A Specter of Justice

by Mark de Castrique

  I stepped back, clearing the way to the door. “Thanks, Collin. We’ll be in touch when we hear something about that assignment.”

  As soon as the door closed, Nakayla whispered, “What do you think?”

  “I think Collin and Junior might be closer than he let on. And if Junior’s as smart as Collin said, we might be facing a formidable adversary.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I spent about an hour that afternoon at Helen’s Bridge trying to recreate what must have happened. The switchbacks up the mountain to the houses and condominiums were just on the other side of the arch of the bridge from where I’d waited in my car. If the killer had come up the opposite end of Windswept Drive, he would have driven down and stopped on the road closest to the bridge surface. I wouldn’t have seen or heard him at all.

  The crime scene tape had been removed and I steered my CR-V off the edge of the pavement until the vehicle was nearly off the road. The undergrowth to the top of the bridge had been trampled down. If the killer brought the body in the afternoon, he would have had a few tense moments parked on the road while he unloaded the body and wheelchair and then hid them out of sight.

  The old carriage path traversing the bridge was also overgrown, but without significant trees impeding the way to move the body once in the wheelchair. Traces of plaster dust showed where the forensics team had pulled their most promising casts. One set emerged from the woods across the path from the road, lending credence to the theory that Molly’s body had been hidden off the trail. Plaster also outlined a distinct depression that looked like a heel mark, but no discernible feature signified either style or brand. The damp leaves hadn’t been the kind of material to hold an imprint. As I suspected, the lack of identifying characteristics explained why no mention of footprints existed in the early discovery documents.

  I walked to the middle of the bridge and studied the dirt surface of the old carriage way. Dead leaves and spots of crabgrass covered a thin layer of soil. I turned and looked over the stone guard wall. The paved road had to be at least thirty feet below. The wall itself was about a yard high. I examined the spot where Molly’s body came tumbling over. Scratches beneath one of the more prominent and extruding rocks showed where the grappling hook had been wedged in the dug-out crevice to secure the rope. I lay down beside the spot, getting a sense of what the killer must have done.

  The wall provided ample protection from eyes below and enough room to crouch behind while pushing the body over. Anyone worried about being seen could have bared his forearms or worn black gloves and sweats to be practically invisible.

  I rose and paced back and forth across the bridge four times, scanning the ground for anything that might have been missed. I realized it wasn’t so much what was missed as what was missing.

  I punched in Detective Newland’s cell phone number.

  “Sam. What’s up?”

  “Can you talk?”

  Newly knew I didn’t mean did he have the time but rather was he alone.

  “Just pulled into the police lot. Efird’s inside.”

  I sat on the wall. “I’m at Helen’s Bridge and noticed that there’s no litter. The place draws enough of the curious that I thought there would at least be a beer can or candy bar wrapper.”

  “We bagged everything,” Newly said. “Most of it had obviously been there a while, but the killer might have touched something if he cleared a spot for himself and the body.”

  “Have you been through it all?”

  “Checked for prints. No hits that I know of.”

  I thought back to Friday night—the halogen lights, the forensic team combing the area, and Newly’s nephew Al not wanting to leave the scene when Newly told him to talk to Nakayla. What was it one of the techs had yelled? Check Al’s shoe covering to see if a fragment had ripped free.

  “Newly, did the team find whose shoe cover had been torn?”

  “Shoe cover?”

  “When they thought it was Al’s.”

  “I don’t know. If not, you think it was the killer’s?”

  “Did you get any heel marks or other identifying characteristics off the footprints?”

  “No. I’ll check it out.”

  “I hope it’s not gone missing,” I said.

  Silence for a few seconds. “I said I’ll check it out.” This time the words were low and angry.

  Our conversation had ended. I knew he had jumped to the same possibility I had. His partner, Tuck Efird, would have no trouble getting shoe covers or any other accessories to prevent contamination of a scene where he committed the crime.

  ***

  A little after five, I picked Nakayla up from in front of our office building. Rush hour isn’t particularly heavy in Asheville, but both of us preferred to be fifteen minutes early rather than five minutes late. She set a file folder on her lap as she buckled her seatbelt.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “My afternoon’s work. I ran deeper background checks and thought I’d brief you on the way to Pastor Brooks.”

  “Sounds good. Fire away.”

  She opened the file and lifted the top sheet. “Nothing additional on Jerry Wofford. I found some more clippings on his wife. She was on the advisory board of Denver’s children’s hospital, but she gave that up in 2008 after her ALS diagnosis. Her name surfaced on some charity benefits for ALS research, so I guess she focused her energy there.”

  “Anything support Wofford’s claim that the young people I saw in the photograph with her were a niece and nephew?”

  Nakayla pulled out another page. “No picture for you to see, but her obituary of 2013 listed a niece and nephew, evidently the children of her younger sister.”

  “Any chance they were adopted?”

  She turned in the seat, and from the corner of my eye, I saw the frown that told me I was bugging her.

  “Yes. I guess there’s a chance. But if you’ve got any connection to Colorado’s child services, be my guest. You know Hewitt assigned that to Peterson and he ran into a stone wall searching for what happened to the Pendleton orphans.”

