“They’re closing the case file,” Ashton Okerson said, sobbing.
Ashton said the sheriff told her and her husband, three-time Super Bowl champion quarterback Tony Okerson, that the coroner said TJ died of liver failure.
That, along with the empty prescription bottle of Vicodin found at the scene with TJ and the evidence of alcohol consumption at the party he was attending, was apparently enough for Waters to rule out foul play and close his investigation. Waters wasn’t immediately available for comment early Wednesday.
The Telegraph reported yesterday that the Okerson family doesn’t believe TJ took his own life, and Ashton said in this exclusive interview that the coroner’s report doesn’t change her feelings about that.
I finished with the sheriff’s comments about the simplest explanation usually being the right one, and teased the press conference he was planning for the following day. I sent the story to Bob with an explanatory email and closed my computer at three-fifteen.
Darcy took longer than usual about doing her business when I let her outside, barking at the pitch-dark back corner of the yard until I stepped outside in my bare feet to carry her back in the house before she woke up the entire neighborhood.
“Spring. The rabbits come back. Yay.”
Though most of Thumper’s cousins that visited our yard were twice as big as Darcy, she had no qualms about letting them know whose territory they were on. I locked the door and made a mental note to get a new bulb for the light.
She growled at the door while I set my coffee cup out for the morning, then gave up and followed me to bed.
I closed my eyes thinking of Joey’s kisses, trying to keep my mom’s anguished sobs and Randy’s easy smile from haunting my dreams for another night. Ashton and Tony would end this with an answer if it was the last thing I ever did. I might not get the one they wanted, but I wasn’t giving up.
17.
Hot on my heels
I sidestepped, punched, and ap-chagi’ed my way halfheartedly through body combat the next morning, what I knew about Mathews High occupying way more of my brain space than the workout.
TJ was a good kid by all accounts: happy, popular, and in love for the first time. No history of mental illness or depressive behavior. Not a damn thing there added up to suicide.
The sheriff was determined to rule it such and move on, but he also had a cousin who made black-market moonshine. And TJ might have been drinking it. Sydney had likely been drinking it. Except her jar had a faded label. I still had nothing for that.
I added Zeke’s name to my growing mental suspect list. I didn’t really think he’d hurt the kids, but I was surer by the minute that he was turning a blind eye to whoever had. I’d worked cops and courts long enough to know good ol’ boys’ networks run deep.
Then there was Evelyn. My inner Lois Lane (and every true crime novel I’d ever read) said the M.O. in this case made it likely the killer was female.
I could hardly wait for the dance Friday night. I just needed to corner her. If the tears I’d seen at the church Monday were guilty ones, it’d take about five minutes of grilling her to get a full confession and probably a blood sample.
Luke would be a tougher nut to crack. For me, anyway. He’d almost spilled something, I could swear, to Parker at the funeral reception. My plan was to have Kyle butter him up with compliments about his pitching. He definitely liked the limelight.
Ashton had added someone else to my list with her phone call the night before, too. Eli Morris was Sydney’s ex. If the kids all moved in the same circles, chances were good he was at the party where TJ died. And jealousy is a powerful motive.
But no matter which way I turned the puzzle pieces, the liver failure was the stubborn one.
Boys have more of a tendency to be violent. Some kind of poisoning spoke of a woman’s hand. But how did twiggy little Evelyn force-feed a boy TJ’s size and strength enough pills to cause his young, healthy liver to shut down?
Oh, shit.
I ran out of my class with five minutes left, leaving messages for Tony, Ashton, and Parker before I got into the shower. I hadn’t asked to see TJ’s medical records before, but what if there was something else going on with the kid’s liver? Something that would make it easier to kill than your average teenager’s? I didn’t know what that could be, exactly, but it was worth looking into. How many helmets to the torso had he taken in his lifetime?
Leapfrogging ahead and assuming that was the case, was I looking for someone who knew that? Or was it an accident?
