by Polly Iyer
“Just doing my job.”
“I’d have done the same thing. I think my poking got someone nervous, and he crawled out of his cave long enough to come down here and kill Rayanne Johnson to incriminate Reece and take the heat off himself. I also think her murder gave Robert Minette the idea that if he could bring Reece to trial, he could get his name in the papers—use the publicity as a stepping stone to who knows what. Run for higher office, maybe, or get himself appointed to the bench.
“I don’t believe the same man killed Lurena Howe. Her murder doesn’t fit the M.O., but Minette seems to think he can get a doubleheader out of this. I might be reaching, but I think two people are trying to frame Reece. One is the original killer, and the other is Robert Minette.” Now Clarence leaned back in his chair. He let his words resonate before he asked the next question. “Do you think Minette’s the type of man who could do that?”
Payton blew out a long breath. “You’re asking if I think Robert Minette is either capable of murder or of hiring someone to do it?”
“Uh-huh.”
The sheriff opened his desk drawer and withdrew a package of gum. Clarence recognized the stall tactic. Probably wondering if he should answer. Payton pulled out a stick and offered the package to Clarence. He declined.
“I don’t hold much for a man who abuses his wife. It’s a mark of cowardice. Mrs. Minette never filed charges, and I heard why. People talk in small towns. I also heard what he had on her that kept her with him all those years. He made sure everyone knew when she left him.”
Clarence felt the heat of Payton’s gaze. He hadn’t heard about Minette physically harming Dana, although it didn’t surprise him. Minette fit the profile. What surprised him was that Dana had stayed with him. Payton mentioned he knew why. Clarence would find out.
“I’m county, Mr. Wright. Regal Falls has a small police department, four men. I have a large staff, good men all. Minette makes his home in Harold County, but his jurisdiction encompasses three counties. After the people elected me sheriff, I watched him prosecute a murder trial—the type more prevalent in these parts. A family argument turned ugly, nothing premeditated. He prosecuted that man like he was Jack the Ripper. I thought then that Minette didn’t like to lose. In fact, I pegged him for someone who’d likely do anything to win. I haven’t changed my mind. Whether that makes him capable of murder, I don’t know. But I’ve been a cop too long to rule it out. I’ve seen men who were supposed to be good guys go bad. Nothing surprises me.”
“Would you share the medical report on Rayanne Johnson?”
“Doesn’t take a genius to conclude the cause of death. Someone cut her throat from ear to ear. She bled out. Even us backwoods cops can do that.”
“I wasn’t insinuating your people don’t know what they’re doing, Sheriff, but I think something more’s going on.”
“Like what?”
“Any sign of drug abuse?”
“Not that we found. Alcohol’s all. Why?”
“Whoever committed that murder in Cambridge twenty-one years ago drugged Reece Daughtry, and I believe Rayanne Johnson got the same treatment.”
“You mean a date-rape drug?”
“Yup.”
“The only way we’d find out is to do a thorough screen on hair or teeth, and only if we suspected the victim was drugged. I’ll concede it’s a possibility, but even if I ordered the test and the results came back positive, what would it prove? Not that the same murderer killed Rayanne Johnson as the killing up north. Only that you perceive it to be by the same method, which wasn’t proven in the first murder. We’d still have to prove who did it, something the cops in Cambridge have failed to do.”
Payton was right. If the Cambridge police couldn’t find Karen Sitton’s murderer with all they had working for them, how could Clarence expect a police department a thousand miles away to succeed? “You’re right. But Lurena Howe is a different murder.”
“Me and my people are working on that. If it turns out Minette’s involved, I’ll see we nail him for it, although it won’t be easy, given who he is.”
“I don’t envy your dilemma. Have you had any problems with date rape drugs?” Clarence asked.
