“How’s the investigation going?”
“Pretty good, the net’s tightening.”
He nods, as if that’s to be expected. Seeing him spurs a thought, and I break out of the doldrums to give him my full focus.
“I’m glad you’re here. What can you tell me about the Chief Justice’s relationship with Aurora Winnett?”
The reaction betrays his knowledge. I peg him as a terrible poker player. He stands there and kinda shrugs his shoulders. I give him an out.
“We know they had an affair. You’re not betraying anyone’s confidences at this point.”
The elevator doors open. He makes a move to get on, but I block him. “Let’s talk first,” I suggest. He nods his reluctant acquiescence, and we amble to the side.
Kenny says, “I really don’t know much and can’t say for sure. I never saw them do anything, you know. I’m not a voyeur. I just know that they spent a lot of time together. Late nights at each other’s houses sometimes. Sharing a hotel room on official trips.”
“When?”
“A couple of years ago now. Nothing recent.”
“Nothing last winter?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Any contact the last few weeks before the Chief’s death?”
“She was in his office some, but that was normal.”
“You ever hear the Chief refer to her as ‘AC’?”
His face shows confusion. He asks, “Why would he?”
“Aurora Cox Winnett—her middle name.”
“Oh. I never heard him call her by those initials. He always called her ‘Justice Winnett’ in front of me. He was formal like that.”
The chances of Aurora Winnett talking to me are remote, especially if she killed Warren Jackson. The only shot I have is confronting her with evidence that she feels the need to explain away. But I keep coming up with blanks on that score. I switch gears.
“Was the Chief making time with anybody else since Winnett dropped out of the picture?”
“If so, I never saw it. But you have to understand, I wasn’t with him 24/7. The past year and a half or so, he cut back on how he used me, mainly just driving him to and from work. He said I was wasting my life always following him around. I liked hanging out with him well enough, but it felt nice to get some of my time back.”
Beverly told Scott and me that her husband was a world-class philanderer. But if Jackson and Winnett cooled off a couple of years ago, who took her place? Beverly said he had moved on to some new hussy. Except she couldn’t give us a name and neither can Kenny.
I ask, “Did Gene Davis say anything to you on the night of the murder?”
“Who?”
“The heavyset guy you saw with the Daltons.”
“Him? I didn’t know his name. Like I told you before, he came out of the courtroom and asked where the restroom was. When he came back out, he did stop and say, ‘Your boss is a swell guy.’ And not in a nice way. I didn’t really answer, just mumbled something. I’m like one of those Queen’s Guards with the big, black hats. I’m not paid to respond to verbal provocations. He let me be and went back into the courtroom.”
“You told me previously that this was before you took Senator Parsons to the Chief Justice?”
“Pretty sure.”
“And no one entered the right hallway door the whole time?”
“Don’t think so. I stopped standing at the door at some point and just started wandering along the balcony on the landing. Someone could’ve slipped in then. I doubt it, but it’s possible.”
“But you were still standing at the door when Senator Parsons came out onto the landing from the other hallway around seven?”
“That’s right.”
I sigh. That information doesn’t really help me. All the suspects had access to Jackson’s chambers without going past Kenny. Lumpkin was already next door to Jackson. Beverly was in the conference room on the other side of her husband. Both Winnetts were in the suite next to Beverly and could’ve easily made the short trip down the hall without being detected. Miller, the Daltons, and Gene had access to the back hallway through the courtroom. Senator Parsons could’ve killed Jackson when the two were alone together. And Cate was in the law library.
This last thought emerges from a place buried deep inside of me, and I wince at it. But thoroughness compels me to note that the staircase connecting the fourth and fifth floors allowed her unobserved access to the same hallway where the murderer entered Jackson’s suite to kill him. Although only a few feet away, Kenny would’ve missed her because the staircase was on the other side of the door that he was guarding.
I ask, “Did you ever hear anyone on the staircase on the other side of the door where you were stationed?”
He considers the question and answers, “Now that you mention it, I did hear the door to the staircase open and then footsteps on the stairs.”
“What time?”
“The Senator was no longer talking to the justices in the landing by then, so after that.”
I’m out of questions, and we head over to catch the elevators. Something else pops in my mind, and I ask Kenny on a whim.
“You know, the Chief Justice wasn’t wearing many clothes under his robe when he was murdered. Any ideas on why?”
“Sure, that one’s easy.”
I stop and look at him. He has my full attention.
“The Chief never wore anything under his robe besides an undershirt, boxer shorts, and his socks.”
“Really?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Well, I’ll be darned.”
On the elevator, he tells me, “I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“Talking sense to me. I told my wife what you said about letting it go—about the boy who killed my daughter. My wife said you were right. It helped to hear that from someone who lived through something similar.”
“Glad to do it.”
