Eyeshot (12 page)

“Please.”

Terry looked at Sam. “Will you help me turn on the water?”

Another conquest, Sonora thought. He even got to the young ones.

“You bet I will. Go on and put that little one into the pen, Mr. Winchell. I'll keep an eye on your babies.” Sam looked at Sonora and she nodded.

“Mr. Winchell, while Sam's doing that, let's go into the kitchen for a minute and talk.” Sonora smiled at him and pushed through floor-length wood saloon doors.

It was a small kitchen, dark, imitation red brick linoleum peeling away from the edges of the wall. A metal highchair, butter yellow, was scooted up to the edge of the table. The metal food tray was clumped with baby oatmeal which, Sonora knew from experience, would now have the consistency of concrete. A baby spoon, the end shaped like Mickey Mouse, was on the floor under the table. Two laundry baskets sat next to the back door.

There were dishes on the counter, an open loaf of bread near the sink. The table was old brown Formica, stainless steel legs, and cluttered with a two day supply of milk-filled bowls clotted with dead soggy cereal. An open box of Frosted Flakes sat next to a box of Froot Loops. A plastic mug shaped like a parrot had slipped on its side, a trail of dried orange juice snaking to the edge of the table. A bottle of Flintstones vitamins, three left, one purple Fred and two green Dinos, was open next to a sticky looking salt shaker. There was no pepper in sight.

Pictures ripped from coloring books were taped to an almost new double-wide refrigerator. You could get ice cubes and ice water out of the door. Sonora wanted one like that.

She thought of Julia Winchell, facing this dark cramped kitchen every morning. Working long hours only to come home to laundry, bills, kids.

Much like her life.

The room at the Orchard Suites would have been an oasis—a two-room suite with maid service and a complimentary breakfast buffet right off the lobby. Black silk teddy on the pillow at the head of the bed.

Was Julia Winchell having an affair because there was trouble in her marriage, or because she needed a vacation?

“Excuse all this mess,” Winchell said. He pressed his back to the counter in front of the sink. Licked his lips.

Sonora nodded. “Mr. Winchell, Detective Delarosa talked to you on the phone about why we're here.”

“I got Kool-Aid in the refrigerator. Or I could make you some iced tea.”

“No thanks,”

“It's grape.” There was sweat on his forehead.

“No thanks.”

“Want to sit down?” Winchell pulled two chairs away from the cluttered table, chair legs scraping the linoleum, making black scuff marks that barely showed against the red.

Sonora noticed that Winchell's pants hung loose, his eyes dark shadowed. Not sleeping or eating. His cheeks were pink and smooth. Probably shaved for the first time in a long time right after Sam's call.

“Mr. Winchell, is there anyone you want to have with you tonight? Maybe help you out with the kids?”

Winchell was smiling at her, shaking his head. He picked a spoon up off the table, fingering the bowl. Sonora saw that his hand was perfectly steady.

“Mr. Winchell, I think it's possible we may have found your wife.”

He kept smiling. Sonora watched him, wondering if she was getting through.

“If we have found her, Mr. Winchell, the news isn't good. It's bad.”

“I know what you're saying.” The smile had gone shy, but it was still there, and the look in his eyes was sober, the voice deeper and more gravelly.

She was getting through.

“We've found … remains … that we think are Julia's remains. You can go to the sheriff's office and make a formal identification, but we thought it might be easier, at first, if you took a look at a couple of pictures.”

Sheer torture for him now. Sonora took the pictures from her blazer pocket quickly and handed them over. He made no move to take them. Sonora brushed crumbs and clutter to one side of the table, and laid the pictures out, avoiding milk rings and sticky spots.

They'd done what they could in the sheriff's office, laying the head back against the steel table as if Julia Winchell was resting, pulling a white sheet up to her chin to cover the raw, fish-eaten wound of the severed neck, unwrapping the hair from the face. The sheriff had cut a piece of black construction paper and placed it over the empty eye socket.

Still, by no means pretty.

