Tom put a bullet through one front tire, then the other. The vehicle careened out of control but Shackleford didn’t brake. Tom ran after it and shot out both rear tires. The SUV bounced and swerved and crashed into a utility pole. A geyser spewed from the radiator.
Four bullets. He had plenty left. He walked up to the Bronco and pressed the gun barrel against the driver’s window. “Get out. Now. Slow and easy.”
For a minute Shackleford locked his eyes on Tom’s and didn’t move. If he had a gun in the vehicle, if he went for it, Tom would have no choice but to shoot. An icy calm spread through him. He knew what he had to do and didn’t doubt he could do it. The only decision left was Shackleford’s to make.
At last Shackleford raised both hands, palms out to show they were empty. He killed the engine, flipped the lock, slowly opened the door. Tom moved back, gripping his pistol, and Shackleford stepped into the snow. Brandon started to cuff him.
Shackleford shoved Brandon aside and took off toward the back of the building.
“God damn it!” Tom charged after Shackleford with Brandon close on his heels.
They caught him in the same spot where the Blackwoods had subdued Buddy. Tom grabbed Shackleford’s arm and spun him around. Shackleford’s fist came up and walloped Tom in the jaw. He staggered backward, slipping and sliding in the snow. Brandon, trying to keep a hold on Shackleford, looked like he was wrestling with an octopus.
Tom regained his balance, shifted his pistol to his left hand, and slammed his right fist into Shackleford’s gut. The man sank to his knees.
“You got no proof against me,” Shackleford gasped. “You’re wastin’ your time.”
With both his jaw and wounded arm throbbing, Tom led the prisoner to his cruiser. They’d have no trouble making felony drug charges stick. But the murders—Tom would have to dig deep in the few hours he could hold Shackleford before bond was set. If he came up with nothing tonight, maybe a surprise encounter he was planning for tomorrow morning would shake the truth loose.
Chapter Thirty-six
“Hey, out there!” Shackleford yelled above the racket of his former customers, now his fellow inmates. “I want my phone call!”
Tom, leaning against the booking desk outside the cell block, ignored Shackleford. He peeked over Carl Madison’s shoulder as the elderly night jailer typed the last booking sheet into the computer. The jailers who worked the other two shifts had come in to help take fingerprints and mug shots, but the process hit a snag when their handwritten paperwork reached Carl, who had to be the world’s most inept computer user. The other jailers had gone home, and so had all the other deputies except Brandon. He’d stretched out on a hard bench and fallen asleep after Tom promised to wake him when Shackleford was questioned.
Carl whipped the final sheet from the printer and added it to the pile on the desk. Tom checked his watch. The booking process, begun late Monday night, had lasted until 2:12 a.m. Tuesday. People charged with marijuana possession had been booked first and released on their own recognizance until arraignment. Everybody else was locked up.
“I want my phone call!” Shackleford yelled again from the other side of the door.
“I think it’s time for a chat with our star prisoner,” Tom said. “Hey, Brandon, wake up. We’ll be out with Shackleford in a minute.”
Carl unlocked the door between the booking room and the cell block.
Tom had put Troy, Buddy, Rose, and three other women into individual cells and herded eleven men into the holding pen. When Tom and Carl entered the cell block, the men mobbed the door of the pen, gripping the bars or sticking their hands out in supplication.
“How long we gonna be here?”
“You can’t keep us all in here together!”
“We ain’t got but one toilet!”
“You brought this on yourselves, guys,” Tom told them. When this bunch arrived the place had smelled of antiseptic. Now it stank of sweat and piss. “The sheriff wants you locked up till you see the judge.”
Sheriff Willingham had put in a brief appearance around midnight, found the chaotic scene not to his liking, and gone home to bed. Before leaving, he’d told Tom, “You went to the trouble of arresting them, now make it count. Teach ’em a lesson.”
Tom followed Carl past the cell where Buddy paced and fumed. Rose was his neighbor. She slumped on a cot, her voluminous dress spread around her, and stared glumly at the opposite wall. Earlier, Rose had been searched by Maggie Jenkins, who acted as matron when the jail had a female prisoner. Tom surmised that Maggie’s no-nonsense manner and the legendary thoroughness of her body cavity search had done nothing to improve Rose’s mood. The thought made him smile.