So many questions.
And Bob’s half-smile when I walked into his empty office for the morning news budget meeting with my hair still wet told me he wanted answers.
“That was a good piece this morning. It’s already on the web and it’s pinging around the Internet like a celebutante sex video.”
I grinned. “Well, good. I think.” I dropped into my customary high-backed orange velour wing chair. “Your face says I’m not totally off your shit list.”
“There’s a lot going on here this week.” He sighed, slumping back in his chair. “Do I think you fed the Post a tip? No. I know you better than that. The story is everything to you. Just like it was to me. I also know this one has a personal tic for you, and you’re not going to let it go. To be honest, I had my reservations when Parker told me he was asking you to take it. I gave him the green light because I knew you’d do a good job with the suicide story, show the family respect, and for his sake, I was hoping everyone else would follow your lead. It didn’t ever occur to me that it would turn into a one-woman murder investigation.”
I opened my mouth and then snapped it shut. “Bob, these people—” I began.
He raised one hand. “Deserve to know what happened to their kid? I know. I agree. Go get it. But for the love of God, watch yourself. Moonshiners and murderers and God knows what, and there are miles of woods and water out there that would be really good for hiding a nosy reporter.”
“Point taken.”
His eyes told me something was still bothering him, but the rest of the staff began to trickle in, and he shrugged helplessly and sat back. Eunice came bearing a platter of something that smelled heavenly. I reached under the foil and came up with a square of cornbread speckled with cheese and sausage.
“You’re like the evil diet fairy,” I said, biting into the still-warm breakfast bread and grinning at Eunice. “I bet I’m putting back every calorie I burned at the gym this morning.”
“You might be surprised,” Eunice helped herself to one, and pushed the tray toward Bob. Since he’d had a heart attack not even twelve months before, and was on a strict low-fat, low-cholesterol diet, I frowned at her as I swallowed.
“My sister’s been doctoring Grandmomma’s recipes to make them more wasitline-friendly, and I made this with fat free buttermilk, egg whites, turkey sausage, and low fat cheddar.”
It tasted sinful. But it was healthy?
“I retract my previous statement.” I grinned. “You are the best kind of diet fairy.” I snagged another square and passed one to Bob before the rest of them disappeared.
“We do enough sitting in front of computers around here,” Eunice said. “If I can trick folks into eating healthy, I’m doing a favor for my fellow man, right?”
“And a much appreciated good deed it is,” Bob said around a mouthful of food.
Bob started the meeting and ran quickly through the copy highlights for the day. Halfway through sports, my Blackberry buzzed a text from Tony: “Got your message. Call me.”
Spence paused, turning slowly to me. “Do you need to take that? Don’t let my little section rundown keep you from stealing a story from anyone else this morning.”
“Spence, that’s enough,” Bob said.
The rest of the section editors squirmed in their seats and focused on the photos and front pages dotting Bob’s walls. I met Spence’s glare with one of my own, biting my tongue.
Bob switched to the busin
ess editor.
Studying my notes to avoid Spence’s go-straight-to-hell looks and everyone else’s curiosity, I tapped the heel of my pearl-rimmed, black Nicholas Kirkwood sandals on the floor through the rest of the meeting. When Bob threw us out with his customary, “my office is not newsworthy, so get out and find me something to print,” I popped to my feet.
“Nichelle,” Bob said. “Hang out.”
I twisted my mouth to one side. “I have a text that needs attention. Can I come back?”
He nodded. “Go on, but we need to talk.”
Yes, we did. I half-ran to my desk, grabbing the phone before I sat down to dial Tony’s number. Please, Lord. A tiny break. He picked up on the third ring, and I barely let him get the “hello,” out before I blurted my question.
“Was there something wrong with TJ’s liver?” I asked. “Something that might have made it fail easier than it should have?”
“I don’t know,” Tony sounded hesitant.
