A Specter of Justice (13 page)

“Interesting,” was all I could say.

“That's one reaction. The discovery enabled us to get a more extensive search warrant for his property grounds, and we're pursuing another search warrant for his office. The office is going to be a screaming nightmare because of confidential files and attorney-client privilege. We'll work with Hewitt and his staff as best we can, but Carter's confident he's got enough already for an indictment.”

“But you're not.”

“Oh, he'll get his indictment, and we'll explore every nook and cranny of Donaldson's life big enough to stick our nose in. But, like I said, it's too neat. My gut doesn't like it.”

“Then I'll look into the wheelchair and shirt. Anything else?”

“No, but that could change hour to hour. The ME is expediting the autopsy on the two bodies. I should have a preliminary by tonight.”

“When's the hearing?”

“Nine tomorrow morning.” Newly stood. “Let's swap places and turn on the lights. Then you can tell me about the good Reverend Brooks.”

***

“What's the status of the voicemail?” Nakayla asked the question as soon as I finished telling her the details of my conversation with Detective Newland.

“He hasn't received an analysis. He's also submitted a request to the phone company for the call records for Hewitt's landline.”

Nakayla slipped off her shoes and tucked her bare feet into the seam between the leather sofa cushions. We sat in our office. She nursed a cup of green tea. I sat in my customary chair across from her and sipped a glass of straight soda water in a futile attempt to purge cop coffee from my taste buds.

“I don't think he believes Horace Brooks is involved, and after meeting the preacher, I'm inclined to agree.”

Nakayla nodded. “I did a little digging into his background. He's a graduate of Princeton Theological Seminary and was a promising young theologian at Union Theological Seminary in New York City. Until his wife and one-year-old son were killed by a hit and run driver on the Upper West Side. He was on the opposite side of the street watching them cross. He was meeting them for ice cream.”

“Jesus. Did you get this from an Asheville source?”

“No. A national data search going back twenty years. Brooks doesn't wear his tragedy on his sleeve. Evidently he abruptly quit his professorship and went off the radar. He and his tent surfaced here in Asheville two years later.”

“And I bet he hit rock bottom somewhere between New York and North Carolina,” I said. “Sounds like he's rebuilt his faith on simplicity.”

Nakayla pursed her lips. “Maybe it's more a case of simplifying his message. His office library looked pretty deep to me.”

“More volumes than Hewitt's law office,” I agreed. “I was impressed he didn't have any pictures of himself.”

“Or his family.”

“Yes, or his family.” I thought how painful it must be to lose them right before your eyes. I'd seen men die in battle and I'd survived an attack targeted to kill me, but to witness your wife and child run down in front of you must have tested every conceivable theological tenet Brooks held dear.

“Did Newly say anything about Junior?” Nakayla asked.

“Junior Atwood? I didn't ask him. I was focused on linking Brooks to the voicemail.”

“But Junior set you up with the microphone this morning. He's demonstrated he's not above playing a dirty trick.”

“Maybe. Or if it wasn't Brooks, maybe Cletus did it on his own. Either way, I don't think the voicemail's going to lead us anywhere that connects to the murders. Our priority is to learn how Hewitt got tagged with the hard evidence—the wheelchair and the photograph with a lookalike shirt.”

“Did you tell Hewitt that Newly's helping us?”

“No. I didn't speak to Hewitt. But Newly told me Hewitt's notifying Carter that he plans to be his own attorney, and that as the defense attorney, he's hired us as his investigators. I also think we should hire him.”

Nakayla set down her tea and crossed her arms in obvious disapproval. “Hire him for what?”

“For a dollar. We're seeking his legal counsel on whether we have any liability as organizers of the fundraiser. It's my idea to build an extra wall of attorney-client confidentiality.” I leaned back in the chair with self-satisfaction. “I'm not as dumb as I look.”

“I wouldn't test that in court, hotshot, unless justice really is blind. Should we look for an explanation for the shirt?”

“Not yet. There's nothing we can do between now and his hearing. Why risk Newly's confidence? If Carter's playing his cards close, he'll know any leak about the shirt came from inside. I'll confide in Hewitt once he's out on bail.”