“What the hell you grinnin’ about?” Troy Shackleford said when Tom reached his cell. His gray-streaked black hair flopped onto his forehead in disheveled waves and stubble darkened his cheeks. “You enjoyin’ this? Well, you better get your jollies while you can, Deputy Dawg, ’cause you’re gonna be damned sorry you messed with me.”
“Are you threatening me, Troy?” Tom said.
“Sure sounded like a threat against a police officer,” Carl said.
“You take it any way you want to. Now, I got a right to a phone call.”
“Sure. No problem.” Tom unhooked a pair of cuffs from his belt.
“You ain’t cuffin’ me again.”
“You want the phone call, you wear cuffs while you’re outside the cell.” Tom was still cursing himself for letting Shackleford sock him at the diner, and he didn’t plan to let it happen a second time. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
Shackleford stewed in silence for a minute. Finally he said, “All right. Let’s get on with it.”
“Smart choice. Make your call, then we’ll talk.”
Tom reached through the bars to click the cuffs around Shackleford’s wrists before Carl unlocked the cell door. They escorted Shackleford to the phone at the booking desk. Brandon sat up on the bench, rubbing his eyes.
Maneuvering the phone awkwardly with his bound hands, Shackleford punched in a number and waited a full minute before he got an answer. “Mama? Yeah, I know what time it is. Rose and Buddy and me are at the jail. They arrested us. You gotta find us a—What? Some bullshit drug charges. Just listen, will you?”
The conversation lasted several minutes, with Shackleford’s mother apparently shaking off sleep and launching into a tirade against her son’s stupidity in getting caught. When she raised the volume, Shackleford held the receiver away from his ear and Tom had no trouble catching the gist of her complaint. Soon the son was shouting curses at the mother, but in the end they seemed to reach an understanding. After he hung up, Shackleford told Tom, “I’ll have a lawyer in the mornin’ by the time I see the judge.”
“Actually, you won’t be arraigned till Wednesday. I talked to the prosecutor a while ago, and he’ll need the whole day tomorrow to process these other people. He’ll take you and Rose and Buddy in for arraignment Wednesday morning. Meanwhile, you’ll stay here.”
Shackleford’s face colored deep red. “You son of a bitch, you can’t—”
“We can hold you for forty-eight hours without arraignment.”
Shackleford muttered something Tom didn’t catch—although he gathered it was uncomplimentary—then said, “You can hold me, but I ain’t answerin’ questions without a lawyer, and maybe not then either. That’s my right.”
“Okay, I won’t ask you any questions.” Tom steered Shackleford across the booking room toward the jailer’s private office. Brandon followed. “I’ll do the talking. You listen.”
Shackleford balked at the office doorway. “I’m not goin’ in some little room with two cops so you can shut the door and do what you damned well please.”
“I’m disappointed that you have so little confidence in our integrity.” Tom planted a hand on Shackleford’s back and shoved him into the room. “Have a seat.”
Each taking an a
rm, Tom and Brandon propelled Shackleford into a chair. Brandon sat beside him.
As Tom sank into the jailer’s leather chair behind the desk, Shackleford gave him a nasty grin. “You oughta put some ice on that jaw, Captain. You’re gettin’ a real bad bruise.”
Tom didn’t acknowledge the remark. His jaw was a little sore, but he’d bet that Shackleford’s gut felt a lot worse. “I suppose you heard what the searchers found on Indian Mountain this morning. Yesterday morning, I guess I should say.”
Shackleford’s brow creased.
“No? I’m surprised the news didn’t reach you.” Tom sat back and watched Shackleford. He couldn’t tell whether the man was simply wary or didn’t know what Tom was talking about.
Almost a minute passed in silence. Wind rattled the windowpanes.
Shackleford blurted, “Damn it, what’re you gettin’ at?”
So he hadn’t heard. He’d be a lot cagier if he had. Tom sat forward, laced his fingers on the desktop. “The State Police cadets found Jean Turner’s head.”