The skin had that pearly gray-white translucence of death, black-tinged with putrescence. And the hands, laid on the table, severed wrists hidden by the sheet, were still missing fingers, one gnawed to the bone.

“
God.
” Winchell shuddered and looked away, closing his eyes. “It's not her.”

Sonora frowned. “Mr. Winchell, I'm sorry, would you take another look so we can make sure?”

He looked again, eyes narrow, head tilted sideways as if he couldn't face the pictures head on. He shook his head. “No. I'm sure, I'm definite. This isn't Julie.”

Sonora took the pictures and put them away. “Mr. Winchell—”

“It's
not
her. How about some Kool-Aid? Be glad to pour you a glass.”

He was bringing out the heavy Southern artillery. Blunt courtesy to the right palate for TKO.

“All right, Mr. Winchell. I don't have any more information for you right now, but I'll stay in close touch.”

“Of course. Thank you. I'll do the same.”

“There's one other thing.”

He waited, hands still in his lap.

“Detective Delarosa mentioned this to you on the phone, I think. We need blood samples from your children, so we can run a match with this victim, check the DNA. That way we can make a positive ID—in this situation, or in anything else that might crop up.”

He licked his lips. “Could you maybe get the DNA stuff from Julie's sister?”

“We've been in touch. She'll be meeting us at the clinic in about an hour, give or take, but we still need samples from the children. The Sevier Boulevard Clinic is staying open, we've made arrangements already. Unless you prefer your own doctor?”

“Is there any charge for this?” he asked in a soft voice.

“No sir, no charge.”

He nodded. “I need … a little time. Clean Chrissie and Terry up, and do some stuff here in the kitchen. Can I meet you there, say half an hour?”

She would never get home. She thought of Heather, waiting, waiting. “That would be fine.”

Sonora turned away, taking a breath as she escaped the kitchen. Sam was in the living room, reading
Green Eggs and Ham
to the girls, who were both cuddled in his lap.

“Sam?”

He held up a hand. “Almost done.”

Terry glanced up at Sonora, but her absorbed gaze was immediately drawn when Sam turned the page and showed a new picture. Chrissie bent forward, mouthing the corner of the book.

She had to get out of the house. “Be right out front,” Sonora said. She headed out the door, screen whanging shut behind her.

She was across the street, no more than a couple of feet from the Blazer, when she heard Winchell call her name. He was standing in the side yard, waving his arms. Sonora figured he'd come out that back kitchen door, bypassing Sam and his little girls. He was pitched forward, body tense.

Sonora looked back at the Blazer. Clampett's head was thrust out the window. She could hear him bark and snarl because someone had dared open the passenger's side door of the car parked next to theirs. Laid back and easy at home, he was a hellacious watchdog on the road. Heather was pulling on his neck, trying to get him to hush.

Sonora headed back across the road. A pickup truck, loaded with gravel, went by slinging small rocks at her feet. She waited for traffic to slow, then break, but cars kept coming in an endless stream, giving her an occasional glimpse of Winchell, pitched forward on his toes, wiping sweat from the back of his neck.

There was a dump truck coming, right behind a white Lexus, ponderously gathering speed. Sonora dashed through the gap, climbed over the gravel and dirt piles, headed down the weedy unpaved driveway back up to the Winchell house.

Butch Winchell had deflated somehow, face sagging. He did not meet Sonora's eyes. He took his glasses off, cleaned them on his shirt. Ran his hands through his hair.

“Mr. Winchell?” Sonora said gently.

He was out of breath, as if he'd been the one darting through traffic. They both were breathing hard.

“Yes, ma'am. I think …” He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, put the glasses back on. “I changed my mind, Detective Blair. It's my wife you found. It's Julie.”

“I know.”

20

The waiting room was cold enough to make Sonora shiver—a good thirty-degree drop from the heat and humidity outside. Sam paced in front of Sonora, Heather up on his shoulders, sleepy but game.

A woman in pink sweats and a white polyester jacket leaned out into the waiting area from one of those equipment-laden rooms where medical people always made you wait.

