A Judgment of Whispers

by Sallie Bissell

  “It’s a shame,” said Mary. “Takes everyone’s attention from the larger issues.”

  “So it does. Well, I’m glad I got a chance to compliment you on your signage.”

  Again, Turpin smiled.

  “See you at the Republican Luncheon.”

  Mary watched as the two men continued on toward the courthouse, feeling a thrum of nervousness inside. That Turpin would try to make political hay over the Teresa Ewing case, she had no doubt. Probably he would paint all those boys-grown-to-men with a broad brush of suspicion, paint himself as the keeper of law and order, and paint her as a defender of child killers, working to help guilty people weasel out of the punishments they deserved.

  Suddenly the absurdity of it all struck her. She was running for DA while representing a man everyone suspected of being a murderer. Probably, she should quit the case right now and pass Zack off to some other attorney. But Grace had worked on her campaign, believed in her message, was becoming her friend. Could she now turn Zack over to someone else?

  “No,” she decided, staring at her own campaign signs. “He hasn’t been charged with anything. He’s given his DNA. He’s entitled to counsel as much as the next person.”

  And though that was true, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. With Teresa Ewing, people didn’t care about due process. People just wanted justice, with a huge dollop of vengeance thrown in.

  Once more turning away from Ravenel and Crow, she walked to the offices of the Hartsville Herald. Though she hated to go to the paper since Ginger had left, she needed facts about Teresa Ewing’s murder. If Turpin did make Zack Collier a campaign issue, she would need more reliable information than beauty shop gossip. Opening the door to the Herald, Mary put on her friendliest smile.

  The prune-faced Ruby Potts looked up from the reception desk, no doubt aware that Mary would ask for something that would require some actual work on her part. “Well, Ms. Crow. Haven’t seen you in a while. What can I help you with today?”

  “I need something from the morgue.”

  “The morgue’s online now. Everything from January 1, 2002.”

  “I need something from February 1989.”

  “Oh.” Wearily, Ruby Simmons got out a pencil and note pad. “What items are you interested in?”

  “Everything you’ve got on the Teresa Ewing murder.”

  The woman gave a weak, mewing laugh. “You going to solve that one now?”

  Mary nodded. “I’m sure going to try.”

  Fifteen

  Jerry Cochran re-took his position in front of the white board, thinking strangely of his father. Richard Cochran had spent his working life in front of a chalkboard, teaching organic chemistry to undergrads who hoped to become doctors. He would come home with chalk dust on his trousers, elated when the lightbulb finally gone off in some student’s head. “We don’t have to worry about Mr. Stevens transferring to law school anymore,” he would tell his mother as he kissed her hello. “He finally figured out that pKa values are related to weak acids.” Though Cochran smiled at the memory, he wondered what his father would think of him standing with a blue marker in front of a bunch of cops. Your father would be so proud of you, his mother always said. He liked to think she was right, that he was doing something that would please his old man.

  He turned to face his own small class—a group of policemen ready to discuss what they’d learned about Teresa Ewing. Rob Saunooke leaned forward in his chair, the eager beaver of the class. Victor Galloway stretched his long legs forward, funny, but also observant and analytical. Buck Whaley sat sprawled, wheezing for air, his nose blooming like a red flower in the middle of his face. He reminded Cochran of a football player who’d taken a bad hit for the team.

  Cochran looked at Whaley. “Did Maxine finally bean you with her frying pan?”

  “Your pal Mary Crow did this,” said Whaley, full of hurt.

  “She hit you?” Cochran knew the two had a history, but he never dreamed Mary would plant a fist in Whaley’s mug.

  “Her retard client freaked out and pushed her into me,” Whaley explained. “The top of her head caught my nose.”

  “Did you book him?”

  Whaley waved his hand, as if a fly were buzzing around his face. “It’s no big deal. You monkey with an ape, you take your chances.”

  Cochran assumed it had gone no further—certainly he would have heard if it had. “Well, I hope you feel better. File your injury report.”

  Whaley nodded.

