Disturbing the Dead (6 page)

Chapter Eight

Tom rattled the nearly bare fax sheet and told the sheriff, “I was hoping they’d give us a little more than this.”

Sheriff Willingham relaxed in his office chair, lacing his fingers over his belt buckle. “You know the lab’s always backed up. We’re damned lucky we got that much the same day we sent them the bones. Sit down, will you? You put me in mind of my wife’s cat, the way you prowl around a room.”

Tom dropped into a chair facing Willingham’s desk and skimmed the brief report again. The first skull they’d found had officially been identified through dental records as Pauline McClure’s. The wound to the parietal region could have been inflicted by the ax head found with the bones or by a similar object. On cursory examination, the other skull also appeared to be a woman’s, and like Pauline’s bones, it might have lain out in the open for years. The back of it was crushed, the probable cause of death. The report contained not a word about her age or ethnicity, the two pieces of information Tom most needed. Had she been Melungeon too? So much of the skull was missing that they couldn’t check for an Anatolian bump.

“We could have a facial reconstruction done of the second woman,” Tom said. “Then release a picture and see if anybody recognizes her.”

“We don’t have the budget for that kind of thing,” Willingham said. “Let’s ask the neighboring counties to check their old missing persons reports.”

“If she died in Mason County, the chances are she lived here. Maybe nobody reported her disappearance because nobody realizes she’s missing. She could’ve had a falling out with her family, or left her husband, and they think she’s living a new life somewhere else. We should ask the public to call in if they know of anybody who hasn’t been heard from since she left.”

The sheriff nodded. “But don’t tell them it has to be somebody who went missing ten years ago. Remember, we don’t know if this second woman’s body was put on the mountain the same time as Pauline’s. Hell, we don’t know she was
put
there at all. She could’ve wandered up there by herself, got lost, and died of exposure. Maybe a tree limb fell on her head. Maybe a bear did the damage.”

Tom wanted to keep an open mind, but he was convinced they were looking at a double murder. The second woman’s identity might give him a clue that would lead to the killer. But the logical thing to do was start with the known facts, the date Pauline disappeared and the way she died, and work from there.

He stood. “The rain’s getting rid of most of the snow for us, so the State Police cadets should be able to search up there tomorrow.” He was at the door, on his way out, when he paused. “By the way, how well did my dad know the McClures?”

Willingham shrugged. “About as well as anybody does, I guess. They seem to think pretty much everybody’s beneath ’em. They never have been chummy with people like sheriff’s deputies. Or sheriffs.”

“How well did he know Pauline? He spent a lot of his time looking for her.”

Willingham frowned at him. “They were in high school at the same time. That was about it, I guess. But you know what your dad was like. He wouldn’t have stopped looking even if she’d been a perfect stranger.”

Tom nodded. His father had never been able to put a case aside unfinished. He had to close them all. But had he ever dreamed how high a price he would pay in the end for his dedication to the job?

***

After faxing the bulletin and calling the newspaper, Tom walked down the hall from his office to the combination conference/interrogation/lunch room. Billy Bob, who’d spent the day in the doting care of Janet, the young dispatcher, was back at Tom’s side.

The original case files had been in such chaos the night before that Tom hadn’t learned much. He’d assigned Brandon to put them in order.

“Here’s the interviews with Pauline’s relatives, including her daughter,” Brandon said, tapping a folder with his fingertips. He moved down the long table, pointing. “The McClures, Shackleford and O’Dell, the housekeeper, Pauline’s neighbors and other acquaintances. Your dad’s case notes are in this folder, reports on the physical evidence in this one.”

“Good work. Let’s get to it.” Tom had already seen his nephew, Simon, that day—picked him up at school and drove him home—and he planned to spend the evening immersed in the records.

He turned his attention first to the bulging case notes folder. The stack of loose yellow sheets torn from legal pads was at least six inches thick. Page after page was covered with his father’s familiar, angular handwriting, and the sight of it stirred a memory that had been buried for years in the back of Tom’s mind.

