by Leslie Meier
“Yeah, where else?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked. “We’re not very popular with the sheriff right now, and I’ve got this great idea for a feature about the stuff people are advertising in the free classifieds.”
The phones were ringing again, and Phyllis was still in the bathroom. Lucy tried to ignore them, straining to hear Ted’s voice.
“If you’ve got time for the feature, go ahead. Rob takes priority right now. You’re on his visitor list, and the lawyers tell me you have every right to see him. Besides, they want to get his side of the story out. They want photos, a big spread. I’ve got Fran researching other jailed journalists all around the world. We want to plant the seed that this is part of a worldwide move on the part of authoritarian governments to stifle the free press.”
Lucy found this a bit hard to swallow. “He’s charged with murder, Ted. This isn’t one of those ‘I refuse to reveal my sources’ situations.”
“Well, from what Fran tells me, journalists get jailed every day on all sorts of bogus charges, ranging from spying to heresy. And sometimes there’s no legal process at all; they just lure the poor sap into an embassy and bring out the bone saws. The guy walks in whole and is carried out in a bunch of black plastic garbage bags.”
“Okay, okay. Your intrepid girl reporter is on the job, shining the light of public scrutiny into the darkest corner of our community.”
“And tell Rob that we haven’t forgotten him, that we’re working hard on his case, and the lawyers think there’s a good chance we can get the charges reduced and then he’d be eligible for bail, which the TRUTH Project would pay.”
Lucy didn’t think this was realistic and said so. “I don’t want to raise his hopes for nothing,” she insisted, as Phyllis reappeared with her hair neatly combed and a fresh slick of Amazing Apricot lipstick.
“No. Hope is the thing that will help him cope, even if it is a bit of reach.”
“Well, I’ll play it by ear. Any questions you want me to ask?” She was standing up, ready to cede Phyllis’s desk.
“Mostly, let him proclaim his innocence, in as many ways as he can express it. Don’t worry about giving away too much; the lawyers are going to vet the story before we print it, so there won’t be anything damaging that the prosecution can use against him.”
“Okay, boss,” said Lucy, resigned to her fate. She hung up, and Phyllis settled herself, immediately taking the next call.
Lucy grabbed a couple of reporter’s notebooks from the stack on her desk and dropped them into her purse, checked that her cell was charged, and put on her jacket.
“Where are you going?” demanded Phyllis, her hand over the phone receiver.
“To the jail, to interview Rob.”
“Say hi for me,” she said, with a sympathetic smile, then returned to her call. “Unh-hunh. Red vinyl, reclines, and also massages. A bargain at sixty dollars.”
Smiling, Lucy gave her a little wave and reached for the door, setting the little bell to jingling.
That cheery sound was a distant memory when she pulled into one of the visitors’ parking spots at the county jail. She climbed out of her car reluctantly, but straightened her shoulders and marched up the path to the heavily studded gray-metal door. She took a deep breath of moist spring air, then pulled the door open and entered.
The reception area was a small space. The walls were painted avocado green, the floor was covered with industrial vinyl tile, and a counter was staffed by a uniformed guard. Her frizzy hair was dyed blond and cut in a short, mannish style that exposed her heavy jaw and double chin, her ample bosom was covered in a baby-blue polyester blend shirt, and she peered suspiciously at Lucy through a pair of tiny, granny-style, wire-rimmed eyeglasses. Lucy thought the poor woman could certainly benefit from some of Sue’s fashion advice, then immediately felt ashamed for being so catty. She was certainly no fashion plate herself in her ancient puffy jacket and duck boots.
“I’m here to visit a prisoner, Rob Callahan,” said Lucy, summoning a big smile. “I’m Lucy Stone.”
“I know who you are,” said the guard.
Slightly unnerved, Lucy offered another smile. “Great. I believe I’m on the visitor list.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Pardon?”
“Callahan’s not allowed any visitors.”
Lucy was puzzled. “How come?”
