Last Look (16 page)

“Do you remember what you did the next morning?” Andrew backed Dorsey off with a glance.

“Sure. We met Mrs. Randall at the church around eight thirty. She showed us around the reverend’s office, showed us the drawer.”

“You take any prints?”

“Yeah. As I recall, they were pretty blurred. Nothing distinct, there were just too many of them. Some were the reverend’s, some were Mrs. Randall’s, we knew that, but if there was someone else’s prints there, we couldn’t have told you back then who they belonged to.”

“What areas did you dust for prints, besides the office?”

“None, that I recall. We were just finishing up on the desk when we heard screeching and yelling from the community center where the senior citizen’s breakfast was taking place. We ran down and there was Mrs. Randall, Shannon’s mom, yelling at her husband that she couldn’t find Shannon anywhere.” Brinkley shook his head. “At first, there was so much screeching, I couldn’t understand what she was saying. Then she talked to the chief, and they started searching for her. They searched around the house, the church, all around the town. Mrs. Randall had called all Shannon’s friends but no one had seen her since the night before.”

“Anyone question Franklin Randall at the time?”

“About what?”

“About the fact that his daughter had gone missing and no one seems to recall seeing him between the time he left the church and eleven thirty or so when his wife arrived home from an evening out with her sister.”

“I’m sure we did question him, we questioned everyone. Did we at any time think Reverend Randall had anything to do with Shannon’s disappearance? No.” He paused and looked at Andrew long and hard. “Are you saying you think the Reverend had a hand in whatever happened to her?”

“I’m saying someone did and it looks like it wasn’t Eric Beale. I was just wondering if anyone talked to him.”

“Yes, we talked to him.”

“What was his demeanor?”

“His demeanor?” Jeremy repeated sarcastically. “His demeanor was that of a man who’d just found out his daughter was missing and probably had been since the night before and he hadn’t known it. What the hell do you think his demeanor was?”

He continued to glare at Andrew. “Look, we had an eyewitness who placed her in Eric Beale’s car—Eric’s speeding car—on the road out to the lake. We searched the lake, we searched the woods, we searched the park. The FBI had their team out there with us, even had a few divers. We had better’n half the town searching for that girl for two, three days. She was nowhere to be found. The only trace of her was in Eric’s car.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and softened just a little.

“Look, not trying to make excuses now, but back then, no one gave more’n a passing thought to the possibility that Shannon might have run away. She just wasn’t the type to do that, you know what I mean? Everyone in town knew her, everyone knew she was a happy kid, a good kid from a good family. She never got into any trouble, she was a good student, she played sports, she didn’t hang with a bad crowd. She was an all-around solid kid. So for a kid like that to be gone, someone had to have taken her. And for her not to be found, we just all figured she had to be dead. And with her blood in Eric’s car and him being seen with her, it just followed that he’d done something really bad to her. No one ever figured it had been any other way than what Chief Taylor said it was.”

“That Eric had killed her and hidden her body in a place where it couldn’t be found?” Andrew stood. There was nothing else to be learned here.

“Even the FBI believed it.” Brinkley stood as well. “That made it so, far as everyone around here was concerned. No one ever doubted that Eric was guilty. The chief said he was. Said he’d all but confessed to him. Why would he have told us that if it wasn’t true?”

“Good question,” Dorsey said.

“Yeah.” Brinkley rocked back and forth on his heels thoughtfully.

“Sure makes you wonder what was at the bottom of all that, don’t it?”

13

“So, what do you say we stop at the Widow Taylor’s and see if she has any thoughts on where we might find that file?” Andrew made a U-turn and headed back toward Hatton.

“Good idea. We have a few hours before we meet with the sisters. Bowden said Aubrey’s house was about a half hour from Hatton, so there’s time.”

“The more answers we get, the more questions we find,” Andrew said thoughtfully. “It almost seems Chief Taylor deliberately steered the investigation toward Eric Beale, but why would he do that?”

“Would it be a stretch to think it might have something to do with whatever was going on between Eric and Jeff Feeney?”