“You want to know something sick?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“Sometimes I dream about getting incurable cancer. You know why? Because I could then in good conscience kill my daughter’s boyfriend without feeling like I was abandoning my family. If I was going to die anyway, you know. How messed up is that? I’m in a better place now. Not perfect, but better. Thanks to you.”
He shakes my hand with feeling and walks off.
My heart aches for him. For years I fantasized about the same type of vengeance that he just described. But hearing Kenny verbalize the same hatred I wrestled with over the years gives me pause. I wonder for the first time if I’m better off not knowing who murdered my family. What would I do if I had a name? Sometimes the best prayers are the ones that go unanswered.
35
Gary Winnett doesn’t cut an impressive figure. He’s going bald but refuses to admit it. The comb over does him no favors. A history professor by trade, Gary looks the part at least. He wears a tweed jacket with the stereotypical elbow patches. His variation on tradition is a political slogan t-shirt under the tweed jacket. I remember a line from Seinfeld: “Hipster doofus.” That’s Gary. I almost laugh at the thought but keep my game face on. His office is cluttered and swimming in unread books—the absent-minded professor vibe overwhelming. But Gary’s calculating eyes tell a different story. He looks at me and doesn’t like what he sees.
He barks at Scott, “Who’s this?”
Scott explains, and Gary nods his head in vigorous acknowledgment.
“I know about you. Aurora gave me a heads up. Told me not to talk to you if you came around. I told her I already talked to your friend here. She didn’t like that one bit. Yelled at me for an hour straight. We filed for divorce the next day. I’m sick of that woman. She thinks she’s so smart about everything.”
I offer, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s a relief. She yelled at me like I did something wrong, but that was only to cover her tracks. Detective Moore here told me about Aurora reac
hing out a few weeks ago to get back with Warren. She denied it, but I saw the truth in her lying eyes. She always had a weak spot for that blowhard, called him a great hero for the downtrodden and other nonsense like that. I read his opinions. The man was a hack. But Aurora was really broken up about his death. Made me sick. I doubt she would even care if I died.”
Gary is a talker, confirming Scott’s account that the witness wouldn’t shut up during their first interview. I’m beginning to get the picture. Gary is the type that needs other people to hear what he has to say. He probably became a professor to ensure that he had a captive audience required to hang on to his every word.
Scott says, “We’re here today because some discrepancies have arisen in the investigation.”
He pauses to let the word “discrepancies” marinate. Gary doesn’t like it.
“What discrepancies?”
Scott flips open a notepad and studies it with measured seriousness. He says, “You told me before that you arrived in your wife’s chambers and stayed there until you heard the news of the Chief Justice’s murder.”
“That’s right. What of it?”
“A witness says differently.”
“What witness?”
“I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information.”
Gary stiffens—the rising anger visible like steam off boiling water. He rubs an elbow patch on his blazer with distracted intensity.
“You can at least say what this person says about me.”
A glare radiates off the professor’s face. Scott shakes his head.
“That’s not how this works. Instead, you need to take your time and search your memory real good. You have one chance to get your answer right. Did you at any point leave your wife’s chambers?”
Gary heeds the advice and takes his time. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers.
“I went to the bathroom. Out in the corridor where the dinner was to take place. I remember now.”
A convenient moment for a new memory. I counter, “Why would you do that? Your wife’s chambers has its own bathroom. Why not use that one?”
The question annoys him, and he huffs out a response.
“To use that one, I would’ve had to disturb Aurora. The bathroom is in her office. Too much bother. She doesn’t like me using it anyway. Calls it her own private refuge. Whatever. Going down the hall was easier than dealing with the hassle.”
Scott challenges him, “You walked right by the Chief Justice’s door?”
“So what?”
“That’s a pretty significant detail to forget to mention the first time I talked to you.”
“I had to take a leak and forgot about it. No big deal.”
“Except you were quite confident before that you and your wife could provide each other with alibis. Now you’re both out of luck all of a sudden.”
“I’m my own alibi.”
That response elicits a good laugh from Scott. He turns toward me and says, “He’s his own alibi.”
“Sounds rock solid.”
Gary is not used to being the butt of jokes, and his dander starts to go up. My guess is that his students have to agree with his view of the world if they want to get a good grade. He proclaims, “I don’t have to talk to you guys.”
Scott responds, “You’re going to take your wife’s advice now?”
The taunt works, and Gary calms down. He wants to talk because Aurora doesn’t want him to. She’s clearly the brains behind the operation. Scott resumes the questioning.
“What time did you leave your wife’s chambers?”
Gary picks up his phone and scrolls on it. Scott and I sit there with unfriendly scowls on our faces, unsure as to the purpose of this detour. Gary stops scrolling and announces, “I went to bathroom at 7:14. My son is in college. I remember I sent him a text and went to the bathroom right after.”
He shows us the text. Scott follows up.
“How long were you gone from your wife’s chambers?”
“I don’t know. Five minutes or so.”
“See anyone there and back?”
“No.”
“Not even in the landing area?”
