18 Seconds

by George D. Shuman

  There were love letters, always lots of love letters, some poignant, some lewd; she had even received a request years ago to pose topless for a men’s magazine.

  When they were finished, she asked Brigham to go back and read the letter from the fourth-grade teacher.

  It was about a nine-year-old boy named Joshua Bates who had fallen to his death in the Blue Ridge Mountains near Luray. A clipped newspaper article stated that he had wandered off on the mountain while his father was cutting wood. A search the following day found the boy at the bottom of the Hughes River Gap. He had apparently walked off the edge of the cliff in the darkness.

  The envelope contained a photo of a young boy with big brown eyes taken in a school auditorium—most people didn’t know that Sherry was blind, and sent her pictures.

  “May I hold it?” she asked.

  Brigham handed her the envelope and went through the other documents. Sherry liked to touch things.

  “Here’s another clipping,” he said.

  “Go on,” she encouraged, rubbing the picture between her thumb and forefinger.

  Brigham murmured under his breath for a minute, then began: “‘Busloads of volunteers from Staunton arrived in Luray Tuesday morning, focusing on the area east of the Gap. Volunteers were called off just after one o’clock when it was announced a body had been found on the riverbed. Officials declined to comment, but one volunteer called it a tragic accident. An autopsy will be held in Harrisonburg following the weekend.’”

  There was a handwritten letter from the boy’s schoolteacher, a Mrs. Gretta Mitchell, who wrote that she had been documenting complaints to the Virginia Child Protective Services about signs of child abuse by the boy’s father. She said she had both seen the injuries and talked to the boy about them, and had warned the state repeatedly that the child was in danger. Now that he’d died, they were calling it an accident, and she was incensed that no one was going to speak up for the child. She said that she’d read about Sherry’s work and hoped she would help police put this boy’s murderer in jail. She ended by asking her to please contact the Page County sheriff.

  “So what do you think?” Sherry asked.

  “Well, I guess if I was just itching to go off and do something, it might be this,” he said. “It’s certainly a compelling story, but I’m not sure the locals are going to see it the same way.”

  Sherry knew that was all too true. Cops, especially small-town cops, weren’t generally receptive to outsiders meddling in their business. On occasion she’d been turned around at the airport.

  “Call the airlines,” she said. “Maybe there won’t be any seats.”

  She went to the kitchen to fix them a decaf, and when she returned, he told her she’d better get her things together.

  “It leaves godawful early.”

  SUNDAY, MAY 8

  Sherry flew a turboprop from Philadelphia into Harrisonburg, landing just before nine. She tried to reach the schoolteacher at home, but there was no answer.

  Next she called the Page County sheriff’s office and reached a Sheriff Ringold, who told her the case was considered active until their coroner ruled next Monday. That meant the body was still considered evidence and that no one was getting near it until that time. Not even a relative, he said.

  She was sure that after a long fall on the rocks there would be a closed casket after the body was released to the funeral home, if in fact the boy’s father didn’t have him cremated. Petitioning the father would be unproductive if there was any truth to the teacher’s story.

  “Could you at least try to reach Mrs. Mitchell and tell her I’m here? That I’m coming up to Luray and would like to meet with her.” Maybe that would loosen things up, she thought. It was a small town. Maybe the teacher had some influence with the sheriff. She left him her cell phone number and told him she would try to arrange transportation to Luray.

  Ringold advised her not to waste her money.

  Twenty minutes later she was sitting on the cold backseat of a large rattling car that she could only further describe as smelling like an ashtray. The driver had a hacking cough and the worst case of body odor she could ever recall in her life. But for fifty dollars plus gas, he agreed to take her where she needed to go and see that she got in and out of buildings with assistance.

  Twenty-five miles and forty minutes later she was sitting in the office of the Page County sheriff, listening to a gum-smacking receptionist blather about a weekend romp in the Poconos.

  Sheriff Ringold let her sit for fifteen minutes, then came out to meet her. If he was at all taken aback by her lack of sight, his voice didn’t betray it, which meant that he had probably used the last hour researching who she was.

  “Bill Ringold,” he said, taking her elbow and leading her into his office. It was a decidedly warmer room smelling of copy paper and gun oil. He closed the door.

  “Miss Moore,” he began, “I am an elected official of the county, which means my legal responsibilities are to the constituents of the county. That includes the boy’s father, Custer Bates. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t come here to interfere with your investigation, Sheriff. I came here at the request of one of your constituents who indicated doubt as to the father’s innocence. The news article sent to me stated the autopsy was scheduled for next week. I thought if I came right away I might have a chance to see the boy before he was sent to Harrisonburg. That’s all.”

  “I made a call to Gretta Mitchell, Miss Moore,” the sheriff said. “Gretta is a good woman, a very good woman. She takes her job seriously.”

  The sheriff’s words came out one at a time, ponderous and heavy with emphasis.

  “But she doesn’t sit in this seat and she doesn’t have to take responsibility for my actions. A body is evidence until the coroner releases it, which means there is a chain of custody, just like there is a chain of custody with any other kind of evidence. When a policeman starts putting evidence on public display, he violates that chain, and when he involves other people, he’s putting a lot of careers in jeopardy.”