  Cochran turned to the board. “Gentlemen, this is the latest from Winston. Good DNA on Saunooke’s cigarette butts, but it doesn’t match a soul in the database. Marginal DNA on the underwear—they’re going to do more tests to see if they can get a readable sample, and it could take a while.”

  “Are you shitting me?” Whaley’s red nose grew redder. “They can reconstruct dinosaurs from a chip of bone, but they can’t read a little girl’s panties?”

  “So they say.” Cochran saw the keen disappointment on the men’s faces. “But it’s not over yet. We’ve still got more sampling to do.”

  “Who?” asked Saunooke.

  Cochran looked at his notes. “Zack Collier and Adam Shaw complied Tuesday. Two Toes is already in the system. Lawrence Russell and Devin McConnell were no-shows. We still need a cheek swab from them.”

  “I told Russell’s mother he needed to come downtown,” said Whaley, “but I think she was on planet nine from outer space. That is one crazy old bird.”

  “Who had Devin McConnell?”

  “I called him,” said Whaley. “Said he’d come down, but I guess he lied.”

  “Okay, that takes care of the DNA.” Cochran looked at Saunooke. “Did you interview Two Toes?”

  Saunooke nodded. “He said he hadn’t been near the tree, though he knew exactly why I was there.

  “How did he know that?”

  “He said the wind told him,” replied Saunooke. “I imagine he just reads cops pretty well.”

  “He probably heard it from Janet Russell,” said Whaley. “She’s got a picture of Two Toes, along with a bunch of other freaks, standing in front of a teepee.”

  “Are you sure it’s Two Toes?”

  “I’d know those filed-down fangs anywhere,” Whaley replied.

  “Did you ask her about it?” said Cochran.

  Whaley nodded. “Living under that tree has gotten in her head. Two Toes conducts healing retreats—sweat lodges, vision quests, that sort of shit. He’s helped her make peace with the tree.”

  “Does she know Two Toes is an ex-con? Out on parole?”

  “She said Two Toes had a vision in prison that led him to doing this work … that as long as he did it, he would never be locked up again.”

  “Good grief.” Cochran turned to Saunooke. “Did Two Toes tell you this?”

  “No. Mostly Two Toes just wanted me gone. But he does live in a trailer, surrounded by teepees.”

  “I didn’t think you Cherokees did teepees,” said Galloway.

  “We don’t. Two Toes put them up for his clients. They pay to go there and be cleansed.”

  Whaley snorted. “Yeah, cleansed of their money by somebody crazier than a shit-house rat.”

  Saunooke, reticent in the face of Whaley’s bluster, said nothing.

  Cochran turned to the board. “Well, this is interesting. Janet Russell getting spiritually cleansed by Two Toes McCoy. Wonder how Butch figures in all this?”

  “I don’t know,” said Whaley. “But I’ll go find out.”

  Cochran shook his head. “I want you to take McConnell, Whaley. He hasn’t responded either. Saunooke can trace the Two Toes–Janet–Butch connection.” He looked at Galloway. “Victor, I’ve got a real good one for you.”

  Galloway leaned forward. “What?”

  “The old guy—Wilkins—said there had been a
powwow in Cherokee the weekend after the girl was murdered. He’s got a theory that the killer could have been some itinerant worker on the powwow circuit.”

  “And you want me to see if there’s a connection between powwows and murders?”

  “Right. You might find a pattern.”

  “That was a mighty long time ago.”

  Cochran shrugged. “It’s a small needle in a big haystack, but you SBI guys have resources I don’t.”

  “I’m on it,” said Galloway.

  “Okay.” Cochran put his marker down and looked at his men. “Gentlemen, this thing has gone the way I’d feared it would. Lots of papers being sold, lots of people speculating on who did it, lots of grumbling about why we stupid cops haven’t been able to arrest anybody. I would consider it an achievement of the highest order if we could clear this case and let Teresa Ann Ewing rest in peace, for good. Any questions?”

  No one spoke.

  “Okay, then. Be careful, and let me know what you find out.”

