“You’re sayin’ we’re dealing with staging at this crime scene,” Reynolds says. “It’s part of a cover-up to hide what really happened?”
I nod.
Houston Reynolds is a soft, pudgy, sweaty man with a sparse halo of light brown hair and squarish glasses that keep sliding down his nose.
“Even if there was some staging involved,” Keisha says, “Mariah was sexually assaulted. That’s what was being covered up.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“You sayin’ the notes and ropes were all part of a staged crime scene?” Arnie asks. “I’m tryin’ to follow you.”
We’re standing in the main floor great room, each of us holding notebooks and pens and crime scene photos and notes and the autopsy report.
“Was she not really running away?” Reggie says. “The note is in her handwriting.”
“No, she was,” I say. “Only the ropes were part of the staging.”
“But the ransom note,” Keisha says. “If there was staging, that’s part of it.”
“A jury is never gonna follow all this,” Reynolds says.
“Let’s start with the runaway note,” I say. “I believe Mariah wrote it and had planned to run away.”
“Then why have a ransom note? And if you’re gonna leave the ransom note, why not remove the runaway note?”
“I don’t think he saw it,” I say. “Let’s walk up to the room Mariah was staying in.”
They agree and we do, Reynolds bringing up the rear, breathing heavily and sweating even more.
“Mariah was going to run away because, as she put it, Brett and Ashley were being mean to her. I believe that’s why—well, that and how overbearing and overprotective Trace could be.”
“Not because her daddy was sexually molesting her?” Keisha says.
I shake my head. “I don’t think he was.”
We are all standing in Mariah’s room, fanned out around the bed.
“Then who?” she says. “His semen was found in her bed. You saying he was framed?”
“No. It was his semen and he left it here—but with Ashley, not Mariah. Ashley told me that she and Trace have sex all the time. She’s his bottom, his submissive. He takes her when he wants to. They try to do it in every room in the house. I think at some point during their stay, Trace and Ashley had sex in this bed—or against it. Maybe while the kids were downstairs watching a movie with Nadine or eating, or down at the beach. I think that’s why his DNA was found on the bedsheets in here.”
“But Mariah was sexually assaulted,” Keisha says. “It’s like you’re ignoring that.”
Reynolds nods and says, “What’s easier to buy, that Trace and . . . ah, Ashley had sex on this bed and just happen to leave DNA evidence, or that because of the sexual assault evidence that he was molesting her and that’s why it’s there?”
“And it’s not just that,” Keisha says. “Look at how he sexualized her in that video they made together and how he acts in general—like in his other videos. They’re like a confession.”
“I don’t think she’s sexualized in any way in the video they made together,” I say. “It’s sweet and fun. Looks like home movies of a dad and daughter who really like each other. But would you accept my explanation for his DNA in this bed if we knew he didn’t molest her?”
She nods and Reynolds shrugs.
“Remember that the vaginal trauma Mariah suffered didn’t take place at the time of her death, but twenty-four to thirty-six hours prior to her death.”
“Yeah, he assaulted her earlier and killed her to cover it up,” Keisha says.
“The party the night before falls within that timeframe,” I say. “And I think that’s when it happened. Mariah and Caden Stevens, the boy from next door, were sweet on each other and kissed and experimented a little sexually. He said she asked him to stick things in her—like his finger and other objects around. Nadine watched them closely, but when she wasn’t looking I think they were playing doctor the way kids sometimes do. My guess is there’s an object in this room that he used that has her DNA on it that is sharp enough to cause the injuries detailed in the autopsy.”
I turn and look at the little desk with the open stapler on it. They follow my gaze.
“Something like this,” I say.
With my gloved hand, I lift the narrow metal pusher rod and follow spring.
“We can ask Caden about it and have it tested to know for sure,” I say, “but if it’s not this it’ll be something like it.”
“You sayin’ Caden killed her to cover it up?” Jessica asks.
“That’s certainly not a bad theory,” I say. “Neither is Brett killing her because of it—out of jealousy or because she wouldn’t let him do the same thing, but . . . I don’t think it’s either one of those. I don’t think the relatively mild vaginal trauma Mariah suffered has anything to do with her murder.”
I withdraw a plastic evidence bag from my coat pocket and drop the staple pusher into it and place it back on the table.
“If that’s true,” Reggie says, “and it makes sense, then it changes the motive for the murder, doesn’t it?”
“Then we’re back to kidnapping and ransom,” Keisha says.
“But why tie her up like that and kill her?” Arnie says. “It makes no sense.”
“Brett said he thought he saw a man with no face pass by his door that night,” I say. “I think that was our would-be kidnapper and that he was wearing a mask.”
“Who was it?” Arnie asks.
“Who could it have been?” I say. “Who would need a mask and a taser? Who would know Trace always carries two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars in cash at all times? Who would write such a condescending and racist ransom note? Whose handwriting couldn’t be eliminated as a suspect based on his handwriting sample?”
