“You keep the door locked?” B.A. asked.
“After hours. As requested by security.”
B.A. approached a simple desk devoid of any photographs or mementos. He opened a drawer and found the basic desk amenities: pens, pencils, notepads, sticky notes. He pulled open the bottom drawer and shuffled through manila hanging files, finding nothing of interest. He’d check with Daphne Winslow with Legislative Printing, Information, and Technology Systems, or LPITS, to get Hank’s emails and phone records.
“Thank you, Madame Speaker. We’ll be in touch.”
“You know how to reach me,” she replied.
• • •
As they left the Speaker’s office, B.A.’s cell buzzed. Mary Louise was on the line. “Chief wants a statement for the press.”
“There’s nothing to say, yet.”
“I’ve gotta give them something, B.A.”
“O.K. Tell them that during a commemorative Confederate ball, a Rebel victim was allegedly shot by a Yankee soldier, who may or may not have been galvanized.”
“What?”
“Stick to the basics. A body was found in the basement of the Statehouse. We’re investigating the cause of death, no comment, no comment, no comment, and no comment.”
B.A. listened to the heavy silence on the other end of the line and imagined Mary Louise’s inscrutable face. “So what can you tell me?” she asked.
“I can tell you Sara Sims didn’t kill anyone. She doesn’t have it in her.”
“People can surprise you.”
“Yes they can, but this would be a drastic departure from her personality—Jekyll and Hyde, Eve and Sybil, Laurel and Hardy.”
If Mary Louise got the joke, she wasn’t laughing. “Maybe something I can use, B.A.?”
“Nothing for attribution. Lorilyn suggested we check out a connection with that murder that took place over in Rosewood two days ago.”
“Turney? The drug dealer?”
“Possibly the same murder weapon. And I emphasize the word possibly. Sam and I are going to check with the detective in charge.”
“Keep me in the loop.”
“Will do.” B.A. disconnected and turned to Sam. “You get hold of Jason McDuffie?”
Almond nodded. “He’s expecting us.”
• • •
Jason McDuffie had not been blessed with good looks. Even Elizabeth, as charitable a soul as B.A. ever knew would have said, “That boy was at the end of the line when the good Lord was handing out handsome.” But what McDuffie lacked in appearance, he made up for with doggedness. He was wet behind the ears when it came to homicides, but he’d forged a career doing undercover narcotics until he got too hot and had to be rotated. After greetings, they got down to the meat of the matter.
“Ballistics said it was a ball round, vintage Civil War stuff,” McDuffie said. “But don’t get too excited. With the number of collectors around these parts that doesn’t narrow the field all that much.”
“The CSI team found the ball round embedded in the basement wall of the Statehouse,” Sam explained. “Ballistics has it for processing, but it’s pretty deformed. They’re not optimistic.”
“What can you tell us about Turney?” B.A. asked.
“He was small time, but he’d graduated from meth to heroin. Potent stuff, the kind that could be snorted or smoked.”
“Isn’t that a higher clientele?”
“Usually. The stuff is more expensive, but Ethan didn’t discriminate. He still had the low-end stuff.”
“What about the crime scene?”
“Looks like a hit. No drugs or money recovered in the house.”
“Ethan have anybody working with him?”
“By all accounts he worked alone, tried to avoid the spotlight and the attention. Happy to pay the rent and the bills and never work an honest day in his life.”
“Just a working stiff,” B.A. said.
“Pun intended, right?” McDuffie said.
Sam’s cell rang. He stepped out to answer it.
“Any word on the street that Turney crossed anyone, owed anyone money?”
“Not that anyone is volunteering.”
“Keep your ear to the ground for me and see if you can find any connection between Turney and a legislative aide named Hank Mattox.”
McDuffie nodded. “Will do.”
Almond stuck his head in the door. “Ballistics. You’ll want to come too, Jason.”
