Katherine finished saying her prayers, returned the Bible to its proper place under her pillow, and retrieved the latest copy of True Detective magazine from its hiding spot under the mattress. It was the one guilty pleasure she allowed herself before turning in each evening.
Katherine went to the sink to remove the makeup she wore to cover the scar that ran through her upper and lower lip. Yes, makeup was against the rules, too.
But she knew God would understand.
Chapter Four
Savannah, Georgia
June 2, 1982
“So, Mr. Scrogger,” Assistant District Attorney Cecelia Jaing began. “If I understand the primary theme of your defense, you were—in your own words—‘too drunk to have killed anyone.’ Is that a fair summary?”
“I’d had a few beers,” Wyatt muttered.
“A few as in three? Four?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ten? Twelve?” Cecelia pushed.
“Yeah, probably,” Wyatt said.
“And is it your testimony that the dozen-plus beers you had over the course of the evening were consumed at only two bars, Pinkie Masters and the Cosmos Club?”
“Yes.”
“And you stopped at no other establishments that evening, is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Wyatt said.
“I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honor,” Cecelia said. A few whispers flew around the stunned courtroom as the cross-examination of Wyatt Scrogger was expected to last several days.
Wyatt shrugged, relieved at having been dismissed so quickly. But no sooner had Wyatt returned to his seat at the defense table than Cecelia Jaing dropped the bomb.
“The prosecution calls Ms. Marjorie Schrump to the stand,” Cecelia announced.
The defense attorney scanned the witness list and rose to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. There is no such person on the prosecution’s witness list.”
“That’s because Ms. Schrump is a rebuttal witness for the purposes of impeachment,” Cecelia said.
“Very well,” the judge said.
Marjorie Schrump was sworn in and took the stand.
“Ms. Schrump, can you tell the court where you were on the evening of June 2 and early morning of June 3, 1979.
“Yes, I was at the Forsyth Park Hotel.”
“Directly across from Forsyth Park?” Cecelia prompted.
“Yes, that’s it,” Schrump said.
“And in what capacity were you there?”
“I was acting as a chaperone for Savannah High School, which was holding its senior prom there that evening,” Schrump continued.
“And, on that evening, did you see the defendant in this case there in the hotel?”
“Yes, I did.”
Gasps.
“And at what time did you see the defendant in the hotel?” Cecelia asked.
“Somewhere between 12:10 a.m. and 12:30 a.m.,” Schrump said.
“How can you be so certain what time it was?”
“Because my duties as chaperone ended promptly at midnight, and several of the other chaperones and I went over to the bar for a well-deserved glass of Chardonnay. You have no idea what it’s like to watch over a group of two hundred horny teenagers,” Schrump said.
Giggles from the gallery.
“And did you simply see Mr. Scrogger at the hotel that evening? Or did you happen to come in contact with him?”
“We came in contact with one another.”
“Could you please describe the nature of this contact?” Cecelia prompted.
“Yes. He approached me and asked me a question.”
“A question?” Cecelia repeated for dramatic effect. “And what was the question he asked?”
“He asked me if I knew where the bathrooms were.”
“Is that all? Did he ask you anything else?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “He asked me if I knew where he could find Juniper Cole.”
Chapter Five
St. Augustine, Florida
February 22, 2010
When Koda Mulvaney’s jet touched down in Orlando, he convinced Tank—his father’s Samoan limo driver and bodyguard—to drive him to his meeting with Vooubasi in St. Augustine, ninety miles away.
Dane was already waiting in the lobby of the Casa Monica hotel when they arrived. He’d flown in from New York earlier that day.
“How’d you talk Koda into this?” Tank asked as he reached out to give Dane a bone-crushing handshake. Tank was wide and strong, having played left tackle—protecting quarterback Bruce Mulvaney’s blind-side—for three seasons as a Georgia Bulldog—which was appropriate since Tank actually resembled a bulldog.
“So he told you about the girl?” Dane asked.
“Yeah. Every girl in the world wants the kid and what does he do? He falls for the one chick he can’t have.”
Dane laughed. Koda didn’t.
“I haven’t fallen for her,” Koda said flatly. “I just want to understand what’s going on.”
“We’re supposed to meet with Vooubasi at six,” Dane said.
Koda glanced at his watch. “Let’s get checked in, then meet in the bar at 5:30, okay?”
“Checked in?” Tank asked.
“Yeah, we’re staying the night,” Koda said.
“I’m gonna have to tell your old man I’m not coming back tonight,” Tank said. “You cool with that?”
Koda nodded. “Just don’t tell him why we’re here, okay?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell him you and Dane are gonna go clubbing, and I’m staying to keep you out of trouble.”
A young Asian woman met Dane, Koda, and Tank at the door to Vooubasi’s suite and ushered them into the sitting area where they found the psychic medium seated on a sofa in the corner of the room.
Vooubasi was a small man, probably no more than five-foot-five or six at best. He was dark as a raisin left too long in the midday sun, with a mass of wavy black and gray hair that hung well past his shoulders, and wore what appeared to be a 1960s Beatles-era Nehru jacket. And then there were his laughably oversized platform shoes.