  “What I am asking to do is no more intrusive than holding the boy’s hand, Sheriff. Everyone who helped bring that boy off the mountain handled him.” Then she raised her hand and sighed. “You know you’re right, Sheriff. It was a hasty decision on my part. I usually don’t come into things this way. It was Mrs. Mitchell’s letter and there was little time.”

  She heard his chair slide back and his boots on the tile floor. He had come around to her side of the desk and sat on the corner directly in front of her.

  “I also made a call to a friend in the Pennsylvania State Police this morning,” he said. “We went to the FBI Academy in Quantico together. He made some calls in turn and told me there’s a couple of major crime detectives and a U.S. Attorney up there in Philadelphia who think you’re the cat’s meow.”

  Sherry looked straight ahead.

  “I never liked Custer Bates. He’s a drunk, and he’s a mean one at that. And he never was no kind of father to that boy. Everyone here knows that. Why the state didn’t take that boy was beyond our understanding, but that’s just the way things are sometimes.” He stood. “Now we are going to take a ride in my car to Page Memorial Hospital and I’m going to give you a tour of a three-body morgue in the basement because your distant cousin Jeanette Granville is down there. Jeanette died of kidney failure yesterday morning and is going to be cremated at the behest of blood relatives living in California. When I leave you for a moment to visit with her, you will find a body on the table in front of you, though it will not be Mrs. Granville’s. Ten minutes later I will return and drive you back to the office so you can meet your cab. I would not want any of this to be repeated ever again, so we will discuss it only once on our trip back here. Then we will discuss it no more. Is that acceptable, Miss Moore?”

  “That is acceptable, Sheriff,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

  The sheriff took her arm and led her to hi
s car. “Miss Moore, the coroner knows about the abuse allegations. There aren’t many secrets around Luray. I know he expects to find bruises on the boy that preceded his death, but they won’t prove murder. Absent a witness, I don’t know how anyone could prove the boy’s death was caused by anything but the rocks at the bottom of that gap. In other words, no matter what you see, the ruling is still most likely going to be accidental.”

  “I understand, Sheriff,” she said.

  The morgue was cold and smelled strongly of antiseptic.

  Sheriff Ringold left Sherry and closed the door. She reached across the table to find a small shoulder and traced it down to the boy’s small squishy hand. Hands were always different, large or small, soft or calloused; sometimes she could feel the character of them, sometimes it was already gone. This one felt defenseless.

  Exhaust vents rattled, and she could hear the faint chatter of a police radio in another room. She felt a bone protruding from under the skin, the smell of antiseptic growing sour like spilled whiskey.

  “Whiskey?” she whispered.

  Twigs snapping, running, tears in her eyes, one of her boots unlaced, a voice—“I’ll kick your ass, you worthless little shit”—he was drunk, a creek ahead, shocking cold water, her mitten caught on the thorns, came off, she had to hide, she needed more time, he was always better after time, OH MY GOD! He was in front of her somehow, there was a chainsaw in his hand, he was coming toward her, she tried to run. “I didn’t mean to spill it, Pa. We can get more whiskey.”

  She made the last flight out of Harrisonburg, thankful that she didn’t have to spend the night in some small hotel.

  The house was damp when she entered it. She let the cabbie put her bags in the hall and tipped him, closed the door, and turned up the heat. Then she drew a hot bath and called Brigham to tell him she wasn’t up for company. Not tonight. She slept through noon and woke up feeling like she had picked up a touch of the flu. Brigham came, but only stayed for tea. She still wasn’t up to talking.

  There was a message on the answering machine that afternoon.

  “Miss Moore, this is Sheriff Ringold. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was that I couldn’t honor your request on Sunday. I hope you didn’t take my decision personally.

  “Oddly, there has already been a change in the status of the case. The coroner found a wound on the back of the boy’s head that wasn’t consistent with the rocks he fell on. On a hunch, one of the deputies checked Custer Bates’s tools in his pickup and found that an oil cap on the underside of his chainsaw matched the diameter of that wound. We will be seeking a grand jury indictment for the boy’s murder in Harrisonburg this afternoon.” She could hear the strain in his voice. “I just wanted to tell you that. You be well now. Hear?”

  Sherry put the phone back down and sat on her sofa.

  And then she cried.

  9

  SATURDAY, MAY 7

  WILDWOOD, NEW JERSEY

  Tim was waiting in front of the house when O’Shaughnessy got home. The babysitter was sitting on the front steps with the girls, who both had their backpacks on, ready to run. It was Saturday and the beginning of another week with their father.

  O’Shaughnessy gave them hugs and watched them dash for their father’s SUV. “You guys be good for Daddy,” she called. “Make sure you wear your seat belts.”

  “We will, Mom,” the older one groaned, her eyes rolling in mock exaggeration.

  O’Shaughnessy caught Tim’s look and nodded curtly, then quickly turned away to pay the babysitter. She knew he’d wanted her to come over to the car with them, but she stood her ground.

