by Ray Flynt
Brad could only shake his head in sympathy with the man’s experience.
“Although, I must say,” Slatpin continued, “his pronunciation of ‘Negro’ sounded perilously close to the way many bigots still refer to my black brothers. I was permitted, however, to confer with my white client who had a sixth grade education. He could then repeat my words for the court, thus defending himself. So you see, I learned a long time ago that justice occasionally peers out from behind that blindfold—just to have a peek.” Slatpin winked.
“Mrs. Carothers’ attorney is a stranger to this jurisdiction,” the lawyer continued. “Her challenges have nothing to do with her gender, but with courtroom familiarity and understanding the nuances of the judge’s preferences. For example, Judge Lindsey does not like attorneys to move when they speak in her courtroom. And one dare not get too close to the bench in her courtroom unless invited to do so. Jeb Cooley, Denton’s attorney, knows how to capitalize on these nuances. I’ll try to give Ms. Gursten a brief education before our hearing.”
“Should I meet you here or at the courthouse on Wednesday?” Brad asked.
“The courthouse,” the lawyer said. “They’re doing major restoration work, so Judge Lindsey is working out of a temporary courtroom. It is not as elegant, but as the Judge reminds everyone, ‘It is still a court of law’.”
“I appreciate you taking my case,” Brad said, as he got up to leave. “I heard you were the best attorney available, and I believe it.”
“I am curious. Who told you that?”
“Josh Miller of the sheriff’s department.”
Slatpin grunted. “I have defended a few of the deputies when they have gotten into legal difficulty. It is fashionable in the popular culture to think law enforcement would prefer to avoid providing constitutional protection to suspects if they had the chance. But when an officer of the law finds himself accused, I have discovered that he is the first to avail himself of those protections. It is a tribute when the sheriff’s office recommends me as an advocate.”
“I wonder if you’d satisfy my curiosity,” Brad said. “I notice all the plaques on the wall—including your diploma—are made out to just ‘Ben,’ but the carved plaque on the desk is inscribed ‘Benjamin.’ Is there a reason for that?
“You are an astute observer, Mr. Frame. My parents named me Ben, just Ben, after a great uncle who I never met. However, after I passed the bar, my father carved that plaque. When I asked why he had carved Benjamin instead of Ben, he said, ‘You’re a lawyer now. You should be called Benjamin.’ From that day forward my father always referred to me as Benjamin. As a young man, starting my practice, I used it for a few years, but eventually returned to just Ben.” The attorney touched the name plaque. “This helps me recall my humble beginnings.”
Brad extended his hand to the lawyer. Slatpin grasped Brad’s hand with his right, and covered it with his left.
Brad liked this man, and felt glad that he would be defending him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Take a taxi!” That’s how Brad told me I should visit the radio station, since he’d be driving the rental car to Beaufort for his meeting with the attorney.
Easy for him to say. There are times I wish he knew what it was like to live paycheck to paycheck.
But then he added, “Use the agency’s credit card.”
I bought Brad’s theory that there had been a power outage on the morning of Dana’s death, but before wasting what was sure to be a hundred bucks on a round-trip cab ride to the studios of 92.7, I decided to check with the local electric company to see if there might have been widespread power failures that April 6th morning.
Palmetto Electric Cooperative served the Low Country of South Carolina, and I called their customer service department. Like most places these days, I was greeted with an electronic voice and told to listen to all of their options. I immediately punched zero, which experience had taught me might yield an actual human voice.
Well, not quite. But another recorded message told me, “Please hold for the next available customer care representative.”
Technology’s great!
A young man answered—I say young since it sounded like his voice had just emerged from puberty—to ask how he could assist.
“Oh thank you,” I gushed, “a real person! I just know you’ll be able to help me.” I tried to set the bar high hoping he wouldn’t disappoint. I asked about power outages in Bluffton, SC for April 6th four years earlier. “Around 11 a.m.,” I specified.
I heard, “Uh…,” which I was fairly certain wasn’t in his customer service script, followed by, “Hold on.”
Music filled my ears… for the next seven minutes. I heard Top-40 tunes from Maroon 5 and Katy Perry, followed by a ditty announcing the call letters of station 92.7. The station I’d be heading for if the electric company disappointed me. But I thought they played country and bluegrass music? I wished I’d paid more attention when Brad listened to the tape.
A human voice returned to the line saying, “Sorry for the delay. We had no reports of widespread power outages on the date you asked about. Thank you for calling Palmetto Electric Co-op.”
Then they hung up. No chance for a follow-up question. I resigned myself to taking a cab to a radio station that may or may not have been the one Dana listened to on the morning he died.
The cab driver pulled in front of a cinder block building in the middle of nowhere. The fare was $47.50, and I handed him the credit card with instructions to “Make it $60 with the tip.” I love being generous with other people’s money.
Brad told me I should have the cab wait and use it for my return trip, but my DNA wasn’t wired that way. I got the driver’s phone number, and told him I would call when I was ready to leave.
I found no glamour at the studios of 92.7 FM. The tiny lobby had a tile floor, molded plastic furniture, and there was only one poster on the wall showcasing Kelly Clarkson. A speaker crackled with “Call me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepson.