  “Calm down. I’m not criticizing you. I just thought maybe there was something there.”

  “Well, there isn’t.” She turned over a new sheet. “And I ran a check on Peterson as well. He has an honorable discharge. He earned his law degree at Northeastern in Boston thanks to Uncle Sam and then repaid his obligation as a JAG officer. That all fits with what Cory told me.”

  “Did she say why he came to Asheville?”

  “He told Cory he’d had enough of cold in the Boston winters and enough of heat in Afghanistan. He met a guy in the service from here who couldn’t wait to get home.”

  “Who? Do we know him?”

  “Cory didn’t have a name. Tom told her the guy had been killed by an IED. Tom took a trip here before his discharge and fell in love with the place. Cory said Tom’s a mountain person at heart and the climate here is the perfect blend of four seasons.”

  “I think he has another agenda,” I suggested.

  “What?” Nakayla asked.

  “He might be angling for a job. Hewitt’s not getting any younger, and if he ever takes a partner, now might be the time.”

  “Peterson could be the young blood he needs,” Nakayla said.

  “Do you know where he grew up?”

  “Some little crossroads outside Des Moines. He told Cory it was so flat that water always stayed in puddles.”

  We left I-40 for Highway 23, retracing the route we had taken on Sunday morning.

  “What about Angela Douglas?” I asked.

  Nakayla thumbed down a few pages. “There’s not much. So many people her age are heavy into social media, but I couldn’t find a Twitter or Facebook account. An Angela Douglas had a byline for some web articles on post-traumatic stress.”

  “Mili
tary publications?”

  “No. They seemed to be resources for support groups—victims of child and spousal abuse.”

  “Consistent with her eagerness to help the Atwood twins,” I said. “Collin McPhillips told us she was more interested in feature stories than hard news.” I took a quick glance at the papers in her lap. “So, what about Collin?”

  Nakayla separated out about five pages. “Collin has a much more detailed history. He’s local. He went to T.C. Roberson High School and was a member of the National Honor Society.”

  “College?”

  “He went to Asheville-Buncombe Technical Community College.”

  “I would have thought as an honor student he’d go to a four-year school.”

  “Could have been a money thing,” Nakayla said. “Many students go to a community college the first two years and then transfer their credits to a university in the UNC system. It’s a lot cheaper.”

  As someone who rebelled against his father and went straight into the Army out of high school, I wasn’t up on playing the college game. “Did he?”

  “No. Evidently he took a course in photography and got hooked. He interned at the Asheville Citizen-Times and then went freelance after completing his associate degree.”

  “Nothing that ties into Molly or Lenore?”

  Nakayla closed the file and set it on the floor of the backseat. “No. But he was arrested once.”

  I whipped my head around. “You saved that for last?”

  She laughed. “Keep your eyes on the road. Collin went to Raleigh in the summer of 2013 to cover the Moral Monday protests.”

  Moral Mondays were grass roots protests that descended upon the North Carolina legislature when they made slashes to progressive social programs and refused to accept federal funds to expand Medicare to the poor. Nearly a thousand people were arrested over the course of the Monday demonstrations. None were violent and the movement has since spread to other southern states.

  “He was protesting?” I asked.

  “He claimed he was a photo-journalist on assignment covering the Asheville contingent and got swept up in the mass arrests. He wrote about it in an op-ed page column, and if he’d been neutral before, the experience turned him into an unabashed sympathizer and supporter.”

  The city of Asheville was probably the most liberal in the state. The surrounding mountain counties, the most conservative. I could see how Collin’s upbringing would be challenged as he started hanging out with social activists.

  “Did the newspaper let him go?”

  “He was never full time,” Nakayla said. “They just never gave him that assignment again.”

  I wondered if the Raleigh arrest had radicalized him somehow. Even so, how did that tie in with Helen’s Bridge?

  “Does he have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?”

  “Not that I know,” Nakayla said. “I think you were right. He sleeps with his camera.”

  We rode in silence until the turn onto Heavenly Way.

  “Are you going to take the lead?” Nakayla asked.

  “Yes. I’ve got the military connection with Junior and I requested the meeting. But jump in if you think I’m missing anything.”

  We parked close to the front door. Only a few cars were in the lot.

  I glanced at my watch. “We’re fifteen minutes early. Should we wait till it’s closer to six?”

  “No. When I was investigating insurance fraud I always showed up early. Sometimes it was good to catch them off guard.”

  Catching Pastor Brooks and Junior off guard proved to be elusive. As we ascended the steps, the doors swung open and Wheezer greeted us with a cheery, “Howdy, folks.”

  “Sorry if we’re a little early,” Nakayla said. “Traffic wasn’t as heavy as we feared.”

  Wheezer waved us inside with a thin bony hand. “That’s no never mind. Pastor Brooks told me y’all were coming. Junior’s not here yet, but I’ll take you back.”

  “We know the way to his office,” I said.

  “I know you do. We ain’t going to his office.” Wheezer started walking. “Pastor Brooks wants to meet in his rooms.”

  I looked at Nakayla, shrugged, and gestured for her to fall in step behind the lively old man.