“Not to my mind.” Andrew slowed to round a bend in the road. “But I don’t expect Feeney to admit to anything.”

“It would have to be something really big for Taylor to have knowingly framed Eric, and let an innocent man be executed.”

“You’d think, but who knows what goes on in these little towns.”

“And who’s going to tell, all these years later?” Dorsey wondered aloud.

“So far, maybe only Jeremy Brinkley and Chief Bowden. Unfortunately, neither of them seem to know. And I think Brinkley was really rattled by this.”

“I think so, too. I think he was a good cop, and I think he liked to think Taylor was, too.” She gazed thoughtfully out the window. “But I also think that if he believed his chief pulled something back then, he’d be shocked, but he’d do what he could to make it right.”

“Well, I gave him my card. I hope he uses it.”

The drive back to Hatton proper took less than ten minutes. They drove along the main street where the renovated houses stood like newly polished jewels.

“Oh. Taylor.” Dorsey turned in her seat to look back at the mailbox they’d just driven past. “Slow down. Back two houses.”

Andrew checked his rearview mirror, then pulled to the side of the road.

“Shall we make a cold call?” he asked.

“Why not?”

They walked up the neatly trimmed sidewalks to the house where the pale blue mailbox announced the Taylor home.

“What a place.” Dorsey stood at the end of the driveway. “It looks like something out of a magazine.”

“Is there a magazine called
Antebellum
?” Andrew observed the house and the grounds. “It’s not all that big compared to some of the plantation houses you see in this area, but it’s clearly the same era and the same style. Interesting, don’t you think, this whole row of mini-mansions, all renovated?”

“It takes a lot of money to do this kind of restoration,” Dorsey told him as they walked the length of the drive.

“Brinkley said she’d inherited a lot of money from her father,” Andrew reminded her. “Her money. Her nephew…”

“So maybe Miz Taylor might have been holding a lot of the cards back then.” Dorsey stepped onto the flagstone walk that led to the front door and Andrew followed.

“Hold onto that thought.” He reached past her and rang the doorbell.

Moments later, a woman who looked to be in her mid-seventies appeared and opened only the inner door.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m Special Agent Andrew Shields, FBI.” Andrew held his badge to the door. “Are you Mrs. Taylor?”

“I am.” She remained motionless on the other side of the screen.

“We’d like to talk with you for a moment, if that’s all right.”

“About?”

“We’re trying to track down some old files of your husband’s. Chief Bowden said files had been stored here at one time.”

“They were all sent to the new police department.”

“Mrs. Taylor, if we could just have a minute of your time.” Dorsey put on her best manners. “We’d like to ask you about an old case that your husband handled.”

“I never involved myself in my husband’s work. I’m sure I’d be of no help at all.”

“Mrs. Taylor, if you don’t mind—” Andrew started to plead with her, but he didn’t get far.

“Oh, but I do. You all have a nice day, now.”

The inner door closed.

“Well, was it something we said?” Dorsey asked.

“Apparently. I’d say we’ve been dismissed.”

They turned to walk back to the car.

“I’m feeling overwhelmed by all this hospitality,” Andrew told her.

“Me, too. That was so strange.”

“Do you think she’s just an inhospitable, cold, ornery bitch, or do you think she knew why we were here and wasn’t having any of it?”

“Both. I think she’s a cold and ornery bitch and I think she knew why we were here and doesn’t want to talk about the Randall case.”

They reached the car and got in.

“Word has to be starting to get around town. No doubt it’s reached the chief’s widow that the FBI is questioning the old investigation,” Andrew said.

“She could just be protecting her husband’s name,” Dorsey suggested, “or she could be protecting something—or someone—else.”

“You think her nephew?”

“I think it’s a possibility.”

“Me, too. Let’s see what Chief Bowden knows about Jeff Feeney.” Andrew took out his phone and dialed the chief’s private line. After several minutes of conversation, he snapped the phone closed and slid it into his pocket.

“So, what did you find out?” Dorsey asked.

