Arant shifted in his seat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He glanced around the room before he began speaking in a hushed tone. “What I’m about to tell you I’m doing so in the strictest of confidence,” Arant began. “And I’m doing this because I want you to get a full picture of who Isaiah Drake is—or at least, was.”
“Go on,” Cal said, leaning in closer.
“When Drake was a freshman in high school, he was with two other boys who beat and robbed an elderly woman. They put her in the hospital, all for fifty bucks. Sheriff Sloan tracked down the trio. Only one of the boys was punished with a short stint in a juvenile detention center.”
“Who were the other two boys?”
Arant shrugged. “I could guess, but nobody really knows, so that wouldn’t be fair.”
“Then how do you know about Drake?” Kelly asked.
“One night I was at The Pirate’s Den having a couple of drinks with Sheriff Sloan, and he told me the story. He said he let Drake go partly because he wasn’t convinced he was a participant in the attack. The Sheriff also said he saw how much potential Drake had on the football field and hoped to steer him to Auburn. So, when I say I wasn’t surprised that Drake was capable of such a thing, that’s why.”
“Because he allegedly beat up a little old lady?” Cal asked. “That’s quite a leap from there to being a killer.”
“Anyone who beats up an elderly person has something wrong with them.”
“Allegedly,” Kelly added. “He allegedly beat her up with two other men.”
“I never wrote that nor did I ever tell anyone. But just know that Drake isn’t a saint.”
Cal nodded. “Hayward was my prime suspect in the murder of Susannah Sloan, but not anymore. Now, I’m baffled by it all. Okay, so answer me this: Who do you think killed Jordan Hayward?”
Arant leaned back in his seat and glanced around the room. “Same person who I think killed Susannah Sloan—it was Isaiah Drake.”
CHAPTER 23
MRS. LOUISE KIRKWOOD SAT UP STRAIGHT, fingers interlocked and resting on the desk in front of her at her station in the Pickett County Library reference section. Cal thought he detected a faint smile on her face the moment he and Kelly walked into her line of sight.
“Back to solve some more mysteries?” Mrs. Kirkwood asked, clapping her hands quietly.
“We’re trying,” Kelly said.
“Yes, and we were hoping you might be able to help us some more,” Cal added.
Mrs. Kirkwood stood up. “Give me a moment while I lock up my desk, and I’ll meet you back in the microfiche room.”
Cal and Kelly followed Mrs. Kirkwood’s instructions and waited for her, spending their time discussing how Drake could have orchestrated a hit on Jordan Hayward from prison.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Cal said. “Why wait all this time? If you had the resources to kill Hayward, why not do it years ago? The timing of it all makes me want to dismiss that theory altogether.”
“Let me play devil’s advocate for a moment,” Kelly said, holding up her index finger. “What if Drake took all this time to figure out a way to get the state’s major eyewitness to recant . . . and now Drake needs to make sure nobody else talks or jeopardizes his chances at getting cleared in a retrial?”
“That’s an interesting theory, though when we talked with him, I never detected any animosity from Drake regarding his childhood best friend.”
“Psychopaths are good at hiding things.”
Cal’s eyes widened. “So you think Drake is a psychopath now?”
“Remember, I’m just being the devil’s advocate. If you’re going to write a comprehensive feature on this story, you need to consider all the possibilities.”
“I’m having a hard time seeing that.”
“All I’m saying is it could be true. Just think about it.”
Before Cal could ponder Kelly’s theory any further, the door clicked open and Mrs. Kirkwood entered.
“So, what is it I get the pleasure of helping you with today?” she asked.
“I just want to say first that we appreciate your willingness to help us again,” Cal said. “You have no idea how difficult it is for us to piece this story together as outsiders.”
Mrs. Kirkwood snickered.
“What’s so amusing?” Kelly asked.
“Oh, you two think it’s difficult to delve into the dark secrets and hidden motivations of Pickett County residents as outsiders? I think it’s far more difficult to do that as an insider. It’s hard to get your preconceived ideas, notions, and history about your neighbors out of the way.”
