River of Secrets

by Roger Johns

  “Let’s agree on between seven and seven thirty this evening.” Wallace maintained eye contact until he nodded. “If we need to change the time, here’s my contact information.” She handed him one of her cards. “How can I get in touch with you?”

  With his left hand, he extracted one of his own business cards from his shirt pocket, holding it scissor-style between his index and middle fingers as he offered it to her. “Cell phone, email, website, studio address—it’s all there.”

  It was a cheap, home-print job, done on flimsy stock with tiny perforation bumps along the edges. Wallace studied the information on the card. His studio was in Cavanaugh, a quaint little town about an hour north and west of Baton Rouge.

  “I was actually thinking of pulling up stakes, even before you outed me as a trespasser,” he said. “This is a good time of year to be out in the wild with a camera, so I’ve got a list of other places between here and home where I can get some good work done, as I head north back toward Cavanaugh.”

  “This is important business, Mr. Ecclestone. Not something that can be put off until who knows when.”

  “I understand.” He laced his fingers together and put his hands on top of his head, elbows pointing forward.

  To Wallace’s eye, it looked like a calculated display of boyish vulnerability.

  “You look like you probably know your way around the outdoors. You ever been on a photo shoot way out in the wild areas, Detective?”

  “What else do you remember about the man you saw on the dock?” she asked, growing weary of his attempts to turn the interview into a hookup.

  “You’re really getting my curiosity fired up. Who is this guy? Is he wanted for something?”

  “He’s someone I’m interested in.”

  “Then I guess it’s your lucky day that I just happened to turn up.” He smiled, pleased with himself.

  “I don’t think so.” Her nostrils flared and she shook her head, trying to ward off a smirk.

  Peter’s eyes lit up at the prospect of a lively go-round of verbal jousting. “Well, somebody here is lucky.”

  “This place is supposed to be unoccupied.” She jabbed her thumb at the house. “But there was trash in the dumpster and it smelled kind of fresh.”

  Peter’s face fell a bit.

  “Beer cans are excellent for holding fingerprints. I bagged everything, thinking maybe I’d turn up some prints that were already on file and they would lead me to whoever had been hanging around here.”

  Ecclestone’s eyes tracked up and to the left. One hand came up and rubbed his face, partly covering a sheepish grin. “That might have worked.”

  “Is that a confession?”

  “I plead young and stupid.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me the rest of what you saw, Mr. Ecclestone?” She put an edge of impatience in her voice. “What are you holding back?” Sometimes a stern question could motivate people to overcome any reluctance they might feel about telling the whole story.

  His mouth pulled to one side, and Wallace could tell by his unfocused gaze that he was engaged in some kind of internal debate.

  “Well, the only thing I can say for sure is that the lights came on in his place, once it got dark.” He bobbled his head back and forth a few times. “I could see movement. You know, shadows past the windows, but I couldn’t swear who I was seeing. It just looked like somebody moving around in there. And I wasn’t really watching the place the whole time. I saw some things, but there were times when my eyes and my thoughts were elsewhere.”

  “Has there been anyone here at the house with you?”

  “Just me,” he said, with a nonchalant, can-you-believe-it look.

  “Do you know if he left the house that night?”

  “Nah. At some point I fell asleep in one of the loungers on the back porch.”

  “Can you recall whether any vehicles came or went from the place?”

  “It’s pretty quiet out here, on this side of the lake, so cars and trucks going by, you can hear ’em, but honestly, I can’t say if anybody pulled in or out of the place. I know I didn’t see anything coming or going.”

  “Do you have anything else for me, Mr. Ecclestone?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve milked this cow dry, Detective.”

  She looked at his card again, then slid it into the pocket of her shirt. “Thank you. I’ve kept you out here and now your pizza is probably ice-cold.”

  “Don’t worry about that. It was good talking to you.”

  Wallace looked toward the house, then back at Peter. “Between seven and seven thirty. The main police building just south of downtown.”

  “Oh, I know where it is,” he said.

  “One more thing,” she said as Peter turned toward the house.

  He looked back in her direction.

  “This may be a little out of my jurisdiction.” She gestured toward the lake. “But that won’t stop me from coming to look for you.” She held his gaze until she was sure he understood the unsaid part of her message.

  “Good to meet you, Detective Hartman.” He turned away and walked toward his dust-laden SUV.

  Wallace watched as he opened the front passenger door and leaned in for his pizza. While he was still absorbed in his task, she headed back to her car. She would need to hustle if she intended to meet Glenn Marioneaux.

  As she walked, she tried to put her discoveries into perspective. On one hand, if traces of insulation from the lake house attic showed up on Eddie’s clothing or in his home or his car and they looked like the same stuff that was on Marioneaux then it was possible Eddie had used the access panels in the pantry and the storeroom to get out of and then back into the lake house without it registering on the alarm system. Peter’s testimony that he had seen Eddie on False River late Friday would make a sneak-out-through-the-attic operation look probable.

  Her frame-up hypothesis would get weak in the knees and Eddie’s alibi would look less like a GET-OUT-OF-JAIL-FREE card and more like a confirmation that he had not only killed Herbert Marioneaux, but had also conceived and carried out an elaborate plan to do it.