“I am Vooubasi,” the small man said in a strong Indian accent, suggesting he was raised in either India or Pakistan. “You have met my assistant, Xiao-Xing. She will also be participating in this evening’s event.”
“Event?” Dane asked.
“Yes,” Vooubasi said, “during the séance.”
“The séance?” Koda repeated.
“When we spoke by phone, I asked you what you wanted to achieve by meeting,” Vooubasi said in a calm tone. “If my memory serves me, you said you wanted to reach someone on the other side—a girl, I believe—correct?”
“Yes, but I didn’t realize—”
“I have been doing this for many years, Mr. Mulvaney,” Vooubasi continued. “A séance is the vehicle to achieve your desires.”
“There is the small issue of payment and the release,” Xiao-Xing briefly stepped forward to explain.
“Release?” Tank said. “Release for what?”
“Standard boilerplate stuff,” Vooubasi explained with a wave of his brown hand, as if he were shooing away a fly. “A standard protection in case anyone should have a heart attack or get cut by flying glass.”
“Seriously?” Dane asked. He’d sat in on many séances in his younger years in Lily Dale but had never witnessed anything flying around the room, except for the occasional tambourine.
Vooubasi shrugged his frail shoulders. “Anything is possible when one is dealing with the other side.”
“Fine, let’s just get on with it,” Koda said, writing Vooubasi a check for $10,000—an amount he knew he was currently unable to cover—glanced quickly at the release, and scribbled his signature at the bottom.
“Mr. Vooubasi will be spending the next few hours in deep meditation as a means of preparation,” Xiao-Xing said. “May I suggest you return to your rooms and get proper rest. Return here at 11:45 p.m., at which time I w
ill give everyone their instructions.”
Chapter Six
Desoto, Missouri
April 17, 1935
Thirteen-year-old Declan Mulvaney was being punished for speaking out of turn.
Sister Mary Margaret instructed the boy to stand behind a large upright piano in the corner of the classroom, where he now found himself watching a large black spider spinning its web less than three inches from his face.
When the class bell rang, Sister Mary Margaret—whom the children shortened to Sister “Mar Mar” behind her back—told Declan to stay behind. Once they were alone, she pulled a wooden ruler from her desk drawer.
“You are a special boy, Declan Mulvaney,” Sister Mary Margaret said. “But I have come to learn that the special boys require extra-special reminders to behave in class. Hold out your hand, please.”
Declan extended his arm, opening his hand in front of Mar Mar’s face. In his open palm was the crushed spider.
Sister Mary Margaret did not scare easily, but the unexpected sight of the large arachnid caught her off guard and she took an involuntary step backward. Regaining her composure, she said, “Turn your palm down, Declan, knuckles up.”
“No,” Declan said.
“Declan Mulvaney, you will do as I say.”
“No,” Declan said again.
Sister Mary Margaret and Declan locked eyes. Neither of them blinked. Sister Mary Margaret finally spoke. “Very well, Mr. Mulvaney, have it your way. But don’t bother going to dinner with the others this evening. There will be none for you.”
Declan turned his hand over, dropped the dead spider at Mar Mar’s feet and walked out of the room.
Later, after lights out, ten-year-old Tommy Bilazzo made his way in the darkness to Declan’s bunk on the other side of the boy’s dormitory. Like virtually every kid at Open Arms, Tommy admired Declan for his brash attitude and refusal to submit to every rule imposed at the institution they were forced to call home.
Tommy was taking a risk of his own now.
“I copped some bread for you. It was all I could get,” Tommy said, producing a hunk of sourdough from his pocket.
Declan nodded and took the bread from Tommy Bilazzo’s hand.
Tommy was three years younger than Declan—but so big that the two boys looked like they were the same age. He’d arrived at the Open Arms three years after Declan, after his mother and father perished in the Tri-state tornado of 1925. Of course, everyone at the orphanage had such a story—it was, after all, how each of them had come to be there in the first place.
“What was it like being back there?” Tommy asked. “Alone, behind the piano, I mean.”
“I wasn’t alone. There was a big black spider to keep me company,” Declan said taking a bite from the bread.
“I don’t like spiders much,” Tommy replied.
“Me neither. That’s why I killed it,” Declan said.
“Why’d you do that?” Tommy asked. “It wasn’t the spider’s fault Sister Mar Mar stuck you back there.”
“He was in my face,” Declan said. “Anything that gets in my face dies.”
Declan Mulvaney had a well-earned reputation at the orphanage as a brawler, one of the boys not to be messed with. Tommy Bilazzo had the exact opposite reputation. Though Tommy was big enough to pummel just about anyone he wanted, he’d never been in a fight and hoped he’d never have to.
Though Declan Mulvaney and Tommy Bilazzo had grown up in the same place, under the same conditions, the two boys could not have been more different.
Declan reached down and pulled a copy of Boy’s Life magazine from under his mattress.
“Where’d you get that?” Tommy asked.
“I copped it from Father Fanning’s office,” Declan said as he flipped through the magazine. “He won’t miss it. He’s got a whole stack of ‘em.” Declan found the page he was looking for and held it open for Tommy to see.
“What is it?” Tommy asked, straining to see the picture in the darkened room.
