A Capital Offense

by Gary Parker

  “Jack simply wouldn’t do it,” she said.

  “Tell me why you say that. Convince me.”

  Staring at Tyler, she thought him sincere. “Well,” she started, “I’ve already told you the things he loved. He wouldn’t give those up so easily. He’s had tough financial times before this and he made it through them. But it’s more than that. You see . . . Jack hated killing of any kind. He didn’t hunt because he didn’t want to kill. He only voted for politicians who took a prolife stance because he saw abortion as the death of a child. He thought Jack Kervorkian insane, a dangerous madman. He stood against the death penalty, even though everyone else seems to want it. Jack didn’t believe in killing in any form or fashion. It would go against everything he ever believed for him to kill himself.”

  Confident in what she said, Connie paused and stared across the desk at Luke Tyler. Let him argue with that!

  Tyler chewed hard on his toothpick for a second, then rocked forward in his seat. “You make a convincing case, Mrs. Brandon. But we still have the note. And, in cases like this, a note often swings the vote.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to stop your investigation?”

  “Unless we get some evidence that points us otherwise, it could happen.”

  Connie’s eyes flashed. Tyler couldn’t quit so easily! Someone had killed Jack! She knew it, no doubt in her heart at all! But Tyler was telling her that wasn’t enough. She had to find something to convince him to keep searching until they found Jack’s killer. A sudden idea hit her.

  “Did you check the computer?” she asked.

  Tyler’s eyes held steady, but Connie thought she saw new respect in them.

  “We’re doing that now,” he said. “Brought it in on Monday, but didn’t have it too high on the priority list until we found the note. A couple of computer guys are checking it now. But I doubt if Jack saved the note on his hard drive.”

  “But if he did, it will tell us when he wrote it.”

  “Apparently you know more about computers than your husband,” Tyler suggested, chewing on his toothpick.

  Connie shifted in her seat. Computers happened to intrigue her. She had taken several computer classes in college, had a knack for it. But she didn’t want to tell Tyler all that. For some reason she couldn’t identify, she decided to minimize her understanding of computer technology.

  “You could say that,” she said. “I’ve been in school off and on for the last several years. Law school at MU. You don’t get an education these days without knowing something about a computer.” “You’re thinking that maybe this note was written sometime when Jack wasn’t around and the internal clock in the computer will show that to us.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  Tyler slowly nodded his head, obviously thinking. “If your husband didn’t write the note, then who did? And why?”

  Connie didn’t hesitate. “Certainly, I don’t know who. But I have no question about why. If somebody else wrote the note, they did so because they wanted you to stop searching for a murderer.”

  “We have no indication anyone killed your husband. But we do have a note that indicates he killed himself.”

  Though she didn’t want to admit it, Tyler was right. Until some evidence came to the surface to contradict it, the police had to deal with what they had in hand. And right now, until the autopsy report came back, that wasn’t much. With the death on Friday, the medical examiner hadn’t gotten to Jack’s body until Monday morning. With the examiner’s office in Columbia, that slowed the process down a bit, and they didn’t want to report anything until they could report everything.

  “When will you have the complete autopsy?” she asked.

  Tyler pulled his toothpick from his mouth and twirled it in his fingers. “We expect a preliminary report in the morning. Some of the lab stuff will take a few more days. By the end of the week, we ought to know enough to make some kind of determination about cause of death.”

  Connie cleared her throat and faced Tick. “I guess we’ve done all we can here.” Tick nodded, then looked at Tyler.

  “Yeah, I think so,” Tyler said. “I’ll need to talk with you again soon, but I don’t think today is the right time.”

  Connie locked eyes with Tyler. He sounded so compassionate, so different than a couple of moments ago when he seemed to want to argue with her about the note. What kind of man was he?

