Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2)

by Lance McMillian

  Marlon Freeman was one of the first African-Americans to work homicide in Atlanta. His gray goatee imparts wisdom just by looking at it. Despite a promising start as an APD detective, Marlon now handles student discipline cases for the Fulton County School Board. The fall in status came about because Marlon doesn’t play well with others. That’s what I like about him.

  Barbara Hsu is the only other lawyer besides me on the team. She interned in my office years ago while in law school. After graduation, she became a prosecutor in the Gwinnett County D.A.’s office. We’ve stayed in touch, and I’ve heard good things about how she handles her business. Barbara is smart, tough, and ambitious. The defendants she prosecutes call her the “Dragon Lady.” The word on the street says that she is one of the best trial lawyers around. If a murder trial ever results from our investigation, Barbara will handle it. My days in the courtroom are over.

  The final piece of the puzzle is Taylor Diamond. Her job as the team’s administrative assistant is to keep the trains running on time. Taylor is a friend from high school and one of the few cheerleaders I didn’t date. Her on-again, off-again boyfriend was the starting quarterback. She stayed in our hometown and worked for nearly twenty years as the legal secretary for the long-time district attorney. Her boss was good friends with my father and swears by Taylor. Recently divorced, she now wants to live in Atlanta.

  These people are now my people, and I value every one of them. Once all seven of us get situated in chairs arranged in a circle, I start the meeting.

  “Someone murdered Chief Justice Warren Jackson in his chambers. The Governor wants us to find the killer. A lot of political footballs are in play here, but our charge is to find the truth no matter what and let the chips fall where they may.”

  I make eye contact with each person except for Scott to emphasize the point.

  Scott proceeds with what we know: “This is a closed-circle case, meaning that we know that the murderer comes from a limited pool of suspects. The murder of Warren Jackson happened in his office on the fifth floor of the new appellate courthouse during an evening reception to open the building. Only twenty-five people besides the victim were on the fifth floor at the relevant time.”

  He hands around a piece of paper with everyone on the guest list—the Governor, the nine justices of the Georgia Supreme Court and five of their spouses, a U.S. Senator, a member of the U.S. Capitol Police, Gene Davis, Tommy and Jerry Dalton, a State Patrol Officer, the Clerk for the Georgia Supreme Court, and four caterers.

  I peruse the list. Twenty-five is a lot of potential suspects, but the investigation should whittle the number down to something quite manageable. The likelihood of the caterers or the spouses of other justices being involved strikes me as low. That would knock off a third of the list right there.

  Scott continues, “Security did a sweep of the building at the close of the business day. Except for those attending the reception, everyone was gone. During the party, the Governor’s security people stayed downstairs with the state patrol officers who normally guard the courthouse. All of them confirm that no one entered the building who wasn’t on that sheet of paper.”

  Everyone looks at the names again, and a cold recognition hovers about the room. Someone on this list is a killer.

  7

  We start with the widow. The door to the Jackson family’s antebellum home opens, and Beverly Jackson peers up at us with a scowl. The impression is immediate. Before me stands one of those old-school Southern matriarchs—now an endangered species but once upon a time a fierce creature that ruled the South with an iron fist. Her hair is a dignified gray, the eyes hazel. She is not wearing black.

  She waves us in with her right hand. Her left one is too busy holding a near-empty cocktail glass. After leading us to the study, she offers Scott and me a whiskey. The hour is not yet noon. We settle for sweet tea.

  After drinks are served, I offer, “Mrs. Jackson, thank you for meeting with us during this difficult—”

  “Save the platitudes. I’m not interested. Let’s not prolong the unpleasantness. And you can call me Beverly.”

  She lights a cigarette, a fresh cocktail close within her reach. Her age is indeterminate—maybe 60, maybe 80. Everything about the scene strikes me as Old—an Old Woman from the Old South with Old Money practicing Old Habits. The feeling that I’ve entered a William Faulkner novel takes hold of me, and nothing good ever happens in those.

  I begin again, “Beverly, I’ll try not to beat around the bush. Your husband was murdered. Any idea who would want to kill him?”

  The response surprises. She laughs out loud and says, “The easier thing would be to make a list of the people who didn’t want to kill him. My husband was involved in Georgia politics up to his neck his whole life. He was also a first-rate bastard. You do the math. I’m amazed he lived this long.”

  She takes a slow drink and a drag on the cigarette. I don’t detect a lot of grief. I follow up.

  “Anyone at the party that would have a special ax to grind?”

  “Too many to count.”

  Generic declarations about how everyone hated her husband aren’t terribly helpful. The direct approach might fare better. I decide to start with Ohio Senator Clement Parsons. He and Jackson went to law school together, which is how an Ohio Senator ended up with the job of dedicating Georgia’s new judicial building. A connection of that sort is unsurprising. The rumors about Jackson and Parsons are a different matter. If internet message boards are to be believed, the two men had a friendship that was a little more than a friendship. Marlon supplied us this information just before we left the squad room to come over here, and the possibilities have been burning my britches ever since.

  I gently ask, “Your husband and Senator Clement Parsons were old friends?”