A geeky young man wearing tortoise shell horn rimmed eyeglasses spotted me as he passed behind the glass door that led to the broadcast studio. He stuck his head out through an open door and said, “Sorry, we ain’t got no more of those Adele CD’s to give away.”
“I’m not here for a record promotion.” Trying to get his full attention, I explained. “I’m investigating a murder.”
“Whoa. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.”
“No, but you might be able to help me.” I pressed one of my business cards into his hand.
Staring at me wide-eyed, he said, “I’m Scott Angel. I’ll try.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the studio. “Hey, gimme a second. I’ve gotta do a promo and then I’ll punch up a three song cycle.”
He disappeared down the hall, and I heard his voice on a commercial for a local auto dealership. This was followed by his lead into the triple play. In less than four bars of a song by Rihanna, the DJ was back in the waiting room.
“Okay,” he heaved a sigh. His breath hinted of a brewed beverage, and his face had I-hope-she-leaves-soon written all over it.
“I understand you have a bluegrass music special every Saturday morning,” I began.
“We used to. We changed formats about a year and a half ago. I went by Jimmy Joe Rye back then,” he said, with a twang in his voice. “But hey, I’m a survivor. If they ever decide to do talk radio, I’ll be the new Rush Limbaugh.”
I cleared my throat.
“Would you have program logs for this date?” I handed him a piece of paper with the date of Dana’s death.
He grimaced you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me. “That far back. Shit, I don’t know. We might have it, but it’s probably buried downstairs under a pile of goddamn crap.” He shot me a glance. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”
If he only knew.
“Could you possibly take a look?” I cooed. Brad had given me a hundred dollar bill in case I needed it to gain their cooperation. But I thought I’d tr
y persuasion first. “The information is real important, and you’d be a real angel to me,” I said, draping my hand on his arm, and making a play with what I knew was only his radio name. “I need to know if you had a transmission disruption on that date, specifically around ten a.m.”
“I only got two more plays.” The DJ pointed at the speaker on the wall.
“Is there someone else who could help us?” I asked.
He shook his head. “The boss is at a meeting in Charleston, and Zeke won’t be here for three more hours.”
Time for plan B. I dangled the hundred dollar bill in front of him. “You could look in the files on this floor first, and if you don’t find it, I’ll come back when there are more people here.”
The DJ hungrily eyed the bill.
“I’d be very grateful,” I said.
The third tune had already started as he disappeared through the door to the studio. When the song ended he launched another series of tunes. I waited. The third play in that set, a Bruno Mars tune, had just begun to play when the door flew open and the DJ plopped a file in my hand.
“Is this it?” he breathlessly asked, as he handed me a manila folder.
“This is the right month,” I said, glancing through the program logs and found the one for April 6th. I ran my finger down the log page detailing the on-air activity for the bluegrass program. I recognized several of the titles on the log as being ones I’d heard on the tape.
“Nothing,” I said. “There’s nothing here to indicate a power or transmission failure.”
“Is that what you were looking for?” Scott asked, with expectation inscribed on his face.
My phone chirped. I saw that it was Brad calling, so I excused myself to answer it. He asked if I’d found out anything, and I gave him the bad news that there’d been no power failures at the radio station. I also told him what I’d learned in my call with the electric company. I expected him to be pissed, but instead he said, “Good work. Tell the cab driver he can go. I’ll pick you up.”
The connection ended before I could comment.
“Thanks for your help,” I said, handing the DJ the hundred dollar bill.
I last saw Scott Angel caressing the crisp bill between his thumb and forefinger.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brad carried a black leather briefcase as he approached the Carothers’ residence with Sharon Porter at his side. He rang the bell, but there was no answer.
“Did she know you were coming?” Sharon asked.
Brad shook his head.
“Duh,” Sharon muttered.
A minute later Amanda partially opened the door. “Brad?” He didn’t know at first if she would admit them. Amanda seemed flustered, unsure of what to say, but finally motioned for them to come in. “Would you like to sit down?”
Brad wanted to get down to business. “Where’s your main electrical circuit breaker?”
“Over here,” Amanda announced and led them down the hallway toward the garage, where she opened the louvered doors concealing the automatic washer and dryer. Brad spotted the gray metal electrical cabinet on the wall just above the clothes dryer.
He placed his briefcase on top of the washing machine. “When is the last time you—or anyone you know—went into the breaker box?”
Amanda kneaded her fingers on her forehead as she tried to remember. “It’s been awhile. I can’t recall exactly.”
Brad opened his case and retrieved a pencil, then slipped it inside the metal ring handle of the circuit box. Using the pencil to avoid leaving his own finger prints, he pried open the door revealing two rows of switches and a main breaker. Brad took out a vial of black powder and a brush, and dusted inside the cabinet.
There had been no widespread power outages on the day of Dana’s death, and he couldn’t account for the time discrepancy on Dana’s bluegrass recording by a malfunction at the radio station. Brad concluded Dana’s killer had turned off the main breaker in order to disable the automatic garage door opener, and in the process disrupted the recording session.
