Murder in the Courthouse

by Nancy Grace

“I didn’t say how much, did I? Listen, Cecil, we’ll go with you to your desktop right now and send out the email. Somebody will probably write back in ten minutes. OK?”

  Looking from Billings to Hailey to Finch, Cecil Snodgrass acquiesced. “OK.” With that he turned, his shoulders curved downward in a semicircle, and trudged to his cubicle.

  His cubicle turned out to be the same one where Fincher had been snooping just twenty-four hours before. Its prefab plastic walls were covered in a vanilla blended fabric nearly to the top, where butterscotch-colored plastic took over. His cubicle’s “walls” were covered with photos of exotic animals.

  A faux-gold plaque had been glued near the top of his wall stating his name, Cecil Snodgrass, and underneath in smaller engraved letters was his title, “Sr. Inmate Intake Manager.”

  The pride he must have taken in putting that plaque up . . . Hailey smiled. When Snodgrass plopped down into his chair, it rolled a little to the left. He slid it back into the center of his cube, scooting forward to align himself directly in front of his computer screen. Hailey promptly positioned herself behind him, staring over his slumped shoulders to get a bird’s-eye view of what he typed.

  “Miss Dean, did you send me the photo?” Snodgrass asked over his shoulder, methodically opening up his screen as he’d done a million times before.

  Noticing a tag still hanging down off the seat bottom of Snodgrass’s chair, Hailey proceeded with the honey vs. vinegar technique she’d recommended to Billings and complimented it. “Nice chair.” She had to get this email out pronto.

  “Thank you,” he responded with a businesslike air. “It’s the top of the line for county-issue office furniture. I got to pick it out when I got promoted a few months ago to Senior Intake Manager. It’s a Series Two Tone High-Back Racer Executive by Techni. I love it. Like I said, I got to select the one I wanted.”

  He was obviously very proud.

  “What’s with the cushion?” Finch jumped in. “Is that wood?”

  Hailey immediately punched Fincher in the ribs. She didn’t want to slow down the email process.

  “As a matter of fact, it is. I found it online. It’s made completely of high-quality, perfectly rounded wooden beads,” he answered, this time a little smugly.

  “Do they hurt? They look painful,” Finch asked.

  “Hurt? No. They’re specially designed to massage your back. And this chair . . . it’s ergonomic. Designed to support your lumbar.”

  “Well, they look like they hurt. I’m just saying.”

  “Fincher, don’t distract Mr. Snodgrass.” Hailey said it with a fixed smile but her eyes clearly said, Shut up!

  “And, oh yes, your email?” Hailey went on.

  “It’s Cecil . . .” he paused and glanced over his shoulders, rising slightly from his seat to glance over the cubicle wall. He looked back at Hailey. “You know, you can never be too careful with your personal information.”

  Hailey fought back laughter as Billings nudged her in the back.

  “You are so right, Cecil. Now what was that email?” She held her iPhone poised in her hand to type.

  “It’s CecilM.Snodgrass@chathamcounty.org. Did you get that?”

  “I believe I did. I’ll send the photo now.”

  “What’s the ‘M’ for?” Finch asked out of natural curiosity.

  Snodgrass reddened. “It’s for Merriweather. It’s a family name,” he added defensively. No one spoke.

  “OK! I’ll do it.”

  Snodgrass lifted his fingertips to the keyboard but then paused significantly. Suddenly it dawned on the three of them and they turned away so he could enter his password in privacy.

  They immediately heard his fingers typing away.

  “Yep. Here’s your photo. Now, how would you like the email to read?”

  “How about ‘Urgent. Reward to thank the person who located this black beaded purse and placed it for safekeeping in the County Lost and Found.’ Give your extension here.”

  “It has to be my phone number too?”

  “Yes, it does. No one will recognize mine or Fincher’s and it should be from someone here in the clerk’s office, not Lieutenant Billings. Cecil, remember, we think somebody murdered Elle. You do want to help, don’t you?”

  He looked resigned. “Yes. I do. She was a nice lady. In fact, she gave me a ride to my car just a few days ago. Spotted me walking on the sidewalk. Pulled over and asked if I needed a ride.”

