Custody of the State (12 page)

He flipped the cover closed. Then he fished in the bowl of hard candy on his desk, ripped the plastic off a piece and popped it into his mouth.

“Giving up cigarettes is hard,” Purdy muttered into the air. “But then—I'm doing it for myself. I deserve a long, healthy life.” And he smiled at that thought.

15

I
'
M SORRY
,”
THE
FBI
AGENT
at the other end indicated, “but there is nothing we can do immediately. As I explained to you, we'll have to forward your request to the U.S. Attorney's office. The decision will be made there, and I'm sure he'll go through the usual evaluation.”

“Can you get this expedited for me?” Otis Tracher asked.

“Doubt it,” the special agent replied. “There are no federal charges outstanding, no federal warrants, and as far as I can see, no probable cause to believe that a federal crime has been committed. As far as I can see this is purely a state matter. But as I said, it's for the U.S. Attorney to decide. He'll give me a directive as to whether we should assist in trying to apprehend this…what did you say her name was?”

“Mary Sue Fellows,” Tracher said.

“Right. Whether we'll give any assistance in locating and apprehending Mrs. Fellows. As soon as I hear something, I'll let you know.”

The detective hung up the phone and turned back to his memo book, where he jotted down some notes.

Tracher was no brilliant investigator, but he was known for his persistence and stubborn dedication to the cases he handled. He was also capable of detaching his emotions from his work. He left questions of right and wrong, justice, and equity to Harry Putnam, his prosecutors, and the judges. His job was to locate, apprehend, and bring in the culprit—and to gather sufficient evidence to convict.

Tracher had not been discouraged by his lack of results so far. When he had contacted the college in Santa Fe where Andrew White Arrow taught, he was informed that Andrew was on sabbatical for several months. The administration did not know where he was going to be spending that time, other than at an educational conference in Minneapolis. Contacting the conference center, Tracher was told that Andrew had indeed attended, but they did not know how he had traveled there, or what means of transportation he was going to take afterward, or his destination after the conference ended.

The college administration in New Mexico did have on file an “emergency contact” person listed by Andrew when he'd first starting working at the college some years before—a Susan Lee Tacoma. Tracher located her and learned that she was a former girlfriend of Andrew's. But they had broken off their relationship about two years earlier when Andrew had gotten “too religious,” as Susan put it. However, she did recall Andrew mentioning that some of his family was located in either South or North Dakota.

That information was the best lead the detective had received thus far. When he checked with Mary Sue's relatives, as well as the extended family of Joe Fellows, a few of them had indicated they'd had a phone call or two from Mary Sue. But none of them had caller ID on their telephones. None of them indicated they knew where she was located or where she was calling from.

Armed with the information from Susan Tacoma, the detective telephoned the U.S. Department of the Interior, Bureau of Indian Affairs. A woman answered, and Tracher recited the initial details.

“What law enforcement agency did you say you were calling from?” the agent asked.

“Sheriff's Department, Juda County, State of Georgia. This is Otis Tracher, Chief Investigator for Crimes Against Juveniles,” the detective replied.

“And who is it…what tribe…what were you looking for?”

“The man's name is Andrew White Arrow, Sioux nation, Lakota tribe.”

“Detective, do you have any idea how many square miles of Indian reservations there are in North and South Dakota? And how many Lakota you've got located there? Look,” the intake officer continued, “from what you've told me, this isn't even a federal issue. No federal charges. You haven't alleged a violation of law by any Indian on a reservation—”

“Well,” Tracher replied, “this Andrew White Arrow is under suspicion of possibly aiding and abetting the flight of a felon out of the State of Georgia.”

“Suspicion? Look, I'm no expert in criminal investigation, but we deal with law enforcement agencies pretty often. You're going to have to have something more than that for me to put this on the top rack. I will send your request to locate this Andrew White Arrow over to my supervisor. That's all I can promise.”

Tracher thanked her and hung up the phone. He stood up, stretching his tall frame, and looked at the papers, files, and notes that were scattered all over his desk. Scratching his head and yawning, he glanced over at the bulletin board that hung in his office. On it were pinned the pictures of missing juveniles and juvenile offenders he'd recently been investigating.

Tracher snatched up a photograph lying on the mess on his desk and lumbered over to the bulletin board. He thumbtacked it dead center in the middle of all of the other pictures. The photo showed Mary Sue Fellows cradling Joshua in her arms, smiling. The detective had located it in the Fellows house the day he had arrested Joe.

He stared at the picture. Something from his background—perhaps a phrase from catechism, or a homily delivered by Father Godfrey at St. Stephen the Martyr Church—touched his memory.

Tracher continued staring.

“Madonna and child…” he muttered. Was that a famous painting…or was it sculpture? It was a strange thought, and
Tracher dismissed it. Looking at his watch, he saw he had just enough time to grab some lunch. After that he would go on-line to do some research about Indian reservations in North and South Dakota.

His job was to apprehend Mary Sue Fellows and her young son, Joshua. He was going to do that. He was going to do it without hesitation. He would do it because it was his job, and his job was to enforce the law.

16

W
ILL WAS DRIVING DOWN A LONG
, wooded country lane on his way to the houseboat where he planned on staying while he worked on the Mary Sue Fellows case. A small sign at the side of the road—“Public Landing 1 Mile”—gave him hope that he was driving in the right direction.

Two issues in the case had been haunting his mind. One was immediate—and it was threatening to Will's professional career. The other was a more transcendent issue, involving Mary Sue's guilt or innocence—and his need to get some answers to her seemingly unanswerable dilemma.

