Mary was about to ask what exactly had happened when Victor’s phone rang. He rolled off the bed and went into the bathroom to answer it, closing the door behind him.
“I really need to talk to a lawyer,” Grace was saying. “Could you possibly come over to my house this afternoon?”
Mary had planned a slow day with Victor, but with both their work phones ringing, that now seemed unlikely. “Sure,” she told Grace. “Where and what time?”
They agreed to meet at two. Mary scribbled the address down on the back of the Turpin report. “Okay,” she replied. “I’ll see you then.”
She clicked off about the same time Victor did. He strode back into the bedroom, frowning. “Duty called?” she asked.
“Yep. How about you?”
“The same.”
“Anything you can talk about?”
“I’m guessing domestic abuse,” Mary replied.
“Right up your alley,” said Victor. “You got a meeting today?”
“At two.”
“I’m meeting Cochran at one,” he said. “Here’s a totally off-the-record newsflash for you. Those underpants Saunooke found? They were manufactured by the Carter Company from 1985 to 1990.”
“Holy shit, Victor. Hartsville will go nuts all over again.”
“I know,” he said, shoving the Times to the floor as he took her in his arms. “But until then, how about you and I go a little nuts right now?”
Grace Collier lived in a small, nondescript ranch house made incredibly descript by its landscaping. Mary could see an artist’s eye in the varying greens of the ivy and azaleas and rhododendrons that bloomed close to the house, accented by purple phlox and yellow impatiens, all pulled together with white alyssums. The effect was not studied, but natural, as if the house had just sprouted up in the middle of a bank of flowers. The only thing that spoiled it was a tall privacy fence that surrounded the back yard. Even there, though, beauty had been encouraged. Thick trumpet vines draped the fence, bees buzzing among the lush red flowers.
Aware that she was coming as an attorney more than a friend, Mary shouldered her briefcase as she walked to the door. She lifted a brass doorknocker in the shape of a Cherokee bear mask, and remembered that she and Grace were sisters in skin—both were part Cherokee, living in a world different from the reservation.
She heard heavy footsteps nearing then thudding away from the door. She knocked again and lighter ones came, growing louder. A lock turned, the door opened. Grace stood there in an oversized shirt with paint spatters down the front.
“Mary.” She smiled. “Come on in.”
Mary stepped into a small living room, bare of furniture except for a single sofa and a wingback chair. Grace’s paintings hung on the walls, and the room held the scent of oranges. Distantly, Mary heard what sounded like a cartoon show on television.
“I really appreciate this,” said Grace. “I know you probably don’t work on Sunday.”
“No problem.” Mary smiled at the memory of her Sunday morning with Victor.
“Would you like some tea?”
“No, thanks.” Mary replied, sitting on the sofa. “I just had lunch. So tell me what’s going on.”
Grace sat next to her. For a moment she gazed at her lap, picking red paint from beneath her thumbnail, then she said, “The reason I called you is my son, Zack.”
“I didn’t know you had a son,” said Mary.
“He’s autistic,” said Grace. “A forty-two-year-old man who’s emotionally still a child.”
Mary heard the weariness in Grace’s voice. “I’m afraid I’m not very knowledgeable about autism. It’s a birth defect, right?”
“Not exactly. It has to do with the brain, but they’re not sure how. Mostly it affects boys. People who have it can range from being near geniuses to being barely able to speak.”
“And your son?”
“Zack’s relatively high-functioning—he can read, sign his name, remember long series of numbers. He’s also talented—he can draw and paint.”
“Just like his mother,” said Mary, wondering when the downside of this story was coming.
“What he can’t do is live a normal life. Autistic people can’t relate to other people as we do. They live inside themselves, struggling with social skills you and I would find easy.”
“And Zack’s world is what?” asked Mary.
Grace sighed. “This house and the back yard is Zack’s world.”
“He doesn’t go to any kind of school?”
