The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3)

by Robert Bailey

  “Detective Richey.”

  Wade nodded. “One and the same. Is it him?”

  Lusk was a muscular man whom Wade estimated to be in his late thirties or early forties. He had a clean-shaven face, dark hair cut high and tight, and piercing blue eyes. “We think so, but it is hard to be sure.” The deputy’s voice was clipped and had a nasal tone to it, which Wade figured intensified when he was under pressure. “The body is filthy from the river. If it is him, he’s lost a lot of weight and grown a beard since his mug shot.”

  That fits, Wade knew. “What’s the status?”

  Lusk angled his head toward the shore, where, fifteen feet away, Wade saw a tall, slender black woman shining a flashlight on what must be the corpse and speaking into a Dictaphone. “Ingrid’s been here about fifteen minutes.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing so far,” Lusk said, shaking his head. “She shooed us away so she could do her thing.”

  Without waiting for any further details, Wade walked toward the shore. When he was a few feet behind the woman, who continued to talk into the recording device, he spoke in a wan voice. “Of all the crime scenes in all the world, you had to wander into mine.”

  “I would know that baritone voice anywhere.” Ingrid Barnett, the chief medical examiner for Tuscaloosa County, took a step back so that Wade could have a clear view.

  “Jesus . . . H. . . . Christ,” Wade whispered, feeling his breath catch in his throat. The dead man was even skinnier than he had been the previous summer. Scruffier, too, with a thick gray beard. But there was no doubt in Wade Richey’s mind as to the identity of the deceased.

  “You OK, Detective?” Ingrid asked.

  Wade blinked his eyes, trying to regain his focus. “I’m fine, Ingrid.” He squatted for a better look. There was a bullet hole just above the dead man’s right temple. It was small, and Wade knew it had to have come from a handgun.

  “Pistol?” Wade asked.

  “Yep,” Ingrid said. “I’m not a ballistics expert, but that would be my guess. Probably a nine-millimeter.”

  “Any ideas on time of death?”

  “I’ll need to do some more testing, but based on the condition of the body, he hasn’t been dead long. My preliminary opinion would be somewhere between 10:00 p.m. and midnight.”

  Wade gazed at the corpse and tried to take a mental inventory of everything about the dead man. His hair, still damp from the river, was mostly gray, with a few dark specks and a bald spot in back. His clothes, also soaked, consisted of blue jeans with some type of light button-down collar shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, and Wade noticed a tattoo under his right forearm with the letters “TCB” in black ink above a similarly colored lightning bolt. “Taking care of business,” Wade said out loud.

  “Elvis fan, huh?” Ingrid asked.

  Wade smiled, keeping his eyes on the body. “You manage to impress me every time I see you, Ms. Ingrid.” A scar ran along the side of the dead man’s nose, but it looked old. The scratch marks on his neck, however, appeared to be fresh.

  As if reading Wade’s mind, Ingrid spoke from behind his shoulder. “You see the ligature markings on his Adam’s apple?”

  Wade nodded and cocked his head. “Does he have any skin or blood under his fingernails?”

  “Nothing at first blush. They look clean to me. Some dirt from the lake and sand are all I can discern, but I’ll test further in the lab.”

  “The river is nasty, so maybe you’ll find something. If there is skin, blood, hair . . . hell, any kind of DNA in his fingernails, that could point to some logical conclusions.”

  “He got into an argument with the perp . . . which led to a physical altercation . . . which led to . . .” Ingrid trailed off as Wade stood up and looked at her.

  “We won’t know where any of it leads until you complete your testing. When do you think you’ll have a report ready?” He was already walking back toward the uniforms.

  “Not sure,” Ingrid yelled after him. “I’m going to need at least another hour here at the scene to gather evidence, and you know the crime lab in Birmingham.”

  Wade stopped walking and turned toward her. “A week?”

  She snorted. “Wade, you know that a full report with toxicology and DNA testing usually takes a minimum of two weeks, and sometimes over a month.”

  Wade stepped closer to her and lowered his voice, choosing his words carefully. “Ingrid, I have a feeling that the press is going to be on this case like bees to honey. We need to expedite everything.”

