Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery (7 page)

And a few of them might have been motivated to kill her father. Deputy Randy Chavis was at the top of the list. Angela had caught the deputy in several instances where a routine case took a wrong turn because of an oversight or action the deputy had taken, and yet he was still in law enforcement. The sheriff obviously condoned the deputy’s activities.

The second suspect was a county commissioner who’d been implicated in taking kickbacks from land developers on Dauphin Island. Angela’s stories had busted up a high-scale condo development on the shifting sand beaches of the barrier island. Rick Roundtree lost a lot of money and his reputation. No jail time, and he kept his elected office—an amazing feat given the facts.

And third on the list was former Governor Jameson Barr. He’d paid a hit man to kill his wife and was doing time in prison. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t reach out and harm Angela. She nailed him to the wall by tracking payments from the former governor to a hired gun.

While I hadn’t discovered evidence connecting any of these men to John Trotter’s murder, I had provided motive. Angela had mucked around in each man’s reputation. Barr had gone to prison. Roundtree had lost money. And Chavis had been painted as a fool.

When I finished with my suspect list, I read the account of Larry Wofford’s arrest and trail. It appeared to be pretty basic and by the book. The murder weapon was never found, probably because it had been dropped far out in the Gulf waters.

The testimony against Wofford centered on an eyewitness account given by the marina owner, Arley McCain. Wofford was seen leaving the
Miss Adventure
near the time of death for Trotter as established by the medical examiner. McCain testified that Wofford was the only person he saw coming or going on the dock that evening. The truly damning part was how Wofford was covered in blood and blind-stumbling drunk.

As his defense, Wofford insisted he’d almost collided with “someone in a yellow rain slicker” who’d rushed down the dock and into the night as he was returning to the marina. He’d seen the lights on in Trotter’s cabin and gone by for a nightcap, only to discover Trotter was dying. He’d attempted assistance to no avail. Trotter died and Wofford panicked, rushing off the boat and down the dock, where he was seen by McCain.

Wofford’s fingerprints were found all over Trotter’s desk and bedroom, where the murder occurred. Wofford conceded his prints were everywhere because he and John often had a drink together in the evenings. The sheriff’s office turned up no evidence of “the rain-slickered stranger.” No one near the marina had seen or heard anything.

Chavis was the lead officer investigating the murder. His testimony was heavily weighted against Wofford.

Coty McGowan was the defense lawyer, another person I needed to pay a call on. He made a case that Wofford found Trotter as he was dying and tried to help him, but the jury didn’t buy it. Reading the trial coverage, I had my doubts about Wofford’s innocence.

More than likely I was spinning my wheels, but I put in a call to the sheriff’s office, hoping Coleman had kept his promise to soften Sheriff Benson up. If Coleman had reached out to the sheriff, it was only partially effective. The high sheriff stalled, forcing me to wait until after lunch for an appointment. So I called McGowan, the defense attorney, and booked an interview with him.

McGowan worked out of an old Victorian building on Church Street surrounded by oak trees dripping Spanish moss. Mobile had a charm not unlike New Orleans without the big-city feel. And it was far more buttoned-up.

Though the law office was busy, the attorney saw me right away. He was a lean man in a three-piece suit with an impressive amount of gray hair that curled. Before I was even seated, he started.

“Larry Wofford is innocent. I have no doubt. His case is on appeal, but who knows what that means.”

“How was it that the marina owner saw Wofford stumbling, covered in blood, off Trotter’s boat but failed to see anyone else leaving?”

He leaned on the back of his chair. “That’s the whole basis for the appeal. That and the fact that the security cameras at the marina were on the blink that night.”

“On the blink?”

“They worked the night before and the night after, but not that night.”

“Did someone tamper with them?”

“We can’t prove it, but it does lend itself to reasonable doubt.” He stacked a pile of papers. “That video could have proven my client innocent.”

“What were the facts against Wofford?”

“The prosecution insisted Wofford rushed onto the boat, shot John, and was stumbling down the dock, all within three minutes. That’s not how it happened. Larry was on the boat at least fifteen minutes. He stayed with John, holding him as he died. He was shaken up. And drunk. So he made a bad decision not to call the police or report the crime. That’s a bad decision, not the basis for a life sentence.”