  He sounded resigned to doing his bit. Hailey watched as Cecil Snodgrass typed the message. From her view just inches above his head, Hailey could see how carefully he’d combed his hair over a balding pate. At barely 5’2”, she would never have guessed from below. He did a beautiful job, though. The smell of men’s hair product wafted up to her nostrils. Maybe Rogaine.

  “Where’d you get all these photos and postcards? Are you a hunter? They look like safaris. Man, look at this king cobra. That’s just freaky. I hate snakes.” Fincher couldn’t help himself.

  Snodgrass stopped what he was doing and swiveled to look Fincher in the eye. “Actually, Mr. Fincher, I have a deep affinity with the king cobra.”

  At the king cobra comment, all three jerked their heads back toward Snodgrass. “An affinity? Why is that?” Finch just wouldn’t leave it alone.

  “Well, it’s quite obvious, isn’t it? The Ophiophagus hannah, its true name, of course, is the poisonous monarch of the jungle. Rarely seen but always present, it stays under the radar for the most part, avoids human confrontation if possible, but is always ready to pounce, to attack. In a nutshell, it’s deadly, Mr. Fincher.”

  “And you have, what did you say, an ‘affinity’ with the cobra?” Finch was fighting back laughter. Hailey only hoped Snodgrass didn’t see through Finch’s questions, and for her own part, she kept an extremely serious face.

  “Well, that’s exactly how I see my duties here at the courthouse. Rarely seen, but ready to pounce if necessary.” He turned back to his keyboard, allowing several furtive but highly meaningful glances between Hailey, Finch, and Billings.

  “And, I am very close to getting my black belt in judo, Mr. Fincher.”

  Hailey couldn’t help but think again of Barney Fife and his judo lessons on The Andy Griffith Show. But this time, in a good way. Wisely, she remained silent and did not voice her comparison.

  “Yes, Mr. Fincher. Many Westerners underestimate the ways of the Far East.”

  “But not you.” Finch really didn’t know when to stop.

  “No, not me. Remember, Mr. Fincher, ‘When you seek it, you cannot find it. Your hand cannot reach it nor can your mind exceed it. But when you no longer seek it, it is always with you.’ That’s a Zen proverb that could possibly help you.”

  “A what?”

  “A Zen proverb.”

  “OK. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Hailey and Billings read over the email contents and its “All Courthouse Alert” address, typically saved for emergencies, weather closings, or other bureaucratic necessities. It was perfectly in order.

  “Great, Cecil. Thanks. It’s perfect. Please send,” Billings said appreciatively.

  They all watched intently as he pushed the send button. Just seconds later, they breathed a collective sigh of relief when it showed up as sent email.

  “So where do we get the reward money?” Billings quickly moved on to the next obstacle.

  “It doesn’t have to be a lot. A hundred dollars will do. Don’t you have a petty cash fund?”

  “I do. And I will let you explain to the sheriff’s party committee why we won’t have the punch spiked at the Christmas party.” He smiled when he said it.

  “We catch this guy and I’ll buy you the Christmas spirits for the sheriff’s party myself.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yep. And you’ve got two witnesses right here, Finch and Cecil.”

  “OK, you’re on.” They shook on it, standing there at Snodgrass’s cubicle.

  Just then, two Savannah
police officers entered the room. With them was Tish Adams, following along behind them, talking in a low but strident voice. “I just don’t think Todd should be brought over in the jailhouse bus with all the other inmates every morning. It’s simply too dangerous.”

  “Ma’am. Isn’t he charged with murder?”

  Tish Adams’s lips pursed. “Yes. You are correct, officer. But he’s innocent. And you’ll see that very soon. But that’s neither here nor there. My son, Todd Adams, should not be thrown in the pot with convicted felons, dope dealers, child molesters, killers, and I mean real killers.”

  “Mrs. Adams, what do you propose? Do you want to bring him over yourself like he’s in second-grade carpool over at Frederica Academy?”

  “Sir, I do not take kindly to your attempt at humor. This is my son we are talking about. And no, I am not suggesting I pick him up and bring him. But what about a sheriff’s transport van? They’ve got those, right? A private van?”