“You think he'll get it?”

“It'll be stiff, but Hewitt's a lifelong resident, and I doubt if the judge will see him as a flight risk. Hewitt can argue that imprisonment would cripple his abilities to act as his own attorney.”

Nakayla nodded. “Okay. And in the meantime we do what?”

“I want to talk to Collin McPhillips and learn if he remembers anything about his photographs. And I'd like to see Hewitt's garage where they found the wheelchair. Any sign of forced entry will help his defense.”

“I still think the voicemail is important. Someone tried to link Hewitt to the call, and that's exactly what's happening with the other evidence.”

Nakayla had a point. Just because we'd eased off Horace Brooks didn't mean the phone threat was less relevant.

My cell rang. I pulled it from my belt and recognized the number. “It's Newly. I'll mention Junior.”

I pressed the green accept icon. “Yeah?”

“Can you talk?” Newly's voice was low.

“Yeah.”

“Here's a heads up. You know that voicemail you got at one-thirty?”

“Nakayla and I were just talking about it.”

“Well, our audio techs isolated and amplified the background. It's a bar. You definitely hear snatches of conversation and glasses clinking.”

Hewitt's alibi suddenly evaporated. “Was it from the Thirsty Monk?”

“We haven't been able to penetrate beyond Donaldson's number.”

“That doesn't make any sense. Why spoof your own phone?”

“Why, indeed? I can only think of one reason. To build the defense case that someone was framing you. To confuse a jury. No one does that better than Hewitt Donaldson.”

Nakayla looked at me, trying to follow the conversation from my side alone.

I shook my head. “I don't know about a jury, Newly, but it sure as hell is confusing me.”

Chapter Thirteen

Nakayla and I replayed the voice message five more times. I could hear the murmur of conversation and the clinks of glasses, although nothing clear enough to identify the exact location.

“The voice doesn't sound like Hewitt,” Nakayla said.

“Newly's techs reported it had been filtered and modulated more than once.”

“Why so many times?”

“If the voice were run through a single effect, a reverse process could bring it closer to the original. Multiple filters make it difficult to reconstruct the initial sound frequencies.”

“So, the D.A. can't prove the call's from Hewitt?”

“No, but he can introduce the number from which it was placed.”

Nakayla frowned. “I thought Hewitt's number was spoofed.”

“There's no definitive proof yet. Newly says if it's a spoof, it's damned sophisticated. And Hewitt was in the bar till two. Nathan Armitage will confirm that. Odds are either Nathan or Hewitt went to the restroom and left the other alone at some point. I doubt if they can swear they were together at precisely the time the call was made.”

“Has Newly accessed the records of Hewitt's cell phone?” Nakayla asked.

“In the process. But Carter's not waiting. He thinks he's got enough for his indictment and he's pressing ahead full throttle.”

Nakayla swung her feet off the sofa and planted them squarely on the Persian carpet. “Then we'd better get moving. I'll contact Shirley and let her know what's going on. She'll have a number for Collin McPhillips. I guess we should see him as soon as we can.”

I stood. “Ask Shirley if Hewitt ever had a wheelchair. And we need to look at his garage to see how secure it was.” I reached into the pocket of my sport coat. “Now I'm going to make a phone call of my own.” I held Pastor Brooks' card in front of Nakayla's face. “He offered his help and I'm taking him up on it.”

“Why?”

“Somebody went to great lengths to mask the voice on that message. You're the one who pointed out his dirty tricks.”

“Junior Atwood?”

“He's the resident audio expert at the Church of the Righteous. I'd like Brooks to arrange a little meeting, and then we'll replay the message for both of them. Their reactions could prove interesting.”

I reached Brooks and told him I'd like to speak with Junior and him. I said Junior's experience with audio equipment could be very helpful to an investigation. Since I understood there might be some hard feelings because of my role in Clyde Atwood's trial, I told Brooks I'd appreciate if he would sit in. I wouldn't need much time.

The preacher said Junior hauled farm-raised mountain trout from Asheville to Nashville every Monday and Tuesday where he delivered fresh fish to Tennessee wholesalers. But he'd be back for the Wednesday evening service. Brooks suggested we meet at the church at six o'clock.

