by Scott Pratt
“What do you want, Sheriff?”
When he sees me, the look turns to anger.
“And what’s he doing here?”
“We need to speak to you in private,” Bates says.
“About what?”
“It’s important. I wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t.”
“This is private enough. Tell me what you want.”
“If you make me stand out here on the porch, I’m going to say what I have to say loud enough so your neighbors and your wife can hear me,” Bates says loudly. “And believe me, it won’t go good for you.”
Mooney looks around nervously and opens the door. As he steps back so we can walk through, he stumbles slightly and catches himself on the door.
“You remember where the study is, I assume,” Mooney says.
“I do,” Bates replies with mock civility.
“Go ahead. I’ll be right up.”
Mooney disappears down a hallway and Bates leads me up a wide staircase. I look around in awe: marble tile, cherry molding, cathedral ceilings, expensive art, a huge chandelier in the foyer. I’ve always heard that Mooney’s wife was extremely wealthy, and from the looks of the house, she must be. We walk into a study filled with plush leather and expensive wood. There’s a large cherry desk to my right and a leather couch to my left. Bates and I sit down on the couch.
“He’s deep in the bottle,” I say.
“No kidding. I thought he was gonna fall on his backside when we came in.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“Once. It’s been a while, though.”
“What’s going on, Leon?”
“You’ll see. Just let me do all the talking.”
Mooney walks in a couple of minutes later and closes the door behind him. He’s carrying a martini. He sits down behind his desk, sets the drink down, laces his fingers around the back of his neck, and leans back.
“What’s so damned important that it can’t wait until morning?” he says in a drunken, belligerent slur.
Bates leans forward and rests his forearms on his thighs. He stares at Mooney for a long minute-so long that even I begin to become uncomfortable.
“We finally got a break in the Hannah Mills case,” Bates says.
“We?” Mooney says. “What do you mean, ‘we’?”
“Me and Mr. Dillard, here. We’ve been working together. Well, that ain’t exactly right. I’ve been doing most of the work, but Mr. Dillard did help me out with one little detail. It was important, though. It surely was.”
Mooney unlaces his fingers, takes a drink from the martini, and crosses his arms.
“Why is he wearing a suit?” Mooney says.
“I’ll get to that in a minute. Don’t you want to know about Hannah? I thought you’d be tickled to hear that we found her.”
“You found her? Where? Is she alive?”
“She was in a mine shaft up on Buffalo Mountain. Somebody killed her and dumped her down that hole like a bag of trash.”
Mooney shakes his head and lowers his chin. He reaches for the martini glass again and misses, then finds it. I don’t know exactly where Bates is going with this, but I can feel a slow burn beginning in my stomach.
“Do you have any suspects?” Mooney asks.
“Oh yeah, I’ve got a suspect, all right. As a matter of fact, I know exactly who’s responsible for her death.”
“Then I assume you’ve made an arrest.”
“Well, I’ve got a little problem with that. I was hoping maybe you might help me out, but I kinda doubt it, to tell you the truth.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t reckon you’re gonna confess, are you?”
Time freezes momentarily. I see Mooney draw in a long, slow breath, as if trying to gather himself. I’ve suspected since the beginning that Mooney was involved in Hannah’s death, but I didn’t want to believe it. Bates must have gotten his DNA test results back. Mooney must be the father of Hannah’s baby.
“Is this some kind of joke, Sheriff?” Mooney says. “You’re making jokes about Hannah’s murder?”
“Oh no, it’s no joke. I’ll just go ahead and tell you the way I see it. After you got Hannah drunk up there at Tanner’s birthday party and she made her little announcement about being a virgin, I reckon you just couldn’t stand it. You had to help yourself. So the way I figure it is, you followed Tanner and Hannah home and raped her while she was passed out.”
Mooney stands abruptly, his face twisted in anger. He points toward the door.
“Get out!”
Bates doesn’t move. He seems perfectly calm, but I feel myself growing angrier with each passing second.
“I ain’t going nowhere,” Bates says. “Not until I’ve said my piece. Now, you can either sit your ass back down in that chair, or I can go downstairs and tell your wife what I’m about to tell you.”
Mooney sits, slowly. Beads of sweat are forming on his forehead. He takes a long drink of the martini.
“You didn’t think about getting her pregnant, though, did you?” Bates says. “You damned fool. You see, ol’ Dillard here got me a sample of your DNA. It matches the DNA sample from the embryo the pathologist found in Hannah’s body. Tough luck for you, huh? If Hannah had stayed in that hole for a couple more weeks before we found her, we wouldn’t have been able to get DNA and you would’ve been in the clear. The only thing I don’t know is how you found out about her being pregnant, but that don’t really matter, does it? I’ll bet you were in a panic. You had to do something, and you had to do it fast. So you went to your old buddy Stinnett and made a deal with Ramirez.”
Mooney remains quiet. He’s taken on the look of someone who has just been forced to eat a pile of dung.
“Ramirez is locked up again,” Bates continues, “but this time ain’t nobody gonna let him out. One of his cronies hired a couple of bikers to kill Hannah. They’re as dead as she is. Stinnett’s dead, too. So you can relax, Brother Mooney. I can’t prove any of this.”