“When you put it that way, I tend to agree with you,” Cal said. “I’ve lived and worked in a small town before. It certainly has its unique challenges, especially when it comes to privacy.”
Mrs. Kirkwood raised her right hand in the air. “Amen to that, brother,” she said. “Now, what can I help y’all find?”
She clicked on the microfiche machine as the light flickered and the cooling fan whirred to life.
“We want to read up about Jacob Boone and find out about his criminal past—or professional one,” Cal said.
Mrs. Kirkwood marched over to the filing cabinet and pulled out one of the sheets. “This won’t be difficult,” she said. “He had a case that was a big deal around here at the time. It really divided the community.”
“How so?” Kelly asked.
Mrs. Kirkwood slid the microfiche sheet into place as she talked. “In February of 2003, Jacob Boone was arrested for possession of meth with intent to distribute. He was facing hefty jail time. He claimed that he was set up, but he looked the part of a junky. He lived in a run-down trailer on the outskirts of town with his two kids, who were ages five and seven at the time. His wife died of an overdose a year after their youngest was born. He struggled to hold a job but wasn’t on welfare as far as anyone knew, so the prevailing assumption was that he ran drugs to pay the bills. I don’t like to engage in such gossip, but that was how most people viewed him . . . and it certainly made sense.”
“What happened in the trial?” Cal asked.
Mrs. Kirkwood pointed at the screen and stood up, offering the seat to Cal. “As you’ll read, it was a lengthy trial and full of emotion,” she said. “One of the biggest reasons why Jacob was so upset was because he would lose his children to the foster care system if he went to prison. There were no fit relatives to take the kids, and with a father in prison on drug charges, it was unlikely he’d ever get the chance to get them back.”
“And how might this be tied to Susannah Sloan?” Kelly asked.
“Susannah was the prosecutor in the case and showed no mercy in what the state was asking for at sentencing—fourteen years. However, the judge showed leniency and sentenced him to seven years. However, he was released after three months for good behavior. Yet the damage was already done when it came to his kids, who became wards of the state. After he came back, he turned into an even more bitter person, as if that was even possible after his wife died. It was just sad to watch.”
“Has anyone spoken with him about it since?” Cal asked.
“A few people here and there. He still maintains his innocence, but I think everyone in town knows he’s still dealing drugs. Why Sheriff Sloan hasn’t arrested him again is beyond me.”
Cal scanned the article by Larry Arant about the trial, confirming everything Mrs. Kirkwood said. “It blows my mind that no one investigated him as a person of interest in Susannah Sloan’s death,” he said. “Jacob Boone was released from prison just a few months before her murder. Seems like he’d be a good candidate to murder her.”
“Perhaps you’re right, but everyone around Pickett trusts Sheriff Sloan implicitly,” Mrs. Kirkwood said. “Well . . . almost everyone. Every sheriff has detractors.”
Cal stood up and offered his hand to Mrs. Kirkwood.
“Thank you for your help, ma’am,” he said. “You’ve proven to be most helpful, and don’t b
e surprised if we pop in here again before we leave.”
Mrs. Kirkwood shook Cal’s hand and then Kelly’s.
“It’s my pleasure. Always a joy to help people.” Mrs. Kirkwood gestured toward the door. “Let me walk you out.”
Cal and Kelly followed Mrs. Kirkwood through the double glass doors and onto the sidewalk in front of the library. As soon as they all stepped into the warm sun, Mrs. Kirkwood’s mouth fell agape as she watched a BMW roll by on the street.
“You like that car?” Cal asked, grinning as Mrs. Kirkwood continued to gawk. “I don’t think I would’ve pegged you for a car person.”
She turned slowly toward Cal. “I’m not, but I know that’s a nice automobile . . . and Keith Hurley is the one driving it.”
Kelly whipped her head in Mrs. Kirkwood’s direction. “Did you say, Keith Hurley?”
“Sure did,” Mrs. Kirkwood replied. “I know he’s not making enough working at Ludwig’s Tires to afford that car. Look at it—brand spankin’ new.” She turned back toward the library. “Y’all have a good day now, okay?”
