by R.J. Ellory
“And there really was nothing of any substance, evidence-wise, against Matthias Wade?” Gaines asked.
“No, nothing at all. Circumstantial stuff. The fact that both girls were daughters of Wade-family employees. Tire tracks near the bodies that were produced by the same brand of tires as could be found on one of Wade’s many cars. It was a brief ‘Yes, you did,’ ‘No, I didn’t’ back and forth, and then Wade got some heavyweight legal counsel in from Jackson, and that was the end of that. He was cooperative, polite, didn’t give us any trouble, answered every question we asked him, gave us nothing to hang anything on, and then he upped and left without so much as a fingerprint to follow up on.”
“But you really believe he did it,” Gaines said. “You really believe he murdered these two girls.”
“I don’t believe anything, son. I know it. Either he strangled those girls with his own hands, or he was accomplice to it. Whichever way it went down, he knows what happened back then, and he ain’t sayin’ a word.”
“Well, he’s gotten himself involved with another dead girl now,” Gaines said.
“Sure as hell looks that way,” Young said. “And if you can nail him for that, then I would owe you a mountain of gratitude. Nothin’ would give me greater pleasure than to see that son of a bitch brought to justice for something.”
Gaines was quiet for a time, his attention still fixed on the display of pictures before him. “Would it be okay if I just sat somewhere for a while and made some notes about these cases?” he asked.
Young started to get up. “You just take whatever notes you like, son. In fact, you can take those files with you, back on up to Whytesburg. If you’re gonna be followin’ up on this, then better to have the original documents and pictures and whatnot. When you’re done, you bring ’em on back here, okay?”
“That’s very much appreciated.”
“What’ll be more appreciated is seein’ that bastard pay for what he’s done.”
“I won’t be long,” Gaines said.
“You have all the time you need. I got a bunch of things to do. You let Marcie know if you need any help.”
Young headed for the door, paused to grip Gaines’s shoulder. “Good luck, son. Not that I believe in luck, but good luck anyway. Wade is a devious son of a bitch, like I said, and he’s got more money than Croesus behind him. Maybe you’re gonna see something I didn’t and get him this time. Whatever the hell we think he’s been doing, I can guarantee he’s been doing a lot worse. That’s the nature of this one. Too much money, too much time on his hands, and the devil makes plenty of work for idle hands, as they say.”
“I appreciate your time, Sheriff,” Gaines said.
“No problem. If you need more of it, you just let me know.”
Young left the room.
Gaines sat there for a while, and then he started in on the first murder. Anna-Louise Mayhew, all of ten years old, left to visit with a girlfriend on the morning on Wednesday, January 3, 1968, found eight days later in St. Mary Parish, strangled and cast aside like an unwanted rag doll.
29
It was past ten by the time Gaines reached home. He shared no more than half a dozen words with Caroline before she left, checked on his ma, and then sat alone in the kitchen with Dennis Young’s case files and his notes in front of him.
He had not seen Young again before leaving St. Mary Parish, but Marcie—Young’s secretary and receptionist—had passed on a message.
“He told me to tell you that whatever you need, just call him or come on over.”
Gaines had thanked her, told her to thank Young for him.
“A dreadful case,” Marcie had commented. “Can’t bear to think how it must haunt their families.”
That was the thought that had assaulted Gaines’s defenses with the greatest effectiveness.
A child that never was.
A child that was and then was taken away.
They were not the same thing, but they were close.
There were so many things he had wanted to feel back then, so many things he had wanted to say to Linda, but he had been little more than stunned and silent. Her pregnancy had heralded the beginning of a new life, a different kind of life, a life they had talked about, planned together, imagined as real. It had become real, and then it had been obliterated by one single, simple act of fate. Perhaps their child had never been destined to exist as anything other than a dream.
Gaines could remember the moment he had learned, the call that had come from the hospital where Linda had been rushed—un-beknownst to him—on that spring afternoon in 1961. She had been at work. He had seen her that very morning. Everything had been fine. Everything had been the same as every other day.
He was in the kitchen. He was drying dishes. He had the radio on, and they were playing “What a Difference a Day Makes” by Dinah Washington.
And then the call came.
He had asked them, “What’s happened? Is everything okay?”
“You should come to the hospital, Mr. Gaines,” the voice at the other end of the line had repeated. “Just come to the hospital now.”
And he had gone, driving like a madman, knowing in his bones and in his heart that something terrible had happened.
And when he arrived, it was as if no one knew who he was or why he was there, and he had to ask three different people for help before a nurse finally asked him, “Are you Linda Newman’s husband?”
And he had said, “Yes . . . not her husband, no . . . but yes, I am here to see her.”
And the nurse had said, “She’s in the ward on the left. Sorry for your loss.”
“Loss?” he asked.
And the nurse had looked at him and realized what she’d said, that he hadn’t known, that he didn’t know. Her expression was ashen and troubled, and she turned and hurried away without another word.
Gaines had gone down there, to the ward on the left, and Linda was sitting upright, her back against the wall, the look in her eyes one of utter defeat.