  Dinner was a can of tuna with a hard-boiled egg and saltine crackers. She vacuumed the house and dusted the furniture, put laundry in the machine, and baked cookies for a school fund-raiser.

  She hated television but flicked through the channels until she hated it even more, and then she put her feet up on the recliner, wondering what she was supposed to do about Tim.

  They had agreed to equal time with the kids, at least for now, which meant that the children switched houses every week. One week it was hers, the next it was his or his mother’s if he called and said he had to work late. She loved her mother-in-law; the girls did, too, so it wasn’t really a problem of who they were with. They’d already lost one grandma; her own mother had died last fall. She knew that Tim was home with them every night he could be, so there was no arguing that one parent was any more available than the other. But the constant uprooting was taking its toll, and their grades were slipping because of it. Just last week she’d gotten a note that Reagan hadn’t done two nights of homework.

  On top of that, she was sick and tired of packing and unpacking bags for them. The girls needed a home—one home, one bed, one place to do their schoolwork. Someone was going to have to give in soon. Someone was going to have to be sensible.

  God, she thought. Her younger girl was only eight years old. If things were this bad now, how would they be a decade from now? And what happened in between all that time? New step-mom? New stepdad? How do parents and kids get through this stuff?

  She lit a scented candle and was considering running a bath when the phone rang.

  “Hey, I’m surprised you’re home.”

  “Where else would I be?” she asked. She sat down on the recliner and tucked her feet under her butt. “I thought you were surfing in Bogotá.”

  “I was sailing and it was in Baltimore. I just got back and am ready to boogie. How about you?”

  “I told you, Clarke. I’m not the boogying type.”

  “But there’s still hope. I can teach you.”

  “Now there’s a scary thought.”

  “Look, you know Kissock’s. We’ll grab a snack there. They have great spiced shrimp. Say nine o’clock? I’ll be the one with bells on.”

  “You better have more on than bells,” she said, laughing.

  “So you’ll be there?” Clarke sounded a little more than surprised.

  She looked around the room and then at the television. Someone in safari shorts was holding a snake up to the camera. “Nine,” she said, “but I can’t stay late.”

  Clarke Hamilton was the district attorney for Cape May County. He’d always been a little playful around her, nothing improper, but enough to signal that he was interested. She didn’t know how he’d heard about her and Tim, but a month after their breakup he was sitting in her office asking questions about some bogus case. What he’d really come for was to ask her out, which she’d declined then and three times since.

  Clarke was a good-looking man, to be sure, maybe even a little too good-looking for Wildwood. His family had money; DAs didn’t drive Porsches and live in mansions overlooking the ocean, at least not in this part of the state. He was a gym rat; he wore thousand-dollar suits and a platinum Rolex on his wrist and was into exotic vacations. She’d heard he’d rafted the Amazon and climbed two Nepalese mountains, though she wouldn’t have remembered their names if she heard them.

  Naturally Clarke was part of the local gossip in Wildwood. She’d heard his name kicked around the hairdresser’s; they talked about Clarke in the supermarkets; they even talked about Clarke in church. He was gay, his family was connected, his face had been reconstructed after a car bombing, he had a gambling problem, he had a drinking problem, he had a drug problem, his wife had died mysteriously—all the single women had something scandalous to say about Clarke and all of them would have dropped to their knees if he’d come walking through their door.

  Personally she thought he was funny and clever, and if there was anything quirky about him, she could not have cared less. She wasn’t looking for a man. Not at this point in her life. Right now she had the children and a new job to concentrate on, which only left her with the guilt of being separated and seen in public with single men.

  Come to think of it, if Tim hadn’t been the cheating asshole he was, she wouldn’t be sitting here right now wondering what people might think if she and the distric
t attorney were seen together.

  Tim had been good for her. He was thoughtful. He was kind. He was generous. He was good with the girls and a wonderful lover. In fact he was everything a woman could want—except that he was a man and men were thoughtless, consciousless creatures who stalked the earth to get laid. A tear started pushing its way forward and she chomped harder on her gum, taking in a few deep breaths.

  She knew it would take a lot more than three months to get him out of her system, but she was sick and tired of tearing up every time she thought about him. Damn him, she thought. Just damn him!

  The tear fell anyway and she wiped it away with a finger. Life had to go on, and whatever else Clarke Hamilton might be, he would be company for a night, and that was something she’d had too little of lately.

  She showered and dressed in a skirt and turtleneck, brushed out her hair, and applied lipstick. It was still cold and she grabbed her leather jacket, then headed for the door, thinking that as long as Clarke understood that they went different ways at the end of the night, everyone would get along just fine.

  She drove along Atlantic Avenue, noticing lights in a few of the shops that had been closed for the winter. The snowbirds were returning from Key West or wherever it was they wintered.

  A steady breeze off the ocean required wipers to move away the mist. She pulled her car in front of the neon lights at Kissock’s and noticed Hamilton’s metallic 911 Cabriolet on the opposite corner. She’d seen his car plenty of times at the courthouse, used to call it “that silver convertible” until McGuire punctiliously corrected her. Men!