“Not in this county, but that doesn’t mean it’s not here. Women don’t cry rape because of the stigma associated with it. Defense attorneys say it was consensual, usually making the victim out to be a temptress or worse. So women keep their mouths shut. Sometimes a family member or two will seek revenge and do my job for me. Some get away with it.” Payton chewed his gum. “If a woman doesn’t complain, it’s none of my business. Besides, if you’re right about the killer, I doubt he’d try to score drugs in the area. More likely he’d bring them with him, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do.” Clarence stood. “I’m going to poke around, Sheriff. I want to see if I can match the description of the man Rayanne Johnson left Rudy’s with to some of the people involved in the original murder. I’m sure the guy wore a disguise, but there are physical characteristics like height that don’t change. Might eliminate some of the people I’ve been looking at. I wanted to let you know before I started. If I find anything, I’ll tell you.”
“Fair enough. As long as you do. What happens up north is out of my jurisdiction. But while you’re down here, you’re in mine.”
“Understood.”
Clarence left the sheriff’s office with a clearer portrait of Robert Minette. The district attorney lived up to everything Clarence presumed. Blindly ambitious, unethical, and immoral. Hitting a woman made him despicable. And Clarence believed he contracted a murder.
He headed to Emory and Rudy’s Bar.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Something to Go On
Clarence thought of the steps he’d taken since Jeraldine asked him to dig back into Reece’s cold case. He’d gone over the transcripts of the trial, picking at anything that might have been overlooked. He thought more men might have been involved than came out at trial, but time had passed, people had scattered, and memories were fuzzy. He guessed Reece would find out more from his brother―if the police didn’t catch Reece first. Clarence worried they would.
A few people sat around Rudy’s. The same guy manned the bar. Different T-shirt. “You’re back,” he said, filling a glass with draft and setting it in front of Clarence. “Looks like your man’s in a pile of trouble.”
“Yup, on both counts.”
“Another guy came around asking questions right after your last visit. Said he worked for the prosecutor. What’s his name? Minette?”
Clarence nodded. “Figures.”
“Didn’t like the guy. Didn’t tell him much neither.”
Clarence hoped the bartender liked him better. “I need to get a better picture in my head of the guy Rayanne Johnson left with that night. I know you were hopping because of the crowd, but do you remember if anyone took special notice of him? Maybe someone interested in Rayanne?”
“Cops interviewed as many people as they could find that were here Friday. They went through the credit cards, but most paid cash. This isn’t an American Express crowd. You know how it is with some people and cops. They plain don’t like talking to them, even old harmless Micah. I’m guessing some of ’em said they weren’t here that night.” He glanced sideways at Clarence as he snapped open a couple of bottles and slid them down the bar to two guys who looked as if they were badly in need of a cool one.
“Rayanne had an off and on squeeze. Jimmy Buffet. That’s not his real name, just what everyone calls him ’cause he’s always singing Margaritaville whenever he has a snootful and gets hold of a mike.”
Clarence took out his notebook. “What’s his real name?”
“Waylon Greer.” The bartender checked his watch. “It’s almost three. Waylon’ll probably be in ’round four. Rarely misses a day, which is why Rayanne kept breaking up with him. He’s one of ’em don’t like cops. Might not’ve told them all he knows, if he even admitted he was here. Either that or he was
drunker’n shit and don’t remember.”
“Keep filling my glass till he gets here, then point him out. If anyone else comes in who might have been here that night, give me a heads up, will ya?”
The bartender thought it over. “Okay, sure.”
While he waited, Clarence thought about the four men at the bar with Reece the night of Karen’s murder, including Carl. Finding people was easy when he knew who they were. They paid taxes, got speeding or parking tickets, married, and divorced. He’d interviewed everyone but Carl on the phone but never got around to a face-to-face with any of them. He’d correct that when he returned home, because all were within driving distance. Before, he fit the investigation around other cases. Now, it was his prime concern. Jeri’s too. He’d read the transcripts again, looking for the hole that no one found in over twenty years. Arrogance, thy name is Clarence Wright.
