JJ08 - Blood Money (14 page)

“What do you think happened?” I asked.

Tears
filled her
eyes.
“We
let him down. Just like his family and
society,
we failed him. His
blood’s
on our
hands.”

Her maudlin sentiments came across as inauthentic, even spurious.
Was
she merely saying what she thought she should or trying to
cover
up something far more sinister than insincerity?

After leaving training, I searched the institution unsuccessfully for Donnie
Foster,
the sergeant on duty in A-dorm the night
Jacobs
was killed.

When I called his home, his wife said he
couldn’t
come to the phone. I left
my
number, though I knew he
wouldn’t
call.

“He
ain’t
done
nothin’,”
his wife said.

“I just need to ask him some questions.”

“What you
need
to do is leave him
alone.”

A
fter
work
I stopped by the courthouse.

Because there was a county commissioners meeting later in the evening, I might just be able to talk to several of the men from the farmhouse the night of the
party,
including Don Stockton, Ralph Long, Andrew Sullivan, Richard Cox, and Dad.

Built in the
70s,
the
Potter
County Courthouse
was
bright and
boxy,
with light wood-paneled walls and white tile floors with black and brown and gold specks in them.

A 70s-style staircase behind which was a fountain that no longer
worked
rose out of the
lobby,
leading to the second-floor courtroom.

The square
box
of a building had four equal hallways with offices off each side, and the sheriff
’s
department and jail were located directly behind it in another, smaller square
box.

I stopped by the property appraiser’s office first.

I probably suspected Ralph Long as little as
anyone.
Not only was he harmless and effeminate with no interest in girls, but I doubted he had enough testosterone in his body required to beat someone to death.

“I was shocked to hear about that girl gettin’ killed,” he said. “Just
couldn’t
believe it. And then somebody said her body was stolen out of the hearse.
That’s
crazy.”

“
Did you see her?” I asked.

“When?”

I was a little surprised by his question. “I meant that night, but
anytime.”

“You
know,
I think I did but I
can’t
remember where.
You
know how your mind plays tricks on you.
Memory’s
a funny
thing.
I thought I saw a glimpse of her in the house when I went to pee but I also think I remember seeing her outside as I was
leaving.
May not
have
been
her.
May not
have
been anyone. There
wasn’t
much moon. Thought I saw her across the field a
ways.
Seemed to be stumbling. Thought she was drunk. What if she
was
injured?”

“Which direction was she headed in?”

“
Toward
the woods I think.”

“Any
idea what time it was?”

“Sorry
man, I
don’t.
Don’t
even know if I really saw it. She
couldn’t’ve
been in the house and outside at the same
time.”

“It
wasn’t
different times?”

“Well,
not
really.
I went and peed and then left.

Don’t
think she could’ve gotten across the field
by
then.

Let alone gotten beaten
up.”

“Unless,”
I said, “it happened while she was in the
house.”

I made my
way
up the stairs and into the
judge’s
chambers next.

Judge
Cox
was preparing to leave for the day but agreed to stay and talk to me––though not before asking me to close the
door.

“I
have
to be so careful,” he said.
“And
not just because of my position but my convictions. I do my very best to be an example of integrity and
honesty,
to truly
live
above
reproach. Sometimes I’m too careful. This was one of those times. I could’ve driven. I
wasn’t
drunk,
wasn’t
even
over
the limit, but I rarely drink and I
didn’t
want to take even the slightest chance that I was even close to the limit, so I called
my kids.
I wish I
would’ve
never even gone into the little farmhouse to wait. I wish my name
wasn’t
even associated with any of
this.
Even
so,
I was long gone before any of it happened. Diane and Richie drove back out to get me. I felt bad. They
hadn’t
been home long after takin’ you, but . .
.”

“Did you see her at any point?” I asked. “Who?”

“The blonde girl who was killed.”

He shook his head.
“Don’t
think
so.
Did catch a glimpse of a girl in the back of the farmhouse but
don’t
think she was blonde. I was sitting in the front room and it was hard to see. And it was only a short while before the kids came to collect me and
my car.
We
were home before the late local news was
off.”

“Notice anything out of the ordinary? Anyone acting suspicious? Anything at all?”

He started shaking his head but stopped.
“It’s
probably nothin’. And if none of this
would’ve
happened, I
would’ve
probably never thought of it again. As we were leaving,
Diane’s
lights swept across the field and I saw Commissioner Stockton walking toward the
woods.
It’s
probably nothing and I’m not accusing him of
anything.

It’s
just . . . he had just been inside and to then to stumble out of the house and to be walking funny across the field toward
nothin’.”

“Not
nothin’,”
I said. “The
woods.”

I found Don Stockton in the hallway heading toward the county commissioner’s room.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure,
pardner,”
he said as if I were his best
buddy.
“What can I do for you?”

“I’m tryin’ to figure out what happened to the girl who was killed at
Potter
Farm and wondered if you had any
ideas.”

“Ideas? About what?”

