She slipped into a pair of Nana’s old slippers and padded to the kitchen. Sitting at the chipped Formica table while coffee perked, she swallowed four aspirin with a glass of water and cradled her head, willing the thrumming to stop. Last night was a terrifying blur. She’d been so tickled about Small’s prosecution that she’d driven to Booger’s rotting bait shack near the county line. His hooch was nasty stuff, its quality variable at best, but Booger was the cheapest moonshiner around and her funds were low from being away from work for so long.
The percolator’s wet sputter snagged her attention. She poured the dark liquid into a heavy old mug, adding a healthy dose of real cream and sugar. Blackie tried to rationalize what she’d seen last night to her degree of inebriation. She’d been smashed, no doubt about it. Frowning, she wondered if Booger hadn’t slipped something extra into her bottle. Maybe thinking he could barter his ’shine for some time between her legs. But she’d left Booger before she opened the bottle or her legs, and drove to a secluded grove down near the river. It was peaceful there, and at this time of year, isolated. Toasting herself and Small’s upcoming trial, Blackie sat on the hood of her tiny car, intending only to have a few sips before heading home and changing to meet Nana at the church. Monday was Bible study night, and Nana was sure it was only a matter of time before exposure to the Good Book would straighten her granddaughter right out. Jesus loved the Magdalene, Nana often reminded her, even though we think she was a harlot. He showed Himself to her first after His resurrection, so she was His favorite, no matter what that self-righteous John thought.
But Blackie hadn’t made it to church. Instead, she’d woken in a stupor to find herself resting in slimy, sticky mud reeking of dead fish. A sixth sense had kept her still, letting the night’s sounds seep into her addled brain before she began, ever so slowly, to raise her head. The sight in the clearing still burned in her memory, and she fought with herself over whether it was real or imagined. A familiar Jesus on a cross, head toward the ground. A devil with burning eyes, slim form iridescent in the firelight. The stench of urine and fear, the slick feel of muck against her cheek.
Thanks to the aspirin and the caffeine, the throbbing in her head had slowed to a tolerable level and Blackie checked her watch. She reached for Nana’s phone on the kitchen wall and traced the cracks in the linoleum tabletop as she listened to Jerome’s cell phone ring.
“What took you so long?”
“I’m fine Jerome, thanks for asking.”
“Girl, I oughta turn you over my knee. You scared Nana to death last night. Why didn’t you make it to Bible study? She found you passed out on the sofa this morning, stinkin’ to high heaven.”
Blackie sighed into the phone. She and Jerome were cousins, as close as brother and sister while they were growing up. And although he’d spent time in prison for auto theft and armed robbery, Jerome came out convinced of the error of his ways. He lost everything while he was inside – wife, children, job – but started again without complaint. He lived with Nana and worked at a retirement home, taking care of a rich old widow whom he adored, and who adored him in return. Jerome knew about Blackie’s professional life and she knew he worried about her. Especially after her pimp’s beating. And although she fiercely protected her independence, she warmed to Jerome’s devotion.
“Where were you last night?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.
“Out here at Pecan Grove, with Mrs. Forrester.”
“She not doing well?”
Jerome sighed. “Havin’ bad nightmares for some reason. I’ll be out here tonight, too.” Blackie heard him yawn near the phone. “But we were talking about you.”
“I think I got some bad booze out at Booger’s.”
Jerome chuckled. “You should know better. He brews that hooch with alligator pee. What happened?”
“Something kinda weird,” she answered, slowly telling him what she’d seen. Jerome was silent when she finished speaking. “Well?” she prodded, pouring and doctoring a second mug of coffee.
“How’d you get to Nana’s?”
“I have no idea.” She stood and lifted a curtain patterned with roses to check the drive. “My car’s here. Booger must’ve slipped something in the bottle, right?”
“You need to talk to the po-lice, Blackie.”
