“I don’t see all the fuss,” I said after I finished reading it.
“You be a modern woman. You don’t understand the trials of a black person.”
“What I don’t understand is the reticence of white people to accept people of all races.”
“You nothing but a white, liberal Commi,” he said.
“True, but I do have a hard time understanding my Southern culture.”
“That be my Southern culture as well. So what did you learn from your reading?” Rosey asked.
“Well, in short, some of the folks didn’t think it appropriate for a black woman to be a juror for a white person who was accused of murdering a white girl and a black man. One idiot they quoted said it wasn’t proper. Hell, what’s not proper?”
I could feel myself getting angry.
“You lack the finer sensitivities of the white man’s point of view regarding the aboriginal black man.”
“What?”
“We not be intelligent enough to make decisions regarding a person’s guilt or innocence,” Rosey said.
“So what does that have to do with proper or improper?”
“The fineries of Southern culture.”
“The fineries,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am. Those fineries extend.”
“Extend to what?”
“Wrong question. They extend to where? That be the question.”
“So what be the answer?” I asked.
“Everywhere. Some things are right, some are wrong. You don’t cross the lines of the Southern culture without ramifications or consequences.”
“You’re saying that pulling Sarah out of the jury pool and putting her in as an active member of the jury was crossing lines?”
“You betcha mama it was. Some places, still is,” he said.
“Is this a clue?”
He raised his right hand, formed a gun with his fingers, and then aimed it directly at my head and fired his hand gun by lowering his thumb.
“Bang,” he said.
27
I was sitting on the front porch enjoying my coffee and the clear, cloudless, early morning sunrise when Rosey joined me with his cup. The box of clippings was too massive for us to finish last night, especially after all that reading from the trial proceedings during our visit to the Clancyville Court House earlier in the day, so we decided to postpone our clue-finding for another time. It arrived too soon for me.
“Morning, sunshine,” Rosey said.
“Me or the actual orb itself?”
“You, of course.”
“Good morning.”
“Besides reading, what’s on the agenda?”
“How long can you be away from your work in D.C.?” I asked.
“This be my work, precious. Wait for the bill you’ll likely get.”
“Same scale as last time?”
“You didn’t pay anything last time.”
“My point.”
“No doubt the same scale.”
“Let’s finish the newspaper clippings and then visit Sarah at Peace Haven.”
“Why don’t I finish the clippings and you visit Sarah to save some time?” he asked.
“Sounds like a plan. I will expect an accurate digestion of all the salient points you glean from your close reading of those fascinating newspaper accounts.”
“Salient points be my specialty. I survived Harvard Law, remember?”
“Which is why I expect so much of you.”
My mother arrived with a coffee pot just in time to refill my empty cup. Rosey gulped down his last few ounces for her to refill his.
“You two up for pancakes or waffles this morning?” she asked.
“Waffles,” Rosey said before I could swallow my coffee and answer.
“Sounds good,” I said.
“I’ll get started,” she said and left.
“Curious about what you said last night…in regards to crossing Southern cultural lines. Explain to me, Mr. Harvard, why Sarah’s addition to that jury was such a cultural faux pas. The whole trial was about a serious breach of Southern culture to my way of thinking.”
“You close, Miss Boston U., but listen while I ‘splain. Point of view. From the killer’s point of view, he righted a terrible wrong. A black man dating a white girl here in South in the 1970’s, that be so wrong nobody disagree except you screaming liberals. So, the crusader has righted the wrong, and likely the jury, their point of view now, although aghast at his actions, will not give him the death penalty. They want to crown him hero or something. That mean they be looking for ways to keep him alive in the state of Virginia. Everything looks good until Sarah Jones joins the team. Now for the third point of view – the community …they know that the equation has shifted. The Southern way of life has been dented once again, if not downright attacked. A black woman is now sitting on a jury against a white man. Heaven help us all.”
“You should have been a lawyer.”
“I am a lawyer.”
“You just don’t practice.”
“What you think I be doing here with you on this fine, frosty fall morning?”
“Helping me find a serial killer.”
“And practicing my courtroom banter.”
“That, too. So, Perry, your theory is that from our serial killer’s point of view, he is righting a terrible wrong because the jury found him guilty of first degree murder instead of …say, manslaughter.”
“Yessim.”
“And you believe that Sarah Jones contributed mightily to this verdict?”
“I do, either directly, or simply because of her presence. Either way, I believe she caused the other jurors to have a conscience.”
“So why not kill Sarah first?”
“Good question. Opportunity could be the answer. Had what he thought was a fool-proof method of killing jury members. Didn’t want to color outside the lines. I suspect our killer is very patient. Methodical, too. Look how long he waited to begin killing them.”
“If we’re correct with our diagnosis.”
“That sound like doctor talk. I like theory better. Theory of the crime,” Rosey suggested.