  Tyler stood, breaking her stare and giving her permission to leave. “Take care, Mrs. Brandon,” he said. “I’ll call you as soon as the autopsy comes back.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  Connie wanted to keep Daniel and Katie out of school the rest of the week, but on Friday Daniel insisted the time had come for him to go back. Katie, learning what her big brother planned to do, said she wanted to go to school too. At first, Connie argued with them. They had stayed so quiet since their dad’s death, and she wondered if they were dealing with their grief in an appropriate way. But, since neither of them were particularly loud children under normal circumstances, she couldn’t really tell. Thoroughly confused, she gave in when Daniel told her he just wanted to get back to normal. Though knowing “normal” would never truly come again, she relented. Not much to gain staying at home anyway. Having given in to their desire to return to school, she refused to yield when Daniel said he wanted to ride the bus.

  “Not today,” said Connie. “Today, you ride with me.” Daniel didn’t argue any further. Now, having dropped them off at their schools, Connie stood by the den window in khaki slacks and a white top and thought about her children. Daniel wanted life to find its pattern again, and, though she thought he was rushing it a bit, she had to let him go. After school, he would go to baseball practice. After practice, he would come home, eat supper like a starved wolf, do his homework, and take a shower. Following that, he would spend some time on the phone, then join her and Katie for the family devotional. Finally, in bed he would read his Bible for at least fifteen minutes, then say his prayers. Afterward, he would fall hard asleep.

  Connie smiled slightly and walked to the kitchen. She and Jack had taught Daniel and Katie so well, they couldn’t go to sleep without their Scripture reading and prayers. Hopefully, no matter what they faced, they would never get away from that discipline.

  Tess, still in bathrobe and without makeup, greeted her from the kitchen table and handed her a cup of hot tea. Connie took the tea and pulled up a chair.

  “You get them delivered?” Tess asked, sipping her own tea.

  “Yes, they’re back at it.”

  “It’s as good for them as sitting at home,” said Tess. “Routine means a lot. What about you? What are you doing about your classes?”

  Connie slurped her tea a second, then sighed. “I don’t have a clue. I called my professors yesterday. Both of them agreed to tape the last of the lectures for me. Told me to keep up with my reading and show up for the exams.”

  “When are they?”

  Connie did a quick calculation. “About six weeks from now, right before Memorial Day weekend.”

  “You going to be ready?

  “No way to tell. I’m so worried about the kids, Daniel especially, that I can’t even think about me yet. I can’t tell how he’s doing. He seems so quiet, so anxious to get back into everything.” Tess didn’t respond.

  “Can you go back to the old patterns so easily?” Connie asked, her voice disbelieving.

  Tess shook her head. “I don’t think so, not really. But it’s his way for now. He wants to stay with his friends, keep his mind occupied. He’s dealing with it, just differently than you think he should.”

  Connie stood and found a sugar bowl in a cabinet by the stove. Then, spooning the sugar into her tea, she sat down again.

  “All my routines are shattered,” she whispered as if talking to herself. “Like so much broken china. No more early morning walks with Jack, come rain or shine or Missouri winter. No more shoulder rubs . . . man, he loved giving me shoulder rubs,
and his hands were so strong . . . stronger than you’d think for a man his size. I remember so many times I’d come home from school and he would massage away every stress I had. He used to tell me, ‘Honey, you make sure I always have ice cream and I’ll make sure you always have a masseur.’ But no more ice cream while he reads or writes in bed. No more pillow talk . . . no more . . . ”

  Connie paused and suddenly seemed to see Tess again. An embarrassed smile on her face, she sipped from her tea and pushed her hair from her eyes.

  “I’m rambling,” she said. “Sorry.”

  Tess patted her hand. “No problem, girl. I’m glad I’m here to let you ramble. You need that, more than either of us realizes.”

  Connie placed her other hand over Tess’s. “I guess you’re right,” she said. “And you’ve been such a help over the last few days. Heck, for that matter, you’ve been a help for years. I couldn’t have made it—”

  The phone rang, interrupting her. For a second, she considered letting it ring. But, like always, she had to answer.

  Rolling her eyes at Tess, she stood and picked up the phone.

