A Specter of Justice

by Mark de Castrique

  I got right to the point. “Kyle Duncan is dead. He died in prison of leukemia ten years ago.”

  “Serving time for what?”

  “A murder in Durango, Colorado. A young widow with two children. He used a crowbar. This time.” I punched the last two words.

  His face colored. “Are you lecturing me?”

  “Should I?”

  “I do my job. I provide the best defense I can. My clients have a constitutional right to be represented in court. I have to let the chips fall where they may.”

  “You didn’t know Kyle Duncan committed another murder?”

  “Not another murder. A murder. And maybe I did. Sometimes I get calls from lawyers in other regions defending a former client. I can’t be expected to remember them all.”

  Compartmentalization, I thought. Hewitt got Kyle Duncan off and consequences be damned.

  “What’s Colorado have to do with Asheville, anyway?” he asked.

  “Jerry Wofford, for one.”

  His face went blank for a second, and then the light bulb switched on. “Does he have ties to the victim?”

  “Not that we know. I came to you immediately to see how you want to play it.”

  Hewitt laced his fingers together and tucked them under his chin. I waited.

  “Could be coincidence,” he said. “The beer phenomenon in Asheville has lured big and small brewers from all over the country. Colorado is also a big beer producer.”

  “I agree.”

  “What do you think?” Hewitt asked.

  “I have been thinking. My recommendation is to turn the information over to Detective Newland.”

  Hewitt puffed up like a blowfish. “The prosecutor’s lead investigator? Why don’t we just schedule a meeting with Carter so I can tell him my strategy?”

  I slid the chair to the desk where I could reach out and shake him if I needed to. “He’s not Carter’s bag boy. You’re not to repeat this, but Newland has serious doubts about your guilt and thinks Carter is running half cocked.”

  “Well, at least someone over there has a brain.”

  “So, goddammit, let him use it.”

  Hewitt jerked back like I’d slapped him. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Or what? You’ll fire me?” I stood, forcing him to look up at me. “Newland can talk to the Durango police cop-to-cop. He’ll get further than I can because I’m not in their club. We play fair with Newland on this backdoor channel and he’ll play fair with me. Yes, he’s no fan of yours by a long shot, but he does want to solve the case, not just get a conviction.”

  “All right. Sit down, you’re giving me a crick in my neck.” He waved me into the chair. “That means you’ll have to tell him about Lenore being on the Duncan jury. And that gives him another connection to me.”

  “A connection we want established if it defines you as a possible victim.”

  Hewitt nodded. “Okay. But I don’t want any word leaking out about my feeding the police information. Carter would disregard anything that even smells like it came from me.”

  “I won’t tell Newland we’ve spoken. As far as he knows, I’m doing this behind your back.”

  Hewitt managed a smile. “Which means if it comes to light, I’ll have to fire you.”

  “So, what’s the downside?”

  I was joking, but Hewitt considered the question.

  “The downside is we’re putting too many eggs in a policeman’s basket. You and Nakayla work on Wofford’s background.”

  “She’s already on it.”

  “What about the Durango woman’s children?”

  “They went into foster care. There were no relatives.”

  “Then bring Tom Peterson in on it. Foster care and adoption records are usually sealed. Let’s see if he can find out what happened to those kids. He might have to seek a court order.”

  “Then I hope we’ll have something to report tonight at the bar.”

  “Yeah. But instead of downstairs, let’s move it to the Thirsty Monk for tonight. I want to see how I supposedly made this threatening phone call to you, especially since I don’t even know your damn office number.”

  I stood and headed for the door.

  “Sam,” Hewitt said softly.

  I turned. “Yeah.”

  “What was the woman’s name? The woman in Durango.”

  “Sandra. Sandra Pendleton. Her children were fourteen and eleven.”

  Hewitt looked away. “I’m sorry about that.”

  I left and closed the door behind me. Hewitt’s wall had its first crack.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “God, that was a bloody mess of a crime scene. One of those that haunts your memory.” Detective Newland made the comment and then popped a ketchup-drenched french fry into his mouth.

  He and I sat in a back booth in Luella’s Bar-B-Que on the north side of Asheville. We both had platters of chopped pork, fries, and cornbread in front of us and could talk grisly murders without diminishing our appetite one bite.

  “I figured you were involved,” I said. “Even if it was twenty years ago.”

  “One of my first assignments after I made detective. I’d forgotten Lenore was on that jury.” He wiped sauce from his chin. “Boy, that sure backfired.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The D.A. at the time, Lloyd Whitmire, thought she would identify with the victim. He thought he had her in his pocket.”

  “What happened?”

  “Hewitt Donaldson happened. One of his impassioned closing arguments pleading for the jurors not to compound one tragedy with another and convict an innocent man. Whitmire didn’t count on Lenore being quite so young and impressionable. Donaldson harped on the forensics report that the fatal blow was most likely struck by the left hand. He even had Duncan wear his left arm in a sling during the trial as if he had some chronic sprain.”

  “Did he put him in a wheelchair?”