Cal and Kelly waved at her as she returned inside. He was thinking something, but Kelly said it out loud.
“Renounces his testimony, gets a high-end foreign car. Makes sense to me,” she said.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Cal said. “Besides, we’ve got enough suspects to vet before I write this article. Let’s not add any more.”
“Why not? It’ll just be that much more of a better story.”
Cal sighed and shook his head slowly. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to leave this town before we start getting our mail at the Okefenokee Inn and little Maddie forgets what we look like.”
Kelly hung her head. “You just had to mention Maddie, didn’t you?”
Cal nodded. “You should call her.” He checked his watch. “She should be getting out of her preschool class about now.”
Kelly pulled out her phone and started to dial her sister’s number. However, an elderly woman interrupted Kelly, and she froze.
“Are y’all the ones writin’ for a big newspaper and investigatin’ the murder of Ms. Susannah Sloan?” the woman asked.
Cal and Kelly both turned around to see a woman hobbling on a walker toward them.
“Yes, ma’am, we sure are,” Cal said. “Can we help you?”
“I hope so,” she said. “My name is Gertie Rollins, and there’s somethin’ I’ve been wantin’ to get off my chest for quite a while now.”
“And how can we help you do that, Ms. Rollins?” Kelly asked.
“I saw Sheriff Sloan at his daughter’s house the night she was murdered right around the time she supposedly died.”
CHAPTER 24
CAL OFFERED HIS ARM to Gertie as he and Kelly led the woman across the street to a small park. They helped her onto a bench in the shade and sat down on opposite sides of her. Gertie leaned forward on her walker, adjusting her position until she appeared comfortable.
“We’d love to hear your story, Ms. Rollins,” Cal said. “How come you never told anyone about this before now?”
“Oh, I did. Believe you me. I told anyone who would listen, but everyone just laughed at me. They said I needed to change my prescription,” Gertie said, grabbing her bottle-thick glasses for emphasis. “They told me I was too blind, or it was too dark, or I was just lookin’ for my fifteen minutes of fame. I finally just gave up on it all.”
“You apparently haven’t given up on it if you’re telling us,” Kelly said, patting the woman on her back.
Gertie chuckled, flashing a toothy grin. “I guess you’re right.”
“So, tell us what you saw,” Cal said, pulling out his notebook and voice recorder. “You don’t mind if I record this, do you?”
“Please do,” Gertie said. “That way if anything happens to me, at least you’ll have a record of it that no one can deny.”
“Excellent. Please proceed,” Cal said, turning on his recorder.
“Well, the night that Susannah Sloan was murdered, I was out for a bike ride. I wasn’t always like this,” she said, gesturing to her feet and walker. “I used to enter every 5K in South Georgia until I needed a hip replacement about five years ago. I was in so much pain, I could barely stand. I digress. Anyway, I was out for a late evening bike ride and returned home around 9:30. I barely had enough fireflies to light my way home, but the street lights helped, too. After I put my bike up, I walked around to the front of my house to sit on my bench on the front porch and read. But when I sat down, I looked out across the way at Susannah Sloan’s place, which was right across the street from me, and watched Sheriff Sloan pull into her driveway.”
“About what time was this?” Cal asked.
“Somewhere around quarter to ten.”
“And you knew it was him how?”
“There aren’t many strapping men in Pickett County like Sheriff Sloan,” Gertie said, her cheeks turning a light shade of red. “There are some big men around here; don’t get me wrong. But most of them don’t have his physique. Well, at least the physique he had about twelve years ago.”
“Okay,” Cal said. “Go on.”
“Anyway, I thought it was odd of him to stop by so late on a Friday night. I still ascribe to the neighborhood watch philosophy and am always looking out my window to see if anything is going on, strange noises, tires screeching, and what not. And when the weather warms up, I used to always ride my bike every evening around that time, so I would’ve known what was going on and typical patterns.”
“What struck you as odd that night?” Kelly asked.
