Tom squinted back at his friend. “What are you trying to say?”
“Rick is young and I know his heart is wounded, but he’s also a country boy from Henshaw County. He’s smart, tough, and he ain’t afraid to fight. Plus he’s got skin in the game . . . his daddy’s blood. He shouldn’t be on the sidelines.”
Tom continued to gaze at the river, pondering Bo’s words. I can’t protect everyone . . . Finally, giving his head a jerk, he turned to Bo. “How are you coming with the driver? Jennings?”
“Alvie is still stonewalling me. Not answering calls, and when he does, only staying on the line long enough to tell me to leave him alone.”
“And his brother?”
“Rel hasn’t been much help either. I think something happened when I went up there that spooked them both. I think Bully has gotten to them in some way.”
“Keep trying,” Tom said. “I don’t know that we have any other angles right now.” Abruptly, Tom stepped back from the railing and began to walk down the steps that led to the river.
“Where are you going?” Bo asked, following after him.
“You’ll see,” Tom said.
Three minutes later, they were standing on a wooden dock directly in front of the restaurant. “See Zorn’s dock?” Tom said, pointing at the larger structure half a mile down the river, illuminated by a fog light on top of an adjacent boathouse.
“Those two frat boys found the body halfway between where we are standing and that dock, right?” Bo said.
“Yeah. In the daytime, you can see a trampled path of brush where the cops have walked back and forth from the restaurant to where the body was discovered and then to Zorn’s dock.” He gestured across the river to the other side. “Bo, it is hard to see right now, but there’s a walkway that runs about two miles down the Black Warrior on the opposite side of the shore. There’s a couple of restaurants, Another Broken Egg Cafe, and a froufrou place.”
“They’d be closed during the time of the murder, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes, but I bet there are probably some students and maybe even locals that like to walk along the Riverwalk at night. It’s possible they may have seen something. It’s only three hundred yards or so across the water. That’s why the kids come down here and try to hit a golf ball over the expanse.”
“Professor, you know I love you, but that seems like a huge long shot. Zorn’s boathouse does have a light, but to think that a walker might have seen the murder of Jack Willistone is a stretch.”
“I’m not thinking so much about an eyewitness,” Tom said. “I agree that would be highly unlikely.”
“Then what are you thinking?”
Tom breathed in the muggy air coming off the dirty water. “What did you say when we first began discussing Bully Calhoun as an alternative suspect for the murder?”
Bo smiled. “All roads lead to Jasper.”
Tom snapped his fingers, and he could feel his heart rate picking up speed. “That’s right, but the highway is not the only path to Jasper.” Tom motioned with his head toward the river. “If you head south by boat on the Black Warrior, then you’ll reach the mouth of the Tombigbee. But if you head north . . .”
“. . . you’ll hit Jasper. You want to know if anyone on that side of the river might have seen a boat or some activity on the water around the time of the murder.”
“Exactly. I also want to talk with those two frat boys again and see if they noticed any boats that looked suspicious. We obviously need to watch the entire surveillance video from the guardhouse of the Bent Creek subdivision—hopefully there’s more on the tape than what they played today—and determine if there is anyone else who came through the gate that could be a suspect. But my gut tells me that Bully Calhoun would be too smart to send his enforcer right through the gate. Too much risk that he’d leave a trail.” Tom licked his lips. “The water doesn’t have those limitations.”
“I like it,” Bo said.
Tom took one last look at Greg Zorn’s dock before turning to his friend. “Bo, you hit the nail on the head. No prints or DNA in the car or on the property gives us a seed of doubt to plant on the robbery charge. It doesn’t fit with the story that the prosecution is trying to tell.”
“We just need to find the story it does fit,” Bo said.
Tom pointed at the waters of the Black Warrior. “If there is one, we’ll find it on the river.”
