The Busybody Needed Killing, page 14
The fact that the police had called to say that they would be coming over in the morning with a search warrant hadn’t made the evening any more relaxed. Jack asked if I’d be kind enough to keep him company while the police searched. He and Bex had already decided that she didn’t need to be there.
Of course I’d gotten a tour of the house first off and it hadn’t taken very long for me to pick up on why the police might consider Bex a prime suspect. The crossed swords on the wall—real swords—kind of tipped me off. I had forgotten that Bobby had told me the Three Bs had taken fencing lessons but Bex was the real swordswoman of the trio. She’d fenced in college and even now was teaching women the art of fencing—building self-esteem and self-confidence. Bex had a curio cabinet of no small size filled with fencing trophies—some of which were current.
I was suddenly aware that I was drumming my fingers on the table. Since no one else was in the hotel room with me, I didn’t stop myself. If Deacon Drake had been killed with a sword, as the medical examiner believed, who else would the police suspect? Particularly after her outburst at church the week before. You could understand the police jumping to a conclusion—sort of.
On the other hand, I couldn’t see the Shelbyville homicide unit—Jim Ward anyway—jumping to a conclusion like that. Maybe what’s-his-name—Jim’s assistant—Harry might have, but I thought Jim had probably trained him better than that.
I checked the time and decided I’d call Jim in the morning and ask him what I should watch out for while the police were searching the house. Other than making sure nobody tried to plant a sword on the premises.
“And why call and tell the suspect you’re going to search their house the next day? What’s with that?” I was so used to talking things through with my pets I found myself speaking out loud. Somehow it didn’t work as well.
Police planting evidence—right—I didn't think that would be one of the first things Jim would warn me about. Maybe I needed to find a local attorney I could ask questions of.
I could picture Jim shaking his head over this case. Having a patrolman pick up a “person of interest” before you’re ready to question them? Announcing that you’re going to serve a search warrant? All because somebody used a sword—or swordlike instrument—as a murder weapon.
Wait. I sat back in the chair and took another sip of scotch. Could that be what the killer thought when he decided to use a sword? Could somebody be trying to frame Bex?
I considered the idea. By itself it looked pretty good. Bex had made herself a prime suspect with that outburst at church. All the real murderer had to do was to take advantage of the fact that she was a swordswoman of some note, use a sword, and let suspicion fall on Bex.
But Deputy Howard had made a point about the technique the murderer had used to kill Theodore—how the killer had been trained—but not trained as a fencer. That wound might have been made by a sword, but a trained swordsman would have run him through or cut his head off. In Bex’s world of sword fighting, opponents faced each other. If somebody was trying to frame Bex they’d slipped up. Ross could testify to that—if he survived.
I was feeling better about being able to get Bex off by using the framing argument when I came back to the question of why the deacon was killed at the entrance to Camp Serenity. Framing somebody takes planning. Why was the deacon there? Who knew he’d be there? Was he meeting someone, taking a morning stroll, or looking for trespassers? And who had been in the school bus shelter?
I envisioned the murderer hiding there snug and dry until Theodore walked out onto the road. Then the murderer slipped out of the shelter, crept up behind his victim, stabbed him, watched the dead body roll down into the ditch, lit a joint, took a puff or two, dropped it in the middle of the road, and then did what? Disappeared into thin air?
The ice cube had long since melted and there was only a splash of diluted scotch left in my glass. I swallowed it, got up, and walked into the bathroom. It was time to brush my teeth and go to sleep. Maybe my subconscious would come up with the answer while I was sleeping.
I decided to call Bobby instead.
15
Tuesday Morning
AFTER ONE OF the worst night’s sleep I’ve had to suffer through in a long time, I got up, splashed water on my face, and pulled a comb through my hair—didn’t want to scare any of the other guests—or the staff either. Every time I thought I’d gotten to sleep I found myself wide-awake, staring up at the ceiling. I’d tried to force myself to fall asleep and failed. I grimaced at myself in the mirror and decided to get on with the day.
I’d brought some exercise clothes with me and put them on. Don’t get me wrong, I hadn’t purchased them as exercise clothes, they’d just evolved into clothes I was comfortable exercising in. Maybe I mean devolved.
When I’d checked in, I’d sneered at the coffee pot the hotel provided in the room—sneered at the size, quality of coffee, and the companion packets of instant flavorings. Fortunately there was brewed coffee downstairs at the coffee service.
I suppose if my job required a lot of travel I’d be grateful that the hotel provided a way to make something approaching coffee while I was scurrying to shower, shave, and dress before packing up and setting out to the airport, the next town, or my first appointment of the day.
Since I didn’t have to do those things I felt safe in sneering. Besides I was feeling grumpy. I made sure I had my key and the door locked behind me, then I headed for the stairs. Why take the elevator if I was trying to exercise?
