I would e-mail Leah and fill her in, though. There wasn't anything the Florida police could do, but they might want a written record of the incident. Although since I had to do the write-up myself, I might as well forward it to the department and save Leah the hassle. But for that, I’d need Internet access.
Wary of running into Reed and getting embroiled in conversation again, I only went as far as the steps to The Olde Birchardville Store. Though the signal was weak, my phone eventually connected. There I huddled, cold and impatient, as the circle of doom spun on my screen. When my inbox eventually popped up, however, there was already an e-mail waiting from Leah.
The subject line: JOHNSON FREE.
11
Back at Pat’s, I dived fully-clothed under the blankets and huddled there, thinking through my options.
The developing story Leah had sent contained almost no details, citing the need not to jeopardize the ongoing investigation. But one thing was clear: Mitchell Charles David Johnson had escaped from the courthouse. There was some suspicion he’d had help from one of the guards. The police perimeter now extended beyond Tallahassee and through the whole of Leon County.
The fact that Johnson had escaped from the Florida Supreme Court Building in Tallahassee put him much closer to the state line—and much closer to me.
But still. Florida was Florida. It was far. There was no way he would be anywhere near here, let alone so soon. Even if he decided to leverage his likely short-lived freedom to hunt me down, he'd have to drive instead of fly, which would take at least eighteen hours by car. I knew this because after reading the developing story, I’d immediately looked up drive times.
Which was beside the point. There was no way Johnson knew where I was. Sure, I'd given that shout-out to Birchardville online a few weeks ago; but since then, Leah had given numerous shout-outs to fans in other cities. There was no reason to assume he'd make a beeline for Birchardville even if he did decide to drive up here—which he wouldn't.
The man had just spent the last five years in prison. Tracking down a former-journalist-turned-bestselling-author-turned-crime-podcaster should be a bit lower on the list.
Except he'd repeatedly affirmed in interviews the same message he’d relayed via the letters he’d sent to my show’s post office box: if he ever got out, the first thing he’d do would be to hunt me down. “And unlike when I tossed what was left of my family into the Everglades, no one will ever find what’s left of you.”
It's likely neither of us imagined a future in which that would be possible, let alone this soon.
I had a sudden flash of the crow on the doorstep, its glassy eyes wide and cold. But no—that was irrational. The crow had nothing to do with this. That bird had crazed Internet stalker written all over it. A crazed Internet stalker who somehow knew where I was.
And if Beverly Mae Pickett had found out…
No.
Not possible. I needed to pull myself together.
I would get out from under these covers, eat something, type up my notes, get ready for bed, and sleep the whole night. When I woke up in the morning, headlines would report that Johnson had been caught speeding through Georgia in a stolen car.
Except that’s not what happened.
12
In one sense, Mitchell Charles David Johnson and I weren’t that different. Like him, I had no family to spend Christmas with. Unlike him, however, I hadn’t murdered mine. If anyone was at fault for the death of Mom and Dad Scott—or for the death of my birth parents, for that matter—I knew whom to blame.
In eternity past, Satan attempted an assault on the throne of God. For his pride, he'd been cast from heaven. He'd slithered into Eden, tempting first Eve and then Adam to sin.
Mankind’s rejection of God’s good law led to the fall—introducing pain, suffering, and death into the world. So if I wanted to assign blame, I'd start there.
For Mom and Dad Scott, the cause of death had been old age—beautiful, glorious old age. In old age they adopted me and gave me a home and an inheritance just before I aged out of the foster care system. To my chagrin, they’d labored to learn Chinese culture, buying a rice cooker, three sets of house shoes, and chopsticks‒all while listening endlessly to a scratched set of learn-Mandarin CD’s that Dad Scott picked up at a yard sale.
The fact that I knew nothing about China and had no desire to learn seemed beside the point. They were all-in. They even took to using sun umbrellas and drinking loose-leaf teas.
