Black's Creek (13 page)

D
evlin's funeral was a private affair. No mourners permitted, by order of her mother. Worse, Devlin's body was cremated. Dust. As if she had never existed.

I sneaked as near to the crematorium as I could, fearful of being caught by Jessica Mantle. I watched her leave, with a tiny urn tucked under her arm. I couldn't take my eyes from it. I fantasised about stealing the urn, getting my Devlin back.

Over the following days, depression swallowed me. Everything became claustrophobic. I went back to not eating, but this time neither Mom nor Dad said anything, as if they understood what torment I was going through. Of course, they never saw me crying at night, alone in my room, but they showed mercy during the day, and didn't attempt to pry into my grief.

As the days rolled on, details of Devlin's horrific murder, and her equally horrific life, began to emerge: a father abandoning her at birth, leaving her in the care of a seemingly oblivious mother, hooked on drugs and alcohol. Back then, Jessica Mantle earned money for the drugs through prostitution, before finally ‘finding religion'. It soon became known that Devlin had been abused by some of her mother's clients, and that concerns raised by neighbours at the time were mostly ignored by incompetent or indifferent social workers. One of those clients had been Norman Armstrong.

The local newspapers soon made Devlin's murder a
cause célèbre,
putting relentless pressure on Dad to bring the perpetrator to justice – and quickly. Despite this pressure, it took three long weeks before Dad was able to accumulate enough evidence to finally arrest Armstrong for the murder of Devlin, forensics having matched Armstrong's teeth with marks on her body.

I shuddered when I overheard this piece of vile information from Dad, remembering the horrible bruises, shaped like miniature horseshoes, on Devlin's buttocks.

‘Thank God that vile creature is in jail, Frank,' Mom said as Dad sat down for breakfast, the day after Armstrong's arrest. I was sitting near the window, gazing aimlessly out at a hazy nothingness. ‘The town will sleep a lot more soundly, I can tell you. They owe you big-time for catching him.'

‘The town pays my wages, Helen. They owe me nothing,'
Dad said in a slightly annoyed voice. He looked exhausted, the last few days of cat-and-mouse with Armstrong taking their toll.

‘Well,
they
appreciate it, even if you don't. At my bridge game last night, people were falling over themselves to tell me what a great job you'd done, arresting Armstrong.'

‘That's all nice and fine, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Justice is a long and very rocky journey. It's almost impossible to predict how it'll finish.' Then Dad dropped a bombshell. ‘Armstrong's got Taylor Bradford representing him.'

Taylor Bradford was a living legend in New York State, nicknamed The Jugular due to his penchant for going for that particular part of the throat in courtroom battles. He was flashy, arrogant and sly – labels which could also describe some of his past clientele of mafia bosses, movie stars and politicians. He rarely lost a case, having a better batting average than Babe Ruth. Dad had come up against him several times, and the battle always took its toll.

‘How can a bum like Armstrong afford such a slick piece of oil as Bradford?' Mom said.

‘This one's
pro bono
. Bradford had little choice. Under the American Bar Association's ethical rules, he's obligated to do so many hours of
pro bono
service per year. He hadn't filled his quota this year, apparently. Armstrong got lucky.'

‘What does
pro bono
mean, Dad?' I asked.

‘It means “for the public good”, Tommy. It's Latin.'

‘I don't care what language it's in,' Mom said angrily. ‘It still stinks to high heaven. Lawyers like Bradford have a lot to answer for in regards to the filth they represent. Public good! That's a joke.'

‘Helen, if Bradford hadn't taken the case, he would have been held in contempt of court, or even debarred from practising law. It's his job.'

‘Well, if you ask me, it's a damn dirty job, hiding behind a million excuses to try to look clean. I hope he doesn't play his usual games, trying to bewilder the jury.'

‘Oh, he'll do whatever he can to get Armstrong off, make no mistake about that. Bradford's reputation is on the line each time he steps into a courtroom. All we can do is put our faith in the system. When the time comes, twelve good men and women will have the evidence placed before them. They'll decide Armstrong's fate, and hopefully see through any smoke and mirrors conjured up by Bradford.'

The doorbell rang, and all conversation ended.

‘Who on earth can that be, at this time of morning?' Mom said.

‘Tommy?' said Dad, looking at me. ‘Go see, please.'

‘Okay,' I said, moving slowly to open the front door.

‘Is your father in, Tommy?'

It was Mr Maxwell, his rottweiler stare as intimidating as ever.

I nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I'll go get him.'

Dad looked questioningly at me as I re-entered the kitchen.

‘It's Mr Maxwell, Dad. He wants to see you.'

Mom rose quickly from her seat. ‘Well, I'll tell him he'll just have to come back some other time, when you're less busy.'

‘No, it's okay, Helen,' Dad said, easing away from the table. ‘I'll see what he wants.'

Once Dad had left the kitchen, Mom shook her head.

‘People think your father's a robot, on call twenty-four hours a day. The cheek of him, calling at this time of morning.'

I said nothing, quietly slipping into the hallway. I could hear Jeremiah Maxwell's assertive voice clearly from here. It was firm, but there was an emotional shakiness in its tone.

