by Scott Pratt
“Shot? Is he dead?”
“Nah, he ain’t dead, but I guaran- damn-tee you he wishes he was. I’ve never seen an interrogation quite like the one ol’ Rider did yesterday. I don’t think you would have approved.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Let’s just say Ramirez’s constitutional rights weren’t given a whole lot of consideration. We hit ’em right at dawn. Come screaming in there like something out of Apocalypse Now. Rider heads straight for Ramirez, but Ramirez is stupid enough to point a gun at him, so Rider blows a chunk out of his leg with this sawed-off scattergun he’s carrying. We get things settled down, and one of the guys patches up Ramirez’s leg, but he doesn’t give him anything for pain. They load six Mexicans and a bunch of agents up in a Huey, and then everybody climbs into one of the Black Hawks and takes off. The only ones left on the ground are the pilot who’s flying our chopper, me, Rider, another agent, named Lucas, and Ramirez. They’ve already got Ramirez cuffed, but they drag him over to this little tree, sit him up against it, and recuff his hands around the tree trunk. Then they put another set of cuffs around his ankles and go to work on him. Rider starts asking him questions, and if he didn’t like the answer, Lucas would stomp on Ramirez’s wound. I swear, Dillard, they had me believing they were gonna kill that ol’ boy right then and there. Ramirez must have believed it, too, because he sure did start talking.”
“What did he say about Hannah?”
“Stinnett comes to him at the jail about a week before she was killed and tells him he needs a job done. Stinnett says someone in the DA’s office, a very wealthy man with some serious political connections, has gotten this girl pregnant, and now she’s blackmailing him. He tells Ramirez that if he’ll see to it that this girl is taken care of, the murder charge against him will be dismissed. So Ramirez puts Stinnett in touch with this other Mexican who works for Ramirez, a man named Arturo Gutierrez. Gutierrez gets the word out and hooks up with the biker, and Hannah winds up dead.”
“Who was it? Who paid the money?”
“He said Stinnett didn’t tell him-just that it was somebody from the DA’s office. And, believe me, if he’d known, he’d have told.”
“So you can ask Stinnett.”
“That’s a bit of a problem.”
“Why?”
“Stinnett’s dead. Ramirez shot him in the face.”
“He admitted that?”
“Damn straight. Rider and Lucas had his mind right.”
I think about the day Ramirez tried to get me to dismiss the murder charge against him. If he already had some kind of deal in place with Stinnett’s connection at the office, why would he try to strong-arm me? Then I remember the way Stinnett looked after we went outside. Ramirez had surprised him, maybe tried to double-cross him. I ask Bates about it.
“My guess is he didn’t trust Stinnett,” Bates says, “so he tried to get you to let him out by telling you he knew where she was and who wanted her killed. He was lying.”
“And then Mooney lets him out a week after he fires me.”
“Exactly. But we don’t know whether Mooney paid for the contract, whether he did somebody a favor or maybe got paid for letting Ramirez out, or whether he really thought the case wasn’t strong enough.”
“The case was strong enough, Leon.”
“What we’ve got in this bag here will go a long way toward giving us some answers. The pathologist was able to get a DNA sample from the embryo. I was worried that Hannah might have been too far along in the decomposition…”
He chokes up briefly, which surprises me. But then I realize Bates actually witnessed the inhuman way Hannah was discarded. He’s poured his soul into this case, and he and his informant climbed down into the abandoned mine shaft and carried her battered and rotting body back up to the light. It’s become personal.
He coughs a couple of times, then continues. “If one of the samples in this bag matches the baby, somebody’s going to have a lot of explaining to do. So what do you have for me?”
“A couple of coffee cups from the trash can in Mooney’s office, and a soft drink can from Tanner’s desk. I hope Tanner didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“He may not have. Even if it turns out he’s the father, Hannah could have been trying to blackmail his daddy.”
“Hannah wouldn’t have blackmailed anybody. There’s no way.”
“You’re sure about that. You knew her so well that you can say that without any doubt.”
“I’m sure.”
Bates drains his coffee, stands, and picks up the bag off the table.
“We’ll see, Brother Dillard. I’ll let you know what the lab boys say as soon as I can.”
51
An hour later I’m back at home, sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaning Caroline’s wound. She’d barely spoken to me after my clandestine dinner with Rita, and she hasn’t said a word to me this morning.
“Something wrong?” I ask as I begin to swab.
“You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“No, Joe. Everything’s just peachy. I love lying here while you dig around inside this horrific piece of trash that used to be my breast. I love the smell, especially. Don’t you? It’s so sexy.”
“It isn’t bad, baby. I don’t mind it.”
“You don’t mind it? That’s nice, Joe. I’m so glad you don’t mind it.”
Her tone is heavy with sarcasm, which is definitely a bad sign, because Caroline rarely resorts to sarcasm. I continue to work on the wound quietly, wondering whether she’s going to tell me what’s on her mind or whether she’ll need prodding. I don’t have to wait long.
“Where were you last night?” she asks.