“You don’t know? How can you not know if your kid had liver problems that might have killed him?” I tried to rein in my frustration. “I’m sorry. I’m not—look, I can’t imagine how hard this is for you, but you two seem to be pretty involved in what’s going on with your kids. The coroner says liver failure. Ashton swears he didn’t kill himself. If his liver was compromised, it might help me figure out what happened to him.”
“I didn’t push him,” Tony said. “He played because he wanted to.”
“Even though he was hurt?” I guessed.
“He took a nasty hit in a football game his freshman year,” Tony said. “Broke a rib. And it damaged his liver. The doctors said it was a miracle it still functioned. That’s why I know he wasn’t drinking too much, and why I’m sure he didn’t OD on Vicodin.”
“Why the hell did they prescribe him Vicodin if he had liver trouble?” I asked, scribbling down his comment, which made very little sense.
“They didn’t, at first. But every other kind of pain medicine there is made him sick. He can’t play baseball if he can’t eat.”
I nearly choked on the “so then don’t play,” offering a sympathetic silence instead.
What makes sports the be all and end all of everything for some folks, anyway?
“TJ was careful about drinking. Never more than one or two, and not usually during a playing season at all. And he would never have taken Vicodin with booze. He knew better. He treated his body well. Taking good care of yourself is how you last through a long playing career.”
Considering Tony’s revelation, my brain careened off in another direction. As much as the memory of Ashton’s swollen face haunted me, what if I was projecting?
“Tony,” I began, clicking my pen in and out and searching for words that wouldn’t sting. “If TJ knew that, about the booze and the painkillers, well…” I sighed. “Wouldn’t that be a pretty effective way for him to commit suicide?”
Tony was quiet for so long I wondered if the call had dropped. “I suppose,” he said finally. “But my son did not do this. I know it as sure as I know my passing record. Ashton said you believed her.”
“I did. I do. I think. Every time I think I’ve made sense of part of this, the floor drops out from under me again.”
“That, I really do understand,” he said.
I tapped the pen on my notes, mulling my suspect list. “Would any of the other kids have known about this? The thing with TJ’s liver?”
“I honestly have no idea,” Tony said. “I don’t know why they would, but maybe he might have told someone. Why?”
I jotted that down. Another blurry piece for my Mathews puzzle. “Just trying to find a thread to grasp today.” I was quiet for a minute, Ashton’s raw voice from the night before echoing in my ears. “Hey, Tony—did Coach Morris know about TJ’s liver?”
“It happened before we moved here. I don’t remember ever mentioning it specifically, but the coaches look over the kids’ medical records. So probably. But I’m not sure.”
And if the coach knew, maybe his son did, too? I kept that to myself. It was thin, but maybe it would lead somewhere.
I thanked Tony for calling and disconnected the line before dialing my favorite coroner.
Ten minutes on the phone with Jacque Morgan, a senior medical examiner who shared my love of great shoes and claimed to be eternally grateful that I’d shared my eBay secrets with her, didn’t get me much. Except that Vicodin overdose usually presents as suffocation.
“Everyone’s different, though,” she said. “People’s bodies react differently to different substances. And I didn’t work that case, so I can’t tell you anything for sure.”
“Who did work it?” I asked.
“Drake Carmichael. But the official statement is all he’s cleared to release. They made that very clear at the staff meeting they called this morning.”
“If the kid’s liver was weak?” I asked, trying to sound hypothetical.
“It might fail before the lungs,” she said. “Again, not my case.”
I thanked her and hung up, my watch telling me I needed to get on the road if I was going to make it to the press conference. I wasn’t sure if I hoped Tony and Ashton would be there or not. I wanted to talk to Sydney’s parents, too. Whatever had happened to the kids was linked, so digging around one was bound to help out with the other.
Throwing a glance at Bob’s office, I pondered how mad he’d get at me for skipping out and decided he’d be a lot madder if I was late to the press conference and missed something. I’d catch up with him later.