“Disciplinary matter.”
“Oh.” Lucy thought for a minute. “For how long?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, is there some sort of protocol? A usual amount of time?”
“Depends on the infraction.”
“Can you tell me what infraction Rob committed?”
“Nope. Prisoner confidentiality.”
“Can I leave a note for him?”
The woman shrugged. “Sure.”
Lucy quickly wrote a brief note to Rob, telling him she had tried to visit and would come again, and that the lawyers were working hard on his case. Folding it, she handed it to the guard. “Will you make sure he gets this?”
“I think his mail’s on hold.”
“Disciplinary matter?” asked Lucy.
The woman shrugged. Lucy started to reach for her wallet, thinking that a ten- or twenty-dollar bill might ensure delivery of the note, then decided an attempt to bribe a guard might only make things worse for Rob. Or herself. Instead, she decided a better course of action would be to go directly to the sheriff and demand some answers from him.
It was only a short walk to the sheriff’s office, and as she marched along, Lucy organized her thoughts, preparing the questions she wanted answered. Her attitude was purposeful but polite as she entered the neat little brick building, with its brand-new shingled roof, and asked to see Sheriff Murphy.
“Of course,” said his receptionist, Nora, giving her a friendly smile. “He’s in a meeting, but should be free shortly. Can I get you something while you wait? Coffee, tea, a soft drink?”
“Nothing, thanks,” said Lucy, seating herself in a comfy wing chair by the window. Outside, she noticed, little clumps of snowdrops were bravely poking through a lingering clump of snow.
She pulled out her phone and checked her messages; then sent a text to Ted, informing him that she hadn’t been able to see Rob and was now waiting to talk to the sheriff. She’d just pressed SEND when the door to the sheriff’s office opened and he stepped out, along with a man in a suit whom Lucy didn’t recognize. The sheriff acknowledged her with a nod, took the guy’s hand, and shook it firmly while clapping his shoulder. The man gave the receptionist a little wave and departed, allowing the sheriff to focus his attention on Lucy.
“Ah, now, it’s Lucy Stone, our own Lois Lane,” he said. His blue eyes twinkled, his perfect teeth gleamed, and his handshake was warm and firm. “What can I do for you?”
In spite of herself, Lucy found herself responding to his charm. “I just have a few questions for you. Clark Kent couldn’t make it.”
Murphy beamed at her. “Well, come on down, like the game show host says, and I’ll see if I can help you.” He turned to the receptionist. “Hold my calls, darlin’.”
Nora smiled and nodded, and Lucy stepped through the door the sheriff was holding for her, waiting politely until he invited her to sit. When he did, she ignored the cozy seating area and chose one of the visitor’s chairs facing his desk, and he seated himself behind the desk in his big leather executive chair. “How’s the family?” he asked.
“Fine, just fine,” said Lucy, attempting to resist what she was certain was a calculated attempt to disarm her.
“I understand you’ve got two that have flown the nest, and two lovely lasses still at home.”
Lucy decided resistance was futile, and that it was better to play along. “I’m going to lose another one soon. Sara will be moving to Boston to work at the Museum of Science.”
“Congratulations. She must be a clever girl.” He smiled approvingly. “But
, of course, you’ll miss her.”
“True,” agreed Lucy. “I still have one little nestling.”
“Ah, they grow up too fast,” said the sheriff. “Now, what can I do for you today?”
Startled, Lucy remembered the purpose of her visit, which was not to make small talk with the sheriff, no matter how friendly and flattering he seemed. “Actually, I came over to visit Rob Callahan, in the jail, but was told he is not allowed visitors because of a disciplinary matter.”
“Oh, dear.” Sheriff Murphy knitted his brow, expressing concern. “Discipline, of course, is the responsibility of the prison superintendent, Michael Harrison. You would have to ask him, but as you no doubt know, we take the rights of our prisoners very seriously. Any disciplinary infractions and punishments are confidential, unless a court judge decides otherwise.”