McGowan’s passionate defense moved me. “How do you intend to prove this?”

“Larry was too drunk to drive home. One of his lady friends drove him to the marina and let him out. It was twenty minutes later that McCain saw him stumbling down the dock. Larry spent that time trying to save his friend’s life.”

“Why didn’t this witness testify at the trial?”

“Larry wouldn’t give me her name, and, to be honest, I didn’t feel that her testimony as to the time she dropped him off would make a difference.”

“Why wouldn’t he name her?”

“She’s married. There’s nothing between them, but Larry said it would end her marriage. He feared her husband would hurt her. The jealous type who likes to reason with his fists. Larry didn’t even tell me this until he was convicted.”

“Chivalrous if stupid.”

“Yeah, that’s Larry Wofford through and through.”

“Her name?”

“Lydia Clampett. I haven’t had any luck getting her to return my calls.”

I took down her name. The appeal might well be the ticket to Wofford’s freedom, but I’d check with Mrs. Clampett just to cover all the bases. “Did you ever investigate to find out who might have killed John Trotter if your client didn’t?”

McGowan shook his head. “Larry barely had the money to cover legal fees. He sold his boat, and after that money ran out, I took the case pro bono. There wasn’t money to hire an investigator. The good news for Larry is the case has generated some media interest. Once I get the national media down here, that’ll keep the prosecution from pulling any funny business.”

“What was the other evidence against Wofford?”

McGowan slapped the arms of his leather chair with a resounding smack. “Very little. He had a history of drinking and brawling. Witnesses had heard him argue with Trotter in the past.” He held up his hands, palms toward the ceiling. “The prosecution had no real evidence, but public sentiment was high. Trotter was a character almost everyone knew. Wofford radiated trouble. And he swaggered and refused to show concern. He was out drinking the night before the trial. He
looked
guilty.”

“Surely you have some theories about who might have killed Mr. Trotter.” It would be interesting to hear whom McGowan came up with.

“Trotter’s daughter, Angela, pissed off a lot of people. Powerful people. I’d heard rumors Jameson Barr vowed to get even with her about the stories she did on him. He would have skated on hiring a hit man to kill his wife if Angela hadn’t bird-dogged the story.”

Check! His name was on my list, too. “Anyone else?”

“The sheriff hasn’t lost any love in her direction, but Benson’s a smart man. Why risk everything to kill a harmless old dreamer like Trotter just to settle a vendetta with Angela?”

I saw his point. “What about Rick Roundtree? I hear there was bad blood there.”

He shrugged. “My money would be on Barr. The thing with Roundtree—Angela rode his ass about development on the island. You know building contracts are where a lot of money slides in the back door. Angela opposed development on the island, so she made it her life’s goal to keep those contracts honest. It killed a bunch of deals. But Roundtree wouldn’t have harmed the old man. If Trotter had actually found the Esmeralda treasure, it would have opened the door to tourism on a big level. Theme park, diving adventures, you name it. The discovery of pirate’s booty on Dauphin Island would have created the biggest boom in development possible. Roundtree might have hired someone to kill Angela, but not her dad.”

6

Only a few blocks uptown from the lawyer’s office was the sheriff’s office, a far cry from the low-tech, charming old courthouse domain of Coleman Peters. Sheriff Benson’s suite of offices was housed in a new brick complex. When I was shown in, he rose from behind a desk that must have been six-by-eight, a vast expanse of mahogany. Behind him were flags, awards, and grip-and-grin photos celebrating official ceremonies.

“Sheriff Peters called,” he said without preamble, “and asked that I extend every courtesy to you. He also assured me you were licensed and ethical. Such isn’t always the case with private detectives.”

“Sheriff Peters and I have worked together numerous times.”

“So he says.” He motioned me into a leather wing chair that faced his desk. “Here in Mobile County, law enforcement is done by professionals, not private investigators.”

“Sheriff Peters believes we can all work together in the pursuit of justice, but I’ve handled cases in other counties where the prevalent attitude was similar to yours.” I paused. “And I’ve worked in places where law enforcement was corrupt. For obvious reasons, I wasn’t welcome there.”

