To Write a Wrong

by Robin Caroll

  Riley could feel the heart of the story about to erupt. “So, his crime was . . .?”

  “A special collection was on exhibit. Various items from multiple private collectors. All pieces from the Civil War. All pieces from the Confederacy. All priceless.” Peggy licked her lips, her face drawn tight. “It was on the fourth night of the display. Someone broke into the museum and stole several of the private pieces.”

  Well, that didn’t seem bad enough to land in Angola. After all, that was a pretty hard prison, even if the new warden had reformed it after its bad reputation.

  “One of the night guards was shot as the thieves left.”

  Riley’s mouth held no saliva to swallow. “What happened to the guard?”

  “He didn’t die but he’s paralyzed.” Peggy shook her head. “Don’t you see? Armand would never shoot anyone, much less one of his own. He was trained in weaponry but he hated guns. Which is why the good Lord’s plan didn’t allow him to become a police officer.”

  There had to be more to the story. Then again, wasn’t there always? Jeremy always said there were three sides to every story: each person’s and then there was the story the readers wanted. She rolled the pen in her fingers. “Why would the police suspect him of involvement?”

  Peggy writhed her hands together in her lap. “Because the security system had been disarmed, they were pretty sure it was an inside job.”

  Understandable.

  “Armand was one of the guards who assisted in installing extra security cameras and stuff whenever special exhibits were shown on the third floor.” Peggy sniffed. “He wasn’t working that night.”

  The fact that he helped install security systems wasn’t enough of a reason for the police to look into a person. She knew, Rafe talked about his frustrations at times. “Did your husband have an alibi?”

  “Just me and the children, but apparently that wasn’t good enough.”

  Still . . . “Was there any forensic evidence at the scene?”

  Peggy’s face contorted into a grimace. “Well, his fingerprints were in the museum, but so were every other guard’s.”

  What wasn’t she saying?

  “But what got him arrested was the testimony of a pawn-shop owner.”

  “Oh?” Riley kept her face muscles neutral but held a viselike grip on the pen.

  “He identified Armand as the man who pawned one of the items taken in the robbery.”

  Wow.

  “He was mistaken, of course.”

  What could she say to that? Riley mentally changed the angle of her story. Something like despite the man’s obvious guilt, his wife still believed in his innocence and stood by her man. Something mushy and all lovey-dovey. Maybe Jeremy would go for that.

  “Mistaken? He flat-out lied.”

  Riley turned around to meet Jasmine’s hot stare. “How do you know?” Realizing how accusatory that sounded, she quickly added, “For certain, I mean.”

  “I saw my dad that night. During the time of the break-in and shooting. He was asleep on the couch, just like he said.” Jasmine tossed her backpack on the floor of the mobile home. “But I was too young to testify. Daddy said no one would believe me. His attorney refused to even let me give an affidavit or talk to the judge in chambers.”

  Jasmine wore anger like the latest fashion. “Plain and simple, my daddy was framed, and that’s a fact.”

  “I hated to call you out on your weekend off, again, but this one . . . well, I ain’t ever seen anything like this.” Bob moved around the two cruisers and coroner’s vehicle toward the water’s edge. If the crime scene bugged out a seasoned vet like Bob . . .

  Yellow tape danced on the April breeze, mocking yet beckoning at the same time. The sun touched the tips of the tree line. They’d have to work quickly before the sun disappeared entirely.

  All the official vehicles were bunched in one area. Groups of officers clumped outside the official crime-scene area. Hayden picked his way carefully to the bayou. He could see what Bob meant before he reached the marshy brink.

  A man hung upside down on an alligator hook in the spine. Dangling from the old cypress tree over the water, the body had been stripped of all clothes, legs bound together. Pale and grotesque.

  The coroner nodded as Hayden approached. “Evening, Commissioner.” He took another photograph of the body, then handed the camera to his assistant.

  Lee Morrow had been a fixture in this nasty business since Hayden was a rookie. “Hey, Lee. What’s the word?”

  The coroner moved the body with his gloved hand. “As usual, can’t go on record until I do the autopsy, but my bet is that cause of death is exsanguination.”

  The two officers took a step back. Hayden stiffened his back against the shudder. “He bled out from the hook?”

  “Yep. Looks that way, although the bayou washed away any blood.”

  “Think the killer expected an alligator to come along and assist in getting rid of the body, and any evidence?”

  “Maybe.” Lee took a final glance at the body before stepping back and motioning for his assistant to help get the body out of the tree and onto the stretcher. “But gator season won’t open for months. Most people aren’t out baiting this time of year.”

  “You’re saying the killer had the hook and hooked our vic before bringing him out here?”

  “Can’t be positive because the body was over water, so blood evidence is gone. That’s my best estimation at this point.” Lee and his assistant removed the body and heaved it onto the stretcher. “By the looks of some of the bruises on his face, I’d say he put up a pretty good fight.” He zipped the bag around the body. “No ID, obviously. I’ll run his prints and dentals as soon as I get back.”

  “Guesstimation of time of death?”