‘I warned you that sexual predator would strike again, Sheriff, but you wouldn't listen.'

‘I'm afraid you're wasting your time, Mr Maxwell. Discussing the case would contaminate any chance of a conviction. You'll just have to wait until the trial and due process of the law.'

‘“Wait” seems to be your favourite word, Sheriff. Wait. Wait. Wait.' Jeremiah Maxwell said the last three words very slowly and deliberate. ‘Waiting killed that young girl, and no amount of waiting or fancy legal terms will exonerate you, trial or no trial.'

‘I work with what the law gives me.'

‘The hell you do! The law? Don't lecture me about the damn law. Armstrong sexually abused Joey, forced him to
commit suicide. Where was the law then, when Joey needed it? Oh, that's right, I have to
wait
for that. You knew from the beginning what type of sadistic animal Armstrong was, when you had him in your office, interrogating him. But you did nothing.'

‘I did everything in my power to apprehend him.'

‘That's bullshit, and you know it. Just remember this,
Sheriff
: that young girl would be alive today, if you had done your job. Her blood is on your hands, and no amount of legal washing will erase it – ever.'

Jeremiah Maxwell turned and walked out, leaving Dad standing at the doorway, looking terribly alone.

S
ummer ended, and school started. I never thought I would say it, but I was glad to be back, if just to get into some sort of mundane routine. Horseshoe and I still hung out together, but Brent avoided us now. I didn't know if it was just paranoia taking over, but I felt that everyone was watching me. Everybody was discussing Devlin and Joey, and wondering about my part in their deaths.

At break time, Horseshoe brought up the Battle of the Lake, how he had never seen anything like it in all his life.

‘Devlin was incredible, Tommy, wasn't she?' Horseshoe said, still in awe of the happenings that day.

I nodded, not really wanting to speak of Devlin in front of Horseshoe, the lump in my throat threatening to make me cry. In my head, I sometimes tried desperately to conjure some
kind of sequence, some chronology of events that explained her disappearance.

‘I hope Armstrong fries, Tommy. I read in one of your crime magazines about this real bad villain given the electric chair. The guards hated him so much, the executioner lowered the power in the electricity, so that it would take longer for the villain to die. His eyes popped out and rolled onto the floor. That's what they should do to Armstrong. Make him suffer. Perhaps your Dad could have a word with the executioner when Armstrong goes to the chair, Tommy?'

I didn't know if I should laugh or cry at Horseshoe's habitual naïveté.

‘I don't think it works like that, Horseshoe.'

‘I keep thinking about that night, at Armstrong's trailer,' Horseshoe said, lowering his voice.

‘Stop thinking about it. It never happened. The less people know the better, otherwise we'll really be in the shit.'

‘The only thing Brent shot off that night was his big mouth. I keep thinking about it – if Brent had done what he said he was going to do, perhaps Devlin would still be alive.

‘You can't think like that, Horseshoe.'

‘Do
you
ever think about it like that?'

Of course. I thought about it all the time, the
what if
question. I tortured myself about it constantly, the alternative outcome if we had killed that bastard on that fateful night. If we had, Devlin would still be here, with me, instead of dust and
memories. And what about Dad? Was Jeremiah Maxwell right – would Devlin still be alive if Dad had done something as well, instead of just talking? Everyone had deserted her in her most wanting hour.

‘Let's change the subject, Horseshoe, before someone overhears us. How're the Bills gonna do this season?'

Horseshoe shrugged. ‘They'll probably reach the Super Bowl and then get beaten.'

‘Perhaps they'll take it. They look good enough on paper.'

‘Yeah, on toilet paper.'

‘Miracles can happen.'

‘Look over there. Speak of the devil. It's Brent.' Horseshoe indicated with a nod of his head towards the basketball court.

Brent stood alone at the wire fence. He glanced over at us, before quickly looking away.

‘I don't think he's forgiven you, Tommy.'

‘I don't give a shit. Let him sulk all he wants. I don't miss him.'

The truth was I did give a shit, and missed hanging out with him. I wanted us all to be a gang again, just like old times. Brent's problem was that no one really liked him at school. They either feared him or detested him. I had Horseshoe and a bunch of other friends to always fall back on. Despite the fight, I couldn't help but feel sorry for Brent. He was his own worst enemy. Little did I know then, but soon he would become my worst enemy also.

H
orseshoe was right about the Bills losing that season, but the town had more on its mind than football. The trial of Armstrong had started, despite numerous objections from Bradford that his client would not get a fair trial in the town. Bradford's many requests for a change of venue fell on deaf ears. Judge Louisa Pickford made it quite clear that she had full faith in the honesty and integrity of the good citizens of Black's Creek – Armstrong's peers would assure that he received a fair trial. Bradford then complained about the limited pool of people his client could select potential jurors from. Judge Pickford said she would give some consideration to Bradford's concern. Eventually, she permitted people from the nearby town of Webster to be included in the jury selection.

It was impossible to escape the trial. Local media fed a hungry and eager public with every grisly detail. Facts – with little pieces of fiction – were added to the recipe to give spice whenever the media detected the public tiring of the tasteless banquet. And I kept my ear pressed against the wall of the hub, to get even more of the inside track.