“Maybe we’ll get a good set of prints from the electrician who installed this,” Brad quipped.
After dusting the area he shined a flashlight, especially interested in the area around the main breaker. “Ah.” Realizing that Sharon and Amanda were watching, he added, “I think I’ve spotted a partial print.”
Brad lifted the print using tape and placed it on a three by five card. It appeared to be three-quarters of a thumb print. “This could be enough to ID.”
Brad closed the metal cabinet and dusted the exterior, but found only a few unusable smudges around the metal ring opener.
When he’d finished, Amanda said, “I’ll make tea.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell her that they wouldn’t be there long. He wanted to touch base with Josh Miller and arrange to have the fingerprint checked.
Brad pulled out his phone and called the Hilton Head sub-station of the Sheriff’s office.
“I’d like to speak with Detective Miller please... When do you think he’ll be back? Would you ask him to call Brad Frame? He has my cell number. Tell him I’m at Amanda Carothers’ place. All right, thanks.”
When he ended the call he saw Sharon staring at him expectantly.
“Josh is out on an emergency call. They’ll let him know.”
Brad was about to have a seat in the living room when he heard a blaring siren approaching. He looked out the front window and saw an unmarked car with Josh Miller at the wheel pull into the driveway.
“That’s what I call service,” Sharon said.
“Does he have to leave his siren on?” Amanda held fingers in her ears.
Brad watched the detective jump out of the car and scurry toward the front door. The expression on Josh’s face was intense.
Turning to Sharon, Brad said, “Something’s wrong.”
The detective didn’t bother to knock. He opened the front door, glanced at the people in the room, and motioned Brad outside.
Brad told Amanda he’d be back and headed outside with Sharon on his footsteps.
“What’s up?” Brad asked
“They just radioed me that you were here.” Josh prepared to climb back in his car. “There’s been another suicide.”
“Who?”
“Kathy Westin. Her dad came home and found her. Since you know him, maybe you could help. The 9-1-1 operator said he wasn’t very coherent.”
Brad dashed for the front seat, while Sharon aimed for the back.
Josh pointed at Sharon. “She better wait here.”
“She’s coming,” Brad asserted, while signaling Sharon not to start a tirade.
On the short drive to Westin’s house Josh filled them in on what he knew. A suicide had been reported. They were short-handed and backup wouldn’t arrive for at least twenty minutes. Brad’s mind raced with potential scenarios. He’d observed deep sadness in Kathy Westin, and in hindsight he should have considered depression. He felt guilty that his inquiry into Dana’s death may have re-opened emotional wounds and driven her over the edge. And he worried what impact Kathy’s suicide might have on Amanda’s fragile emotional state once she heard the news.
As they followed Josh into the living room of the Westin’s home Brad was unprepared for the gruesome sight that awaited him. He recoiled at the sight of Kathy’s body sprawled on the floor next to the shotgun which had blasted away half her neck and the lower left side of her face. He noticed the index finger of her right hand was still inside the trigger guard. The wall behind her was splattered with human tissue, and rivulets of blood trickled down the wall, darkening against the blue paint. The fatal blast left a hole in the plaster along with a circular shot pattern. Kathy’s eyelids were open in a lifeless stare toward the ceiling as blood pooled on the carpeting beneath her head.
“Oh, God!” Josh Miller said, surveying the scene.
Brad glanced at Sharon and saw that she had closed her eyes. He could only imagine what was going throu
gh her mind, starting with renewed images of her father’s suicide. Brad knew that her father’s death had marked a turning point in her life, in much the same way 9/11/01 was a defining moment for the nation.
Sharon made a fist and held it in front of her mouth. Her hand trembled and her whole body tensed. She opened her eyes, and they glistened with tears. Brad hugged her and nodded that he understood.
As Josh called the station to find the status of his backup, Brad drew Sharon’s attention to Jim Westin, who slumped in a chair on the opposite side of the living room. He seemed oblivious to the presence of other people as he clutched his head with his left hand. Westin’s right hand still rested on the phone receiver on the table next to him.
Sharon went to him, perhaps because it would help her focus, Brad thought. She dropped to her knees in front of him and tried to get Westin’s attention.
Brad heard Westin repeating, “No, no, no.”
Sharon called out, “I think we should take him outside.”
Josh nodded his consent to that plan and Brad helped get Westin on his feet. Sharon had to pry the phone receiver from his hand before they guided him to a bench outside the front entry.
Brad let Sharon try to talk with Jim, and knew she’d alert him if she heard any significant information. He stepped back in the house where he found Josh Miller still studying the scene.
“Has Westin said anything?” Josh asked.
Brad shook his head.
“I don’t want him coming back in here. Maybe you could take him to Ms. Carothers’ place? I’ll talk with him later.”
Brad didn’t like that idea. Amanda was in no condition to cope with Westin’s troubles.
“I think you ought to call for an ambulance and get him to the hospital.” Brad said. “He’s in a state of shock. Almost catatonic. Besides you’ll be tied up here for a while,” Brad said.
“What do you mean?” Josh asked, as if reading his mind.
“You’ve got a murder investigation on your hands. This is no suicide.”