  “Hello, Mrs. Brandon?”

  “Yes, this is Connie Brandon.”

  “This is Luke Tyler.”

  Connie squeezed the receiver and her eyes darted to Tess. Tess stood up and walked over to her.

  “Yes, Mr. Tyler,” Connie said. “Anything new this morning?” She heard him clear his throat.

  “You want me to come to your house?” he asked.

  She thought about it, but for only an instant. “No, you can tell me over the phone.”

  A pause came on the line. Connie could tell Tyler didn’t want to tell her something.

  “I’m okay, Mr. Tyler,” she encouraged him. “I’ve got a good friend here.”

  “Okay,” Tyler said. “Two things you should know. One, the note was saved on the computer, which surprises me. Saved under ‘Connie.’ It was entered at 10:34 on Friday evening. As I understand it, Mr. Brandon wasn’t home at that time, is that right?”

  “That’s correct,” said Connie. “I talked to him about five or so, but not again. He never came back that night.”

  “So he could have written the note.”

  Connie wanted to argue the point but couldn’t. “He could have written the note, that’s true.” An idea intruded into her thoughts.

  “Any sign of forced entry at the store?” she asked. “Someone else who came in, wrote the note?”

  “Nope, none we can see. Jack had a dead bolt on the back entrance, but nothing indicates any tampering with it.”

  Connie’s eyes widened. “Was the dead bolt locked?” she asked.

  Tyler paused, obviously unsure about the implication of her question. “Well, now that you mention it, it was. We checked it Monday when we first went over the store.”

  A look of satisfaction crawled onto Connie’s face. “But Jack never locked that dead bolt. He was funny that way. Trusted people. Clicked the lock on the inside of the door and left the dead bolt alone.”

  “Maybe one of your clerks locked it,” Tyler said.

  “Not likely. We haven’t opened since Friday, the day before Jack’s death. No one there to lock it.”

  Tyler hesitated. Several seconds ticked by. Tess raised her eyebrows at Connie, obviously curious about the conversation. Connie held up a finger, indicating she would tell her in a minute.

  “You said you had two things,” she said, leaving Tyler to stew about the locked dead bolt.

  Tyler cleared his throat. Connie wondered if he had a toothpick in his mouth.

  “Yeah, well, the second thing is most suspicious,” he said. “Most suspicious.” He stopped and left her hanging.

  “I’m listening,” she said, trying to stay calm.

  “Well . . . we can’t find a fingerprint on the computer keyboard.” “What?”

  “No fingerprints on the keyboard. None at all.”

  Connie understood the implication immediately. “Jack’s fingerprints should be there if he used the computer last!” she said.

  “Exactly, but they’re not there. Not his, not a clerk’s, nobody’s.”

  “Then somebody wiped the keyboard,” suggested Connie. “Somebody deliberately cleaned it off so their fingerprints wouldn’t show up.”

  “Makes sense to me,” said Tyler. “Question is, who did it? And why?”

  “You know the answer,” said Connie. “Whoever cleaned off that keyboard killed my husband!”

  “Don’t jump to that conclusion,” said Tyler. “Maybe a clerk cleaned up late Friday and wiped the keyboard.”

  Connie reconsidered. That was a possibility. “You better talk to Andy or Leslie,” she said, naming Jack’s primary employees. “They’ll know if anyone cleaned up.”

  She shifted direction. “If someone deliberately cleaned the keyboard, then maybe they think their fingerprints are in a file somewhere.”

  “You know something about all this,” he said, obvious surprise in his tone.

  “I’m about to graduate law school, remember? I’ve studied some criminal defense. A person takes care about leaving fingerprints if they think they are on record in somebody’s computer.” “Could be a military person,” said Tyler. “Or an airplane pilot.”

  “Or a government employee.”

  “Or a doctor, lawyer, or politician.”

  Connie considered Tyler’s words, knowing some states had even started registering fingerprints as they gave out driver’s licenses.