  Newly laughed, and then choked a little on a mouthful of meat. He took a swig of sweet tea to clear his throat. “No, but if Marie Roddey had died from a kick to the head, I’m sure he would have.”

  “And Lenore was afraid of sending an innocent man to death row because of Hewitt’s theatrics?”

  “This trial was right after the O.J. Simpson verdict. Donaldson actually used the line ‘if the wound doesn’t fit, you must acquit.’ He was shameless.”

  “Anyone stand out who would carry a grudge for twenty years?”

  Newly set down his silverware. “You think this goes back to the Duncan trial? I thought you were just giving me background on how Lenore and Donaldson met.”

  “That’s how they met but it in no way provides a shred of a motive. If anything, it makes the two allies.”

  “Against whom? Who would wait twenty years for revenge? And what about Molly Staton?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  Newly picked up his fork and heaped it with a mound of barbecue. I waited, letting him chew in silence.

  After another gulp of tea, he pointed the empty fork at my chest. “Look, I’ve been around long enough to know anything is possible. But really, Sam, a twenty-year hatred that just happens to culminate now?”

  “Then how about a fifteen-year hatred targeting the people who let a killer go free to kill again?”

  Newly lowered the fork. “What are you talking about?”

  I shared what I’d learned from the Durango homicide detective.

  “And why is someone from Durango more likely to be involved than from Duncan’s trial in Asheville?”

  It was a fair question and I had a possible if not improbable answer.

  “Because in Asheville, Hewitt and Lenore enabled a killer to go free. In Durango, they enabled him to murder. They bear responsibility for Sandra Pendle
ton’s death, not Marie Roddey’s.”

  Newly pondered the distinction. He wiped his lips and laid his napkin by his empty plate. “All right. I’ll give this Detective Archer a call and see where it leads. You’re trying to track the children?”

  “Tom Peterson is working that angle.”

  “So they’d be mid-to-late twenties now?”

  “Yes, if what Archer told me about their ages is accurate.” A thought flashed through my mind. Mid-to-late twenties. The age of Collin McPhillips, the photographer who said he just happened to frame the shot that captured Molly’s body tumbling from the bridge and the blur of a Hawaiian shirt.

  Newly craned his neck as he peered over my shoulder. “Where’s our waitress? I need my check so I can get back.”

  “I’m buying today.”

  Newly eyed me suspiciously. “Not trying to bribe a police officer, are you?”

  “Since when is encouraging a police detective to find the truth a bribe?”

  Newly grinned and settled back in the booth. “You’re right. In that case, I’ll have dessert.”

  ***

  It was nearly two when I returned to the office. Nakayla had sorted the box of files into separate stacks beside her desk, each with a note card on top identifying a specific category such as evidence, witness testimony, or personal history.

  “Any luck with Wofford?” I asked.

  She looked up from her computer screen. “Don’t tell me. Barbecue.”

  I glanced down and saw the red stain below the third button of my shirt. “Yes, but can you tell from where?”

  “An overloaded fork is my guess. It must be nice to get lunch.”

  “I was working hard. Newly’s going to call Durango. And…” I’d kept my right hand behind my back and now dangled a Luella’s takeout bag in front of her.

  Nakayla grinned and snatched it away. “Thanks, partner.”

  I swept my arm across the stacks of files. “A thank you for organizing all of this. Anything come to light?”

  “Kyle Duncan appears to have been a loner. No military service. A couple of DUIs and two aggravated assault charges in Raleigh before moving to Asheville.”

  “Domestic?”

  “No, but arguments on construction sites. One with a co-worker and another with a foreman. The guy was a hothead. And basically a drifter who lived off the grid.”

  “Wonder why he went to Idaho?” I asked.

  “Probably a good place to stay farther off the grid,” Nakayla conjectured. “As for his victim, Marie Roddey, she has a surviving mother in a retirement community in Charlotte. Her father is deceased. There’s one sister, also in Charlotte. She’s married with two kids in high school. Both she and her husband work for Wells Fargo. I called her at work but was told she’s been out of the country for two weeks. She’s a video producer and involved in some project highlighting their offices in Asia.”

  “That’s a damn good alibi.”

  Nakayla cleared some papers from the corner of her desk and unwrapped her sandwich. “I don’t see her or her family as suspects. There was a boyfriend. Tony Martin, a high school English teacher.”

  “Did Hewitt go after him?”

  “No. He was chaperoning a field trip to Washington D.C. I tracked him down through Facebook. He’s married and a high school principal in Wilmington, North Carolina.”

  “About as far away as you can get and still be in the state.”

  Nakayla picked up her sandwich. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. You’re much prettier with a mouthful of food than Newly was.”

  “Thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

  “Then you haven’t had a chance to background Wofford.”

  She held up one finger while she took a bite. I don’t know how women manage it. Not a crumb fell.

  “Just a quick online check,” she said. “He joined Coors in 1983 as a production manager in Golden, Colorado.”

  “Where’s Golden?”

  “About twenty miles west of Denver. Coors has a huge brewery there. In 2004, he went from the production side to marketing strategy. This coincided with the merger with the Canadian brewer Molson. He moved from Golden to Denver.”