Mooney’s expression changes slowly to one of smugness. He clears his throat and leans back in his chair again. I can feel my heart beating inside my chest. Pressure has been steadily building at my temples, and my field of vision has narrowed. All I can see is Mooney. I’m thinking about his sneaking into her bedroom, sweating over her while she lay helpless and unaware. I’m thinking about what a sick, perverted bastard he is. I’m thinking about how good it would feel to snap his neck like a twig.
“Get up,” I say.
“Get away from me,” he mutters.
“I said get up, you fucking coward!”
I’m conscious of movement to my left, and I realize it must be Bates. I crack Mooney across the bridge of the nose with the back of my right hand before Bates can get to me. He yelps like a puppy and tears immediately fill his eyes. Bates is pulling me backward while talking in my ear, but my eyes stay on Mooney. I feel a sense of satisfaction as blood begins to run from his nostrils onto his mouth and his chin. Bates keeps talking, but the words are like white noise. They mean nothing to me. He pushes me into the chair and kneels in front of me.
“Brother Dillard, you with me?” The voice sounds as though it’s coming from far away. “Brother Dillard? You’ve got to come out of it, now. We’ve got business to take care of.”
The rage begins to subside, and I slowly become conscious of where I am. I feel sick, and I suddenly want nothing more than to leave this place. Mooney’s presence in the room nauseates me. I nod weakly at Bates. He stands and turns toward Mooney, who is holding his expensive robe against his bloody nose.
“This can go one of two ways,” Bates says. “What I could do is run straight to the media folks around here and tell them that Hannah Mills was pregnant with your child when she was killed. I can prove that. Then I might start leading some of them reporters down the same road I’ve been traveling for the past few weeks. My guess is that they’ll draw the same conclusions I’ve drawn. It’ll be real embarrassi
ng for you. No way you’ll be able to stay in office once they get through with you.
“But what I’d rather do is keep this between you, me, and Mr. Dillard here. All you have to do is write out a letter of resignation right now and give it to me. I’ll see to it that it goes straight to the governor. He’s already got your replacement picked out. He’s already signed the paperwork for the appointment. You’re finished either way. Pick your poison.”
“You’re lying,” Mooney says.
Bates reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a piece of paper. He tosses it onto the desk in front of Mooney.
“There’s the lab report,” Bates says. “Read it and weep.”
He reaches back into his pocket and pulls out a pen. “That resignation needs to be effective immediately.”
54
Bates and I are riding through the darkness in silence. I’m stunned by what’s happened, not so much by the fact that Mooney is guilty, but by the fact that he’s going to get away with it. Losing the district attorney’s office will devastate him-he’s become addicted to the power and prestige-but I can’t stop thinking that he needs to be punished. He needs to be dragged through a public trial, convicted, and sent off to prison. There he should be gang-raped for ten years before they finally stick a needle in his arm.
I know Bates is right. The only way to prove that Mooney was involved in Katie’s death would be to bring a string of witnesses into court to testify how the contract came about and how it was executed. But the only direct link to Mooney-Roscoe Stinnett-is dead. So are the two bikers who actually murdered Hannah. Ramirez is in a federal prison, but the prosecution couldn’t force him to testify at a trial without leverage. Even if he did testify, Stinnett apparently never told him precisely who was putting out the contract on Hannah. There’s simply no direct evidence that Mooney was involved, and the only circumstantial evidence is that he’s the father of Hannah’s child. It’s not enough.
I think back to the day I went out to Hannah’s house, discovered she was gone, and then went back to the office and talked to Mooney. He was so emotional, such a skilled actor. What was it he said? Something about being protective of her, fatherly. And then he said, “That’s the way I felt about her.” He knew she was dead. He knew it.
“I can’t believe he’s going to get away with it,” I say to Bates.
“He ain’t gonna go to prison, but he ain’t gonna get away with it, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“I ain’t one to lie much, but I’m afraid I had to lie to him a little. I already mailed a copy of that DNA report to every newspaper and television station within fifty miles. In three days’ time, they’ll be on him like jackals. He’ll have to find him a cave to live in.”
“I wanted to kill him back there.”
“Can’t say as I blame you for that. At least you got a good lick on him.”
I look down at the back of my hand and clench and unclench my fist. The knuckles are bruised. It feels good.
“Don’t you want to know where we’re going next?” Bates says.
“I can’t wait.”
“You’re about to become the new attorney general of the First Judicial District.”
I turn and look at him. He’s smiling as if he just won the lottery.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Mooney’s out, which means somebody’s going to have to take his place. Now, since the attorney general is an elected state official, not a county official, his replacement is appointed by the governor. Under normal circumstances, an interim would be appointed, there’d be nominations, and the governor would choose whoever he thinks would benefit him the most come the next election. But these ain’t normal circumstances. Since me and the governor are such good buddies, I’ve already got the fix in for you, brother. We’re on our way to the airport to meet him right now. All you have to do is say yes.”
“You’re nuts. I’m not a politician, Leon. I don’t want to be the district attorney general.”