On the way out, I passed by the complimentary exercise room. I stopped and looked at it through the window. There were a couple of multifunctional machines—a step-machine or a treadmill at their cores. All “complimentary” meant was there wasn’t an extra charge to use it, which meant, in turn, every guest paid for it—just like we paid for the coffee pot, iron, and ironing board.
Cranbury is hilly and built next to a river. I was used to a town with a river and some hills, but these hills were different—steeper and more of them. When I got back to the hotel I got two cups of coffee—the robust blend—and took them back to the room with me. This time I used the elevator and wondered what was up with my knee—too much time in the driver’s seat or the hills—or a combination?
After the walk, coffee, and shower, I was able to handle my end of the conversation when I caught Jim Ward at his office. From his tone, I guessed that he was on the way to a murder scene. The conversation was short and to the point. He’d probably forgotten my call by the time he got to his car. It was just as well, I really hadn’t felt like exchanging cheerful chitchat.
Afterward I went down to the lobby with the intention of taking advantage of another one of the complimentary features that made the daily room rate seem more reasonable—the free breakfast. The breakfast area in the lobby was equipped not only with food but also the obligatory television. It was on and tuned to a morning show hosted by people who were entirely too cheerful and pleased with themselves. After the sleepless night I’d had they set my teeth on edge. So much for the benefits of exercise.
I stared at the food that was visible on the counter and thought that I’d never seen anything so unappetizing. I hadn’t looked to see what was hidden under the stainless steel hoods that covered the hot food and already I knew I wasn’t going to like it. I realized that I was working myself up into an attitude that wasn’t going to do anybody any good. Maybe I've gotten to the point where I don't travel well—but should I take it out on the world?
As I stood there one of the other guests lifted up the hood over the steam tray, revealing a pool of lumpy, gelatinous liquid. He picked up the serving spoon and started poking at the contents. “Is this SOS?” He was an older man who was speaking to the world in general. “I haven’t had any of that since I was in the army and ate at the chow hall.”
Memories of meals came flooding back to me—meals where the food really looked unappetizing—lots more unappetizing than this. In the army they call them chow halls—the navy’s term is more precise—they call it what it is—a mess. At least that’s how it was explained to me—Seaman Recruit Crawford.
I stepped up and looked closer at the liquid and the bread beside it. “Nope, that’s sausage gravy not creamed chipped beef—and it’s eaten on a biscuit, not toast. It’s southern.”
The man turned to me and grinned. “How can you tell? Looks to me exactly like the ‘same old stuff’ they used to slap on those old metal trays forty years ago.”
I smiled too, thinking back on similar memories. No use blaming him for my poor night’s sleep. “There’s no toast for you to put it on—only biscuits. Sausage gravy is served over biscuits—and pork sausage is cheaper than dried beef. But if you liked SOS, you should like this. First you need to take a biscuit and split it in two—and don’t forget the pepper.”
He laughed, stepped back from the counter, swept his arm toward the food and urged me forward. “After you. Show me how it’s done.”
Maybe it was just that pleasant little encounter, maybe memories of long ago, maybe it was the sausage gravy—whatever—I felt better about the day. In a better frame of mind, I was sitting at a table for two finishing a cup of coffee when a couple of Cranbury police officers walked in the entrance of the hotel and headed straight to the breakfast buffet. True to stereotype, they grabbed some doughnuts and then headed for the coffee service.
“Morning, officers,” the desk clerk waved from her spot behind the check-in counter. “Nice day.”
I thought the hotel management had made a good decision to open up the breakfast bar to the local constabulary. It spoke pretty well for the pastries and coffee if the police liked them. Besides, if there ever was any trouble with hotel guests, it’d be nice to have an “in” with the local officers.
“You’re not going to report this are you?” The younger of the officers was waiting his turn at the coffee urn.
“Report?" The desk clerk shrugged. "Oh, the election’s been over for months. You can forget all that nonsense.”
“Ha, so you say.” The younger one picked up his cup, turned around, and walked over to the check-in counter to flirt with the clerk. She didn’t look disinterested. “Like my gran says, the voters used a new broom—it swept clean. All new city council, new mayor, just as the old police chief retires. Now we’ve got an interim chief calling the shots at headquarters while the mayor and city council try to figure out what they’re supposed to do. County’s in the same shape. New sheriff, coroner, probate judge, and commissioners. Didn’t matter if they’d been mentioned in the embezzlement and bribery charges or not.”
He glanced behind him, saw his partner head for the bathroom, turned back, and took a sip of coffee. “Hindsight is a wonderful thing, I bet all of them are sorry they promoted the deputy district attorney after the old DA died of a heart attack. The way I hear it the council was split on who to replace him with so they let the deputy DA take over until after the elections. You know, what harm could she do? Ha! Now they know. Everybody’s on edge—everybody on the city and county payrolls that is. Those that have been indicted are beyond on edge—they’re worried. Lawyers getting consulted all the way from here to Nashville. Still, I don’t know what the charge would be for accepting a free cup of coffee and a doughnut.”