  Beverly cocks her head and flashes a wicked smile that almost knocks me over in its audacity.

  “Don’t play coy with me, boy. You want to know if Warren and Clement were ‘special friends,’ don’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  She laughs again, but the noise she makes contains no note of joviality. A hardness creeps along the top of her forehead, and I discern that she must be a bitter drunk. She’s halfway there now. Another slug of her drink and she launches into it.

  “Warren and I were already married when Clement came along. Their friendship always struck me as a little peculiar. Sure enough, another law student found them in what might be called a ‘compromising situation.’ The word spread from there. I should’ve left then, but divorce was still frowned upon in those days. Warren never even apologized, and every few years the two of them would go off in the woods to a cabin somewhere to be alone. The whole thing makes me sick. Senator Clement Parsons—the great family man of Capitol Hill. Balderdash! And now he wants to be president. What’s this country coming to?”

  Beverly empties the rest of her drink. A side table next to her holds a bottle of vermouth and a solitary wine glass. She fills the wine glass to the brim. How many drinks does she consume in a day? I glance at Scott in wonder, and he shakes his head with a wry grin. For good measure, she lights another cigarette. Against all semblance of judgment, I’m beginning to like her. Something oddly charming exists about a person who just doesn’t give a damn.

  I continue, “And your husband invited the Senator to dedicate the new judicial building?”

  “Clement’s got a hankering to be president and is making the rounds throughout the country. Warren thought the trip might help his campaign.”

  “I can’t imagine that you and Clement are on good terms.”

  “I hate that son of a bitch.”

  “Why did you go that night then?”

  She pauses to take another drink and to tap some ashes into the empty cocktail glass. Thunder sounds in the distance, and the large windows behind her darken to add a sinister feel to the surroundings. The house already is the type that people often peg as haunted. Beverly could be a ghost herself.
/>   She answers, “Warren wanted me to go, so I went.”

  “Really, Beverly? Because from where I sit you don’t strike me as much of a wallflower who answers to her husband’s beck and call.”

  “When you’re a spouse in politics, that’s what you do. You go to boring parties and you fake smile at people you detest. How many times has the wronged wife stood by her cheating husband at a humiliating news conference? That’s the deal. That’s the price of power.”

  I doubt that’s the whole story, and the skepticism shows on my face. Beverly doesn’t flinch.

  “Don’t believe me, huh? Well, I’m telling you the truth. I played the good little wife for decades, and that night was no different. I did my duty. I went to Warren’s little ceremony ready to humiliate myself so he could cavort with his various lovers right in front of my face. Why do you think I drink so much?”

  “Lovers? Plural?”

  “Hell yes, plural. Let me tell you something about my dead husband if you haven’t figured it out already. He’ll stick his pecker into anything that moves.”

  “Like who?”

  “Aurora Winnett for one.”

  That gets my attention. Aurora Winnett is another justice on the Georgia Supreme Court, over two decades younger than Warren Jackson. I’ve seen her photograph in the paper—an attractive, soccer-mom type. Picturing her with the overweight, balding, and now dead Chief Justice is a hard leap for my mind to make. I tell Beverly as much.

  “I find that surprising.”

  “Who cares what you think? It happened. Her husband called me bitching about it. I told him to get a divorce. He didn’t listen. I think Warren moved on to some other hussy anyway. It’s hard to keep track.”

  “When was this?”

  “Over a year ago or two years or something. I don’t know. The older I get, the more the years start to blur.”

  The alcohol doesn’t help. She returns to her drink but then tilts her head toward me wearing a look of mischief that shows she’s up to no good. After putting her wine glass down, Beverly leans in and jabs her finger at me.

  “Your father had pecker trouble of his own, didn’t he? Warren used your father’s misfortune to get on the Supreme Court, you know.”

  The glint of joy in her eyes at that body blow unsteadies me. She lands on a sore spot that hasn’t even had time to scab over. The hunch is that Beverly has a practiced talent for prodding wounds that still hurt. I hold her glare but concede, “Apparently.”

  “What is it with you men? Always going around sticking your peckers where they don’t belong. Warren broke his marriage vows to me on our honeymoon. I never even wanted to marry him. Our families arranged the union, and I went along with it like I was told. My parents knew that Warren was a first-class bastard, and they still married me off to that man. My mother told me that there was no such thing as true love anyway. Fifty years later, I’ve seen no evidence that she was wrong. Your father had a different reputation—the so-called conscience of the Georgia legislature. ‘An honest man was going to be governor.’ People actually said that. I never believed it. Sure enough, his pecker got the best of him, too. Just like a man.”

  I don’t like her so much now. She’s having a little too much fun at my expense, but I will myself to maintain composure for the sake of the investigation. Undaunted, she pours a little extra salt into the wound, “And with that bitch Susan Benson no less. The conscience of the legislature—ha!”

  The woman is impossible.

  Scott rides to the rescue to take her off my hands for the moment. He asks, “What can you tell us about your movements the night of the reception?”

  Beverly stares at me for a moment longer before pivoting to Scott. I hold my powder dry and decide to let him do most of the talking from here on out.

