“Did Robby ever come around?”
“Yeah, at night. Protectin’ the secret, you know. He wuz good ‘bout that. I think he gave Mama money ever’ month for Marie.”
“Thank you for telling me this, Henry.”
“Well, I don’t mind as long as it hurts my Mama. I’m glad to tell some of her secrets to ya. Serves her right for tryin’ to control it all. Some things you just can’t control.”
“Is that all you can tell me about Marie and Robby?”
“I reckon that’s all I know… no, wait. I remember one other thing. Marie was seeing this low-life guy named Silas. He wuz no good. Lived on the edge of trouble all the time. In and out of jail, you name it, Silas Monroe did it. Quit school when he was sixteen. Man wud’na nuthin’ but trouble. Never did know what Marie saw in him. Anyhow, I think Marie was secretly seein’ him at the Clancyville Motel. I heard ‘em talkin’ ‘bout Robby goin’ down there and getting’ Marie outta that place. But that’s all I heard. Mama wanted to keep that a secret as well. Sometimes I wish there wuz no such thing as secrets. World might be a better place if ever’body just told the truth all the time.”
73
He sat in the chair looking out the window into the late afternoon shadows. The rain clouds were moving too quickly in his direction. If lost was a true feeling, that’s what he felt. She was on his mind, again. The truth is, her memory was never out of reach. What would life have been if she had lived? Living in Clancyville would have been out of the question. He could almost feel her touch. If he closed his eyes and let himself go, he could remember other intimate things as well. He dared not go there. It was never productive to do that.
He turned away from the shadows of the evening and concluded that life would have been much better if she were still here. Different and better.
He felt trapped. He had tried hard to stop this from happening. Sometimes life had a way of happening despite the best intentions. It was if the events of the last few days had a life of their own. He had thought he had some control. Maybe he never had control over anything. All through the years he had protected the secret, kept it at bay, and even showing great restraint at times. Now it seemed as if he had been guarding the wind, trying to keep it from blowing in the wrong direction.
The room was dark from the shadows of the later afternoon. It would be completely dark in a short while and he could sit and enjoy the blackness. Maybe the dark would hide him fully and he could feel safe again. Safe from the world of people, safe from the world of knowledge, safe from the world of revelation, safe from the secret.
He thought about running, just getting away and putting it all behind him. Where would he run? The more the idea appealed to him, the more he realized that he had no place to go. He was a prisoner of his own demons. The circumstances, as well as his actions, had imprisoned him. Tragic events, sinister plots, and now, finally, he had stooped to do the evil that he tried so hard to root out. He was a prisoner of his own actions.
He was no killer, he knew that. And yet, he had actually plotted the deed and done it. He would have to answer for that. Justice was still important. Despite the lack of justice he had experienced in his own life, justice was out there, albeit illusive, but nevertheless relentless. Slow in coming most days, it traveled at its own pace when it traveled at all. He now knew it would find him, much quicker than it found the good preacher.
She needs to take off that damn blind fold.
Even in the shadows he could see a part of the shiny metal object resting in his lap. His finger was on the trigger guard, just waiting for the right moment to move. As the room slowly darkened, his eyes adjusted and he could discern the outline of the danger in his lap. It felt heavy, much like the way he felt at the moment. He wondered if he had the strength to pick it up and fire it. That would take more than strength.
There was a sound somewhere outside of his small house. Was that a car door? Is someone coming to visit me? I don’t want to see anyone or talk or think. I don’t want to do anything except sit here and wait for courage. I can do this.
The knock on the front door broke whatever concentration he had mustered. He had first thought that he would just sit where he was and wait for the person to leave. The knock came again, louder this time. He opened his desk drawer and placed the instrument of death under some papers near the bottom. He rose slowly from the chair and made his way reluctantly to the front door.
Intrusions never cease. They will be the death of me. Somebody always wanting something. Why can’t they leave a body alone? I’m just so tired. I just want to be left alone. Just leave me alone.
He moved the curtains carefully so as not to call attention to them. He recognized the woman detective and the black man who helped her. Maybe justice is not so slow in coming after all, he thought. This is my chance. Them or me. It would be that simple. An old fashioned showdown. How convenient life is if you wait long enough.
74
Sheriff Robby Robertson was our next stop. The small city of Dan River was behind us. Rosey and I had finished processing for the time being what Henry Smith had shared with us about Marie. Rosey turned off of Highway 29 North and onto Climax Road. DeWitt Road was just off of Climax about three miles from our turn.
There was still some fall color remaining, but many of the leaves in this section of the county had finally abandoned their distinctive hues. Now there was nothing more than dirty brown objects hanging lifeless from the thin limbs, waiting for the rain and the wind to finish their fall. A body could become saddened by the whole natural process if you thought too much about it.
“I have a question,” Rosey said, interrupting my dreary autumnal mood.
“Okay.”
“You think the Sheriff used Marie to kill Rowland.”
