by David Archer
“Good point. You know, we should’ve thought of that.”
“Yeah, we should’ve. Anyway, I stopped by to talk to Marcy to see how many people might have heard her mention me that day, and I guess there were an awful lot of folks. According to her and Detective Moore, letting Marcy know something is like taking out a billboard ad. Whatever Marcy knows, the whole town knows.”
Indie chuckled at him. “Sounds like your mother,” she said. “I love her, but she couldn’t keep a secret to save her life.”
Sam grinned. “That’s very true. So, after that I went back to Millie’s house to see if I might spot someone watching it. I went inside and kind of hid, just so I could see out the main front window, but nobody showed themselves. I was coming out when I lost my balance—stupid hip of mine, you know—and leaned against the chair Ross had sat in when he found his mother dead, and noticed something strange. It’s got like some kind of pine oil all over it, like somebody sprayed it down with the stuff a long time ago. It isn’t wet, exactly, but it’s sort of greasy if you know what I mean.”
“Wow, that’s weird. What about the other chair, was it sprayed down as well?”
“Not that I could tell. Anyway, I stood there and thought about that for a few seconds and then went to leave, and that’s when somebody fired a shot through the window at me.”
“They did what?” Indie shrieked. “Sam, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said. “It’s sort of nicked me on the side of my left arm, but that was all. I ducked down and waited for another shot to come, but it never did, so I called Moore and he sent a deputy who was close by. I guess the sirens scared off the shooter, but Moore and the sheriff showed up a few minutes later with an ambulance, and the paramedics patched up my arm. Tore hell out of the sleeve on one of my favorite shirts, though.”
“Oh, Sam,” Indie said. “Shirts can be replaced—you can’t. God, I don’t know what I’d do if anything actually happened to you.”
“Well, don’t start planning for it yet,” Sam said, forcing humor into his voice. “I’m not ready to let this scumbag take me out. Hey, I got something I want you to look into.”
“Nice segue,” she said sarcastically. “I know you’re just trying to change the subject. Okay, what is it?”
“The lab that was examining that had called while we were there, and there are a couple of interesting things about it. First, the blood on it is pretty old, so it very well could be the hat Ross saw. Second, I don’t know if I mentioned it before, but there were a couple of hairs inside it. They turned out to be fake, from a wig of some sort. But third, and this is the one that piqued my interest, they found a tag inside the hat that let them identify the manufacturer. This particular hat was only made for a certain company, one of those door-to-door cosmetic sales outfits. The name of the company was Olde Naturelle, with an e-l-l-e on the end, and they went out of business somewhere around fifteen years ago. Do you think Herman could find any way to identify who their sales agents in this area might have been?”
“Fifteen years? That might be asking a lot of him, but I’ll give it a try. Are you on the way back here?”
“I’m headed toward Benton,” Sam said, “but I think there’s one more stop I want to make before I call it a day. Call me if you find anything, or else I’ll see you in an hour or so.”
“Okay. Just don’t get yourself shot at anymore, okay? I really hate it when you get shot at.”
“Yeah, well I’d rather be shot at and missed than shot and hit. Talk to you in a bit, babe. Love you.”
“I love you more,” Indie said, and then the line went dead.
It took Sam another fourteen minutes to get to the west side of Benton, where the police department was located. He turned left onto South Pope Street and then made a right into the parking lot.
He glanced down at his sleeve again and considered how it looked, then reached into the back seat to grab the light jacket he had tossed there earlier in the afternoon. He slipped it on and then got out of the truck and walked into the police station.
The dispatcher, a young man, was sitting just inside, and Sam asked if the chief might be in.
“Yes, sir,” the dispatcher said. “Is he expecting you?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he is,” Sam said. “My name is Sam Prichard.”
The young man, who was wearing a name tag that said Jarvis, picked up a phone and pushed the button. “Chief? There’s a Sam Prichard here to talk to you.” He listened for a second, then hung up and pointed down the hallway. “Third door on the left,” he said, and then he seemed to dismiss Sam from his awareness.
Sam went down the hall, leaning on his cane, and tapped on the glass in the door. He heard Weimer call out for him to enter and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He sat down in a chair in front of Weimer’s desk without being invited.
“Prichard,” Weimer said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” There didn’t seem to be any pleasure in his voice.
“I just wanted to share some new information with you,” Sam said. “Dr. Havelock, the forensic pathologist, says he is almost certain that Daisy Willis was killed by the same person who killed Millie Cameron eight years ago. With that, and with the backing of the sheriff’s office, I’m going to be hiring an attorney to file a motion to vacate Ross’s conviction and expunge it from his record.”
Weimer sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with his hands folded over his stomach, and simply looked at Sam. When he said nothing for almost a minute, Sam started to rise.
