by Debra Webb
This is the one you’re looking for, Jess.
In the jar was a human fetus, approximately ten inches long, ten or twelve ounces, probably twenty or so weeks based on the development chart she’d seen at the doctor’s office last week. Jess’s mouth felt dry. Her body felt cold. She moistened her lips and said, “Turn it around.”
Hayes did as she asked. Like all the other jars, there was a photo attached to the back, but this photo was different from the others.
This was a photo of her mother.
Jess couldn’t get out of the building fast enough. Hayes stayed right behind her. No doubt ready to catch her if she fell apart.
She refused to fall apart.
Her head was spinning. Her stomach was churning. And her chest was hurting, but she would not fall apart.
Her mother wasn’t pregnant when she died. Was she? Wouldn’t she have told Jess and Lil? Wouldn’t there have been a celebration?
Outside, she stumbled to the middle of the yard, and then set her hands on her hips trying to steady herself. She drew in a lungful of fresh air. When she could speak, she turned to Hayes. “Lieutenant, ask Sheriff Foster to round up the coroner or mortician—whoever was responsible for preparing my parents’ bodies for transport to Birmingham thirty-two years ago.” Fury and pain roared through her. “I want to know the names of everyone who touched their bodies until they arrived at the funeral home in Birmingham.”
“I’ll take care of it. Would you like to sit down, Chief?”
“I’m perfectly fine, Lieutenant. Are you suggesting otherwise?”
He moved his head from side to side. “No, ma’am.”
“Good, because I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”
Her lips started to tremble first and then it was her legs. Suddenly, she couldn’t hold her weight anymore.
Hayes caught her before she hit the ground.
He was saying something but Jess couldn’t make out the words. All she could hear was that damned music box tune... the one she’d only just remembered her mother kept on her dresser.
Then the world went black.
9
Tupelo Pike, Scottsboro, 12:59 p.m.
From the driveway across the street, Buddy Corlew watched the home belonging to retired ABI Agent Randall McPherson. McPherson had made a trip to the Liberty Restaurant for breakfast. He hadn’t spoken to anyone except the waitress. He’d read the newspaper and then returned home.
While McPherson had satisfied his appetite under the observant eye of Buddy’s colleague, he had gotten into position at a neighbor’s home. The neighbor, a woman, lived alone and worked at a drugstore downtown. She wouldn’t be home for several hours. The dense shrubs and trees lining her driveway provided good cover for Buddy’s Charger and gave him an optimal spot for surveillance. After getting into position, he’d had a look around outside McPherson’s house while the guy was still at breakfast.
Now all Buddy had to do was bide his time until the man left the house again.
According to the conversation McPherson had with a caller about ten minutes ago, he would be heading out for lunch shortly. Even better, he was taking his dog with him. Buddy liked dogs. He had one of his own and went out of his way not to harm anyone’s pets. Chicks liked guys with dogs, but it made his job a lot less complicated if there weren’t any dogs standing between him and his goal.
He adjusted the parabolic listening device. The thing looked and operated a lot like a handheld satellite dish that amplified sound and fed it into the headphones he wore. God bless the inventor who came up with this handy device.
The toilet flushed inside McPherson’s house, and then he summoned his dog. The two exited the front door, climbed into the truck parked in the driveway, and drove away. Buddy stowed his tools and waited.
Ten seconds, then twenty, finally a full minute later, the signal Buddy had been waiting for sounded in the earpiece of his wireless communications link.
“Subject has turned west on Willow Street.”
“Going in.” Buddy climbed out of the Charger, closed the door quietly, and set the security system. If anyone approached his vehicle, he would know it. He paused at the street. Coast was clear so he hustled across and walked around to the back of the house. The back door would be a breeze to open. He’d found no sign of a home security system.
As breaking and entering went, an amateur could have handled this one.
The phone in his hip pocket vibrated. He checked the screen. Jess. He couldn’t talk to her right now. It was easier to lie to her when he wasn’t in the middle of breaking the law. If he found what they needed to clear up the mystery surrounding her parents’ deaths, she would forgive him for a couple of minor omissions and deviations from the law.
If he didn’t find what he needed, she would never know.
A few quick flicks with the right tools and the back door was unlocked. Silence waited inside the house. The rear entry led into a small kitchen. The laundry room was to the right, living room directly ahead. Beyond the living room was a small box of a hallway flanked by two bedrooms and one bath. No surprises in any of the rooms.
The decorating scheme consisted mostly of blandly painted walls, out of date carpeted floors, and well-worn furnishings.
Buddy started in McPherson’s bedroom. He systematically went through a mental checklist to ensure he didn’t miss anything. Walls, ceiling, and floor. The furnishings were next. Piece by piece he checked for any potential hiding places. People liked stowing treasures and private papers under the mattress or inside the box springs. Buddy found no access points in the fabric. The backs of dressers and chests were clear. Drawers, inside and all around were as well. He checked the pockets of hanging clothes and inside shoes. The HVAC vents were another popular hiding place. He checked for loose places in the carpet, behind switch and receptacle plates, and then he inspected the overhead light fixture as well as lamps.
