by Robin Caroll
Interesting. “At first?”
“She wasn’t there when we were.”
Ah. Now it made sense. And whether she realized it or not, she’d just cemented her own motive. “But she found out later?”
Again, Mantle glanced at Putman before continuing. “She wouldn’t have. She had class for another hour or so—”
Putman put her hand on Mantle’s arm and looked at Nick. “My client is answering your questions in this line against my advice.”
Now it was really interesting. “So noted.” He nodded at Mantle. “But she found out?”
“We were leaving when David pulled up.”
“David Tiddle?”
“Yes. He knew Gina hadn’t approved of my relationship with Adam.”
“So he knew about it?”
“Yes, but . . .” She looked at Putman for a brief moment, then continued. “He told me he wouldn’t tell her if I stayed away from her. He was determined to cut her off from her family and friends so she wouldn’t realize what a jerk he really is.”
Back up. “He told you he wouldn’t tell Gina if you stayed away from her?”
“Right.”
“But he told her anyway?”
Mantle swallowed. “I didn’t believe him. Adam said he’d seen the look of guys like him before and they were cowards. I thought David was just trying to manipulate me.”
With blackmail? “So you didn’t stay away from Gina?”
She shook her head. “I went to her place that same night to borrow a sweater I loved and he was there. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was going to tell her. He did.”
“What happened?”
“She went ballistic. Said she was so disappointed in me and mad that I would use her house as a no-tell motel.” Mantle’s face went red again. “She told me what hurt her the most was that I had totally disregarded her wishes.” Big tears slid down her cheeks. “Gina asked for my key to her house back and then told me to get out.”
This was solid motive. He stared at Putman, who did a slight shoulder lift. “When was this?”
“About two weeks ago.” She dabbed at her tears with her shirt sleeve.
“This was that spat you told me about?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything, but I knew it made me look bad.”
Did it ever. “So why are you telling me all this now?” He nodded toward Ms. Putman. “Especially against your lawyer’s advice?”
“Because I’m convinced David’s the one who killed Gina. If he found out she and I were talking again, he’d know I would tell her about his attempts to manipulate her. He couldn’t afford to have her dump him.”
“Why is that, exactly?”
Mantle continued to sniff between statements. “He was totally obsessed with her. He changed his work hours so he could be with her when she didn’t have classes. After he dropped her off at her place after a date, he’d sit in his car, parked on the road, until she turned out all the lights. It was like if she was awake and not in class, he just had to be with her. I don’t think he could’ve handled it if she had broken up with him.”
Sounded like an abuser . . . trying to cut her off from her family and friends. “Did he ever hit Gina that you’re aware of?”
Despite her obvious dislike of Tiddle, she shook her head. “Oh no. He was too scared to lose her.”
Yet she sat here and accused him of murdering Gina. If anything Mantle said was the truth. At this point, Nick just wasn’t sure.
“One more question, Ms. Mantle.”
She wiped her nose with her sleeve and nodded.
“What did Mr. Alexander say when you told him that Mr. Tiddle had called your bluff and told Gina?”
“He said David was trouble with a capital T and I should stay away from him.”
“And Gina? What did Mr. Alexander say about Gina?”
Mantle sniffed. “He asked if she was angry enough to go to the provost and tell on us. He was worried about that, naturally.”
Of course, but how worried was he?
“How did you answer him?”
“I told him she was pretty mad. He said he’d talk to her after class on Thursday.”
Gina Ford was murdered the next morning.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I was training to be an electrician. I suppose I got wired the wrong way round somewhere along the line.”
Elvis Presley
The courtroom was more elaborate than it’d been for Hubble’s hearing. This was open court, complete with members of the press sitting in the back benches.
Despite the chill of the February morning, Maddie was burning up. She clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap. She could make out Darren sitting just behind the prosecutor’s table.
“Return to sender, address unknown.”
Opposite the prosecutor’s table sat Conrad Sloan and his defense attorney. Conrad Sloan, the man who had called and threatened her. The man who’d come to her house to—what? Traumatize her? Terrify her? Would he have stopped there? Maddie shivered.
“No such number, no such zone.”
What if he had come out of the mudroom . . . would she have pulled the trigger? Would she be the one before a judge now instead of him? Self-defense was a legal term. It didn’t change the fact that a person was dead. Would she have been able to live with herself?
The courtroom deputy entered the room from the door behind the judge’s platform, the judge behind him. The deputy called the court to order and read the case number. The judge took his seat and instructed everyone else to as well.
As she sat, Maddie noticed the young African American woman sitting behind the defense table. At first, she wondered why a teenager would be in the courtroom, then realized the girl was actually much older but had a very slight build.
The prosecutor stated the charges, mentioned Darren being prepared to testify, along with the arresting officers from Memphis Police Department, and noted the signed confession.
She could make out the flipping of pages from the reporters seated behind her.
