Farraday Road

by Ace Collins

  Hillman didn’t reply. His eyes remained focused on the efforts of his crew to uncover evidence in an area that had been trampled by a stampede of local do-gooders. The team members were working hard—after all, a woman had died—but he sensed they were finding little.

  “I can see the bad news,” he said, finally turning toward Curtis. “Between the weather and the locals, the scene is completely compromised. Now tell me that you’ve found something important in this mess.”

  “Nothing—no bullets, no impressions we can use, not much at all. Mrs. Evans’ wound was a pass-through. No lead in her body. I called the hospital and the same is true with her husband. The bullets have to be here, but we’ve not found them. And with the heavy rain last night, the way the gullywashers were taking everything down the hillside and into ditches already overflowing with water, I can’t guarantee we’re going to find anything. More likely, the bullets are embedded in the hillside and we’ll never find them. I know that’s not what you wanted to hear. We do have some stuff on the site, and in time it might help us pin down a motive, but I don’t see anything on this hillside that will identify a killer.”

  Hillman nodded. “Figured as much.” He started to walk slowly down the muddy road, moving his head deliberately from side to side, taking in each carefully placed evidence marker as well as anything that seemed out of place. He made mental notes of everything he observed, stopping only when he came to the spot where Old Iron had once stood. Curtis followed along behind him.

  “It was quite a storm,” Hillman said.

  “Had to be to take down that old bridge. I remember it well from when it was on Arkansas 9. Crossed it many times. Even drove over it once after they moved it here. I was attending the burial of a friend of my father’s at the cemetery on the other side of this creek. I’d have bet no flood could take it down. Still can’t believe it happened.”

  Hillman noted a few large logs poking out of the receding waters about thirty yards downstream. “Hard to fathom the force that can be mustered by nature.” He paused. “Why do you suppose the Evanses were on this road?”

  Curtis gave a thin smile. “That’s one thing I can answer. Sort of. Last night they went to a charity dinner in Melbourne. At the dinner they were given an award for their work with local food-pantry programs. The event broke up about 8:30. They left and, a few miles down the road, stopped at a place called Jim’s Diner. It’s a locally owned joint known for its homemade desserts. It was pouring when they finished their apple pie, so, according to the manager, the couple killed some time just talking and looking out the window at the storm. When the rain let up, they rushed out to their car. Their waitress told the sheriff it was about 10:15 when they finally left. Under normal conditions, it would be about a fifteen-or twenty-minute drive to this point, but the rain probably made the trip a lot longer.”

  “How does that explain why they turned off the main road?” Hillman asked.

  “It doesn’t. When they left Jim’s Diner, things shifted from a simple evening out to something menacing. Their Explorer was bumped maybe three times on the main road. Obvious white paint scrapes are on the driver’s side of the SUV. We found an Explorer bumper guard and taillight pieces about a quarter of a mile from the Farraday Road turn. By the time they got to Farraday Road, they apparently didn’t have a choice on where they were going. I believe the Evanses were forced onto this road, then were pushed into the ditch where the car sits now.”

  Hillman continued to stare at the spot where the bridge had stood. The rapidly flowing water swirled around trash pushed down from miles upstream. Even to his trained mind, the information discovered so far amounted to very little. “Get the paint and other evidence to the lab. Get me a car make and model and put out an APB. Let’s hope we find a bullet on that hillside.”

  With no warning, Hillman turned, setting a fast pace back up the road. Curtis stood watching her boss’s retreating back, then jogged along behind, catching up with him just as he reached the victims’ SUV.

  Crouching down, his knees just inches above the ground, Hillman studied the vehicle. “Curtis, you said the shots on the Evanses were pass-throughs, but what about the Explorer? Were there shots fired at the SUV to force it off the main road?”

  “Nothing jumps out on a quick visual. We’ll have the SUV in the lab for a full workup.”

  Hillman shook his head and stood up. “Good. Might be they can find something that will clear up this mess. Lord, I hate cases like this. They always create a lot of press and no one believes us when we find a simple solution.”

  “Boss, do you think this was a hit?”

  “Can’t imagine why someone would put a hit out on a smalltown lawyer. Makes no sense. Maybe it was mistaken identity, or possibly it was just a robbery. Still …”

  “Barton, there’s one strange thing I can’t explain.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Lije Evans’ trench coat was ripped from his body after he was shot, causing him to roll down the hill into the ditch. The coat’s side pockets were searched so forcefully that the material was torn. Then the coat was tossed. Just left at the crime scene, about twenty feet from the wife’s body.”

  “Nothing in the pockets or on the ground around the coat?”

  “No.”

  “Well, probably nothing more than someone looking for some cash.”

  Hillman figured he’d heard enough. Probably nothing more than a stoked-up, drug-induced robbery gone bad. Should be handled locally. This was no place for his team. The governor was going to owe him big time for this. “Curtis, do what you can here, get that SUV to the lab crew, and get going on that paint.”

  “What about looking for bullets on the hillside? That’s going to take some time.”