“What?” she exclaimed, half laughing. “Why the po-lice need to know some two-bit whore been seein’ devils dancing in firelight ’round the river bottom?”
He sighed. “They found a body this morning. On the courthouse lawn. A man on a cross.”
“That ain’t funny, Jerome,” she whispered, wrapping her hands around the hot mug.
“I mean it Blackie. You best go tell them what you saw.” She heard scratching and a murmured conversation as the phone disappeared into Jerome’s large hand. The crackling cleared and he spoke again. “Mrs. Forrester said it’s all right if I leave now. I’ll meet you at the courthouse. Park out back.”
CHAPTER 49
IT TOOK SAMMY MATHISON a solid half hour to make the short walk from the District Attorney’s office off the square to the courthouse. A few members of the press waited in front of his small office and their numbers grew as he stepped outside and word spread that an official was available for comment. He pushed gently against the expanding crowd, quietly refusing to answer the questions that swelled from a peppering to a bombardment as he struggled against the tight crush of sweaty bodies. Sammy’s image appeared on several news programs that night and on the front page of a few newspapers the next morning, his cowboy boots, pearl-button snap front shirt, giant belt buckle and broad brimmed hat considered too emblematic of quirky East Texas to pass up.
Elaine hopped up to open the courthouse doors and quickly re-locked them behind him. “Is that crowd getting worse?”
Sammy gave her a slow smile as he lifted the cowboy hat from his head, running a hand over his hair before reaching behind him to check that his can of Skoal was still in his back pocket. “It ain’t too bad. Hoffner will talk to them, give them something to chew on and they’ll quiet down,” he drawled. “Is he in his office?”
“Sure is. I’ll bring some coffee.”
“Thanks, hon,” he replied, turning toward the swinging doors leading to the police station. He stopped outside Hoffner’s office and took a deep breath. “How y’all this morning?” he asked as he pushed the door open and found Kado, Mitch and Cass inside.
“How was it, Sammy?” asked Mitch, standing to shake the DA’s hand.
He shook Kado’s hand and smiled at Cass, touching her shoulder as he moved to lean against one of Hoffner’s credenzas. “Pretty bad. You need to make a statement, Bill. Just to keep them quiet.”
Sheriff Hoffner nodded. “I need your advice before I go out there. Listen to what Mitch and Kado have to say.”
Cass resisted the urge to roll her eyes as Hoffner excluded her from the group of people permitted to speak, and settled in her chair instead, listening once again to the facts and conjecture they’d woven together this morning. Sammy crossed one long leg over the other, fingering a lamb chop sideburn where it ended near his jaw. He grunted once or twice as Mitch spoke, but asked no questions.
As Mitch finished, Elaine knocked on the door, carrying several cups of Golden Gate Café coffee. “Stan’s set some food up in the conference room for whoever wants it.”
Cass looked at her watch, astonished to find it was after noon. Sheriff Hoffner shooed Elaine from his office and watched as Sammy emptied cream and sugar into his take-out cup, stirring slowly with a wooden stick. He stared blankly at the smudge of condensation left in a precise circle on his desk when the DA lifted his cup, watching until it evaporated.
Sammy drew a noisy slurp before speaking, face contracting as the scalding liquid hit his lips and tongue. “Let me get this straight. You want to go dig around in Chad Garrett’s house, see if you can find some link to this cult.”
“Yes,” Mitch said.
“That part sou
nds all right. And then you want to go talk to John Earl Shepherd, Mr. Peavey’s son, and Mr. Salter’s grandson, find out what they remember and whether their… ancestors, were involved in this cult?”
“Yup.”
“That part sounds all right, too. But then you want to ask the doctors in town if they’ve got any male patients with scars on their right sides, somewhere on the rib cage or under the arm.”
Mitch nodded.