He saw his mother, Anne, in the doorway of his dad’s den at home.
The turkey’s on the table, John. We need you to carve.
Her voice carried only the gentlest hint of reproach. His father’s reply had sounded distracted, impatient.
I have to finish these notes. Y’all go on and eat. I’ll be out shortly.
Tom’s older brother Chris had ended up carving the Thanksgiving turkey, and the assembled relatives—mostly McGrails, from his mother’s side—had poured on the false cheer, never mentioning the host’s absence. Later, past midnight, Tom awoke to sounds he’d never heard before: his parents arguing in their bedroom across the hall. Not the kind of mild, bantering disagreement they sometimes had. Shouts and accusations. John was obsessed with Pauline McClure’s disappearance, he was shutting out his family. Anne didn’t understand his work, she wanted him to put minor things ahead of a woman’s life and safety.

“Boss?” Brandon’s voice interrupted Tom’s thoughts. “Where do you want me to start?”

For a moment Tom remained caught up in the mixture of sadness and alarm he’d felt years before when he’d overheard his parents’ quarrel. He shook off the memory. “Look at the physical evidence. See if anything was found at the house. We’ll go see the place in the morning.”

Tom began reading his father’s notes.

Pauline McClure’s part-time housekeeper, Lila Barker, had been the first to suspect something was wrong. After finding the house empty at a time when Pauline should have been there, and noting that Pauline’s car was in the garage, Mrs. Barker reported her employer missing. Sheriff Willingham refused to authorize an investigation until forty-eight hours had passed. He cited the housekeeper’s own statements as evidence that nothing criminal had occurred—she had found no damage or disturbance in the house, and Pauline’s jewelry and cash were untouched.

At first John Bridger suspected kidnapping, but no ransom demand came. While waiting for the go-ahead to launch a full missing person investigation, John had called Pauline’s nearest neighbors, a mile away on each side. They never visited her and couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen her drive past. John also called Pauline’s family and the McClures, none of whom had seen or heard from her.

A rap on the door broke Tom’s concentration. Dennis Murray stepped in. “Hey, Tommy, somebody’s out front asking for you.” Dennis’ brown eyebrows rose meaningfully above the wire rims of his glasses. “It’s Shackleford.”

“Well, what do you know.” Tom closed the file and scraped back his chair. “I thought I’d have to hunt him down.”

Three minutes later, Tom sat behind his office desk. Dennis ushered in a swarthy man dressed in jeans and a suede jacket.

When the man reached across the desk to shake hands, beads of rain dropped off the suede onto the legal pad in front of Tom. “Troy Shackleford. I figured you’d want to talk to me, so I thought I’d come on by.”

“I appreciate it.”

Shackleford settled in a chair, crossed an ankle over a knee, unzipped his jacket. Strands of gray streaked his wavy black hair, but his broad-shouldered body looked as fit and powerful as a much younger man’s. He gestured at Billy Bob, who sat next to Tom’s desk. “That your dad’s old dog? He must be pretty long in the tooth.”

“This is Billy Bob,” Tom said. “You’re probably thinking about Fang, my father’s first bulldog.”

Shackleford chuckled and nodded. “Fang. Yeah, that was his name. Everybody swore that dog could tell when somebody was up to no good. You couldn’t tell a lie if Fang was in the room. Mean little devil. This one looks friendlier.”

He leaned over and extended a hand to Billy Bob. The dog scrambled to his feet, growling. Shackleford jerked his hand back.

“Sit,” Tom ordered, trying to hide his astonishment at Billy Bob’s sudden vehemence. Noting how shaken up Shackleford looked, Tom decided to give Billy Bob an extra dog biscuit later.

This was the first time Tom had seen Shackleford, but he’d heard rumors about him for years. Shackleford drifted in and out of the county, had a Miami residence, and was the courier and ringleader of his family’s drug business. Although Rose’s diner was well-known as Mason County’s drug bazaar, Sheriff Willingham argued that shutting it down might lead the Shacklefords to bring their business into the streets of Mountainview.

