Mississippi Blood

by Greg Iles

  “Come in,” I say, sitting up against the headboard.

  A vertical bar of light appears at my door, and then I hear my mother’s voice in the darkness. “Penn? Are you awake?”

  “Yeah. I just laid down. Come in.”

  Mom slips through the door and pads over to my bed, then sits on the edge of the mattress, a silhouette in the dark. I’m about to switch on the bedside lamp when she touches my hand and asks, “Did you see your father tonight?”

  “No,” I tell her, leaving the light off. “Doris Avery called me. I had to go hold her hand for a while.”

  “Oh. Did you learn anything? Something that could help?”

  I’m not about to let my mother in on Doris’s worst-case fears. “I’m afraid not.”

  After a period of silence, Mom says, “I noticed that Serenity’s not back. Is she staying here tonight?”

  Something in my mother’s tone sounds more than concerned for Serenity’s safety. “I thought she was. I’m not sure, though.”

  Mom makes a noise I can’t interpret. Then she says, “You’ve been very nice to take time out to help her with her research.”

  “She’s helped me too, Mom.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. She’s had quite an exciting life.”

  “Mom . . . what do you want to say?”

  “Nothing, really. I just hope you’re not getting too attached to her. I know she seems glamorous, winning that award and everything. But she’s a troubled soul, Penn. I sense it. She’s seen a lot more of the world than you. And I just don’t want—”

  “Mom, I’m forty-five. You don’t need to run interference for me.”

  In the dim light spilling from the door, I see the trace of a smile, but it quickly vanishes. “I know. But I also don’t want Annie to feel uncomfortable in her own house.”

  When I switch on the bedside light, Mom shields her eyes from the sudden brightness. “Do you think she does?” I ask. “Feel uncomfortable.”

  “Well, she’s certainly having a tough time right now. And I know Mia senses something between you and Serenity.”

  I chuckle at this. “I think Mia’s got a little crush on me, Mom.”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. She’s working wonders with Annie, and she’s whip-smart. And you’re a single man with a good—”

  “Mom, this isn’t a Jane Austen novel. She’s only twenty years old.”

  At this, my mother actually says, “Pshaw,” or something similar. “Twenty-year-olds today know more about life than I knew at thirty. Most girls these days are on the pill by fifteen. Girls from good families, even.”

  The subtext of this is painfully clear: A twenty-year-old white girl is a more suitable choice than a thirty-five-year-old black woman.

  “It’s bedtime, Mom.”

  “All right. I don’t have to be told twice.”

  She gets up with a soft groan, and just as I think she’s about to close the door, she says, “Will you promise me something, Penn?”

  I sigh. “Sure.”

  “Don’t give up on your father.”

  Jesus. “I won’t, Mom.”

  “I know this is hard. It is for me, too. But Tom has always stood by us. He’s always taken care of us. Now we have to take care of him.”

  “I understand,” I tell her, trying to keep the resentment out of my voice. “But it would be a lot easier if he would help.”

  There’s a long silence. Then she says, “You can do it, son. I know you can.”

  Desperate to change the subject, I ask if she’s had any more migraine or stroke symptoms.

  “Not one,” she assures me. “Now that the battle’s been joined, I think I’m going to be fine. It’s the waiting that kills me.”

  There’s a lot more waiting to come. “I’ll see you in the morning, when we board the tank.”

  “Good night, Penn.”

  The door creaks, and the bar of light vanishes.

  One restless hour after my mother left my room, something prods me to get up, put on a robe, and walk down to the kitchen. I’m not sure whether I heard something or nervous hunger is driving me. As I move up the hallway in my bare feet, I hear tapping coming from the kitchen. Sliding left, I slip into the dark den and peer through the far door at the kitchen table.

  Serenity Butler is sitting at the table with a cup of steaming coffee, her eyes locked on her computer screen. Seeing her bent over the machine, her fingers flying faster than mine ever do when I’m writing, I wonder if she’s somehow found her way onto the same trail where Caitlin fell, just as Caitlin stepped into Henry’s footsteps after he was nearly beaten to death. Serenity’s passion for her work burns as fiercely as Caitlin’s, and this frightens me. I can’t let this young woman lose herself in those old cases and go rogue the way Caitlin did. As tough as Tee is, she might just stumble upon her own Bone Tree in the forests that line the Mississippi River . . . and meet a similar fate.

  “You gonna stand there in the dark all night?” Tee asks, never lifting her eyes from the computer. “Or come in here and have some coffee?”

  “Can you see in the dark?” I ask, walking into the kitchen.

  She holds up her coffee mug. “You want a sip? Just made it.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Without missing a beat she goes back to typing.

  “Something inspired you?” I ask.

  “Not exactly. Just getting down some notes and observations. I like to do it when they’re fresh.”

  I smile, but I’m envious of her work habits. “So where have you been? I was worried. I think everybody was.”

  “Sorry about that. For a while I was where I couldn’t text, and then my battery went dead.”

  A teenager’s reply. “I see.”

  She glances up, still typing, then suddenly stops and leans back in her chair, faintly amused. “Look, I was out interviewing some people.”

  “Hey, I don’t want to pry.”