  “I will look into it, Mrs. Adams.”

  Tish Adams’s voice went stern. “Please see that you do. If anything happens to my son . . . there will be a lawsuit against this county like nothing you’ve ever seen. That’s a promise.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will pass that along.”

  Adams looked around the group, giving them all a stony stare, including Hailey, Finch, and Billings. She then relented and gave a weak smile.

  “Thank you. After all, he is my son. You’d do the same, I’m sure, if you were in my position. I hope you understand.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Tish Adams looked slowly around her as if she couldn’t quite take in that she was really here, in the courthouse, begging on behalf of her son. Straightening her back, she turned without another word and walked through the cubes and out the door, pulling her oxygen canister along with her.

  Hailey’s heart hurt for the woman.

  Oxygen or no oxygen, the officers didn’t feel as much empathy for Tish Adams, especially after her threat to sue the county. They gave each other a significant look, shrugged it off, and continued directly over to the lost and found bin. They looked down into it and turned around to spot Billings.

  “Hi, Lieutenant. Is this it?” One directed the question to Billings.

  “Yep, but make sure you photograph it first, if you don’t mind.”

  “Got it.” The younger one pulled a police-issue camera out of a black bag he wore over his shoulder. He started flashing shots of the pouch in the bin and the bin itself.

  In the midst of the flashes, another officer came in, carrying a black suitcase similar to a big makeup case. Without a word, he placed it on the carpet beside the bin and kneeling down, clicked open hinges on either side. As he folded it out in both directions, Hailey saw it was a fingerprint kit. He started dusting with the dark powder.

  “Hey, Lieutenant Billings. How’s it going?”

  “Fair, Traylor. Fair. Thanks for coming over. You’re the best.”

  “You really think somebody killed Elle?” He tossed it over his shoulder as he worked, never taking his eyes off the slim edges of the bin as he dusted them carefully with what appeared to be a soft-bristled makeup brush.

  “I do,” Billings answered with no hesitation.

  “But why? She was a nice lady.”

  “Don’t know that. Yet, anyway.”

  “I sure hope you get him. She brought a whole dinner to the house one night right after my wife got out of the hospital last year. Out of the blue. Didn’t know she even knew Margie and I had a baby. You know . . . complications.”

  “I remember. How’s the baby?” Billings made small talk.

  “He’s trying to walk now.” The crime-scene tech slowed just long enough to throw a big grin at the three of them, and then turned back to the exacting science of fingerprints.

  Hailey watched carefully. The guy knew what he was doing. He not only got the upper edge, but all down the three sides of the bin, all the way down to the carpet, just in case. The fourth side was pushed against the wall.

  He then went back into his bag and pulled out what looked like a pair of extremely long tweezers, reached into the bin, pulled out the pouch by its strap with the tweezers, and laid the beaded bag onto a sheet of pristine, clear plastic he’d spread on the floor. It would be hard to get a full print off the beads, but he was trying.

  Then, he had a go at the strap and the zipper. “Can I open?” He turned back to Billings.

  “Sure, that’s what we’ve been waiting for.” Instinctively, the three of them edged forward as the tech, with blue surgical gloves on, took the zipper with a smaller set of tweezers and unzipped the tiny black bag.

  Resting inside the beaded pouch along with a single gold tube of lipstick, her driver’s license and credit cards held together by a blue rubber band, sat Eleanor Odom’s EpiPen. It was small and sleek, no bigger than a writing pen. Hailey was right.

  The sight of Eleanor’s purpling face, her hands tearing at her own throat, her tongue thick and swollen in her mouth, her eyes bulging as the small blood vessels in her eyes burst from asphyxiation . . . leaped to Hailey’s mind. But for this pen. The pen that could have saved Eleanor’s life. That should have saved Elle’s life.

  “Hey, guys! We got a winner! Somebody wrote back.”

  The spell was broken.