  Hillman looked toward the point where the woman’s body had been found. “Keep looking for a few more hours, but don’t sweat it if you fail to find anything. Probably embedded in the hill or washed away by now, and I’m not going to give weeks to a crime that shouldn’t have been dealt to us. I’ll go to the hospital to check on Evans. Maybe he’ll be awake and can clear this thing up.”

  With little more than a nod goodbye, Hillman eased his car away from the scene and headed toward Salem. Glancing at his watch, he silently cursed the governor as he pulled onto Arkansas 9. His only witness might be in terrible condition to be questioned, but it was the only lead he had.

  THE LAST THING ELIJAH EVANS REMEMBERED WAS apple pie. Good apple pie—strong, sweet, cinnamony Jim’s Diner apple pie. He had awakened in a hospital bed with unimaginable pain and the Reverend Nathan Adams standing nervously next to his bed, looking down at him. His physician, Dr. Herring, had been there too. It was their job to inform him that last night he had been forced off the road in the rainstorm, that he had been shot in the stomach by an unknown assailant and spent hours in surgery, and that Kaitlyn, his wife, had been shot and died instantly.

  He remembered none of it. Now alone, drifting in and out of sleep, he tried to remember something—anything. He was staring off into space when a tall man wearing a suit entered the room flashing plastic-encased credentials.

  “Mr. Evans. My name’s Hillman, ABI. I can’t begin to tell you how much I hate to have to talk with you this soon. I’m so sorry for your loss. I stopped by now to see if possibly you could shed some light on just what went down out there on the cemetery road. If time were not so important, I would put this off. I realize you’re not fully awake yet. Just talked with your doctor. But I can’t wait. So I’m going to ask you some questions. I hope you can forgive my intrusion.”

  Lije said nothing, only nodded. He had always prided himself on being strong. But he couldn’t muster any strength, even to argue with the timing of this man’s questions. He felt as if he were in a fight and each second another sweeping left hook dug deep into his gut, making it impossible to breathe. This must be what hell is like. Fighting for your life, taking blow after blow, waiting for the merciful knockout that never comes. “I don
’t know how much help I’m going to be.”

  “I’m sure you can give me something. Once again, let me say I am sorry for your unfathomable loss.”

  Lije was confused. Hillman spoke the proper warm words, but his tone was cold, hurried.

  “What do you remember about the events of last night?”

  “Kaitlyn …” Lije paused. Kaitlyn. The name felt strange on his lips. He would never say her name the same way again. He would never be able to say it with the knowledge that she would be waiting for him when he got home. Kaitlyn, his wife, his late wife. He felt utter panic. Dead. This was impossible. This had to be a bad dream, a nightmare. She didn’t have an enemy in the world. Everyone loved her.

  Kaitlyn was unlike anyone he had ever met. She was beautiful in an exotic way, breathtaking; she had black hair and almondshaped green eyes. Her father had escaped Vietnam and married a woman he met here in the States. So when people first saw Kaitlyn, they really couldn’t put a finger on her family origins.

  Lije met her at Ouachita Baptist University, family tradition to go there. She had a full ride in vocal performance. He’d never been around any theater types, so she both stunned and fascinated him. She was spontaneous, outgoing, and driven. She was a cheerleader too, and she never quit rooting for others. It was just a part of her nature.

  Kaitlyn had taught third grade while he was in law school. Then when they moved back to Arkansas, she acted in community theater. But she often said she found a higher calling by working with charities. Lije wasn’t sure he knew what a “higher calling” meant, but she believed in it. She spent more hours each week with after-school programs for children, Meals on Wheels, and such than he did working for the firm. She was a giver who believed in sharing. And because of how much he loved her, he didn’t mind the time or the money she spent on others.

  Everyone saw her as the perfect Christian woman. She lived to reach out to what the Bible called “the least of these.” Lije went to church with her and supported what she wanted to do, but in truth her work mattered to him only because it made her happy. The world would be much better off if she were in this hospital bed and he were the one lying in the morgue.

  His voice caught in his throat, but he managed to say, “We went to the awards dinner in Melbourne and stopped at Jim’s Diner for pie on our way back. Whenever we were in the area, we stopped there. It was raining real hard. We watched it rain for a while from the diner window and, when it let up, we got back on the road.”

  The door to Lije’s room opened and Dr. Herring quietly entered.

  Hillman glanced at the doctor and continued to question Lije. “Know what time that was?”

  “It was late. About ten, maybe ten-fifteen.”

  “Notice anything unusual driving back?”

  Lije took a deep breath. “After that? I … I remember a car or maybe an SUV coming up behind us. I remember it still had its bright lights on. I think I heard a tire blow out, but …”

  Lije shook his head. There was nothing but darkness after that memory. Nothing at all. “I don’t know. I think I reached up to adjust my mirror, but I can’t remember anything more than that. I simply can’t.”

  “So you don’t recall being forced off the highway?”

  “No.”

  “And you have no idea how you ended up on Farraday Road?”

  “No. Not a clue.” Farraday Road, was that where it happened?Where Kaitlyn had been … ? He knew that old stretch of dirt like the back of his hand. Why couldn’t he remember being there?

  “Then, Mr. Evans, you have no idea who shot you?”

