Killerfind (14 page)

he Cape
Girardeau County
Sheriff’s office occupied a concrete afterthought of a building adjacent to the
county jail. Vertical bars enveloped its small gloomy windows on the outside,
as though to prevent anyone from breaking in. The county had painted the
building battleship grey with a red stripe encircling it, giving the impression
it was held together with a big rubber band.
Someone’s idea of art moderne
,
Rhetta thought. It was one of the ugliest buildings she’d ever had the
misfortune to see. The interior wasn’t much prettier.

The tiny waiting room was chaotic. Reporters
clamored for an interview with a spokesperson, if not Sheriff Talbot Reasoner
himself. Media people chattered on cell phones, scribbled in note pads, or lit
up the drab interior with flashes from cameras. The floors were littered in
paper from the overflowing waste cans. Most of the litter was generated by
empty Styrofoam coffee cups. A television station from Paducah, Kentucky had
their evening news anchor and her cameraman in attendance. No one had been granted
an audience with the sheriff, and everyone was complaining. All six waiting
room chairs were filled, so the media types crowded together as best they
could. The noise level from their clamoring was deafening.

Randolph held Rhetta close to him while he edged his
way past the herd to the harried-looking desk sergeant, a beefy veteran of an
officer who sat at a metal desk safely behind a bullet-proof glass partition.
His short, unkempt hair that looked as though rats had nested there, evidenced
his rough morning.

After Randolph waited for over a minute, the
sergeant slid open a small glass partition, much like Rhetta used to see in her
doctor’s office. “Yes?” he said, his brusque manner displaying his impatience.
He ran his hand through his hair, the action explaining why tufts stood out all
over his head.

“I have Rhetta McCarter here to give a statement.”

“Are you her lawyer?” the sergeant asked, head bent
over a list on his clipboard, finger running down a list of printed names.
“McCarter, here it is,” he said, before Randolph could answer. “I’ll let you
in.”

A loud buzzer sounded at the metal door alongside
the partition, and the media surged forward. “Folks, you’ll have to stay back
while I let these people in, or I’ll have the deputy come out and start arresting
you,” the sergeant said, waving everyone to stand aside.

As Rhetta and Randolph started toward the
still-buzzing door, reporters jabbed microphones in front of them, firing
questions. Neither she nor Randolph answered. Safely on the other side, Rhetta
exhaled. “That was pretty scary,” she said, threading her arm through her
husband’s. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

They were instructed to follow a young deputy down a
grey hallway. “I bet Sears had a sale on grey paint,” Rhetta whispered to
Randolph.

“What?” Randolph said, and looked around. Then, he
smiled. “I think you’re right.”

At the end of the hall, outside a door bearing a
brass nameplate, which read,
Lieutenant J. Adams,
Rhetta and Randolph
were instructed to take a seat and wait until they were called. They had their
choice of six folding chairs lined up along the wall. All were empty except for
one.

A short, plump woman who appeared to be in her late
sixties, maybe early seventies, sat primly in the chair closest to the door.
She was wearing a pale blue polyester pantsuit, her feet enclosed in white
diabetic shoes parked close together and flat on the floor, hands folded in her
lap. When she nodded as Randolph and Rhetta walked to take a seat next to her,
her short grey curls bounced.

Rhetta looked over at Randolph, who was studying the
woman. He surprised Rhetta by walking up to the grandmotherly-looking lady.

 “Mrs. Griffith?” The woman turned, and glanced at
Randolph, a quizzical look on her face.

“Yes. Do I know you?” She tilted her head and
studied him.

“Randolph McCarter,” he said and extended his hand.

“Of course, Judge, I didn’t recognize you.” She
gripped his hand in return.

Turning to Rhetta, Randolph, said, “May I introduce
my wife? Rhetta, this is Mrs. Malcom Griffith.”

hetta
felt her mouth
open,
but she closed it quickly.

   
“Mrs. Griffith. How do you do?” Rhetta managed, shooting her husband a
penetrating look over the top of Mrs. Griffith’s head. He should have warned
her that’s who this lady was. Maybe Mrs. Griffith hadn’t seen her mouth flop.

“Please, call me Adele,” she said, grasping Rhetta’s
hand. Her grip was frail.