• • •
B.A. called Elizabeth to tell her not to worry and to ask how her Saturday morning was shaping up. After hearing, “Un-dramatic. The way I like it,” B.A. promised to try to get home for dinner. He hung up and began reviewing the ballistics report. The technician had indicated that the two round lead balls that killed Ethan Turney and Hank Mattox were roughly the same size: .86 grains. This, she said, made it likely they’d been fired from a .36 caliber pistol, but she couldn’t confirm it. Both bullets were badly damaged. As for finding the murder weapon, she also told B.A. not to get his hopes up. She’d done her research, and both Union and Confederate soldiers favored the .36 caliber Civil War revolvers—which were much lighter than their .44 caliber counterparts—because they could be carried in a belt holster. She said officers in particular preferred them. The weight made it easier to shoot the gun from the back of a horse. That made B.A. think of Sara Sims’ recollection of the outline of the Union Officer she’d seen in the Statehouse basement. The technician also said the estimated number of such guns produced exceeded 250,000, and that was just those produced by Colt. They remained a favored gun of collectors. In other words, the haystack had not gotten any smaller.
• • •
Sara Sims felt drugged, though the toxicology tests had come back negative. The doctor said the rap on the head had been a good blow, but she had not sustained a concussion. They discussed keeping her through the day for observation, but she didn’t see the point and convinced them she was well enough to go home. She said Jefferson would keep an eye on her. And there he was, bounding onto the back of the couch at the first sound of her keys in the lock and barking with excitement. Ordinarily, she’d be shushing her little black-and-white rat terrier off the furniture, but this morning she was so grateful to be home, grateful to hear that high-pitched yapping. She let him continue. Jefferson, or “Jeffy” as she usually called him, raced back and forth from the door to the back of the couch, pushing aside the drape with his snout and pawing at the window, tail wagging furiously. When people asked her about the name, she said she named him after a great drafter and let them guess whether she meant Thomas Jefferson or Jefferson Davis.
“I know, I know.” She slipped in the door and put down her ER dismissal orders while fending off Jeffy. “I’ve been derelict in my duties. But if you knew the night I’ve had, you’d understand.” She cradled the little dog in her arms, petting and soothing him and letting him lick her face. “Let me change out of this get-up so I can relax,” she said. “How women ever wore all this stuff is beyond me.”
The dog bounded beside her as if on a pogo stick. Sara dropped her beige, pearled reticule on the counter and made her way to her bedroom. It took some doing, but she managed to get out of her garments and set them on a hanger. Monday she’d take them to the dry cleaner, except for the gloves, which SLED had bagged and tagged. The dress would be wrapped in plastic and set in her closet until the next need arose. After what had happened at the Statehouse, she wasn’t looking forward to another Civil War re-enactment any time soon.
The image of Hank’s ravaged face popped into her head. She shook off the thought, but she wasn’t fooling herself. The image would not go away easily. The doctor at the hospital had suggested that she seek counseling, and Sara had pocketed a few of the referrals. This morning, however, she’d have to struggle through it and hope her exhaustion would be sufficient to allow her to sleep a few hours and keep the nightmare at bay.
Comfortable in her maroon USC sweatshirt emblazoned with a fighting Ga
mecock and the words, “We Love Our Cocks,” Sara made her way into the kitchen. The refrigerator was slim pickings, but she went through the exercise of opening the door, as if by magic some delicacy would appear inside. She did find a Corona. “Score.”
After filling Jeffy’s bowl, she popped the cap off the bottle and sat at the kitchen table watching her dog munch on the nuggets, letting her mind wander. Hank’s face reappeared. “No,” she said.
Jeffy looked up at her.
“Sorry, boy. I’m not talking to you.”
The dog wagged its curled tail and continued chomping. Sara retrieved her reticule. Inside were her lipstick, a small makeup kit, and her discharged iPhone. She hadn’t checked her messages since before the bazaar, and after the incident, the battery had been dead. When she plugged in the charger on the phone, it buzzed repeatedly—no doubt friends and her extended family had heard the news and were calling to find out if she was all right.
