A Specter of Justice

by Mark de Castrique

  I wanted to say, “Sorry, Nakayla has to get back to her coven,” but instead I said, “Sure. Mind telling me how he knew we were here?”

  “Junior told him through that intercom in his ear.”

  “Junior who?”

  “Junior Atwood. Cletus’ younger brother and Clyde’s uncle. Junior told me you wanted to say something in the service. That’s why I brought ya the mike.” He smiled at Nakayla. “Nice prayer, little lady.”

  “And is Junior the one who also told you Pastor Horace wants to see us?”

  “Yep. That Junior knows his sound stuff. Pastor Horace has a separate channel so he can speak just to Junior. Ya know, tell him if the level’s too loud, or he’s going to change the order of the service. Junior learned about all that technical machinery in the Army. He was a lifer, and now he runs our A/V equipment, plus we’re buying our own radio station.”

  The old man led us up the side aisle against the flow of exiting church members. We were like salmon swimming upstream. Some people still smiled at us; others gave curious stares. None were outright hostile.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Ya can call me Wheezer. Rhymes with geezer. My given name is Wally Feezor, but it got collapsed to one word years ago.”

  I should introduce Wally Feezor, aka Wheezer, to Cheryl Lee, aka Shirley, and they could start a collapsed name club.

  “You been a member long?” I asked.

  “Yep. Since that first night Pastor Horace showed up with his tent in Asheville. My dear wife, Libby, God rest her soul, dragged me to see him. And God used him to cast out my demon.”

  “Your demon?”

  “I was a bad drunk. About to lose my wife and kids because the alcohol was working on me from the inside, where nobody could see and only I could hear its constant calling. God spoke and touched me there that night. Couldn’t have done it by myself, as sure as I’m talking to ya.”

  We reached the left of the stage and Wheezer pushed open a door. We walked down a hallway, just the three of us, and then the old man suddenly stopped. “I never hit Libby, but I was afraid the drink would push me into something I’d never do sober.” He lowered his voice to a warbley whisper. “I know that’s what happened to Clyde Atwood. His momma tried to get him to church. So did his wife, Heather. But the demon had him.” Wheezer started walking again. “Now what’s done is done.”

  We turned a corner and I saw Horace Brooks talking to the couple who had sung the duet.

  “Wait here by this door,” Wheezer said. “It’s the pastor’s office. While you’re talking to him, I’ll bring your umbrellas and lay them along the edge of the hall. Nice to meet ya.” He hurried away as fast as his old legs could carry him.

  “You think we’ve been summoned to the principal’s office?” Nakayla asked.

  “I don’t know. But if Brooks starts throwing Bible verses at us, I’m counting on you to defend me.”

  Brooks turned and swung his arm in an arc toward his office door. “Please go in. I appreciate your giving me a few minutes of your time.”

  We stepped inside. The office furniture was utilitarian: a tidy desk, three chairs around a coffee table, and a filing cabinet. Two of the four walls were covered by bookshelves holding what appeared to be Bibles, Bible commentaries, encyclopedias, and thick books by Bonhoeffer, Barth, and a few other familiar names in a host of tomes I suspected to be heavy-duty theological reading. The only window looked over a children’s playground where rain bounced off the slide and swing seats.

  On the walls with the window and the door were framed photographs of church activities. Kids were leading worship services and working in community food pantries. Adults were on field trips to nursing homes or tutoring kids in what looked like after-school programs. I saw no pictures of Brooks and no college or university degrees. Maybe he was self-educated or maybe he attached no importance to whatever formal training he might have received. But his library was far more extensive than what I expected.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  We sat. For a moment, we looked at him and he looked at us. He seemed older than he appeared in the news clip. Maybe it was that the harsh, head-on lights of the cameras had obliterated the furrows in his forehead and flattened the bags under his eyes. I searched for traces of makeup, the sign that his TV image held priority. He just looked like an ordinary guy in his mid-fifties who would disappear at a conference of bankers, insurance brokers, or lawyers. The man sitting across from me wasn’t the man I’d expected, based on the TV and newspaper quotes.