  She answers, “I was with Warren in his chambers. Then Clement showed up with Kenny Cummings, and I got the hell out of there fast. A woman has a limit to how much degradation she can stand.”

  “And Kenny Cummings was the State Patrol Officer assigned to guard your husband?”

  “He was supposed to. Did a damn poor job of it, I’d say. He drove me home that night, and I gave him hell all the way back. Told him, ‘You had one job, Kenny.’ But then I had to laugh because he looked like he was about to cry. He’s too sensitive to be a cop. He should sell insurance or something.”

  Poor Kenny Cummings. We have yet to meet, but I already feel sorry for him.

  “What did you do after leaving your husband’s office?”

  “What do you think I did? I went to the bar to get a drink. No way I was staying sober for that dog-and-pony show.”

  I find the response highly credible.

  “Makes sense. You get your needed drink, then what?”

  “I drank it and got another.”

  “Just stood there at the bar and drank it?”

  “To the side a little bit, but yeah. I’m a quick drinker.”

  No doubt. I visualize the scene and picture an astonished bartender having to pour out another drink to this old lady after she downed her first in record time.

  Scott continues, “After the second drink, what then?”

  “I meandered around the floor. Had no interest in talking to anyone. Small-talk these days is tedious. People have lost the art of conversation. I got another drink at some point and killed some time waiting in the conference room.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I went into Warren’s chambers and found him dead. I went back into the hall and screamed my bloody head off.”

  That aligns with what we heard. The scream brought the party to the Chief’s chambers, and the crime scene broke down from there.

  “What time did you discover your husband’s body?”

  “The hell if I know. I don’t even own a watch. What’s the deal with you guys?”

  Whether it’s the drinking or a growing frustration with our perceived impertinence, she’s getting more ornery the longer we go on. But Scott can be as stubborn as necessary when required. He presses on.

  “Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts after you left your husband’s chambers earlier in the evening?”

  “Vouch for my whereabouts?” She focuses her attention back on me and asks, “Where did you get this guy?”

  I respond, “Answer the question.”

  She emits a disgruntled noise and sucks on the cigarette for a prolonged time before blowing out the smoke in measured deliberation.

  “Let’s see. The bartender, certainly. A group of justices and spouses were sitting at a table on the landing outside the courtroom. I reckon they saw me. I walked through the courtroom to the back. The Attorney General was in there talking to his brother and a sloppy-looking fat guy. I reached the conference room and didn’t see anyone else. That’s all I remember.”

  The sloppy-looking fat guy must be Gene Davis—the Governor’s Chief of Staff. I follow-up, “Did you keep the door to the conference room open?”

  “Yes.”

  “See anyone walk by?”

  “Can’t say that I did.”

  “How close were you paying attention?”

  “I wasn’t sloshed if that’s what you’re asking. I was looking out the door for a signal as to the beginning of the festivities. I got tired of waiting and went to find Warren. I found him all right.”

  She probably was sloshed, discrediting much of the story, even if she is a high-functioning alcoholic. But I’ve seen a layout of the building. The conference room where Beverly camped out is the next room just around the corner from Jackson’s chambers. Her testimony could be critical.

  I ask, “Didn’t see Senator Parsons again?”

  “Maybe after I screamed. I don’t know. That part’s a real blur.”

  I study her. Her tobacco stained fingers leave dark smudges on the wine glass. Just because she said she discovered her husband dead doesn’t make it so. Maybe she shot him because she had finally had enough. Wouldn’t be the first time. Murders
among elderly couples are on the rise. I put it to her directly.

  “Did you kill your husband?”

  She scoffs.

  “Hell no. He was deader than a runover skunk when I went into that room. But I would like to shake the hand of the person who did. Warren deserved to be shot for rubbing my nose in his love affairs. I’m not one who is much for religion, but I may become a believer yet. Feels good to be a liberated woman. I’m going to use my money to find a boy toy to keep me company. Either of you fellas interested?”

  Scott quips, “How much money are we talking about?”

  Beverly bends over in laughter until a wicked smoker’s cough overtakes her for a good minute. She chases it away by guzzling the vermouth right out of the bottle. She then rises to unsteady feet.

  “Y’all got to leave me alone now. I can’t answer any more questions. It’s time for my daily nap—unless,” she pauses, leering at Scott, “you want to join me.”

  We leave.

  ***

  Back in the car, unsure of what just happened, we look at each other in amazement and just laugh.

  I ask, “Thoughts?”

  “I haven’t heard the word ‘pecker’ since middle school.”

  “Sounds like she wants to see yours.”

  “If the price is right.”

  From an upstairs window, Beverly spies down on us as we pull out from the driveway. The threatened storm never arrived, affording her a clear view. I look right back at her. The thinness of her frame is more pronounced in the harsh natural light—as if she were a wraithlike apparition not really there. The curtain closes, and she is gone.

  I observe, “She had the opportunity to kill him, if nothing else. No real alibi. No proof he was dead when she went in there. Kill him, come back in the hall, and fake scream for effect. I don’t think her conscience would hold her back.”