A Specter of Justice (15 page)

“And the prosecution's claim?”

“Duncan was a smug, crafty bastard. Other workers on the job testified he'd made lewd comments about the victim, Marie Roddey. One claimed Duncan pocketed a silver candy dish from her living room.”

“Did he confront Duncan?” Peterson asked.

“No. He said you didn't confront Duncan unless you wanted a fight. Duncan wasn't supposed to be in that part of the house. The project was a den expansion and new screened porch. So, the second workman wasn't supposed to be there either. He was using an inside bathroom instead of the Porta-Jon in the backyard.”

“Did the police find the silver dish?”

“Yes. In Duncan's room in a boardinghouse. Duncan claimed it had been planted. The worker testifying against him lived in the same house. I also challenged the jury to consider why a murderer would leave a murder weapon behind with his prints on it.”

“Did you think he was guilty?” Peterson asked.

Hewitt waved the question aside. “Irrelevant. The salient point is Lenore had reasonable doubts. The second trial never happened because some idiot used the hammer to repair a broken shelf in the evidence storage room, and it was misplaced. That was just one of several incidents that compromised the chain of custody for multiple cases and pending appeals.”

Peterson shook his head. “If this trial is the link, why wait twenty years to take your revenge? And where does Molly fit?”

His questions mirrored my own.

Hewitt jabbed his finger at the young lawyer. “Finding that answer, Mr. Peterson, is why I'm hiring you. Cory will give you the case files.” He shifted his eyes first to Nakayla and then to me. “And I suggest the esteemed Blackman and Robertson Detective Agency begin tracking down Marie Roddey's relatives and closest friends.” Hewitt stood and started for the door. He abruptly stopped and turned around. “And find the whereabouts of Kyle Duncan. If the murders are connected to the trial, then he might have already been the first victim.”

“Where are you going?” Shirley asked.

“To convince Helen Wilson to accept the offer Mr. Peterson brought us.”

Chapter Fifteen

The five of us sat at the conference table in silence until we heard the office door close and Hewitt's footsteps fade away.

Shirley rolled her dark eyes. “Welcome, Tom, to King Hewitt's Nuts of the Round Table. You have to be crazy to work here.”

“I know. I'll try to stay out of his way.”

“Good luck with that.” Shirley stood. “Let's make this Command Central.” She looked down at Peterson. “You're in the Jackson Building, right?”

“Yeah, but I can bring a laptop here if that's helpful.”

Shirley grimaced. “Trust me. You'll get more done if you work elsewhere, and you're only a block away. I'll set up a secure Internet site to share files and documents. We can meet here every morning at seven-thirty and close out the end of the day with a drink downstairs. I know that will keep Hewitt happy.”

Cory raised her hand. “Should Tom and I get the Duncan files?”

“No,” Shirley said. “You and I can do that.” She turned to Peterson. “They're in off-site storage near UNC–Asheville. It makes more sense for you to talk with Nakayla and Sam.” She glanced at the oversize silver watch on her wrist. “Five-forty. Give me your office key and I'll have the files waiting for you in the morning.”

“No,” I said. “I want them kept in our office. There are two of us and we're going to do the tracking. Tom can pull whatever he needs. If Hewitt wants to see something, then the files are just down the hall.”

Shirley raised her arms over her head. “Hallelujah. A useful suggestion. All right, Cory. Let's go, girl. It could take a while to find them.”

“We'll help you bring them up in the morning,” Nakayla offered.

Shirley pointed her finger at Nakayla. “Okay. But don't let these boneheads near the coffee machine. They couldn't make a decent pot if they poured it straight from Starbucks.”

The Wicked Witch of the West was back. We were making progress.

Nakayla and I spent ten minutes briefing Peterson on the hearing. He scowled when I revealed that Hewitt's fingerprints were on items purchased close to the estimated time of Lenore's murder. D.A. Carter had made much of the preliminary autopsies indicating both women had been strangled, and that no one could account for Molly Staton's whereabouts after seven on Thursday night. Shirley had been the last person to speak to her. She claimed Molly told her she was going to bed early and would pick up her costume from Lenore Friday morning. Shirley had tried to phone Molly several times that day but only reached her voicemail.

“What's Hewitt's alibi for that time?” Peterson asked.

Nakayla picked up the story. “Shirley says he left the office around six on Thursday and was going home.”

“But we know he went to Lenore's,” Peterson said.

