A Specter of Justice (21 page)

“Discard the hate,” I said.

Brooks gave me a wry smile. “Reconciliation can't happen any other way. You can take all of those theology books in my office and their hundreds of thousands of words, and they all come down to one—reconciliation. Person to person, person to God.” He held up his hand. “Better stop me before I go preaching at you.”

A knock sounded from the door and a man I assumed to be Junior Atwood stuck his head in. “You wanted to see me?” His dark eyes widened with surprise as he saw Nakayla and me. Apparently Brooks hadn't told him we were coming.

“Yes,” Brooks said. “Do you know Nakayla Robertson and Sam Blackman?”

Nakayla and I stood and shook the reluctantly offered hand. Junior looked to be in his late forties and was built like a chiseled block of stone. I sensed a military bearing and some physical training regimen that he must have continued to keep in shape. He was all muscle. His gray hair was cut short in a military buzz. His handshake was firm, but not one trying to demonstrate strength.

“They asked me to introduce you because they think you might be able to help them with some audio problem.” Brooks turned to me. “Did I get that right?”

“Yes. Thank you for coming, Mr. Atwood.”

“You can call me Junior.” He slid into the vacant chair by the sofa. “What kind of problem do you have and how can I possibly help?”

Nakayla and I sat and I pulled my cell phone from my belt. “When we were at church last Sunday, we were very impressed with the audio set up. Wheezer told us that was all your doing, and that you had been an audio tech specialist in the Army.”

“That's right,” Junior confirmed.

“I was a chief warrant officer and sometimes worked with audio techs when it involved a case. You guys know your stuff.”

Junior straightened in his chair, obviously flattered by the compliment. “I heard you were CID. Lost a leg too.”

“We all did what we had to,” I said.

He nodded. “True. Some more than others. You have my respect, Mr. Blackman.”

“If I'm calling you Junior, you're calling me Sam.”

For the first time, a smile flashed across his lips. “Okay, Sam. So what is it?”

“We got this message on our office answering machine.” I pushed the play icon on the audio app and set the phone on the slate top coffee table. I kept my eyes focused on Junior's face while Nakayla watched Pastor Brooks.

“Mr. Blackman. You have crossed Helen's Bridge into the valley of the shadow of death. You and your black harlot. Be warned that the scythe of justice is sweeping away all who are found guilty.”

When the message hit “black harlot,” Junior's eyes jumped to Nakayla and his face reddened. I picked up the phone as the clip ended.

Junior looked at Brooks. “What kind of scumbag would leave a message like that?”

“I guess they're hoping you can find a way to identify him,” Brooks replied.

I saw Nakayla give a subtle shake of her head to cue me that Brooks' reaction hadn't been suspicious.

“The police have analyzed it,” I said. “The ambient background sound appears to be from a bar and they say the clip has been filtered to disguise the voice. We were wondering if you could reverse the process.”

Junior held out his hand. “Let me listen to it again, this time close to my ear.”

I handed him the phone. “I also went to a bar we think might be the location and recorded ambient sound to try and match the location.”

“Good. I'll listen to that as well.”

For about five minutes, Junior worked my phone. He'd listen to the message and then jump down to the cuts I made at the Thirsty Monk.

He handed the phone back. “Interesting.”

“Can you do anything?” I asked.

“I'd like to pull copies. I think the voice filter was used to lower the original voice. But that's not the interesting part.”

“What is?” I asked.

“The voice has been filtered but the background hasn't been. That means the voice and background were recorded separately. Someone took the trouble to mix the tracks together before sending them to your answering machine.”

“Why would they do that?”

Junior shook his head. “That's the question, isn't it? Either to establish a location for the time of the call that wasn't the real location, or to make sure the location was recognizable because he wanted it to be identified.”

“Or both,” I said.

“Or both,” Junior agreed. “Whichever, you have a very clever adversary.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Nakayla and I sat stunned by Junior's analysis. The background of the call could have been recorded any time earlier that evening or even days ahead.