Soon enough, the prosecutor sat.
The judge leaned forward and peered down his nose. “Would the defendant like to address the court prior to sentencing?”
The defense attorney shot to his feet. “He would, Your Honor.” He nodded for Conrad to stand.
He was a lot shorter than she’d expected, this man who had deliberately set out to scare and possibly harm her. He wasn’t that stout either. Actually, he was built a lot like Peter, now that she evaluated him without emotion.
“Your Honor, I did call Ms. Baxter to scare her. I did go to her house. I didn’t plan to actually break in, but I got so worked up thinking about what she done that I just did.” He glanced over his shoulder at the young woman sitting behind him. “See, Your Honor, a man attacked my little sister some time ago and went to jail for it. We thought it was done. But then, Ms. Baxter comes into court and says that man’s blood DNA don’t match the man’s who hurt my sister. So the court lets him go.”
The young woman bent her head. Her body shook in silence.
“That man who attacked my sister, he’s out free now. All because of Ms. Baxter saying so. My sister’s scared he’s gonna come after her and hurt her again. I just wanted Ms. Baxter to know what it felt like for my sister to be so scared.”
A sob escaped from the woman.
“I’m very sorry for breaking into Ms. Baxter’s, Your Honor.” He nodded. “Thank you.” He sat beside his attorney.
The judge continued to stare at Conrad. “You do understand, Mr. Sloan, that Ms. Baxter, your intended victim, is a TBI officer, and as such, an officer of the court?”
The defense attorney motioned Conrad back to his feet. “Uh, yes, sir, Yo
ur Honor.”
“And you understand that you are charged with a Class C felony, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your attorney has explained to you what your guilty plea means?”
“Yes, sir.”
Maddie only heard the judge’s voice speaking, not the words. Her focus remained on the young woman. She had to be Conrad’s sister . . . the one who accused Mark Hubble.
The judge’s voice rose, seeming to bounce off the paneled walls. “In accordance with the gradations of criminal offenses under Tennessee law, I hereby sentence you, Conrad Sloan, to eight years in prison and a fine of eight thousand dollars.” He asked for the financial information from the pretrial services desk, but Maddie stopped listening.
The young woman ran from the courtroom. Two members of the press pursued her.
Maddie grabbed her purse from the bench beside her and burst out of the courtroom. She looked up and down the hallway, finally spying the woman. The reporters had her flanked on either side while she covered her face with her hands.
“Leave her alone.” Maddie advanced on them.
The blond reporter glared at her, his expression clearly displeased at her interruption. “We’re just asking her some questions.”
“I don’t think she wants to answer any of your questions.” Maddie stepped between the woman and the reporters.
“Hey, I know you.” The second reporter, a pudgy sort, nudged the first one. “It’s Maddie Baxter. You’re the one whose house was broken into.”
The young woman gasped behind her.
They had to get away from them. Where? How?
Maddie grabbed the woman’s arm and led her down the hallway, across the corridor, and into the ladies’ room. She shut the door and leaned against it. “There. They can’t get to us in here.” She straightened. “At least they’d better not.”
The young woman stared at her. Disdain lined every pore of her face. “You’re the one who let Mark out. He attacked me.”
The accusation cut through Maddie. “I’m sorry, but science doesn’t lie. I ran that test multiple times to be sure.”
The woman’s eyes were pools. “You don’t think I know the man who attacked me?”
Maddie’s own eyes burned. “I read the transcript of your trial. It was dark. You were scared. You were crying. Isn’t it possible you were mistaken?”
The woman trembled.
“I didn’t want to set him free. Don’t you see? I hate that he’s out. I know he’s a creep. But, ma’am, Mark Hubble’s DNA did not match what was taken from the scene of your attack.” Maddie shook her head, willing her emotion to settle back down.
The woman glared at her. “And now my brother, who has been eaten with guilt that he couldn’t protect me since the attack, is in jail for eight years.” She shook all over. “Eight years in jail, while Mark Hubble is free.” She reared her hand back and slapped Maddie across the face.
Stinging pain shot throughout Maddie’s entire head. She lifted her hand to her cheek, which felt as hot as scalding water.
“Live with that.” The woman marched from the bathroom.
Leaning over the row of sinks, Maddie stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman had left a defined handprint on her right cheek.
Live with that?
Maddie didn’t know if she could. Oh, God, please help me.
“Hagar.” Nick wedged the phone between his chin and shoulder as he finished typing his case file notes on his computer.
“It’s Peter Helm. I just finished speaking with Mr. Doak.”
Ah. The teacher who got tangled up with Alexander. “And?” Nick reached for a pen and a scrap of paper.
“They were at a fellow teacher’s house, playing pool and shooting darts. Some in attendance were playing canasta. The topic of politics came up and Doak and Alexander found themselves on opposite sides of the fence. The exchange between them got heated so Doak went outside in the backyard to cool off a bit.”
