“Thank you, Mr. Sedge. It’s wonderful that you’re not letting yourself be swayed by peer pressure.”
“What is—is,” he repeated. “That kid might be crazy as hell, might be a mental midget, and he might have done anything else in the world—I couldn’t argue it. But I can tell you this and it’s a fact—he didn’t kill Earnest Covington.”
“Malachi claims that he’s innocent, too.”
“But he wasn’t arrested for killing Covington, was he?”
“He’s being charged in the deaths of his family. I’m not sure, but I believe, if the prosecutor feels he gets a little more evidence, he also plans on adding charges, and I know that the police believe that Malachi killed Peter Andres and Earnest Covington, as well.”
“He didn’t kill Covington. And I told the cops that. I don’t know what they’re thinking, not to listen to me. Unless folks just get stuff stuck in their minds so hard they can’t see the light.”
“We’re truly grateful for the courage of your convictions, Mr. Sedge.”
“What?”
“Thank you for sticking with the truth.”
“The truth is the truth. He didn’t kill Covington.”
Jenna rose.
“Of course…” Sedge began, rising politely.
“Of course what?”
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t take an ax to his mom and dad. Hell, if I’d been that kid, I’d have been tempted to take an ax to that old Abraham Smith!”
“You know,” John Alden told Sam, “you need to thank God that usually, even with the mayhem that goes on around Haunted Happenings, we’re mostly a good, law-abiding place. With Malachi in custody, I haven’t been finding bodies anywhere, and I have the time to do this with you.”
John Alden had agreed to show Sam around Earnest Covington’s house. They stood just outside, and Sam waited for John to let him in and give him whatever instructions he might feel obligated as a detective to give.
“You’re a true gem, John, and a great believer in justice,” Sam said.
“Actually, you know, the cops usually work with the prosecutors,” John reminded him.
“Ah, but, first and foremost, you are a great believer in justice, and therefore agree that the defense has the right to question witnesses and investigate when a client makes a plea of not guilty. You wouldn’t want to get caught up in any red tape, and you like to keep an eye on me.”
The policeman sighed. “Earnest Covington was a widower, lived alone, but he ordered out a lot, so it was actually a kid from the Pizza Palace who found him. The door was ajar so the kid just came in and saw Covington on the floor, right in front of the hearth. The chalk marks are still there—as is the blood spatter,” John said, his mouth growing tight.
Covington’s house was built in much the same style as the Lexington House: front and back entries, parlors to either side of the entrance, and a narrow stairway that led to several rooms above. There was an attic as well, but according to the police report, it didn’t appear that the house had been ransacked in any way. Just as in the murder of Peter Andres, it appeared that the killer came with but one thing in mind—murder.
“The pizza kid found the door ajar?” Sam asked.
“Yep, just like I said.”
“Did your crime-scene people find anything that indicated that the killer had jimmied the lock in any way?” Sam asked.
“No,” John said. He sighed again. “And before you ask, there were so many fingerprints on the door that the lab is still working on sorting them all out.”
“So what made you suspect Malachi Smith?” Sam demanded.
John’s eyes narrowed and he offered Sam a grim smile. “Because we already suspected him in the case of Peter Andres.”
“But why? From everything that I’ve heard, Malachi liked the teacher. And Peter Andres liked Malachi well enough—he hated Abraham Smith.”
“There’d been trouble, bad blood with Malachi,” John said. “God knows, maybe at one time, Jamie O’Neill might have been able to help him. I know that O’Neill kept trying—despite the system that gave the kid back to his parents without interference—and he might have had some luck with him. But, come on—the kids were terrified of him.”
“John, he was like the runt of the litter—picked on.”
“And, sometimes, Sam, when kids pick on another kid, there’s a good reason. Oh, come on, you know that the signs of a serial killer can be seen at a young age. Sickos who throw rocks at dogs and kill kittens.”
Sam stared at John. “And did anyone ever report that Malachi Smith killed a kitten?”
“Not actually.”
“Not actually?” Sam demanded.
“Kids talk.”
“Do you know of a kitten that was killed?”
John opened his mouth, arched his eyebrows and then closed his mouth again. “No.”
“John, you persecuted that kid because of hearsay.”
“No, Sam, you weren’t here. Something really happened to the Yates kid—David. He was in agony. Whether Malachi Smith just has something about him that threatened the other kids or not, he’s strange.”
“I don’t think you can be tried for murder just for being strange,” Sam said.
“And I should ignore all the warning signs—not to mention the fact that the kid was covered in his family’s blood—and fail to make an arrest? He hasn’t been charged with the murder of Earnest Covington or that of Peter Andres. He was a person of interest, that’s all. And in the Covington case, Yates and his friend said that they saw him coming from Earnest Covington’s house.”
“And Milton Sedge said that the kid was in his store.”
“I just said that he’d only been a person of interest,” John told him.
Sam let out a long breath and knew that he needed to maintain control. John Alden was legally obligated to give him certain information vital to the case, but he didn’t have to go out of his way to be helpful. He couldn’t push the man too far; he was already basically questioning his police work.
