Scott Pratt - [Joe Dillard 02]

by In Good Faith (mobi)

  “Is she the girl who was in the room with them the night they were arrested? The one you had to let go?”

  “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “The same girl who was on television barking at you like a little dog?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was priceless,” Dunn chimed in. “You should have seen the look on your face when you turned around towards the camera. You were white as a sheet, looked like you were about to pee your pants.”

  “So anyway, I think she ordered the murders,” I said. “Maybe even participated. We have some circumstantial evidence that leads us in that direction. And now Boyer wants to tell us what happened.”

  “What kind of circumstantial evidence?” Mooney said.

  “The first witness we talked to turned out to be Natasha’s identical twin sister. She’s the one who put us onto them in the first place. Then Natasha turns up in the motel room when we go to arrest Boyer and Barnett. But the most compelling thing is the carvings in two of the victims’ foreheads.”

  Mooney had seen both Bjorn Beck and Norman Brockwell up close, and he certainly was aware of the carvings. But the only involvement he’d had in the case was to visit the crime scenes and assign the investigation to the TBI. I’d tried to discuss a couple of things with him early on, but he put me off both times, telling me to “handle it any way you see fit.” He’d barely mentioned the case since the night I argued against forming a task force. He hadn’t looked at the file, and was blissfully unaware of most of the facts and the evidence. All he knew about the case was what I’d told him, and if anyone else asked him about it, he simply referred them to me.

  There was a legal pad sitting just to his right, and I stood up and slid it over in front of him. I told him to write down, “ah Satan.” He did so, and said it out loud.

  “That’s what was carved into Bjorn Beck’s and Norman Brockwell’s forehead,” I said. “It’s the same thing the boys were chanting in court, and they were looking at Natasha Davis while they were chanting. Now write it backwards.”

  I glanced over at Dunn, who had slid forward in his chair so he could see what Mooney was doing. His hair was combed straight back and plastered to his head, and he smelled of cologne and cigar smoke. Mooney finished writing and looked up at me.

  “Natasha,” he said.

  “I know she was involved. I just can’t prove it yet.”

  “You can’t convict her solely on the uncorroborated testimony of a codefendant,” he said.

  “I know, but we don’t need much. The fact that she was with them when they were arrested and the carvings in the foreheads may be enough. Besides, if Boyer opens up, I’m betting we’ll find more.”

  “And Boyer wants a break in exchange for information that will convict her?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How much of a break?”

  “Beaumont asked for twenty-five years, eligible for parole in eight. I didn’t agree to it, but I was thinking somewhere along the lines of twenty-five years day-for-day might not be out of the question. But it’s up to you, Lee. I remember standing at the scene where the Becks were killed and you said no deals.”

  He leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk in front of him. He looked at Alexander for a long moment, then turned to me.

  “I hired you because I trust your judgment,” he said. “I want you to handle this case your way. If you think making a deal with Boyer will help you get another murderer off the street, and if making a deal is the only way, then do what you have to do. I’m going to leave it all up to you.”

  I stood up. “Thank you, Lee,” I said. “I appreciate your confidence. I trust everything that was said in this room today will stay in this room.” I glanced sideways at Alexander, who immediately turned and looked at the wall.

  “Absolutely,” Mooney said.

  I walked out of his office and back down the hall knowing that I’d just been set up. I’d seen it before with other prosecutors and their assistants. Lee’s decision to let me have free rein on the case had nothing to do with his having confidence in me. It had everything to do with accountability. He’d turned the case over to his trusty assistant, an experienced trial lawyer who he believed was perfectly capable of handling anything that came his way, and he’d instructed him to handle the case “your way.” He even had a witness.

  If something went wrong, he was off the hook.

  I, on the other hand, would be left twisting in the wind, like an outlaw at the end of the hangman’s noose.

