“Any adults come up there that night?” I ask. “Wander up from the party?”
“A few. Say they want to check out the house. Can’t remember all of them. Some of Trace’s Atlanta friends and Ashley’s obnoxious family I think. And Irvin and Justin. I thought that was odd, ’cause they both been up and was very familiar with the house. Justin especially. He rents it, you know. Made me think he was checking up on us, making sure we were treating his property properly. But I don’t know. He talked to the kids a little while. Mostly stayed in Brett’s room with him. Probably thought the poor fella was being left out and felt sorry for him. Like I say, it was strange.”
“Did you hear anything the night of the . . . the night Mariah was killed? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“No. Would’ve gotten up and checked on it if I had.”
“Did you hear the elevator being used that night?”
She shrugs. “Think so, but can’t be sure.”
“Do you know about what time?”
“No idea. And maybe I didn’t. Don’t know for sure. Tell you what I do know . . . I think maybe I was drugged.”
“Why’s that?”
“I can’t recall a single night in my entire adult life where I slept all the way through the night. And I don’t even remember stirring. I fell asleep early, slept in later than usual, and slept hard as I can ever remember. Was like I was in coma. No tellin’ what all went on in that house that night. Whatever it was, I wasn’t conscious for it.”
239
“I’ll answer all the questions you have,” Trace says, “but just answer one for me first.”
“Okay.”
“Are you really looking for my little girl’s killer or are you just trying to build a case against me?”
We are in his music room in the back of the house.
The enormous room is filled with comfortable, expensive furniture and musical instruments, the walls covered with album cover art work, framed newspaper clippings, TV, film, and concert posters, framed publicity and live action photographs—the latter from concert stages and recording studios.
“I’m looking as hard as I can,” I say. “Gathering evidence and information. Not building a case. Not yet. Not against you or anyone else. Just searching for the truth, looking for the killer, whoever he or she may be.”
“Merrill says you’re a prison chaplain too.”
I nod.
“Can you tell me why God let this happen to my little girl?”
I shake my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Hope you’re a better cop than a chaplain.”
I nod.
He studies me for a long moment. “You got no words of comfort for me?”
“Do you think any words exist that could be of comfort for what you’re going through?”
“No. Guess not.”
He seems to think about that for a long moment.
In addition to his own career memorabilia, autographed pictures and album covers of other rappers hang around the room—rappers so a part of the general, wider popular culture that I recognize many of them.
“Huh,” he says. “You’re right. They ain’t invented words for shit like this. Might as well go ahead and ask your questions. You can’t comfort me, least you can do is find the fuck who took my daughter from me.”
“How did you sleep the night Mariah was killed?”
He shakes his head. “Wish I hadn’t. Wish to God I hadn’t. But . . . the best I have in years.”
“Why do you think?”
“Didn’t sleep much the night before. Too much liquor. Too much sun and beach and shit, I guess. Why?”
“Could you have been drugged?”
Tears fill his eyes. “I hope to Christ I was. Would make me feel a hell of a lot better if . . . if I wasn’t just enjoying a nice night’s sleep when my little girl was being strangled and assaulted and murdered.”
His use of the word strangled stands out to me. Does he really not know how she died or is he being intentionally obtuse to appear innocent?
“I know this is extremely difficult, but . . . what do you remember about Mariah when you found her and pulled her out from beneath the bed?”
He blinks back tears and gets a hard look on his face. Fixing his eyes on something I can’t see, he says, “How cold her skin was. How stiff her body was.”
“What else?”
He narrows his eyes and furrows his brow in thought, them grimaces, as if the thoughts seem to cause him physical pain.
“Her eyes were open,” he says. “I think she was tied up . . . but . . . a blanket was covering her.”
“How did she look before you pulled her out?” I ask.
“Like she was sleeping under her bed the way she did when she was little.”
“What about the blanket?”
“What about it?”
“Was it laid over her? Was she wrapped in it?”
“Completely wrapped. Like when she was a baby. Used to call her my little burrito.”
“Was her face covered?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? You said it looked like she was sleeping.”
“No, wait. You’re right. She . . . It wasn’t.”
“Did you write any songs while you were at the Cape?”
He seems to think about it, then shakes his head. “Intended to, but . . . didn’t get around to it before . . .”
“Where did you keep your song journal?” I ask.
“Beside my bed like always. Why?”
“Did you move it at any time? Open it?”
“No,” he says. “Why?”
“Just trying to—”
“You’ve got a reason for asking,” he says. “What is it?”
“I know it’s frustrating,” I say, “but I can’t answer any more questions right now. I can only ask them. Please believe me. All I’m trying to do is find who killed Mariah. I have no other agenda.”
He nods and frowns.
“Someone said they read online that you always carry a quarter of a million dollars in cash,” I say. “Is that true?”
He nods. “It’s true, but I don’t think it’s online. Figured that’s why the ransom note requested that amount.”
“If it’s not online, how many people would know about it?”