Our time as a family was brief. Dad Scott had already known he was dying when they'd adopted me. Indeed, that’s why they’d chosen to adopt. Their only daughter had died in her youth, and with no other children or living relatives, they'd sought someone to draw into their family and bless with their estate.
This, they told me, was the outworking of the Gospel.
Only a year after Dad Scott passed, Mom Scott suffered an aneurysm in the backyard. I'd found her slumped over the gardenias.
Thanks to the Scott estate, I'd been able to complete a journalism degree debt-free. In a misguided effort to honor all my parents, I’d then taken a trip to China.
Disaster.
Looking as if you don’t fit in is infinitely preferable to looking as if you belong but are actually an imposter. Every time I asked servers or shop owners if they spoke English, they stared at me as if I were an alien—a literal one from outer space. I’d planned a leisurely jaunt through the major cities and around the countryside, but after a trip to the Great Wall, a week in Beijing, and three days in Shanghai, I gave up. I flew home early and applied to the local paper.
I landed on the cops beat. Then followed by the Johnson trial, the podcast, and the book.
If ever a person could claim that a murder had made her career, it would be me.
Not that I didn’t feel guilt sometimes. Irrational guilt, for sure. But guilt.
Guilt isn't an emotion I should hold onto. At least, not guilt for things beyond my control.
I know that this, too, is an outworking of the Gospel.
I bear no guilt for the death of my birth parents. I bear no guilt for the death of Mom and Dad Scott.
Christ nailed all my guilt to the cross.
Sometimes, though, I needed a reminder that the nails held.
I don’t generally wake up and immediately check my phone, but the next morning I made an exception. With Beverly Mae Pickett leaving dead birds on the doorstep—at least allegedly—and Mitchell Charles David Johnson escaping from the courthouse àla Ted Bundy, I could no longer burrow my head in the snow.
Before daylight, I’d crunched down the lane and through the graveyard to huddle on the steps of The Olde Birchardville Store and check my messages. At the top of the queue was an e-mail from my Florida police liaison.
Definitely report the bird on your end. We need proof that the stalking has followed you across state lines. It’ll take time, but I’ll collaborate with cyber crimes here and see if we can determine how Pickett found you. I don’t like that. Not hearing from you lately had me hoping that she’d lost interest—although that would be outside the norm for a case like this. Still, here’s hoping she’s decelerating.
She hadn’t been as active lately? This was news to me. With Leah taking care of all things Bev Pickett, though, it made sense that I would feel out of touch.
Yanking off my gloves, I shot back a quick response, copying Leah into the message as well.
Noted. Will contact local authorities. Not sure how much they’ll do with the holiday pending. Will send an update when I can, and I definitely want to hear anything you dig up. But remember, Internet is spotty up here. If something’s truly urgent, call or text. I’m on cell boosters more often.
Leah must not be up yet, because she hadn’t sent me updated links to the Johnson story. I resorted to a simple search, shivering as the pages slowly loaded. The developing story offered little detail, allowing me only to glean that, while Johnson had not been captur
ed during the night, an internal investigation had uncovered collaboration between Johnson and courthouse security. With no further details offered, it seemed logical to assume he’d worked his connections to scrape together some sort of dirt on one of the guards, using bribery or threats as leverage for escape.
Reed was right about what he’d termed “prison mafia.” If Johnson had connections, he could have arranged for a car, a cell phone, Internet, cash, drugs, weapons, a safe place to lie low—anything.
Shivering in earnest now, I stuffed my phone into my pocket.
This was no way to start Christmas Eve.
I crunched back to the StayAway, worried and despondent. Maybe a good, hot shower and a quick warm-up under the covers would help.
At least now that the sun was up, I didn’t have to worry that every little sound was Johnson sneaking up on me in the dark. Not that he could possibly be in Birchardville. Even if he’d figured out where I was, he didn’t have a valid government ID to board an aircraft, and a drive would take at least eighteen hours, only twelve of which had passed.
