“Will do.” Hampton looked over his shoulder and out the glass doors. “And good luck with that mess out front. I’ve never seen so many reporters. Like maggots on a dead squirrel.”
“Thanks.” We shook hands again, and I thought how Tommy Lee would appreciate Hampton’s simile.
When I returned to the interview room, I found Archie pacing back and forth against the far wall.
“Barry, I want to get out of town.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” I motioned for him to sit down. “What about Gloria and the girls?”
“What happens to them if I’m dead?”
You sell insurance, I wanted to say. If you believe in your product, they should have plenty of money. Instead, I said, “Leaving them alone might not be wise.”
“I’ll take them with me.” He snapped his fingers. “They’ve been wanting to go to Disney World. You can let me know when you’ve caught Pete and it’s safe to return.”
Archie’s daughters were six and three. Perhaps getting them out of Gainesboro would be a smart move. Archie wasn’t a material witness to Carl’s murder or under suspicion. If he stayed, he’d be hounding me for twenty-four-hour protection. And someone might have just taken a shot at him, which proved the danger could be more than his imagination.
“I’ll check with Tommy Lee. Maybe for a few days, but you’ve got to cooperate with us and stay in touch. If you’ve held back information on who’s threatened you, husbands or clients, then I can guarantee Tommy Lee will keep you in town and maybe even charge you with obstruction of justice.” I was bluffing big time, but Archie was too scared to think straight.
His eyes widened. “I’ll be a sitting duck.”
“More like bait. At least we’ll get Carl’s killer.”
“Barry,” he wailed.
“Sit tight. I’ll talk to Tommy Lee as soon as he finishes the press conference.”
I left Archie hyperventilating and headed for the conference room.
Hank Shelton stood at one of the flipcharts. He’d drawn two lines across the middle of the page and written “MURDER APPROXIMATELY 9:25 P.M.” between them. Above and below he’d matched the names of the volunteers and haunted house patrons to their known locations. All were accounted for. At the bottom of the chart, he was printing “9:50 P.M. – DISCOVERY OF THE BODY.”
I shut the door behind me. “Making any headway?”
“Some. I’ve been on the phone with Emily Culpepper. She manned the walkie-talkie on the back porch from nine-fifteen on. She’s not sure she remembered everyone who exited, but she gave me twenty-five names. She thinks that’s most of them.”
“Most of them? That doesn’t cut it. Half of these people were in small groups. I’d say we’re either looking at a loner, or a group large enough that one person peeling off wouldn’t be missed.”
Shelton drew an arrow pointing to the top of the chart. “What’s the possibility someone hid earlier than nine-fifteen and then left during the confusion at the discovery of the body?”
“I locked down the exits immediately. We knew a general dusting would be pointless given the herd that trampled through, but I had the mobile lab print alternative exits.” I pointed to a flipchart sheet taped to the wall that showed the layout of the house. “Like the second bedroom. They called it “The Slay Room” and decorated it with a bunch of corny torture devices. The window wasn’t locked and someone could have slipped out.”
“I was thinking of the bathroom.” Shelton picked up a fax from the table and handed it to me. “We got a preliminary report a few minutes ago on a print match.”
“That was fast.”
“Your hunch about an alternative exit was right. But it was the bathroom window. The Jaycees cleaned the pane when they prepped the house so the print caught the tech’s eye. He said it stood out like a cockroach on a wedding cake.”
“Who left it?” I got my answer before Shelton could answer. The comment on the print report stated “Match to print on Buck knife handle. ID unknown.”
“The killer left it,” Shelton said. “But we’re no closer to knowing who that is.”
“Not necessarily. I want the outside of that window dusted. And have them check the commode for a footprint. There were portable toilets on site so no one had any business in the bathroom. The window is smaller and higher up the wall, but it opens to the dark side of the house. Not too difficult for someone agile to snake through. Standing on the commode lid would make it easier.”
Shelton nodded. “I can dust it myself.”
“No. I need you here. Carson’s got a kit in his car. If Pete Crowder’s alibi for last night is some bar, we can find it this afternoon.” I glanced at my watch. Ten-forty. “Most of them aren’t open now anyway. Tell Carson about the window. He can take care of it.”
“Yes, sir.” He pointed to the names on the flipchart. “What do you want me to do with these?”
I studied his list. “You can weed out Thelma Cransford and Frieda Jenkins. They both top two hundred pounds and couldn’t get through that window if their lives depended on it. Look at everyone we know who was there last night and eliminate whoever couldn’t have crawled out the window. That will help reduce the possibilities. I’ll take this to Tommy Lee.” I folded the fax sheet and started for the door. Then another thought hit me. “Tell Carson to come in as soon as he dusts the bathroom and outside window. I’ll want to see him when he gets here.”
I left Shelton with the assignment and headed for Tommy Lee’s office. He would need to approve my little surreptitious maneuver before I spoke to Carson.
D.A. Jamison came out the sheriff’s door. His picture-perfect haircut had degenerated into a wild array of porcupine quills and the front of his blue suit was coated in gray dust. Frayed threads swirled from his knees where he’d stressed the fabric crawling to safety.