His eyes widen. “Not many. Ashley. Irvin. Nadine. Maybe a few close friends. Security. Not many. Unless it got online somehow, but . . . if it did . . . it’d have to be one of them to put in on there. But I don’t think it’s there. Who said it was?”
“Do you mind if I attend the funeral tomorrow?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not at all. Figured that’s why you were in town.”
“How about Mariah’s grandparents and her aunt on her mother’s side? Do you have any objections to them being there?”
“Not as long as they don’t cause a scene. Tomorrow’s too important for them to make it about them. I don’t want to hear any talk about me killin’ their daughter or granddaughter ’cause I didn’t do either. I mean it. I don’t want them to ruin our last chance to honor Mariah. Can you have police or security with them to shut that shit down if they start it? If you can assure me they won’t cause a scene . . . I’ve got no problem with it.”
I nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m assuming you’ve already talked to them if they told you they want to come to the funeral. That because you’re trying to gather dirt on me?”
I shake my head.
“You tryin’ to set me up?” he says “Why else talk to them? Thought you were running a real investigation, not a witch hunt.”
240
“Wonder what he’s playing at?” Deidra says.
I’ve just told her Trace said she and her parents could attend the funeral if she could assure me no one would cause a scene.
“It’s so funny he’d talk about us causing a scene—that’s what I mean about him. He often says the opposite of what’s really true.
It’s surreal. He’s confronted us, yelled at us, caused any number of scenes in some very public and inappropriate places, but we never have and never would. Our family is not the make-a-scene kind of people. My parents are very reserved. Just makes me wonder what he’s up to. Guess it doesn’t matter as long as we get to be there for Mariah—unless he plans to use it to hurt or injure my folks in some way. I know. I know. It sounds paranoid, but I promise it’s not. Anyway, thank you. Thank you so much for making this possible. I feel like I need to do something for you.”
“Not at all. I just asked.”
“At least let me take you to dinner tonight,” she says. “Once a week, I take a different one of the Myra House women out to dinner. Try to get them out of the house, back used to living a little. . . some sense of normalcy. That sort of thing. Sandy, the young woman I’m taking tonight requested we go for a late dinner at Landmark Diner. She wants a juicy cheeseburger and the biggest slice of coconut cake in the metro area. Do you have plans? Would you like you join us?”
I consider what a night in a lonely hotel room with a minibar might do to both my sobriety and my mental state.
“I’d love to,” I say. “Mind if I bring a friend?”
“Of course not. The more the merrier.”
In the late afternoon, early evening, I locate and attend a meeting, visit with the Paulks, drop in and check on Miss Ida, call and setup my plus one for dinner tonight, go to Jordan’s and Martin’s graves, leaving flowers at Jordan’s and a basketball at Martin’s, marvel at both the city’s explosive growth and extraordinary change, drive by a few of the places that hold good memories and no haunts for me, and call and check in with Anna and the girls. Then, on a last minute whim when I realized how close I was, visited the grave of JonBenét.
And then, after all of that, with some extra time on my hands that I didn’t want to spend alone in the hotel room, I drive.
And drive.
And drive.
As the last of the light fades from the summer sky and the million billion city lights blink on below, as the traffic thins, in the midst of white and blue headlights and glowing red brake lights, I drive around the perimeter and through downtown streets.
Driving and thinking. Thinking and driving. Missing and mourning, feeling the bittersweet homesickness this city inspires in me, feeling nostalgic for what was for only the briefest of moments and will never be again.
Atlanta Nocturne.
Soft piano on the FM.
A trippy, atmospheric reinterpreting of Claire de Lune.
The city at night and I’m navigating its dark streets.
My head is filled with images, my ears ringing with information—playing basketball on the outdoor courts at Trade Winds with little Martin Fisher, finding Nicole Caldwell’s dead body in my chapel office, Mariah Evers singing and dancing with her dad in the music video for Never Leave You Again, JonBenét in an elaborate pink and white ruffled costume complete with white cowboy hat and boots performing I Want to Be a Cowboy’s Sweetheart, as snatches of conversation from today form a single continuous conversation.
Avoiding certain haunted places, like Memorial Drive, Flat Shoals Parkway, Stone Mountain, I speed through the city in what seems like slow motion, making my way to the Landmark Diner.
The streetlight-dotted night, the empty town, the skyline in the distance combine with the frame of mind I’m in to create a familiar mesmeric quality.
I’m reminded of the hypnotic ride I took with Summer Grantham after one of our meetings about the Atlanta Child Murders in the late 80’s. We were in her Ted Bundy Bug and our ride through Atlanta at night was as hypnotic as she was.
My dinner date for tonight is Frank Morgan, the GBI agent and friend of my father’s, who cared for me like a father when I lived here, taught me about being an investigator and a man, and saved my life more than once and in more ways than one.
Frank had recently lost his wife of nearly fifty years and I thought this little late-night outing might do him good.