  Saturday, November 1

  Saturday evening reminded me of why I enjoyed being away from the cruelty and ugliness that made up the criminal justice system. Lilly had come home for the weekend, and Jack called just to check in around six o’clock. Caroline felt well enough to cook steaks on the grill. After the three of us ate supper and cleaned up, I grabbed a couple of beers and sat on the back deck and watched the stars twinkle in the vast black sky. Around eight, Caroline, Lilly, and I curled up on the couch and watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It was so good to hear Caroline laugh, and Lilly even provided a bit of vaudeville when she tripped over Rio and tossed a bag of popcorn all over the den.

  Just as I was starting to think the world wasn’t such a bad place after all, the phone rang. It was Sarah.

  “I just wanted you to know that I’m going back to Crossville tomorrow,” she said. “Robert and I are going to give it another try.”

  I was dumbfounded. Sarah had always been unpredictable and headstrong, but I couldn’t imagine that she would put herself back into an abusive situation.

  “Are you crazy?” I said. “Are you ill? Are you back on the sauce?”

  “Don’t start on me, Joe. I’m a grown-up. I can handle it.”

  “He beat the hell out of you, Sarah!”

  “Don’t yell at me!”

  I knew from years of experience that shouting wouldn’t work. The more I shouted, the more she’d shout, and the chances of reasoning with her would steadily melt away. I tried to think of a way to convince her that she was making a terrible mistake, but in the back of my mind, I knew it was futile.

  “Sarah, please. It hasn’t even been a week.You haven’t even healed yet, for God’s sake.”

  “We talked on the phone for a long time yesterday,” she said. “He’s sorry, Joe. He’s really sorry. He broke down and cried like a baby.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Why don’t you at least give it a month or so? Let yourself try to get past this.”

  “I don’t want to give it a month. I want to go back and try to make it work. We’re going to go to counseling.”

  “Counseling? What kind of counseling? A karate class?”

  “Stop being so cynical,” she said. “He’s really a good man.”

  “No, he isn’t. Good men do not beat on women. Period.”

  “He just has some problems. Surely you, of all people, can sympathize with that.”

  “No, I can’t sympathize with it. He’s a bully. He takes his rage out on people who can’t defend themselves.”

  “The pot calling the kettle black,” she said.

  Here we go. The classic warped Sarah logic. She’s worse than a goddamn judge.

  “What do you mean? I did what I did because he deserved it. And he’s bigger than I am.”

  “He said you didn’t give him a chance.”

  “And what about you? Did he give you a chance?”

  “He’s willing to give me another chance, in spite of what you did.”

  “So now you’re blaming me? This is absolutely unbelievable.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come down there. I could have handled it just fine myself.”

  “What were you going to do, Sarah? Bleed on him?”

  “I’m not going to argue with you anymore,” she said. “I just called because I felt like I owed you the courtesy of telling you I’m moving back.”

  “Sarah, he’s going to do it again. When he does, don’t call me.
”

  I hung up on her, frustrated and angry. Caroline, who’d heard the shouting, walked up behind me and started rubbing my neck.

  “She’s going back,” I said quietly.

  “I know,” Caroline said. “I heard.”

  “What’s wrong with her? I just don’t understand how she could do something so foolish.”

  “She still hasn’t gotten over the rape. She thinks she deserves abuse. If she’s not doing it herself, she finds someone to do it for her.”

  “Something bad’s going to happen,” I said.

  I turned to her and she kissed me on the cheek. “And if it does, you’ll be right there for her, just like you’ve always been. C’mon, let’s get some sleep.”

  Sunday, November 2

  I opened my eyes Sunday morning to streaks of silver light shining in from behind the blinds in our bedroom. I threw my legs over the side of the bed, reached up, and pulled back the blinds. Massive gray clouds that looked like buffalo humps were receding to the west, replaced by an azure sky brightened by the sun in the east. As I sat there looking out the window, I suddenly felt like something wasn’t quite right, but then I realized what it was: Rio greeted me every morning as soon as my feet hit the floor. He’d lay his snout across my thighs, look up at me with those expressive brown eyes, and wait for me to scratch his ears. He’d spent the night at the veterinarian’s after being neutered the day before. I hated to do it to him, but as he grew older, he was becoming more aggressive. We kept him in the house most of the time, but anyone who came to the door was greeted by a snarling, ninety-pound missile just itching to launch itself. He calmed quickly and had never bitten anyone, but I’d also received a couple of complaints from people who happened to walk or jog by the house when he was outside. He apparently guarded the edge of the property with the same zeal that he guarded the house. I hoped the neutering would calm him down.

