Fenwick Balzichek of West Bay. We are asking for the public’s help with any information about anyone seen in the area, anything out of place, anything at all that might provide us with some additional insight into this crime.”
Reporters began shouting out questions.
“How was Balzichek killed?”
“Was his body found in the same condition as Greer’s?”
“Is Dale Mountbatten a suspect?”
Carl decided to address only the last question. “Dale Mountbatten is cooperating fully with the authorities and is not considered a suspect at this time.”
“How about Rosalee Belanger? Was she having an affair with Greer’s husband? Would that be considered motive for murder?”
Carl’s face darkened, which might have gone unnoticed by anyone other than someone who’d known him his whole life. His voice was calm and even when he said, “Ms. Belanger is considered a person of interest at this point. I want to be clear, she is not an official suspect. We haven’t been able to locate Ms. Belanger, and we’d very much like to speak with her.” He paused and cleared his throat before continuing. “If you’re out there, Rosalee, please call or come in as soon as you can. We just want to talk.”
CHAPTER 5
The event wrapped up after several more questions from reporters that mostly went unanswered.
Carl stayed on message with “Rosalee is a person of interest” and “we just want to talk to her.” Eventually he cut off the questions and said he’d give another briefing as soon as there was new information he could share with the press. I turned off my recorder once he walked away and scanned the crowd again for Flick. I caught sight of him on a bench just down from where the conference had been held.
“Hey,” I said as I approached him.
“Hay is for horses,” he answered. At seventy-one years old, Flick was of another generation, one that viewed the ever-increasing informality of youth as a marker of the decline of Western civilization.
I looked back at the crowd of reporters that was slowly starting to break up. “What’ve you been up to?”
“Working on the Klondike obit. Should have a draft soon,” he said without looking at me. I’d known Hal Flick my entire life and was used to his gruff manner, but I couldn’t help but notice there was more edge to his voice than usual today.
I sat down beside him on the bench. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” Now he appeared to be aggressively avoiding eye contact.
“You sure about that?”
When he didn’t answer, I knew better than to push. I waited quietly until he was ready to talk.
“You know I went away for a couple of days to look into some things regarding Albert, right?”
About a month ago, Flick told me he was going to Washington, DC, to follow a lead, something to do with my granddad’s death. He wouldn’t elaborate because he said he’d promised Granddaddy he’d keep me safe. Apparently, telling me what he was looking into somehow threatened to break that promise.
“Of course.”
“Well, Albert had been working on a project when he…when he…”
“Was murdered,” I finished the sentence.
Flick looked up sharply but didn’t correct me. He paused before continuing. “Most of his files were confiscated by the police, along with his hard drives and notes, so it’s been nearly impossible to know exactly what he was working on. But I think I might have found out.”
I stilled. I’d been desperate to find out what story my granddad’s last days had been spent on, convinced it must have had something to do with why he was killed.
“I don’t know if there’s any significance to this story and what happened, but I think there might be something there.”
Flick was choosing his words so carefully that he was barely saying anything at all, a skill usually reserved for politicians and press secretaries.
“What was it? Is that what’s in the file in Kay’s office?”
Before leaving town last month, Flick warned me that if anything were to happen to him, our editor Kay Jackson had a folder in her office under lock and key that I was to receive. I’d thought about what could be in that folder nearly every day since. And if I wasn’t sure I’d be fired on the spot, I might have tried to steal it out from under her.
“No, not exactly.” Flick looked down. “He was working on a series of obituaries for an anthology he was calling, ‘The Dead Alone.’ It was about people who have died and been buried without any family or friends to mourn them.”
I couldn’t help but think of Justin Balzichek’s remains sitting unclaimed at Campbell & Sons.
“Albert identified subjects who died and were buried or cremated with no mourners. He tried to track down people who knew them so that he could not only examine the question of why these folks died alone but also so he could tell their untold stories. He believed strongly that every life has a tale worth telling.”
I let this sink in. Granddaddy had been writing a book of obituaries for people who didn’t have anyone else to write them. He was giving a voice to their memories, making sure their lives, no matter how ordinary, weren’t forgotten. It was beautiful. Tears sprang to my eyes at the same time that a smile crawled across my face—the bittersweet push/pull of grief and memory. “That’s so like him.”
Flick looked down at his hands. “It sure is.”