“Sure you do. It’ll be grand. You don’t even have to run for office. Instead of some dipstick making all the important decisions, you get to make ’em. You’ll make a hundred and fifty grand a year, and you know what the best part will be? You’ll have some real power. You can mess with the judges to your heart’s content.”
“I–I’m grateful. I appreciate the confidence. I really do. But this is too… It’s too quick, Leon. Too much responsibility.”
“What else are you gonna do, Dillard? Sit at home and twiddle your damn thumbs? You’re the right man for this job, and I aim to see you take it. Me and you will make a great team. If it turns out you don’t like it, don’t run for election when the term is up in four years.”
“You could have at least told me about this, given me a chance to talk to Caroline.”
“She’ll be glad to have you out of the house again. Besides, you really ain’t got no choice now. The governor’s already signed the appointment, and he’s flying all the way up here from Nashville just to meet you. His jet should be landing right about now. That’s why I asked you to wear the suit, brother. I wouldn’t want you to meet the governor looking like a heathen.”
“He knows about Mooney?”
“I told him everything.”
I lean my head back on the headrest and close my eyes. Despite my protests, I find the idea intriguing. I’ve always been critical of the men who occupied the position of district attorney general, and this would give me the opportunity to run the office the way I think it should be run-the right way. Ultimately, I’d control all of the decisions about whom to indict and what crime to charge in a four-county district. But what intrigues me even more is Tommy Miller’s situation. I’ll be in a position to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to Tommy that happened to Brian Gant. And then there’s Caroline. If the evidence she destroyed ever comes up as an issue and if Anita White or Ralph Harmon or anyone else ever attempts to bring a case against her, they’ll have to get past me. I open my eyes and turn to Bates.
“Okay, Leon,” I say. “You talked me into it. Let’s go see the governor.”
55
The private jet that has carried the governor of Tennessee to Tri-Cities Regional Airport has been pulled into a hangar about a quarter mile from the main terminal. Bates pulls inside the huge opening slowly. Three men in suits-the governor’s security detail-are waiting. They talk to us briefly, wave wands over our bodies, and then lead us across the floor to a set of steps that ascends to the interior of the plane.
I’m a bit startled by the luxury, and by the space, once we get inside. An attractive young woman gives us a brief introduction to the pilot, shows us the kitchenette and the bar and the soft, reclining leather seats-three on each side of the aisle. There’s a flat-screen television on the wall in front of the seats and two computer workstations behind. She leads us down a short hallway past the bathrooms to the back of the plane, opens a door, motions us inside, and closes the door behind us.
James Lincoln Donner III, the governor of Tennessee, is standing behind a sprawling oak desk. I’ve never met Donner, but I know he’s a multimillionaire from Nashville who made his money the old-fashioned way-he inherited it. Donner is the first Democrat to hold the office in sixteen years, but he wasn’t elected because of any noble ideal he represented or because of a rock-solid political platform. He was elected because the two Republican administrations that preceded him used the state treasury as their personal piggy banks. I remember reading a quote from Donner during his campaign in which he said corruption was so rampant at the state capitol in Nashville that his first order of business would be to go into the Senate and House chambers with a fire hose and clean them both out.
I’m surprised by the governor’s size as he walks around his desk to embrace Bates. He looks much bigger on television. Considerably under six feet tall, he’s wearing a tailored gray suit with white shirt and navy blue tie. His hair is chestnut brown and cut short.
His cheeks are oddly hollow. His eyes are gray-like Lee Mooney’s.
“Leon, so good to see you,” he says as he pats Bates’s shoulders after he releases the hug. “Is this your man?”
“Sure is,” Bates says. “Joe Dillard, meet Governor Jim Donner.”
“Governor,” I say as he shakes my hand vigorously.
“A pleasure, Mr. Dillard,” he says, “or should I say General Dillard?”
“Call me Joe, please. I never made it past sergeant, anyway.”
“Yes, a veteran,” he says. “We’ve put together a file on you. Hope you don’t mind. It says you were a Ranger, combat experience, decorated with a Silver Star in Grenada.”
“That was a long time ago, sir.”
“Leon here tells me you’re as honest as anyone he’s ever met. Says you’re a helluva lawyer, too. Just the kind of man we need under these trying circumstances.”
“I have my reservations, to be perfectly honest, but I’m willing to try.”
The governor walks back around the desk and sits in a leather swivel chair. He motions to us to do the same, and I notice he’s looking down on us. He’s obviously installed a platform under his seat to make himself appear taller. I want to snicker or say something, but I know Bates will kick me in the balls if I do. The governor picks up a file in front of him.
“Let’s see here. Born in Johnson City, father was killed in Vietnam, raised by your mother. One sister, Sarah, who seems to have had some problems with the law.” He glances up at Bates and then back down at the file. “Graduated Science Hill High School. Then joined the army. Decorated, honorable discharge. Then graduated East Tennessee State University and the University of Tennessee College of Law. Practiced both as a defense attorney and a prosecutor. Married to the same woman for twenty-two years. Two children, both in college. With the exception of your sister, you’re perfect.”
“My sister won’t be a problem, sir.”