The first issue lay right at Will's doorstep. In two days, the deadline imposed by Judge Mason would expire. The judge had ordered Will to produce the whereabouts of Mary Sue or to arrange her turnover to the authorities, and pursuant to that, he had noticed a status hearing on the fifth day to ensure that Will was before the court to explain his response in person. Every step that Judge Mason had taken on that issue confirmed Will's suspicion that any disobedience to his order would result in a finding of contempt of court. The sanctions for contempt could run the gamut—from a fine to imprisonment. For Will, the stakes couldn't be higher.

Todd had reported in promptly with the results of his legal research, but they were less than definitive. The obligation of a lawyer to disclose the location of a client who had fled a jurisdiction in anticipation of an arrest warrant or an adverse order from a court was murky at best. On the one hand, an attorney
was bound to protect the confidences of a client—and that would include confidential communications by a client that informed the attorney of his whereabouts. On the other hand, an attorney had an obligation to disclose ongoing or anticipated criminal conduct that a client mentioned to the lawyer.

If Will chose wrongly by withholding the information, it might not only jeopardize Mary Sue's case—it could result in his disbarment, and a contempt order sending him to jail.

On the other hand, if Will were to discover Mary Sue's whereabouts and then disclose them to the court
against
her desires, that also would be an ethical violation. And if Mary Sue was then located and Joshua was wrenched from her care, he could well be in danger if Mary Sue was correct in concluding that he was suffering from an undiagnosed and mysterious medical problem. Indeed, his condition had appeared to be deteriorating under the care of the family physician. Now, ironically, according to Mary Sue in her last telephone contact, Joshua now seemed to be improving somewhat.

The second issue was equally troubling, but for different reasons. As Will lined up the pieces of evidence from the prosecution that proved Mary Sue's complicity in poisoning her own son, they were chillingly consistent.

His client did not have a good explanation for why she took out a $100,000 insurance policy on Joshua at the same time his medical problem started surfacing. When Will had questioned her about it in their previous conversation, her only response was that she'd thought the policy was only $10,000, the premiums were rather cheap, and the insurance broker was a friend, who was starting out in a new job. She thought she was doing him a favor. She honestly had no idea—or so she explained it to Will—that the face value of the policy was actually $100,000, not $10,000.

In addition to this, the forensic evidence from the scene showed hydraulic brake fluid in the kitchen and on Joshua's cup. There were several potential explanations for how the toxic fluid
might have accidentally ended up in the kitchen. Mary Sue might have had it on her hands, or detective Tracher and the other officers might have picked up some of the fluid while searching the garage and then inadvertently contaminated the kitchen. Or finally, the forensic lab might simply have been mistaken in its finding that the substance was hydraulic brake fluid and not something else. The latter option, while possible, seemed the least likely. And though detective Tracher might have contaminated the kitchen, it was very unlikely he would have thoughtlessly touched Joshua's cup—a prime piece of evidence in such a case—with hands or gloves that had already been exposed to another substance.

That left only the first option—accidental exposure by Mary Sue. Up until now, Will's client could not remember any instance, in the time frame shortly before Joe's arrest, when she would have handled brake fluid on the farm.

Will considered the final piece of evidence was the most powerful. The Delphi Community Hospital had concluded that Joshua's blood contained poisonous amounts of ethylene glycol, one of the main ingredients in hydraulic brake fluid.

Before driving out to the houseboat, Will had taken a side trip to this hospital. It was relatively new and surprisingly up-to-date for a small community. In the medical library, he'd done some preliminary research on ethylene-glycol poisoning. The results, at least initially, were not promising.

Ethylene glycol was most commonly associated with child poisoning by engine coolant—antifreeze. Will reviewed the
Index Medicus,
but a quick check revealed no medical-journal articles dealing with hydraulic brake fluid poisoning.

Will also knew that law enforcement officers would occasionally make errors by contaminating or misinterpreting forensic evidence. But as a general rule, the rate of error among medical personnel was even smaller. Personally, he had found that particularly true when the evaluation was done, not by a lab technician, but by the chief pathologist.

According to the affidavit of Dr. Parker, the pathologist, the levels of ethylene glycol in Joshua's blood could
not
be accounted for by incidental exposure, such as a small amount of brake fluid on the fingers, that was then ingested by a child. The amount consumed had to be substantial in order to account for the levels he had measured in Joshua's blood sample.

Will's concentration was interrupted as he crested a hill. The road dropped down steeply to a sloping boat ramp at the lake. A sign off to the right read simply “Private Piers.” Will turned right and glanced quickly at his scribbled directions. Coming to the third landing, he slowed down and saw a houseboat. He pulled into the short driveway that dead-ended where the aluminum pier began.

The houseboat was a simple affair with a walk-around deck and square living quarters in the center. There was a small wheelhouse on top. Parking his car, Will boarded the houseboat and looked out over the lake. It was clear, with a cloudless sky, and the lake was a deep blue. As a light breeze rippled over the water, Will took a minute to gaze out, listen to the lapping of the water, and enjoy the gentle swaying of the pine trees that rimmed the lake.

It all took him back to his days as a boy, when he would spend his summers on a lake in Maine. His father, an editor of a Massachusetts newspaper, would come up to the little cabin and join Will and his mother on Thursdays and then leave again on the train the following Monday.

Though Will was just a “summer kid,” over the years he'd developed close relationships with the “townies.” He would spend his summers fishing, hiking through the white-pine forest, or hanging out at the little log-cabin store.

Somehow the houseboat on this lake was bringing those idyllic summers back to him. This, he thought to himself, was a beautiful and peaceful place to spend his time while he was preparing for Mary Sue's case.