We sat quietly for a moment, each of us sharing a private moment with the Albert Ellison we loved and missed. “And you think something he wrote about in one of those obits is the reason he’s dead?”
“I’m not sure, but it sure looks as if someone went to great lengths to get rid of his notes, files, records—everything that had any trace of this project.”
There had been so many shady things about my grandfather’s death, not the least of which was how the now-imprisoned Sheriff Joe Tackett handled the investigation. I’d tried to call foul on it years earlier, but no one would listen to me. They all just thought I was a young girl overcome with grief about her granddaddy.
“But why? Everyone he was writing about was already dead…why would anyone care?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
“Let me help!” I blurted out.
“No,” Flick said automatically. When I started to protest, he added a softer, “Not yet.”
I’d been round and round with him on this particular subject too many times before. I knew there was no chance I’d get him to budge an inch. I folded my arms across my chest in silent protest.
“You know I can’t let you anywhere near this. Not until I know what we’re dealing with. The last promise I ever made to Albert was to keep you safe. And I intend to keep it.”
“I’m not a child anymore, you know,” I said, sounding exactly like a spoiled child.
“I know.” Flick laughed his wheezy old-man laugh. “You’re shaping up to be a good journalist with good instincts.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t think flattering me will make me any less mad about being shut out here.”
“I’m not flattering you, and I’m not shutting you out either,” he said. “Quite the opposite, actually.”
I looked over at him, surprised.
“What I was trying to say before you bit my head off is that when the time comes I hope you’ll partner with me on this investigation.”
I leaped off the bench. “Really?” All I’d ever wanted since the moment I’d found out my grandfather died was to know what really happened to him. Now, not only was Flick offering me a chance to find out, he was offering me a role in uncovering the truth. It felt like being called up to the Majors.
“When the time comes.” He nodded to make sure I understood. “Not until I say.”
“Yes! Okay! Thank you…Flick, I can’t tell you how much—”
“Yeah, yeah…” He stood up and looked at his watch, uncomfortable with my emotion.
I didn’t want to torture the poor guy with sentiment, so I simply reached for his hand and said with as much meaning as I could, “Thank you.”
He met my eyes for a brief second, then squeezed my hand. “We’re going to find out what happened to Albert, Riley. That’s a promise.”
After Flick left, I felt the hum of cautious adrenaline in my veins. We were so close and yet so far from finding out the truth. It wouldn’t do to get in a hurry; we were playing the long game here and the stakes were high. But it was the first time in a long time that I allowed myself to feel hopeful about eventually bringing those responsible for my grandfather’s death to justice. This drive was a part of everything I had done over the past six years, particularly my decision to become a reporter. In some ways, it felt like Granddaddy was guiding me toward the answers, especially in moments like these.
Too amped up to go back to the office, I decided to head over to the sheriff’s department to see if I could get any additional information. On my way there, I saw Ash Campbell walking along the path on the west side of Memorial Park toward the bank. I still needed to ask him if anyone had come to claim Balzichek’s remains, so I jogged to catch up with him.
“We meet again,” I said when I was about two feet behind him.
Without breaking stride, he gave a half-turn to see who it was. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw him roll his eyes. “If you want to call this a meeting.”<
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“What are you up to?”
“I was under the impression this was a public park. Am I not allowed to be here?” He walked at a brisk clip, and because he was well over six feet tall, it was a challenge to stay on pace with him. Every few steps I had to throw in a sort of skip-step just to keep up.
“Were you listening to the sheriff’s press conference?” I asked, quickening my pace till I was beside him.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“I’m a reporter. Everything is my business.”
He snort-laughed. “Geez, you people never quit until you get what you’re after, do you?”
“You people?” I said. “What is that supposed to mean?”
At this, he stopped and turned to face me. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses, and I could see those lion-eyes of his glinting in the sunlight. “Listen, Riley is it?” He was standing close to me, and I was suddenly very aware of his tall frame, broad shoulders, and strong jaw. And even though it made me hate myself just a little bit, I felt my cheeks heat up.
“Yes.”
“I’m in a hurry here…what is it you want from me?”
“Um, well…” My mind went blank. I was thrown off by how much he seemed not to want to talk to me. I wasn’t used to getting that sort of response in Tuttle. Just before the silence got too awkward I said, “I just wanted to tell you I was sorry to hear about your grandfather’s stroke.”
“Oh, thanks.” Ash’s face softened, and for a second he looked like a different person. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and looked down.