33
The lights in the district attorney’s office were still on when Wade stepped through the door. It was past ten o’clock at night, and the whir of telephones and fingers pattering on computer keyboards had given way to the sobering melancholy of the Delta blues. Wade smiled and walked toward the conference room. He entered without knocking and saw Powell pacing the vinyl floor in a white undershirt, khaki pants, and bare feet. His jacket, button-down, and tie were draped over one of the chairs, and his black Johnston & Murphy lace-ups had been kicked to the corner. Wade couldn’t see the socks anywhere and didn’t ask. The room smelled like sweaty feet and coffee.
Spread across the length of the conference room table were the physical evidence and expert reports introduced at today’s hearing. The only nonevidentiary item was an iPod box belting out Robert Johnson’s greatest hits. Wade held up a bag of Golden Flake salt and vinegar chips in one hand and a six-pack of Miller High Life in the other, and Powell, finally taking notice, hit the stop button on the iPod.
“Your order, Mr. Prosecutor.”
“Just in time,” Powell grunted.
Wade snagged a bottle out of the carton and handed it to Powell, and then he got one for himself. Powell opened the bag of chips and popped two in his mouth. He twisted the top of the beer and tilted it back. Wiping his mouth, he saluted the detective with his other hand. “Thanks, brother.”
“No problem. I like the soundtrack.” Wade nodded toward the iPod. “You think Johnson really sold his soul to the devil?”
Powell rubbed his chin and bit into another chip. “I don’t know whether there was an official transaction or not, but I do believe this.” He pointed at Wade with the chip, and the detective could tell his friend was wired on caffeine. “I believe that Johnson believed he had sold his soul to the devil.” He took another long sip of the champagne of beers. “And that’s all that really matters.”
“What?”
Powell cocked his head. “What do you mean, what?”
“I mean, you said that’s all that really matters. What is it that matters?”
Powell plopped down in one of the chairs. “What a person believes.” He squinted at Wade with eyes that were as red as Alabama’s home jerseys. “In a court of law, what a jury believes.”
Wade slowly took a seat next to him. “What’s on your mind, boss?”
“We’re weak on the aggravators.”
“We are damn not,” Wade said, slamming his fist down on the table. He had expected this complaint and it pissed him off. “Robbery is an aggravator, and the evidence clearly shows that the victim was robbed of a good bit of cash, his briefcase, and whatever was in his glove compartment.”
“It’s all circumstantial,” Powell said, taking a sip of beer.
“I know that, damnit, but sometimes an eyewitness and a confession don’t just jump in our laps.” He sighed and took a pull from his beer bottle.
“The Professor scored some points today.” When Wade flung up an arm to protest, Powell held up his palm to stop him. “Hear me out. No prints or DNA of the defendant in the victim’s car is puzzling given that there were prints on the murder weapon, don’t you think?”
Wade took another sip of beer and tried to keep his temper in check. “Yes, but easily explainable. She didn’t want to shoot Jack with gloves on. Her nine-millimeter is a thin pistol, and she may not have felt comfortable using it with gloves on. She intended to wipe the gun after she shot him, but she dropped it.”
Powell rose from his chair and began to pace again. “That’s what I think too, OK? A very plausible exp
lanation. But why no DNA in Zorn’s home? Or the boathouse? Or the dock itself?”
“We got it where it matters, son,” Wade said. “DNA on the victim’s body.”
“I know, but the absence of it in the car and on the property gives them an angle.”
Wade set his bottle down on the table. “Have you ever had a murder case built on circumstantial evidence that was perfect?”
“No,” Powell admitted, continuing to pace.
“Me neither. Everything is always simpler when you have a confession or a murder with several eyewitnesses.”
Powell stopped pacing and grabbed his beer. “Any response to those flyers we put up at the Riverwalk?”
Wade shook his head. “None.”
Powell took a sip and gazed at the detective. They were now on opposite sides of the long conference room table. “You ever been to the Park at Manderson Landing at night?”