There are things I don’t tell her occasionally, but I’ve never been able to lie to her. I opt for a compromise.
“I had dinner with a friend.”
“Which friend?”
“An old friend. What difference does it make?”
“And what about the other night? Just like last night. I came home and you were gone. All the note said was, ‘Back in a while.’ ”
“I went to see somebody. What’s wrong with you?”
“And this morning? You left early, but you didn’t go to the gym.”
“I had a cup of coffee with Bates.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t work for the district attorney anymore, so why would you have coffee with the sheriff?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have anything else to do.”
“Stop it!”
She’s upset now. She turns on her side to face me and pushes my hand away from her breast. She grabs me by the wrist and squeezes.
“Why can’t you give me a straight answer? What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything, Caroline.”
“Stop lying to me!”
“I’m not lying.”
“Are you having an affair?”
I nearly fall off the edge of the bed. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Caroline and I have been married for more than twenty years, and being unfaithful to her has never entered my mind.
“Have you gone crazy? Of course I’m not having an affair.”
“Then where were you last night?”
“I told you. I had dinner with a friend.”
“Which friend, damn it. Which friend?”
I lower my eyes. I have to tell her.
“Rita Jones.”
She throws her legs over the side of the bed and stomps off toward the bathroom. “I knew it! I knew it!”
I get up slowly and follow her. Explaining dinner with Rita to her means I’m going to have to explain a lot more. I don’t really know why I haven’t told her about Hannah. I suppose it’s because I just didn’t want to upset her. She’s been dealing with cancer for such a long time now that I’ve probably become overly protective of her. But I should know better. She knows me so well.
The bathroom door is locked
. I can hear her sobbing inside.
“Caroline, it isn’t what you think.”
“Stay away from me! I hate you!”
“Open the door and let me explain.”
“Explain what? How you’re fucking another woman?”
“Hannah’s dead, Caroline. I’ve been trying to help Bates find out who killed her. Rita helped us out, that’s all. We needed DNA samples from a couple of people in the office, and I called her and asked her if she’d collect some things for me. I met her last night and picked them up. That’s all it was. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before now. Please open the door.”
The crying stops, and a few seconds later I hear her feet shuffling across the tile on the other side of the door.
“Hannah’s dead?” she says weakly.
“Bates found her the other day. He’s not going to tell anyone until we figure out what happened.”
“I knew she was dead. I knew it the night you told me she was gone.”
“Open the door, Caroline. Please?”
“Why did you have dinner with Rita? Why couldn’t you just pick up whatever it was she had?”
“You know how she is. I bought her dinner and took her home, that’s all. I swear it.”
“You took her home?”
“She was too drunk to drive.”
“Did she make a pass at you?”
“Several.”
“You promised me you wouldn’t keep things from me anymore, Joe. You promised.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I wouldn’t blame you, you know,” she says through the door. “I mean, I’d kill you, but I wouldn’t blame you. I’m a freak.”
“I love you, Caroline. Nothing will ever change that.”
I hear the lock click, and the door opens slowly. She’s standing there with her robe hanging open and tearstains on her cheeks. She’s so beautiful, so vulnerable, that it nearly moves me to tears.
“You promise you love me the way I am?” she says. “Mutilated…”
I step toward her and take her in my arms.
“I love you just like you are, baby. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
52
Anita White walked quickly through the front door of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation’s forensic laboratory in Knoxville. The same day Tommy Miller was arrested, Dillard had left her a message on her cell phone saying he’d talked to the night clerk at the convenience store. The clerk had identified Tommy. He also said Tommy slept off a drunk in the parking lot that night and didn’t leave until after five in the morning. The next day, Anita learned that the DNA sample they obtained from Tommy Miller didn’t match the DNA the lab technicians had taken from the cigarette butts found near Judge Green’s body. With each passing hour, Anita’s belief that they’d arrested the wrong person intensified.
She’d been hurt and angry following her conversation with Dillard at the restaurant, but after hearing his message, reading the DNA report, and spending a sleepless night deep in thought, she realized Dillard was right. She should have voiced her concerns over Harmon’s tactics during the interrogation. She should have helped the boy. But as she told Dillard, what was done was done. She couldn’t undo the confession, but she could keep on working, keep on digging. If someone else killed the judge, Anita intended to find him.
She walked into a small office on the third floor. The office was occupied by Harold Teller, a forensic computer analyst. Teller had called Anita early that morning to say he was finished with his analysis of Judge Green’s computer and would be mailing a hard copy of his report. When Anita asked him whether there was anything interesting in the report, his reply was, “Several things,” so Anita asked Teller if she could meet with him later in the day. She’d driven the ninety miles to Knoxville in just over an hour.
“Agent White, I presume,” Teller said from behind a stack of reports on his desk.
Teller was in his late twenties, much younger than he sounded over the phone. His light brown hair was cut neatly and parted on the side, his eyes were the clearest blue Anita had ever seen, and he wore a pleasant smile on his angular face.