  He watched as they filed out the room, Whaley shouldering his way through the door as if he were carrying a football, Saunooke lighter on his feet but hard on Whaley’s tail. How many cops, he wondered, had gone out the door with the same orders to find Teresa Ewing’s killer? It would be a miracle if his crew could nail down this one—then he really would think he’d done something to make his father proud.

  Sixteen

  Buck Whaley left Cochran’s meeting eager to get back in his car. Not that he was particularly inspired by Cochran’s little pep talk about the Teresa Ewing case—he’d ridden on that roller coaster too many times before. Mostly he was pissed that two of his four suspects had basically given the finger to his most polite request for their DNA. He couldn’t say for sure if Butch Russell’s nutcase mother had given him the message, but he had spoken with Devin McConnell on the phone. The little asshole had assured him that another DNA sampling would be no problem and he would come down to the Justice Center immediately.

  “Which was total bullshit,” Whaley said as he turned on to the highway. “Just another tick mark on Devin McConnell’s long list of mistakes.” He’d pulled up his jacket days ago. Several DUIs, a couple of domestic calls, and his wife once had a restraining order issued against him. McConnell ran on high-octane booze, just as his parents had. How he’d managed to hang on to that stupid car lot, Whaley couldn’t imagine. But he had, and not by going out of business and changing his sign every six months.

  “Must have inherited his father’s gift for blarney,” muttered Whaley.

  He drove through town, the sun glittering off the bumpers of parked cars. Campaign signs had begun to pop up in store windows. Lucy Keil for the statehouse, Cecil Earp for City Council. When he stopped for a light he noticed several eye-catching signs for Mary Crow—green and blue with a funny little crow sitting on top of her name. He shook his head. If Mary Crow won the DA’s race, he didn’t know what he would do. She would fill the courthouse with female attorneys and probably make Cochran bust him down to traffic.

  “Maybe that would be my sign,” he said. “Pack up Maxine and get the hell down to Florida. Work security for some fancy golf course in exchange for greens fees.”

  The light changed. He rolled down Main Street, then out past the mall and the fast-food shops. As he crested a hill, he saw the Tote-A-Note car lot on the left, its bright green balloons bobbing in the sun. He turned in and parked behind a row of late model sedans, their prices splashed in yellow paint across their windshields. As he got out of his car, he noticed a man in jeans,washing a white Prius. Something about him looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. He’d gotten to the age where a lot of faces blended together—one guy in church looked a lot like another guy he’d run in on a D&D. “Devin here?” Whaley called.

  “Inside.” The man glanced up, doing a double-take at Whaley’s nose. Suddenly Whaley recognized him. No longer redheaded and wearing a security guard’s uniform, but a balding, white-haired guy and a blue Carolina T-shirt. “Lawrence Russell?”

  He gave a sheepish nod.

  “Come with me.” Whaley held up his badge. “You and me and McConnell need to have a little chat.”

  Reluctantly, Russell turned off his hose and trudged toward the office. Whaley followed him, his hand resting on his service weapon. Russell he’d always pegged for industrial-strength stupid. McConnell was the true loose cannon.

  Russell opened the door, Whaley behind him. The interior of the office was dim, paneled in dark fake wood that held the stink of old cigarette smoke. Devin McConnell was sitting at a desk, sighting down the barrel of a Ruger 10/22, gun oil and a rag in hand.

  “You get that Prius washed?” he asked, without looking up.

  “He got interrupted,” Whaley said before Butch could answer.

  Devin sat up straighter, his wandering eye veering over Whaley’s left shoulder. “Oh,” he said, rosy spots blooming in his pale cheeks. “You.”

  “Yeah, me. I was expecting you a couple of days ago, down at the jail.” With the flat of his hand he cuffed Butch on the back of his head. “You, too, Captain Jinks. Or didn’t your mommy give you the message?”

  “She gave it to me, but I’ve been busy,” Butch said. “I saw you looking in my room without a warrant.”

  “I didn’t need one. The high priestess of Cosmic Vibrations practically dragged me in there.” He frowned at Butch. “You know, Einstein, if you’ve got something to hide, you need to tell your mother not to invite cops into your crib. That just ain’t smart.”