“Jeff Feeney was three years older than Eric Beale, and had the reputation of being a bully.”

“Three years older, that makes him about the same age as Eric’s brother Tim, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Andrew appeared thoughtful as he started the car and pulled onto the roadway. “He said there was definitely bad blood there, but he didn’t know why.”

“That’s all he said?”

“That, and the fact that Jeff Feeney was one of the witnesses in the assault case that sent Tim Beale to prison.”

“We need to talk to Jeff Feeney.”

“And in about another minute, we will.”

Andrew made a left onto the street that led to the town’s center, then parked in front of the hardware store. He pointed to the sign above the door.
FEENEY’S HARDWARE EST.
1886.

“Let’s go see if the proprietor is here.” Andrew got out of the car and dropped a quarter in the meter.

They walked from the oppressive heat of the afternoon into the air-conditioned cool of the old building.

“Nice.” Dorsey observed as they looked around. The store had wide-planked oak floors and old-fashioned displays and fixtures, but the lighting and the cooling system had obviously been updated.

“Something I can help you find?” a young clerk asked them.

“We’re looking for Jeff Feeney,” Andrew responded.

“Jeff’s right back there near the office.” The boy pointed toward the rear of the store. “Blue shirt.”

“I see him, thanks.” Andrew motioned to Dorsey to follow him.

Jeff Feeney looked up from his conversation and watched the pair approach. He was a tall, burly man of around forty, and his arms, chest, and neck broadcast that he still worked out on a frequent basis.

“Mr. Feeney?” Andrew had his badge out of his pocket, and Feeney’s eyes were on it.

“That’s me.” Jeff Feeney’s smile was clearly disingenuous. “Help you with something?”

Even as Andrew held up his badge, he had the distinct feeling that Feeney knew exactly who he was. Feeney took the badge and pretended to look it over. He gave Dorsey a long look, top to bottom.

“And you, pretty lady? You have something to show me?”

“It’s Agent Collins.” Dorsey passed her credentials to him. He took a long time studying them before handing them back.

“We can step into my office.” He turned and walked through an open door to his left.

He closed the door after the agents and folded his arms across his chest.

“What can I do for you?”

“We’re in town—”

“I know why you’re in town. I suspect by now, everyone else does, too.” He waved off Andrew’s explanation.

“Word travels fast,” Dorsey remarked dryly.

“Not really, pretty lady, it’s taken—”

“Agent Collins,” she repeated coldly. “My name is Agent Collins.”

“Ahhh, right, of course. My apologies,” he drawled without sincerity. “I was going to say, word has actually traveled a bit slowly, by Hatton’s standards. You’ve been here, what, three days now, and people are just starting to talk? Why, that’s near unheard of.”

“What exactly have you heard?” Andrew asked.

“Well, they’re saying you’re looking into the Shannon Randall case because somehow she’s been alive all this time, but turned up dead for real a few weeks back down in Georgia.” He shook his head. “Imagine that. Alive all these years, and no one knowing. And that kid being executed and her not even being dead.”

“Eric Beale,” Dorsey said pointedly.

“What?” Feeney frowned.

“Eric Beale. The boy who was executed was Eric Beale.”

“Oh, right. Beale.” He nodded.

“We understand you had a run-in with him not too long before he was arrested for Shannon’s murder.”

“Did I?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I may have. It was a long time ago. I don’t really remember.”

“You remember having been involved somehow in a bar fight with his brother sometime before that?” Andrew asked.

“Agent Shields, that was a long time ago. I’m afraid when I was younger, I did more than my share of hell-raising and got into more than one barroom brawl. It may be one of them involved this kid’s brother—Tim, was it?—but like I said, it was a long time ago.”

“You were a witness in the case against him. He went to prison for assault. Served time.”

“Oh,
that
fight.” Feeney nodded as if a light had just gone on in his head. “That was out at the Past Times. I do remember that. Tim Beale got into it with a buddy of mine.”

“Do you remember what the fight was about?”

“’Fraid not.” Feeney perched casually on the edge of his desk.