  Brooks crossed his legs and relaxed. “First, let me say you are welcome here. I’m going to take it at face value that you joined us for sincere worship and that you do seek justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God.”

  I felt a tinge of color burn my cheeks. I’d come to judge him but he’d skillfully thrown the spotlight back on me.

  I leaned forward and tried to match the intensity of his gaze. “Yes, I seek those things, but to speak truthfully, I came to take your measure.” The phrase sounded nice and Biblical.

  Brooks’ dark eyes widened. “My measure? Why?”

  “Two women are dead. Two women who were working to raise money for those orphaned twins. You were quoted as saying some things that I…” I looked at Nakayla…“that we took as inflammatory. If they were murdered because of their efforts for the Atwood boys, then your demonizing them and their actions might have led one of your flock astray big-time.”

  Brooks said nothing. He seemed to be pondering the possibility I’d thrown at him. He looked at Nakayla. “Do you feel this way?”

  “You called them Satan worshipers,” she said.

  He raised his right hand like swearing an oath. “I didn’t. Nelda Atwood made that statement and I disavowed it.”

  “When?” Nakayla asked.

  “Friday night. The TV reporter tried to bait me for a response. Of course, that never made the air.”

  “What about your quote that Helen Wilson has that hotshot attorney Hewitt Donaldson but the Atwoods have Jesus?” I asked.

  Brooks sighed. “Yes. I said it and I’d say it again. If you’re speaking truthfully, would you say Donaldson isn’t a hotshot?”

  I thought about Hewitt’s hubris and bigger than life style. His courtroom dramatics and calculated traps and strategies. I thought about his Jaguar and the license plate NOT-GIL-T.

  “Hewitt has a persona that he uses for the benefit of his clients, many of whom have nowhere else to turn.”

  “Yes. The persona of a hotshot. I get it. But the Atwoods have their faith that the right thing will be done. And the rest of my sentence was left on the cutting room floor. I said that the Atwoods have Jesus and their faith will carry them through. I spoke those words for their benefit to try and keep them from lashing out or making unfortunate accusations like the Satan worshipers one.”

  “And why did you call out our names to the whole congregation?”

  “Junior told me you were going to speak and should he keep the mike off.”

  “How did he even know we were there?”

  “I guess he either saw you or Cletus told him. I told Junior if you wanted to speak, you should speak.”

  “I didn’t want to speak. Wheezer just stuck the mike in my face.”

  Brooks uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “What?”

  “We never asked to speak.”

  The preacher shook his head. “I guess someone hoped to embarrass you.” He nodded to Nakayla. “But you gave such a good prayer request, I wanted to publicly acknowledge you and defuse any unwarranted tension your visit might have created.” Brooks looked at me. “Public embarrassment is a long way from murder, Mr. Blackman. And like all of us, Helen Wilson is a long way from being a saint.”

  “What’s that suppose to mean?” I asked.

  “Just that
she never approved of her daughter’s marriage to Clyde and worked every way to undercut it.”

  “Clyde was abusive. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “I know. And I was trying to work with him. But I’m telling you what I heard directly from Heather Atwood’s lips as she sat in the chair you’re sitting in.” He glanced around his office. “This isn’t a confessional and she’s no longer alive, so I feel a duty to ask you to look at the whole picture here. Helen Wilson is the one showing no interest in shared custody. Helen Wilson is the one who might be poisoning the twins’ attitude to the Atwoods because she was doing the same thing to their relationship with Clyde. That’s not me speaking, that’s Heather.

  “But, after Clyde shot the deputy, and I do believe it was accidental, Heather returned to her mother’s house, the home she’d tried to escape by marrying Clyde right out of high school. To seek justice means for me that everyone receives a fair hearing regardless of whether they’re well off or have the slickest lawyer in town.”