Besides, Johnson didn’t know where I was. I wasn’t just telling myself what I wanted to hear, either. There really was no way he could know.
I hadn't thought Beverly Mae Pickett could figure out where I was, either.
For the moment, though, it was pointless to worry. I was more likely to freeze to death than be killed by a recently-escaped ex-con.
13
Pat Martin’s friend Sheila Norris, one of two dispatch operators for the county, advised as to the best way to handle my dead bird situation. Rather than funneling through 911, she placed a discreet call and arranged for me to give my statement directly to the State Police.
When I arrived at The Store for my morning tea and oatmeal, an officer waited at the counter. As I pushed open the front door, the first thing that caught my eye was his shock of silver hair catching the pale winter light.
Next to him, unfortunately, sat Reed’s dad. His broad shoulders hunched forward confidentially as the two men conferred in low tones.
I nearly turned and left. After all, my arrival had gone unnoticed—for an entire nanosecond. Reed punched his way through the dividing curtain and spotted me, his eyes lighting up and his mouth activating. He waved his arms over his head as if the distance between us spanned oceans rather than feet. “Morgan Scott! Hey! Over here.”
So much for a quick escape.
As I approached the bar, Reed’s dad stood. I thought he would just scoot down to make room for me, but when I slid onto the stool and introduced myself to Officer Booth, he stepped back, saying, “I’ll leave you to it.” As the men shook hands, he added, “And if I don’t see you again, Merry Christmas.” He cut that mismatched gaze to me.
I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a facial expression.
He dropped his gaze and turned away.
Conflicted as to whether I’d won or lost—or why it even mattered—I spun the stool to face the officer next to me.
Unlike Reed, Officer Booth hadn’t heard of me. Even now, with his notes in front of him, he seemed sketchy on the details.
“So you—a writer and podcaster—came up here to investigate the Roth killing—”
“Investigate is too strong a word.” The murder had been solved centuries ago. Days after the Roth brothers had fled, they’d been apprehended, dragged back from Boston, brought before the magistrate, and strung up right here in Susquehanna County. But one crime at a time. “Research would be a better term.”
He nodded. “Because of this show you do.”
“It’s called The Usual Suspects.” Reed piped up from across the bar. He half turned from where he was stacking plates. “It has about a million subscribers. And her book about the Johnson killings made the bestseller list. Twice.”
“Not a million subscribers.” I glared.
Reed grinned and ducked back down.
Officer Booth tapped his pen against his notes. “And tips from your show were instrumental in tracking down this Johnson character?”
“Mitchell Charles David Johnson,” I amended. “And no, I was just the local reporter assigned the original story.” A story that really blew up. But I could see that I didn’t need to elaborate.
“Mitchell Charles David Johnson.” Booth repeated the name, tapping a pen against the counter.
Reed stood and snorted. “I know, right? It’s like, pick a name.”
Confronted by a mile-long stare from Booth, Reed became suddenly absorbed in stacking plates and cups—though an ear was clearly still cocked our way, and his hair waved attentively.
Booth pulled up Johnson’s mug shot, held his phone at arm’s length, and studied it. He tilted the screen toward me and cocked an eyebrow.
Square head, beady eyes, snaggle teeth, and salt-and-pepper bristles sticking in every direction. “That’s the guy.” I looked away. The sooner we got through this, the better. “The problem is that Johnson’s made some fairly significant threats about me.” Graphic threats riddled with racial slurs. Threats I wouldn’t repeat with Reed still in earshot. I slid my card across the bar, tapping the info I’d scribbled on the back. “This is my contact at home. He has all the info on Johnson and Beverly Mae Pickett. He’ll send you a digital copy of the files.”
Booth grunted. “So you’re telling me that Johnson has no connection to the dead crow.”
“I’d be very surprised. Symbolic gestures aren’t his style.” They were, however, the style of Beverly Mae Pickett. “I’m sorry about all this. This probably isn’t how you planned to spend your Christmas Eve.”