He had approached her, and it seemed an age before she realized he was there, and then she said, “Oh, John . . . John . . .” And the tears had come like a wave.
Thinking of it in that moment, Gaines could feel the emotion swelling in his chest, but whatever depth of loss he might have experienced as a result of Linda’s miscarriage was merely a thousandth of what the families of Anna-Louise Mayhew and Dorothy McCormick must have felt and must still feel. A thousandth of what Judith Denton was going through right this very moment.
Perhaps there was some small mitigation of pain to be derived from justice in such a case. To see the guilty brought to account for their crimes would at least have resolved some aspect of uncertainty and wonder. But here? Perhaps to have known that Matthias Wade had been suspected, questioned, and then to have seen him walk away without any further resolution would have been worse than no one being suspected at all. To carry the burden of knowledge and yet to be impotent, to see that knowledge denied and refuted by the continued presence of the man . . .
Can’t bear to think how it must haunt their families.
And Judith Denton. She had lost her only child, and not through illness or accident, not through misfortune or misadventure, but by the hands of some unknown assailant, someone who simply put their hands around the girl’s throat and choked her until she was dead. What must that do to a parent? What must that do to a human being?
The weight of grief and guilt and conscience would be unbearable.
How could I have protected her? What could I have done differently? Why didn’t I drive her to the friend’s house? Why did I let her walk out alone?
How could I bear a child, raise them, feed them, guide them through all the pitfalls and obstacles of life, and then lose them in a moment?
“We are not gods,” Lieutenant Wilson used to tell Gaines. “We are just men. We are grown-up enough now to see that happy-ever-afters occur only in fairy tales. The young believe that bad will be balanced out by the g
ood, and they imagine there are enough years ahead of them to see this happen. The old, having lived all those years, now see it’s the other way around. If there is a God, then he is cruel and bitter and fickle, and men—made in his image—are equally cruel and bitter and fickle. Shit happens, and it happens all the time, and it keeps on happening, and most of the time there is no explanation for it. Life is random and unpredictable, and it doesn’t stop coming at you. If you try to stop it, it will just crush you. If you slow down enough to try to understand it all, it will swallow you whole. Best you can do is understand as much of it as possible while you keep running.”
Maybe Lieutenant Wilson, sideshow philosopher that he was, slowed down to try and see things better and the bullet that killed him caught up.
Gaines did not know, did not profess to know. Not just about Webster, not just about Wade, not about Nancy Denton and the two girls from St. Mary Parish, but most everything. He did not pretend to know anything. He did not know why his mother was sick and yet did not die. He did not know why Michael Webster had cut open Nancy Denton’s chest and replaced her heart with a snake. He did not know what he could say or do that would lessen the sense of guilt and stupidity he felt for removing evidence from Webster’s motel room without a damned warrant.
All he knew—all he knew—was that he needed to pick Webster up again in the morning, get him into an interview room once more, and have him say enough to justify Judge Wallace signing a warrant to search that motel room again. There had to be something else there, some aspect of incriminating evidence that could be brought to bear upon Webster, something that would tie him up with a charge, an arraignment, a trial date. Or perhaps Webster could be made to say something again, but this time on tape, in the presence of Ken Howard, in the presence of any damned person.
And Wade? Matthias Wade was an entirely different game altogether. If there was some way to tie Wade in with the Denton killing, then perhaps the Mayhew-McCormick double murder could be revisited.
There had to be some connection. There had to be. If not, then why the hell would someone like Matthias Wade be willing to pay five thousand dollars to get Michael Webster out of jail? It went beyond one old friend helping another. Gaines was sure of that.
Had Webster been telling the truth? Had he merely found the girl at the side of the road, and—in some warped and delusory reality—imagined that opening up her chest, removing her heart, and replacing it with a snake would somehow serve a purpose? Webster had said that he had known what to do. Those had been Webster’s words. How had he known what to do? From Al Warren, the man who had been there for him in Guadalcanal?
Had Webster merely been the means by which Nancy Denton’s body could be disposed of? Had Matthias Wade told Michael Webster where to find the body, what to do with it, where to bury it? And had this ritualistic performance been undertaken merely to confuse and confound the issue, to create the appearance that there was something more sinister and arcane going on beyond the abduction and murder of a teenage girl?
Was this all a game of smoke and mirrors, the entire thing played out by Matthias Wade and his unwitting confederate, Michael Webster?
These were the questions that plagued Gaines. His mind grew tired, his eyes gritty, and every time he closed them, he saw those same images—the discarded bodies of the two Morgan City girls, now not only on the kitchen table before him, but also there behind his eyelids.
Gaines went for the bottle of bourbon on top of the refrigerator. He drank two inches neat, felt the raw burning in his chest, and knew it would help him close down, if only for a few hours.
He did not know what would transpire next, but in his wildest imagination, he could not have anticipated that which woke him merely four and a half hours later. And that, in truth, was not the worst of it. There was a great deal more to come, and John Gaines, sheriff of Breed County, he who had seen the nine circles of hell, started to believe that the war had followed him home.