  Under those circumstances, Peter’s testimony would be critical to the prosecution.

  On the other hand, if no insulation was found, then the chance discovery of an alibi witness would bolster Eddie’s innocence and put her frame-up idea back in business and Peter’s testimony would be essential to the defense.

  Either way, the information in Peter Ecclestone’s head was extremely important. Given the “zero mistakes” directive Jack Shannon had issued when he decided to keep her on the case, Wallace wanted Ecclestone’s statement to be taken under carefully controlled conditions. At a minimum, she wanted Burley and LeAnne on the interview with her, to make sure no questions were left unasked or unanswered.

  It was also true that Ecclestone’s testimony would have an impact at more than one point in the prosecution. An elaborate plan to commit murder would not only weigh heavily on the issue of guilt or innocence, it would also have a big influence on the sentencing phase.

  The killer, whoever it turned out to be, was already eligible for the death penalty, because of Marioneaux’s age. Normally, a killer would have to be involved in the commission of another serious crime while committing a homicide in order for the death penalty to be an option. But, under an obscure provision of Louisiana’s capital murder statute, if the victim was under twelve or over sixty-five the additional-crime requirement went flying out the window and the likelihood of lethal injection came flying in.

  TWELVE

  “I’m over here, Detective. Just come through the wrought-iron gate and follow the briny smell back to the pool.”

  Wallace filed past the doors of the five-car garage, making her way to the fence that ran from the rear corner of the house to the side of the lot. From the research she had done over the weekend, she knew Glenn had cobbled together an empire of budget-brand self-storage facilities across the South. Apparently, such businesses spewed gey
sers of money.

  She pushed on the gate, expecting a metal-on-metal squeal, but the hinges were soundless and so smooth that the gate got away from her and banged against the side of the house.

  Glenn appeared from her left. “That thing gets away from everybody.”

  He was in jeans and a white oxford-cloth shirt. The sleeves were turned back to the middle of his thick forearms and he was barefoot. A highball glass with a sludgy tomato-colored liquid and a celery stalk was in his left hand.

  “Virgin Mary.” He raised his glass toward her. “Can I get you something?” He pushed the gate closed and then moved off toward a covered patio that ran the width of the the house.

  Wallace watched him walk away. He moved with the smooth, carefree gait of a cat. “Sure. I’ll have what you’re having.”

  “Great. I’ve got a pitcher out here. I figured you’d feel safer if we met outside. Most people get intimidated by my size. But then, you carry a gun, so you’re probably not like most people. Have a seat. Please.” With his drink, he gestured toward an oversized Adirondack chair situated alongside a low glass table. He filled a tumbler with the liquid from the pitcher and held it toward her. His hands were so huge the glass and the pitcher looked like toys.

  “You probably think I’m an asshole for skipping out the other day, but I couldn’t handle what was happening.”

  “I’m not going to judge anybody for having a strong reaction to the violent death of a parent.” She reached up and accepted the glass from him. “But your mother was a bit puzzled about how you expected her to get back to her car.”

  Glenn’s eyes were hooded. His cheeks and the tip of his nose had the blush of broken capillaries that signaled chronic overconsumption of alcohol. “Are you sure you’re up for this, now?” she asked.

  “We’ll see.” He took the chair across the table from her. “You probably want to know if I have any idea why Eddie Pitkin would kill my father.”

  “Actually, the first thing I’d like to know is where you were in the hours before and after the time of your father’s death—between seven and midnight.” She pulled a little Moleskine notebook from her pocket and set it on the table in front of her.

  “But you’ve already got a suspect in jail. Isn’t the evidence against him pretty bad?”

  Wallace smiled, her pen poised above a blank page. “Just tell me where you were.”

  Glenn smiled too. Wallace could tell he was trying to figure out if she was playing with him. She let her smile fade.

  “Hah! You’re serious, aren’t you?” He sat up straight, his eyes wide. He furrowed his brow, the smile still on his face. “I was at church.”

  “Does this church have a name?”

  “The Communion of Saints. You may have heard of it. ‘Where every corner is the amen corner.’” Glenn shifted in his seat.

  “Right. I’ve seen the billboards. So, would there be anyone there who’d be willing to vouch for your presence?”

  “Quite a few, actually. As you can imagine,” he gestured at the house and the pool, “I’m pretty handy with money, so I serve as the chief financial officer.”

  “That’s interesting, but how does that tie you to a place and a time, in front of witnesses?”

  “We’ve got a big congregation and a great many of them come equipped with very large bank accounts, so we move a lot of money. Come collection time, we try to make it look like a casual experience to the folks in the sanctuary, but it’s not. There’s a very rigid system for collecting, protecting, and accounting for the cash. That takes people, all with precise tasks, all carried out on a strict timetable that begins the moment the ushers are issued their collection plates and doesn’t end until the last tally clerk in the counting room has submitted their money and count sheet and I’ve audited it and the money has been secured.”

  “Sounds like a casino-style operation.”