When arrested, I learned, Armstrong had at first denied even knowing Devlin, but finally admitted having what he called paid, ‘consensual' sex. The bite marks were part of the sexual act, he claimed; an act both he and Devlin enjoyed. She was sixteen, and there was no law against having sex with a consenting adult. Dad suspected the abuse of Devlin by Armstrong had started many years ago, when she was very young, but suspecting and proving were two different animals entirely.

I hated the pervert even more now, when I had overheard Dad discussing with Mom what Armstrong had said. Armstrong was a liar. A filthy rotten liar. Devlin wasn't like her mother, a prostitute. She wouldn't have had sex willingly with an old and ugly pervert, I kept telling myself, over and over again, fighting the snickering voice in the back of my head to the contrary.

According to Dad, not a seat could be had in the courtroom. It was the biggest thing to hit our town in decades. I was under strict orders from him not to show my face at the court. No doubt he feared I would hear further graphic and disturbing details about Devlin's rape and murder.

‘I don't think I like the fact that Judge Pickford brought people in from Webster,' Mom said to Dad one evening. ‘It's almost as if we can't be trusted to do the right thing. We're not all rednecks, you know.'

‘Don't take it personally, Helen. She's a very shrewd but fair judge. She's making sure Bradford has little scope in asking for a retrial, if Armstrong is convicted.'

‘
If
? Surely you mean
when
, Frank,' Mom said, giving voice to the question in my head.

‘There's no guarantee of anything. Bradford is no fool. He was very careful about the jury members he managed to select. They say he keeps a profile on each potential juror, on their personalities, beliefs and opinions. All it takes is one juror to plant doubt in the minds of the others.'

I could detect doubt in Dad's voice. He always seemed a bit that way, and chose his words very carefully, whenever he was involved directly in a trial, and had to give evidence. This time, however, the doubt seemed more marked.

‘What would happen to Armstrong, if he wasn't found guilty, Dad?' I asked.

‘Happen?' Dad seemed to be mulling over my question. ‘Well, nothing would happen. He'd be freed, Tommy. That's the law.'

‘To come back here, to kill again?' I was horrified at the thought of Armstrong roaming the streets at night, looking for other victims. Looking for me, perhaps.

‘Let's not think negatively,' said Dad, looking directly at Mom.

I stood, and pushed away from the table. ‘I need to use the bathroom.'

‘You okay?' said Dad.

I didn't reply.

I stood in front of the cool porcelain of the sink, feeling like I was going to throw up. I had taken it for granted that Armstrong would simply be found guilty, and either be executed or forced to spend the rest of his sordid life in prison.

‘Just how bad is it, Frank?' I heard Mom ask.

‘Could be better. I spoke to Flynn, the prosecutor, this afternoon. He now gives it a fifty-fifty chance of conviction. Said the evidence I gathered may not be enough to convince or convict.'

‘What? How can that be? Any fool can see Armstrong's guilty as sin.'

‘Unfortunately, we don't have any fools on the jury, Helen. Bradford knew exactly what type of people to select. All professionals. People who think with their minds – not with their hearts. We don't have any witnesses placing Armstrong at the murder scene. Most of the evidence is circumstantial.'

‘But he has no alibi for the night in question. And what about all those filthy movies in that run-down trailer of his?'

‘You'd be surprised how many people wouldn't have an alibi for that night, if asked. And as for the movies? There's
no crime against them, per se. Truth be told, probably quite a few well-respected homes in town have had them through the door, at one time or another.'

‘But the teeth marks on the young girl? Surely no intelligent human being could believe the disgusting explanation given by Armstrong about his teeth marks on her body?'

‘Armstrong claims it was all consensual. But there's worse to come.'

‘Worse?'

‘The autopsy revealed Devlin had had an abortion.'

‘An abortion? Dear God …'

I didn't know what an abortion was, but by the sound of Mom's voice, it must be something frightening.

‘Bradford's trying to get it brought into evidence. I'm not sure how he'll convince the judge that it's relevant, but he'll try. He wants the jury to believe Devlin was promiscuous, and not the innocent little girl the media is portraying her as.'

‘That young girl is dead, brutally murdered, Frank,' Mom said, anger in her voice. ‘It would be a travesty if this … this animal escapes justice.'

‘Armstrong is sitting there, sombre, clean-shaved, nice suit, playing to the jury. He looks like a model citizen. What we need is a living, breathing witness. Someone able to testify against Armstrong's past; someone able to show a pattern of
his
deviant behaviour, rather than –'

Dad stopped abruptly when I came out of the bathroom.

‘Sure you're okay, Tommy?'

I nodded. ‘I'm going to my room. I've homework to finish.'

In my room, I gazed out the window at the falling snow, thinking about the strange and unnerving words Dad and Mom had used:
Abortion. Promiscuous. Travesty of justice
. Could all the people in charge – the police, the judge, the lawyers, the jury – really let it all go so horribly wrong? Dad had said they needed a living, breathing witness. It was then, as I watched the tiny snowflakes amassing into something much greater, that some of the pieces of the puzzle began falling into place.

‘Shit …'