30
The filth and mud beneath the waterlogged wood, the smell of smoke and charred earth and all that this brought to mind was nothing in the face of what was revealed as the blackened timbers of Lieutenant Michael Webster’s motel room were hauled away by the fire chief, his deputy, and the other attending officers of the Breed County Fire Service
They hauled away those timbers with ropes affixed to the rear of the fire truck, and those timbers snapped and released clouds of hot ash and sparks skyward.
It was close to dawn, and the sky was flat and bleak with a low ceiling and almost without color at all. The trees were like scrimshaw etchings, indistinct and fragile, like pictures incompletely developed in a tray of solution.
It was a monochrome world, and John Gaines stood aside from the fray near the adjacent cabin, and when he touched the wooden wall of that cabin, he could still feel the heat of the fire that had been extinguished.
Webster’s cabin was little more than a shadowed footprint of its former self, and Gaines knew what they would find within.
The fire chief’s name was Frank Morgan, and it was Morgan who came to Gaines with the news. “He’s in there,” he said. “Well, who it is might be difficult to establish, but that’s Vic Powell’s job, not mine.”
“Burned beyond recognition?” Gaines asked.
“Decapitated beyond recognition, more like, and he ain’t got his left hand neither,” Morgan replied.
“Seriously?” Gaines asked. “They cut off his head and one of his hands?”
“Sure did.”
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is this?” Gaines said, dismayed and confused, almost disbelieving his own ears. In a matter of no time at all, Whytesburg had become the kind of place one read about in inflammatory and melodramatic novels.
Now Gaines would no longer need to concern himself with what additional evidence might be found in that motel room. Regardless of what was discovered, Webster would no longer be the primary target of his investigation.
Gaines did not doubt for a second that the headless cadaver in the ashes of the fire was Webster. The only thing that now needed to be determined was who had killed the man, and—more important—why.
Matthias Wade stood right there on the horizon of Gaines’s thoughts, but perhaps that was too obvious. Had Matthias Wade killed Nancy Denton and then used Webster as the cleanup guy? And if so, why the thing with the heart and the snake and the wicker basket? What the hell was that all about? Wade had bailed Webster out, and this was the result. Would someone such as Wade dirty his own hands in such a manner? More than likely not, Gaines believed. But then Wade had enough money to cover any expenses incurred in such a situation. Was that what had happened here? Had Wade paid someone else to get rid of Webster and thus preempt any possibility that Webster would implicate Wade in the Denton killing? And why remove the head and hand? To delay identification of the body? To make a point? If so, what message was Wade trying to send? Was this some other kind of ritual, like the snake in the box?
Gaines was adrift. There were no bearings here, no context within which he could place this thing.
Now he had two dead and fewer answers than those with which he’d started. At least with Webster alive, there had been some direct, tangible link to the Denton girl, even if Webster himself hadn’t been solely responsible for her murder. Now, with Webster dead, it was—essentially—a new investigation.
The only name on the page was Matthias Wade, and Wade was protected by money, by influence, by social position, by reputation. There would be no stopping by for a few words just to clear up a couple of outstanding questions. Now Gaines would need something concrete and incontrovertible to even get onto the porch of the Wade house.
Gaines walked back to his car. He stood there for a while and watched as the body was brought out of the ashes and laid down on the ground. Powell had been called. He would arrive shortly. But Gaines did not want any discussion with him. Not now, not at this moment. What he wanted to do was see Judith Denton. He wanted to te
ll her that Michael Webster was dead. He wanted Judith to know that Webster had suffered his own retribution for the part he’d played in the desecration of Nancy’s body, irrespective of whether or not he’d been responsible for her murder. He also wanted to ask her about this Maryanne and where she might be found.
Gaines left word with Frank Morgan that he could be reached through the office if Powell needed him.
“Tell him all I need now is an ID on the body and anything he can tell me about how the head and hand were removed.”
“Will do,” Morgan replied.
Gaines drove away. It was a little after six in the morning, Saturday, the twenty-seventh, and he believed that delivering this news to Nancy Denton’s mother would somehow lessen the burden of guilt he carried for his mishandling of the Webster search and seizure.
31
John Gaines stood for a while on the porch. The screen was open, the inner door unlocked, but he did not enter. It was still early, the sky barely bleached of darkness. He guessed Judith was still asleep.
He knocked one more time, waited a minute longer, and then walked around behind the property.
There had been a fire out there as well, a small one for sure, but still a fire. Looked like she’d been burning clothes. A melted plastic chair seemed to grow from the ground. What must have once been a doll, nothing left but half the face, one eye watching Gaines unerringly.
Surely Judith Denton had not burned all her daughter’s clothes and toys? Would she do that? Keep them for twenty years in the belief that the girl would return, and now—aware of what had really happened—destroy them all? Desperate, grief-stricken, unable to bear seeing such reminders of her now-dead daughter, had she dragged everything out into the yard and set it afire?