  “How long was he there?”

  “Until February. He had over thirty years with the company. Then he moved to Asheville.”

  “Wife? Children?”

  “His wife died of ALS in 2013.”

  I let out a breath. “Lou Gehrig’s Disease. That’s tough. And hard on the caregiver. Maybe Wofford just wanted a fresh start.”

  “There are no children I can find. His background of production and marketing makes a great combination for starting a craft beer.”

  “Investors?”

  Nakayla shrugged. “I haven’t gotten that far.”

  “Do you mind checking?” I eyed her partially eaten sandwich. “After lunch, of course.”

  “Maybe. Since you asked nicely. What’s your plan?”

  “Nothing goes better with barbecue than a beer.”

  Nakayla waved me out of her office. “The sacrifices you make.”

  I turned at the door. “Oh, and check if Wofford and his wife ever kept foster children. Even temporarily.”

  Wofford’s Crystal Stream Brewery was near Bruxton and Coxe Avenues, the core site for Asheville’s exploding beer industry. Like most afternoons, my damaged left leg was beginning to chafe against the sleeve of my prosthesis. I was tempted to drive, but the walk to the car wasn’t that much shorter than the distance to Wofford’s tasting room and company office.

  Technically, the Crystal Stream Tasting Room was more of a pub with a simplified menu of sandwiches, cheeseboards, and boiled peanuts. Unlike a pub, they were only open till nine, and it was all about the beer. Order a chardonnay and you’d find yourself out on the sidewalk.

  Nakayla and I had been a few times, most recently for a planning meeting for the ghost tour. The place had become so jammed with people and dogs that we had to cram into Wofford’s office.

  The building was industrial grade, little more than a weatherized warehouse. Pickups and deliveries came to a roll-up garage door right on the sidewalk. In warmer months, the door was left open to accommodate more tables. But, on this Tuesday in October, the crowd would be reduced to a few tourists and those regulars who tasted their Crystal Stream by the pint.

  I heard nothing from within. The room wouldn’t open for another twenty minutes, and I guessed Wofford’s staff was in the back where they brewed the beer. I walked around the corner to a side door that bore the words Employees Only. A buzzer was mounted on the jamb next to the knob. Above, a small security camera angled down. I pressed the button and smiled up at the lens. A click sounded as someone opened an electronic lock and I entered a short hallway. Jerry Wofford stepped out of the first office on the left, his expression morphing from curiosity to concern.

  “Sam. What’s up?”

  “You’ve heard about Hewitt?”

  “Of course. The police spoke with me yesterday. I said I didn’t know anything.” He glanced over his shoulder to check if anyone was behind him. “He didn’t do it, did he?”

  “No. But I want to go over a few things. We’re doing our own investigation.”

  If Wofford was curious as to the “we,” he didn’t ask.

  “Okay. But I have to check on the staff first. They were cleaning one of the kettles and we open to the public in a few minutes. Some of them have to shift over to the tasting room.” He motioned to his office. “Do you mind waiting in here? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “No problem. Take your time.”

  He turned and disappeared through a door at the opposite end of the hall. I got a glimpse of large stainless steel tanks with rows of gauges. Two people wearing protective clothing were flushing out one
of them. The room looked as clean and cared for as a surgical operating room.

  Wofford must have put his money in the brewing equipment because his office looked like it belonged on a WWII battleship. Gray steel desk, gray metal filing cabinets, and a dented credenza with a state-of-the-art computer. The screen saver appeared to be a close-up of a glass of lager with bubbles rising to an unseen surface.

  Nicely framed photographs of Rocky Mountain vistas hung on the walls. I guessed they were favorite pictures Wofford transported from his Coors days. I walked between the desk and credenza. Various invoices were spread across the blotter. None of them appeared overdue. Two four-by-five photographs in hinged frames were on the desk. One showed a young Wofford and a beautiful woman emerging from a church in wedding attire. The second featured the same woman at least thirty years older seated in a wheelchair with a man and woman standing behind her. The couple had to be in their early twenties, and their resemblance suggested they were siblings. Wofford’s ailing wife and children?

  Not wanting to be caught prying, I moved to one of three straight-back chairs lined against the wall and waited. He returned in less than five minutes with a bottle of beer in each hand.

  “This counts as work,” he said, offering me one. “I love my job.”

  Instead of sitting behind his desk, Wofford grabbed the chair beside me and swung it around to face me. He sat with our knees only a foot apart, closer than what I considered normal. The close proximity heightened my awareness of the ache in my stump. I stretched my left leg out beside his chair.

  “Sorry. I’m a little sore after the walk.”

  He looked down at my knee. “Your war wound. I’m amazed at how well you get around.”

  “It’s a loss I’ve learned to live with. We all have losses of one kind or another.”

  He’d started to take a drink, but returned the bottle to his lap. “You know I lost my wife.”

  I nodded. “Nakayla told me. That’s losing a part of yourself. Even more so than my leg.”

  “There’s not a day goes by when she’s not in my thoughts. What can we do, Sam, but live on and hopefully do a little good along the way?”