  “Tons of people have their fingerprints on file,” she said. “Most of them aren’t criminals. So where does that leave us?”

  Tyler grunted. “Well, it leaves me with a mystery. A note your husband could have written, but no fingerprints on the keyboard. A door locked, when you say he always left it unlocked. A body shot up with drugs, but a husband who supposedly used no drugs.”

  Connie staggered against the kitchen cabinet. “What do you mean?” she demanded, her face turning red. “I’ve heard nothing about drugs!”

  “They didn’t tell you about the autopsy report?”

  “No, nobody called me.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Brandon, I thought you knew. We got the report last night. Your husband had an armload of cocaine in his veins. From all indications, that’s what killed him.”

  “He didn’t drown?”

  “No, not at all. The only water in his lungs is the fluid caused by the drugs. No Missouri water there. I’m sad to say it, but your husband was probably dead by the time he hit the water.”

  Connie pressed her head against the wall. A rush of sadness clutched at her stomach, and she started to weep. For the first time since Tick first came, she allowed herself to wallow in her weakness again. She simply couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go on. Not with this new shock—the word Jack had taken drugs.

  Though she couldn’t believe it, she saw no reason for the medical examiner to lie. Sure, somebody might have injected the drugs into Jack’s veins to make the murder look like an overdose, but she had no way to prove it. The public would believe what the police reported. If they said Jack injected drugs, people would accept it.

  Sagging against the wall, she dropped the phone. She just couldn’t face it, the stares of the people in Jefferson City, the whispers as she passed. She just couldn’t do it. She would have to sell the store and the house and get what she could from them. Then, she would take the kids and move. She knew how to do that. Had done it all her life. No way around it. She would become a vagabond on the highways, a refuge from the ghosts of the past, a human grief wave trying to escape the tragic truth that her husband, a good man in everyone’s opinion, carried some demons in his soul that only his death had revealed.

  CHAPTER

  8

  The word about the drugs stopped Connie cold. Though she wanted to keep going for the kids’ sake, she just couldn’t manage it. Her system had reached its limit, as worn down as a shoreline eroded by a summer hurricane. With apolog
ies to Tess and the other women from church who took shifts at the house, she went to her room after the phone conversation with Luke Tyler and fell into bed.

  Tess encouraged her to do it. “You’ve made it far longer than any of us expected,” she said, tucking Connie under the sheets. “You need to get off your feet for a few days, get some rest, give yourself time to settle down. Between me and Mrs. Everhart, we’ll take care of Daniel and Katie, and the church has sent enough food to feed us for a year. If we need more, Reverend Wallace will see we get it.”

  Too frazzled to fight, Connie collapsed and lay her head on her pillow. Except for a few minutes on Friday when Daniel and Katie came home from school, that’s where she stayed as Saturday passed and Sunday came. She told Daniel and Katie the truth: she was just tired and needed some rest. She didn’t really feel depressed, just depleted, a husk of a person, a shell with no inner substance.

  The kids said they understood but then immediately began to talk in quieter tones, whispering like a family around someone about to die. Not wanting them to get the wrong idea, but unsure how to explain herself, she let it go. Better to wait until she had a better grip on her own emotions than to try to help them with theirs when she felt so confused.

  On Sunday morning, she awoke at eight and told herself to get up and get dressed for church. Climbing out of bed, though, she began to tremble, her mind running ahead, imagining the moment she would enter the front door of the sanctuary and move down the aisle. People would stare at her and the children. They would point behind her and the children’s backs. Yes, their interest would come from concern, but it would bother her nonetheless. She didn’t like the notion of so many people focusing that kind of attention on her family.

  She couldn’t just walk in, sit down on the third pew from the front on the left, and participate as if nothing had happened. She had met Jack in that pew. As he later told the story, he spotted her as she came through the door. Her auburn hair, longer then, cascaded around her black glasses and made her appear just a bit owlish. But that didn’t put him off: behind the glasses he saw the face and figure of a petite doll.