Nothing in McPherson’s bedroom, so he moved on to the next. Thirty-two minutes were required to check every room except the kitchen. No old work files, no personal files or anything else of interest anywhere in the house so far.
He saved the kitchen for last since it was also his egress. He’d have a look in the old shed on the far side of the small backyard, but he doubted a guy who’d spent his career investigating cases for the Alabama Bureau of Investigation would leave anything important in a rickety old shack. A wood privacy fence weathered by years of cold winters, hot summers, and a lack of attention enclosed the backyard.
The kitchen was typically the most time consuming room. Thankfully, a linoleum floor eliminated the potential for hiding places. A man had no leeway for camouflaging a hidden access with linoleum. The cabinets were another story. Each item inside, boxed and canned, had to be inspected. Either one could be a hiding place made to look as if it had come right off the shelf of the local Kroger.
Seventeen minutes and a healthy sweat later, Buddy still came up empty handed.
He surveyed the room. “I always did love a challenge.”
He exited McPherson’s home, locking the back door behind him. His cell vibrated again. Jess. “Sorry, kid. I’ll make it up to you later.”
Forty-nine minutes and counting had elapsed since McPherson had driven away. This guy could decide to come home anytime now. Rosey would let Buddy know. He could use a half dozen guys like Rosey, but they didn’t come along every day. It took a certain level of trust in the PI business. Most of the ones willing to cross lines and bend rules couldn’t be trusted.
Roosevelt, aka Rosey, Cunningham would do anything Buddy asked and never tell another living soul about it. If the man ever failed to show up for the job, Buddy knew to check the morgue. He was that dependable.
A long, slow sweep of the backyard had Buddy wondering if there was an underground bunker around here. Rosey hadn’t found any other property in the area owned or rented by McPherson. If he possessed anything to hide, it had to be here unless he used a safety deposit box at the bank
. That was always a possibility and a whole other can of worms.
His attention settled on the dilapidated shed. Might as well have a look. “Never judge a book by its cover, Corlew.”
The shed leaned to one side as if it might collapse now rather than later. No windows and only one door with a padlock. Buddy removed his lock pick set from his back pocket and went to work. A few seconds later, he removed the padlock. Checking carefully for trip wires first, he pushed the door inward. Hot, stuffy air floated out from the darkness of the shed’s interior to greet him.
He’d already leaned into the space when something near his feet caught his eye. Backing up a step, he crouched down to have a look. A grin split his lips. “Well, well. Now we know where you keep your secrets, Mac.”
Two sensors had been imbedded in the doorframe, one at about ankle level, the other fifteen or sixteen inches higher. The holes in the facing on either side were no bigger than a dime. A low voltage invisible beam running across the width of the door opening worked similar to one on an overhead garage door. If the beam was disrupted, a signal of some sort was triggered. In this case, an alarm likely went to McPherson’s cell.
Buddy checked the rest of the doorframe very carefully before giving it a go. He stepped high over the top sensor, straddling the invisible beam. Once he was inside, he dragged the flashlight from his belt and clicked it on. Turning on any of the light fixtures in the shed might trigger an additional alarm.
Desk, computer, file cabinets, bookcase, and a couple of large bulletin boards loaded with notes and photos filled the ten by twelve space.
“Nice set up.”
Buddy pulled out his mini video camera and documented the massive amount of material on the bulletin boards. When that was accomplished, he moved on to the desk. Computer was password protected. He had no time to deal with that. He combed through the desk drawers, checking all the usual hiding places, and then he moved on to the file cabinets. He found plenty, but not what he was looking for.
Annoyed, he stared at the bookcase. Not much beyond a few books and a couple of awards on the dusty shelves. Spotting something on the floor, he squatted down to have a closer look. The thin layer of dust that covered the rest of the floor was swept away from the front of the bookcase.
“Well, well, what have we here?” Buddy stood, got a firm grip on the bookcase, and eased it away from the wall. Beneath it was a small door in the floor, similar to a built-in floor safe only this one was homemade and had a lock instead of a combination.
“Sweet.”
The lock took a little longer than the one on the door, but he managed. He opened the safe that was about twelve by twenty-four inches and had a look inside. The concrete hole held file folders. He pulled them out a few at a time. There were only about twenty, and all were clearly labeled and filed in alphabetical order.
“I do love OCD people.”
Anyone who pilfered through the files at Buddy’s office would be in for an unnerving endeavor. He preferred the relevance method of filing. Depending on how relevant it was to him, the closer to the front of the drawer the case was filed.
In his opinion, it worked fine and dandy most days.
He heaved a frustrated breath. No Brownfield in the B’s. No Harris in the H’s. He flipped through each folder to ensure the labels weren’t intended to mislead anyone doing exactly what he was doing. No such luck.
There had to be something here. Once he had everything back in place, he returned to the bulletin boards. A piece at a time, he removed the material posted there and checked the backsides of the photos and documents. Halfway across the bigger of the two boards, he hit pay dirt.
He moved the calendar pinned to the board and found photos hidden beneath it. One of Margaret Brownfield, another of Amanda as a kid about the age of Maddie, and the coup de grace—Lee Harris. The next photo gave Buddy pause. This one was of Jess and Lil at the funeral with their Aunt Wanda.