She sipped her Corona and first checked her voicemails. “Yep,” she said. “The network is rallying.” She had thirteen messages. She knew they meant well, but she couldn’t bring herself to listen to them. The icon for her emails indicated 228 messages. She pressed it and scrolled down the list of familiar names and went right by it, though her eyes registered the name as it flickered by. She scrolled back in the opposite direction and centered it.
Hank Mattox
“Good Lord,” she whispered.
She hit the message with her finger. The reference line was blank. Below it the date and time the message had been sent. Hank emailed her that night at 7:58, shortly before the start of the bazaar.
Dear Sara:
I’m afraid I’ve sought you out when I should not have. For that I am sorry. But I didn’t know who else to turn to. I will explain more tonight in person. In your lower right desk drawer you will find a box. I’ve hidden the key to it behind the frame of the picture of the Angel at Marye’s Heights in the lower lobby. In the event that
Sara scrolled down, but the message had ended abruptly. As she scrolled back to reread it a second time, the message disappeared entirely. “What the hell?”
She spent the next two to three minutes searching her in- and outboxes, as well as her sent and deleted messages, but she could not find the message. She seemed to recall from a training session given by LPITS that the only other way to delete a message was by using a virus to hack a phone. She sat pondering the ramifications. It could have been B.A. if LPITS had given him access, but wouldn’t he have served her with a search warrant or at least notified her? Then another thought came to her. The message would remain on the backup server for the system, which only LPITS could retrieve.
She called SLED, but was told B.A. was not at his desk. She left her number with the message, “Tell him it’s Sara Ainsley Sims and the matter is urgent.” She paused, considering what she’d said. “Please ask him to meet me at the Statehouse. Thanks.”
She hung up and looked at Jeffy, who had jumped onto the coffee table and now stood staring at her. “I’m sorry, Jeffy. I’m going to have to desert you for a little while longer.”
• • •
B.A. sipped tepid coffee while continuing through the list of names of those who had attended the bazaar. It was a Who’s Who of South Carolina dignitaries. He didn’t look forward to the arduous task of interviewing each person. When did they arrive? When did they leave? Did they or their ancestors ever own a .36 caliber cap-and-ball pistol? If so, would they be so kind as to hand it over and confess to the crime so B.A. and Elizabeth might still make their fishing trip?
Sam entered and put a white bag on B.A.’s desk. “I stopped at Yesterdays. Thought you could use a Confederate Fried Steak.”
B.A.’s mouth watered. He hadn’t eaten since dinner with Elizabeth, when he was still counting down the hours until he cast his first line in the lake. “I didn’t think they called it that anymore.”
“Not on the menu. But, they serve it when the customers ask for it.”
“I’d kiss you Sam, but I’m too tired to pucker. Did you get the photographs?”
“Right here.”
B.A. rolled back his chair and Sam dropped to a knee and inserted a flash drive into the computer. The next thing B.A. knew, he was staring at men and women in Civil War regalia beneath the flowered trellis he’d seen in the Statehouse lobby.
“There you go,” Sam said, stepping back and retrieving a multi-page document clipped at the top. “The photographer’s assistant recorded the name of each individual and couple photographed. We can match the pictures to the names. Also the camera digitally records the date and time so we have a somewhat better idea when people arrived, assuming they stood in line for their picture and didn’t come back later.”
“How many pictures are there?” B.A. asked.
“Eight-hundred-and-sixty-two.”
B.A. saw his fishing trip slipping further and further away. “You mind taking the first look while I eat?”
“What am I looking for?”
“A .36 caliber pistol would be nice—preferably one smoking from the barrel.”
Sam sat back and considered his partner. “Do you want me to put together the search warrant for Sara’s emails and phone records?”
B.A. thanked him; it was a nice gesture given that B.A. and the Sims were close and Bert was likely to come unglued. “No. I’ll do it.” He figured if Bert was going to start lashing out at anyone, it might as well be his hide.