“I’m sorry, John. If he was brought into court on the Covington murder, I’d rip the prosecution to shreds in a matter of minute. These days, I have to prove reasonable doubt, and in a he-said-he-said situation, I’d sure as hell have doubt.”
“Sam, you saw him the night I arrested him. What would you have done?”
“Arrested him,” Sam admitted after a long pause.
“I don’t judge. I’m not on the bench, and I won’t be on the jury,” the policeman said. “I try to maintain the law. I’m not out for Malachi Smith. Prove to me the kid is innocent, and I’ll be the first to tear apart the world trying to get at the truth. But right now, he looks like our man.”
Sam nodded. “Of course. And thank you, John.”
John nodded back.
“So, the killer came in by the door—without forcing it—and apparently came right at Earnest Covington, sliced him to death and left,” Sam said.
John nodded, watching him. Sam walked back to the front door, halfway closed it, pushed it open and walked into the hall. He looked to the right and left, and headed in toward the hearth in the parlor to the left. Earnest Covington must have been standing by his hearth. On the mantel, Sam saw that he kept a kept a metal receptacle for mail. Possibly he was looking through his bills when his killer entered. Sam took a closer look. There was a letter in the bin that looked as if it had been almost shoved back in, a letter postmarked Sydney, Australia. The sender was an Earnest Covington, Jr. Through the envelope, he could see the outline of photographs; Covington might not have owned a computer or a cell phone.
Blood spattered the cheap Rembrandt knockoff on the wall above the mantel. The floor in front of the mantel was still soaked with a dark stain.
“There’s one thing I should tell you,” John said.
“What’s that?”
“Another reason Malachi Smith came to mind—around here, folks aren’t great at locking their doors. Earnest Covington almost never
did, according to his neighbors. He told them he didn’t have anything worth anything, and if some poor fellow walked in, he was welcome to take what he could.”
“Why did that make you think of Malachi?”
“Malachi lives in the neighborhood and he would have known that.”
“Was he supposed to have bad blood with Earnest Covington?”
“Not the kid—the old man. Covington was pretty vocal about the fact that he thought Abraham Smith should sell the house…and get out of the neighborhood. But, to be honest, I never heard about anything negative happening between Malachi and Covington—in fact, once, when Covington fell on an icy step, Malachi came over, dialed 911 and stayed with him until help came.”
“That really suggests murder,” Sam said quietly.
John shrugged. “Maybe the old man—Abraham Smith—killed his enemies, and his son freaked out and killed his father and family when he found out. You know, religious duty and all. Now, there’s a rational theory for you.”
“A rational theory—just as rational as someone else having committed all the murders,” Sam said.
John watched from the doorway. “Reasonable doubt—maybe you could prove that if Malachi had been charged with Covington’s murder. But reasonable doubt on his family when we found him bathed in blood? Sam Hall, you have a hell of an uphill road ahead of you!”
Sam suddenly wished that Jenna was with him. He wasn’t sure that he believed in “postcognition,” but he wasn’t getting a thing himself. It all seemed too simple.
“Mind if I walk around the house?” he asked.
“Knock yourself out. Covington has one son, lives in Australia. He’s a single father, twin two-year-olds. We’ve been keeping him informed on the investigation through Skype online. I’m sure if you think it will help solve the mystery of his father’s murder, he’ll be all for an explanation. You just promise me one thing, Sam Hall.”
“What’s that?”
“If we prove that Malachi Smith killed these people, and you do wind up defending him with the excuse that he’s crazy as all hell, you don’t demand that he be let out on the streets in a year!”
“I promise you, the actual murderer will be locked away for a long, long time,” Sam said with final authority.
Jenna saw John Alden’s police car on the street. Crime-scene tape hung from the door and the door itself was ajar. She hesitated before touching the knob.
“Hello?” she called.
John Alden came and opened the door for her. “Miss Duffy. What a surprise. Only it’s not a surprise—right? Sam probably just called you.”
“True,” she said.
“He’s upstairs. Come on in. Though why he called you, I don’t really know. You don’t seem to react well at a crime scene, and I’m damned glad. That makes you nicely human.”
He meant to be nice. She smiled. “I’m okay.”
“And you’re FBI, eh?”
She laughed. “Tougher than I look, I guess.”
“But you must get lots of blood and guts,” John said.
“I do, but—”
“No, no, sorry for being abrasive. You’re right—when it stops bothering us, we need to get the hell out of law enforcement.”
Jenna heard footsteps coming down the stairs and then Sam’s voice. “Jenna! You’re here.” He glanced at John. “We happened to talk. She was in the area.”
“Of course,” said the cop.
Sam grinned at him. He looked at Jenna again. His expression was grave and yet, he seemed relieved. Maybe he’d been afraid she would refuse to come, after the way they had parted. He had almost called her a charlatan.
“Jenna, here’s what I know, what I suspect. Earnest Covington was known to leave his door open. He wasn’t afraid of thieves. So, he either left his door open and the killer walked in—and caught him in front of the hearth—or he let his killer in, they came into the parlor together, and then the killer struck. I’ve a hunch it was the former rather than the latter. I think that Earnest Covington was just about to go through his mail, something he probably wouldn’t be doing with company. Plus, the first letter in the mail grate is from his son. There’s a picture in it, and he might have been about to admire his grandsons.”
