Spilled Blood

by Michael R. Davidson

  Strachey perked up. “Really? I would never have guessed that from his name. His wife being Russian now makes more sense, but I don’t understand why Curry never mentioned it to us. What else did you find out about him?”

  “Not much. His boss claims he has no information on his background. The bank’s big bosses just announced one day that Davis would be working there, and he suddenly appeared.”

  Strachey chewed on this information for a moment, staring vaguely at the plume of blue smoke rising in a translucent column from the tip of his cigar.

  “We should have a chat with Curry about this,” he said. “I’ll have Ruth set something up for tomorrow.”

  “You have an idea?”

  “Maybe, but I want to check it out. There’s something a little weird here.”

  “I agree. But what does it mean?”

  “Maybe something, maybe everything, maybe nothing. The cops seem to have made up their minds that it was old Padruig.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The Mecklenburg County Jail Central is a large, eight-story structure that cost about 150 million dollars to build so that Charlotte’s criminals and suspected criminals could be boarded in style. Padruig Nessmith had been processed in the Arrest Processing Center where his fingerprints had been recorded electronically and a mugshot photo taken with modern, digital equipment, permitting the Deputy Sheriffs who ran the place to confirm beyond a doubt that he was, indeed, Padruig Nessmith. After processing, he was escorted next door to the jail which is located handily beside the court in Government Plaza. He was searched, issued an orange jumpsuit and placed in the pre-trial detention facility.

  The morning following Padruig’s arraignment Strachey, Krystal, and Holmes, again in a navy-blue suit and red tie, sat down with the prisoner in one of the facility’s hospital-clean conference rooms. The prisoner was escorted into the room by a polite, bland-faced Deputy with long sideburns. She thought Padruig must be mortified by the out-sized jump suit and handcuffs, but he sat quietly, his face expressionless, where the Deputy placed him at the table before leaving the room and quietly closing the door.

  There was an embarrassed silence before Holmes spoke. “Padruig, we need some facts.”

  Padruig sat very still with his eyes fixed on the tabletop. Several moments passed before he raised a taut face to Holmes and spoke. “The only fact you need to know is that I am innocent. My personal affairs are my business.”

  “Mr. Nessmith,” Strachey said, “if we are to be of any use to you, at all, you are going to have to tell us everything. Why didn’t you say you had left your house that day? The fact that you concealed that information only makes you look more guilty. Surely you can understand that.”

  Padruig swiveled his head to favor Strachey with a baleful look. “It is nobody’s business what I do in my private life. I am not a murderer. That is all you need to know. This is nothing more than a witch hunt. The upper crust of Charlotte collectively don’t like me because my family has not been here for two hundred years, and the rest don’t like me because I’m rich. That’s all there is to it. The whole thing is ridiculous. Your job is to get me out of here.”

  “Your attitude makes it very difficult for us to prove your innocence,” Strachey shot back. “I’m not sure there is any more we can do.”

  Padruig considered this for a few beats then relented. “Very well. Yes, I left the house. I drove to Asheville to pick up my sister and bring her home. That’s all there was to it.”

  “And there is nothing else we should know?”

  “No.” He lapsed into silence.

  Holmes said he needed to speak with his client alone, and Strachey and Krystal walked out to the parking deck where they’d left Strachey’s BMW.

  Before they could get into the car, Holmes called to them from the door. They waited for him to catch up to them.

  “I’m confident Padruig will be allowed out on bail. He should be home by afternoon.”

  “That’s good news,” said Strachey.

  “Yes, it is. But his best hope resides in you, and whether he says so or not, I know he’s counting on you. He’s in a bad state.”

  “We’re doing our best,” replied Strachey, “but he’s his own worst enemy.”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, I know. I wish you luck.”

  As they drove away, leaving a forlorn Holmes in the rear-view mirror Strachey said, “You’re going to have to talk to Padruig’s sister.”

  “Gavenia? She gave me the silent treatment last time I was there.”

  “Well, she’ll have no choice but to talk now. Can you go out there right now, before Padruig is cut loose? Maybe she’ll tell you something useful.”

  “Oh, it’ll be a treat,” she said glumly. “What the hell is wrong with these people? Does Padruig have a death wish or something?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  “And what’s with the names? Padruig? Gavenia?”

  Strachey chuckled as he steered out of the parking garage and turned into the street. “They must be old Scots names. Remember, their father immigrated from Scotland.”

  “Humph. He didn’t do his kids any favors there.” She slumped in her seat

  CHAPTER 11

  Krystal used her cellphone to call ahead and warn Gavenia, and twenty minutes later pulled into the circular driveway in front of the Nessmith mansion. Gavenia must have been watching for her arrival because she opened the door even before Krystal had stepped onto the veranda. As before, she wore a dark dress that covered her ankles, and her hair was pulled back into a severe bun.

  Gavenia was not an attractive woman, and Krystal could but wonder what she had been like when she was young. She had remained a spinster despite the undoubted attraction of her family’s money. She was younger than Padruig, but it was hard to tell. A little make-up and more modern clothing would make a considerable difference. Did her older brother force the austerity on her because his own life was so devoid of color?