He’s waiting for me out front when I arrive.
The Landmark Diner is brightly lit, its neon-outlined exterior a beacon against the black night sky. The Greek-influenced, New York-style diner, which opened in 1994, is open twenty-four hours a day, and is my favorite late-night eatery in the city.
As I walk up to it after parking on the side I recall bringing Susan here at midnight on the start of her birthday, celebrating her being in the world with lamb chops and chocolate cake.
Frank and I embrace like old, close friends unaware of the quarter of a century that separates us.
Inside, we find Deidra Baxley and Sandy Pickler at a booth beneath a hanging blue light.
Tonight the Landmark is quiet and mostly empty, its mirrored surfaces reflecting other objects instead of patrons, its glass and metal surfaces having very little conversation reverberate off of them.
“Sandy, John,” Deidra says. “John, Sandy.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say and shake her hand. “Deidra, Sandy, Frank,” I add. “Frank, Deidra and Sandy.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a late supper with ladies so lovely,” Frank says. “Order what you want ’cause tonight dinner is on me.”
I blink back tears as I remember the times when I was a seriously broke college student that Frank not only took me to eat, but slipped a twenty or fifty or hundred in my pocket.
As I had hoped, Frank and the two lovely but broken ladies become fast friends and before long Frank is volunteering to help with security and some light maintenance at Myra House.
“I still have friends on the force,” Frank says, “so I can also help deal with anybody who’s harassing or threatening y’all too.”
“Keep it up,” Deidra says, “and I just might ask you to marry me.”
He smiles and maybe even blushes a bit, but acts as though she’s joking, which I’m pretty sure she is, but even if she isn’t, Frank’s feelings on the matter are unalterable. He’s had his one great true love and will only have it again if there’s a life after this one.
Beneath the table, I pull out my phone and text Susan. I’m at Landmark Diner. Remembering your birthdays here and so many of the great times we shared. Just wanted to say I’m grateful for what we had and the amazing daughter we produced.
After we’ve all eaten more than we should have, and Sandy is working her way through the largest slice of coconut cake in the metro area, she says, “I want to live again.”
“You will,” Deidra says. “You’re on your way. Think about how far you’ve come.”
“But I’m so . . . weak and needy. If I didn’t have you to prop me up. I’m like Myra House in that way—fall apart if you’re not around. You can’t go away without us falling to pieces. You’re gone for a few days and we—”
“Survived just fine,” Deidra says.
“Wouldn’t say just fine.”
“Well, you did.”
“Not everyone did. Two of the women actually left. Went back to their batterers.”
“You’re stronger than you think you are,” Deidra says. “You’ll only need our support for a little while and then it’ll be you supporting others. Just wait. You’ll see.”
My phone vibrates and I pull it back out of my pocket. It’s Susan texting back. Wouldn’t change a thing. Except maybe it ending. But no regrets. Thanks for thinking of me and appreciating us. Eat a big piece of cake for me.
“That’s an awful lot of pressure on you,” Frank says to Deidra.
Deidra smiles. “Nice to be needed.”
“We’re like the needy children she never had,” Sandy says.
“Maybe I can help with some of that pressure,” Frank says. “And I know some kickass female cops who would love to volunteer—mentor, help in any way they can, teach self-defense classes.”
“Self-defense would be good,” Sandy says, “but the most important thing is us learning what good, decent men are and how to be attracted to them.”
/> “I think Special Agent Frank here will help with that,” Deidra says, a certain twinkle in her eyes. “Think havin’ him around will help with that just fine.”
“He’s truly one of the best men I’ve ever known,” I say. “Can’t think of a better man for the job.”
241
Mariah’s funeral service is as heartbreaking as any I’ve ever attended.
It’s inside the small chapel of Williams Family Funeral Home in Decatur.
I’m sitting toward the back on a pew with Frank Morgan, Deidra Baxley and her parents, Pick and Rhonda Baxley.
The small sanctuary is filled with invited family and friends whose names are on a strictly-enforced list. Several reporters, armchair detectives, and morbidly curious crashers who attempted to sneak in were turned away by Merrill and other security guards working the door because their names weren’t on the list.
Merrill is one among many bodyguards and security guarding all the entrances and escorting the family in and out.
Outside, there are more media vans set up than the parking lot and surrounding area can accommodate. We all entered the building to the sounds of cameras clicking, reporters both broadcasting and yelling questions at us.
Trace, did you kill your daughter?
How did Mariah die?
Is it true she was found naked tied up in the bathtub?
Was duct tape found in her esophagus?
Is Mariah the black JonBenét?
Investigator Jordan, are you here to arrest Trace Evidence for the murder of his daughter?
Was this a gangland style hit? Trace, was this a message? Is your past catching up with you?
What about the rumors that you’re gay? Is Ashley just your beard? Was this the work of one of your gay lovers?
Is it true Mariah isn’t really dead? Did you fake her death for the publicity?
True Crime Fiction Page 95