“So our theory is that our killer, our serial killer, is a crusader and seeking to correct a terrible wrong here in the Southland.”
“It’s a working theory.”
“And you will be diligently seeking what in your newspaper account reading?”
“Somebody hollerin’ louder than all the other folks.”
I woofed down some waffles and left soon afterward to get Sarah’s first hand account of the famous trial. It was good to have a working motive even though it could prove to be wrong. All things being equal, which they seldom are, it could be that a jury member was actually the killer. Rosey was already busy reading the pile of clippings when I left the house. Eight months worth of newspaper articles on a trial that was center stage would be daunting reading for anyone. I think he gave me the easier task.
When I arrived at Peace Haven, there was an ambulance at the back entrance where the ambulances usually parked, next to the double doors. The lights on the county vehicle were flashing.
I stopped at the nurse’s station to see what was happening.
“We had a patient die sometime last night or early this morning. Are you family?”
“I don’t know. Who died?”
“Ernestine Reynolds.”
“Which room?”
“Oh, you can’t go down there. We’re waiting on a doctor to arrive. No one can go in the room, except family,” she said trying to be emphatic.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” I said.
I walked down to Sarah’s room. Joy Jones was in Sarah’s room when I entered.
“Good morning, ladies,” I said.
“Mornin’,” said Joy.
“Hey, girl. How you doin’?” Sarah seemed bright and happy.
“I’m fine. Hope you are,” I said.
“Better and stronger each day. May go home soon.”
<
br /> “That’d be good,” I said to Sarah, then turned to Joy, “You’re working late this morning.”
“Oh, I had to stop by and visit with my friend Sarah. Just checkin’ in on her to see if she needed anything.”
“So you worked the night?”
“Yes’im.”
“You see all the commotion earlier?”
“Yeah. Miss Reynolds passed away during the night. I think a nurse found her early this morning.”
“Oh, poor Ernestine,” Sarah said.
“Yeah, she was a sweetie,” Joy added.
“She been sick long?”
“Not what you call sick. Just weak and feeble. She used her wheelchair to go everywhere in this building. She’d sit outside and smoke. Smoked like a chimney, as the sayin’ is,” Sarah said.
Joy nodded her head in agreement.
“Long as I been workin’ here, Miss Reynolds would be somewhere in the halls or outside or in the dining area, or sitting pretty-like at the front entrance. She hardly ever stayed in the room, except to sleep. Friendly person. And she did love to smoke,” Joy related.
“Know her room number?” I asked.
“412,” Joy said.
“Which direction?”
“4 means the South Wing and room 12 in that wing,” Joy offered. “Go back to that central nurses’ station and make a hard right. You’ll find it.”
“Thanks.”
“They’re waitin’ on a doctor. Probably won’t let you in the room now. Has to have a doctor … you know, pronounce them dead.”
“I’ll use my charm. Gets ‘em every time.”
28
I was standing outside of Room 412 waiting on the doctor, pretending to mind my own business and failing miserably. I phoned Rosey to update him.
“That be two on your watch,” he said.
“Juror number eight from the trial.”
“Theory holding water.”
“But no one believes us. My true-blue friend, the local sheriff, one Robby Robertson, doesn’t think our conspiracy theory has any merit.”
“As in old people die in nursing homes daily,” Rosey said.
“You nailed it. He told me that there was no reason to check into it, that my mother was simply being overly dramatic.”
“Your mother?”
“Dear old Mom.”
“Rachel Jo Evans, being dramatic,” he said with emphasis.
“Proves he doesn’t know my mother,” I said.
“Credibility gap or they’re all complicit.”
“All?”
“The whole town.”
“Yikes. Let’s go with our credibility.”
“What you mean our, white woman?”
“Cute.”
“I have a notion,” Rosey said.
“Let me hear your notion.”
“From the pages of the detective books, crime novels, and how-to-solve-‘em manuals, I recall a time-proven technique.”
“I’m listening, Boston Blackie.”
“Hey, watch those racial slurs.”
“No slur, Kingfish. Real name of a detective.”
“Long ago and far away.”
“Very. Early television.”
“B.R.W.?”
“BRW?” I said in confusion.
“Before Roosevelt Washington.”
“Yeah. B.C.E. as well. But I read a lot.”
“Me, too. But I just read the hard stuff.”
“So, tell me the technique of your notion.”
“Follow the money.”
“We’re doing that with the computer.”
“Phase two – follow the person who got the money.”
“I thought we did that,” I said.
“We do it again. Till something breaks.”
“Your notion, you follow. Her shift is over and she should be leaving any minute now.”
“And you?”
“Me and corpse number eight are just waiting on the doctor.”
As soon as he clicked off, a middle aged woman in a white coat appeared in front of me. She was wearing a white badge with dark blue letters that informed me she was Dr. Harriett Burchette. Her entourage consisted of two nurses with name tags and a young black man who had no name tag, but appeared to be muscular.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said to me very sympathetically.
