I say, “I know about my father and Susan Benson.”
“Well you shouldn’t. Damn fool thing of me to mention. I’ve been kicking myself ever since I let it slip. Don’t go thinking bad about your Daddy on account of that. It was a crazy time for him up here, and he was being pulled six ways from Sunday. He was always too good a man for this life. Cut him some slack. That was when your mother had breast cancer, too.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“He was lonely, Chance. It happens to a lot of men.”
“Did it happen to you?”
“No. I was always faithful to my Ruth. Drinking was my vice, and she didn’t like it.”
Minton and Ruth were married for fifty years. She died from pneumonia three years ago, and the resultant sympathy for Minton helped propel him to a landslide re-election.
I ask, “Do you have any leads for me? Something’s obviously bugging you to take this step?”
“What’s bugging me is that Tommy Dalton seems to think he’s already governor and that my own Chief of Staff seems to think it, too. I hate being taken for granted.”
“Why don’t you fire Gene if he’s so untrustworthy?”
“I have a mind to. But he’s damn effective when working on the right team. He can grease the skids in the legislature like nobody’s business.”
“That’s all fine and dandy, but what does any of this have to do with the murder of Warren Jackson?”
“When you find out, let me know.”
***
Ella calls me on the drive home. She exclaims, “What the hell, Chance?”
“You’ve heard the news?”
“Hell yes! What’s going on?”
“The Governor asked me for help. You know, he and my dad were good friends. I agreed for old times’ sake.”
“You didn’t stay quit for that long.”
Her bewilderment stems from my insistence that I was done for good, which instead turned out to be only six months. She sat across from me in my office at the moment of the final breakdown—the day I walked away. In the weeks that followed, she never tried to change my mind. She could see it in my face. I was finished. Until now.
She asks, “Are you busy tonight? I’ve never been out to your new place. I could use an oil change, if that offer is still open. I’ll even bring some Chinese food.”
The thought of her visiting me at home both excites and terrifies me. But no chance exists that I would ever tell her to stay away.
“It’s a deal.”
5
Ella drives her Honda Accord into the empty garage bay. When she exits the car, I ask, “Food or oil change first?”
“Food. I’m starving.”
I grab the meal from the passenger seat and lead us back to the house. The delicious smells trigger the memory of Ella and me working eyeball to eyeball late into the night during a trial, subsisting on a diet of delivery food and caffeine. The partnership was a strong one while it lasted. But every beginning has an end.
Ella assesses her present surroundings with great skepticism. She says, “I can’t believe you live way out here. Those curvy backroads about scared me to death. Are you sure that this is still Fulton County?”
“That’s what my tax bill says.”
She is not convinced. I bask in the property’s peace and solitude, but Ella sees only isolation. Her cosmopolitan sensibilities were always a contrast to my rural roots. The matter of race also exists between us. She believes that because she is black that I rejected her on account of some subconscious bias. I can’t disprove the accusation, except to note that I did confess my love to her on my last day as a prosecutor. By then it was too late.
Eliza trots over to meet the new arrival. Ella offers a tentative hand and asks, “What’s his name?”
“He is a she, and her name is Eliza.”
Ella’s head jerks up, and she jokes, “Did you name your dog after me?” I explain the Alexander Hamilton backstory, and Ella laughs it off. The similarity between the two names never struck me before but now seems obvious on its face, and I wonder for the first time whether I substituted a dog for the love that I threw away.
Dinner is a contemplative affair. We haven’t shared a meal together in a long time and are hesitant in finding our way. Awkwardness floats around us, mostly on my end. Being close to Ella again, I feel the weight of losing her gnawing me in fresh spots. The conversation picks up as we gravitate to current events. After we talk about her upcoming ascension to the bench, she turns her focus to my appointment.
“Why didn’t you just refuse?”
“Minton is a hard man to refuse, always has been.”