“I went there every night for the week after the murder. Me and two deputies. We stopped and talked to everyone we saw. It’s all in the file.”
“There was an astronomy professor who was out running the night of the murder, right?”
“Yeah. Can’t remember his name off the top of my head, but he lives near campus and runs just about every night along the Riverwalk. He teaches a class on Tuesday and Thursday nights, so on those evenings he runs after the class is over.”
“What time?”
“Well, the class is from eight to nine, so normally he goes from nine fifteen to ten.”
“Which is just outside Ingrid’s time of death.”
Wade took a sip of beer. “Yes, but he said he would have gone later on the night of the murder, because he took the students in his class, all of whom are twenty-one or older, to Buffalo Phil’s for a couple of three-dollar pitchers of Bud Light on the outside patio to celebrate the end of the semester.”
Powell winced. He and his best friend, Rick Drake, had enjoyed three-dollar-pitcher night at Phil’s throughout law school. Powell felt a twinge of sadness as he thought of Rick. He hadn’t seen him since his father’s funeral and hadn’t talked with him since the arrest of Wilma Newton. He’d started to call him a couple of times, but with the Professor representing Newton, he’d stopped. The conversation would’ve been too awkward.
“Anyway,” Wade continued, “the guy”—Wade snapped his fingers—“Sean Newell is his name. Dr. Newell said he wouldn’t have gone running until around ten on May 8 and would have finished up around elevenish.”
Powell creased his eyebrows. “He went running after drinking beer and eating wings?”
“You’d have to see the guy. He’s north of fifty years old but a total health nut. Runs every day and big into triathlons. He said he couldn’t miss a run or it would throw off his training.”
“So he would’ve been there within Ingrid’s time-of-death range.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t see anything. Says when he runs, he zones out. He also had ear buds on and was listening to his iPod playlist, so he didn’t hear anything either.”
Powell began to pace again, holding his almost empty bottle by his side. “Newell couldn’t be the only runner on the Riverwalk that night.”
Wade sighed. “It was late, brother. I agree that there’s a lot of foot traffic along the Riverwalk through the day. Runners, kids, and adults walking their dogs, nature lovers, you name it. But at that time of night on a Tuesday . . .”
“Any word on the panties y’all found by the railing?”
“You’ll never believe this, but no one has come in to claim them.”
“Big surprise,” Powell said. “Did Newell mention any other frequent flyers? Folks he would always see when he would run at night?” He paused. “Coeds knocking boots on the benches nearest the shore?”
Wade shook his head and sipped from his bottle. “None of the above.”
Powell cursed and grabbed a handful of chips. “So it’s a dead end.”
“Looks like it. I guess it’s possible that someone could see the flyer and come forward, but that would be highly unlikely at this point in the game. I mean, if there was somebody out there that did see something, why haven’t they already come forward? Besides, we are talking about a distance of about three hundred yards across the river. Even if there was a witness, would that person be able to identify Wilma Newton as our killer from that far away?”
Powell didn’t say anything. He plopped down in the closest chair and Wade did the same. For a few minutes, the two men drank in silence. Finally, Powell leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. “How did it feel being cross-examined by the Professor?”
“Weird,” Wade said. “Very weird. I didn’t like it.”
“Me neither,” Powell said, still gazing at the ceiling. “Wade, I don’t want to lose this case. But I’m not sure how happy I’m going to be if we win it.”
“I feel the same way, but we have a job to do and we are going to win. We may not get the death penalty—it’s hard for a jury to put someone to death without direct evidence—but we’ll get her on murder, you can take that to the bank. Tom may have scored some points today with the prints and DNA that we don’t have, but we made a pretty damn convincing case with what we do have. He knows he’s got an uphill climb.”
Powell nodded and cracked open another beer. “I’m worried about Jack’s family.”
“The widow?”
“Not just her. Did you see Jack’s son today?”