I punched the button for the elevator, wondering if I was setting myself up to crash into a dead end.
Snagging the seat next to Lyle when I got into Mathews city hall, I pulled out a notebook and pen before turning to him.
“Have a nice weekend?” I asked.
“I’ve seen nicer. But at least no one else died.” He shook his head. “I’m ready for all these TV cameras to disappear, I’ll say that.”
I glanced around. There were a dozen camera crews and a handful more reporters in the little council chambers. Charlie stood to my right, directing her cameraman to the extra footage she wanted. CNN was behind her, the Newport News stations scattered around the perimeter of the room. I scanned the faces of the seated reporters, but I couldn’t tell the Post from USA Today based on sight.
Lyle cleared his throat. “In fairness, I have to tell you, you did a good thing with that story you ran on Bobbi’s club. She’s a great gal, and Dorothy Scott has been so ridiculous about this whole thing it’s embarrassing. It needed to be printed. I know Zeke was glad to be rid of the conflict.”
I nodded a thank you and considered asking him about the sheriff, but decided against it. Yet, anyway. I had some guys at the Richmond PD who skated the line between friend and source, and I knew working in a small town, Lyle was more likely to have a strong relationship with Waters. Since he used his first name and a fond tone when he spoke of him, I guessed it wasn’t a strong hatred.
“Why didn’t you run it?” I asked.
“My managing editor is Mr. Dorothy, Junior,” he said, smirking.
“Damned if this isn’t Mayberry come to life.” I shook my head. “I grew up in Dallas and went from there to Syracuse to Richmond. But everyone really knows everyone out here.”
He chuckled. “I don’t think too hard about that. They all know each other’s business, too. If I ruminate on that, I’ll decide my life’s work has no point.”
“Local grapevine beats the paper?”
“More often than not.”
I nodded understanding, and we both faced the front of the room when Waters stepped to the podium there.
He thanked everyone for coming and stood up straight, playing to the CNN camera behind Charlie.
“This has been a difficult week,” he said. “For these two families, who could not be with us today, and for all of Mathews County. We are a big extended family, here, and tragedy hurts everyone. TJ and Sydney wer
e bright young people with promising futures, and the entire community is poorer for their loss.”
I scribbled, and Lyle held up a voice recorder.
“That said, I have the coroner’s report here on TJ’s cause of death.” Waters waved a folder. “The autopsy revealed that he died of liver failure. That, coupled with evidence we found at the scene, has resulted in his death being officially ruled a suicide.” He cut his dark eyes to me. “Despite what you might have read in the paper.”
I rolled my eyes, but kept taking notes.
“This case is closed. And while we’ve enjoyed having you folks with us, we understand that you’ll want to be on your way.”
I looked up when he said the last, suddenly pondering Lyle’s earlier comment.
Having the media underfoot wasn’t fun for cops, or local reporters, certainly. But the “don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out” didn’t jive with the “we are family” crap they were throwing off, either. Bobbi had said her business had picked up some even before my story ran, with all the camera crews in town. Elmer said the same thing. And the cute little bakery where I’d stopped for coffee had a line of press people out the door and halfway down the block. Everyone was yakking about apricot scones, which I didn’t get to try because they made them fresh every morning and were sold out before I made it to the front of the line.
The media was good for the local economy, which Bobbi said had been hurting.
So why did the sheriff and Lyle want everyone gone so badly?
And why hadn’t Lyle ever done a story on the moonshiners? I mean, if I lived out here, it’d be the first thing on my must-get list.
I shot him a sideways glance. His eyes were trained on Waters, who’d just opened the floor to questions.
“Was there ever a reason to suspect foul play in this case, sheriff?” Charlie glanced at me as she asked that. So much for “let’s go get the sports guys.”
“We did our due diligence in the case, but our findings point to suicide,” he said. “As I said earlier this week, the simplest answer is usually the right one.”
Small Town Spin Page 19