  “Considering the condition of the body and taking in account the weather, I’d say within the last ten to twelve hours.”

  “Thanks, Lee.”

  The coroner nodded as he and his assistant made their way with the body to the coroner’s van.

  Hayden stared out over the bayou, then back at the tree. “The killer wanted to make a statement,” he murmured.

  “What?” Bob and one of the other officers looked at Hayden.

  He nodded toward where the dead man had been hung. “You don’t do something like this to somebody unless you’re trying to send a message.”

  “What kind of message is this? Mess with me and I’ll make gator bait outta you?” Bubba Fontenot, one of the newer, younger officers, spit tobacco into the bushes.

  Hayden scowled. “Go back to your cruiser and get rid of that mess in your mouth. You could contaminate my crime scene.”

  “I didn’t spit inside the taped area, Commissioner, I promise.”

  “Go do as I say, Officer.”

  Fontenot stalked off to his car. Hayden shook his head. “These younger guys . . . I just don’t understand them.”

  Bob snorted. “What he didn’t want you to know is that he vomited when he arrived on scene and saw the body. He says snuff gets that taste out of his mouth.”

  “Ah.” Still didn’t make a lot of sense to him, but he had to focus on the crime scene staring him in the face.

  Focus. Focus. Focus.

  “Where’s the man who found the body?”

  Bob nodded at his cruiser. “I gave him a bottle of water and stuck him in the backseat. Edward Gaston is at post there. No one has questioned him yet.”

  “I’ll do it in just a minute.” Hayden glanced back to the way he’d driven in, past the vehicles. “Get the crime unit to go over the ground with a fine-tooth comb. Lee thinks the time of death is within the last ten to twelve hours, so that means since it rained yesterday. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get some tire prints that don’t match any of ours or the coroner’s.�
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  Bob nodded, then lifted his radio and relayed the orders.

  Why here? Hayden stared across the bayou. Why did the killer pick this particular place? Was there a deliberate reason? What was the message?

  He turned. “Go ahead and get the unit in here.” The bayou, she had a history of stealing evidence. She kept her secrets well. “I’ll go question . . . what’s his name?”

  “Ellington. Davis Ellington.”

  Hayden approached the back of Bob’s cruiser.

  “Commissioner.” Officer Gaston stood taller and straighter at Hayden’s appearance.

  “Officer. Go help Officer Travis.”

  “Yes, sir.” The younger officer scrambled across the muddy ground.

  Hayden opened the door opposite the side of the witness. He sat on the backseat beside the man but left the door open. A crisp breeze chased out the stale remnants of greasy fries. “Mr. Ellington? I’m Commissioner Simpson.” He pulled out his small notebook, ever present in his front pocket, and began.

  About mid- to late-fifties, Mr. Ellington had dark hair with streaks of gray, heavier in the temple area. His face, tanned and lined, had a scar just over his right eye. His calloused hands trembled slightly. “I’m Davis.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I found him.”

  “Do you own this property?”

  The man nodded. “Was passed down to me by my father. He died a couple of years ago.”

  “Do you live here, on the property?” Hayden glanced around but saw no buildings.

  “Land sakes, no. Don’t know why my father had this land. We never used it for anything but fishing and hunting.”

  Looked like it’d be great for that purpose. But April wasn’t hunting season. “What were you doing here this afternoon?”

  “Came to check my trotlines.” The man’s hands shook harder.

  Withdrawals or nerves? Hayden smiled. “You catching anything?”

  Davis shrugged. “Mainly cats, but that’s what my wife likes best anyway.”

  His mother preferred catfish too. And she could fry it so light it practically melted in your mouth.

  Hayden nodded. “What time did you set out your lines?”

  “’Bout sixish or so this morning.”

  “And you didn’t see the body then?”

  Davis cocked his head. “If I did, I woulda called the police just like I did this afternoon. Soon as I saw it, I ran down the road to the gas station and called.”

  “You don’t have a cell phone?”

  “Nah, although Loretta has one. She’s learning to text her sister all the dadburned time. Just another bill I gotta pay, if you ask me.”

  Hayden swallowed the grin. “And you arrived at what time this afternoon?”

  “Around four, right after I got off work. If there were any fish, I’d have time to clean them and get home to give to Loretta to fry up for supper.”

  Hayden would have one of the other officers acquire Mr. Ellington’s address and place of employment and verify that he was, in fact, at work today. “You didn’t recognize the body?”

  Davis shuddered. “No, sir. Then again, I didn’t want to take too close of a look.”

  He didn’t blame the man. Hayden closed his notebook. “That’s all for now, Mr. Ellington. I’ll have someone come explain the process to you now. Just sit tight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hayden stood and motioned at an officer. He didn’t have much to go on with this case at the moment, but Lee would hopefully be able to identify the body. For now, what he did know was the cause of death and a window of time in which the killer had to have been here to place the body.

  Time to catch a killer.

  Chapter Five

  “Do not follow the crowd in doing wrong. When you give testimony in a lawsuit, do not pervert justice by siding with the crowd.”