His lips compressed, and I wondered if I’d pushed it just a smidgen too hard. But I’d done nothing to warrant such a high-handed attitude. Pushback followed on the heels of nasty arrogance.

“What do you want, Ms. Delaney?”

“To examine the physical evidence in the Larry Wofford case and permission to speak with law enforcement officials who were involved in the investigation.”

“You don’t mind asking for the moon, do you?”

“That’s what I need. Provide them, and I won’t trouble you again.”

“You do know that Ms. Trotter has tried to prove Wofford’s innocence before. Unsuccessfully.”

“She told me.”

“I understand you’re on vacation. You’ll be gone in what, five days tops? Why take on this thankless case? Wofford killed John Trotter. He may regret it. Hell, he may not remember it—the man spent half his time pickled in alcohol. But he did it. I have no doubt. None.” He patted the top pocket of his shirt, and I realized he had once been a smoker.

I eased the pack out of my purse and held it up. “Is there a place we can smoke without being arrested?”

He gave an unwilling chuckle and hit the intercom on his desk. “Wanda, please bring two coffees to the … portico.”

“Yes, sir.”

He rose and motioned for me to precede him out the door. He led me through a maze of corridors until we came to a glass door opening on an outside covered drive-through. Cigarette butts filled an ashtray. I gave him the pack of Native American cigarettes made from organic tobacco and no chemicals. He shook one out and offered it to me. We both exhaled, just as his secretary delivered two black coffees and a disapproving glare.

“Thanks,” he said. “Smoking is the one vice I can’t shake.”

“I quit for a long time.”

“Don’t make it a habit,” he said with a wry grin. Sheriff Benson had a certain amount of charm when he wasn’t being an ass. “Why have you taken on Angela Trotter’s ghosts? This is a waste of your time.”

The question was truly none of his business, but we’d established a truce and I didn’t want to fire the first cannonball. “She believes Larry Wofford is innocent. She wants the person who killed her father to pay. I understand her emotions, on a lot of different levels.”

“Wofford is in jail, where he belongs. All you’re doing is encouraging Ms. Trotter in false hope.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “You know, I’ve been guilty of a whole lot worse.”

He laughed. “Haven’t we both? Here’s my deal. You can see all the trial evidence. Whatever you want. If you promise one thing. Once you’ve gone through it, you do your best to convince Ms. Trotter justice has been served. If I thought Wofford was innocent, I’d be working right beside you. The truth is, he and John Trotter were drinking buddies. They got toasted on a regular basis. When that happens, sometimes two men disagree. In this instance, Wofford and Trotter got into some kind of argument, and Wofford shot him in the chest. It’s just that simple. No conspiracy to hide the truth, no ulterior motive to frame Wofford. He’s a damn good carpenter who happens to be a violent drunk.”

“I heard there was a problem with the security cameras at the marina.”

“That’s a question better put to Arley McCain, who owns the marina. We collected the recordings, just as we would in any other case. When we tried to look at them, the CDs were blank. Faulty wiring, wet night, someone failed to turn the system on—it could be any of the above. Bottom line is there was no evidence to prove Wofford’s statement that someone else was on the dock but also no evidence to show him running away from John’s boat covered in blood. It sort of balanced out, if you ask me.”

“Were there any other suspects?”

Impatience tightened Benson’s expression. “Feel free to interview the investigating officer. I’ll tell Randy to find the time to speak with you.”

I had a question about Chavis. “He’s a patrol officer, not a detective. A story Angela wrote about him kept him from being promoted to detective.”

“Chavis is one of my best officers. He displayed poor judgment a time or two in a high-profile case, and Angela rode his ass for it. That’s all true. But Chavis has closed cases no one else could. He was first on the scene at Trotter’s murder, and he led the investigation. He’s lived on the island his entire life. Some of those islanders can be clannish. It was better to have one of their own work the case.”

“Thank you. Where will I find the trial evidence?”

He motioned me back inside and left me with the secretary, who delivered me to the court clerk in charge of trial records. It was going to be a long search.