  “You deserve to know. But you won’t like it. I was talking to Lincoln Turner. And his aunt, Cora.”

  Nothing she could have said would have shocked me more. “Seriously?”

  “You think I’d kid you about that?”

  “I guess not.” I reach and turn on the sink tap, then turn it off. “What the hell, Tee?”

  She slides her chair back with a screech. “Penn . . . I don’t know what idea you have about me, but I’m not here to tell your family story the way you see it. I’m here to find out the real story—the truth, whatever that is. And to find that, I have to go where the story takes me. You’re a writer, for God’s sake. Do you disagree with that?”

  I take a deep breath and try to push down all the anger that’s built within me today. “No, I get it. It’s just hard, from where I stand. What did Lincoln have to say?”

  “A lot. That’s one angry man. And he has reason to be.”

  She said this with a note of challenge in her voice. “Yes,” I concede.

  At last Tee gives me a reprieve from her stare. “I could relate to some of what he went through growing up, but I tell you, my childhood was The Cosby Show compared to his.”

  I try to look interested, but the truth is, I’m not.

  “I’ll tell you something, though,” she goes on, her eyes lost in the middle distance. “Him and Aunt Cora . . . they’re lying about something.”

  This makes me stand up straight. “What do you mean? About what?”

  “I don’t know. A lot of what they told me was straight from the heart. Lincoln’s pain is genuine, but . . . he’s holding something back. Something big. Him more than her, but they both know whatever it is.”

  “But you don’t have any idea?”

  “Not yet. But I’ll get to it.” Tee looks up again, her eyes less accusing than before. “Heck, I’m liable to wake up in the middle of the night and just blurt it out.”

  This image actually brings a smile to my face.

  “Anyway,” she says, her eyes almost elfin, “I’m thinking maybe yo
u ought to be there in case that happens.”

  For a couple of seconds I’m not sure she said what I think she did. Then she reaches out with her left hand, her forefinger slowly turning in the air, beckoning my hand to hers. When I raise mine, she touches the tip of my forefinger with hers, then hooks her finger around mine.

  “What you think, mister?” she says, flexing her finger and pulling my hand back and forth like we do this all the time.

  Her unconscious echo of Doris Avery gives me a strange chill. “Um . . . I figured after you disappeared like you did, you wanted to give it a break. Process everything.”

  Serenity clucks her tongue twice, her eyes never leaving mine. “I’ve processed it. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it all night. What about you?”

  “I’ve thought about it. I guess maybe that’s the real reason I came down here.”

  At last she breaks eye contact and uses her free hand to take a sip of her coffee. “Well, then. Let’s not overanalyze. The way I figure it, I can go upstairs and take care of things myself, or you can come up with me and show me how creative you can be.”

  “Do I get a vote?”

  “I’m afraid you do.”

  Wednesday

  Chapter 36

  At 9:02 Wednesday morning, Judge Elder asks if the prosecution is ready to proceed on to the matter of the videotapes. Shadrach Johnson answers in the affirmative, and then—by some logistical machinations that must have cost the taxpayer dearly—enters into evidence the two videotapes that were yesterday evening in the hands of the Sony Corporation. For the trial, the tape found in Walt’s Roadtrek becomes State’s Exhibit 15, and the hospital Dumpster tape S-16. While I stare in dread—and the people in the gallery wait with bated breath—Shad recalls Sheriff’s Detective Robert Joiner to the stand and begins weaving a net that will tie my father to what I still think of as the Dumpster tape.

  Shad is wise not to recall Billy Byrd on this subject. The black jury members aren’t fans of the sheriff, and they’ll be much more amenable to the younger and more professional-looking detective. Joiner begins by confirming what Byrd blurted out yesterday: that a search team led by himself discovered a Sony mini-DV tape in a Dumpster behind St. Catherine’s Hospital on the afternoon of the day after Viola was found dead. While Joiner speaks, I look for signs that the tapes are about to be played for the jury, but I see no media cart, no screen or TV being set up. Detective Joiner establishes that the tape found in the Dumpster came from the same lot as the two sealed tapes discovered in Cora Revels’s house, and also the tape allegedly found in Walt’s Roadtrek (and surreptitiously taken by the Adams County Sheriff’s Office). Finally, he reports that his investigation determined that Dr. Tom Cage had made rounds at the hospital the previous morning between eight and nine o’clock. Hospital employees also reported seeing Dad in the hospital parking lot on the afternoon of the following day. When Shad tenders the witness, Quentin rolls forward and asks only one question: Were my father’s fingerprints found on the tape discovered in the Dumpster?

  “No, sir,” Detective Joiner answers.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  The air of expectation in the courtroom has diminished somewhat. Shad is trying everyone’s patience by putting off the playing of the tapes. Next, Shad calls an Atlanta-based expert in video forensics named Joseph Chin and begins to qualify him as an expert. Quentin has stipulated the man’s expertise, earning brownie points with the jury.

  “Mr. Chin,” Shad begins, “what is your connection to my office?”