“You're positive?” I asked. “The police didn't mention the discrepancy.”

Junior waved his broad hand as if to dismiss the entire Asheville Police Department. “Once they identified the background as a bar they got too focused on the voice. I guess I was more open to the possibility because I'd seen it before.”

“In the Army?”

“Yeah. A homicide investigation where you CID boys thought a sergeant was good for the murder of his wife. Neighbors said there had been rows in the past. This was off-base near Fort Bragg.” Junior leaned forward, his eyes bright as he recalled the event. “But a message from the husband on the victim's phone was recorded in the middle of the window that the ME had established as the time of death. You know those Moe's restaurants?”

“The burrito place?” Nakayla asked.

“Yeah. Whenever you walk in the door the staff all yells, ‘Welcome to Moe's.'”

“He used that as an alibi,” I said.

“You got it. You can hear the words plain as day behind him. He tells his wife he's running late and to go ahead and eat. He'll be home later. Later was around eleven because after Moe's he stopped at a bar. He found the backdoor of his house broken into and his wife strangled in the den. The silver and her jewelry were taken.”

“What put you onto the message?” I asked.

Junior rubbed the back of his neck like the reason puzzled him as well. “Something about the sound. His voice was too clear. I didn't have any technical proof. The investigators hadn't found witnesses at Moe's who remembered seeing him, but the bartender testified he'd been drinking beer till around ten thirty. I played a hunch and took my recording to Moe's on my own. I had the staff listen to it one at a time. Several people recognized themselves, and one guy, an African-American with a distinctive baritone voice, was predominant in all the ‘Welcome to Moe's.'” Junior grinned. “The trouble was he'd been off the night of the supposed call. I gave the info to CID and it sealed the case. I got a nice write-up in your CID newsletter.”

“Impressive,” I said. “That's the kind of newsletter you send home.”

He actually blushed. “Well, I guess it was a highlight.”

“I know one of your relatives who must have been impressed.”

His expression turned wary. “Who's that?”

“Collin McPhillips. We got to know him working on the fundraiser. He thinks a lot of you.”

Junior seemed uncertain how to respond. Interjecting Collin had momentarily thrown him. He looked at Pastor Brooks. “Collin's like a second cousin. Good kid but a little too much in the liberal Asheville camp. He did send me a congratulations note, although we rarely cross paths these days.”

I turned to Nakayla, signaling her to add anything she wished.

“This has been very helpful,” she said. “Do you think there's any chance you could reverse engineer the filters on the voice?”

“Did the police try that?” Junior asked.

“Yes,” Nakayla said. “They said the voice went through at least a two-phase alteration that they couldn't undo.”

Junior nodded. “Whatever frequencies were lost can't be accurately replaced. If you find the original project on someone's computer, you might be able to undo those changes, but if the guy's got any brains he deleted all the files.”

“How about the background?” I asked. “I recorded three locations—a ground level bar, the cellar bar, and the cellar restroom.”

“We're talking about the Thirsty Monk, aren't we?” Junior winked at Pastor Brooks. “Not that I've ever been there.”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“I don't think it's the restroom because that sound is more muffled. If I had to take an educated guess, I'd say the upstairs. The sound's more hollow with the outside door.”

It was the answer I was hoping for.

“Thank you both for seeing us,” I said. “I'll let you know if we have any luck.”

“Do you think you're in any danger?” Brooks asked.

“No, I think someone's trying to confuse things, not threaten us.”

Junior cocked his head and gave me a hard stare. “This is about those ghost story killings, isn't it?”

“Yes,” I said. “But please keep our conversation confidential. The man behind the voice might be the man behind the murders. We don't want to spook him.”

“You have my word,” Junior promised.

“You have my prayers,” Pastor Brooks added.

Back in the CR-V, I asked Nakayla, “Can we cross Junior off our list?”

