I entered a small common area and as I shut the door behind me, Ronnie came out of one of two rooms. She smiled and extended her hand.
“Mr. Shepherd, please come in. Good to meet you.”
Ronnie looked young for a lawyer. Her formal handshake and the “Mr. Shepherd” made me certain of it.
“Nate, please,” I said.
Ronnie smiled. “I meant what I said earlier, Nate. I appreciate you calling me in on this. Turns out the situation’s a little complicated.”
“It seemed like there were more connections than I was going to be comfortable with.”
“There are.”
“Then I’m glad you’re involved.”
“Me too.” She waved me in. “Come meet Abby.”
I entered the small conference room to find Abby Ackerman seated at one end of the table, a set of crutches leaning against the wall behind her. She wore jeans and a button-down shirt and she was looking down so that her reddish-brown hair hung forward.
“Good morning Abby,” I said.
Abby's head ticked up, revealing a horrible bruise on the left side of her face that surrounded an eye that was swollen and blood-filled. “Pardon me if I don’t get up, Shepherd.” She flipped a hand at her crutches. “My giddy-up is busted.”
“Of course. How are you doing?”
She put out her hand and I shook it. “Either you really mean that or Archie’s got himself a great lawyer.”
“I really mean that.”
“Hmphf. Well, I’m alive, so I can’t complain.”
“Really?”
She shrugged. “I have a busted hip that’s ended my figure-skating career, but I’m making up for it with a dent in my head.”
Now that she said it, I saw what she meant: the bone that framed her left eye was dented in. I focused on the crutches instead. “Should you be up and around?”
“You know, Hawkins here asked me the same thing and I’ll give you the same answer—how’s a body supposed to get better in bed?”
“The doctor might know what he’s talking about,” said Ronnie.
“Pfft,” she said.
I realized I hadn’t seen anyone else in the office. “How did you get here?”
“Bonnie drove me. Hamish would never have let me come.”
“That’s part of the dynamic I was talking about, Nate,” said Ronnie. “I wanted to talk to Abby by herself, without Bonnie or Hamish or anyone else, and hear what she had to say.”
“Which we should get to,” said Abby. She gestured at her face. “Archie didn't do this.”
“Who did then?”
She shook her head. “I don't know. But it wasn't Archie.”
“Did you see the person who did it?”
She shook her head again. “I never saw the chicken-shit full-on.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it was dark when he bashed my face in.”
“Why don’t you just start at the beginning, Abby,” said Ronnie.
“You’re bossing me again, Hawkins.” Abby sighed in irritation. “But okay.”
Abby turned toward me and when she did, the dent in her eye socket was pronounced. I focused on her other eye as she said, “So I went to the concert with Bonnie and Heather and Kayla because Heather is a super fan and she was sure that Big Luke was never going to play Carrefour again, which is probably true. Kirby hooked me up with tickets for all four of us.”
“How do you know Kirby?” I asked.
“I went to the Quarry a lot when I was in high school and worked there on and off for a couple of summers after. Anyway, I knew it would be packed, so I parked in the employee lot and then came through the back gate. I picked up the tickets from Kirby, met the girls in the courtyard, and went to the concert.” She shook her head. “That boy can tear it up.”
“Did you see Archie at the concert?”
Abby shook her head. “No.”
“Not that you remember,” said Ronnie.
“Right, that I remember. I do remember seeing Hamish there, though.”
That was new. “You didn’t go to the concert with him?”
“No, it was a girl’s night and I didn’t think he was interested. He said afterwards that it was a last-minute thing. So the girls and I were in line for a drink after the concert and I saw Hamish from across the courtyard and waved. He was leaving out the back too and I wanted to say ‘hi’ real quick so the girls and I said we’d meet at HopHeads and they went out the front to their cars and I went out the back to see Hamish.”
“Did you catch up to him?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“We talked.”
“I see.”
“A little more than that, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Hawkins here might not want me to say it, but we fought like cats with our tails tied together.”
“Okay. Fought or argued?”
“Well, isn’t that a lawyerly question. We yelled at each other, Shepherd. Hamish never laid a hand on me.”
“So then what?”
“So then I was still worked up.” She smiled. “You may have noticed that I tend to get a little animated.”
“You don’t say.”
“It’s true. So I took a seat on the old stairs for a bit to calm myself and I sat there for a few minutes and then, when I stood up, somebody grabbed me and said, ‘Hey!’”
“What did you do?”
“I cussed and jerked back. And that’s when I took my tumble.”
“Did you see anything?”
She shook her head. “Not a bit. So next thing I know, I’m lying on the rocks and I’m dizzy and I can’t really see and when I try to move, it’s like someone jammed a cattle prod into my hip.”
I nodded. “And then?”
“So then, I’m pissed and I call for help and I hear footsteps on the stairs and I think whoever the jack-wagon is that grabbed me is coming to help.”
“Then what?”
“So I hear him and I see someone on the cement pad, but its dark and my vision is crap and all I can see is his outline against the sky. And he comes toward me and I tell him he took his sweet time, and then I see this guy rise up and, bam!”