  “Does Pastor Brooks have an apartment here?” Nakayla asked.

  “I reckon ya could call it that. He’s got a sitting room and a bedroom. He uses the church kitchen and bathrooms.”

  We passed by Brooks’ office and continued down the hall. At the far end was a door I thought led outside, but when Wheezer opened it, I realized an annex existed on the back corner of the building.

  Pastor Brooks sat in an armchair with a floor lamp positioned over his shoulder. He looked up from a book, smiled, and laid the volume on an end table. “Welcome to my abode.” He stood and shook hands, first with Nakayla and then me.

  “Thank you, Wheezer,” he said. “When Junior gets here, tell him to come back.”

  Wheezer nodded and closed the door behind him.

  “Why don’t you take the sofa?” Brooks suggested.

  In addition to the armchair, an upholstered beige sofa and matching chair completed a semicircle around a slate coffee table. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall opposite the sofa. The room was approximately twelve by twelve with what appeared to be an outside entrance at one end and a door to what must have been the bedroom at the other.

  Two windows broke up the wall behind the sofa. Hanging between them was a portrait of a young woman and a toddler. The artist had added a soft abstract background that focused all attention on the smiling faces. I knew they were the wife and child killed by the hit and run that happened right in front of Pastor Brooks. I looked away, afraid the preacher would see me staring at them.

  “It’s all right,” Brooks said softly, as if reading my mind. “I’m sure someone told you about my wife and little boy.”

  “Yes,” Nakayla said. “We’re so sorry.”

  He studied the portrait a moment. “For years I couldn’t bear to look at it. Just too painful. Then I realized how wrong I was to bury their goodness. I could take comfort in their love, but only after I’d discarded the hatred I held for the person who had taken them from me.”

  I just nodded. I couldn’t think of anything to say that rose to the level of this man’s suffering.

  “Thank you for your efforts to help with the Atwood twins,” Nakayla said.

  Brooks motioned for us to sit. “I hope that proves to be the best course of action. I told Cletus and Nelda they can only control the impression they make on the boys and that speaking negatively about Helen Wilson won’t do anyone any good.”

  “Discard the hate,” I said.

  Brooks gave me a wry smile. “Reconciliation can’t happen any other way. You can take all of those theology books in my office and their hundreds of thousands of words, and they all come down to one—reconciliation. Person to person, person to God.” He held up his hand. “Better stop me before I go preaching at you.”

  A knock sounded from the door and a man I assumed to be Junior Atwood stuck his head in. “You wanted to see me?” His dark eyes widened with surprise as he saw Nakayla and me. Apparently Brooks hadn’t told him we were coming.

  “Yes,” Brooks said. “Do you know Nakayla Robertson and Sam Blackman?”

  Nakayla and I stood and shook the reluctantly offered hand. Junior looked to be in his late forties and was built like a chiseled block of stone. I sensed a military bearing and some physical training regimen that he must have continued to keep in shape. He was all muscle. His gray hair was cut short in a military buzz. His handshake was firm, but not one trying to demonstrate strength.

  “They asked me to introduce you because they think you might be able to help them with some audio problem.” Brooks turned to me. “Did I get that right?”

 
“Yes. Thank you for coming, Mr. Atwood.”

  “You can call me Junior.” He slid into the vacant chair by the sofa. “What kind of problem do you have and how can I possibly help?”

  Nakayla and I sat and I pulled my cell phone from my belt. “When we were at church last Sunday, we were very impressed with the audio set up. Wheezer told us that was all your doing, and that you had been an audio tech specialist in the Army.”

  “That’s right,” Junior confirmed.

  “I was a chief warrant officer and sometimes worked with audio techs when it involved a case. You guys know your stuff.”

  Junior straightened in his chair, obviously flattered by the compliment. “I heard you were CID. Lost a leg too.”

  “We all did what we had to,” I said.

  He nodded. “True. Some more than others. You have my respect, Mr. Blackman.”

  “If I’m calling you Junior, you’re calling me Sam.”

  For the first time, a smile flashed across his lips. “Okay, Sam. So what is it?”

  “We got this message on our office answering machine.” I pushed the play icon on the audio app and set the phone on the slate top coffee table. I kept my eyes focused on Junior’s face while Nakayla watched Pastor Brooks.

  “Mr. Blackman. You have crossed Helen’s Bridge into the valley of the shadow of death. You and your black harlot. Be warned that the scythe of justice is sweeping away all who are found guilty.”

  When the message hit “black harlot,” Junior’s eyes jumped to Nakayla and his face reddened. I picked up the phone as the clip ended.

  Junior looked at Brooks. “What kind of scumbag would leave a message like that?”

  “I guess they’re hoping you can find a way to identify him,” Brooks replied.

  I saw Nakayla give a subtle shake of her head to cue me that Brooks’ reaction hadn’t been suspicious.

  “The police have analyzed it,” I said. “The ambient background sound appears to be from a bar and they say the clip has been filtered to disguise the voice. We were wondering if you could reverse the process.”

  Junior held out his hand. “Let me listen to it again, this time close to my ear.”