  I stood and looked at Caroline, who was sleeping peacefully. She’d lost all of her hair—even her eyebrows were gone—but I’d already grown used to it. As the sunlight illuminated her face, I thought to myself again how beautiful she was. I’d tried to tell her, but she scoffed at the compliments, referring to herself as “onion head.”

  She’d done amazingly well. By scheduling her chemotherapy treatments on Fridays, she was able to endure the sickness she experienced immediately afterwards on the weekends and get back to her beloved dancing classes on Mondays. She wore a wig to the dancing school that almost, but not quite, matched the color of her hair. I’d suggested that she didn’t need to wear the wig, but she said she was afraid her baldness would frighten the younger students, and I knew she was right. When she was around the house, she usually wore a knitted cap of some kind. She complained of pain in her bones, slept late most days, and had to take a nap in the afternoons, but she’d managed to keep her sense of humor and a positive outlook.

  I put on my robe and walked into the kitchen clenching and unclenching my right hand. The knuckles were still swollen and discolored from my trip to see Robert Godsey. I thought about Sarah and shook my head.

  I made a pot of coffee and wandered outside to get the newspaper. A slight breeze was blowing out of the southwest, and I could hear the gentle rustle of the brittle leaves that remained on the trees in the woods across the street. I retrieved the newspaper, walked back down the driveway into the house, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the kitchen table to read.

  The headline, above the fold on the front page, said:

  Prosecutor Seeks Deal; Shocking New Details

  in Multiple Murders

  The story was written by Misty Bell. As I read, I felt the anger rising in my throat.

  The Johnson City Banner has learned that recently hired Assistant District Attorney Joe Dillard is seeking to make a deal with one of the suspects in six recent murders. Sources close to the investigation confirmed yesterday that Dillard is willing to offer Samuel Boyer, nineteen, a twenty-five-year sentence in exchange for information that will lead to the arrest and conviction of an unidentified third party that law enforcement officials believe was involved in the murders.

  And in a shocking, previously unreported discovery, the Banner has learned that the phrase “ah Satan” was carved into the foreheads of two of the victims… .

  I threw the paper down on the table in disgust. Jim Beaumont, Lee Mooney, Alexander Dunn, and I were the only people who knew of Beaumont’s offer and my discussion with Lee Mooney. Beaumont had no incentive to leak it to the newspaper; nor did Mooney. I knew I hadn’t done it, so that left only Dunn.

  “That son of a bitch,” I muttered. “That slimy little son of a bitch.”

  I wondered whether Natasha Davis had seen the story, and if so, what her reaction would be. Would she run? Try to get to Boyer? Clean up any mess that might still be lingering?

  “I’m going to strangle him,” I said out loud. “I’m going to crush his windpipe with my bare hands.”

  A blond head peaked around the corner near the refrigerator. It was Lilly, who’d been coming home from school every weekend since Caroline’s diagnosis. The director of the dance team had graciously agreed to let her take some time off, and although I’d tried to talk her out of it at first, I was glad to have her home. She stepped around the corner wearing an oversize, bright orange University of Tennessee T-shirt that hung almost to her knees, her long hair rumpled from sleep.

  “Who are you going to strangle?” she said.

  “Sorry, honey; I didn’t know you were there.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. Let me fix you some breakfast. Are you up for a run this morning? It’s beautiful outside.”

  “Are we racing?” I saw the competitive glint in her eyes. She’d been running seriously for several years, since she turned thirteen, and she’d been dancing her entire life. She was in great shape, but this was the first time she’d ever asked me to race.