“He has anger-management issues. Not many programs will take someone like that. I’ve got an application into a new one right now, but if he doesn’t get in, he’ll have to live here, with me. A caregiver stays during the week, but nights and weekends, it’s just the two of us.”
Mary glanced at the long sleeve that had ridden up to Grace’s elbow. Bruises dark as tattoos decorated her forearm. “Did he give you those?”
Grace quickly pulled her sleeve down. “Yeah. I saw Emily looking at these yesterday. I bet you all think my husband beats me, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what Emily thinks,” said Mary. “I’ve just worked on a lot of abuse cases and connected my usual set of dots.”
“I’m divorced. My husband, Mike, left me when Zack turned sixteen. He just couldn’t take having a damaged child anymore.”
Mary asked, “Did his leaving set off your son’s outbursts?”
“No, Zack’s had anger issues since he was a little boy.” Grace looked down, her chin quivering. “He’s always remorseful after one of his meltdowns, but in the moment, he truly can’t control himself.” She rose from the sofa and walked over to the front door.
“See this painting?” She pointed to a small landscape of their front yard, sunlight dappling the flowers, the blue mountains hazy on the far horizon.
“It’s beautiful,” said Mary. “When did you paint it?”
“I didn’t,” Grace replied. “Zack did. Zack also did this.”
She took the painting off the wall, revealing a fist-sized hole in the plaster. “I don’t have the money to have them all repaired, so I just started hanging pictures over the worst ones.” She gave a deep sigh. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent my whole life covering up Zack’s outbursts.”
Suddenly a high-pitched yell came from the back part of the house.
“Excuse me,” said Grace. “I’ll be right back.”
As Grace hurried to her son, Mary remained on the sofa, wondering how many paintings were there on display and how many just hid fist holes in the walls. Soon she heard Grace’s footsteps returning.
“Sorry,” Grace apologized. “The VCR chewed up one of his tapes.”
Mary said, “He still watches videotapes?”
“He’s obsessed with them—as are many autistic people. He orders them from all over the country. Getting a new video in the mail is like Christmas for Zack.”
Mary didn’t know quite what to say, so she asked the obvious. “So how can I help you?”
Grace said, “Have you ever heard of the Teresa Ewing murder case?”
Mary drew a quick breath. First Victor, now Grace. “Of course I have. The little girl under the Undli Adaya. Why?”
“My son was the only person they arrested. We lived on Salola Street then. He played with Teresa and the other neighborhood children. Everyone was convinced Zack did it, because he was older and bigger and, well, strange.”
“But they didn’t go to trial,” said Mary.
“No. The police scared him into signing a confession. Then Cecil Earp got the thing thrown out.” Grace rubbed her temples, as if she had a headache. “This reason I called you is that a detective came here yesterday. He said they wanted new DNA samples from Zack.”
Mary frowned, confused. If Victor didn’t know the date of manufacture of those underpants until this
morning, why had the cops asked for DNA yesterday? “Did the detective give you his card?”
Grace gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t need Buck Whaley’s card. He comes by here every month or so. Zack’s the puppy he likes to torture.”
Mary stared at her. “Are you serious?”
Grace nodded, her words pouring out. “Mary, Teresa Ewing’s murder was the worst thing that ever happened to us. We got constant phone calls, garbage dumped on our lawn, a rattlesnake in our mailbox. Once I was buying flowers at the hardware store when a man waggled a rope in front of me and said he was buying it to lynch my pervert son. After they threw out Zack’s confession, it got ten times worse. I think that’s what finally drove my husband away. It was awful for him—awful for all of us.”
“I had no idea,” said Mary.
Grace reached for Mary’s arm. “I’m just telling you—we can’t go through that again. After Whaley came yesterday, I realized I’d met someone—you—who might understand. Could you help us?”
Mary opened her briefcase, thinking that far worse than Whaley was going to come if they found DNA on those underpants. But now was not the time to go there. She pulled out a legal pad. “Tell me exactly what Whaley said. You may have a case against him for harassment.”