“Bam what?”
“I wake up in the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure, but they tell me that the jack-hole smashed me in the head with a rock.”
“That’s what the doctors think,” said Ronnie.
I pointed at my eye. “That’s what this is from?”
“Charming, ain’t it?” said Abby.
I thought. “And Hamish isn’t the suspect?”
“I’m sure there’s a reason,” said Ronnie.
“Sure there is,” said Abby. “Neither of them, Archie or Hamish, would ever hurt me.”
“Do you remember anything else?” I said.
Abby paused, then said, “It sounds stupid.”
Ronnie put a hand on her arm as I said, “Nothing in this sounds stupid.”
“I know that, Hawkins. I mean the guy was stupid, it made no sense.”
“What’s that?”
“What he said right before he brained me.”
“Which was?”
“He said, ‘More gas than the Albion Skip-N-Go.’”
“What?”
She shook her head. “I know, right?”
“‘More gas than the Albion Skip-N-Go?’”
“Like I said, it doesn't make any sense. And who wants to go to Albion anyway?”
“Good point.” I thought. “Was it Archie’s voice?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Abby,” said Ronnie.
Abby sighed. “I can’t say who it was or wasn’t. But it couldn’t have been Archie.”
“So you don't think Archie did it, but you can’t describe the person who did?”
“Listen, Shepherd, I don’t know if you’ve been able to talk to Archie yet—”
&n
bsp; “I have.”
“But he would never do this. Never. He’s devoted to his family and he’s devoted to Bonnie and he would always look out for me. There’s no way he would hurt me.”
“Abby feels pretty strongly about this,” said Ronnie. “She’ll comply with any subpoena, but she's not going to cooperate with the prosecutor.”
I nodded. “That's my next stop.” Abby shifted and winced and then pushed the look off her face. I realized the pain she must be in and stood. “I’ve kept you long enough, Abby. Thank you for seeing me.”
“You have to make him drop this, Shepherd. Archie shouldn’t be in jail. And it’s damn near killing Bonnie.”
“It’s good to know how you feel about it, Abby. Thanks again for telling me.”
Abby stuck out her hand and I shook it. Her grip was surprisingly strong as she said, “I mean it.”
“I can see that. I hope your recovery goes well.”
“You and me both.”
I stood and Ronnie walked me out. Once we’d left her office, Ronnie said, “I'm not getting any sense that she’s being pressured by anyone in the family to say this. The opposite in fact.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Hamish is convinced his brother did it.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure, he won’t tell Abby. I’m sure Stritch knows though.”
I nodded. “I'm going to go see him now. I'll let you know what he says.”
“Good.”
I looked back at the room. “Abby seems to be on her way back.”
Ronnie looked at me then, hard. “Recovery is a long path, Nate.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it wasn’t.”
“Just because someone presents as fine doesn’t mean they are.”
I nodded. “Like I said, Ronnie, I’m glad you’re involved.”
She smiled then. “Thanks.”
We said goodbye and I left Ronnie Hawkins’ office to make the short walk across the street to the Ash County Courthouse and the office of prosecutor T. Marvin Stritch.
7
T. Marvin Stritch was a lot like the Ash County courthouse itself—a no-nonsense dispenser of rigid steel justice clothed in shades of brown. He was a career prosecutor who had spent two-and-a-half decades in the job, first under the current judge and now as the chief. He was one of those lawyers who got better and better at the practice of law as he aged because his focus became narrower and narrower until it was really impossible for him to have a conversation about anything without bringing it back around to the law. He had brown hair and wore dark brown glasses that sat above drawn cheekbones that made it look as if the law was slowly sucking the life out of everything about him except his animated eyes.
He was kind enough to see me the same day that I called and I saw that his office was a lot like him too—brown paneled walls, a square metal desk with a laminated wood finish, with his lone luxury being a plush, brown leather rolling chair.
“Come in,” he said politely enough and gestured to a wooden-framed, upholstered chair. “We haven't met, have we?”
“We haven’t.”
“Are you new to the practice here in town?”
“No, my office is down in Carrefour.”
The light in his eyes tempered a bit. “Ah. An Ohio guy then?”
“No, I actually live in Ash County on the Michigan side. Voted for you in the last election.”
The light came back. “Well, thank you. Nate Shepherd, Nate Shepherd.” He tapped his desk a couple of times before he pointed. “That's right, you’re the attorney who handled the billionaire murder a few months ago, right?”
“Alleged murder,” I said. “Turns out it was just an unfortunate heart condition.”
“Of course. I read about that. Interesting case.” He shook his head. “I don't think I ever would've brought that prosecution.”
I nodded. “It was a little attenuated.”
“Doesn't make any sense to bring a prosecution if you're not going to win it.”
“True enough.”
Stritch's eyes narrowed. “So, are you taking a case up here?”
“It’s looking that way. If the case keeps going that is.”
“Oh? Have charges been filed?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Then it will keep going. What I said before, you know?”
“I see.”
“Which case?”
“The Archie Mack case.”
Now Stritch's eyes really lit up. “The assault at Century Quarry.”