  Blinking her eyes, she glanced down at the corpse and squinted back at Wade. “You knew him, didn’t you?”

  Wade nodded and spoke under his breath. “Unfortunately.”

  The location of the body was less than a half mile west of the Cypress Inn Restaurant, off of Rice Mine Road. Two brothers from the Phi Delta Theta fraternity at the University of Alabama discovered the corpse while attempting to hit a golf ball over the Black Warrior River.

  “I thought the kids tried to hit the ball over the Black Warrior in front of the restaurant,” Wade said after hearing Deputy Lusk recount the frat boys’ story.

  Lusk scoffed. “Most do. It’s almost exactly three hundred yards from the Cypress Inn side of the shore to the bank on the far side. But these two guys can’t hit that far, so they went seeking a shorter distance.” He paused, shaking his head. “I haven’t measured it or anything, but looks like the distance across down there”—Lusk stopped and pointed across the river to the opposing shore—“is maybe two hundred seventy or two hundred eighty.”

  “So, their story makes sense,” Wade said, pulling on his chin.

  “They each have a Callaway Big Bertha driver in the vehicle they were in.” Lusk nodded in the direction of a Chevy Silverado truck. He paused. “Course we also found a bong hidden underneath the passenger seat. Didn’t find any weed, but there was a half- drunk sixer of Monkeynaut beer in the floorboard.”

  “Monkey what?” Wade asked.

  Lusk laughed. “Monkeynaut. It’s an IPA made by a brewery in Huntsville. Good stuff.”

  Wade nodded. He was a Miller High Life man himself but was aware of the craft beer craze that had engulfed Alabama. “So, two frat boys out getting drunk and high and trying to hit a golf ball over the river.”

  “That’s about it,” Lusk said, shrugging. “Nothing suspicious that I saw, but you’ll probably want to interview them yourself.”

  Wade would, but he doubted his conclusions would be any different than Lusk’s. Hitting a golf ball over the river below the Cypress Inn was a rite of passage for students at Alabama, and getting drunk and high on a Saturday night couldn’t be considered suspicious when hundreds of other coeds and young adults were doing the same thing on the Strip just a few miles away. Walking down the river a ways to get a better shot at clearing the water was a bit different, but Wade didn’t see anything overly odd about that either.

  Wade turned his head so that he could examine their location in all directions. He saw that Lusk had already dispatched officers and dogs to search the area.

  “Have they turned anything up yet?”

  “Nothing so far, but we haven’t been here long.”

  Wade rubbed his chin and looked back toward the river, where Ingrid continued to talk into her Dictaphone. “Since the body was found in the water and the time of death was sometime between three and five hours ago, we probably need to expand out the search to a couple miles in both directions, focusing most of the team west.” Wade pointed in that direction. “If the corpse was dumped in the river, then it drifted with the current, which flows west to east along this stretch.”

  “Ten-four,” Lusk said, waving a hand at the two fraternity brothers sitting on the tailgate of the Silverado. “You gonna talk to ’em now?”

  “Yeah,” Wade said, taking out his cell phone. “But first I have to make a call.”

  “I’ve already notified the sheriff,” Lusk said. “He’s the one who told me to call you.”r />
  “I know,” Wade said, clicking through his contacts until he found the name. He wasn’t calling the sheriff. “Why don’t you get those two”—Wade motioned with his head toward the two Phi Delts, both gazing aimlessly at the ground—“a cup of coffee or a Coke or something? They look like they could use it.”

  Lusk brought his right hand up in a salute and trudged away as Wade pressed send on his phone. Eight seconds and three rings later, he heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line.

  “Whatcha got?” The voice was groggy, half-asleep.

  “A cold one. On the banks of the Black Warrior a little ways west of the Cypress Inn. The victim has a bullet hole in his head.” Wade paused. “Thought you’d want to take a look.”

  A pause on the line followed by a grunt. “I’ll be there in ten. Has the body been identified yet?”

  Wade could hear rustling in the background and figured the man on the other end of the line was putting on a pair of pants. “Yes, it has.” He rubbed his eyes and sighed, still not quite believing what he had just seen on the shore. Then, clearing his throat, he added, “I . . . identified the body.”