Randolph sat in the chair closest to her. “I suppose
you’re here about Jeremy Spears too?” He leaned back and crossed his legs. “A
terrible thing.”

Rhetta’s brain clicked feverishly.
Why would Mrs.
Griffith be here about Jeremy Spears?
What did Randolph know that he hadn’t
told her?

Mrs. Griffith shook her head. “Jeremy? No.” The
curls bounced. “Lieutenant Adams called me this morning and asked me to come
and identify some items he thinks belonged to my husband, Malcom.” Then,
turning to Rhetta, a puzzled look on her face, Adele Griffith added, “What’s
wrong with Jeremy?”

Rhetta stared wordlessly at Mrs. Griffith, not
knowing how to answer. Then she glanced at Randolph, pleading with her eyes for
him to say something.

He was saved from answering when the office door
opened. Adams’ wrinkled golf-style shirt hung out over faded blue jeans,
partially hiding the badge hanging on a leather badge holder on his belt. His
police revolver nestled in a leather holster on his hip. He escorted a sobbing
woman from his office. Rhetta recognized a grief-stricken Anjanette Spears.

Adele Griffith jumped to her feet when she spotted
Anjanette. “What is she doing here?” she cried, leaping with an agility that
shocked Rhetta. Moments earlier, Rhetta had thought of her as frail. Randolph
reached for Mrs. Griffith’s arm.

Anjanette Spears didn’t look anything like the
well-put-together matron Rhetta had met mere days ago. Her silver hair clumped
against her head; her eyes and cheeks were distorted with tears. Her tan slacks
were wrinkled as was her white blouse. Her hands trembled as she reached for
Lieutenant Adams.

Randolph gently touched Mrs. Griffith’s arm. “Mrs.
Griffith, Anjanette just lost her son, Jeremy. Please, sit here.” He steered
her back to the chair.

Adele Griffith looked confused. “Jeremy? She’s not
here about Malcom?”

“No, ma’am.” Randolph eased his arm away from her
and glanced at Rhetta. Adams guided Anjanette down the hall. Her shoulders
shook from sobbing. Anjanette hadn’t appeared to recognize Rhetta, but then,
Rhetta hadn’t stepped forward to speak to her. It was obvious that the woman
was distraught. Rhetta was uncomfortable in this kind of situation. When her
own mother had passed away, she absolutely hated people offering mealy-mouthed
words of sympathy. As a result, she could never find the right words to console
anybody.

Adams handed Mrs. Spears off to a deputy, who led
her toward the back of the building, presumably to the rear exit to avoid the
media.

Rhetta glanced at Mrs. Griffith. The woman had
regained some of her composure, smoothing her slacks, and patting her hair.

Adams walked up briskly and asked Mrs. Griffith to
step into the room.

As soon as the door closed, Rhetta said, “I didn’t
know that you knew Mrs. Griffith.”

“You forgot I’m the judge who declared her husband
dead.”

“I should’ve asked you about her instead of
Woody-the-Answer-Man-dot-com.” Rhetta gave herself a headslap.

“She seems like she’s gone downhill since the last
time I saw her, about five years ago. She was so vibrant then. I wonder why she
was so upset at seeing Mrs. Spears?” Randolph said. He reached for Rhetta’s
hand and kissed it. “She’s been through a lot, and now, after those remains….”

Rhetta thought she had the answer as to why Adele
Griffith was upset. She’d tell Randolph about the letter, but later, when they
left. She didn’t want to risk Anjanette overhearing her. She leaned against her
husband. She was so relieved he was there with her. He kept her calm.  She
whispered, “What do you think they want to talk to her about?”

“They probably have the things you and Ricky found
and want her to identify them, like the wallet and ring.”

“After all this time, can they can still use DNA to
identify the body?”

“More likely they’ll have to rely on dental records.
I think the body was way too decomposed for any DNA, except for the type found
in bones. Since Malcom Griffith was local and had a local dentist, I would
think dental records would be the easiest and fastest way to identify him. I
think that’s what they’ll start with, then go from there.”

*
* *

Ten
minutes later, the door opened and Mrs. Griffith emerged, looking paler and
frailer. She no longer looked plump and healthy.

Randolph stood and offered his arm. “Are you all right,
Mrs. Griffith?”