“Well, I guess it’s a matter for Rob’s lawyers, then,” said Lucy.
“Ah, the lawyers. I understand your friend has some very high-powered legal representatives who have come all the way from Washington, D.C.”
“Yes. Rob is fortunate that his employer, the TRUTH Project, provides legal counsel for journalists who find themselves in legal jeopardy.”
The sheriff was on it, like a dog seizing a juicy bone. “So he doesn’t actually work for Ted at The Courier?”
“Not directly,” explained Lucy. “This TRUTH Project provides experienced journalists to small-town newspapers to give advice and improve coverage in areas that are in danger of becoming underserved.”
“And is that the situation here? We’ve always had a fine paper, the Gabber, and now Ted has taken over and named it The Courier, which I admit does sound more professional.” He paused, propping his elbows on his desk and tenting his hands. “As for me, I miss the Gabber’s folksy, small-town approach. For the life of me, I can’t see why Ted thought he needed to bring in an outsider, a big-city fella who doesn’t understand our country ways. Where does this Rob come from anyways?”
“Cleveland,” admitted Lucy.
“Ah. My point exactly. Why, he’s probably used to all sorts of violence and shooting. Those big cities are infested with crime and rats, they’re nothing at all like our safe little towns here in Maine. Here, we’re not quite so diverse, everybody knows everybody, and we pretty much share the same traditional values. Good wholesome values.”
Lucy thought this was a shameless exaggeration. She knew only too well that Gilead and Tinker’s Cove both had plenty of drug addiction, domestic violence, and poverty. The towns were picture-postcard pretty, and people often left their doors unlocked, and some even left their car keys in the ignition, trusting in their neighbors’ honesty. That trust was sometimes violated, however, as her friend Barney Culpepper often reminded people in his role as community outreach officer.
She wasn’t about to argue with the sheriff, however, so she returned to the reason for her visit. “We are indeed very lucky to live in such a safe community,” she said. “And I’m sure we’re all very grateful for the police and first responders who keep us safe. But I have to say, I am concerned about Rob Callahan and would very much like to see him and be reassured of his well-being. Is going to court the only way I can do that?”
The sheriff nodded along sympathetically as she delivered this little speech, then reached across the desk and took her hand. “You are to be commended for caring so deeply about your colleague, Lucy. Your concern is admirable, but unnecessary. Believe me, we’re taking very good care of him.” He shrugged. “I think you should leave this to the lawyers, let them earn those big hourly billings, which is probably what they’re really after anyway.”
“I don’t . . .” began Lucy, only to be interrupted by the sheriff, who was still maintaining eye contact and was definitely not smiling. “Now, you and I know that justice will be done, and that process takes time. In the meantime, I think The Courier should focus on the good news and the wonderful strength of our community. We’ve got a big celebration coming up, including a marvelous parade, and I think that’s the story you should be covering.”
“Point taken,” said Lucy, deciding it was time to go. “If only my boss felt the same way.” She stood up and slipped the straps of her bag onto her shoulder. “Thanks for your time.”
“No problem. I’m always happy to have a chat with an attractive young lady.” The smile was back, but Lucy felt it wasn’t genuine, it was a cover-up for the sheriff’s frustration and anger about Ted’s approach to the county news. “Now you drive safely; you’ve got a family that depends on you, and it can be dangerous out there what with all these cell phones and whatnot.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Lucy, not quite believing the sheriff was truly concerned for her welfare. His words, she realized, and even his interest in her daughters could be interpreted as a sort of threat.
Back in the car, Lucy found herself driving extremely cautiously, not letting her mind drift, as she often did when driving on these familiar roads. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, watching for erratic drivers and preparing to avoid them; she braked well in advance of stop signs and flipped on her turn signals long before she actually needed to. She also kept an eye out for speed-limit signs and scrupulously obeyed them, even slowing to the posted fifteen mile an hour limit in front of the elementary school, although it was still in session and there were no children to be seen.