“Not free.” The clerk shook her head. “They’re compliments of the management—company policy. It’s posted right next to the health department rating. Policemen need our support.”
The young cop went on. “There are so many new people in charge of things, it’s one big sea of confusion—if you know what I mean.”
“Like it was here when the new owners changed which hotel chain we’re affiliated with—a whole new computer system, reservations, purchasing—you wouldn’t believe.” The young lady surveyed the lobby. The only people in her line of sight were the policeman’s partner exiting the men’s room and a guest staring into his cup of coffee pretending not to overhear what was being said—said guest being me.
She dropped her voice. “What’s with the police chief retiring for health reasons? I heard he handed in his letter and cleared out his office the same day. Rumor is he’s got cancer.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.” The young man took a sip of coffee. “Did you know that the chief was on vacation—out in the backcountry of Mexico—absolutely could not be reached—when the old district attorney died and the city council appointed the deputy? Well, he was. She’d been sworn in or whatever they do before he got back to town. In fact, when he heard what they’d done,” the young cop propped one elbow on the counter, leaned forward, and dropped his voice, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but—”
“That’s right, you sure as hell shouldn’t. You need to learn to keep some things to yourself.” The older policeman slapped the younger on the back as he walked past the counter heading toward the hotel entrance. “It’s time we were back on patrol. Quit flapping your lips and get your butt in that patrol car.”
Both the clerk and I watched the policemen exit the building. I couldn’t speak for the young lady, but I was wondering what it was he “shouldn’t be saying.” It sounded like there had been a shake-up of the power structure here in Lee County.
At a guess, the good ol’ boys had suffered a collective brain freeze—not hard to do when you rarely use your brain—and appointed one of the deputy district attorneys to fill out the dead man’s term while they argued about who got the job. Patronage can be tricky you know.
Up until then, it had been business as usual in Lee County, Tennessee. City councilmen, county commissioners, sheriff—all the elected officials had been in office for years. Whenever there was any turnover it just traded one member of the power structure for another. They’d all learned how important it was to work together. Things were pretty good for the establishment—a lot of “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours” deals, with no hint of scandal.
The old district attorney, God rest his soul, was surely a member in good standing of the establishment. He probably did his share of winking at some things that were done. Heck, they’d been getting away with it for years—decades—who knew?
They got sloppy—the good ol’ boys did. It never crossed their minds that they didn’t want anybody who took the oath of office seriously to actually take that oath—unless he had one hand on the Bible and his fingers crossed behind his back. The deceased could have warned them and, from the sound of it, so could the police chief, but neither one had been around to ask—or to warn.
So they had done it to themselves. How sweet. They had handed over the keys to the district attorney’s office to somebody they didn’t control—okay, control might be a little harsh—but that’s what it amounted to.
I was guessing that the chief of police didn’t have cancer. What he had was a pretty good idea of what an independent district attorney would do to the local power structure.
So it had been fruit basket turnover—up here in Cranbury—and in all of Lee County it sounded like. The new DA must have really stirred things up to have wiped out that many incumbents.
Elections had been earlier in the year, but the winners didn’t get sworn in until November. Meanwhile the interim district attorney had kept on doing her job—fulfilling her oath.
I thought back to regime changes I’d experienced at the university and wondered how this compared. In my experience, the new regime better make their changes from the git-go and they’d better get it right the first time. Otherwise inertia—the powerful ally of the status quo—would suffocate any attempts at change. I’d never experienced such extensive turnover at the top levels but I’d still bet on the bureaucracy. It was intact and would continue to operate as it had in the past even with its head cut off.
I glanced at my wrist and was reminded yet again that I no longer wear a watch. A check of my cell phone confirmed that it wasn’t too early to be heading to Jack and Bex’s house. I’d be there before the police got there, but that was my intention. I dumped my breakfast debris in the trash. Time to go back to the room, brush my teeth, then get on the road.
I wanted to witness the warrant being served. I wasn’t going to say anything about how it was served—I just wanted to be an objective observer. Jim Ward had been very clear. Whatever happened, I needed to describe it to the defense attorney—if one was hired—and nobody else.
As far as I could tell, the warrants were served correctly but, as my friend had emphatically pointed out this morning, a five-minute phone conversation wasn’t going to make me an expert. Since our conversation hadn’t lasted anywhere close to five minutes I had to consider myself even less of an expert.
Bex had gotten a ride to school. She’d explained to me the night before that math—more than some other subjects—needed instructional continuity—or some such—a fancy way of saying that the best way to learn math was to be exposed to it every day. It had made sense to me. I could remember in high school opening up a math book at the beginning of fall semester and wondering if I’d ever seen that stuff before.
One police detective started searching the cars—Jack’s truck and Bex’s Prius. The other three headed for the house and I followed them. It didn’t take long for me to decide that they were looking for something in particular—something long and thin—with a sharp point and edge. Truthfully, I didn’t really know about the sharp point or edge. Maybe they were always careful to use a wooden pencil instead of their fingers when poking around.