She scrunched her lips, weighing the question. “He seemed to have an innocent reaction, and I think he was genuinely surprised to see us.”

I started the engine and backed out of our space. Evening worshipers were beginning to arrive. “Can you think why Brooks told him to come by but neglected to say we'd be there?”

“Only one reason,” she said. “Brooks suspected we'd be asking something about the murdered women and he was as curious as we were to see Junior's unprepared reaction.”

“And if Junior left that voicemail, why reveal the truth about the background?”

“Covering himself,” Nakayla said. “Maybe he didn't know what we knew and decided to play it straight. One thing for sure, it changes the whole character of the phone message.”

“A spoofed number and a falsified location time,” I said. “But I don't see how it could have been planned. Even Hewitt didn't know he'd wind up at the Thirsty Monk.”

“All our guy needed was a cell phone and a laptop,” Nakayla argued. “People carry those like they carry wallets. He witnessed Nathan and Hewitt go into the bar, followed, and made the ambience recording unobserved while they were in the lower bar. Then, he could record his voice in his car where no one could overhear him. He doctored it, mixed in the background, and sent the message when it was late enough that the bar had thinned out. The staff would remember Hewitt and if the call came from a reasonably close proximity, the cell tower records would support the location.”

Nakayla's theory made logical sense as far as a sequence of events, but one question still gnawed at me. “Why? To what purpose? It's not like the evidence ties Hewitt to the murders.”

“Face it, Sam. Someone hates Hewitt and is exploiting every opportunity to make his life miserable. Maybe he thought calling me a black harlot would drive a wedge between you and Hewitt.”

“Maybe.” I pulled my phone from my belt and handed it to Nakayla. Dusk was falling fast and I didn't risk driving and dialing. “Call him. His number's in recent calls as Hewitt's cell.”

He must have answered on the first ring.

“Hewitt. It's Nakayla. Okay if I put you on speaker?” She held the phone on the console between us and pressed the speaker icon. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” His voice sounded tinny but the connection was good. “Where are you?”

“We just left the church,” I said.

“You feeling righteous?”

Hewitt's sarcasm struck me the wrong way. “Brooks is all right. Thanks to him Junior gave us some valuable information.”

“Like what?”

“The background audio on that phone message was recorded separately from the voice. The voice was filtered but the bar was meant to be heard.”

Silence.

“Hewitt, did you hear what I said?”

“I heard what you said, but what does it mean?”

“Someone recorded the sound at the Thirsty Monk and then mixed in a filtered voice later. They didn't have to place the call from the bar at all. They avoided being seen after the bar thinned out.”

“Hot damn,” he said so loudly it distorted the speaker. “If Carter presents that message we can blow him out of the water.”

I sensed wherever Hewitt was he was dancing.

“No,” I said sharply. “I don't think that's the way to play it.”

Again, silence. Hewitt wasn't accustomed to having his courtroom strategy challenged.

“All right,” he drawled at last. “Then what do you suggest?”

“I understand your inclination is to ambush Carter if he tries to play this card. But the message proves nothing. Rather than engage in a game of Gotcha, we need to find the real killer. In my mind, the doctored voicemail confirms the existence of a conspiracy. If we can fuel Newland's doubts about your guilt, then not only can you undermine his testimony if Carter puts him on the stand, but you increase the friction between him and Carter. I bet if it comes to a head, the police chief will back his detective and buck the prosecutor.”

Without hesitation, Hewitt said, “I'm sold. Come by the Rhubarb Bar. We're still here.”

Nakayla gave a definite shake of her head. She was done for the day and the last thing she wanted was a night drinking with Hewitt.

“Thanks, but I want to get to Newly as soon as possible. We'll see you in the morning.” I clicked off before he could argue.

“Thank you,” Nakayla said. “I'd like for you and me to split a bottle of wine and take-out Chinese at my house. Then we'll see what develops.”

I sped up. “Now that's an offer I can't refuse.”