Reggie says, “Hank Howard, Jr., Ashley’s brother.”
“He and his mother are so bitter that Trace won’t give them some of his money. They live in abject poverty and resent Trace. I heard Hank tell his mother he had been working on something, that his ship was about to come in. I think he had overheard Ashley talking about the cash that Trace always carries at some point and decided if Trace wasn’t going to let Ashley give her family some of his money, he’d just take it. His prints were all over the house, not just on the first floor like most of the other party guests. My guess is he scoped out the house the night of the party—and even tore a piece of paper out of Trace’s song journal when he saw it on his bedside table. Probably hoped Trace would know it was an inside job and not call the police.”
“How do you explain no taser marks on the victim’s body?” Reynolds asks.
“He never tased her,” I say. “My guess is he placed the note down—didn’t even see her note. No telling what all he didn’t see with the mask on. And he tased the pillows Mariah had put under her covers to make it look like she was sleeping. He pulls the covers back, sees she’s not there. Panics and runs out, leaving the note, the blast plate, and one of the probes behind.”
“So he didn’t kill her?” Reggie asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then who?”
“Who would help her run away?” I ask. “Who would want to help her and hurt Trace? Who would have to take her iPod so their texting wouldn’t be discovered? Who would use Mariah’s own mom to manipulate her—and be in the best position to do it? Who would bribe her with getting her ears pierced? Who would Mariah let in the house that night?”
“Who?” Reynolds says.
259
“I know you didn’t mean to kill her,” I say.
I’m in Deidra’s small office in Myra House, this place where she does so much good for so many people.
I don’t like being here. Not for the reason I am.
To Reynolds question of who I responded that no one wanted Mariah away from Trace more than Deidra did, no one wanted to surprise her folks with their granddaughter, some liv
ing piece of their daughter, more than she did. I think Mariah mentioned wanting to run away, and Deidra not only encouraged her but told her she’d help her. My guess is she took her folks to Helen for the Fourth as part of her alibi, that she invented an emergency at Myra House and instead of going there, drove to Cape San Blas instead to get Myra’s daughter. She said she had to be back to Myra House the second day of their vacation—the Fourth—but Sandy let it slip that Deidra had been away for the entire time, said the place fell apart without her there.
She went to Cape San Blas to get Mariah and took the picture of her with Myra and Mariah to bolster their connection and Mariah’s trust. She also took the earrings to show her what her new life could be like. She knew she had to explain why her prints would be on items at a crime scene 300 miles away from where she was supposed to be, so she volunteered the info when I first spoke to her, telling me she had given Mariah the picture and her mom had given Mariah the earrings at an earlier time, but Rhonda Baxley’s prints weren’t on the earrings and she told me she hadn’t seen Mariah since Myra died.
“You didn’t, did you?” I say. “Mean to kill her.”
She still doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t think you did. I think Mariah changed her mind about running away. Did Caden not being willing to go make her want to stay?”
Tears fill her eyes, but she still doesn’t speak.
“I keep thinking of how Mariah died,” I say. “A single blow to the back of the head. And the way she was tied up afterwards—as part of the staging to make it look like something else. You did that to get back at Trace, didn’t you? To cause him even more grief and pain. I just keep remembering how there were no abrasions or bruises where the ropes touched Mariah’s skin. That’s because she was already dead when you tied her up.”
She nods.
After answering Reynolds’ question and laying out my theory for everyone at the rental house in Stars Haven, Reynolds had responded that it was far too complicated to get a conviction and that he wouldn’t bring it to trial. So I asked Reggie if I could try to get Deidra to confess and she said she was going to suggest it if I hadn’t.
Which is why I’m here now.
After mirandizing Deidra and letting her know I’m recording our conversation, I began laying out the evidence against her and what I think happened, piece by piece, line by line, slowly, methodically.
It seems to be working.
“The most negative information about Trace came from you—someone who blames him for her sister’s death—and Chance Hill, a habitual offender still serving time long after Trace is out and doing well. Perhaps it was easier for everyone to believe —us and the media because Trace is African-American, an ex-con, and has a certain image as a rapper, but . . . I don’t believe he’s the monster you think he is. Anyway, Mariah comes down stairs to unlock the door for you and Caden. But Caden’s not there, is he? It’s just you. You give her the gifts. She thanks you and slips them in her backpack. You ask if she’s ready. She says she has to wait for Caden. And when you tell her Caden can’t go . . . what happens?”
“I . . . I . . . started thinking about what I was risking,” she says. “Everything. Everything—including this place and the work I do here—to save her and . . . she doesn’t want to go now because some little boy that she just met won’t go with her.”
“Did she say she was going over to Caden’s or just back up to bed? Or did she threaten to wake her dad? Did you grab her? Did she trip? Fall? What did she hit her head on?”
I think of the huge bronze sea turtle near the door, how much its beak-like mouth matches Mariah’s head wound, and how the lab was testing it at this very moment.