Shackleford snapped back in his chair as if he’d been clobbered with a fist. His swarthy cheeks paled and he gasped for breath.
Tom paused to study this reaction. Looked like genuine shock. Setting aside the questions that crowded his mind, Tom kept his gaze locked on Shackleford’s face and pressed the advantage. “We found her skull and her hair. All that pretty black hair, scattered around in a cave. We haven’t found the rest of her yet. Our local M.E. thinks a bear probably tore Jean’s head off and took it into a cave and made a meal of it, brains and all.”
Looking like he was about to barf, Shackleford gulped and started to rise. Brandon pushed him down.
“All these years,” Tom said, “Holly—your daughter, your own flesh and blood—she believed her mother was alive. I wish you could’ve been there to see her face when she found out her mother’s been dead all along.”
Bent from the waist, Shackleford hung his head so his face was hidden. Tom wanted to grab him by the hair and yank him upright, make the son of a bitch look him in the eye.
“It hit Mrs. Turner pretty hard too,” Tom continued. “Finding out she’s lost two daughters, not one. Her family thought Jean took off to get away from you, but she never left the county. I know you beat her, and I’m guessing you killed her because she threatened to turn you in for killing Pauline.”
Shackleford jerked his head up and met Tom’s gaze. “No. I did not kill Jeannie. I didn’t kill nobody. Sarelda Turner knows that. You’ll never make her say I did it ’cause she knows I didn’t.”
“I have to admit we’re stumped about who the third victim was,” Tom said. “It could have been Amy Watford. Maybe she stumbled onto the truth. She was close to Pauline. She would’ve turned you in. Her parents claim she’s in South Carolina, but I think they’re so terrified of you and your family that they’ll say anything you tell them to.”
Shackleford’s face stiffened. Instead of folding, he seemed to be gaining strength and resolve. “You arrested me on drug charges. Now you’re talkin’ about murder. What’s one thing got to do with the other?”
“You’re the only person with a motive to kill Jean.”
Shackleford didn’t answer.
“As for Pauline,” Tom said, “a number of people had grievances against her. You were one of them. I can understand why you hated her. She pushed you to take responsibility for a child you never wanted, threatened to take you to court if you didn’t pay support. Told you how to live your life. You might’ve lost your temper and killed her for that reason alone.”
Shackleford shifted in his chair and the handcuffs clinked together.
“But maybe you had even more incentive. If somebody else wanted her dead, and offered you money to do it—well, why not get rid of a thorn in your side and make a nice profit at the same time?”
For a second Shackleford’s eyes widened, but he quickly hid the reaction behind a shield of defiance. “You been watchin’ too many cop shows on TV.”
“We know all about Natalie McClure, Troy.”
Shackleford’s gaze darted to the windows, back to Tom, away again. His chest heaved as his breathing quickened. “The lady’s got nothin’ to do with me.” His attempt to sound dismissive came off as nervous and furtive.
Good God, it’s true. Shackleford and Natalie McClure had plotted together. “Are you going to let her get away with her part in it because she’s rich and comes from an important family? You think she’ll mind seeing you go to death row while she goes on living her comfortable life? Give her up, and you won’t get the death penalty.”
“I never killed nobody, and you can’t prove I did.”
“We can prove motive and opportunity, and you’ve been talking a little too freely about what happened to Pauline. We’ll use your own words against you. People have been convicted with a lot less proof than we’ve got.”
“I’m not sayin’ another word till I’ve got a lawyer in the room.”
“What I don’t understand,” Tom went on, “is how a man can kill a woman he’s been close to, had a child with. Oh, I know it happens all the time. But I’ve never been able to understand it, how a man can go from sleeping with a woman, touching her that way, to beating the life out of her. And a woman like Jean—she was beautiful, and so small and delicate. Helpless against a man your size.”
The transformation taking place on Shackleford’s face made Tom fall silent and stare. The man’s features contorted as if he were in pain. His mouth trembled. “God damn it. God damn it all.” Then he shook his head. “I want to go back to my cell, and I want to be left alone till my lawyer gets here.”