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Miss Nessmith,” began Krystal. “It’s good to see you again.”

  As she drew near, she could see that Gavenia’s eyes were shiny and rimmed in red. She had been crying. The realization that the woman must be frightened out of her mind slammed into Krystal with the force of a hurricane, and she was abruptly ashamed of her earlier derisiveness. Gently taking Gavenia’s arm, she said, “Let’s go inside and sit down.”

  Gavenia led her to a smaller, lighter room than the one in which she’d seen Padruig, a room that displayed a feminine touch with daintier furniture and oases of color. A vase of yellow roses sat on a table in front of a window, brightly limned by the afternoon sunlight.

  Krystal felt unaccountably awkward with this strange, gray creature. “I’d like to talk a little bit about your brother,” she ventured carefully.

  Gavenia’s lips quivered.

  Krystal rushed ahead. “You understand we’re trying to help him, don’t you? We’re looking for any information, no matter how little, that will help exonerate him.”

  “I need him here at home,” said Gavenia with an effort. She gulped back a sob.

  “I understand.” Krystal noticed the silence that had settled over the house. “Are you alone here, Gavenia? May I call you Gavenia?”

  The older woman nodded. “We have a cleaning service here twice a week, but I do all the cooking.”

  With the family’s wealth, permanent house staff was well within their reach. “Is there anyone who can be with you? Anyone you can talk to? A friend?”

  Gavenia shook her head again, and it evoked an emotion in Krystal that she only rarely felt - pity. She wanted to help this woman, but she didn’t know how it could be done save a miracle. “The police discovered that Padruig was away from home the day of the murders. He was seen in his car not far from where it happened. He told us this morning that he drove to Asheville to fetch you. Is that true?”

  Gavenia swallowed another sob and said, “Yes, I had spent the nigh
t at the home there. He picked me up and drove me back here.”

  Krystal was curious. “You have a second house in Asheville?”

  “Oh, it’s not like that.” She brightened for a second. “It’s a home for girls in need, pregnant girls and unwed mothers. It’s connected with our church, St. Ann. We’re Catholic, you know.”

  No, she didn’t know. Krystal was uncertain she had heard correctly. “You spent the night in a home for unwed mothers?”

  Gavenia ventured a wan smile. “Yes, that’s right. I’m there quite frequently.”

  This was an unexpected tangent, but Krystal decided to follow it. “Why is that, Gavenia?”

  The older woman gave Krystal an anxious look. “I’m not sure I should say.”

  Krystal inwardly cursed the reticence of the Nessmiths. It must be a familial trait, and it was maddening. “Gavenia, any information you have could help your brother.”

  Gavenia thought about this as though she were pondering whether to reveal an atomic secret. “Very well,” she said at last, “the house used to be our family’s summer home, but we signed it over to the Church. The home is associated with St. Ann, but Padruig provides all the funding. He’s done so for years. My visits there are simply to check on the girls and comfort them as best I can.”

  If Gavenia had said her brother was from Mars and the mother ship had landed in Asheville Krystal could not have been more astonished. Padruig Nessmith financed a home for unwed mothers? Of all the things she might think of the close-mouthed curmudgeon, philanthropy was the farthest from what she would have expected. “Er,” she began uncertainly, “how long have you been doing this?”

  “Oh,” said Gavenia, brightening a bit, “for many years now. We’ve always done all we can to help the Church. Padruig also helps fund the church school and other activities.”

  “Do many people know about this?”

  Gavenia was taken aback. “Oh, my, no. Padruig would never permit it. And he never attends services. He only drives me there for Mass.” She paused for a moment, “Of course, the Diocese and Father Timothy at St. Ann are aware.”

  “Why doesn’t your brother want his charitable activities to be public?” It would go a long way to improving his image.

  Gavenia leaned toward her and lowered her voice to a reverent whisper, “The Bible tells us, ‘Take heed that you do not your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise you have no reward of your Father which is in Heaven.’ Padruig is not a vain man.”

  As Krystal digested this, Gavenia smiled beatifically and closed her eyes. Krystal could have sworn she was praying. The Bible verse seemed to have buoyed her spirits.

  “Um,” Krystal continued, “on the day in question, what time did Padruig pick you up in Asheville?”

  Gavenia’s brow wrinkled in thought, then she nodded to herself and said, “It was about 2:30 in the afternoon. I’m certain of it, because we had had lunch with the girls, and I spent some time afterwards with Sylvia, a sweet little thing from Raleigh. She has a little baby girl.”

  *****

  A half-hour later Krystal pulled into the street and headed for PSI as a new image of Padruig Nessmith took shape in her mind. Could he really be Padruig the Pious? His secret charities were in sharp contrast to his public image, an image he was at pains to maintain even to the point of public condemnation. The wealthy more often than not were anything but reticent to trumpet their good works, but not in this case. The hurt and humiliation he had suffered had driven him inside himself where he felt safe from the world, and Gavenia’s revelations suggested he wanted to protect the weakest among us from similar pain. Perhaps she and Strachey had misjudged the man, though Padruig had not helped his cause. What a strange creature he was.