“Sit down, sit down,” Weimer said. “Listen, I know you think I bungled the case…”
Sam dropped back into his chair and leaned toward the police chief. “No, sir,” he said. “I am absolutely certain you bungled the case back then. You didn’t care about the truth; all you cared about was an easy solution and a quick conviction. I’ve known cops like you for years, and all you ever care about is building your own reputation. Well, the fact that you lost the election for sheriff tells me that you haven’t fooled everyone around here, but I can’t imagine why the city ever agreed to hire you as their chief of police. Weimer, you bullied a man of limited mental capacity into confessing to a crime he did not commit. I don’t care how you try to justify it—that is the fact.” Sam took a moment to get himself under control, because he could feel the anger rising and trying to leap out of him.
Weimer seized upon the break. “Who the hell do you think you are, Prichard? You come in here and start making noises about how we didn’t do our jobs right, and act like you’re some kind of hero. Well, I don’t care what your pathologist says, I know damn well I arrested the right man for that crime. I…”
“You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” Sam asked incredulously. “Weimer, I was shot at forty-five minutes ago by someone who doesn’t want me digging into this case. Now, can you imagine anyone other than the actual killer who would really care whether I clear Ross’s name or not?”
Weimer glared at him but said nothing.
“So, here’s how it’s going to go. I’m going to retain an attorney and get this motion filed. What you’re going to do is testify during the hearing that you’ve come to believe that new evidence indicates the wrong man was implicated in this crime. And before you insist that you’re not going to do that, let me ask you how you’re going to feel when I turn the whole story over to Rob Girardi. Something tells me he’d love to get a story like that about you, but I’m wondering how the people of this town would take knowing their police chief would stoop to such underhanded tactics just to make a name for himself. I’m wondering how long it would be before somebody started asking questions about more recent cases, and if there’s one thing I know about cops like you, it’s that this sort of thing becomes a pattern. Ross won’t be the only one you bullied or coerced into a confession, and if people start asking the right questions, sooner or later the answers are going to come out. I can’t help wondering how long you’d ke
ep your job if those questions start being asked. Care to guess?”
Weimer continued to glare but still sat there in stony silence. Sam rose again and walked out of his office, leaving the door open on his way. He was halfway back to the door when he heard Weimer call his name, and forced himself to turn around and go back to the doorway.
“What?”
Weimer looked at him for a moment, but there was something in his gaze that seemed softer. “Pathologist really said he thinks it’s the same killer?”
Sam nodded. “He did. He said he would state on record that he is ninety percent certain of it.”
Weimer motioned for him to step back inside and shut the door, and Sam complied. He settled back into the same chair and looked at the police chief, who seemed to be wrestling with himself over something.
“You’re right,” Weimer said at last, his eyes on his desk. “I just wanted a quick and easy solution, and I convinced myself that the son did it. I didn’t even bother to look for any other explanation.” He raised his eyes to meet Sam’s. “But that’s not the kind of cop I wanted to be. To be honest, I’ve always known that case was going to blow up in my face sooner or later, but the truth is that it always made me dig deeper to find out what really happened in cases after that one. I mean, every cop has cases that he’s not a hundred percent certain about, and I’ll admit I’ve got a few of those, but I really wanted to be the kind of cop that made a difference.”
Sam relaxed his jaw a bit, taking some of the sternness out of his expression. “It’s not too late,” he said. “Stand up for Ross on this, and let yourself learn from it. If you got other cases you think you should own up about, then do so.” He leaned forward, resting his hands on his cane. “You testify for Ross, and I’ll forget about that reporter. Deal?”
Weimer gave him a reluctant grin. “Deal,” he said. “But you’re right, there are a few other cases I need to go back over. Maybe it’s not too late to help somebody else get their life back on track. I hope Mr. Cameron can.”
Weimer stood and reached out a hand, and Sam got to his feet and shook with him. When he turned and walked out this time, it was with a little less weight on his shoulders.
16
The motel was only a few blocks away, so Sam was back within a matter of minutes. He walked into the room and was immediately attacked by Kenzie, who threw both arms around his neck and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Daddy,” she said, “Mommy said you got shot again.”
“Not really,” Sam said, rolling his eyes at Indie. “I really only got a scratch on my arm. It stings a little bit, but I’m okay.”
Sufficiently reassured, the little girl gave him another hug and kiss, then kicked to be put down. Sam tossed her gently onto one of the beds and sat down in the chair at the table beside his wife.
“So,” Indie said, but then she looked at him and sort of deflated, shrugging her shoulders. “Look, she overheard me getting frantic and wanted to know why. We always agreed that we won’t lie to her, so I told her the truth. Okay?”
Sam leaned forward and gave her a kiss. “Okay,” he said. “Now, what was the ‘so’ about?”
“It’s about Olde Naturelle. The company didn’t actually go out of business; it was taken over by one of its creditors because it couldn’t pay its debts. The new management changed the name and shut down all the direct sales stuff, but they don’t have any of those old records anymore.” She frowned and shrugged. “I tried, babe.”
Sam frowned. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said. “That hat very likely belonged to one of their agents from around here. If we could have gotten a list of them, we might have found a lead on our killer.”