“People were out there, but I really didn’t pay attention. I don’t like the people on the court to be honest. I tried to avoid looking at them.”
“Why come to the event then?”
“Aurora begged me to attend. Warren Jackson wanted to have a good showing for Senator Parsons. I should’ve refused. Then I wouldn’t have to waste my time talking to you guys.”
The realization angers him, and more recriminations against his wife boil up to the surface. He kicks his desk in disgust but quickly appears rueful about allowing the veil of violence to slip. The room settles into an uneasy calm. I ask why he stayed with Aurora the first time around after learning about her affair with Jackson.
“Hell if I know. Divorce felt like too much work. I told her in strong terms never again. Quite strong terms. She got the message, or so I thought. But I should’ve left then. The man’s old enough to be her father. I called Beverly Jackson, and she didn’t even care. I guess after talking to her, I got over it somehow. What’s the difference? I’m not going to be able to trust the next woman, either.”
The casual misogyny is no surprise. Gary obviously thinks that the world owes him something. That mindset would extend to women—that they are there to please him. Experience has no doubt left him disappointed on that score. I wonder if he has ever hit his wife and ask, “What does ‘strong terms’ mean? Did you slap Aurora around?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
A lot of angry looks are exchanged among the three of us in the tense interlude that follows. Finally, Scott asks, “Do you own a gun?”
Gary smacks the desk—the simmering anger splashing out of the pot. Barbara Hsu noted early in the investigation, “A burner on one end, but not the other. Weird.” Exactly. Why would Jackson use his regular phone to communicate while AC used a burner? I’m beginning to get an idea. Aurora Winnett had good reasons to take extra steps to keep her extracurricular activities secret.
The angry man in front of us demands, “What stunt are you trying to pull?”
Scott answers, “It’s routine. We ask everyone the same question.”
“You didn’t ask me the first time.”
“I’m more interested now.”
The implication is unmistakable, and Gary pouts in response for a minute. He refuses to meet our eyes and instead stares into the wall with no indication that he is close to giving an answer. Scott gives him a prod.
“Well?”
“You probably already know the answer.”
“Humor me.”
“Yeah, I own a gun.”
“What type?”
“A 9mm.”
Scott and I try to play it cool, but the atmosphere changes just enough for Gary to realize that his answer tickles our funny bones. Concern wears on his face. Scott musters up his best nonchalant voice.
“Where is your gun now?”
“No more questions. I want a lawyer.”
Gary looks like he could use a stiff drink as he wallows in his mistake of talking to us so freely. High IQ. No common sense. This exact species is far from endangered, especially on college campuses. The lesson is likely lost on him, but he should’ve listened to his wife.
36
“That guy.”
Scott almost spits the words in disgust. I ask his opinion on whether Gary is our man.
“He walked right past Jackson’s door—the only person we can definitely put there at the critical time between when the Senator left and the widow arrived. That’s something. And revenge for poking the wife has been a motive for murder since time began. Still doesn’t feel right to me in terms of planning, though. Bringing the gun suggests premeditation but no way he could count on being in position to pull it off.”
“Except that goes for anybody else, too.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
&nb
sp; “Think Gary hit his wife?”
“He’s controlling enough and sure didn’t like the question. I wouldn’t bet against it.”
Both of us have a frontier justice type of attitude for what should be done to bullies who beat up on women. I start to visualize Gary receiving some of that justice, but Scott breaks me out of my daydreaming.
“We need that gun. You gonna get us a search warrant?”
“I’ll get a warrant, but any gun we find won’t be the murder weapon, especially now. You know—”
A new thought dances around in my head. Is Gary playing games? I start connecting dots.
“Suppose Gary has two guns. He mentions one of them to us and then acts overly nervous when we ask him what type of gun. After being willing to answer our questions, he immediately clams up and asks for a lawyer. Makes us even more suspicious, right? We get a search warrant—as Gary would expect—and find a 9mm pistol. Just like our murder weapon. You and me, we start to get excited. Ballistics runs its tests. Negative. Gary’s gun didn’t kill Warren Jackson, and Gary tumbles back down the suspect list, having played the stupid police like fools.”
“Is he that smart? You’re clever enough to plot that many moves ahead. I don’t know about Gary.”
“He’s a college professor.”
“I’m going to need better proof of cleverness than that.”
“Fair enough, but I don’t want us to get caught with our pants down.”
I call Barbara from the road to tell her to draft a search warrant for Gary Winnett and to meet me at the Fulton County Courthouse with it in hand. The politics here are unsettling. Searching Gary’s house necessarily entails also searching a Supreme Court Justice’s house, in particular the house of the justice most hostile to the police. Aurora Winnett figures to be livid, and I want to be there when Barbara breaks the news to Mary Woodcomb.
***
The judge isn’t happy. She reads the search warrant, bobs her head up to glare at me, then goes back to the papers.
“You want me to approve a search warrant on a Supreme Court Justice?”
Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2) Page 16