“Thank you,” I said, trying to sound earnest.
“You must be her daughter. I’m Dr. Harriett Burchette. You’ll need to wait here just a little longer. I’ll call you when I’m finished. You want to see her, correct?”
Except for the fact that a woman had died, I was actually enjoying this. I love the assumptions people oftentimes make. So far I had not lied to gain access to the room and body. I was simply playing along with Dr. Burchette’s postulation.
“I do.”
“It won’t take long.”
“Thank you,” I said and stepped back from the door allowing the doctor and her entourage to enter the room.
I decided early in my gumshoe career that if people want to make erroneous suppositions which aid my investigations, then I can let them without qualms. Of course, there is always the piper to pay when they find out that you have deceived them. It’s never pretty. But it usually speeds up things for me and my routine.
While I waited to examine the body of the lady whom the doctor thought was my mother, I reviewed what little I knew about this case. Under my careful watch as a super sleuth, there had been two more deaths. Eight people had died all told, and they were all connected to that trial in 1970. I had some suspicions about Joy, but nothing solid. If it wasn’t for someone trying to kill me, I would really be groping for facts to prove that I was on to something. The local police didn’t suspect anything sinister going on, and neither did the people of Peace Haven. I surmised that Chicken Little must have felt this way.
I could feel my phone vibrating. It was Rosey calling.
“Why aren’t you busy reading?” I said.
“Finished.”
“And nothing to do?”
“Waiting on orders.”
“Let me call you back,” I said as I watched the room door open and Dr. Burchette emerge with her little group. She addressed me in somber tones and acted concerned.
“Would you like to be alone for a few minutes?” She was still using her sympathetic voice. How kind of her.
“Thank you,” I said.
“We’ll be out here if you need anything,” she said.
I entered the room and gently closed the door behind me. I knew my ruse would endure only so long. I worked quickly.
I checked the room for anything that might be a clue. The floor was spotless. The closet had only a few items of clothing. There were some toiletries on the sink. The small chest of drawers next to the bed had some more personal items. Nothing looked out of place.
I found what I was looking for on the moveable swivel table that had been pushed back into a corner away from the body. Next to the cup of water and straw there was the card which read, “God bless you” on the first line. The second line was more to the point – “It is appointed once for man to die, and then comes judgment.” I put the card in my pocket.
I checked poor Ernestine Reynolds for needle marks in the usual secret spots that many drug addicts use to hide their habits. Just under the bend of her left big toe I found a red spot. There was a drop of blood that had clotted. It looked like a botched entry point. I photographed it with my hand-dandy phone. If only Sherlock Holmes had had one of these. But he solved ninety-nine percent of his cases without one, so I doubt if it would have helped him to improve his technique. I also noticed that she had had regular shots in both arms. In her case, if you are going to kill her with an injection of something, you might as well use the regular route to hide your devious work. It would be much like hiding something in the open. Last place you would suspect.
I uncovered her face to see if I remembered her when I lived in Clancyville long
ago. Her face seemed kind and generous. I could imagine that as a young woman Ernestine would have been quite attractive. She was still handsome in my opinion. She certainly didn’t appear to be old. Even though her face was vaguely familiar to me, I had no definitive memory of her.
As I pulled the covers back over her head of Ernestine Reynolds, the door opened and the doctor entered, followed by her ever-present followers.
“Have you had enough time?” she asked.
I nodded without speaking, trying to hold back my contrived emotion.
“We have to call the funeral home. Do you have a preference?”
Before I could answer, there was a knock on the opened door. A young man was standing by the entrance.
“My name is Jack Reynolds. I think that’s my mother… here,” he hesitated and then pointed to the body under the sheet on the bed.
I moved swiftly through the open door and pretended to be crying as I passed Jack Reynolds. I hurried down the hallway. The last thing I heard the young man say was, “I don’t have a sister.”
I had enough time to disappear and return to Sarah’s room without being seen or apprehended.
I eased open the door and found Sarah snoring silently. Joy had gone. I called Rosey and updated him on my findings.
“Joy Jones just left after her night shift work. Think you can tail her just to see what there is to see?”
“Wild bear live in the woods?”
“Buster, in my line of work, I find wild bears just about everywhere.”
“You’re not supposed to reason through my metaphorical humor,” he said.
“Call me when you get something.”
I left Peace Haven immediately, not wanting to be caught by Dr. Burchette or her entourage in case they were now searching the facility for the imposter. I had another clue to add to my growing file; but, like the other ones, it was nothing more than a loose end that led me only to believe what I already suspected. Somebody was getting away with murder right under my nose.
My phone vibrated in the ashtray of my car’s console as I was arriving at Mother’s house.
The Peace Haven Murders Page 11