“That’s a question?”
“Setting up my question.”
“Yes, that’s what I believe.”
“And you also believe that Marie is the Sheriff’s daughter, unbeknownst to the great majority of the world.”
“Unbeknownst.”
“Why would he do that to his own daughter? Let’s assume that he does love her and has tried to protect her from the Southern slurs all these years. Why would he make her the scapegoat in a murder?”
“You’re saying that we’re missing something here.”
“Yes, we are. We’re missing something really important.”
I pulled out my cell phone to check for a signal. I had a good one.
“Turn onto that dirt road and stop,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He slowed the Jag to a stop. Sam moved to his alerted position between the seats ready for whatever might come. I got out of the Jag and called Rogers. She answered on the second ring.
“Rogers here.”
“What if someone had stolen my cell phone and called my house and you answered that way? Our secret would be exposed.”
“No one stole your cell phone,” Rogers said.
“But they could have.”
“But they didn’t. Are you calling me to start a war?”
“No. I need your help.”
“You have a fine way of asking me for help.”
“My stress level is rising. I guess I was simply taking it out on you. I have some missing links. I need you to process some data and do some more research. I need it quickly.”
“You always need it quickly, Boss Lady. As long as your humor improves, I will be glad to help you.”
“I’m good. No more chastising. I need you to call the hospital and see if they have any records on Marie Jones as a young child.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. Something. Anything.”
“Well, that narrows the field. Can you give me a hint?”
“I don’t have a hint. I believe that Sheriff Robertson used his own daughter to kill Preacher Rowland, and he did so without her knowledge. I believe he provided her with a poison while she thought she was simply giv
ing Rowland his routine medicines. It would appear that he was framing her for the crime. The autopsy on Rowland and the lab report on the glass will most likely provide enough evidence to indict her for killing Rowland. It could be a perfect frame.”
“I have already thought of that. In fact, I have done some research on the usage of medicines as poison.”
“What lead you in that direction?” I asked.
“The fact that morphine was used to kill those people at Peace Haven.”
“Then could you do some checking on potassium as a poison?”
“I have some information on that. Why do you choose potassium?”
“It was one of the meds that Rowland was taking.”
“What else?”
“Insulin and B-12.”
“That’s it?”
“He had some heart pills and some vitamins, but nothing that seemed to be suspicious otherwise. I spoke with my mother’s doctor earlier and she said potassium would be a good way to eliminate someone.”
“She is correct, if used in the right dosage.”
“So you know about this already.”
“I know what I have unearthed.”
“Do tell.”
“I did some checking on Rowland and found everything you have mentioned.”
“Why did you let me go on like that if you already knew what he was taking?”
“I was just testing you to see how thorough you were being.”
“Great. My own computer is assessing my detective skills.”
“Don’t you think that is a good thing? I am keeping you on your toes, ever alert, vigilant, meticulous, and ready for anything.”
“Whatever. What else have you found?”
“Potassium, if given in a large enough dosage, could easily shut down the vital organs and kill a person within minutes. No doubt about it. Of the meds that Rowland was on, potassium would be my choice.”
“I know that Marie had access to all of the medicines, but did Robby Robertson have access to any of them?”
“He did. My research on him turned up some rather interesting stuff. It appears that Robby’s mother has low potassium levels, so she takes it daily. He buys large quantities of potassium in order to save money. That’s my working hypothesis. I discovered that Mr. Robertson has a standing order with the local Clancyville Pharmacy for potassium in a highly concentrated form. That concentrated form of potassium provides a neat weapon to exterminate someone.”
“Robertson buys this stuff for his mother?”
“She lives with him. He is an only child. His father died in 1989. His mother required constant care sometime in the mid-nineties because of some dementia. He moved her into his own home a few years later. More complications developed in the form of breast cancer. Got through that with surgery and some doses of radiation. Then, last year more cancer came. This time it was ovarian. Her doctor called in Hospice earlier this year.”
“This is certainly interesting, but how does this help me prove Robby was able to kill Rowland without also framing his own daughter?”
“Let’s connect some dots, shall we? With his mother now living in his own house and slowly dying, he likely has power of attorney, which means he can purchase her meds for her legally. He knows that his daughter is not only the maid for Rowland, but also is employed for her nursing skills. As a registered LPN, Marie Jones provides Rowland with whatever medicines he requires. When I checked on all of that, I discovered that Rowland began taking potassium last month. Perhaps Marie mentioned this as a passing remark, or they are complicit in this murder. It is possible that Robertson increased the dosage for Rowland without her knowledge.”
“Explain to me how he could increase the dosage without her knowledge,” I said.