She doesn’t say anything.
I wait.
She doesn’t say anything else or respond in any way for a quite a while.
I continue to wait.
Eventually, more tears appear in her eyes, crest, then stream down her cheeks.
“It was an accident,” she says finally.
I nod.
“I would never intentionally do anything to hurt anyone, but especially that poor little motherless angel who had been through so much. I was trying to help her, to save her. I was doing what I thought Myra would have done. Acting for her. There’s no way she wouldn’t have gone and gotten her daughter out of that . . . No way I couldn’t do it for her.”
“I know,” I say, continuing to nod in ways that I hope are understanding and encouraging.
“She just fell. Fell and hit her head. I was reaching for her, trying to get her not to walk away, but . . . I didn’t push her or trip her or . . . anything. It happened so fast. She just hit her head on that ridiculous bronze sea turtle and . . . She was there, alive one instant, and in the next she was gone.”
From down the hallway I can hear the women whose lives she’s saving talking and laughing and interacting with Frank Morgan.
“What then?” I ask. “You grab her up. Carry her to her room and . . . get the idea to make it look like something other than what it was, maybe frame Trace in the process. You know about Trace tying women up from your sister. Myra used to read about it and practice it in front of you, didn’t she? You told me she did. Did she talk to you about it, get you to tie her up for practice? Did you see the ropes on the landing or in the bathroom or were you brazen and committed enough to slip into Trace’s room and get them?”
She nods. “His room. They were out. I knew they would be. Partying the way they do.”
“But you couldn’t bring yourself to leave Mariah naked, could you? You undercut your own staging by putting her swimsuit on her and tying her up over it. Then, and this is most telling of all, you lovingly wrap her in a blanket to cover her and lay her under the bed.”
She nods.
“But you forgot the gifts were in Mariah’s backpack as you slip out into the night and drive back to Helen, didn’t you? What time did you get back—just a little before your parents knock on your door with the news that your niece is dead?”
She nods again.
“When I came to see you, I was here mostly to talk to you about Trace,” I say. “You really weren’t even on our radar, but you gave me your alibi and the story explaining why your prints were going to be found on the picture frame and earrings without me asking.”
“After it happened . . . I thought . . . maybe some good could come of it. Maybe I could punish him for what he did to Myra. I don’t know . . . something just sort of took over inside me and . . . I became a woman on a mission, so focused, so brave, so . . . it was like it wasn’t me. It’s hard to explain.”
“I looked into your sister’s death,” I say. “So did Frank. Trace didn’t murder her. Didn’t have it done. It really was what it looked like—an accidental overdose.”
“He took her from me—accident or not.”
“The way you took Mariah from him,” I say.
Her eyes widen in devastating recognition and she gasps.
We are silent for what seems like a long while.
“I do so much good,” she says. “And have for years now. My whole life is—this is my whole life. Saving the lives of battered women, giving them a different life than what they—than the brutal hell they’ve always known. And this—an accident, a split-second freak accident—is what I’m gonna be known for.”
I don’t point out that she was wrong to be where she was in the first place and that if she hadn’t been attempting to essentially kidnap her niece none of this would’ve happened.
“What’s gonna happen to me?” she asks.
“That’s up to you,” I say. “But we’ve spoken to the district attorney and convinced him it was an accident. If you’ll cooperate and plead guilty, you’ll get manslaughter.”
She nods and thinks about it.
“You’d still have a life,” I say.
“That’s more than Myra and Mariah,” she says, “and more than I deserve.”
260
“It was an
accident, John,” Frank Morgan says.
“I know.”
We are standing outside Myra House.
A Dekalb County Sheriff’s deputy has just taken Deidra into custody—something both of us found difficult to watch. She is guilty of obstruction and a variety of other charges related to breaking into Trace’s rented house and staging the crime scene, but it is difficult to find her criminally responsible for Mariah’s death.
“She shouldn’t serve any time at all for an accident.”
“I know what you’re saying,” I say. “And I made that argument to the DA, argued that Hank should get far more time than she does, but . . . think about all she did afterward. If she hadn’t tried to frame Trace and Ashley . . . If she had called an ambulance instead of staging it to look like a murder committed by someone inside the house that night . . . but she didn’t.”
He shakes his head and frowns. “You have any idea how much good she does here?”
“I do.”
Through the windows, around curtains and in between blinds, the women of Myra House watched as their heroine and savior was taken away—and continue to watch the two of us now.
“This place can’t survive without her.”
“I think it can.”
“How?”
“You,” I say.
“Me?”
“She told me she was going to ask you to run it while she’s away.”
His eyes show just how appealing he finds that idea.
“Really?” he says. “Me, huh? I . . . I guess I could. How long do you think she’ll be gone?”
I shrug. “Probably less than two years.”
He nods. “I could do that, yeah. I’ll need to get a female partner to help make sure the women feel comfortable, but . . . I could . . . run the place.”
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