  “Do you want to race?” I said.

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “On how mad you’ll get when I beat you.”

  “Care to put your money where your mouth is?” I said.

  “How much?”

  “Five bucks.”

  “Deal. How far are we racing?” Lilly asked.

  “Up to you.”

  “Three miles. How much of a head start do I get?”

  “Who said anything about a head start?”

  “C’mon, you’re a man, Dad. And a jock. You’ve been running your whole life.”

  “I’ll give you one minute.”

  “Five.”

  “Three.”

  “Okay. Three.”

  “We run to the oak on the bluff and back. That’s three miles, right?”

  “Right.”

  Thirty minutes later, Lilly and I were standing on a ten-foot-wide trail that ran along the northern bank of the Watauga River, also known as Boone Lake. The trail was developed for recreation by the Tennessee Valley Authority and wound for five miles through a wooded area on property owned by the TVA. It was only a couple of hundred yards from our house, so we’d both run the trail a thousand times. As we stood there stretching, she reminded me so much of her mother—beautiful, strong, and intelligent. I wondered briefly where she’d be in five years, ten years. I hoped she didn’t stray too far.

  It was perfect on the trail. No one was around, the breeze was still blowing, and the temperature was climbing along with the sun. I put my finger on the stopwatch on my wrist.

  “Ready?” I said.

  “I apologize in advance for the embarrassment I’m going to cause you,” Lilly said.

  “Five … four … three … two … one … Go!”

  Lilly took off, and I pushed the button on the watch. I stretched some more and bounced around, watching her disappear around the first bend as I waited for three minutes to elapse. Two minutes into my wait, I heard what sounded like an animal growling, followed by a pie
rcing scream. It was a woman’s voice, not that far away, coming from the direction Lilly ran. I listened intently.

  Lilly?Was that Lilly?

  The woman screamed again, and I heard another sound. A bear? A dog? Coyote? I took off down the trail as fast as my legs would carry me. I heard it again, but this time the voice was screaming for me: “Dad! Help me! Dad!”

  I rounded the first bend and headed up a small rise, my lungs already burning. As I topped the rise, I caught a glimpse of her. She was on the ground, about a hundred yards in front of me, just to the right of the trail. She was screaming and crying and poking at something with a stick.

  “Lilly!” I yelled. “I’m coming! Hang on!”

  “It’s trying to kill me!” she screamed.

  As I closed in on her, I saw the dog. It was a Doberman. And then I saw the blood on Lilly’s face. Her jacket was ripped and her exposed shoulder was bloody. She was swinging a small tree limb in her right hand, desperately trying to keep the dog at bay. I kept running and started looking for a weapon.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “Here! Here! Come get me!” The protective parental instinct had taken over. I wasn’t thinking about anything but getting the dog away from my daughter. Even without a weapon, I headed straight for it with absolutely no idea what I’d do when I got there. Kick it, I told myself, punch it, pick it up and smash it against a goddamned tree if you have to.

  The dog moved towards Lilly. Thirty yards. She swung the stick she was holding and the Doberman yelped and backed off a little. About fifteen yards short of Lilly, I spotted a thick branch beneath a white oak. I grabbed it up, still running. Then I was between Lilly and the dog. Lilly was crawling backwards, crying. The dog lowered its head and snarled; its canines looked like white spears.

  The dog lunged and I brought the tree limb down hard on the top of its head. The oak limb was a perfect club, between three and four feet long and hard as steel. My hands buzzed from the shock as the blow drove the dog’s snout into the dirt beside the trail, stunning it. It snarled again and tried to get up, but then staggered forward and collapsed. I looked at the dog for a brief second, and then I turned and looked at my daughter, who was cowering near a bush. She was covered in blood. I turned back and raised the limb. Brought it down hard. Again. And again. The dog’s head became a bloody mass of hair and brain matter. I dropped the club and rushed to Lilly.