“Anything?” A note of desperation tinged the word.
“Not yet.” I wasn’t about to share information that I hadn’t cleared with Tommy Lee. “But we’re getting a steady stream of phone calls from people offering tips. One of them will pan out.”
“That’s reaction, Barry. Not action.”
I made a point of looking him up and down. “I can see you know all about reaction.”
He reddened and tried to brush the dust from his coat.
I smiled. “Sometimes reaction is all you can do till you learn what you’re up against. Right now we’re eliminating suspects as fast as we can.”
“What about that shot at the café? Word is Archie Donovan was the target.”
“The shot went wild. Archie was in the vicinity but so were a lot of other people.”
“You’re saying it’s a coincidence that Archie was supposed to be in the casket last night and also happened to be at the café this morning?”
I stepped closer, still smiling, and lowered my voice. “I’m saying we’re investigating, and we’ll bring you evidence you can use. Not guesswork. I’ve never met a D.A. who successfully prosecuted a case on guesswork.”
He held my gaze. “Then you and I will get along just fine.” He walked past me without another word.
Tommy Lee’s door was still cracked open but I knocked before entering.
“Come in.” He sat at his desk flipping through a stack of phone messages. “Enjoy your little chat with Mr. Jamison?”
“Wonderful. If you like talking to someone who thinks your sole job is to make him look good.”
“Yeah. What a dumbass. He should know your sole job is to make me look good.”
I took the chair across from him. “How good did you look at the press conference?”
“Ever see the rear end of a baboon?”
I winced. “What happened?”
Tommy Lee threw up his hands. “There’s no spin you can put on a gun being fired on Main Street. I said as far as we knew it was a random shot that went wild. Whoever was responsible disappeared, and no one in particular seemed to be the target.”
/> “What about Archie?”
“Some reporter asked about him. I said a number of people in the café had been at the haunted house last night and that we’re investigating all possibilities.”
“That’s a good answer.”
Tommy Lee twisted his lip into a sneer. “The jerk said maybe Mayberry was turning into Dodge City. And of course everyone laughed. Is it just me or have you noticed how reporters don’t ask questions anymore? They like to make comments and interview each other.”
“Melissa Bigham didn’t ask about Archie?”
“No. She didn’t ask any questions.”
I thought for a second. “Why tip her hand? She’ll pursue that angle on her own and not draw attention to Archie until she learns something new.”
Tommy Lee looked doubtful. “Then why’d she mention him in her article?”
“Because last night Archie was a scoop. She had to write it in case he told someone else.”
Tommy Lee got up and refilled his cup from the small Mr. Coffee he kept working overtime in the corner of his office. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. I’m caffeined out.”
“Does Melissa know about Pete Crowder?”
“No. But she’ll corner Archie as soon as she can.” I paused until Tommy Lee settled back in his chair. “Carson saw Pete this morning about the time the shot was fired.”
The cup froze a few inches from his mouth and his one eye stared through the rising steam. “Ironclad alibi?”
“Yeah. He was chopping wood at his home.”
Tommy Lee set the coffee on his desk without tasting it. “Did Carson talk to him?”
“No. I wanted Pete checked out quietly. If he has an alibi for last night, then we’re back to square one.”
“Except you’re narrowing down the timeframe when the murderer was in the house.”
I shook my head and told him about the possibility that someone hid in the bathroom.
“I don’t think the killer would have stayed cooped up too long,” Tommy Lee said. “Could Pete have gotten through that window?”
“Maybe.” I leaned forward figuring now was the time to float my idea. “What if I had Carson pick up Pete’s prints?”
“You mean book him on suspicion?”
“No. This would be unofficial. Say, lifted off the ax handle. If we get a match to the knife, then I’ll somehow force Archie to give me a statement.”
Tommy Lee grimaced. “If Pete’s lawyer found out we ran prints off his personal property without a warrant, there’d be hell to pay. What’s the difference between that and demanding fingerprints from everyone who went through the haunted house, or getting prints from the whole damn town?”
“We’re talking one guy and we have probable cause. We just can’t make that cause public. And it will stop me from spinning my wheels with Pete if he’s not a match.”
Tommy Lee picked up his coffee and took a sip before he spoke. Then he shook his head. “Why protect Archie? We should get a search warrant based upon what he told you and carry this out the right way.”
“Because I gave Archie my word.”
He smiled. “Okay. You’re one of the few guys whose word’s worth something.”
“Even if it wasn’t, we’ve still got Angel to think about.”
As much as Tommy Lee respected my word, he felt even stronger about wife-beaters. He sighed. “I know. So, where’s Archie now?”
“Still in the interview room. He’s really scared. He asked me if he could leave town.”
“For where?”
“Disney World. Says he’ll take his family there for a few days till we make an arrest.”
“Optimistic bastard, isn’t he?”
I shrugged. “Might not be a bad idea. Keeps him away from reporters and out of our hair. Maybe we’ll catch a break and wrap this up in a few days.”
“Like a print match between an ax handle and a Buck knife?”
“It’s possible.”