  “The guy that found the bag! He wrote back already! I told you this would work!” Snodgrass was now standing over his keyboard staring at the screen, looking for all he was worth as if the email and reward had been his idea from the get-go.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Who is it?” Hailey had just gotten the words out of her mouth and come to peer over Snodgrass’s shoulder at the return email when the double doors to the clerk’s office inched open extremely slowly. Barely pushing through, first came a double-tiered cart on wheels stacked to the brim with cleaning solutions, stacks of unopened toilet paper, and paper towels, with a tall bunch of multicolored dusters and mops attached upright at the back.

  The cart creaked slowly forward and when the doors whooshed shut behind it, a short elderly man poked his head out from behind the mops. “Hello, everybody. You wanted to know who found the little purse? I did. Last night. But I didn’t open it, oh no, I’d a never opened up a lady’s purse like that. I just came straightaways here to the lost and found and set it in there. That’s just what I did, all right . . . I didn’t take a thing from it. You can look and see . . . the Lord knows I’d a never . . .”

  “Oh, no sir! We don’t think you took anything from it at all! We are just trying to find out where you found it. That’s all.”

  Hailey rushed over to the old man, who had to be pushing eighty. Short to start with, he was stooped over with age and wearing a long-sleeved tan shirt buttoned nearly all the way up with matching tan work pants, brown belt, and shoes. His name was embroidered in half print and half cursive over his shirt pocket. It read “Albert Thomas.”

  “Mr. Thomas, thank you so, so much for coming down,” Hailey went on as Billings and Finch approached the two.

  “Up.”

  “Up what?” Billings asked.

  “Oh, the lady said I came down. I actually came up. My locker is down in the basement. So I come up to get here.” His big brown eyes rested again on Hailey. “You look familiar to me, Miss Lady. But you don’t work here in the courthouse, do you? I know I’d a remembered you for sure.”

  “No, sir. I don’t work here. But I have been here the past few days on a trial. Come sit down.” Hailey led him over to the cubicle next to Cecil’s and sat him in one of the chairs.

  “So, Mr. Thomas, where did you find it?”

  “The purse?”

  “Yes, sir. The little black beaded purse. You say you found it last night?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He addressed her with the title ma’am, although he was much older than Hailey, as was just polite manners in the South, just as she referred to him as “sir” due to his age.

  “I was cleanin
g out the ladies’ room over by the cafeteria last night and that’s when I found it.” He nodded his head up and down gently, as if to emphasize his story, all the time looking between Billings and Hailey, then down to the floor as if nervous or simply timid.

  “Interesting. I know where that bathroom is. It’s the ladies’ room on the right just as you come down the ramp to the food lines?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That be the one. Right below Judge Regard’s courtoom.”

  “Where was the pouch sitting? On the floor beside a commode? The window ledge? Left beside the sinks?” Hailey continued as Mr. Thomas seemed to be most comfortable with her. He was now looking up from the floor and directly into her eyes.

  “Oh no, ma’am. It weren’t out like that. It weren’t at all. It were wrapped up in the paper towels and it were shoved down all the way at the bottom of the trash can. I only noticed it when it fell out of the towels when I was pouring it all into my big trash can. I don’t know why somebody would do that to such a nice little pocketbook. I guess they didn’t want it no more.”

  The import of his words caught in the air and hung around them. Someone had intentionally hidden Elle’s purse—and lifesaving EpiPen—so she couldn’t possibly find it. So she would die.

  “You called the ME, right? To do the additional toxicology screens?” Hailey’s mind had already leaped ahead.

  “Yep. Done,” Billings answered.

  “So, Miss Lady. What’s wrong with the pocketbook? Did I do wrong putting it in the bin?” Mr. Thomas looked doubtful and worried again . . . almost scared.

  “No! Not at all. As a matter of fact . . . you did a wonderful thing, Mr. Thomas.” Impulsively, Hailey hugged him tight around his old shoulders. He paused briefly, then held his feeble arms up and hugged her back.

  “Mr. Thomas, how long have you worked in the courthouse?” she asked.

  “Well, believe it or not, it’s going on sixty years now. I joined the county straight out of the military when I was just a young man. Almost had to retire a few years back when they passed the mandatory retirement law, but me and one other was already so old, it wouldn’t affect us. I thought I would lose my job.”