“That they needed more DNA. If Zack didn’t voluntarily give it, he would get a court order and take him down to the station in handcuffs. Mary, policemen just terrify my son.”
“But Whaley didn’t serve you with any papers?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s good news.”
“So this isn’t so bad?” Grace asked, the hope palpable in her voice. “This might just be Buck Whaley’s idea of a joke?”
“No, he wouldn’t come out here and ask for DNA for a joke.” Mary couldn’t share what Victor had told her, but she still wondered why Whaley had jumped the gun by a full day. Maybe Cochran and Whaley knew something Victor didn’t.
Tears spilled from Grace’s eyes. “I don’t know what to do. If all this Teresa Ewing stuff starts up again, we can kiss Hillview Haven good-bye. That’s Zack’s last chance—my last chance—for him to have a semi-independent life.”
Mary wondered how well someone who pummels drywall might do in a group home, but that was not her call. “I’d advise you to do nothing right now,” she told Grace. “If Whaley shows up with a warrant for DNA, call me. I’m happy to represent Zack, and I promise you nobody will bully him this time.”
“Bless you.” Grace wiped away tears, then said, “I don’t have a lot of money. I teach art at the college, and occasionally sell a painting. It might take me a while to pay your bill.”
“Don’t worry about it, Grace. For now let’s just trade—my legal advice for all that gorgeous artwork you created for my campaign.”
“Wahdoe,” Grace whispered, for the first time speaking in Cherokee, the language she and Mary both understood.
Eight
Jerry Cochran stood in front of his white board, blue marker in hand. In front of him, Rob Saunooke, Victor Galloway, and Buck Whaley sat in a semicircle, looking at him, watchful as retrievers. “Okay, gentlemen, tell me what you’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours.” He turned to the board. “Saunooke?”
The young patrolman stood up. “Nobody at the yard sale noticed any unusual activity. They said there were some kids playing on the dirt piles the bulldozers pushed up, but their parents yelled at them to come down. I bagged two cigarette butts people had thrown away.”
“Good,” said Cochran. “We’ll run a check.” He turned to Whaley. “Buck?”
“I got the employee rosters from the construction firm,” reported Whaley. “Found some DUIs and a couple of assaults. No rapists or pedophiles, though a bunch of their workers are illegals with no records. Checked with the arborist who pruned and fed the tree back in February. He didn’t notice anything buried in the roots.”
Cochran nodded. “Galloway?”
Victor unfolded himself from a chair. “According to the SBI, the underpants were made by the Carter Company around 1988. The size would have fit a girl of Teresa’s height and weight. The sandwich bag was made in Illinois in 2011 and contained traces of sodium nitrate, a chemical used to preserve meats like bologna and bacon. The cigarette is American Spirit—a Native American brand.”
“Any DNA or prints?” asked Whaley.
“Prints on the bag, but they don’t match anybody in the system. They’re working on the underpants. The smoke was clean.”
“There go your butts, Saunooke.” Whaley laughed.
“Not necessarily,” Saunooke replied. “Somebody could have strolled through the yard sale, smoking, casual-like. Then he sneaks off to bury the underpants. Maybe something scares him off and he doesn’t notice a cigarette’s fallen out of his pocket.”
Cochran shrugged. “That’s possible. One smoke could fall out of a baggy shirt pocket if you’re bending over a hole in the ground.” He drew a question mark on the board. “So what does all this tell us, gentlemen?”
“Somebody, possibly a smoker—possibly a Native American smoker—has kept a pair of little girl’s underpants for a very long time,” said Victor. “And very recently buried them in the spot where Teresa Ewing’s body was found.”
“After he finished his bologna sandwich,” said Whaley.
Cochran ignored Whaley’s sarcasm. “What sort of person might do that? Young? Old? Male? Female? White? Cherokee?”
“Somebody local and older,” said Whaley, now serious.
“Agreed,” said Cochran. “Someone would have to be at least in their mid-thirties to have any real memory of this case. Let’s look at our old suspects.”