  CHAPTER 12

  Krystal chewed her lower lip. She’d walked into Strachey’s office with a frown on her face.

  “What’s up now?” He asked. He was smoking an early cigar, a short one from which he’d removed the band, and there was a mug of coffee near his hand.

  She sank into a chair and shook her head. She’d done a lot of thinking on the drive back to the office. “You know,” she said, “maybe everybody has old Padruig wrong. Like your aunt Sadie said, Christanna jilted him over twenty years ago. Crimes of passion are usually committed by young people, but Padruig’s response was not rage. He just retreated into a shell like a hermit crab into a tin can and never came out. If he was going to go after his brother and Christanna, it would have been more natural to have done it back then. Everybody thinks he’s an old curmudgeon with no human feelings, but just the opposite may be true.”

  Strachey had no idea where she was going with this. “What do you mean?”

  She told him about her conversation with Gavenia, then said, “Instead of a cold, calculating, cruel person, it’s more likely he’s a wounded soul who has decided he can’t cope with human society because he believes he will be betrayed at every turn. Looking at the facts, can we really subscribe to the ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’ theory the police and everyone else have adopted? Is it reasonable to believe that his anger took over twenty years to get hot enough to commit murder? That would have been a really slow burn, but it’s what people seem willing to believe.”

  Strachey took a long drag from his cigar, which by now had burned down to half its original length. He stood from behind his desk, head wreathed in smoke, and went to the closet door which he opened with a key to access the bar. “I think we can start happy hour a few minutes early today. Scotch OK with you?”

  She hesitated, then smirked. “You don’t have anything else in here, do you?”

  “Oh, there are a couple more things, but I don’t understand how anyone could wish to drink anything else.” He measured a finger of Laphroaig single malt into two glasses, added a few drops of water to each, and handed her a glass before returning to his desk and taking a contemplative sip.

  “I think you may be onto something,” he said after a moment. Can you take it a little further?”

  She swirled the amber liquid in her glass, reluctant to drink it, as she organized her thoughts. “Okay. Murder usually has a more immediate motive. Often murder is committed without a plan in a single moment of rage - crimes of passion. Sure, being left standing at the altar had to have been a traumatic, psychologically scarring event. But has Padruig ever exhibited violence toward anyone? Not that we’ve been able to find out. No, his defense has been to retreat from the world, find a dark corner where he could feel safe and comfortable. Such behavior does not suggest a violent or murder-prone individual. Quite the opposite, in fact. Padruig has the soul of a sheep rather than a wolf.”

  Strachey drained his glass and grinned. “Damn, Krystal, that was almost poetic. So, you’re saying that Padruig should be the last rather than the first person anyone should suspect of murder.”

  She finally took a small sip of the pungent, smoky whisky. “That’s exactly what I said. The question, then, is if Padruig isn’t the killer, who would have shot his brother and sister-in-law and why? None of my inquiries turned up an enemy. They were universally liked.”

  She could see that Strachey was warming to her theory. “Right. Maybe everybody is looking at this the wrong way. Maybe Jaidon and Christanna were not the targets of the killer, after all. Maybe it was the bank guy, Davis, or whatever his real name was.”

  Krystal frowned. “I don’t understand why the police haven’t come up with the same idea. Davis’ boss said Curry’s people had visited the bank only once.”

  “That makes it even more important to talk to Curry again. Something smells here, and what the bank guy told you leads me to suspect where it’s coming from. I’ll have Ruth set up another meeting for us.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Let’s wait and talk to Curry first. That will tell us something one way or another.”

  Strachey was talking like a spook again, and it made her feel excluded. As her partner, even if she was just a salaried par
tner, he should share everything with her, but she knew she could not overcome the ex-CIA operative’s ingrained habits. She would just have to wait.

  CHAPTER 13

  Captain Curry agreed to meet them the next afternoon, and they drove to police headquarters in Strachey’s BMW. He parked in the lot behind the building, and they started walking around to the front entrance. As they turned onto the sidewalk Strachey grabbed Krystal’s arm and pulled her back behind the corner.

  Startled, she asked, “What’s going on?”

  He peeked around the corner toward the front entrance before moving them farther back into the shadow. “Quick,” he said, “we’ve got to get out of sight.” She was puzzled but followed him at a trot back to the parking lot where they tumbled into his car. “Hunch down,” he said, staring hard through the steering wheel out the windshield.

  She followed his gaze in time to see two men in dark suits round the corner and walk into the lot deep in conversation. They got into a black Chevy Suburban two rows away. Strachey straightened in his seat as the Suburban pulled away. “Well,” he murmured, “I’ll be damned.”

  Krystal was mystified. “What the hell was that?” she asked.

  Strachey’s expression was hard to read. “You saw those guys in the Suburban?”

  “Of course, I saw them. You know who they were?”

  “I know one of them.” He sat silently for a moment, chewing on his thoughts, which exasperated Krystal.

  “Well, damn it, are you going to tell me, or are you going to keep me in the dark. You’re acting too damned spooky.”

  This made him smile, and he relaxed his shoulders back into the seat. “The one I recognized is an old CIA colleague from the Russia House.”

  “The ‘Russia House?”