“You know, for someone who is supposed to be such a top-notch, super-duper detective, you are sometimes slow on the uptake. Work with me here … let’s say Marie happened to tell her father that she needed to go by the drugstore and renew the prescription for Rowland because she had used up the first prescription. If she called it in, then Robby could actually be the one to go by and pick it up for her. He would have to sign for the prescription. Since he is the Sheriff, few questions would be asked. Just doing a favor for a friend. No one would suspect him of anything. He could simply fix a syringe for Rowland using the concentrate. The next thing she knows is that the man is dead.”
“Sounds too implausible to me,” I said.
“Implausible?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sounds like you have manufactured a story to fit the data you have discovered. Potassium is light sensitive. The syringe that Marie used for Rowland’s dosage is amber colored. Protects the medicine from damage by the light. You suppose that Robertson knew all of this?”
“I am truly insulted. I am a mathematical, data processing piece of equipment. I gather facts and then present the obvious scenario to you. And you, of all people, should trust my highly reasoned and provable conclusions and deductions. I do not embellish, contrive, or create wildly imaginative stories just to please you. Drug stores keep records of all transactions and sales. The day before Robert Lee Rowland died, Robby Robertson signed for Rowland’s prescription which included a box of generic bottles often used by people who dilute concentrated medicines. The other item that Robby Robertson purchased that day was a box of twenty-five amber colored syringes. I may be guilty of providing some extraneous information to you at times, but I never conjure up ways to make the storyline fit the data I discover. Do you want me to continue?”
I was duly reprimanded and contrite in the face of Rogers’ revelations. She had been working overtime, discovering tidbits that actually proved my theory.
“Please, continue, and I beg your forgiveness for my insinuations concerning your research and processing.”
“Insinuations? How about out and out accusations of jumping to conclusions and idle thinking? Sister, you owe me more than just some cheap verbal apology.”
I could tell that she was enjoying this upper hand I had given to her. “Okay, my bad. Please continue with what you have discovered. I will never accuse you of such again.”
“That’s better. Since most of us know that I am rather thorough in my research, what I found next was most intriguing, even to me. Robby is color blind. The form of color blindness that he has is extremely rare. It is called protanopia and only one out of one hundred males have this. The rate is ridiculously low for females. In fact so low and so improbable that most folks would think it a complete waste of time to check to see if his daughter would have it. You know me. I leave no stone unturned until I find out everything that is to be found out. If there is a document trail for whatever, I will find it and bring it to your highness.”
“What did you find?”
“I went back to the hospital in Lynchburg where Marie was born and they found some old records on Marie Jones, believe it or not. She is color blind. It’s the same type of color blindness her daddy has. Since color blindness is inherited, it almost can prove that he is her father, if you need such proof. That’s how rare the color blindness they share is. At the very least, they are related.”
“And you’re going to tell me more about this type of color blindness.”
“Not really. The remainder of what I have added to my data base is not relevant to this particular case as far as I know. However, I shall retain the data and it will henceforth be available for all future cases.”
“Henceforth. So, we have some circumstantial evidence, none of which can prove Robertson’s guilt or Marie’s innocence.”
“That would be true. However, the facts I have presented to you are rather strange coincidences. As you have said before, there are no such things as coincidences in murder investigations. My position on all this is that it remains doubtful that Marie knew what her father was planning. If she were complicit, then there would be no need for dear old daddy to pick up that potassium concentrate at the pharmacy. With her knowledge she could have easily inje
cted Rowland with a concentrated dosage and then wait a few minutes. I think daddy used her to kill Rowland, and then destroyed the evidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think I remember you telling me that you gave the Sheriff all of the evidence you collected at the house, the drinking glass, the syringes, and the medicine bottle. Then Sheriff Robertson gave the evidence to his trusty deputy Mr. Pickeral. Didn’t you tell me all that?”
“Yes, I did,” I could easily follow her thinking. She was probably right. Ben Pickeral likely never sent that evidence to the lab for testing.
“If I were a betting computer,” Rogers continued, “I’d say all of that incriminating evidence has mysteriously disappeared. Only Ben knows where. But, all is not lost. If I were a super sleuth like yourself, I would visit the good sheriff and check his house for potassium citrate. I’m betting that he has potassium in a concentrated form. As good as you are, you might even discover other clues that would link him to the crime.”
“Sarcasm is not so becoming for you.”
“Maybe not, but I believe you deserve it.”
“Okay. I apologize for my attitude. You have been most helpful. If you are right, I will owe you one.”
“Oh, Miss Super Duper Detective, you will owe me more than one. I want to know what you are going to do for me to make up all of your vicious insinuations and dubious doubting of my analytical and mathematical skills on your behalf for this most difficult of cases.”
“I’ll think of something. In the meantime, try to forgive me and stay on your game. Your acumen is staggering to say the least.”
“Thank you,” Rogers said and clicked off.
I climbed back into the Jag. I filled Rosey in on all of Rogers’ fact-finding information and her assumptions as we continued on to the sheriff’s house. I tried to make Rogers’ assumption sound less assuming. I stole them as if they were my own.
The Peace Haven Murders Page 32