He listed their names on the board—Zack Collier, Devin McConnell, Lawrence Russell, Adam Shaw, Arthur Hayes, and Two Toes McCoy. Hayes is off the list—he fell off a fire escape and broke his neck while peeping into a woman’s apartment.”
“I thought Two Toes was doing twenty in Craggy Prison,” said Whaley.
“He’s out on parole. He now lives on the reservation, claiming to be a priest in some Native American religion.”
Whaley laughed. “Two Toes behaves pretty good in prison. It’s in real life that he fucks up.”
Cochran went on. “The rest of the suspects were all neighborhood kids. Four males, between eight and twelve, except for Zack Collier, an autistic boy who was fifteen at the time. From the old interviews I read last night, they were about to get into some sex games.”
“At that age?” asked Galloway.
“Shannon Cooper and Janie Griffin were two female witnesses. They claimed that on that last afternoon the boys dared the girls to play Bottom Up, a version of strip poker where you start betting your shoes and work your way up. They refused and went home. Teresa said she didn’t want to play either, but the last time the girls saw her, she was still under the tree, talking to the boys.”
“What did the boys say?”
“They all denied that anybody played anything.”
“Same old shit.” Whaley laughed. “He said, she said.”
“Do those kids still live here?” asked Galloway
“Devin McConnell, Butch Russell, and Zack Collier do. Adam Shaw’s father sent him to live with relatives in New York shortly after they found Teresa’s body. Shannon Cooper and Janie Griffin moved away years ago.”
“Have they stayed clean all these years?”
Cochran checked his tablet. “McConnell and Russell have a number of DUIs. Shaw and the girls are clean, and the Collier boy lives with his mother. He’s not capable of living alone.” He squinted at the screen. “Get this—Lawrence Russell, aka Butch, works campus security at the college.”
Whaley snorted. “Hope they vetted his application for possible murder suspect.”
Saunooke asked, “So where do we go from here?”
Cochr
an studied the board. “For once, let’s get ahead of the curve here. Whaley, I want you to check in with the Salola Street boys. Saunooke, you take Two Toes. Just say we’re updating our files and want to check their addresses. Do not be threatening, but pay attention if anybody starts to sweat. Galloway, see what DNA you can pull off Saunooke’s cigarette butts. I’m going to talk to Jack Wilkins. He’s the expert on this case and he was right there at that tree yesterday.”
Galloway sat up straighter. “You think he might be involved?”
“No way.” Whaley defended his former partner. “This case might be a monkey on his back, but he’s no crazier than any other old guy out to pasture.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Whaley,” said Cochran. “Remember, gentlemen, to walk softly. If the press gets wind of this, they’ll light it off like a rocket. Guess whose asses will be on the line then?”
“Jesus.” Whaley shook his head. “The rumor mill worked double-
time back in ’89 with just the newspaper. Now we’ve got Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and God knows what other social media shit.”
“That’s why we need to proceed quietly,” said Cochran. “It’s a brand-new world of misinformation out there.”
The meeting broke up, each man heading off in a different direction. Whaley drove toward Salola Street, thinking of the four kids who’d once been their prime suspects. He’d kept up with them over the years. Devin McConnell had been a tough little Irish mick, the eldest of his parents’ endless litter of children. He now ran his father’s used car lot and had racked up a couple of domestic assault charges. Butch Russell, a pudgy redhead, had delighted in blowing up chipmunk holes with olive jars stuffed with gunpowder. He’d tried to join the police force but washed out of the academy. That he was now a campus cop did not surprise Whaley at all. Collier, of course, was an idiot, but had strangely been friends with Adam Shaw, the smallest and smartest of the lot. He and Jack had interviewed all of them, several times. Butch Russell, Devin McConnell, and Adam Shaw had admitted, under intense questioning, that they’d asked the girls to play strip poker, but all of them had refused. Scared and stinking of little-boy sweat, the three had sworn that Teresa had gone home about five minutes after the other girls. All Zack Collier had done was cry for his mother.
A Judgment of Whispers Page 6