“Can I tell Junior what you're looking for?” Brooks asked.

“I've got some recorded sound that's garbled. It's for another case, not the custody dispute.” That was true. The case would be Hewitt's murder trial. “Wheezer told me Junior had been an audio specialist in the military.”

“Okay,” Brooks agreed. “We can meet in my office. You know the way.”

When I hung up, Nakayla was still talking to Shirley. Rather than eavesdrop, I stretched out on the sofa to think.

“Wake up, Sam.”

“I was just resting my eyes.”

“From the drool on your chin, I'd say you were also resting your lips.”

She took my customary chair. “So, tell me about your talk with Pastor Brooks.”

I sat up and took a deep breath to clear my foggy brain. “We're set for six o'clock Wednesday evening. By then Newly should have confirmation on whether it was Hewitt's phone that made the call. How's Shirley?”

“In a word, subdued. I think the charges against Hewitt stunned her.”

Quiet retreat wasn't the reaction I expected from Shirley. “Did she know Hewitt was seeing Lenore?” I asked.

“No. That blindsided her. Lenore, Molly, and Shirley were tight and Shirley can't believe Lenore held back her affair with Hewitt.”

“Maybe Lenore took Molly into her confidence but excluded Shirley. Both Lenore and Molly were a good fifteen years older, and Hewitt is Shirley's boss.”

“That's what I told her.” Nakayla looked out the window toward Beaucatcher Mountain. I knew she was reliving that horrible scene at Helen's Bridge. Her eyes teared. “It's just the avalanche of everything that's come tumbling down in the last few days.”

“Did you ask her about the wheelchair?”

Nakayla wiped her eyes and smiled. “At least that got a chuckle out of her.”

“Why?”

“Shirley says Hewitt keeps it as a prop.”

“A prop?”

“Sometimes he'll put his defendant in it. He claims it racks up sympathy points with the jury.”

Even for Hewitt, the audacity rose off the chart. “But if there's no medical need—”

She interrupted me. “Shirley said he always finds a way. A sprained knee is his favorite.”

“What's Shirley doing next?”

Nakayla shrugged. “Waiting. She and Cory talked and decided nothing should be done until after tomorrow's hearing. Then, assuming Hewitt's released on bail, they anticipate he'll call a strategy session. They don't want to second-guess what that strategy might be.”

“Well, Hewitt made it clear we're on the clock so I'm not waiting.” I stood. “Get your coat. We're going to Hewitt's house.”

“All right.” Nakayla brushed her hand across her chin. “But you might want to wipe that drool off your face first, Sherlock.”

***

I slowed the CR-V as we neared Hewitt's. A police car was parked broadside across the driveway. The late afternoon sun had already dipped behind the back ridge and the deep shadows made the glow of the house's windows appear all the brighter.

The mobile crime lab sat diagonally on the apron of the concrete between the detached garage and front porch. Newly had gotten his expanded search warrant. I drove around the bend until I was out of sight and eased to a stop on the narrow shoulder.

Nakayla unsnapped her seatbelt. “What are the odds we'll get in?”

“Zip on the house. Fifty-fifty on the garage.”

“What makes the garage a better prospect?”

I reached up and clicked off the overhead courtesy lights to keep the interior dark when we opened the doors. “Because there are two of us, and you're going to chat up the officer in the car while I circle around him.”

“You're going to break into the garage?” she whispered.

“No. But I'm going to see if someone else did. Go work that irresistible Robertson charm. I'll give you a minute to get him engaged.”

We got out and synchronized closing the doors so there was only one sound. Nakayla took a note pad and pen from her jacket and walked back along the road toward the house. I pulled a small flashlight from my pocket and waited.

In a few moments, Nakayla's voice rose above the breeze. “Officer, may I ask you a few questions?”

With that cue, I crossed the drainage ditch and entered the woods separating Hewitt from his neighbor. Fortunately, the ground was still damp from Friday night's rain. The wet leaves muffled my footsteps and I could see low hanging branches well enough that the flashlight wasn't necessary.