  His eyes glistened as he struggled to keep some emotion in check. “The deaths of Clyde and Heather and of Molly Staton and Lenore Carpenter are truly tragic. But I don’t believe any actions or words by me or anyone in my congregation are to blame.”

  He stood. “That’s all I can tell you.”

  Nakayla and I rose.

  “Thank you for your time,” I said.

  He walked behind his desk, opened a drawer and retrieved a business card. “Take this and call me if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  I dropped the card in my coat pocket.

  Brooks shook my hand and then clutched Nakayla’s with both of his. “One favor for you to consider. Share your prayer request with Mr. Donaldson to seek justice, love kindness, and walk humbly,” he smiled and dropped his hands, “with anyone.” Then his face turned grave. “Because if we don’t humble ourselves, God will do it for us.”

  We picked up our beer umbrellas from the hall and left.

  When we were in the CR-V, Nakayla asked, “What now?”

  “We look more closely at Helen Wilson. And I want you to find out all you can about Horace Brooks. Hewitt might be slick, but Brooks could be in a league all his own.”

  I pulled out my phone before buckling my seatbelt and checked for messages. I’d turned it off completely so that even the vibrate mode wouldn’t make a sound in the sanctuary. As it powered up, chimes announced two messages.

  “Who is it?” Nakayla asked.

  “One’s from Newly’s cell. The other number’s familiar but I can’t place it.”

  I retrieved Newly’s first.

  “Sam, give me a call when you get this message. I need to alert you to a new development.”

  “Sounds promising,” Nakayla said. “Call him back.”

  “Let me check the other one first.”

  I pressed playback on the touch screen.

  “Sam.” Hewitt’s voice was whispery and strained. “The fat’s in the fire now. Newland’s taken me into custody and I’m going to be arraigned on two counts of homicide. Consider yourself on the clock.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunday afternoon at the Asheville police station is normally as exciting as watching grass grow. This Sunday, as Nakayla and I entered Pack Square, the parking spaces were full and two TV news trucks were angled against the curb with their microwave antennae extended skyward.

  “Word must be out,” Nakayla said.

  I’d opted not to return Newly’s phone call. Instead, I wanted to see him face-to-face. The homicide detective would probably stonewall any information behind the “I can’t comment about an ongoing investigation” phrase, but at least I would be able to read his body language.

  “I wonder if Hewitt will have a fool for a client,” Nakayla said.

  She referenced the old adage that an attorney who represents himself has a fool for a client. Hewitt considered himself a cut above the other defense lawyers in town. And would any of them even want a client as high-maintenance as I suspected Hewitt would be?

  “Maybe I should call Cory,” Nakayla suggested.

  “She’s only a paralegal.”

  “But Hewitt might listen to her. If not Cory, then certainly Shirley.”

  “Start with Shirley. She won’t take any of Hewitt’s crap.”

  “Then let me take your car back to the office,” she said. “You can call me when you’ve got information or just meet me there.”

  I stopped in front of the station and left the CR-V running. Nakayla gave me a kiss as we passed in front of the bumper. “Good luck,” she said. “I’ll be anxious to hear.”

  I opened the door and stepped into a buzz of conversation. At least fifteen reporters jammed the small waiting area. Everyone turned to check out the new arrival, and the buzz ceased.

  A woman I recognized as a field reporter for the FOX TV affiliate was first to come at me. “Sam, Sam, can you confirm that Hewitt Donaldson’s been arrested?”

  Her question spurred the others into action, and a chorus of variations on the same theme resounded through the room.

  I smiled and said the first thing that popped in my mind. “The Lord be with you.”

  That halted the verbal onslaught for about a half a second.

  I pushed through toward the officer on-duty who greeted the public from behind a glass window more like a movie ticket booth. “I’m just here to settle up some parking tickets. I didn’t realize I was so news worthy.”

  The policeman, Ralph Cochran, knew me, and he was clearly amused by my predicament. “You’re smart to turn yourself in, Sam.” He spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “The traffic division is waiting.”

