A Specter of Justice

by Mark de Castrique

  Newly stared at my phone and the wheels in his head must have been spinning at double speed.

  “He didn’t,” he said. “The two had to be recorded separately.”

  “Exactly. Now why in God’s name would Hewitt do that? And don’t give me he’s creating confusion for the jury. We’re way beyond confusion.”

  “I don’t know. It supports the theory he’s being framed. But now Carter won’t submit the voicemail into evidence.”

  “But we will,” I argued. “And you can bet Hewitt will subpoena you to talk about your forensics analysis and how that analysis works against the state’s case.”

  Newly tapped my phone with his forefinger. “You discovered this on your own?”

  “No way. If your guys missed it, I would never have found it in a million years.” I summarized the conversation with Junior Atwood and how he’d done some forensic audio work in the Army.

  Newly started writing notes on the legal pad in his portfolio. “So, Junior has the technical skill to have created the message he later identified as being a composite.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Unlike Hewitt who has to have Shirley help him change his password.”

  “There’s one other thing,” Nakayla added. “When I asked Junior if he could reverse engineer the voice to approximate the original, he asked whether the police had done that.”

  “Interesting,” Newly remarked. “He could have been fishing whether his voice had been revealed and you were leading him into a trap.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But his reactions held not even the slightest tinge of duplicity.”

  “I agree,” Nakayla said.

  “We’ve all faced consummate liars,” Newly said. “I think what he told you about the recording keeps him in play. Neither he nor his brother Cletus have an alibi for last Friday night.”

  “And there’s one other thing.” I told Newland about the kinship to Collin McPhillips and the fact that Collin was the only person who framed his shot to catch the top of the bridge.

  Newly drummed his fingers on the table and thought a few moments. “You didn’t hear this from me,” he whispered, “but Carter’s trying to reverse engineer the voice message to match Donaldson. We have his statement on audio for reference. I’m going to submit the oral statement we received from McPhillips as well. Your information about the separate tracks gives me reason to bring in Junior Atwood to put his assessment on record, and get his voice in the process.” Newly tapped the shoe cover fragment. “The real success will be linking this clue directly from the killer to either one of them.”

  Newly was right. The scrap was a critical piece of evidence. Suddenly, the back of my neck prickled and I stared past Nakayla and Newly to the two-way mirror on the wall. I couldn’t see through it, but images played across it, projected by my memory onto the reflective surface.

  Jerry Wofford opening the door to the brewing room to check on the cleaning. Two figures moving behind him, each in protective clothing, each wearing shoe covers.

  “What?” Nakayla and Newly asked in unison. They’d read my startled expression.

  “Wofford uses those throw-away coveralls and booties in his brewing room. I saw them yesterday afternoon.”

  “The same color as our bridge scrap?” Newly asked.

  “I’m not sure. Definitely different from your team’s.”

  Newly stood, too fidgety to stay seated. He paced back and forth in front of the mirror. Then he stopped and spoke to our reflections. “So, you think McPhillips and Wofford might be linked together somehow? Maybe a conspiracy where the Atwoods and Wofford have a common interest?”

  “At this point, I don’t know what I think. You need to check out Wofford’s operation. If you’ve got any contacts in the Denver Police Department, ask them about a scandal in the foster care services about fourteen years ago.”

  “Why?”

  “The detective in Durango alluded to it. The Pendleton children went into foster care and Wofford’s wife worked with children’s charities. It’s a long shot, especially when we don’t know what we’re shooting at.”

  “I can do that,” Nakayla volunteered. “The story should have generated a lot of press.”

  Newly wheeled around to face us. “Okay. I’ll work the police angle and we’ll follow up with Junior Atwood, McPhillips, and Wofford. Efird and I’ll bring them in for a round of questions and we’ll add their voices to Carter’s efforts to match your phone message.”

  “Efird’s still on the case?” I asked, knowing full well he was.