I looped up the hill where I could descend behind the single-car garage. The voices of Nakayla and the officer grew louder. I hoped she had stationed herself to keep his back turned away from my approach. Technically, I didn't cross under any crime scene tape so I wasn't violating a marked police line.

I'd been to Hewitt's house before but I'd never paid attention to his garage. As I drew nearer, I could see there was no rear window. I opted to stay along the side farthest from the house, walking close to the garage wall where the shadows were deepest.

“I'm not authorized to disclose anything that might have been found.” The officer speaking to Nakayla sounded annoyed.

I turned the corner and saw him standing on the far side of his patrol car. Nakayla faced me. She was flashing her most ingratiating smile.

“But surely the warrant specifies what the search is seeking,” she said. “That's practically public information. Tuck Efird would have no problem with you sharing that.”

I stepped in front of the garage. Old-style double doors were latched in the center, but there was no padlock. The lax security meant anyone could have gained access. I looked down to see if perhaps a bolt on the bottom secured the doors to the concrete driveway. The lights from the house were bright enough to reflect off silver ends of a freshly severed lock. I knelt for closer examination.

The police wouldn't have hesitated to use bolt cutters to remove the tarnished padlock. I could only assume in their zeal they left the lock where it fell. If so, there had been no consideration that it might be evidence and no check for fingerprints.

“Who are you to tell me what Detective Efird agrees to share?” The cop was coming to the end of his fuse and would soon tell Nakayla to clear off.

I clicked the flashlight on and played the beam over the lock. The grime from years of enduring the elements dulled the metal except for the shiny ends where the cutter had sliced through the shackle. I bent closer, placing the light to within a few inches of the lock's base. Fine scratch lines radiated from the key slot. Someone had recently picked this lock. The silver marks were nearly as bright as the freshly cut ends. I pulled my phone from my belt, pressed the camera icon, and placed the lens on the concrete by the lock.

I managed to take three photographs before the flash caught the eye of the uniformed officer.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?”

I looked over my shoulder to see him running around his car with Nakayla close on his heels.

I stood. “I'm doing the job somebody else should have done.”

“What's going on?” Tuck Efird shouted the question from the front porch, and then he jogged down the steps and across the driveway. “Why didn't you keep him back?” he yelled at the patrolman.

“Because he didn't see me,” I said. “If he had, he would have stopped me.” I pointed to the padlock lying between us. “Why'd you give up picking the lock? Now it's ruined.”

Efird gave a cursory glance down. “What are you talking about? We didn't waste time picking Donaldson's goddamned lock. If he's too poor to buy a replacement, he can put on another fundraiser.”

“Then you didn't take time to properly examine it. Someone picked this lock, and if you don't check for prints, I will.”

Efird rolled on a pair of gloves and I handed him my flashlight. While he studied the scratches, I emailed the photos to Nakayla, insuring the images were safely in the Internet cloud.

“You could have made these yourself,” Efird said.

“I could have. Is your theory I bent down and tried to pick a lock no longer securing anything?”

Efird didn't answer. Instead, he turned to the patrolman. “Has someone been stationed here since we found the wheelchair?”

“The wheelchair I told you to look for?” I couldn't resist reminding him I'd already contributed to the investigation.

“We've been on-site the whole time,” the policeman said. “If anyone made scratches, it was before the lock was cut.”

“And Nakayla and I just came to check on the house.” I wasn't about to let Efird know I'd received advance information from his partner.

“By checking on the house, you mean sneaking up to the garage?” Efird reached in his pocket and retrieved an evidence bag.

“We saw the driveway blocked, I noticed the lock, and I wanted a closer look. I'd say it was a good thing I did.” I reached out for my flashlight. “You don't have to thank me.”

Efird snorted through his nose. “Don't push it, Sam. You might find you've crawled out on a limb with the wrong guy this time.”

I'd accomplished the most I could hope for. Hewitt would argue someone picked his garage lock not once but twice, and used the wheelchair to frame him. But who? Without a credible suspect, we had no one to fit into that classic defense, “some other dude did it.” No one but the detective standing in front of me.

Two dead women and their lovers—Hewitt's affair with Lenore kept private and Efird's relationship with Molly ending with emotional fireworks. What connections linked them together? And what drove someone to murder?