  The reporters grumbled because they knew we were jerking them around. Ralph pressed a button and a click sounded as the security door deadbolt retracted.

  “He’s in the pen,” Ralph said.

  Someone outside the system overhearing that remark would assume the duty officer was talking about Hewitt being in a holding pen, or in a penitentiary. I knew Ralph told me where to find Detective Newland. He was in the bullpen, the area of shared desks where cops most commonly share information. I found Newly at its heart, the coffee machine.

  Although he still looked whipped, Newly had at least shaved and changed clothes from yesterday.

  He tipped his cup to me. “Did you dress up just for me?”

  “No. For Pastor Brooks at the Church of the Righteous.”

  He turned toward the hall leading deeper into the complex. “Grab a mug of this rot gut and come to an interview room. You can tell me about the good preacher’s sermon.”

  I surveyed the bullpen where at least five cops were either on the phone or a computer.

  “Are they working the case?” I asked Newly.

  “Yeah. At the request of the chief and Carter.”

  “D.A. Carter’s involved already?”

  Newly’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s talk in an interview room?”

  “Where’s Efird?”

  “He’s gone to talk with Molly’s sister. I suggested someone a little more removed from Molly do it.” Newly shrugged. “But Tuck’s hardheaded.”

  I said nothing. If things had ended badly between Efird and Molly, then Newly’s suggestion should have been more of an order. But, they were partners, and I understood why Newly wanted to avoid a confrontation this early in the game.

  “Okay.” I filled a chipped mug with their black poison and followed Newly down the hall to the first room on the left.

  He went immediately to his customary side of the table, positioning himself between me and the door.

  I slipped into the chair opposite him. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Not yet. Especially since I’m going to deny we ever had this conversation.”

  I took a swallow of the bitter, scorched c
offee to buy a few seconds as my mind raced to figure out where Newly was going. I set the mug on the table and leaned forward. “I’m working for Hewitt. He’s hired Nakayla and me to find the murderer. If you think it’s Hewitt, then we’re already at cross purposes.”

  “Are you claiming attorney-client privileges with the attorney as the client?”

  His question stumped me. Hewitt was my client and as a private investigator, I didn’t enjoy the same legal status as a lawyer. He’d hired me. If he was representing himself and he drew the distinction of Hewitt the lawyer and Hewitt the defendant, then working for Hewitt the case attorney would stand a better chance of shielding me from a prosecutorial subpoena. Better still, Hewitt and I should communicate only verbally, and anything written would be done so by Hewitt as part of his attorney work for his client, Hewitt Donaldson. But since Hewitt and I hadn’t spoken about the best way to keep our communication confidential, I was very leery of saying anything to Newly.

  “I’m not claiming anything because all he’s told me is that you’ve taken him into custody.”

  “And that’s when he engaged you to find the killer?”

  “No. That happened yesterday right after he learned Lenore had been murdered.”

  Newly cocked his head. “Before he was taken into custody?”

  I knew I’d slipped up somehow. “Yes. But all he said was find who killed Lenore.”

  Newly took a sip of coffee and then puffed out his cheeks to cool his mouth. “Then you weren’t working with him in his role as a defense attorney for a client. So, why didn’t he trust the police to handle it?”

  “Like me, he knew Tuck Efird had an emotional breakup with Molly Staton.”

  “Molly isn’t Lenore. Why didn’t he hire you then? You saw him earlier Saturday morning.”

  In trying to dance around my conversation with Hewitt, I’d managed to waltz myself right into a corner. Well, I guessed Newly had something substantial on Hewitt and the most likely culprit was the proliferation of Hewitt’s fingerprints throughout Lenore’s house.

  “Look, Newly. I don’t know what’s going on. What Hewitt told me was that he’d been dating Lenore Carpenter. He was visibly shaken when he learned of her death. You were there. You saw him. He’s convinced you’ll look for evidence to tag him for the crimes and not vigorously pursue all leads. I don’t think he’s worried about being convicted, but he is worried that the real killer will get away.”