Tommy Lee picked up the phone messages from his desk. “And it’s possible one of these is the killer calling to confess. But I’d sooner bet on my eye growing back.”
The fact that he even mentioned his war wound told me how much this case bothered him. I stood. There was no point in arguing.
“Where’re you going?” he asked.
“Back to the conference room. At least I can help Shelton work the phones.”
“First tell Archie to get out of town, but leave his cell phone number in case we need to reach him.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“And Carson’s not to go near that ax handle without a warrant.”
“I understand.”
His good eye narrowed. “I don’t think you do. If you want those prints, then you lift them yourself.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. The reprimand stung. Sticking my neck out was one thing, but involving another officer was something else. “All right. I’ll have Carson let me know when Pete leaves the house.”
He looked down at the phone messages, selected one, and picked up the receiver. “And for God’s sake be quick about it.”
I closed the door and headed to see Archie.
“Barry! Barry!”
The familiar voice stopped me cold. I looked across the bullpen of desks to a woman standing inside the main door.
Tommy Lee’s administrative assistant, Marge, was beside her. Marge extended her arm to keep the visitor from coming closer.
“It’s all right,” I said.
Marge stepped aside and the woman walked toward me. The same woman who four years earlier had walked out of my life. Rachel. My ex-wife.
Why was she here? More importantly, why was she here today?
Chapter Five
The first words I ever spoke to Rachel were “You can’t park there.” They came as a spontaneous reaction to seeing a yellow Toyota Corolla by a fire hydrant and a young woman emerging from the driver’s door.
“I’m not parking,” she said. “I’m pausing. And it’s none of your business.” She wore a University of North Carolina at Charlotte tee shirt. The green fabric was a Rorschach inkblot test of splotches where the late August heat had caused her to perspire. As she walked around the front of the car, my eyes dropped to the slender, tan legs that her matching running shorts barely covered.
“I’m a police officer and you’re breaking the law.”
She stopped and looked me up and down. I wore sandals, scruffy jeans, and a tie-dyed tee shirt I’d made at an after-school program that the Charlotte Police Department sponsored for at-risk elementary school children. To the illegal parker, I looked like a fellow student.
“Right,” she said. “Well, Mr. Pseudo-Officer, if I don’t get my tuition check into the business office before five, I won’t be parking anywhere on campus. Be a good boy and move the car if there’s a fire.” She tossed me the keys and sprinted away, her brown ponytail bouncing with each graceful stride.
I got in her car and drove off. On my third loop around the university, she ran into the street and flagged me down.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I held my badge up to the open window. Her air conditioning was broken and I understood why she was sweaty and grumpy. “You said move the car if there’s a fire. I’m sure there’s a fire somewhere.”
She looked at the badge, then at me. Her lips quivered and she laughed, abandoning any attempt to appear indignant. “Get out with your hands up.”
I put the transmission in park. “Don’t stand too close to a suspect in a car or he could knock you over with the door.”
She backed up. “Where are you parked?”
“North deck.”
“I’ll drop you there.”
We wound up at Applebee’s, cooling off over a pitcher of beer. Six months later Rachel Hitchcock and I were married at the First Baptist Church in her hometown of Wadesboro, North Carolina. I continued my graduate studies in criminal justice and my job as a Charlotte poli
ce officer while she started an internship in the newsroom of the local NBC affiliate television station. Both of us had our hopes set on Washington, D.C.; she working in journalism and I in the FBI.
My father’s Alzheimer’s derailed our plans, and what I thought was my temporary return to Gainesboro lasted longer than Rachel could endure. Although we saw each other on as many weekends as we could, I knew the small-town life smothered her. After a year, she was offered a job as a news assistant at NBC’s bureau in D.C. I couldn’t go; she wouldn’t stay. She came to ask me in person for the divorce. She never hid behind a Dear John note or an attorney’s registered letter. I gave her credit for that. Rachel met everyone and everything head on.
Now she was back in my life.
Rachel looked around the Sheriff’s Department and then flashed a nervous grin. “Where do you want me to park it this time?”
She still had the knack for disarming me.
“It’s good to see you,” I said. The part of me that had been attracted to a college girl with the wit and self-confidence to toss her keys to a total stranger meant it. The rest of me tried to figure out what she wanted.
“Not the most convenient time for a social call.” I swept my arm across the bullpen. “As you can see there’s not a place to park and the interview rooms are all in use.”
She bit her lower lip in what I took for feigned chagrin. “Actually, it’s not a social call. Not entirely.”
I politely kept the sarcasm out of my voice. “Really?”
“I’m here on assignment.” An undercurrent of pride flowed through her words.
“You’re covering Carl Atkinson’s murder? From Washington, D.C.?”
She nodded. “And sources tell me you’re the lead investigator. Small world, isn’t it?”
“What network? NBC?”
Rachel glanced away, a sign that she wasn’t quite as proud as she’d like to be. “A new cable network. You don’t get it here except by satellite.”
“What’s it called?”
“Weird World.”
“Weird World? You’re saying my case qualifies for some freak show?”
Fatal Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) Page 5