I nodded. “That's the one.”
“Well, I’m afraid that one’s not going away, Nate.”
“Are you sure? I just came from a meeting with the victim, Abby Ackerman.”
“Oh?” His eyes hooded and I had the distinct impression of an owl waiting to swoop.
“And her attorney, Ronnie Hawkins.”
That surprised him. “She’s represented?”
“Seemed prudent given the family dynamic in this. Anyway, Abby’s convinced it wasn’t my client.”
“I see. Can she say who it was?”
“Only that it wasn’t Archie.”
I saw the slightest hint of relief.
“That’s consistent with her statement to the Sheriff then. It doesn’t change my thinking.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Stritch shook his head. “This is as bad a case as I’ve seen, Nate, without an actual killing. Pushing her down the stairs then trying to finish her off with a rock? You know that, right? That he tried to finish her off with a rock?”
“I heard someone did.”
Stritch frowned at the connotation.
“Do you have the rock?”
The eyes hooded again. “Not at this time, no. We have plenty of other evidence though.”
I kept a straight face. “What evidence is that?”
“Evidence that puts him at the scene at the time of the attack.”
“Evidence of attempted murder?”
T. Marvin Stritch smiled. “I don’t have to tell you, Nate, not yet, but I will because you’ll find that I’m very upfront about things. We have security video and blood. I’ll give you those right away.”
He stood, walked across the room to a beige file drawer, opened it, went straight to the fourth file from the right, opened that, took out a brown envelope, and emptied its contents into his hand. He replaced the envelope, put back the file, shut the drawer, and came over and handed me a thumb drive. “That’s the video. I’ll email you the blood work. It’s only typed right now; the DNA is still pending.”
I took the drive. “Thanks. Any eyewitnesses to the attack?”
“No. Not yet. Still, we think we have this locked up pretty tight.”
“What about Hamish Mack?”
“What about him?”
“Wasn’t he with the victim shortly before the assault?”
He nodded. “So I understand.”
“So why isn’t he a suspect?”
“What you’re holding in your hand. And the victim’s testimony that Hamish left the scene, among other things.”
“Those being?”
“What?”
“The other things.”
“We’re still running those down.”
We’d apparently ended the upfront portion of the discussion so I stood.
“Well, thank you Marvin—”
“—T. Marvin.”
Of course.
“Sorry, T. Marvin. I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
He smiled a perfectly functional smile. “We’re a small legal community up here, Nate. We may be adversarial, but we always try to be reasonable with each other.”
“It certainly seems that way. Thanks.”
I was walking out when I noticed three plain wooden shelves on the back wall. The first two were filled with small model antique cars. “Car buff?”
“I am. The old ones
.”
“That’s quite a collection.”
“The internet is a wonderful thing.”
“I bet.”
I was leaving when he said, “I buy one every time I win a case.”
“That’s quite a fleet.”
“I haven’t lost since I took over as chief prosecutor.”
“Impressive. Congratulations. Thanks again for seeing me.”
“I look forward to seeing you soon,” said T. Marvin Stritch and went back to work.
I headed back down to Carrefour and my office. The hope I’d held for a dismissal after talking to Abby had dissipated now that I’d talked to T. Marvin Stritch. He seemed convinced that the man he was prosecuting was the guy.
Given my encounter with T. Marvin, I suspected that was a common occurrence.
8
When I got home, I grabbed a plate of leftover chicken and vegetables out of the fridge and set up at the counter with my dinner and my tablet. I put the thumb drive in, downloaded the program I needed to run it, and took a look at what T. Marvin Stritch had given me.
A simultaneous feed of four cameras popped up on the screen. I fiddled around with it and soon realized that I could go to any individual picture/video and make it fill the screen or I could watch any combination of them rolling in sync. I decided to run all four at once at sixteen times speed to get a sense of what I was dealing with.
There was one camera positioned in the front parking lot, one on the entrance/courtyard area, one on the concession stands and bathrooms, and one focused on the surface of the water of the Quarry itself.
I started the video at eight o'clock on the morning of the concert. There was an early rush of people through the gate to swim in the morning and, after that, it was just a steady churn of people, in and out, like ants in a hill.
The concert had started at eight that evening, so I slowed things down to eight times speed at around six o’clock. By then, there was a steady migration of swimmers going out of the Quarry and concertgoers coming in. The concertgoers milled about the courtyard, ordered drinks and food, and generally hung out before going into the open amphitheater.
I didn’t stop to see if I could pick out Abby or Archie before the concert and instead went straight to the end. I slowed it down to two times speed and watched the flash of fireworks as people started to file out. Because I knew where she had to end up, I didn’t watch the crowd in the middle of the courtyard camera. Instead, I focused on the concession/bathroom camera, which was the last camera on the way to the walkway around back. After almost an hour of video time, I saw a woman in a white shirt, jean shorts, and cowboy boots that screamed summer country music concert. She was jogging and raising her hand as she left the frame. It seemed to me like she was trying to get someone’s attention.
Blind Conviction (Nate Shepherd Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 4