  “Yes. When I pulled Donaldson’s phone records, I also pulled Efird’s. When the calls went out about Molly’s body last Friday night, cell tower records put him in Candler where he lives. No way he could have gotten from Helen’s Bridge to that area of the county in time.”

  “That’s good,” I said. I meant it. The world didn’t need another dirty cop.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I was back atop Helen’s Bridge, this time looking at the murder scene well after dark. Mist swirled around me, forming dancing patterns of light and dark as I stepped carefully through the moon shadows. No sounds, no smells. I was alone. Yet, as I approached the bridge, the mist seemed to coalesce and hover over the place where the grappling hook had anchored Molly’s body.

  It was like I had traveled back to last Friday when I’d called out for Helen and Molly had dropped from this very spot. Had she joined Helen in the midnight wanderings of a lost soul? “Molly, come forth!” I shouted the words into the darkness of the other side of the bridge. “Molly, come forth! Molly, come forth!”

  The pillar of mist shimmered and a shrouded figure stepped toward me. Suddenly, my feet were anchored to the ground.

  A moonbeam hit Heather Atwood’s tear-streaked face, the face she had turned to me in the courtroom. “Thank you for what you said and did.” The last words she had spoken before Clyde Atwood shot her in cold blood. Her voice was the breeze of a whisper, felt as much as heard.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I did nothing.”

  Her eyes widened. “Like Clyde, they are coming.” She raised an arm clothed in the dress Molly had worn. The whisper turned into a shriek. “Coming for you!”

  I twisted around, breaking my left stump free of my prosthesis. A black-cloaked shape rushed toward me as I fought to keep my balance. “Stay back,” I cried, not afraid for myself but for Heather. I plunged my fist into a void as the attacker passed right through me.

  Heather screamed—

  “Sam!”

  Nakayla shouted my name a second time.

  I bolted up in bed, heart racing, mind trying to reconnect with reality.

  Nakayla flipped on her bedside lamp. Helen’s Bridge was gone. We were in her bedroom.

  “I’m Okay. Nightmare.”

  She studied me, her forehead creased with concern. “Iraq?”

  “Yes,” I lied. The one word was answer enough.

  “It’s two-thirty and we’re meeting Hewitt early. Do you think you can go back to sleep, or do you want to talk about it?”

  “I’m fine now. You can turn out the light.”

  But I wasn’t fine. Every time I closed my eyes, Heather’s frightened face loomed in front of me. So, I lay staring at nothing and wondering what she had tried to tell me.

  ***

  Nakayla and I met with Hewitt in his office at seven. I’d already had two cups of black coffee in an effort to combat the lack of sleep.

  We didn’t want to spring Lenore’s diary on him in front of the others, but we couldn’t sit on it either. We needed to learn how damaging the entries would be.

  I expected Hewitt to take the news hard, but I wasn’t prepared for the magnitude of his despair. Blood drained from his face. He rolled his chair back from his desk as if trying to put distance between us. He made a futile effort to speak, but
gave up and wiped tears from his eyes with the palm of his hand.

  I felt compelled to fill the silence. “Detective Newland said Lenore’s words were fairly innocuous. Mainly about your age difference and a sense of not wanting to hurt your feelings.”

  “A sense of not wanting to hurt my feelings?” he asked bitterly. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Nakayla crossed the room and knelt beside him. She took his hand. “It shows she cared for you. Carter will try and blow it out of proportion, but from what Newland said, there’s no fearful or disparaging remarks. Just the regrettable fact that you two are almost a generation apart.”

  He took a deep breath and swallowed. “She never said anything to me.”

  “I know,” Nakayla said. “There’s no entry that says she did. How could you have gotten angry if you didn’t know?”

  Hewitt gnawed on his lower lip a few seconds, then nodded. “You’re right. Let’s get to work. I’ll break the news about the diary to the others.”

  When we entered the conference room, Shirley, Cory, and Tom Peterson looked up expectantly, knowing we’d been sequestered in Hewitt’s office.