“That, my friend, is a Boeing Vultee eight-passenger with an airspeed of 230 miles an hour and a fourteen-cylinder engine,” Declan said. “I’m gonna own one someday. What about you?”
“Own a plane?” Tommy Bilazzo repeated.
“Yeah, why not?”
“I dunno,” Tommy said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Never thought about it.”
“Here, take the magazine and read up on it,” Declan said.
Tommy took the magazine back to his bunk, though neither the magazine nor the airplane meant much to him. What mattered most was that Declan Mulvaney—the coolest kid in the entire orphanage—had just called him his friend.
Chapter Seven
Savannah, Georgia
July 13, 1982
“There is a verdict in the Wyatt Arron Scrogger trial,” Skylar Savage said breathlessly from Montgomery Street with the Chatham County Courthouse serving as the perfect backdrop. Hundreds of onlookers jumped and cheered behind her, each hoping to get their faces on TV even if for just a fraction of a second.
“Yes, there is, Skylar,” Domingo Gutierrez declared from his anchor chair in the WTOC-TV studios, “and it’s guilty… guilty… guilty!”
“That’s right, Domingo,” Skylar continued, her long blonde hair blowing in the strong afternoon wind. “It took the jury of nine women and three men just three hours to come to a unanimous verdict on counts of kidnapping, possession of a controlled substance with the intent to incapacitate, and the big one of course, premeditated murder in the first degree with special circumstances that carries the death penalty.”
More than anything else in the world, Quinn Cole wanted his sister back. Short of that, he wanted five minutes alone in a room with the person who had just been convicted of killing her.
His childhood friend, Wyatt Scrogger.
Quinn had held out hope that it wasn’t true—that Wyatt had not been involved. But the overwhelming evidence presented by Assistant District Attorney Cecelia Jaing at trial had removed any remaining doubt in Quinn’s mind.
Wyatt did it.
Of that, Quinn Cole was now certain.
The only questions that remained were:
Why had he done it? And…
Where was his sister’s body?
Of course, it was against Cecelia’s better judgment to allow the victim’s brother in the same room with the man she’d single-handedly convicted of murder—after all, there was no telling what Quinn Cole might do. But she’d watched the young man sit there in court—so bravely, day after day, all alone—knowing his father was too busy with a new life in California and his mother too drunk to get dressed and put on her make-up—and it touched her.
And it took a lot to touch Cecelia. So, in the end, she gave in to Quinn’s request.
Besides, it could also be fun to watch.
Wyatt Scrogger sat in the small holding cell, his wrists and ankles chained and locked to a metal post secured to the floor. He was once again in his orange prison jumpsuit, out of his courtroom suit for the last time—at least until the appeal.
The cell door swung open and the bailiff entered, followed by Quinn Cole.
“Well, of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, look who just walked into mine,” Wyatt said, doing his best Humphrey Bogart.
“Five minutes,” the bailiff said. “And don’t do anything stupid, son. We got cameras everywhere, and me and the DA gonna be right there behind the glass watching. Got it?”
Quinn nodded and took a seat at the metal table opposite Wyatt as the bailiff left the room, closing the door behind him.
The two young men sat in silence. “So what, you been lifting weights?” Wyatt asked, breaking the ice. “Looks like you got some kind of Schwarzenegger thing going on.”
Quinn remained silent, breathing heavily.
“You got something you want to say or we just hanging out like old times?” Wyatt asked.
“What do you think I want?” Quinn snapped. “I
want to know what happened that day. What did you do to Juniper?”
“Not an easy day to forget,” Wyatt said, channeling Humphrey Bogart again. “Oh wait! I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray. You wore blue.”
“Christ, Wyatt. I can’t even begin to guess what’s going on in that screwed up head of yours,” Quinn said. “And you know what? I don’t care. I only care about Juniper.”
“That’s obvious.”
“Tell me where she is. Where’s her body?” Quinn asked.
“And if I can’t tell you, Quinn, what then?”
“Then I’ll rip your head off, right here.”
“You must have missed the part where you were told not to threaten me.”
Quinn shrugged his shoulders, glanced around. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s coming, does it?”
“You despise me, don’t you? Go ahead and shoot! You’ll be doing me a favor,” Wyatt said, once again in his Bogart voice.
Quinn Cole dropped his head and looked at the floor.
“Quinn, I’m telling you, they’ve got it wrong,” Wyatt said. “But I have a theory.”
“A theory?” Quinn repeated looking up. “Okay, tell me your theory.”
“I think the stuff was planted by the real killer.”
“By the real killer?” Quinn repeated. “The real killer?”
“Yes,” Wyatt said. “I think the person who really took Juniper planted that stuff in my car.”
“They planted it there?” Quinn asked. “How did they get Juniper’s things? Explain that.”
“I can’t, but…”
“There’s a witness who saw you there, Wyatt. What, did the killer plant you there, too?”
“I was drunk, okay? How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t remember.”
“Listen, Wyatt,” Quinn said. “We were friends once, right? Tell me what you did with Juniper right now, and I promise I will do everything within my power to help you.”
Onyx Webb: Book Two Page 2