A disbelieving noise accompanies a disbelieving look, but she drops the topic, which is just as well. We catch up on some office gossip and the latest goings-on at the courthouse. The food consumed, we retreat back to the garage.
I put her car on the lift to start the oil change. She checks out the space and exclaims, “Why do you have a shotgun just sitting out in the open?”
A double-barrel, 28-gauge shotgun leans against the wall. I give her a truthful answer.
“To shoot unwanted intruders. I have a lot of valuable stuff in this garage. Someone decides they want to sneak up on me and help themselves to it, I want to be ready. And to deal with the coyotes, too.”
“Very funny.”
“No joke. Coyotes are all around here.”
The surprise on her face is real. She has never lived outside the I-285 Perimeter in Atlanta—Grady High School, Spelman undergrad, Georgia State Law School. That coyotes exist in the same county she has always called home is a revelation.
I add, “I got more guns in the house, too. You don’t think I live out here all alone without the means to protect myself, do you?”
She studies me with archaeological intensity, analyzing her latest find to detect its origins. After the inspection, Ella delivers her conclusion.
“You’re not who I thought you were.”
“That was established a while back, wasn’t it?”
“More than that. I mean, living out here all by yourself. Working as a mechanic of all things. Being armed up. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe you dodged a bullet.”
The joke falls flat, and a deep gloom takes up residence on her face. I sigh. Here’s where being a city girl fails her. No shame exists in owning guns and working on cars. Where I grew up, most everybody kept a loaded firearm of some sort well within reach at all times. Physical labor, too, was the rule, not the exception. Daddy was about the only man in my hometown to wear a tie every day. Rural folks get dirty and work with their hands. The rise of the domesticated, white-collar worker—prevalent in the cities—is a recent conceit. But I decide to keep the sociology lesson to myself.
She goes on, “You could be anything you wanted. A judge, a district attorney, even governor with your connections. You’re better than living like a hermit fixing cars all day. The whole thing makes me sad.”
“Well, I was just named special attorney general.”
Ella laughs at that one. I lower the car lift and pop the hood to replenish the oil.
She says, “Can I ask you something? I’ve been holding off because I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.”
The breath in my chest catches, hoping that she doesn’t want to revisit the events surrounding the Bernard Barton trial. She knows I broke her trust but not the extent of it. I pray the months since the trial haven’t made her curious, but I grunt permission to ask her question. My head stays under the hood just in case.
“Driving down here, a thought popped into my mind, and I can’t shake it. The Governor called yesterday to tell me that I’m going to be the next Fulton County judge, and today the Governor announces that you’ve been named a special attorney general. Is that a coincidence, or is there a connection between the two things?”
I keep doing mechanic things to buy time. As part of my moral rehabilitation, I’ve adopted a no-ly
ing policy, and Ella’s question puts my commitment to this ideal to the test. I opt to play dumb and respond, “How do you mean?”
She pokes her head under the hood and gives my face a good visual frisking. I return her look with all the innocence I can muster, but I’m out of practice. My non-answer is the answer. She backs away in disgust and kicks a tire on the Corvette. I grimace, both for the Corvette and her obvious unrest.
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? I wanted to become a judge on my own merit, not be some token favor to my former boss. It cheapens the accomplishment.”
“Are you qualified to be a judge?”
“You’re damn right I’m qualified!”
“Are you committed to delivering justice impartially and fairly to the best of your ability?”
“You know I am.”
“Then it seems to me that the Governor made the right choice. Governors don’t always make the right choice. Let’s chalk this one up as a win. Don’t worry about the how.”
“I wanted to earn it on my own.”
The pain in her face is real. Ella’s a damn fine lawyer and shouldn’t feel like she’s some token appointment. I try to soften the message.
“You did earn it on your own, but nothing is pure in politics. Do you think that all the other candidates for that spot didn’t have people whispering in the Governor’s ear? That’s the nature of the beast, Ella. And I had no problem vouching for you because you’re one of the finest lawyers I’ve ever known.”