“That part’s not all right,” Sammy said, taking another slurp of coffee as he stood to walk the small room, head cocked to the side in thought. “Well, maybe it is all right. You’ve got men out in the woods sodomizing one another, but that’s among consenting adults. And you’ve got photographic evidence of at least one female being raped. That’s a crime. You have photographs of these scars?” he asked, stopping to glance at Mitch and Kado.
“Where the right rib cage is visible,” Mitch answered.
He started to pace again. “We’ve got perpetrators we need to identify, and a pretty unique characteristic. Technically, we could request a subpoena for medical records in a search for men with that particular scar. Judge Shackleford might even sign it, given the photos. And the doctors will follow through and give us what we want – they have an obligation to protect those children in the photographs. But we’ve got how many doctors in town? Twenty-five, thirty? Maybe more,” he answered himself. “How long is it gonna take to go through all those records, and how much gossip is gonna be out there about what we’re doing? How many men are we gonna find that have a scar on their sides for some perfectly logical reason?” He stopped, thinking. “Maybe not that many, but still, that’s like sifting for a grain of sugar in a pile of ashes.”
An indistinct memory slammed into Cass’s brain and she mentally tugged at it until it crystallized. She was kneeling beside Officer Hugo Petchard’s prone form, pulling his uniform and white undershirt up so she could slice his smoldering trousers from his body while flames skittered through dry underbrush. She bit her lip.
“Got a better idea?” Sheriff Hoffner asked.
“Nope,” answered Sammy, coming to rest again against the credenza. “But I’d go through Garrett’s house and talk to Shepherd, Peavey and Salter before I tried stirring all those ants up.”
Cass took a quiet breath and steeled herself for the outrage she suspected would follow her statement. “Sir?”
Hoffner grunted, eyes swiveling to take her in. “What, Elliot?”
“I have an idea.”
He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Go on.”
“Last week, when Officer Petchard tried to stomp out that trash fire and caught his uniform on fire, I cut his trousers and undershorts off to keep them from burning him. In the process, I hiked up his t-shirt and,” she paused, “he has a scar on his chest.”
Sheriff Hoffner thumped forward in his chair, eyes glacial. “What are you suggesting, Detective?”
Cass glanced at Mitch, who nodded silently. “Sir, I’ve noticed that Officer Petchard’s behavior has become – uhm – aggressive over the past few months. And the men named in the back of that book,” she gestured toward The Church of the True Believer where it lay open on his desk, “were powerful and, I guess, wealthy. Petchard’s father is pretty well off, and maybe –”
Her voice was lost in Sheriff Hoffner’s honk of incredulity. “You must be joking. You think Sam Petchard is involved in this? That man’s a doctor. You’ve come up with some stupid ideas before Elliot, but this one –”
“– maybe he and Petchard are both involved,” she finished, raising her voice over Hoffner’s to do so. The room went silent, the staccato tap of feet hurrying past in the hall penetrating the closed door. “If Petchard is part of this group, he’s been indoctrinated into a world where women and minorities are ‘less than’, and would explain why he’s been such a –,” an asshole, the voice inside her head pronounced, “– a loud mouth.”
Sheriff Hoffner snorted and opened his mouth to speak. Mitch cut him off. “I know it sounds unbelievable sir, but Cass may have something with this. Petchard has been a real jerk lately, not just to Cass but also to Martinez, using racist language. Technically, what’s he’s done to Cass is sexual harassment.”
The sheriff’s face blossomed with red blotches as he snapped his jaw shut and placed both hands on the desk, leaning forward, blue eyes blazing. “Then why haven’t you reported it?” he thundered.
Cool anger coursed through Cass’s body, driving her forward to face Sheriff Hoffner across the desk. Her eyes flashed as they meet his, her voice low in contrast to his bellow. “I didn’t think it would do my career any good to complain. Sir.”
Hoffner paled and his glance darted among the men in the room. His voice was slow and considered. “You think I wouldn’t believe you, Elliot, because you are a woman?”