“So you’ve heard we found Mrs. McClure’s remains,” Tom said.

“Yeah. Poor Pauline.” Shackleford made a clucking sound. If he felt the slightest nervousness about this interview, he didn’t betray it in his posture or expression. “It’s hard to think about her ending up that way.”

“What did you imagine had happened to her?”

Shackleford shrugged. “I was hopin’ she was alive somewhere.”

“Why would she leave without telling anybody, without taking her car or any clothes or money?”

“I never knew what to think. But I always figured the cops would find her, and darned if you didn’t.” One side of Shackleford’s mouth lifted in a grin. “Even if it did take ten years.”

Tom ripped the water-spotted top page from the legal pad, dropped it in the waste basket under the desk, and picked up a pen. “I need your address and phone number.”

Shackleford gave information for a Miami residence. “I’ve got a little business of my own down there in the sunshine. Electrical work.”

Yeah, right.
“You knew Pauline all her life, didn’t you?”

“I sure did.”

“Did you date her when you were teenagers?”

Shackleford let loose a full-throated guffaw that went on a little too long. When his laugh subsided, he said, “I wasn’t her type and she wasn’t mine. I was wild, I liked girls who’d give me what I wanted, if you know what I mean. Pauline didn’t let boys get away with anything. She knew what she was worth and she held herself back.”

“What she was worth? You mean a rich husband?”

With amusement crinkling his eyes, Shackleford ran his tongue around in his cheek and slid his gaze along the wall behind Tom before he answered. “Yeah, when it comes down to it, I guess that is what I mean. She sure wasn’t gonna settle for a boy from Rocky Branch District. She knew she could do better.”

“So she married Adam McClure for his money?”

Shackleford raised his hands, palms out. “Oh, now, don’t put words in my mouth. I don’t know what went on between Pauline and her husband. I don’t think I ever seen ’em together, ’cause he was always at work when I was there. She coulda been crazy about him for all I know.”

“The McClures didn’t welcome her into their family,” Tom said.

“Can’t help you there either. I wouldn’t know how she got along with her in-laws.”

Lies probably slithered off this man’s tongue more naturally than the truth, and Tom wondered why Shackleford didn’t try to divert suspicion from himself with embroidered tales about the McClures. On the other hand, Shackleford seemed savvy enough to realize that accusing others might make him look guilty. “Were you ever more than friendly with Pauline?”

“Nope. Just did my work and took my pay.”

“You and Rudy O’Dell worked out there together a lot, didn’t you? What kind of relationship did O’Dell have with Pauline?”

“Lord, that boy was plain crazy about her. He was just a kid, you know, and he thought she was a queen.”

“Did he ever make a move on her?” If she’d rejected O’Dell’s advances, that might have set off a murderous rage.

Shackleford shrugged. “If he did, I never heard about it.”

“Where is O’Dell now?”

“Still livin’ with his mama, last I heard. I never see him. Got no reason to.” Shackleford sat forward with elbows on the chair arms, locked his fingers together and produced a look of frowning earnestness that was so phony it almost made Tom laugh. “Pauline disappearin’ the way she did, it knocked Rudy for a loop. I don’t think he’s ever got over it.”

“He sounds like a sensitive soul.”

Shackleford laughed. “You know, Captain, the way you said that, kind of dry-like, you sounded just like your dad. You remind me of him a lot.”

“You’re not the first to say that.”

“No, I don’t imagine I am.” In the next instant, Shackleford was on his feet and heading for a wall where half a dozen framed photos hung. Billy Bob growled again, and Shackleford gave the dog a wide berth.

“Look at the three of you. Father and sons, no mistakin’ it.” Shackleford tapped a picture of Tom in his Richmond PD uniform and his brother, Chris, and their father in deputies’ uniforms.

Tom’s mother had taken that picture seven years before, when he’d been a cop for a few months. He remembered the warm April day, the fallen blossoms of dogwoods and cherries dotting his parents’ lawn. It seemed a lifetime ago.