Booth shrugged. “It’s the job.”
I set down my tea, propped my elbows on the counter, and rested my forehead against the backs of my hands. I’d come to Birchardville for a break from this sort of thing. Instead, I’d dragged it here with me.
This was awful.
I mean, it was Christmas. A time for jingle bells, fuzzy socks, sugar cookies, and twinkle lights. For contemplating the mystery of Christ’s incarnation. For Christmas Eve services, cocoa by the fire, and carols with friends and family.
Assuming you hadn’t murdered them all.
“There’s something else,” I said. “I haven’t heard from my assistant since yesterday. This isn’t like her.” Briefly, I explained Leah’s duties. “I know it’s a holiday, but with everything going on, and Johnson on the loose—” I cut off, not wanting to say my suspicion out loud.
Booth cleared his throat. He patted me on the shoulder—an awkward, paternal gesture. “I’ll make some calls. Can you give me her address so I can get the local authorities in her area to do a wellness check?”
I pulled up my e-mail and found the résumé she’d sent. I read out the pertinent info, and Booth nodded, making notes. “How’d you find her?” he asked casually.
“A friend of a friend.” I didn’t want to go into the whole thing right then. I mean, what did it matter? Leah could be in danger.
Booth nodded and made another note. He looked up and regarded me seriously. “One of our deputies lives over near Montrose. He’s off duty today, but he’s going to keep on alert. Levi has his number in case anything happens. You know Levi Stoltz, right? Reed’s uncle.”
The famous Uncle Levi? The one who’d bought Reed The Usual Suspects T-shirt and thought I had a soothing voice? A supportive, paternal figure who could make up for Reed’s father’s obvious shortcomings? I’d hoped to meet him at some point—just not under these circumstances.
Officer Booth was still talking about phone numbers. I should pay attention. He scrawled something on a slip of paper and slid it across the bar. “Here’s our man in Montrose. You can either call him or Levi. Either way. It wouldn’t hurt to call them both.”
“I don’t have Levi Stoltz’s number.”
Reed popped from under the counter, the world’s most enthusiastic Jack-o-Lantern. “I have it.”
I jumped.
His eyes
sparked. “So I guess you do get scared.”
“There's a difference between scared and startled,” I pointed out.
He laughed and shot me a double thumbs-up. What was wrong with this kid? Did nothing dampen his spirits?
Officer Booth called Reed to heel. “Quit yapping and give Ms. Scott your uncle’s number.”
Reed sprang into action. Officer Booth had unwittingly made his day—perhaps his year. He hopped to the counter and pulled his phone from his back pocket. “Give me your number first, and I’ll forward you his contact file.”
He had to be kidding. “Just read you uncle’s number out and I’ll store it.”
Reed wilted but complied. “You should text him now, so he can save your number. He might not answer if he doesn't recognize it. He's big on privacy.”
Officer Booth stood and stretched, sliding his little notebook into his breast pocket. He rapped his knuckles against the counter, and Reed’s head snapped up. “You headed down to the City tomorrow?”
Reed’s expression tightened. “Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Mom said I could stay for the Christmas Eve service, but Uncle Levi says we should get to the City so that she doesn't have to spend Christmas morning alone.”
Why Reed’s uncle would take him rather than his father was puzzling. Maybe Reed’s parents were one of those couples who couldn’t bear to see each other at all, even on holidays. My heart went out to the kid. Having no parents was sad, but this was sad in its own way.
Booth hitched from the stool. “So if anything happens this afternoon or evening, call Levi. If it happens after that—”
“I’ll be on my own.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Not quite. I mean, we might not be nearby, but if you call us, we’ll come.”
Reed thrust his head across the counter, inserting his face directly between us. “And if you call me, I’ll come.”
Of that, I had little doubt.
Murder on Birchardville Hill Page 5