  “What?” The grogginess was now gone, replaced by hyperalertness. The rustling had stopped. “You recognize the victim?”

  “Yeah,” Wade said, glancing over his shoulder and looking past Ingrid to the waters of the Black Warrior. “So will you. The deceased . . . is Jack Willistone.”

  3

  Nine minutes after they’d hung up, Wade smiled when he saw the black Dodge Charger pull to a stop. The lights were cut, and a sandy-haired heavyset man stepped out of the car wearing khaki pants, a white button-down, and a fire-engine-red jacket.

  Ambrose Powell Conrad, the newly appointed district attorney for Tuscaloosa County, Alabama, shut the door to the Charger and ambled toward Wade, sipping from a steaming cup of coffee. As he did, Wade noticed that the other officers had straightened up and a few pointed. At first, the detective thought the men were surprised to see the head prosecutor at a crime scene. The prior DA hadn’t liked getting his hands dirty.

  But as his friend came closer, Wade knew his initial feeling was wrong. It wasn’t surprise that he saw in the deputies’ eyes. It was awe. Pulaski, he thought. Nothing had been the same since Pulaski.

  “Let’s see it,” Powell said, not bothering with pleasantries, his voice so tense and loud that a couple officers standing nearby almost jumped out of their skin.

  Wade nodded and the two men walked shoulder to shoulder back down to the shore.

  As Ingrid rehashed what she’d already told Wade, Powell listened and sipped his coffee, occasionally grunting. When she was finished, he swished the remaining liquid around in his cup and squinted at the coroner. “What about prints? Hair follicles? Any other DNA?”

  “The shirt collar appears to be dry, so that is our best chance,” Ingrid said. “The rest of the clothes are soaked to the bone. There was also a cap that was found on the dock, and we’ll test it too.” She glanced at Wade. “As I told Detective Richey, if I’m able to collect any DNA, I’ll have to send it to the crime lab in Birmingham, and it may take a couple of weeks to obtain the results.”

  “What about the area?” Powell waved his arm in the direction of the woods surrounding them.

  “We’ve got officers and dogs on the ground looking for anything within a four-mile radius,” Wade said.

  “Good deal,” Powell said. “Well, let’s get out of Ms. Ingrid’s way.”

  As they started to walk away, Ingrid yelled after them. “Hey, Conrad.”

  Powell looked over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

  “Nice jacket.”

  The two men leaned against Powell’s Charger and split a Kit Kat bar. A deputy had gone to a twenty-four-hour gas station, bringing back a gallon of coffee, and Powell and Wade both sipped from steaming hot Styrofoam cups. Wade licked his fingers and smiled at his friend. “I think Ingrid may be sweet on you.”

  Powell grunted, ignoring the comment. “When did that SOB get out of jail? Yesterday?”

  Wade shook his head. “Not quite. It was two days ago. I got a call from the warden of the St. Clair Correctional Facility, in Springville, Monday morning saying he’d been paroled.”

  Powell sipped his coffee. “So, he’s out thirty-six hours and somebody puts a cap in him.”

  Wade nodded. “Willistone had enemies. You know that better than I do.”

  Powell nodded and sucked melted chocolate off his thumb. Then he threw out the remains of his coffee. “Have you interviewed Frick and Frack over there?” He pointed at the two fraternity boys, still sitting on the tailgate of the Silverado.

  Wade shook his head and gave a wry smile. “I wanted you here for that.”

  “Sissy,” Powell said.

  “No,” Wade said, beginning to walk toward the truck. “I just don’t want your ultra-intense ass questioning my report later.”

  Todd Shuman was a short, skinny kid with wild curly brown hair. Something was vaguely familiar about him, but Powell couldn’t quite place it. Both of Shuman’s hands shook, and the ice cubes in the plastic cup of Coke that he was holding rattled as he talked. “I . . . I don’t know nothing. We were just trying to clear the river with a drive and Happy saw the body.”

  “Did either of you knock it over?” Powell asked.

  Shuman managed a smile. “I did.”

  “Bullshit,” the other fraternity brother chimed in. Powell shifted his glance to the larger man sitting to Shuman’s right. William Henry “Happy” Caldwell was just a shade under six feet tall but had to weigh at least two hundred pounds. He was built like a bowling ball, with his shaved head adding to the effect.