“Two things did. The first one was that Susannah was at home. She usually was out of town or out for the evening by 9:30 on a Friday evening. At least two weekends out of the month, she went out of town. And I know this because she used to ask me to feed her dog, a little Pomeranian named Fitz. Susannah rarely had visitors.”
“And her father never dropped by?” Cal asked.
“He would occasionally, but never that late and never on a Friday night. At the time, I noted it was strange behavior on both their parts, but I didn’t give it a second thought . . . until she wound up murdered the next morning.”
“And everyone refused to listen to your story?” Cal asked.
“Yes, and I mean I can’t really blame them. Nobody around here would ever believe Sheriff Sloan would be capable of killing his own daughter, myself included. But after I saw him there that night, I believe it’s possible he did it.”
“Proving that is going to be very difficult since he oversaw the investigation. I’ll consider all these things as I’m writing my story.”
“You know what another strange thing is?” Gertie asked.
“What’s that?” Cal asked.
“The Pickett County Sheriff’s Department had relatively no turnover for dang near twenty years. But after this happened, I think almost every deputy moved, transferred, or was fired within a year.”
“And nobody in the community thought that was odd?” Kelly asked.
“I think everybody thought it was strange but just attributed it to the fact that a meaner and grieving sheriff emerged from all that. Sheriff Sloan used to be far more kind and compassionate than he is now. Understandably so, this whole event changed his life. It took away the only remaining woman in his life that he loved. He pretty much became a bitter and hardened man.”
“Well, if he actually did kill his own daughter, that’d definitely change him,” Kelly said.
“So, do you believe me?” Gertie asked.
Cal and Kelly both nodded.
“We hear you and believe you could be right,” Cal said.
“Well, that’s a first,” she said.
“I’m not sure if I believe he killed her though.”
Gertie waved him off dismissively.
“I’m not so concerned about that. I can’t be a hundred percent sure about that. But as long as you believe I’m telling you the truth, I’m satisfied. I got it
off my chest, and you can do with that information whatever you want. It’s in your hands now … and on your conscience.”
Cal stood and offered a hand to Gertie, assisting her to stand. She put both her hands on her walker and started to shuffle off.
“Thank you for listenin’,” she said.
“What do you make of that?” Kelly asked after Gertie was out of earshot.
Cal shrugged. “Just more work for us. We’re far from being done here.”
CHAPTER 25
“CHANGE OF PLANS,” Cal said once he and Kelly got into their car. “I think we need to get everything we can out of Sheriff Sloan for this story before we question him directly about Ms. Rollins’ claim that he visited Susannah during the time she was believed to be murdered.”
Kelly agreed, and they drove the short distance to the Pickett County Sheriff’s Department.
Once they entered the office, Cal figured he might only be going to get one more shot at Sloan. When conducting an interview of a particularly accusatory nature, Cal understood how to negotiate the conversation in a way so he could emerge with good quotes for his story before he got cursed out. For him, this skill required patience and taking advantage of any goodwill he’d acquired. In this instance, Cal had no goodwill, but Sloan had plenty of ill will for the government—and Cal knew how to leverage it.
“Betty, is Sheriff Sloan around?” Cal asked.
Betty rolled her eyes and huffed. Cal could tell she was tired of seeing them, though he wasn’t sure if it had more to do with how Sloan acted after they left or how she held a general disdain for reporters snooping around. However, she clearly wasn’t in a fighting mood. Betty opened the door to the office area and gestured for Cal and Kelly to enter—all while never uttering a word.
Cal and Kelly wove through a handful of desks until they reached the back of the room where Sloan was. He was muttering something to himself and pounding away on his keyboard with his index fingers. Cal guessed Sloan was likely writing a letter to some federal agent’s superior about how the sheriff was mistreated. Or perhaps it was an email complaining about his loss of jurisdiction in the case. Regardless of whoever was on the receiving end of Sloan’s wrath, Cal figured they would likely ignore the note and file it in the trash. Cal would’ve preferred to encounter Sloan when he wasn’t in such an angry disposition, but Cal recognized that the silver lining was that the sheriff’s ire was directed at someone else. And at the moment, it was as good as Cal could hope to get.
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