  EXODUS 23:2

  Pick up, pick up.

  Riley gripped the phone tighter, willing Jeremy to answer. He had to still be at his desk—he always worked straight through the weekend until Sunday night when he put the magazine to bed. It was barely eight. No question he’d be there.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the voice mail box of Jeremy Curry, editor in chief. I’m on another line or away from my desk at the moment, but if you’ll leave a detailed message, I’ll return your call right away. Wait for the beep.”

  He’d seen her number on caller ID and let it go to voice mail. Riley chewed her bottom lip. How long would he be furious with her?

  Beep!

  “Jeremy, this is Riley. I . . . well, I have a story. Actually, a series.” She hesitated, exhaling slowly. “I’m e-mailing my concept and the first article to you tonight. Call my cell.” She swallowed. “I think you’ll like this idea, and I promise you’ll get stellar storytelling if you’ll just give me another chance.” Blast it, she sounded like she was begging. Maybe she was. “Anyway, check your e-mail and call me.”

  She ended the call and stared at the prepared e-mail. The pitch sounded good—she knew that. So did the first article. She’d resisted the urge to write it as a sensationalized piece of an allegedly innocent man in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, which had been her first instinct. Instead, she pulled up as much of the emotional angle as she could muster without choking.

  I Lost My Daddy and Our Home . . .

  All in the Name of Justice

  She liked the headline: It snagged the attention of the reader and would hopefully entice them to read the article. She’d written the entire piece from Jasmine’s point of view, with background provided by Peggy.

  After much debate over starting the series with the love story of Peggy and Armand, Riley had opted to take a different approach. Since Jasmine had been what had initially drawn her, that’s the angle she wanted to pursue. Next week’s article would be Peggy and Armand’s story.

  If Jeremy allowed her this chance.

  If this story didn’t prove she could write without bias toward anyone affiliated with a criminal, she didn’t know what would. Reading between the lines, one wouldn’t be able to tell the author gave full support to the criminal justice system and believed wholeheartedly in the incarceration guidelines.

  She reread it again. Then a third time. It was good.

  Her finger hesitated over the Send button. Would it be good enough for Jeremy to get over his anger and pick it up? Would he even open her e-mail? What if he just deleted it without reading it? Or what if he had been screening his calls when she left the message and now sat in front of his computer, waiting on her e-mail?

  She pressed the button and the e-mail disappeared . . . flying across cyberspace to Jeremy. Her journalistic future rested in his hands.

  For the first time, she prayed favor over her writing. She usually didn’t want to be so vain that she asked God to bless her writing, but today . . . desperate times called for desperate measures. If she didn’t impress Jeremy, she’d be out of a job soon.

  A soft knock sounded on the door to the Simpson’s den. “Riley?” Remington asked in a heavy whisper.

  “Come on in.” She shut the laptop and stood.

  “Rafe and I are going to watch a movie. Want to join us?” Remington tried to befriend Riley. Maddie too. Perhaps Riley should try harder to get to know her better. Rafe seemed to really care about her. The forever-and-ever type caring. Besides, Riley needed something to distract her. She’d used up all her good brain cells writing the article. She’d gone through all her gumption reserves to call Jeremy. She deserved a mental break.

  Riley smiled. “Sure. Sounds like fun.” She followed Remington back into the living room and plopped on the love seat. The movie started and she struggled to focus on the television and not on the gooey eyes her brother made. This could be a really long movie.
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br />   Despite her efforts to concentrate on the comedy, her mind kept going to Monday. The parole hearing. How vital Rafe’s and her testimony would be. The dread stole her energy.

  Two hours and ten minutes later, the credits rolled across the screen. She stood and stretched, fighting off a yawn. “I’m calling it a night.”

  Remington stood and folded the afghan, laying it across the back of the couch. “Me too. I thought Hayden would be back by now, but I guess his call was something serious.”

  “Wonder if he needs another pair of eyes for anything.” Rafe tossed the throw pillows haphazardly on the couch.

  “You’re a little out of jurisdiction, Agent,” Remington teased.

  “I didn’t mean helping in an official capacity, just if he needed a little—”

  “That’s it. I’m going to bed.” Riley smiled at Remington. “G’night.”

  Rafe pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight, then planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Good night, squirt.”

  The name he’d bestowed on her when they were kids. She couldn’t explain why that caused tears to burn her eyes, but it did. Probably too much emotion over the last day or two. Suddenly exhaustion tugged on her every muscle.

  She pushed away from her brother. “Sheesh. Get some rest, dude. I’ll see y’all in the morning.”

  Yawning again, she made her way to the den and closed the door. She stole a glance at the clock—10:30. When was the last time she was this worn out so early? She barely had the energy to brush her teeth and pull on her pajamas before crawling into bed. As soon as her head hit the pillow, darkness welcomed her into its warm embrace.

  What felt like a second later, her eyes popped open.

  As much as she’d been worn out earlier, now Riley was as wide-awake as ever. Every sound amplified. Those tree frogs Remington had identified for her earlier. The wind brushing against the side of the house.