  The word “shot” almost made him gasp. A bullet had ripped through him, and another bullet took the life of his Kaitlyn. Why didn’t he do anything? Why didn’t he protect her? Not knowing the answers was killing him in a different way.

  “Once again, the answer is no, I don’t remember. I … wish I did. I really wish I could remember.”

  Yes, he wanted to remember; why couldn’t he? But he also feared remembering. Had he been a coward? Could he have helped Kaitlyn? Shielded her? Or did he run? Surely he would have stayed there and fought to save her. Did he? Why couldn’t he remember?Was it because he didn’t want to see the kind of man he was when she really needed him? Maybe he didn’t really want to remember. Maybe that was it. And why hadn’t he cried? What did that say about him? The coldness he felt now seemed worth hanging onto. Easier to insulate himself. Easier to deny the facts than to admit how much he’d lost.

  Dr. Herring said, “You probably will remember in time, Lije. Don’t beat yourself up because you can’t recall things now. Sometimes shock temporarily clouds our minds in order to protect us from things we can’t yet emotionally handle.”

  Hillman said, “I’ve known many people who could not mentally latch on to events at first. Most recalled many details later.” The investigator checked his watch and frowned. Then, his words coming faster, he said, “Maybe going at this from a different direction will help. Do you know of any reason anyone would want to murder you or your wife? Maybe an upset client?”

  It was a good question, but one with no answers. His law practice wasn’t much of a practice. He employed one other lawyer, Heather Jameson, a young woman who graduated from law school about five years ago. They did some deed work, wills, business issues, and other standard legal stuff, but they had never done any criminal work or even been part of a case involving a divorce or family dispute. He wasn’t involved in politics or anything else that might place him in a position to make anyone angry enough to kill. He had been living on his inheritance and making enough through the firm to pay the bills and for them to travel when and where they wanted to.

  But they would never travel together again. He couldn’t believe it; it was impossible. But he knew it was true.

  “Mr. Evans,” Hillman’s words broke into the dark reality in his mind, “did anyone have any reason to harm you or your wife?”

  He shook his head, his eyes dry even as his heart drowned in tears.

  “Were you carrying a large amount of money or valuables or legal documents with you last evening?”

  “No, just some cash and my credit cards.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  “None. We wanted kids, but it never happened. We were in the process of adopting, but—”

  “And you were going the conventional route for adoption?” Hillman asked.

  It took a moment for Lije to realize that Hillman thought they might have been skirting the law, trying to buy a baby on the black market, and that could have been the motive.

  “If you’re asking if we were doing anything illegal, the answer is no.” His words were now flying from his lips. “We were going through the same agencies everyone else goes through. We also were looking overseas. We were not looking at a private adoption. Everything was out in the open. Everything we did was done in a fully accepted fashion.” Finally Lije had found some strength, even if it was strength to lash out in anger toward this unfeeling lawman. He wondered what Hillman would dare to imply next. He didn’t have long to wait.

  Hillman paced back and forth next to the bed, his chin cupped in one hand. He stopped and looked directly at Lije. “If you and your wife had both died, who would have inherited your estate?”

  Lije felt like he was now on trial. He was the one who was being grilled. He was the one who must have done something wrong, something to bring on this whole tragedy. He took a deep breath. This time he knew the answer.

  “Our estate would have been left to several charities we support. There are no specific individuals named in the will. No individual stands to gain anything from our deaths.”

  “None on either side of the family?”

  His answers seemed clear enough. Yet each follow-up question seemed like a statement of Hillman’s disbelief that any part of his story was true—his loss of memory, his and Kaitlyn’s record as upstanding citizens, the work he did as a lawyer. “Kaitlyn’s parents died a few years ago in
a car wreck. My parents have also passed away. We were both only children.”

  “So you’re saying, in your mind, that no one had a motive to attack you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But,” Hillman said, “someone did.”

  “Paging Dr. Herring. Paging Dr. Herring. Room 117. Stat.”

  The physician, without a word, rushed from the room. Lije watched him depart, hoping—no, praying—that Hillman would follow. When he didn’t budge, Lije broke the silence.

  “Without my memory, will you be able to find out who did this, or does this whole thing depend on my mind coming back to life?”

  “We have some clues,” Hillman replied, his tone gruff. “But I’d be lying if I said this case will be an easy one. So the instant your memory of the events comes back, even if it’s sketchy, I need you to call me. I’ll leave my card on the bedside stand. I’ll also check back in a day or two, let you know what we’ve found. This is probably a case of mistaken identity. You may have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are a lot of green Explorers out there, and the killers could have gotten the wrong one.”

  Lije let that thought sink in, that his dear Kaitlyn was now dead because … because someone got the wrong car!

  “Mr. Evans, thank you for your time.” And with that, Hillman walked out of the room.

  Lije watched him leave. The whole scene had been surreal. Kaitlyn was the best thing not just in his life but in the whole town. She couldn’t be dead. And if she was, God must be playing some kind of cruel joke on everyone who loved her.

  Lije’s pastor poked his head in. “Okay to come in?”

  “Sure,” Lije said. “Glad you’re here.”

  Lije felt an emptiness. At least the questioning had given him something to prod his memory, something that might lead to justice for Kaitlyn.