Indie nodded. “I saw a picture of the hat online, and it’s actually kinda cute. Not something somebody my age would wear, but I can imagine some of the ladies who used to sell those cosmetics might still like the way it looked. Have you thought about running a picture of it in the newspaper? Maybe somebody around here would remember a woman who continued to wear it after the company went out of business.”
Sam’s eyes opened wide. “No, but that’s an excellent idea,” he said. “I just need to run it by Detective Moore first.”
He took out his phone and punched Moore’s number. The detective answered on the second ring.
“Sam? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, but remember I said I was going to have my wife check on the company that was connected to those hats? Well, she found out they didn’t actually go out of business, they just got taken over by somebody else and stopped using salespeople. Unfortunately, they don’t have any of the old records from that time, but my wife came up with an idea. What if I were to run something in the newspaper, like an ad, asking people if they know anyone who used to wear one of those hats? It might give us a lead, don’t you think?”
Moore seemed to think about it for a moment, then said, “That’s actually a pretty sharp idea. And it might be smart to run it that way, rather than putting it in a news story. That way, we might not give away the fact that we have that particular hat.”
“All right,” Sam said, “then I’m going to do it. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”
He ended the call, looked at the time in the lower right of the computer’s screen, then googled the number for the local paper. It came up instantly, and he hit the button to place the call, putting the phone on speaker.
“Benton Evening News,” the receptionist answered. “How may I direct your call?”
“Display advertising, please,” Sam replied.
“One moment.” Sam listened to some mild country music for a moment, and then another voice came on the line.
“This is Jennifer Daley in Display,” said a young woman. “How can I help you today?”
“Hi, Jennifer,” Sam said. “I’m calling about placing an ad in your newspaper. I want to put in a photograph of a hat and see if anyone might remember someone who might have worn it about eight or ten years ago.”
“Really? Wow, never had anything like that before. Can I ask why?”
“My name is Sam Prichard, and I’m a private investigator looking into an old murder case. This particular hat was worn by the person we believe is responsible for the murder, as well as the one that happened in Thompsonville over the weekend. I’m hoping that someone might recognize the hat and give us an idea of who it might have belonged to.”
“Oh, my gosh,” Jennifer said, “that was so awful. I didn’t know the lady who died Saturday personally, but my sister did. She lives over there.”
“I’m sorry. Were they friends?”
“I don’t know if they were really friends, but she said she knew her pretty well.” Jennifer was quiet for a moment, then said, “Listen, sir, I think maybe you’ve got the wrong department. Can you hold for just a moment?”
Sam sighed but agreed. He knew what was coming and had hoped to avoid it, but it was probably too late now.
The music ended again, and a man’s voice came on. “Mr. Prichard? This is Rob Girardi, we met yesterday. Jenny said something about you wanting to run a picture of a hat in the paper?”
“Yes, Rob. There was a hat that was discovered in the home of Millie Cameron, and it seems to be the same one Ross Cameron says he saw someone drop in the woods behind the house the day his mother was killed. There’s a pretty good chance that the killer wore that hat and tossed it away because it had Millie’s blood on it at the time. The crime lab has examined it and says the bloodstains are definitely old, so I’m trying to think of a way to ask the public if they might remember who the hat may have belonged to back then. I had thought of running it as a display ad with the question, because I’m not ready to release a lot of information about the case just yet.”
“Hmm,” Girardi said. “Is there something special about this hat? I mean, it’s apparently not your average, run-of-the-mill derby hat, right?”
“No, as it happens, this hat was only available to people who worked for a particular
company that went out of business sometime back. What we’re thinking is that the killer might have worked with that company at one time, and simply continued wearing the hat because she liked it.”
“She? You think the killer is a woman?” Girardi didn’t miss much, Sam realized.
“It’s a definite possibility, yes.”
“This hat, I’m guessing this is the new evidence that Johnny was talking about?”
“Yes, but again, I’m trying not to give away too much information at this time. I’d really like to just run this as an ad, like maybe I’m just trying to track down someone I knew a long time ago, that sort of thing.”
There was a sucking sound that came through the phone, as if Girardi were sucking on his bottom lip. “I’ll tell you what,” he said after a moment. “I’ll help you set up the ad and we’ll run it, but I’m hoping you’ll call me first when you’re ready to go public with this information. Would that work?”
“You got a deal,” Sam said.
“Okay, cool. What do you want the ad to say?”
“Well, I need an email address so I can send you a picture of the hat. Then let’s put this with it: Reward for information about a woman in this area who once wore a hat like this one. Call 303-555-7968.”
“Oh, no,” Girardi said. “If you want to get a response from this, you’ve got to make it more appealing. How about this? ‘Did you wear a hat like this a few years ago? You came to my door and our eyes met, and I have always wished I had gotten your name and gotten to know you. There was some kind of electricity, and I know you felt it, too. If that was you, or if you know who it might have been, please call 303-555-7968. Perhaps it’s not too late for us to connect.’ There, that’ll do it.”