  “I’ve been acting as a forensic video consultant. I have also acted as liaison between your office and the technical division of the Sony Corporation.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Shad starts to ask his next question, my faith in Quentin Avery’s instincts crumbles under the weight of the DA’s relentless work ethic and hunger for revenge. We are about to learn whatever information those “erased” tapes contained.

  “And what can you tell us about the type of videotape in question?”

  Chin answers with the dry precision of an engineer. “Digital videotape of the kind found in the cassettes in question—mini-DV tapes—is much more difficult to erase than other types of tape, such as VHS, reel to reel, or the cassette tapes of the 1970s. It uses evaporated metal technology, and devices like bulk degaussers—popularly known as demagnetizers—will not erase them with any degree of completeness. Sometimes they won’t even affect them.”

  “But can mini-DV tapes be erased?”

  “Oh, yes. Recording over their length in real time will realign the magnetic particles on the tape—permanently, for all practical purposes.”

  “But in some cases such tapes can be restored?”

  “I have never seen it myself. But in a very small number of cases it has been accomplished.”

  Shad lets this statement hang for a few seconds.

  “And what about the two tapes I sent to the Sony lab for this purpose?”

  Mr. Chin nods once, then lifts a piece of paper from his lap. “The Sony technicians were unable to restore the data on the videotape taken from the RV belonging to Mr. Walter Garrity. The magnetic content was permanently altered when the tape was reloaded into a camcorder and put in record mode for its entire one-hour length. The original data could not be recovered.”

  It takes a couple of seconds for me to register what he said. Then a voice in my head says, One down, one to go.

  “What about the other tape?” Shad asks, voicing the crowd’s thoughts.

  “The tape found in the hospital Dumpster was a different matter.”

  Oh, God . . .

  “That tape was erased using a different method.”

  Shad nods soberly, as though learning this information for the first time.

  “And was the Sony team able to restore this tape?”

  Everyone in the courtroom leans forward.

  “No, sir. They were not.”

  The crowd’s expectation becomes shock, then disappointment, then tangible frustration, even anger at Shad Johnson for toying with their expectations. For teasing them. But true to his nature, Shad presses doggedly forward.

  “Did you learn any useful information from their report on the videotape taken from the hospital Dumpster?”

  “Yes, sir. The magnetic data on that tape was actually far more scrambled—disrupted—than the data on the tape taken from the RV. It had been passed through a magnetic field of enormous power.”

  “Will you elaborate, please?”

  Even before he answers, I feel nausea in the pit of my stomach.

  “Yes, sir. The effects noted on that tape were almost certainly produced by a magnetic resonance imaging device.”

  “Are you referring to an MRI machine?”

  “Yes, sir. The kind of device hospitals use to image soft tissue.”

  “I see. Thank you, Mr. Chin. Tender the witness.”

  The familiar click and whir sounds as Quentin drives himself toward the witness box.

  “Mr. Chin, you testified that these two videotapes were erased by two different methods, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the State would have us believe that some person used two completely different methods to erase two videotapes in his possession?”

  “That’s what the facts show. In my opinion—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Chin, you’re an expert in videotape restoration, and not a criminologist or psychologist, correct?”

  Joseph Chin’s disappointment is plain; he was salivating over the prospect of giving his theory on why a murderer might choose different methods to erase two tapes. The obvious answer—at least to me—is that the tape exposed to the MRI machine contained more sensitive or incriminating information than the one erased in the camcorder.

  “I’m not a criminologist or a psychologist,” Chin admits with regret.

  Quentin gives him a conciliatory smile. “So, to summarize, the technicians were unable to reconstr
uct any data from the tape erased in the camcorder, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So, why should a person with something to hide risk being seen doing something suspicious or even as risky as gaining access to an MRI machine when he could erase both tapes in complete privacy using a camcorder?”

  “Uh . . . maybe he didn’t know the camcorder method was just as thorough?”

  Quentin appears to consider this answer. “All right. Just to be absolutely clear, Mr. Chin, no usable information has been recovered from either videotape you were asked to help analyze, is that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So those tapes can give us zero information about what happened in Cora Revels’s house on the night Viola Turner died?”

  Chin glances uncomfortably at Shad, then says, “Well . . . by the strict criteria of the data they contain, that’s correct.”

  “Can your analysis, or that of the Sony technicians, prove that the tape was ever in Cora Revels’s house at all?”

  “The fingerprints—”

  “Fingerprints are not your domain, Mr. Chin. Can any analysis conducted by you or the Sony techs prove that those tapes were ever in Cora Revels’s house?”

  “No, sir.”

  Quentin touches his joystick and turns dismissively from the witness. “No further questions, Judge.”

  While Quentin returns to his table, Shad calls a man named Byron Reed to the stand. A thin black man with gold spectacles gets up and walks to the witness box to be sworn.

  I don’t know Mr. Reed, but I can guess what he’s here for: to confirm something that most people in the courtroom already know—that St. Catherine’s Hospital has an MRI machine. In short order this witness—who works as an MRI tech at St. Catherine’s—does just that, but Shad does not release him. Instead Shad walks over to the jury, looks back at the witness box, and asks, “Mr. Reed, on the morning Viola Turner was found dead, did you see Dr. Thomas Cage in St. Catherine’s Hospital?”