She ponders my words, and I roll over my large tool chest to the car and hide behind it to retrieve a wrench. Ella leans on the Corvette with Eliza napping at her feet while I tighten her battery connectors. The silence percolates for a few minutes before Ella decides to speak again.
“Did he make you take the appointment as special attorney general as a condition for appointing me?”
I hesitate but confess, “He did.”
“And you did that for me?”
“Pretty much.”
Her face softens. Ella well understands the costs of that decision on my end. She walks up to me, puts her arms around my waist, and lays her head on my chest. My arms encircle her in response. She whispers, “Thank you.”
“It was the least I could do.”
We remain locked together. My eyes close. The touching of our bodies summons all my past feelings for her, leaving me to bask in the memory of a love that never was. I don’t dare unlock the cabinet that contains those emotions. Getting over her the first time was hard enough. All the same, I could stay like this forever.
“I’m dating someone.”
Her words jolt me from the incipient dream that teased me from deep within. My eyes stay closed, knowing that this moment will be the last of its kind. Finally, I ask, “Are you happy?”
“I think so.”
“Then I’m happy.”
The lucky guy is Trevor Newman, an assistant U.S. attorney in the public corruption section of the Department of Justice’s Atlanta office. I don’t know him. I reflect on the fact that romantically Ella went from a state prosecutor to a federal prosecutor. At least she traded up.
We say our good-byes and give each other a parting hug. As I stand in the gentle breeze and watch the taillights of her car drift farther away from me, my prayer of the past six months delivers its final answer. The guilt over what I did to Ella leaves me, and I feel lighter without the weight.
6
“I don’t think Jerry Dalton likes me.”
Scott spent the day at GBI headquarters to assume official control over the Warren Jackson investigation. The scars he wears from the experience are still visible. As we ride together on our way to the Fulton County morgue to view the Chief Justice’s body, he gives me the full rundown.
“Jerry is not happy with us or the Governor at the moment. Screamed at me for upwards of an hour about why the GBI should have the lead. He said you have no business taking his job from him, either. I like to think I’m not an easy one to intimidate, but an ex-Navy SEAL yelling at me like that was a touch unnerving.”
“At least he didn’t kill you.”
“Not yet.”
All the same, Scott explains that the GBI’s evidence is now in our possession, including Jackson’s cellphone. You can learn a lot from a person’s phone these days, assuming you can get into it. I ask Scott what else they turned over.
“Not much. No gun. Not a single interview since everyone at the reception was a Very Important Person. The crime scene was a disaster. Jerry let everyone leave before the GBI investigators even got there. He failed to secure a perimeter, and everything snowballed from there. People in and out. The evidence techs took some photos and dusted for prints in Jackson’s office. That’s it. Amateur hour because Jerry doesn’t know what he is doing. We’re basically starting from scratch.”
“If only you had been there to detain the Governor, a United States Senator, and the entirety of the Georgia Supreme Court, then the murderer would already be in custody.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“Or maybe Jerry knew exactly what he was doing?”
“I wondered the same thing.”
***
Dr. Cecil Magnus has been the Fulton County coroner since before I was born. Born in the segregated South, Cecil was the first African-American coroner in the country. He’s also one of the best. When I was deputy district attorney, we worked together all the time. Now he wears an annoyed look on his face.
He barks at us, “About time you showed up.”
Scott responds, “Blame the GBI.”
Cecil grumbles. I begged him to hold the body for us before returning it to the family. He agreed but appears to regret the choice. We stand outside the Dungeon, the name given long ago to the cold basement morgue that stores Atlanta’s dead. I never expected to set foot in this place ever again. Yet here I am. As homecomings go, I’ve had better.
Cecil says to me, “Thought I was done with you.”
I answer, “The Prodigal Son.”
More grumbling.