When her hands began to ache, she realized she was being somewhat paranoid and, feeling rebellious, switched on the radio. She was well out of town now, driving on Route 1, and she decided it would be much safer to keep up with the flow of traffic rather than continue to fight it. A couple of cars had passed her, pulling out dangerously into oncoming traffic, and she didn’t want to be one of those poky drivers that other drivers cursed.
She was bopping along to the music when her cell phone rang. It was Ted, informing her that he’d heard on the police scanner that a dog walker had discovered a body in the Great Bay conservation area and instructing her to get to the scene of the discovery ASAP. “Right, boss,” she replied, feeling the familiar surge of adrenalin that came whenever she was put on a big story. And bodies were always big stories.
She quickly signaled and did a fast U-turn, speeding up a bit and heading for the Great Bay Reservation, which was only a few miles away. Paths in the conservation area, which surrounded a large, shallow saltwater bay that was actually an estuary, were popular with dog walkers and bird-watchers. Lucy was familiar with the area; she had often kayaked there with Bill and the kids, enjoying the calm water and frequently sighting great blue herons and kingfishers. Today, however, the parking area was filled with several police cruisers and the medical examiner’s van. She parked alongside and headed on foot down the trail toward the little cluster of officials gathered in the marsh grass a few feet from the trail.
As she drew closer, she identified State Police Detective Lieutenant Horowitz, whom she knew well from covering other stories, along with some uniformed troopers. The ME was bent over, studying the ground, and a young woman was seated on a large rock with a black Lab lying on the ground beside her. As she drew closer, she realized the young woman was carrying a small baby that was snoozing against her chest in a carrier.
Assuming the young woman was the dog walker who had discovered the body, and since she was the first person Lucy encountered, she identified herself and asked for a brief interview. “What’s your name?” she began, producing her notebook.
“Mickey Woods, and this is Sophie, only two months,” she replied, seeming quite happy to talk. “My dog is named Connor. He’s the one who found the body.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” sympathized Lucy. “Sometimes it makes me wonder why anybody walks dogs, considering the stuff they find.”
“I know,” laughed the woman. “He brings home all sorts of stuff. The other day, it was my neighbor’s shoe; she left them on the porch because they were muddy.”
Lucy smiled encouragingly. “So, did you see the
body?”
“No, I just saw bones at first. I thought it was a bird or something, but then I realized it was a hand.”
“The dog didn’t . . .”
“Oh, no. It was sort of poking out of the ground. And there was a ring, one of those big silver skull rings.” She paused. “That’s all I saw, really. Connor was starting to dig, and I pulled him away and called nine-one-one.”
“How long before the police came?” asked Lucy.
“I don’t really know. I nursed the baby a bit, so the time passed.”
Lucy remembered those days, and how time stopped when she was nursing her babies, marveling at their perfect little fingers and sweet cheeks. “Your baby is beautiful, by the way,” she said, looking up as Lieutenant Horowitz approached.
“That was fast work, Lucy,” he said, giving her a rather disapproving look. He was wearing a tan raincoat, which hung open over his usual gray suit, and a pair of black rubber boots.
“Ted heard it on the scanner,” Lucy told him. “He sent me right over, since I happened to be in the neighborhood. Have you got an ID?”
“Not yet. It’s a young woman; the ME thinks she’s been in the ground for eight to ten months. That’s all I’ve got.”
“I understand she was wearing a ring?” pressed Lucy.
“Yeah, but we’re not releasing that information just yet.”
Lucy was surprised. “But wouldn’t it help identify her?”
“It’s up to the DA to decide what information to release to the public. He’ll probably hold a press conference tomorrow. Meanwhile, all I’m prepared to say is that the body of a young woman was found buried in a shallow grave in the Great Bay Reservation, and according to the ME, she’s been there for about eight to ten months. Period.”
“Okay, thanks for that,” said Lucy. Horowitz wheeled around and went back to the gravesite, leaving Lucy alone with Mickey.