“But not when,” Nakayla said. “The only time confirmation comes from his fingerprints on the breakfast food he purchased Friday morning. He could have gone home first, or to Molly's, or God only knows where, until that breakfast. Neither Lenore nor Molly are alive to verify his alibi.”

“And Friday after breakfast?” Peterson asked.

Nakayla shrugged. “He picked up the passenger van from the rental company, checked in with sponsors, and bounced in and out of the office.”

“Well, we'll need to build a timeline showing how Hewitt couldn't have been able to commit the murders.”

“And failing that?” I asked.

Peterson looked grim. “We have to find another suspect and tell a damn good story.”

***

At seven-thirty the next morning, we re-assembled in the conference room. Nakayla and I had arrived twenty minutes earlier to help Shirley move the boxes of the Duncan files from her car to our office. Tom Peterson would review the transcripts of the case while Nakayla and I tracked down the key players. That was the plan unless Hewitt decided to send us off in another direction.

We took our same seats, as if yesterday's meeting had prescribed a permanent placement at the table. Hewitt was five minutes late, so we sat in silence, no one wanting to initiate chitchat while our leader was missing.

When he did appear, he looked like a man returning from a rejuvenating vacation—clean shaven, hair tied back in a ponytail, eyes clear, and a sparkling smile as wide as his round face.

“Good morning, people.” He dropped in his chair and set a fresh legal pad in front of him. “I trust everyone got a good night's rest.”

“You trust wrong,” Shirley said. “Some of us are concerned about a friend being tried on capital murder charges.”

“I'm concerned for your friend as well. But it's my job to be upbeat and encouraging. I expect the same from you.”

Nakayla and I looked at each other. Hewitt was demonstrating compartmentalization to an extreme degree. Hewitt the attorney v. Hewitt the client. Whatever wall he'd constructed between the two couldn't be psychologically healthy. Behind that wall had to lurk grief, anger, and a certain amount of fear. I understood what Hewitt was attempting to do and why. The question was how long could he play this charade before the wall came tumbling down.

Two vertical frown lines creased Shirley's forehead. “Then before I do my Mary Poppins impersonation, let me tell the euphoric counselor that his client's credit card was used to buy things from Past Presents and Online-Ontime Hardware.”

“What the hell are they?” Hewitt asked.

“An online shop specializing in vintage clothing and another in general hardware.”

“Molly's dress from one,” Nakayla said.

It took me a second to make the connection. Three dresses were at play: Lenore's original dress left on her bed at home, Molly's dress that Lenore's body was discovered wearing in the Grove Park Inn, and the third dress clothing Molly at Helen's Bridge.

Hewitt's mouth dropped. “I bought it?”

“Bought it Thursday and overnighted it from Chicago to Asheville.”

“Where was it shipped?” I asked.

Shirley shook her head. “All I've seen is the charge on the company credit card. I did a quick Internet search and placed a phone call, but the shop's on Central Time so I'll try again later.”

“Then you don't know for sure if it's a dress,” Hewitt said.

Shirley stared at him for a few seconds before turning to Cory. “Did you buy a prom dress on the company card?”

“All right,” Hewitt conceded. “It has to be the third dress. But why such a complicated arrangement? Molly and Lenore had dresses already.”

“Not tied to you,” Peterson said. “And I think Lenore picked up both from the theater company. Molly might have been the first target and the killer wanted to make sure the staging would be correct. This way you're interjected into the middle.”

Hewitt turned back to Shirley. “Follow up, especially where it was shipped because I sure as hell didn't receive it. What about that hardware store?”

Shirley looked even more despondent. “Two grappling hooks and a hundred feet of rope. The billing went to Louisville, Kentucky.”

“Jesus,” Hewitt groaned. “Well, check them out as well.” He forced a smile. “One bit of good news. Helen Wilson agreed to the custody arrangement. Cory, I want you to draft the document outlining the basic terms Tom offered last night.”

I noticed Hewitt had dropped “Mr. Peterson.” Tom was on the team.

“Do you want me to notify the court we've reached a settlement?” Peterson asked.

“Yes. And then start reading the transcripts and other materials from the Duncan trial.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Not what but who. The witnesses plus any depositions or interview notes regarding anyone who appeared to have a zealous compulsion to see Duncan convicted.”

“You mean the prosecution's case,” Peterson said.