The Dungeon feels particularly cold as we walk among the small silver doors that contain all of Cecil’s dead bodies. The door we’re looking for rests adjacent to the far wall, the coldest part of the room. Cecil turns the latch and pulls out the long, cold table. A gray bag with a zipper down the middle sits on the slab, and soon the lifeless face of Warren Jackson stares up at the ceiling into eternity.
I assess the man who, unbeknownst to me until the day before yesterday, altered the trajectory of my family’s destiny. I hold no firm grudge. Fate is fickle, and no guarantee exists that the life unlived would be an improvement over the real thing. Plenty of unhappy people have called the Governor’s Mansion home.
While I muse about the effect of the corpse on my life, Scott gets to work. He removes the cellphone he collected from the GBI today from a plastic evidence bag and begins the process of trying to use the fingers on Jackson’s right hand to unlock the device. The attempt is the longest of long shots. Most fingerprint readers on cell phones require an electrical charge from a living body to do the trick. Jackson’s device, though, is older and may use a different technology. We wouldn’t stand a chance with an iPhone.
The fingers—stiffened by rigor mortis—refuse to cooperate as Scott tries to force the right fit. Cecil watches with pained tolerance at the mishandling of one of his dead bodies. After a few tortured minutes, Scott shakes his head in defeat. No dice.
Without much hope, I offer, “Maybe he was left-handed.”
Cecil is dubious, but we have to try. Phone companies are a pain when it comes to unlocking cellphones in police custody, with some even claiming that unlocking the device is impossible. That fight is not worth having if you don’t have to. Too many lawyers, too many appeals, too much wasted time.
Scott maneuvers to the other side and starts with Jackson’s index finger on the left hand. The scene is absurd but also striking in what it says about the h
uman condition. Just a few days ago, the dead man before us sat atop the Georgia judiciary. Now his lifeless body is stored like a piece of meat in a freezing basement while a stranger paws at him. We take tomorrow for granted, not realizing that life is a thief, and tomorrow may never come. I learned that lesson the hard way when Mr. Smith killed Amber and Cale. Warren Jackson learned it, too. Murder is an unforgiving teacher.
A small exaltation of triumph sounds from Scott’s mouth: “I got it.” He shows us the unlocked home screen in case we don’t believe him. Cecil shakes his head in judgmental disbelief and stuffs Jackson back into his hole.
The three of us exit the Dungeon and thaw out in the hall. Scott changes the password on the phone. I ask Cecil, “Find anything interesting in the autopsy?”
“Two shots—9mm. One in the heart. One in the head. Range of about ten feet. Garden-variety shooting. Based on the angle of entry, the shooter was standing, and the victim was sitting.”
Driving away, I comment to Scott, “A 9mm doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”
“Yeah, that’s what I shoot.”
“Something you want to confess?”
“I confess that I’ve missed us hanging out like this. Feels like old times.”
Nice sentiment. But the good old days weren’t always good.
***
The next morning Scott and I meet with the five people we hand-picked to be part of our investigative team—three cops, a lawyer, and an administrative assistant.
Picking a place to serve as our home base was one of the first decisions of the investigation. Scott commandeered space in an Atlanta Police Department substation in the Old Fourth Ward for us to set up shop. The place is manned 24/7, but just barely. A series of rooms in the back will house everything pertaining to the case.
The recruits to the team assemble in a large room, and I take their individual measure. J.D. Hendrix is a patrol officer with the APD. He’s young but dependable. Tall and still thin, J.D. smiles so much that it’s evident he hasn’t been a police officer long. He testified at the Bernard Barton trial and followed my instructions as told. He’s a good kid.
Sophie Applewhite is a detective with the Coweta County Sheriff’s Department. She used to date Scott. I don’t hold that against her. The relationship surprised me in that Scott typically gravitates towards blonds, and Sophie is a brunette. She also is a workout freak who is my age but doesn’t look it.
Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2) Page 3