Pretty much what Emmel had already said.
“Here’s where it gets interesting. Doak says he was out there alone for a good three to five minutes before Alexander came out. He says he apologized for getting hostile and assumed that’s why Alexander came out. But it wasn’t.”
Helm cleared his throat. “Doak says Alexander began insulting him on a personal level, making rude and crude statements about Doak’s wife. Naturally, Doak got angry. He made a comment to the effect of ‘at least I can get a real woman instead of having to settle for young college girls who only sleep with me to get a better grade,’ and then Doak implied Alexander would soon lose his job because of his actions.”
“And that’s when the fistfight broke out?”
“Not exactly. Doak said Alexander laughed and told him he didn’t know what he was talking about and implied he knew how to handle his problems. And then he punched Doak.”
Handle his problems . . . might be referring to Gina. “Helm, did you get the day this all went down?”
“Yes. It was Friday night.”
The day Gina Ford was murdered.
“Agent Hagar?”
“Yeah?”
“I think it might be best if you speak to the university’s provost.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all. I just think the FBI carries more weight than the TBI, and I’ve been asked to look into something this afternoon.”
“Okay. I’ll head that way now.” He hung up the phone and buzzed Timmons. They met at the car.
“How’d court go this morning?”
“Sloan got eight years, eight thousand dollars.”
Nick cocked his head. “About right.” But he would’ve liked to have seen the scumbag who scared Maddie get the maximum sentence of fifteen years.
“I wanted to talk to Maddie after it was over, but she’d already left.”
“Maddie was there?” She’d told him she wasn’t going to go. Said she didn’t want to be there.
“Yeah. I guess she changed her mind.”
He’d ask her about that later, but for now, he pulled up into the parking lot of the University of Memphis’s main office.
The afternoon sun slipped further toward the horizon as the wind skittered an empty paper cup across the asphalt.
They were sent right in to see the provost, who stood to greet them. “Welcome.” He extended his hand across his desk. “I’m Archibald Roman.”
Nick introduced himself and Timmons, then they sat in the plush chairs facing the provost’s elaborately detailed desk. Diplomas and certificates decorated the walls behind his desk. Photos of Roman with various political and famous personalities littered the office in their snazzy brass frames.
“How may I help you, gentlemen? Is there any news on Gina’s or Hailey’s deaths?”
Nick leaned forward. “Actually, Mr. Roman, we’d like to ask a few questions regarding a member of your faculty. Adam Alexander.”
The provost’s upper lip stiffened. “What about him?”
“We understand there have been several complaints made against him.”
“In what manner?”
Nick rested his right ankle on his left knee. “We hoped that information would come from you, sir.”
“Employee files are confidential.”
“This is a murder investigation, Mr. Roman. Here. On your campus. Surely the alumni and trustees would love for there to be some sort of resolution to avoid the fear of young women moving to other campuses, fleeing for their safety?”
A line of sweat on the man’s brow glistened in the lights. “Well, yes.” He paused, looking past them before seeming to reach a decision. He leaned forward. “I can tell you that Mr. Alexander has been warned several times regarding his a
lleged involvement with students.” He withdrew a cloth from his pocket and daubed his forehead. “Understand it’s alleged. Nothing has been substantiated.”
“If you receive another complaint on Mr. Alexander of the same nature, what will happen? Probation?”
“No. He’s already on probation. That goes with the second warning.”
Nick waited.
“This university is over a hundred years old. We are well respected in the education community. Our motto is Dreamers. Thinkers. Doers. Our reputation is always on the line in these kinds of situations.”
Still silent, Nick continued to wait.
The provost sweated more profusely. “Just between us, the man is a womanizer. If I receive a third complaint of this nature, he’ll be fired.”
The motive for Adam Alexander to shut up Gina Ford just went platinum.
“Mr. Roman, do you know if Mr. Alexander has any classes on Friday mornings?”
“Let me check.” He lifted the receiver, asked the question, waited a moment, then hung it up. “He doesn’t have any classes on Fridays.”
“I have one final question for you.” Nick sat up, placing both feet firmly on the ground. “Why did you hire Mr. Alexander when he’d had trouble with this exact issue at the University of Tennessee Health Science Center campus here in Memphis?”
The provost’s face puckered as if he’d eaten a Sour Ball. The sweat covered not just his forehead, but his upper lip and bridge of his nose as if it were the middle of summer instead of winter. “That’s confidential information.”
Ah, so there was more to the story. It didn’t matter at the moment. If they needed it to indict Alexander, Nick could get a warrant. But he was fairly sure it wouldn’t be required to get the indictment. For now he had enough to bring Adam Alexander in for questioning.
He couldn’t wait to see the man who’d broken Maddie’s heart yet left her still inspired to take up for him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I’ve been getting some bad publicity—
but you got to expect that.”
Elvis Presley