Inadvertently, she had scored a point, but the man was her boss. Her heart rate slowed as the flare of anger died and Cass considered her answer carefully. “I was worried about how the other officers would perceive me if I reported Officer Petchard.”
Mitch shifted, his plastic chair creaking with the motion. “Martinez has said the same thing, sir. Both he and Cass just tolerate it and push back where they can.”
Hoffner sighed, glancing at the lean DA, hip again braced against a credenza. “I’m sorry you’re hearing all this, Sammy. Petchard’s performance out on the courthouse lawn this morning is the first I’ve seen of it.”
The DA lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “It’s the same everywhere, just to different degrees.”
Cass cleared her throat. “Sir? There’s more.”
Hoffner glared. “Go on.”
“Petchard and I had words in the squad room last night. He ended up insulting my family and I threatened him.”
“With what?”
“I told him that if he talked bad about my family again, I’d rip his balls off, batter them, fry them and shove them down his throat,” she answered, voice fading.
Sammy smirked in appreciation, seeming to consider that if Cass Elliot intended to emasculate Hugo Petchard, she was fully capable of doing so. “Sounds reasonable punishment to me,” he drawled. “Why is that relevant now?”
Mitch glanced at Sheriff Hoffner, who dropped his chin in a curt nod. “What Cass threatened actually happened, but to Garrett instead of to Petchard.”
The DA froze; his voice was brittle when he spoke. “Garrett’s testicles were removed?”
“With a sharp knife, according to Grey. They were probably battered and fried, and he,” Mitch coughed into his fist, “swallowed them shortly before he died.”
The color drained from the DA’s face and he slouched against the credenza as the full impact of the words hit him. “Good God, he was alive?”
Mitch and Kado nodded.
Sammy picked up his coffee and started pacing again, eyes blind to the room and its inhabitants. Hoffner watched him, waiting for the DA’s brain to finish its considerations. Sammy drained the last of his coffee, carefully placed the empty cup in a wastepaper basket, and then faced Mitch. When he spoke his words were clipped, direct, as if he were examining a witness. The drawl was almost mitigated. “You’ve ruled Officer Petchard out of this?”
“Not explicitly, but logically, yes. We’ll go through the motions once we’ve got the okay from the sheriff.”
“Cass, you think he told someone about your threat?”
“Yes,” she answered, pushing a loose strand of red hair from her forehead.
“And that someone acted on it, but using Chad Garrett instead?”
“Yes.”
“Why Officer Garrett?”
“Tell him everything,” Hoffner ordered. Kado explained the circumstances surrounding the envelope missing from Elaine’s desk and their confrontation with Garrett on Monday morning. Mitch took over and told the DA about the briefcase that Angie had reported missing from the Scarborough’s study.
“If Chad Garrett sneake
d into Lenny Scarborough’s house while y’all were out at the barn, and stole this briefcase with a robe and maybe a phone in it, what did he do with it?”
Mitch and Cass exchanged glances. “We don’t know.”
“And then he came into the courthouse and made a copy of the evidence inventory from the Scarborough’s place?”
“Yes,” Kado answered.
“Why would he do that?”
Mitch exhaled in frustration, burying his hands in his hair. “We don’t know.”
“So you’re speculating that Officer Garrett is involved in this cult.” He stopped and leaned over Hoffner’s desk to look at the notes on The Church’s structure earlier. “In what part?”
Cass leaned forward to look at the notes with Sammy. “He doesn’t have a scar on his rib cage, but we need to search Garrett’s house for a briefcase or one of these books,” she said, tapping The Church of the True Believer. “If he’s one of the thirteen members, he’ll have a copy with his name in it. If he doesn’t have one, maybe he’s a member of The Way.”
“And everything he’s done has been for someone in this group? Man, this just sounds too weird to be true. But, you have the pictures,” he said, coming back to the only piece of solid evidence they’d found. “All right, check out Garrett’s place. Get authorization from his wife if possible, but if she’s still sedated, you can go in as part of your investigation into his death.”
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