  “No?” Powell asked.

  “Not a snowball’s chance in hell. Screech hadn’t hit one over a hundred yards in an hour.” Caldwell smiled, and when he did his eyes squinted into small slits. The kid oozed confidence and self-assurance.

  “Screech?”

  “Shuman’s pledge name,” Caldwell said, chuckling. “You know, from Saved—”

  “By the Bell,” Powell interrupted, snapping his fingers. That’s why the kid looked familiar. He was a dead ringer for the character from the old ’90s sitcom.

  “The dispatcher said that one of you two guys recognized the victim. Would that be you?” Wade nodded at Caldwell, who returned the gesture.

  “Yeah, I’d seen that guy in a couple of online videos earlier this week. Jack Willistone. He was released from prison on Monday, and it was all over Twitter. One clip showed him walking out the front door of the correctional facility in Springville and into a waiting car.” Caldwell crossed his arms. “Willistone owned one of the biggest trucking companies in the world and was a huge player in Alabama business until he went to prison after that trial over in Henshaw County. You guys remember that one, right? It was all over the news.”

  Powell glanced at Wade and then cocked his head at Caldwell. “No offense, kid, but how do you know all this about Willistone? I mean, I get that you saw these videos on Twitter and all, but—”

  “I’m prelaw at Alabama,” Caldwell said. “During my freshman year, me and a couple classmates went to the trial in Henshaw. There was a lot of press about it because of Professor McMurtrie.” He paused and gave his head a jerk. “Do you know him?”

  Powell smiled. “Maybe a little.”

  Caldwell whistled and folded his arms, gazing down at the gravel. “I’ll never forget it. The place was packed. Seeing McMurtrie cross-examine Willistone’s accident expert clinched it for me.” He looked up at Powell. “I knew I was going to be a trial lawyer after that.”

  Powell nodded. He, too, had been in Henshaw that week. And right after the trial, he had put Jack Willistone in handcuffs. He glanced over his shoulder at Ingrid Barnett, who was now squatting over the ornery bastard’s corpse. And now he’s dead. Thirty-six hours out of prison . . .

  Wade conducted the rest of the interview. Caldwell and Shuman started the night at Innisfree
Irish Pub, on the Strip, around 8:00 p.m. After wolfing down a couple of cheeseburgers and three pitchers of Sweetwater 420, Caldwell wanted to meet several other Phi Delts at Gallettes bar, so there they went. On the way, Shuman bet Caldwell a hundred bucks that he could hit a ball over the Black Warrior. At Gallettes, they each had a couple more beers, listened to the band, and unsuccessfully attempted to get several different coeds to agree to come to the river with them to watch the contest. At 1:30 a.m., they left the bar. They stopped at Shuman’s apartment in Northport and grabbed a six-pack of Monkeynaut, a shag bag of golf balls, and two drivers. Both clubs belonged to Shuman, who was a self-professed eight handicapper.

  The duo pulled into the Cypress Inn parking lot at approximately 2:00 a.m. Their car was the only one in the lot, and they didn’t see or hear anything suspicious as they walked around the restaurant and down to the shoreline. After thirty minutes of hacking balls, none of which came close to making it over, Shuman suggested that they walk down the river a ways. By this point, both candidly admitted that they were drunk. Neither could remember how many shots they had tried at the new location before Caldwell stumbled over the body.

  Wade wrapped up the interview by handing each kid his card and requesting a call if they remembered anything else. Then he told the two to hold tight and that a deputy would come by in a little while to drive them home.

  “Dead end,” Wade said as he and Powell walked back toward the Charger.

  “Maybe not,” the prosecutor said. “Should probably bring them in for another go at it in a couple of days after the shock wears off and they realize that they aren’t being charged with anything.”

  “I guess, but even if they remember something new, they both have admitted to being hammered during the operative period.”

  Powell grunted, which Wade knew was his begrudging agreement. As they approached the Charger, Wade saw Lusk jogging toward them, his face flushed red with either excitement or anger. “We got an iPhone. It was found about a half mile west of here on the edge of a dock.” He paused, catching his breath. “It’s Willistone’s.”