Sam sat at the desk and B.A. opened the Styrofoam container and dug into the white-gravied steak, ready to inhale rather than chew. Sam chose correctly by including sides of fried okra and macaroni and cheese. B.A. might always be a Yankee by birth, but he was a Southerner when it came to food. Elizabeth had converted him. B.A. looked over Sam’s shoulder as his partner clicked through the photographs and checked the names on the sheet. After twenty minutes they came to a photograph of Sara Sims in her peach gown. She stood alone. Her white gloves extended over her elbows. The last B.A. had seen of them—before they had been carried away in an evidence bag—blood and soot had covered them from where Sara had touched Hank Mattox’s face. Sam continued on, and minutes later Bert and Ella Sims stood beneath the trellis. Bert looked the part of a Confederate General. A bit further into the photographs, Representative Barrett popped into view. She was alone. It was well documented in Columbia that the Representative had lost her husband in an accident at home. Cades Barrett had fallen from a ladder while trying to clear the stately mansion’s second story gutters himself, hitting his head on the concrete patio. By all accounts, the Speaker had been devastated and slipped into a deep and dark depression. Sam clicked on.
After the portraits they came to photographs taken inside the lobby. Men and women mingling, drinking from flutes, and eating hors d’oeuvres passed on silver trays. The photographer knew on which side her bread was buttered. She’d taken a healthy number of the more prominent guests, Speaker Barrett and Bert and Ella Sims among them. Pictures of men and women dancing followed. The photographer had captured Sara dancing with her father and another of Representative Barrett with Bert. The photographer then apparently went to the second floor landing to take shots looking down on the revelers.
“Stop,” B.A. said.
Sam stopped.
“Can you blow it up?”
“You mean ‘zoom’?”
“Whatever.”
“Which part of the picture?”
B.A. pointed to a couple in the lower right quadrant, Sam clicked, and a red square appeared. The image in the square enlarged, but too much. The pixels were such that the faces blurred and became distorted.
“Not that much.”
Sam zoomed out so that the faces became clear.
“I’ll be damned,” B.A. said.
• • •
Sara parked on the street since the underground garage was closed on the weekends. As she approached the public entrance to the Statehouse, she noticed the group of people dres
sed in Confederate uniforms clustered around the memorial for a wreath-laying ceremony. She entered, greeting the security staff on duty and heading to the second floor lobby on the excuse of seeing that the party debris had been cleared. Just hours before, the sound of music and laughter had echoed throughout the historic building; now all she could hear was the squeak of her tennis shoes on the ornate pink and gray marble floor. She took the elevator down to the lower lobby where she stopped in front of the large portrait of a Rebel soldier giving water to a wounded enemy. The Angel of Marye’s Heights. She reached and slid her hand along the right edge of gold ornate frame, felt something tacky, and carefully pried off a ball of duct tape. Partly unraveling it, she saw the gold teeth of a small key. Her heart quickened.
She shoved the key into her pocket and hurried to the office she used when working in the Statehouse. The door was locked, the lights off. She used her card access. Inside, she left off the light to the outer reception area and entered her cubicle before turning on her desk lamp. She opened the top drawer and looked inside, but saw nothing unfamiliar. She closed the drawer and opened the drawer below it, bending low to pull the hanging manila files forward. The metal tin box was at the bottom of the drawer behind the last file. Taking it out, she set it on her calendar desk pad and removed the wad of duct tape from her pants pocket. She needed a pair of scissors to cut the duct tape and realized her scissors were at her regular office desk, but she kept her silver letter opener on this temporary desk, a replica of the Sword of State and a gift her parents had presented to her upon graduation from law school. She used the letter opener to pry loose the duct tape and peeled off the key. The teeth slid easily into the tiny lock. Her heart pounding, she turned the key. The lock tab snapped open. She hesitated, caught her breath, realizing that whatever was inside could be important enough for someone to kill another.
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