“What the hell were you up to, McPherson?”
“What’s the answer worth to you?”
Buddy spun around to face the voice. McPherson. The big guy filled the open doorway, a nine millimeter leveled on his target—Buddy.
“There’s a tiny motion sensor behind my desk.” McPherson made a sound that wasn’t really a laugh. “I guess you missed it.”
“Guess I did.” Buddy itched to go for his own weapon, but he decided against it considering the old guy was probably a crack shot.
“Your friend’s going to be disappointed in himself when he figures out the decision to watch my truck was the wrong decision.”
Buddy shrugged. “We all make mistakes.”
“Some make bigger ones than others.” McPherson pressed the muzzle against Buddy’s forehead. “You made a very large error, pal. You should never underestimate your opponent.”
10
Jackson County Park, 2:00 p.m.
Jess sipped the icy cold Coca-Cola slowly. The weakness and dizziness were subsiding. On some level, she wanted to deny her reaction had anything to do with what they’d found at the Mooney crime scene, but that would be a lie. There was no denying her emotions had gotten the better of her.
She toyed with a French fry. A quick stop at the drive-thru window of the local Jack’s and she’d forced down a burger. Not that she’d felt like eating, Hayes had insisted. No, that wasn’t right. He’d blackmailed her into eating. She would eat or he would call Dan and tell him what happened. Since Dan had enough to worry about right now, she had chosen the former.
“Feeling better?” Hayes inquired, knowing the answer before he asked.
“Yes.” Jess stuffed the fries in the bag and reached for the Coke again. “I guess you were right and all I needed was lunch.”
“I did something right for once. I should mark this day on my calendar.”
“Ha ha.” She stretched her neck, wished she could ease the tension there. What the hell was taking Foster so long? He should have called by now.
Jess gazed out over the water. Ironically, it seemed to calm her. She hadn’t had a clue where they were going when Hayes swung through for the burgers, and then took off for what he called a quiet place. He was right. The park was basically deserted. He’d parked under a group of trees and rolled the windows down. The breeze coming off the water felt good against her face.
“I have no idea if the coroner I need to question is still alive.” She didn’t remember his name. Years ago she’d read his report, which had actually been nothing more than a death certificate. Coroners in Jackson County weren’t forensic or medical professionals, they were elected officials. At the time of her parents’ accident, the coroner was most often the funeral director. Blood Alcohol Tests, if deemed necessary, were run locally to determine if a deceased driver had been under the influence. If an autopsy was needed, the body was sent to a state forensics laboratory.
“I’m guessing we’d know something by now if he were dead.”
“You’re probably right.” She frowned. “I’m surprised we haven’t had an update from Wells or Cook.” Jess reached to fasten her seatbelt. “Maybe we should drop by the Brownfield farm while we’re waiting.”
“You were going to check back with Foster to ensure he released that one piece of evidence to BPD. I can call him if you’d like.”
“I’ll call him. It’ll give me an excuse to see where he is on finding the coroner for me.” She reached for her cell. “Meanwhile, let’s drive over to the Brownfield farm.”
While Hayes pointed his Audi in the proper direction, Jess put through a call to Foster. The sheriff explained that he’d been about to call her.
“I have that coroner for you, Chief Harris, and we’ve prepared the evidence you requested for transport.”
Surprised, Jess glanced at Hayes. “Great. We’ll be right there.”
Hayes executed a U-turn. The BPD cruiser that was her surveillance detail for the day did the same.
Jess took a deep breath and steadied her nerves. As hard as
this part was, she had to figure out how Mooney and the... fetus played into Spears’s game besides the shock value and the purpose of distracting her.
There had to be something he wanted her to see. There always was.
Scottsboro Police Department, 3:10 p.m.
“Harvey Larimore retired as corner twenty years ago, but he didn’t retire from the family owned funeral business until about five years ago,” Foster explained. He hitched his head toward the elderly man who waited in the interview room. “He’s eighty-three years old. No criminal record. Deacon in the church he’s attended for better than seventy years.”
“He was a mortician?” Jess kept her focus on the questions she needed to ask and not the reason why.
“For most of his life. He started working with his father as soon as he was tall enough to see over the embalming table.”
“Family?”
Foster shook his head. “Outlived his wife and both his kids. He lives alone over on Scott Street in the same house where he grew up.”
Jess glanced at the sheriff. “Don’t tell me,” she guessed. “The family home was the funeral home.”
“Yes, ma’am. Larimores have been putting folks to rest around here for a hundred years. In that same house until just a few years ago.”
A new kind of determination kicked in. “The evidence I’m taking custody of, do you have that handy?”
“I’ll have it waiting for you when you finish your interview with Larimore.”
“I’d like to take it in with me, please.”
For a second or two she thought Foster would question her reasoning, instead he shrugged. “I’ll round it up.”
“Did you tell him?” Jess asked, stopping the sheriff before he was out the door of the observation room.
Foster glanced at the man waiting beyond the glass. “I told him we had some questions for him about his work at the funeral home. I didn’t mention anything else.”