“Who may’ve done it and why? Did you know her?”

“I never even saw
her,”
he said. “Give me a name at least and I’ll
try
to come up with somethin’, but as it is . . . ’fraid I
can’t
help
you.”

“Anybody
acting out of the ordinary? Suspicious?

Upset?”

“Not that I noticed . . . but
wasn’t
really on the lookout for that sort of thing, you know?
I’s
too busy takin’ your
brother’s
money.”

“How much is he into you for?”

“We’re
square,” he said. “He owes me
nothin’.”

“
What were you doin’ when you
weren’t
doin’ that?”

I asked.

“That’s
about all I
did,”
he said. “Winnin’ that kind of money takes more’n a minute or
two.”

“But when you
weren’t
at the table taking
Jake’s
money,
where’d
you
go
and
who’d
you see?”

“Guess I got up to piss a time or
two.
Don’t
remember seein’ much of
nobody.”

“Do you remember anybody leaving the house for a long period of time and coming back?”

“Didn’t
really notice,
John,
but even if I had, I
don’t
think any of ’em are capable of killin’ anybody––even a hooker––so I
wouldn’t
point a finger of suspicion at ’em.”

“Why do you think someone stole the body?” I
asked.

“Reckon
he
wasn’t
finished with
her,”
he said.

After leaving the courthouse, I walked
over
to the sheriff
’s
department to discover that Andrew Sullivan
was
off
duty,
but Dad was in his office.

“Was
hoping to talk to
Sullivan,”
I said. “Really? Why?”

“He was one of the ones at the
after-party,”
I said.
“And
one of the
few,
according to
Jake,
who left long enough to
have
committed the murder and moved the
body.”

“I’ll set up a time for us to talk to
him.”

“
How long were you in there?”

“Where?”

“The farmhouse.”

He
shrugged.
“Not too
long.
Shook a few
hands.

Said some thank
yous.
You
suspect me?”

I shook my head. “Did you see the victim at any point?”

“Yeah,”
he said, “I was just waiting for the right time to mention it. No I
didn’t
see
her.
I
didn’t
see anything suspicious. I
would’ve
already said something if I
had.”

“Who was in there when you were?”

“Jake,
Stockton,
Andrew,
Potter,
and
Felix
were already
playin’
cards. If the girls were there they must’ve been in the back. I never saw any of them. Ralph Long
was
in there running his mouth a mile a minute but nobody was listening. The judge came in and sat for a while but not
long.
He left before I did. I
don’t
remember anybody else but I
wouldn’t
bet
my
life on it.
Wasn’t
payin’
too close attention. And I was exhausted.”

“Nothing on the body yet?” I asked.

“Nothing.
It’s
the strangest thing I’ve ever seen in all my time in law enforcement.
It’s
just gone.
Have
you had any ideas where it might be?”

“Not any you
haven’t,”
I said. “Put out a description to all agencies in the area. Check all the hospitals and morgues for
Jane Does.
Beyond that, I’m at a
loss.”

“Had any more thoughts on why the body
was
stolen?” he asked.

“See previous
answer,”
I said. “None you
haven’t.”

I then told him about some of the ideas that had occurred to me earlier in the afternoon as I was walking on the compound.

“The hell you
say,”
he said.
“That’s
several I
didn’t.

Necrophilia never crossed my mind, you sick bastard.”

L
ater that night I
drove.

As Anna and much of the
world
slept, I ran the
roads.

I had too much on my mind, too many things to process, and I felt a restlessness I knew driving
Anna’s
car would soothe.

Anna’s
car was a nearly new Mustang GT—another reason I was jonesin’ to
drive.

I was still driving a loaner, a tricked-out black 1985 Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS seized by the
Potter
County Sheriff
’s
Department in a big drug bust. Dad had been letting me use it since I wrecked my truck while in pursuit of an escaped inmate.

The Monte
Carlo,
which had
T-tops,
pinstriping, a six-inch lift kit, twenty-six-inch chrome
rims,
illegally dark tinted windows, and a loud dual exhaust, was about as inconspicuous as Liberace at the First Baptist
Church’s
annual
children’s
piano recital, and I was sick of it.

Before I left, I created a new playlist for my ipod that fit
my
dark disposition, which included some
Joan
Osborne, Emmylou Harris,
Jann
Arden, and several covers of “Losing My Religion,”

“
Ain’t
No Sunshine,”

“
Paint
it
Black,”
and “California Dreaming.”

The GT had a kickass sound system and I planned to take advantage of it.

As soon as I was on the dark rural highway leading out of Pottersville, I cranked the volume and opened her
up,
the haunting, mournful sounds of Emmylou
Harris’s
“Wrecking
Ball” a pitch-perfect match for my melancholic mood.

The leather seats seemed to mold to me, holding me in the cockpit-like interior of the iconic
car.
It’d
been a while since
I’d
driven a powerful automobile, and
I’d
forgotten just how much fun it could be—especially when equipped with a stick.