Hewitt nodded. “In a nutshell, that's your target.”

We broke up with a meeting set for five that evening in Rhubarb's bar downstairs. Nakayla and Peterson started sorting through the boxes of files. I was anxious to pursue more immediate leads, namely how Hewitt's Hawaiian shirt came to be in the photograph at Helen's Bridge. I didn't doubt what Newly had told me about it, but I was more interested in learning what the photographer knew about his incriminating picture.

Although it was only a little after eight in the morning, I called Collin McPhillips, and he agreed to meet me at the Over Easy Cafe, a popular breakfast spot a few blocks off Pack Square. When I arrived, he was already at a back table.

“You got here fast,” I said.

He lifted his camera case from the chair across from him so that I could sit down. “I was shooting some scenics for the chamber of commerce. The light is better in the early morning.”

“An article with Angela?”

“Nah. Just some seasonal stuff to freshen their website.”

A waitress stopped at the edge of the table. “You need menus?”

McPhillips looked to me.

“No,” I said. “Give me two over-easy and black coffee.”

“The same,” McPhillips said. As soon as she left, he leaned forward and whispered, “So what's all this about Donaldson? Did he really kill Molly and Lenore?”

“A set-up. We don't know who or why. The evidence is all circumstantial.”

“You know the cops kept my card.”

“Your card?” I tried to look like I had no idea what he was talking about.

“The card from my camera with all the photographs on it.”

“Probably some chain of custody concern.”

“Custody of what?” he asked. “I mean I can see them not wanting the pictures of a dangling body going public, but they could wipe the card. Those things aren't cheap.”

“Maybe your photos showed something special they're investigating.”

McPhillips leaned back. “Like what, man? I didn't see anything those Japanese didn't.”

“The police kept all their pictures too.”

He said nothing.

“Did you see anything on top of the bridge?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Like the body coming over.”

He studied me for a moment. “Have you been talking to the police?”

“We all did.”

“But they called me in a second time Sunday afternoon with that same question.”

So, McPhillips didn't know one of his shots had captured the blur of a shirt. And he must not have heard about the evidence introduced at the probable cause hearing. I decided I needed to proceed as if McPhillips didn't have a clue as to how his photographs boosted the prosecutor's case.

I glanced around the restaurant. No one paid us any attention. “I need you to promise not to say where you heard this.”

Again, he leaned over the table until we were less than a foot apart. “I'm a journalist. I protect my sources.”

I nodded as if I actually believed him. My personal philosophy was never tell a journalist anything you don't want spread across the front page the next day.

“Here's what I know,” I said. “One of the photos shows the blur of a Hawaiian shirt as Molly's body rolls over the wall of the bridge.”

His eyes widened. “Donaldson wears Hawaiian shirts.”

“Yeah. But so do a lot of people.”

“In Asheville? In October?”

“He had a jacket over it. Does it make sense he would take the jacket off out in the rain?”

McPhillips thought a moment. “Yes, if he didn't want to get his jacket dirty and wet. Then he could zip the clean, dry jacket up over his damp shirt without anyone noticing.”

Probably the argument D.A. Carter would make, I thought. “But you don't remember seeing a shirt in your frame?”

“No. But I wasn't looking at the top of the bridge. I was expecting Molly to walk out of the darkness from underneath.”

“Well, the word I heard was the photo was yours. It was the only one taken vertically. All the others were horizontal shots and didn't include the top of the bridge.”

McPhillips opened his mouth to say something but then stopped.

“What?” I prompted.

“Nothing.” He paused a moment. “Did the police talk to Angela again?”

“Not that I know. Should they?”

“Just that she was right behind me and had the same angle.”

“Are you still collaborating?”

“On what? I've got no pictures. She claims she's going to write some magazine article. If there's a trial, I'm sure she'll wait for that.”

“A trial means photographs outside the courthouse, doesn't it?”

He couldn't restrain a smile. “I guess it does.”

Our order came and the conversation shifted to McPhillips asking me about some of my more interesting cases, both in the military and the agency. Breakfast ended with a pitch.

We stood and McPhillips picked up his camera case. “You know, I take damn good photographs under any conditions. I wouldn't turn down a little surveillance work now and then.”

“Give me a card,” I said. “In my business, you never know.”

I walked back to our office thinking how McPhillips had good instincts. Of all the photographers shooting Helen's Bridge, he'd been the only one to frame for its full height.