This time when Shackleford made ready to stand up, Brandon looked to Tom for direction and Tom nodded. “Take him.”
As they left the room, Tom rose, stretched his aching shoulders, and walked to the window. Outside, the little town lay silent and calm. He was damned glad Shackleford was in custody and no longer a danger to Rachel and Holly, but to put Shackleford away for good he had to come up with enough evidence to charge the man with murder. When he’d called Rachel earlier to tell her about the arrest, she’d sounded relieved but very much aware that nothing was settled.
God, he wanted this case behind him so he could focus on her. Finally breaking through Rachel’s defenses had felt like walking into a warm room after wandering through a cold, dark night. He couldn’t lose his chance with her.
Brandon came in and closed the door. “What the heck do you make of it?”
Tom rubbed his gritty eyes and returned to his seat behind the desk. “I don’t know. He acts like he didn’t know Jean was dead. But if he didn’t kill her, who did? And why?”
Brandon slumped into a chair. He looked as worn out as Tom felt, stubble-chinned and bleary-eyed and running on empty. “Rudy O’Dell?”
“I guess that’s possible. But after what O’Dell’s mother told me, I don’t believe he did anything willingly. I think Shackleford coerced him into helping to get rid of the bodies—two of them, anyway—and from the sound of it, O’Dell was traumatized by the experience. Why would he kill Jean Turner? Shackleford’s the one who had a reason to want her out of the way.”
“Well, he sure did react when you brought up Natalie McClure. Who would have thought it? A rich, pretty woman like that, president of the Junior League and all.”
“It won’t be easy to make a jury believe it. We’ll probably never get as far as a trial if we don’t get a confession out of one of them.”
“Oh, man,” Brandon said with gleeful relish, “if they did plot the murders together, Mrs. McClure’s gonna do a meltdown when she comes in for her interview in the morning and you put Shackleford right in her face.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
At nine a.m., Tom saw Natalie McClure and her lawyer, Cecil Merck, drive into the parking lot in Merck’s black Cadillac. After he parked, the two sat with their heads together, the lawyer apparently deliverin
g last-minute instructions. Their huddle gave Tom time to send Brandon and Dennis next door to fetch Troy Shackleford. When Natalie and Merck entered the building, Tom was in the lobby, leaning on the reception desk.
“Good morning,” he said. “Thanks for coming in.”
Natalie didn’t return the greeting. With an expression of mild revulsion, she took in the FBI Wanted posters on the walls, the worn green linoleum, the wooden bench and the sand-filled receptacle bristling with cigarette butts. Her gaze came to rest on the frizzy hair and sharp features of Maggie Jenkins, the part-time jailer who was back at her regular job on the front desk. When Maggie returned Natalie’s stare with a mocking smile, Natalie drew the collar of her mink coat closer and hugged her purse to her side.
“I want to remind you,” Merck said, “that Mrs. McClure is under no obligation to submit to questioning. She’s here as a courtesy, to clarify matters so you’ll be free to focus your efforts on pursuing the actual criminal.”
Tom had never liked Merck, and his distaste for the lawyer was reinforced by the sight of him standing like a protective white-haired father next to a woman who thought she was superior to 99.9 percent of the people she encountered.
“I appreciate the help.” What was taking Brandon and Dennis so long? He hoped Shackleford wasn’t resisting the unexplained excursion out of the cell block. “Can I get you some coffee, Mrs. McClure?”
“No, thank you.”
Wise decision. The coffee was as bad as she probably thought it was. While Tom was wondering how to keep Natalie and Merck standing out here for another minute or two, he heard the sound he’d been listening for. The lock clicked open in the side door. Dennis entered first, followed by Shackleford in handcuffs, then Brandon.
Natalie yelped and took a step backward. Merck’s puzzled expression told Tom that the lawyer didn’t recognize Shackleford. “Natalie?” Merck said, a solicitous hand on her shoulder.
Shackleford came to an abrupt halt when he spotted Natalie, and his startled gaze swung from her to Tom. He needed only a second to recover his composure. Pasting on a grin, he gestured at Merck with his manacled hands and asked, “You my lawyer?”
Disturbing the Dead Page 28