  “We’ve had some developments,” Hewitt stated.

  He paused out of habit for Shirley to interject some wisecrack, but his razor-witted colleague held her tongue.

  “Some good, some not so good.” Hewitt laid out the changing legal landscape—the diary, the relationship between Junior Atwood and Collin McPhillips, the shoe cover clue and potential link to Jerry Wofford, and the exculpatory phone evidence that Tuck Efird couldn’t have been at Helen’s Bridge.

  He finished, folded his hands on the table, and studied his team. “Any thoughts?”

  Without hesitation, Peterson said, “Cory and I need to get a look at that diary.”

  “Agreed,” Hewitt said. “But make a general request for any correspondence, journals, or diaries the prosecution might have uncovered. Include not just Lenore, but also Molly. That way we protect our backdoor source and put Carter in a position of lying if he tries to spring it as a late piece of evidence.”

  “Good,” Cory said. “We’ll head to the courthouse first thing.”

  “I’d like to make another run at the Durango case,” Peterson said. “If Wofford’s involved, there has to be some link. The foster care files of the Pendleton children are sealed, but there could be a way in through any evidence that might have been presented at a trial. Surely someone was prosecuted.”

  “I planned to work that angle,” Nakayla said.

  “Leave that for Tom,” Hewitt ordered. “He’ll navigate the court system better. I’d rather you and Sam pursue every lead you can on Junior and Collin.”

  I could tell Nakayla didn’t like being sidelined when her instincts told her otherwise. The investigation into Junior and Collin was now dependent upon what Newland uncovered. We were reacting, not acting. And our local inquiries into Molly and Lenore had netted no enemies, no work issues, and no conflicts other than Molly’s breakup with Detective Efird and Lenore’s planned breakup with Hewitt. Both women were well liked and admired. The entire Asheville community had been shocked by their deaths.

  “And let me say this,” Hewitt continued. “Tom, I want to apologize for my initial reluctance to bringing you onboard. You were right that I need outside counsel. I can’t imagine arguing about Lenore’s diary in front of a jury. Talk about self-serving. The jurors need to see me through your eyes and your questions. So, I’m grateful for your contribution. I look forward to putting this behind us and perhaps working for a real client together.”

  Coming from Hewitt, the words were unprecedented praise. Peterson mumbled his thanks. Cory reached out and clutched his hand, unable to conceal her delight. I realized what a strain her romantic involvement with the young attorney must have put on her working relationship with her boss.

  Hewitt turned to me. “What’s your agenda?”

  “I’m staying close to Newland. I expect he’ll have both Collin and Junior into the station as soon as he can. But I’m not sitting on my hands. I’m going to work some CID contacts to see if anyone knows Junior from the Army.”

  “I can do that,” Peterson offered.

  “No,” Hewitt said. “Sam’s closer to the investigators. Let him pursue it.”

  Hewitt’s perspective wasn’t entirely accurate. I’d worked with many JAGs who actively participated in the field, visiting crime scenes and sitting in on witness interviews.

  “Anything else before we break?” Hewitt asked.

  “What about Lenore’s car?” Peterson asked. “Did it ever turn up?”

  Hewitt looked at me for an answer.

  “No. Newland’s theory is that the killer moved it from her house so that if any friends dropped by Friday, they’d think she was out.”

  “And Molly’s car?” Peterson asked.

  “In her apartment lot. Whether she was abducted from there or was at Lenore’s and the killer returned her car is unknown. Logistically, shuffling vehicles is a problem for one person. I know that’s bugging Newland.”

  “The car could be important,” Peterson said. “I’m surprised it hasn’t turned up in some place obvious.”

  “Obvious how?” I asked.

  “Obvious in a connection to Hewitt. The killer’s tagged everything else to him.”

  I shot a glance at Nakayla. The young attorney made a good point. We’d left that legwork to the police, but maybe it was time to take the lead.