Jenna looked at him and nodded. “Makes sense. I’m going to just take a look around, too, then.”
“Makes sense,” Sam replied, and began a conversation with the policeman that seemed more like a smokescreen for her than anything real.
She walked back to the door to let her mind encompass what had taken place, while she tried to let her heart imagine Earnest Covington. She closed her eyes and had an impression of an older man—the perfect grandfather figure. He’d had white hair, he’d been lean and weathered, a man who had worked through his prime, and was still fierce in his thoughts and opinions. His life was somewhat lonely, but he didn’t mind—his wife was gone, and he wanted no other. He lived to tell the occasional visitor what Salem had been like before they’d gone modern-day witch crazy, before they’d become so commercial and when the House of the Seven Gables hadn’t been blocked from view by a dozen gift shops hawking witch T-shirts.
As she thought these things, it seemed that a shadowy haze slipped over her, and the house. She had a sense of coming home and leaving the door open. Who would want his old stuff? The sofa with the upholstery that was all lumpy, or the TV that barely worked and certainly wasn’t attached to any newfangled gadgets. He walked into the living room, having just been for a stroll down the street. He smiled, thinking of the letter his son had sent. Wretched boy, falling in love with a foreigner, and heading off with her to Australia. It was with a heavy heart that he thought of the daughter-in-law he’d met at the wedding but never seen again. She’d died in a flash from a virus that no one had been able to stop. So now, of course, his son was still in Australia, but Earnest hoped that he’d come home soon enough, when the boys were a little bit older and his in-laws learned to live with their loss. For now, he had the pictures that Andrew sent, like these new ones….
He hadn’t really heard the door open; he just became aware that someone was with him.
He’d been puzzled at first; in fact, he had laughed.
“If you’re looking to do something creepy at the old Lexington House, it’s down the street at the end of the block,” he said, not unwarmly.
The costumed intruder just stared at him.
“Private residence!” Earnest said, growing aggravated. He’d seen similar costumes before. It was like something out of the old days when the Puritan ministers tried to scare their flocks with pictures of an evil, horned and tailed devil. Of course, this person didn’t really have a tail. He was wearing a cloak, with a hood, the horns stuck out from the hood. The mask was red and black—of course, the devil was red, like a fierce, burning fire—or black, in the way that a heart could be black, and the costume was damned creepy and scary.
“Hey!” he said. “My house—I don’t remember inviting you in!”
The person stood very still for a moment—almost as if he was confused, or uncertain.
Then, the figure drew its hands from beneath the folds of the cape.
Earnest was briefly aware of a shining blade.
He barely had time to throw his hands up to protect his face….
And all to no avail.
He was aware of a crunch as the ax hit his skull; he was even aware of the warm spray of blood that sailed around him, oddly beautiful. Red like the devil himself….
He hit the floor.
And knew he was dying.
“Jenna!”
She gave herself a shake, mentally and physically, and refocused. Sam was standing in front of her; his hands were on her shoulders. His eyes, gray and sharp, were hard upon hers.
She knew that John Alden was standing right behind him.
She wasn’t going to say anything in front of the man who already thought she was a squeamish crackpot, especially not in front of John, who had yet to judge
her as such.
“Yes, I’ve pictured it as you said, Sam,” she said simply, “and I believe that you’re right. I think that Earnest Covington came in and left his door open. I think he might have been anticipating the pleasure of looking at the pictures again. The killer just walked right in and killed him.”
Sam nodded. He turned to John Alden. “Thanks, John. I’m not trying to let killers loose on the streets, I swear. I appreciate your helping see to it that the defense has all the facts.”
“Well, I don’t want the prosecution losing on a technicality—as in the defense not having everything it’s legally due,” John said. He looked at Sam. “Hey, come on, I’m not a mean or horrible man! I feel sorry for the kid. But I feel even sorrier for Peter Andres and Earnest Covington…. And the Smith family, of course.”
The last was definitely added as an afterthought, Jenna was certain.
“All right then, we’ll get out of your way, John,” Sam said.
“I drove you here,” John reminded him.
“I have a car,” Jenna said quickly.
“All right. Keep me posted if you need anything else,” John said.
“Will do,” Sam told him.
He opened the door for Jenna, nudging it with his elbow. They walked outside.
“The car is down the street, at the grass by the cliff-side park,” Jenna said.
He nodded, walking alongside her. They passed Lexington House and both of them paused. Crime-scene tape still roped off the entire property. Fierce signs warned the curious off: arrests would be made for trespassing and interference.
“Covington’s house is seriously just a block away,” Jenna murmured.
“Yep.”
“Well, you won’t have a problem in court as far as the Covington killing is concerned—if Malachi is charged.”
“Oh?” he asked her.
“I went to see the grocer. He’s convincing. Sedge swears up and down that he saw Malachi several times during the hours when the M.E. says that Covington was killed.”
“Well, that’s great. You, uh, just decided to interview him?”
The Evil Inside (Krewe of Hunters) Page 11