When she nodded, a tear slipped down her cheek. She
brushed it away. She patted Randolph’s arm, but didn’t take it.

“All those things,” she angled her chin toward the
door, “are my Malcom’s. I signed some papers to allow them to get his dental
records.” She sighed heavily. “I guess he truly is dead after all.” She pushed
her purse up on her arm. Another officer took her arm, and began leading her.
“Thank you, officer, for driving me. I just don’t drive anymore,” she said and
shuffled alongside him down the hallway.

After Adams introduced himself to Randolph and
Rhetta, he invited them to follow him. His office was painted in the same drab
grey as the rest of the building. The small space was filled nearly to capacity
with his county-issued metal desk, which faced the door, two metal guest chairs
squeezed in front of the desk, and a row of four mismatched filing cabinets
along the wall. Behind Adams’ chair, certificates and awards filled the brag
space on the wall.

Rhetta and Randolph sat and waited while Adams
opened a thick file and thumbed through it.

“Mrs. McCarter, it seems like you wind up in the
middle of things, don’t you?”

Rhetta glanced at Randolph, not sure how to answer.
First of all, the question was rhetorical, and second, she found him rude. “I
came here voluntarily, Lieutenant Adams. You don’t have to be rude. I know my
husband already notified you I was out by the barn Saturday night, so let’s
just skip the asinine observations. Do you have pertinent questions for me?”

Adams snapped the folder shut so suddenly that
Rhetta blinked. Still staring at her, he retrieved a yellow legal tablet and
reached for a pen.

“All right, ma’am, no offense.” He held up his
hands, palms out in an exaggerated mock surrender. “Let’s begin by you telling
me, Mrs. McCarter, exactly what time you were out at the barn at Oak Forest
Subdivision last Saturday night.” Pen poised in midair above the pad, he
awaited her answer.

“It was just getting dark, so probably around 8:45.”

“Did you see anyone in or around the barn?” He began
to jot.

“No. I did see Jeremy’s truck, but I didn’t see
him.” She squirmed uncomfortably. Randolph slipped his hand into hers. She
relaxed.

“Why did you go to the barn in the first place?” He
scrawled feverishly as she spoke, firing his questions while barely looking at
her.

“I received a strange phone call, asking me to go
out there.” Rhetta groped in her purse for her cell phone.

Adams stopped writing. He stared at her, his dark
eyes revealing nothing. “Strange phone call? From whom?”

“A woman who said her name was Mylene Allard. “
Rhetta said. She passed her iPhone across to him, and pointed to the number on
the recent call list.

He set the pen down and took the phone, staring at
the display. “This Mylene Allard, how did she know how to reach you?” He
continued examining the phone while he waited for her answer.

Rhetta shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Randolph interjected. “My wife’s picture and
information about where she works and the barn’s location were all in the media
recently, if you recall, Lieutenant.”

Adams nodded, set the phone aside and resumed
writing. Rhetta and Randolph sat in silence for a minute while he wrote.
Abruptly, Adams lay his pen down and leaned forward. “May we borrow your phone,
Mrs. McCarter? We’d like to record that phone list.”

Rhetta frowned, and turned to Randolph.

“No, you may not have the phone. If you’ll excuse
me, I need to confer with my client.” Randolph guided Rhetta a few feet away
and whispered, “Is there anything on that phone that he shouldn’t see?”

“No, it’s just got my recent personal calls and a
few business calls.”

Randolph led Rhetta back to Adams. “We’ll let you
look at the call list only—no browser history, nothing else. Understood?”

Adams picked up the phone and held it in one hand
while he punched a button on his desk phone with the other hand. He barked an
order, summoning a deputy. As he disconnected, he answered her. “Just for a few
minutes. We can pull that list from here, right now.”

Adams handed the iPhone to the deputy who had
arrived clutching a sheet of paper, which he slid across the desk toward Adams.
Adams snatched the sheet and scanned it.

“We have the results of the fingerprints found on
the metal detector. There were two sets.” He tapped the paper. “Yours, Mrs. McCarter,
and those of Miss Victoria Lane.” He set the paper aside, stood, then came
around the desk and propped a slender haunch up on its corner. He examined his
fingernails and as casually as though asking what she had for dinner last
night, asked, “Did you two ladies murder Jeremy Spears?”