“Yeah, he was sitting in the back row with his mother. Jack’s ex-wife. We had made room for them on the row behind us, but Barbara said she didn’t want to disrupt the hearing if Danny needed a break.”
“You think that was the only reason? Did you see how she looked at Kat?”
“I suspect her . . . feelings toward Jack’s widow had something to do with it too.”
“Has Kat collected the life insurance benefits yet?”
“No, but her claim was approved. She should be receiving the money in a few weeks.”
“Keep an eye on her. Jack Willistone is not a sympathetic victim, but he will be even less so if his widow is out gallivanting around, spending money like it’s going out of style.” He sipped the beer. “We should probably have her come in for a talk once she does receive the proceeds.”
“I agree. What about Barbara and Danny?”
Powell rubbed his chin and again gazed at the ceiling. “Danny has severe autism and resides at a facility in Birmingham, right?”
“Right. Glenwood I think is the name. His mother lives here in town on Queen City.”
Powell began to flip through a notebook of documents. When he found what he wanted, he motioned to Wade. “Come here, I want you to look at something.”
Wade stepped over and glanced at the page. “Visitor’s log for the St. Clair Correctional Facility.”
Powell went through the sheets of paper, counting with his fingers. “I count twenty-two visits by Barbara Willistone during Jack’s eighteen months of confinement. Some with Danny and some without.”
Wade wiped his eyes and looked at his watch. It was now past eleven o’clock and the detective was ready to hit the hay. “So what?”
“So his ex-wife visits on a regular basis while he’s in prison and his current wife doesn’t come to see him at all. Not a single time.”
“Break it down for me, brother. What are you getting at?”
Powell rubbed his own bloodshot eyes and flipped through the notebook to another tab. “Have you had a chance to read Ingrid’s final autopsy report cover to cover?”
“Twice,” Wade said. “Come on, brother, give me more credit than that.”
“I’m sorry. We just got it yesterday and I didn’t want to make any assumptions.”
“Ingrid did a thorough job and the cause of death matched what we’ve known from the beginning. What’s the problem?”
Powell licked his fingers and turned the pages until he found what he wanted. When he did, he tapped the sheet with his index finger.
“This.”
Wade peered down and read the two sentences below Powell’s finger. “OK, I repeat, What’s the problem?”
“He was dying,” Powell said, his voice dripping with intensity. “At the time of the murder, Jack had prostate cancer that had spread to the liver and lymph nodes. Don’t you think that changes the dynamic a little?”
“No,” Wade said. “Why don’t you break it down for me?”
Powell closed the notebook and began to pace again. “Look, I know Jack Willistone was a hard son of a bitch, but it doesn’t make sense to me that his autistic son wouldn’t be at least a partial beneficiary on his life insurance policy. Especially with him knocking on death’s door.”
“You think that’s why Barbara came to visit so many times?”
“Why else? I don’t think she was giving him hand jobs. Conjugal visits are limited to a current spouse. And based on everything we know, their divorce was nasty. He left her for a younger, richer woman.”
Wade rubbed his eyes again. “OK, I see your point, but why are you worried about it? So Barbara was trying to get Jack to change the beneficiary on his life policy before he bought the farm, and he ended up screwing her over. That sounds like Jack to me.”
“I guess,” Powell said, putting both hands over his face and rubbing them up and down. “There’s also Bully Calhoun’s handful of visits to Jack in the two months before his release. When we met with Bully in Jasper, he didn’t say anything about Jack being sick.”
“Maybe he didn’t know.”
Powell pursed his lips. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. It wouldn’t be that uncommon for a person not to broadcast his health problems. Who knows? Jack may not have even been aware he was sick. We’ll need to obtain the prison medical records, if there are any, to be sure.”
“Let’s do that ASAP, OK? I’m sure the Professor will request them after he has time to digest Ingrid’s report.”
“Ten-four.”
Powell collapsed into his chair and took a long sip from his beer bottle.
The Last Trial Page 19