  “Lenore drove a silver Honda Civic,” I said. “So does Collin McPhillips. Those cars are so common they’re practically invisible. If Tom’s correct, Hewitt, the Honda’s somewhere you frequent or will have something personal of yours in it. Did you ever drive her car?”

  “No. But you can bet some of my errant hair strands have been planted in it. I’m sure the police have scoured my neighborhood looking for it.”

  “Have they done Biltmore Village?” Peterson asked.

  “How the hell should I know?” Hewitt exclaimed. “Why there?”

  “It’s the area you covered the night of the fundraiser. Let’s say the bodies were crammed in the trunk of the Civic. You want the car in close proximity to your van’s position so you can switch vehicles without driving all over Asheville. A Honda Civic would also be very forgettable if it were parked for a while in the housing lot above Helen’s Bridge.”

  Hewitt nodded. “Goddamn, you are a prosecutor.”

  Peterson smiled. “It’s the case I’d try to build. The location of the car could be the missing piece of the puzzle, the puzzle where the killer makes sure you are the only solution.”

  “I’ll ask Newland where they’ve searched,” I said. “And do some checking on my own.”

  Hewitt slid his chair away from the table. “All right. Let’s get cracking. Cory, you call me if anyone in Carter’s office stonewalls that diary. I’ll go to the judge if I have to. I can always say I knew Lenore kept one.”

  Cory grabbed Peterson’s hand again. “We can handle it.”

  When Nakayla and I returned to our office, she immediately logged onto her computer. I knew without asking what she was up to. Her curiosity about Denver’s foster care scandal wasn’t extinguished just because Hewitt gave Peterson the assignment.

  I got on the phone to Newly. The detective was already at the station and had calls into Junior, Collin, and Wofford.

  “Are you bringing them in as a group?” I asked.

  “Not to be interviewed together. But I’ll make sure they see each other in the halls. If there’s a connection between two or even all three of them, I hope to create enough fear to turn one of them. I’d put my money on Collin McPhillips as the weakest link.”

  “What about Wofford and his shoe booties?”

  “A uniformed officer is going to stop by the brewery once Wofford’s wit
h me. Then we’ll know immediately if there’s a match to the fragment on the bridge and I can leverage that against Wofford while he’s here at the station.”

  His approach made sense.

  “Good luck. Any developments with Lenore Carpenter’s Honda?”

  “No. That whole car thing is a mystery. Our best guess is the killer used the Honda to move the bodies. It’s probably abandoned on some mountain dirt road or been pushed over a ravine.”

  “You’re talking two or more people.”

  “I know,” Newly said. “But the logistics of the double murders point to that conclusion.”

  I pulled a note pad from my desk drawer. “Give me the tag for the Honda. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  I jotted down the number, ripped the sheet free, and stuffed it in my pants’ pocket. “Call if anything breaks.”

  “Sam, you’re on my speed dial. When I know something, you’ll know something.”

  I hung up and for a moment, I sat thinking how Newly had climbed out on a limb by feeding me all this inside information. I doubted he’d shared our arrangement with his partner Efird, and D.A. Carter’s head would explode if he learned the lead detective was speed dialing his chief suspect’s investigator.

  I also had to admit I enjoyed working with Newly. After thirteen years as an MP and then a chief warrant officer, I felt at home pursuing suspects. Justice meant convicting the guilty, not playing the system for any way possible to get a client off. I realized Hewitt and I would never see eye to eye on that point. I understood where Tom Peterson was coming from when he said he preferred working the prosecutorial side.

  Nakayla was immersed in some archived, online newspaper story and only grunted when I said I was going out to look for Lenore’s car. The truth was I had at least a couple hours before I’d hear from Newly and I needed to run by my apartment to drop off a bag of dirty clothes that had collected at Nakayla’s. And there was the temptation of a morning catnap. Then I’d swing through a couple shopping centers around Biltmore Village where cars could sit unnoticed for a few days.