“Do you want me to call Newland?” Nakayla asked. “Maybe he can see us first thing in the morning.”

“Yes. His number should be on the recent call log.”

Their conversation lasted less than a minute She spoke three sentences. “This is Nakayla… Sam's with me… We'll be there.”

“Don't tell me,” I said. “The wine and Chinese are on hold.”

“Newly wants us at the station. He has something he thinks we'll find interesting.”

“You didn't even try to tell him about the recording.”

She flashed a broad smile. “Whatever he's got, I want to trump it.”

“Getting a little competitive, are we?”

She handed me my phone. “I've always been competitive. I just don't consider you competition.”

I knew I should shut up while I was behind.

We were buzzed through to Newland without any fanfare—no reporters, no satellite trucks, no problem. Although the bullpen was relatively deserted at mid-shift, Detective Newland led us back to the same interview room, only this time without the dramatics of turning off the lights and reversing our seating arrangements.

He sat, motioned for Nakayla to take the seat beside him, and left me to sit in the interviewee chair across from them. He laid an unzipped, leather portfolio binder on the table.

“What's new from your side of things?” he asked.

“You invited us.” Nakayla eyed the legal-pad size binder in front of him.

Newly scraped the legs of his chair on the hard floor as he angled to see both of us. “Well, I know this is going to come as a shock, Nakayla, but Sam had a good idea.”

Nakayla drew back in mock surprise. “There must be some mistake.”

Newly flipped open the portfolio. Tucked in the left inside pocket opposite a clean legal pad was a clear evidence bag. He pulled it free and handed it to Nakayla.

“Sam remembered one of the techs at Helen's Bridge asking if Al had torn his shoe covering. I'd let that slip my mind, and at your partner's suggestion, I went back through the litter collected at the scene. This is what I found.”

Nakayla gave the plastic pouch to me. At first glance, the fragment appeared to be shaped like the state of North Carolina, wider at one end and narrowing to a point at the other. The fabric was light green like some hospital scrubs I've seen, and the edge of the wider portion showed a small strip of silver, evidently a part of where the reinforced sole had ripped free.

I held the fragment close to my eye. The edges were frayed, demonstrating a tear rather than a clean cut. A symbol was embossed on the silver—a vertical line with a diagonal line attached to one end forming an acute angle. The diagonal line was interrupted by an edge of the tear. It could be a tread pattern to prevent slipping. It could be part of a letter with a sharp angle like an M or N.

I slid the sleeve across to Newly. “I take it this piece is not one of yours?”

The detective tucked it back in the leather pocket. “No. And the techs made a bad assumption that it was. Ours are blue and have the word POLICE repeated across the sole so that any imprint made at the scene can be clearly delineated from others.”

“Do you know where this came from?” I asked.

“Best guess is some hospital. We're checking medical supply catalogues and all facilities within a fifty-mile radius. That sole design could be a brand name. It could be an M for Medical. The only thing we know for sure is that the shoe cover isn't ours. Unfortunately, on the wet leaves, no shoe prints left an impression.”

“I assume you've analyzed it for soil traces.”

“Yes. Nothing other than what was at the scene. The rip appears to have originated at the edge of the sole. Scrape marks are consistent with a rough rock surface.”

In my mind, I returned to my examination of the bridge earlier that afternoon. “He probably wedged his foot against the rock wall as he heaved Molly's body over. It had to be an awkward position to make sure his face stayed hidden.”

“And yet purposefully expose a portion of his Hawaiian shirt,” Nakayla added.

Newly shifted his gaze between Nakayla and me. “You're going with this elaborate frame of Donaldson?”

I spread my hands wide, palm up. “You think someone else coincidentally wore a Hawaiian shirt in October? Did you get an exact match on the pattern?”

“No,” Newly admitted. “The shirt was too blurred and magnification only degraded it into a smear of colors—but colors consistent with what Donaldson wore that night.”

“I thought you believed Hewitt was being set up,” I said.