  “Then that should tell you that I’ve got nothing to hide,” Butch replied.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see.” Whaley turned to McConnell. “What’s your excuse, McConnell? You said you’d be down at the jail just as soon as you could. You were so sweet on the phone, butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”

  “I got busy, too,” said McConnell. “Then I forgot.”

  Whaley walked over and picked up McConnell’s rifle. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to figure out a way to put DNA at the top of your to-do list.” He raised the gun and drew a bead on Butch’s head. “What would work for you, Russell? Some overnights in jail? Away from Mommy?” He turned the gun on Devin. “Should I march you out in cuffs when you’ve got some customers in this shit hole you call a car lot?”

  Devin glared at him, his bad eye going nuts. “We’ve got rights, Whaley. I’ve got a lawyer. He says until I’m charged with something, I don’t have to give you guys squat.”

  “Your lawyer must have one of those online degrees, then,” said Whaley. “If you’re a suspect in the murder of a child, there’s not a judge in North Carolina who wouldn’t jump to sign a warrant for your DNA.”

  McConnell shrugged. “Show up with a warrant, and I’ll come down there.”

  Whaley lowered the rifle. “Are you sure? If I have to go to Judge Wood for this, I’m pretty sure my pal Cooksey at the paper will get wind of it. Then you two will go from regular suspects to uncooperative suspects. Wonder how many of those crates you’ll move off your lot after that?” He turned to Butch. “And you might get a job doing parking lot security at Walmart.” He laughed. “They don’t pay well, but all the fat, crazy freaks on YouTube shop there. You might have some fun.”

  Butch swallowed hard. “Don’t give my name to the judge. I’ll come down there.”

  Whaley turned back to McConnell. “How about you?”

  McConnell shoved a clipboard across the desk. “I’ve got two cars coming in this afternoon. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  Whaley looked at a bill of sale from a car auction in north Georgia. For once, McConnell seemed to be telling the truth. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll give you a break. But if I come to work tomorrow and find that you haven’t had your mouths wide open in that lab, I’ll have a warrant with your names on it before lunch.”

  Both men remained silent.
Whaley laid the rifle back on McConnell’s desk. “You two need to realize that this time, we’re clearing this case. Somebody is going to jail for Teresa Ewing’s murder.”

  Whaley walked out the door. Butch went to the window and watched as he got back in his Crown Vic and cruised slowly out of the lot. “He’s just like a great white shark,” he whispered.

  “What did you say?” asked Devin.

  “I said Whaley’s like a great white shark. You know, like in Jaws. He just swims along, biding his time, and then chomp! Some poor bastard gets bitten in half.”

  “Shut up,” said Devin, trying to put the scope back on his rifle. “Whaley’s more like a great white idiot.”

  “I don’t think so.” Staring out the window, Butch stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “He’s gonna get us this time.”

  Dev tightened a screw on the rifle’s scope. “They’re just bluffing, Butch. Like always.”

  Butch turned. “Dev, I used to read forensic magazines at work. The science is light years past what it was back then. They can get DNA from half-eaten pizza crusts now.”

  “So?”

  “They’re going to get us. They’ve found something with our DNA on it.”

  “The fuck they have!” cried Dev. Suddenly he stood up and hurled the can of gun oil across the room. It splattered across a poster of Miss Monster Truck, a bikini-clad blonde who sucked one finger while straddling a giant tire. “They haven’t found anything in twenty-five years, and they sure as hell aren’t now!”

  “Dev,” Butch said softly. “You know what we did.”

  “Yeah, but they don’t.” Dev got up from and started walking around his desk, like a big dog on a short chain. “Anyway, I know something we can do to make sure they never know.”

  “What? Blow up the police station?”

  “We double back, like a rabbit. Send them in a different direction, away from us.”

  “How?”

  “Come up with a story. Cry, pretend that we’ve been tortured by our guilty consciences. We should have done this years ago, we’ll say. But we were scared. We were kids. We didn’t want to be snitches.”