He labored on his third draft when the bartender tapped his finger on the bar and nodded toward the lanky man who came through the door. Waylon Greer hopped on a stool two down from Clarence with no one in between, and ordered a draft. The bartender served him and pointed at Clarence. Greer looked like he’d put in a hard day doing whatever he did. His grimy fingernails suggested some sort of mechanic, but Clarence didn’t need an employment history.
Greer slid over next to Clarence. “My buddy says you want to talk to me. Let me guess. About Rayanne?”
“My name’s Clarence Wright. I’m working for Reece Daughtry’s attorney.”
Greer hopped off his stool and waved his arms in the air. “Hey, y’all. Hear this? This fella here’s working for the guy cut my Rayanne’s head almost clear off.”
There were a few boos and hisses, nothing Clarence hadn’t heard before in the midst of hostile territory. “You want to sit down and answer a couple of questions without the histrionics?”
“Histrionics.” Greer still hadn’t lowered his voice. “What the hell kind of word is that? I don’t even know what the fuck it means.”
“It means hysterical,” Clarence said, “which you are getting before you even know what I want to ask you.”
“Why don’t you sit down, Waylon,” the bartender said, “and listen to the man? How’d you like it if someone framed you for murder?”
“But this guy’s guilty,” Greer said. “Everyone knows that.”
“I don’t,” Clarence said. “Because he’s not.”
“Well, I just heard over the radio that he’s on the run. Innocent men don’t run, so he’s guilty.”
“He’s running because he rotted in prison for fifteen years. Would you hang around and wait for that to happen again? I sure as hell wouldn’t.”
“Me neither,” the bartender said. “Won’t hurt you to listen, Waylon. You got nothing better to do. Rayanne didn’t leave here with a guy six-three. She left with a guy ’bout your height, only heavier.”
Greer shrugged. “Yeah, I saw him hit on her.”
Clarence felt that internal jolt a cop gets when he’s on the verge of uncovering an important piece of information. Easy, Clarence. This guy’s not a fan. “Tell me about him.”
Greer huffed and puffed, took a long guzzle of his beer and slapped it on the bar. “I watched him go after her. She was mad as hell at me ’cause I was drunk.”
Someone down the bar yelled, “Big surprise there.”
“Shut up, jerkoff. I’m sober now.”
“What did he look like?” Keep him on subject.
“About my height, with a mole on his cheek, but soft, you know what I mean?”
“No. Explain it.”
“Puffy. White and pasty. Like he didn’t never work outside. Too much of the good life. Booze without exercise. I drink, but I work out.” Greer straightened. “I’m in good shape.”
Clarence didn’t want to hear about Greer’s workout schedule. “The mole. Did it look real?”
“Naw. Damn thing was fake as they come. You could see the way he kept pressing it, like he thought it might fall off.”
Clarence wondered if he told the sheriff this, but he didn’t want to get Greer off track by asking. He also wondered why he let his girlfriend go off with someone he knew wore a disguise. Must’ve been way more than drunk. “What else?”
“He wore sunglasses. Who the fuck wears shades inside except Nicholson and rock stars? A cap too. Brand new one. I bet he never set it on his head before. You know what it had on it? John Deere. This guy never once planted his ass on a tractor. I can tell you that for a fact.”
“Hair color?” Clarence asked.
“Hmm, couldn’t tell. Cap covered his hair. If I had to guess, you know, from the eyebrows, I’d say light brown. But I can’t be sure. I was pretty wasted, and I was mad back at Rayanne.” A thoughtful look came over Greer’s face. “Shouldn’t of let her go. Shouldn’t of.”
A hush came over the bar. No doubt everyone there agreed. Clarence learned more than he bargained for. An almost clear description of the man’s physical appearance. Things that couldn’t change overnight. Waylon Greer stood about six feet, but height alone wasn’t going to help. Six feet was average these days. Clarence was six feet, and he’d bet the guys at the table the night of the murder were in the same range, give an inch either way, except Reece. But soft—now that said something. Clarence knew exactly what soft looked like. He didn’t know what the men at Reece’s table looked like, but he’d find out in person as soon as he returned to Boston.