“Have a seat,” Teller said as he rolled in his chair to the corner, picked up a bound stack of papers, and rolled back to his desk. “Why are you so interested in the report? Don’t you already have a confession in this case?”
“Let’s just say I’m not totally convinced by the confession and leave it at that,” Anita said.
“Ah, you suspect a false confession. How intriguing.”
Teller’s eyes were gleaming mischievously, and Anita smiled. She’d been expecting a geek, a nerd with acne and thick glasses, someone so smart he would have difficulty talking to a mere mortal. But this was a good-looking young man who apparently had a sense of humor-a nice surprise.
Teller slid the report across the table, and Anita picked it up.
“There are some pretty disturbing images in there,” Teller said. “The judge had eclectic tastes in pornography. He favored prepubescent boys and adult gay sadomasochism.”
Anita set the report back on the desk. She had no desire to view lurid images of pornography.
“You said you found several interesting things on the computer,” Anita said. “What kind of things?”
“He visited a lot of pornographic Web sites, and there were some bizarre e-mails,” Teller said. “But the thing you’re probably most interested in, especially since you’re still on the hunt, is that someone hacked into his computer five days before he was killed. Someone who knew what he was doing. He used four different proxies.”
“What are proxies?” Anita said.
“It’s complicated,” Teller said, “but basically, a proxy is what hackers use to hide their identities. Every PC on the Internet has an identification number, called an IP, which stands for Internet Protocol number. Each one is unique, like a fingerprint. Typically, a hacker sends a virus or tries to find an IP address. Then he finds a way to exploit the computer’s security program. Once he does that, he’s got full control. Now he’ll use that computer to hack into another by doing the same thing. They call them proxies.”
“So what you’re telling me is that this person hacked into four different computers before he got to the judge?”
“Right. He was pretty good.”
“So it had to be somebody who knew the judge, or at least someone he corresponded with by e mail?”
“Normally, yes. But the county maintains a Web site that has e-mail addresses for all of the judges. The judge checked that e-mail address regularly from his home computer. That’s how the hacker got in.”
“And once he got in, what did he do?”
“Nothing, which is strange. He didn’t download any viruses. He didn’t copy or destroy any files. He didn’t use the computer as a proxy. It appears that he just looked around and left.”
“I still want to talk to him,” Anita said. “Do you know who he is?”
“Assuming it’s a he, I know where his computer is,” Teller said. “I didn’t bother to track down the owner of the address since I knew you’d already made an arrest.”
Teller opened the report, found the page he was looking for, and set it down in front of Anita. “Here it is,” he said, pointing.
Anita felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that occurred whenever she got a break in a case.
“Thank you,” Anita said as she stood and picked up the report.
“What? You’re leaving?” Teller said. “Just like that? We were getting along so well.”
“Gotta go. I have work to do.”
PART 4
53
“Stay, boy. Stay.”
It’s nearly nine o’clock and darkness has fallen. I step onto the deck and close the door behind me. Rio is standing on the other side, eyes bright, tail wagging. He loves this nightly ritual of ours. I’m holding a ragged tennis ball, and I throw it as far as I can into the backyard. I open the door, and he leaps out.
“Go get i
t, Rio.”
He races down the steps, and I lean on the rail and watch. I can barely see him as he begins his search for the ball. He trots back and forth across the yard, nose to the ground, instinctively creating a grid. He’s invariably successful, and in just a few minutes, he’s back on the deck with the ball in his mouth.
“Good boy, Rio. Good boy.”
He drops the ball at my feet, and I pick it up. I throw it into the darkness again. He’d run and search all night if I’d stay out here with him. As I’m watching, Caroline walks out the door and hands me the phone. It’s Bates.
“Put on a suit,” he says. “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
“A suit? Where are we going?”
“To meet somebody important.”
“Who?”
“Just put on the suit, all right? I’m on my way.”
I reluctantly follow his order. He pulls into the driveway a little while later, and I climb into the BMW. He backs out without saying a word, and a in few minutes we’re heading west toward Jonesborough.
“So when do you tell me where we’re going?” I ask.
“We’re in for a busy night. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
A few minutes later he pulls the BMW into a high-dollar residential area called the Ridges. It’s the latest example of one-upmanship among the rich in the community, full of elegant homes surrounded by a championship golf course. I’ve never been inside any of the homes at the Ridges, but I know several people who live here. One of them is Lee Mooney.
Bates pulls into the driveway of a sprawling white mansion. He turns off the ignition and opens the door.
“You coming or is your ass glued to that seat?” Bates says.
“Is this Mooney’s house?”
“Sure is.”
“I don’t think I’d be welcome here.”
“Neither one of us will be welcome in a few minutes. Now get your butt out of the car and come on. You don’t want to miss this.”
We walk onto the front porch and Bates rings the doorbell. Lee Mooney opens the door a minute later, wearing a navy blue robe that appears to be made of silk and a pair of house shoes. He reeks of booze. The look on his face when he sees Bates is a mixture of consternation and confusion.