  “Except, in our case, the odds are one hundred percent in the giver’s favor. Every penny pays off. Every time.”

  Wallace studied Glenn’s face as he spoke. She couldn’t tell whether the enthusiasm lighting up his eyes reflected the conviction of a true believer or the convincing routine of a skilled merchant.

  “Can you provide me a list of the people you worked with that night?”

  “Sure. But you can just look at the camera footage if you want.”

  “What footage would that be?”

  “The counting rooms are a pretty wired place. Like I said, we move a lot of money.”

  “Which probably attracts people who’d like to get their hands on it.”

  Glenn gave her a broad smile. “There is, in fact, a class of people that shops around for churches with loose money procedures, for the express purpose of stealing. They might go to three, four, five different churches on any given Sunday, looking for easy targets.”

  “I’ve actually heard of that, but it seems so opposite of what you’d expect in church.”

  “I wish it were.”

  “Well, until I can get my hands on the video, why don’t you tell me what time you left church and who was the last person to see you there?”

  “I have to say, Detective Hartman, this is not the way I pictured this conversation going.” He shifted in his seat again and looked at her as if he expected an explanation. “You’re starting to make me feel just a little bit uncomfortable.”

  “Can you remember the time?”

  “Oh, I’m going to guess it was coming up on eight thirty, give or take. The last person I know for sure who saw me would have been Molly Sylvester, the head usher. She was getting into her car as I was coming out of the building. I waved. She waved back.”

  Wallace scribbled the name and the time in her notebook.

  “Give me just a moment,” she said when she felt her phone vibrate. It was Burley. “I have to take this.” She stood and walked along the concrete apron surrounding the pool until she was about fifty feet from Glenn.

  “We’re just finishing up at Pitkin’s house,” Burley said as soon as she answered.

  “How did it go?”

  “Like a goddamn circus. But if we bagged something useful, it’ll be worth it. I see you called earlier. You checking up on us, or did you find something?”

  “A few things, actually. First, the lake house does indeed have attic-access ceiling panels.”

  “Shit.”

  “One in the laundry room, inside, and one in the storeroom, outside. Neither is wired to the security system, and the attic is full of blown insulation.”

  “Damn, Wallace. That’s a fine piece of work.”

  “We don’t know if Eddie actually made use of it.”

  “Still, you did good.”

  “I should have thought of it the first time I went out there. Sorry.”

  “Don’t say that. Ride the high as long as you can. There will be plenty of opportunities for this case to mess with your head. I can guarantee it.”

  “That’s already happened.” She told him about Peter Ecclestone.

  “Let me get this straight. You found possible confirmation of the alibi and a way for Pitkin to beat the alibi.”

  She blew out a long breath. “Looks bad, doesn’t it?”

  “If we find insulation fibers in the stuff we took from his house today, it’s going to look like a date with destiny for Eddie Pitkin.” Burley went quiet for several seconds.

  “But if we don’t, and if this alibi witness bears out, then Eddie Pitkin starts looking like an innocent man.”

  “He starts looking like a successful plaintiff in a lawsuit against the city for violating his civil rights by arresting him when we should’ve waited until we had a better handle on the facts.” Burley went quiet again. “Fuck. Why can’t anything be simple anymore?”

  “Jason, don’t lose heart. We’re not exactly back to square one.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In the middle of interviewing Glenn Marioneaux. I’m at his house, which is the approximate size o
f the Taj Mahal.”

  “And how’s that going?”

  “My initial reason for wanting to question him was to see if he could point us toward a suspect or a motive. But, with the possibility of a tight alibi for Eddie, the finger of suspicion starts to point at everybody, again, so I’m shaking his tree a bit.”

  Over the phone, Wallace could hear LeAnne’s voice in the background, demanding Burley’s attention.

  “Before we hang up, there’s one more thing.” She looked over at Glenn, who was hunched forward, elbows on his knees. His head hung low and one foot tapped rhythmically against the patio.

  “Hold that thought,” Burley said. “What’s the status of this Ecclestone fellow? We need to set up a time for him to come in and make a statement.”

  “Between seven and seven thirty tonight. But I want you and LeAnne to be there, and I’ll want it on camera as well as on steno.”

  “We’ll be there. I’ll have somebody set everything up.” He sighed. “So what was the other thing you had?”

  She explained about the church videos and asked Burley to send LeAnne to get copies.

  Glenn followed her with his eyes as she walked back to her chair.

  “So, tell me, Mr. Marioneaux. Why do you think this might have happened to your father?” She resumed her seat by the little table.

  “Am I no longer under suspicion?”

  “For the moment.” She smiled.

  “So, are you asking me why I think Pitkin did this?”

  “No one has been convicted, yet. If you want to focus on Eddie Pitkin, that’s fine. But I’m really just interested in any reasons you can think of that anyone might have done this.”

  “Most of what I know about Pitkin I’ve read in the papers. This reparations crusade he’s got going on, where he uses DNA testing to find family ties between the descendants of white slave owners and the descendants of their former slaves, and then tries to get the white folks to cough up some cash like it’s part of the inheritance his people never got … seems like stirring up a lot of anger and resentment, if you ask me.”