“Thanks, Mr. Greer. I appreciate your time. You’ve been a great help.”
“I have?” When Clarence nodded, Greer said, “Hope you get the son of a bitch who done it. Whoever it is.”
“Me too.” Clarence plunked a twenty in front of Greer. “Drink up on me.” Then he turned to the bartender. “Thanks for your help.” He plunked down a twenty and a ten. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Elvis.” He crossed his heart. “God’s truth.”
“Well, Elvis’s friend is leaving the building.” Clarence waved over his shoulder and walked out the door. He had a few more things to do before he left for Boston.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Not-So Subtle Interrogation
Clarence went back to his room at Pine House to freshen up. He checked his watch. Jeraldine ought to be home by now. He speed-dialed her cell. “Hey, babe. Any news for me?”
“Just got to the office. I called Baker from the airport in Asheville to see what he could come up with before I got back. He found someone from Charlotte willing to talk about Minette. I’m going to call him tonight after he gets home from work. Baker said the guy kind of gagged when he heard Minette’s name. How are you doing down there?”
“The description Rayanne Johnson’s on-and-off boyfriend gave me might narrow the field. Sounds like someone gone to seed. Pasty, puffy, pudgy.”
“Oh, the three Ps,” Jeraldine said. “Add another. Psycho.”
“Doesn’t work for me. It’s not alliteration. Call me after you talk to your snitch.”
“Will do. Love you.”
“Me too.”
Clarence had put away three beers at Rudy’s, but he decided to stop in the Pine House Restaurant for something stronger, then eat dinner. He took a seat at the bar.
The bartender put a napkin and bowl of peanuts in front of him. “What’ll you have?”
“Dewars rocks.” Clarence had spent more time with bartenders in North Carolina than he’d spent with Jeri. He was tired, mind running circles. Something nibbled at the corner of his memory, but he couldn’t separate it. Whatever bugged him would probably wake him in the middle of the night.
He felt a presence move up next to him.
“Mind if I join you?” The man didn’t wait for an invitation. He sat down and offered his hand. “Harris Stroud.”
“Please.” Clarence took Stroud’s hand. “Clarence Wright.”
“I know who you are. I make it my business to know what’s going on in town and in the county. That’s what newspapermen do.” The
bartender set down Clarence’s drink. “Put his drinks on my tab, Chaz.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Stroud.”
“Thanks,” Clarence said. “I owe you one.
“You can pay me back by telling me why you’re still here.”
“It’ll take more than a drink to buy me, Mr. Stroud.”
“Name’s Harris, and I have all night.”
“I don’t. I’m tired. I need sleep. I planned to stop by your office in the morning.”
“Looks like I’m saving you a trip. I assume you were going to pump me for information. I’m curious what you know. We could share.”
Clarence had heard about Stroud. He might get more from him after a few drinks than he would on a morning visit. “Hmm, we could. What do you say we take a table? More private.”
“Good idea. Chaz’ll take care of us. He’s the best waiter in Regal Falls, aren’t you, Chaz?”
“If you say so, Mr. Stroud.”
Stroud leaned closer to Clarence. “Chaz agrees with me because I’m a good tipper.” He winked at the young bartender. “Bring our drinks over, will you?”
He never ordered, but as soon as they sat down, Chaz served Stroud a large whiskey. The editor was younger than Clarence had imagined, but the effects of heavy drinking were beginning to show on his flushed face.
“Why were you coming to see me, as if I didn’t know?”
“Robert Minette.”
“You’re not asking me to talk about my boss, are you?”
“Actually, I am.”
“Hmm. I don’t know if that’s ethical.”
Clarence laughed, but he didn’t say anything. Harris finished his drink before Clarence had downed half of his. Chaz brought another to the table with barely a nod from the editor.
“But what the hell. Minette’s not a nice guy. You name any negative adjective, and it’ll apply to Robert.”