“Where’s this buddy now?” Dorsey asked.

“In the churchyard, First Baptist of Hatton,” he said smugly. “Motorcycle accident. Knoxville, nine, ten years ago.”

He stared at Andrew. “Anything else I can help you with, Agent Shields?”

“I think we’re good for now.”

“Well, then, I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Feeney reached out one long arm and opened the door.

They left without thanking him for his time.

“I swear I feel his eyes burning a hole right through the back of my head,” Dorsey mumbled as they stepped back into the sunshine.

“I don’t think it was the back of your head he was staring at.” Andrew unlocked the car with the remote.

“What an asshole,” Dorsey said when they were in the car. “Creepy and arrogant.”

“Yeah, but that just makes the picture more clear.” Andrew checked the time. “We have time to get a quick bite before we head out to Aubrey’s. Let’s grab something at that diner across from the post office.”

“Fine. What do you mean, the picture’s more clear?”

“We have two cases to solve here. The first one being what happened twenty-four years ago, the second being who killed Shannon. Let’s just look at the first one for now.”

He drove to the municipal parking lot and took a spot.

“Let’s assume that whatever happened to put Tim Beale behind bars had something to do with Jeff Feeney.”

“That feels right.” She nodded. “So Tim’s behind bars, then something’s going on between Feeney and Tim Beale’s little brother.”

“Okay, hold that thought.” Andrew turned off the car but didn’t move to get out. “Not too long after whatever confrontation there was between Feeney and Eric Beale, Shannon Randall runs away from home. Kimmie White tells Chief Taylor that she saw Shannon in Eric’s car. Eric’s picked up and questioned, and when the bloody shirt is found in his car, Taylor concludes that Eric killed Shannon.”

“To get back at Eric somehow for having gotten into something with his nephew?” Dorsey frowned.

“With his wife’s nephew.” Andrew let that sink in. “Is there any doubt in your mind that Taylor’s wife held the reins in that house? The house bought and restored with money she inherited?”

“So, you’re thinking that after Eric appeared to be a suspect, his wife leaned on Taylor to turn it on full blast, to get Eric out of the way for some reason?”

“Think about it. Both Beale boys get into seriously hot water with the law, after each of them had a run-in with Jeff Feeney.”

“Maybe Tim and Eric had something on Jeff, or maybe knew something that Jeff—and his aunt—didn’t want anyone else to know.” Dorsey thought for a moment. “Or it could have been the other way around.”

“Could be either. Having Eric arrested for Shannon’s murder was the way Taylor shut him up.”

“But why wouldn’t Eric have spoken up back then?” Dorsey frowned. “Why didn’t he say something at the trial? It doesn’t make sense that he’d keep quiet and let them execute him if he knew why he was being railroaded.”

“I agree. It doesn’t make sense at all.”

“And how would Shannon’s disappearance be connected to that?”

“I don’t think it is. I think her disappearance was just a convenient way for Taylor to get rid of Eric the same way he got rid of Tim.”

“I find it hard to believe that Taylor would have let them execute Eric, knowing he was innocent.”

“Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe once the story was concocted, he believed it. Maybe it all made perfect sense to him, once all the little bits of evidence starting falling into place. You know you can talk yourself into just about anything, if the stakes are high enough.”

“Let’s suppose you’re right,” Dorsey said. “Let’s suppose that’s how it happened. Eric gets onto Taylor’s radar somehow, he believes Eric is guilty, Eric is convicted and he’s executed. Now fast forward to 2007. Shannon Randall’s murdered. You’re saying you don’t think the two events are connected?”

“I think there’s a thread of a connection, but I don’t think that thread has anything to do with Eric Beale. I think he was an unfortunate victim of something else, something to do with Taylor’s nephew. I think Shannon’s disappearance was merely an unfortunate coincidence as far as Eric was concerned. A convenient means of getting rid of him.”

“Do you see a connection between Shannon’s disappearance in 1983 and her murder in 2007?” Dorsey turned to face him. “I feel there has to be something that ties one to the other. I just don’t know what that something is.”