“We're ready now, Detective.”

Sam looked at Sonora. “I'll go. I'm more used to it.”

Something in his tone of voice gave Sonora a twinge of guilt. He'd logged more than his fair share of hospital time with Annie. Sam put Heather gently on the floor and walked into the examining room with Butch Winchell and his two little girls.

Heather sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Sonora. Her T-shirt and shorts had seen a lot of action for one day. She needed a bath.

“Where's Sam going?”

“They have to take blood samples from Mr. Winchell and his little girls.”

“How come Sam has to watch?”

“Maintain continuity in the chain of evidence.”

A wail came through the closed door. Heather put her head against Sonora's leg, and Sonora reached down and lifted her off the floor, settling her sideways into her lap.

They sat quietly, listening to the babies cry. Sonora heard a car door slam, saw headlights, noted quick light footsteps. The glass door opened, bringing in a wave of humid heat and the sound of crickets, and a woman who, at a distance, resembled Julia Winchell.

She had the same hair, brown-black and sleek, with the lush richness Sonora had only seen in Vidal Sassoon commercials. She wore blue jeans, lace up hiking boots, an orange T-shirt that said
JAZZERCIZE.
She was tallish, five six or seven, with high cheekbones. Her hair was cut chin-length, straight and swingy. Her brows were dark, eyes almond brown. She walked very precisely, careful where she put her feet.

Sonora wondered how like she was to her sister. Families, in her experience, shared mannerisms and quirks of speech even more than physical similarities. Tribal trademarks, she thought. Had Julia Winchell kept her nails so long and meticulously polished, did she turn her head sideways like that, chew her hair when deep in thought?

Sonora had the familiar urge to know the victim. She had an image, fueled by one Kodak snapshot, and the remains that had been snagged and dragged by the trotline.

Sonora shifted Heather off her lap, stood up. Flipped the ID. Knew Heather was watching. For some reason the kids always liked to see her show the badge.

“Detective Blair, Cincinnati Police Department. You're Liza, aren't you? Julia's sister?”

The woman swung her head sideways and tilted it up. “Liza Hardin. Yes, I'm Julia's sister.” They shook hands. “I've talked to you on the phone a couple of times, haven't I?”

There was no Southern in this woman's voice. Sonora wondered where she was from, and how she'd wound up in Knoxville.

“Thanks for coming,” Sonora said.

Liza Hardin looked away. “Did Butch …” She took a breath. “Did Butch think it was her?”

“If you don't mind, Ms. Hardin, it would be best if you took a look yourself, and formed your own opinion.”

“Sure.”

She was going all stony-faced. Sonora decided they'd better get the blood samples first.

21

Sam and Sonora packed the blood samples carefully into the back of the Blazer. It would have been nice to rent a room for the night, but they decided it would be best to get the physical specimens back to Cincinnati and into the hands of the CSU guys. Neither of them wanted to sit in front of a jury and explain how the blood had sat overnight in the parking lot of the local Budget-Tel.

Sonora sat in a booth at the Shoney's Inn Restaurant, nonsmoking, next to the salad bar, and ordered a Coke.

Liza Hardin went for coffee, in spite of the heat.

“Where's your little one?” Hardin asked. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glazed. She seemed to want to talk.

Grief took people that way, sometimes, stunned them into an honest purge of thought and emotion. Sometimes they said things they were sorry for later. Sonora had always thought it was a good time to talk to people, if you had the stomach for it.

Hardin put three packs of Equal into her coffee cup, caught Sonora's look. “If you think this is bad, you should have seen Jules. She put—no kidding—eleven of these in every cup of coffee. Fifteen in her iced tea.” Hardin smiled, eyes misty. “Last Christmas I went to Sam's and bought one of those
huge,
econo boxes of Equal—must have been ten thousand packs in that thing. I wrapped it in red foil and put it under her Christmas tree as a joke. That thing weighed a ton. She kept picking it up and fooling with it. She thought I got her, like, hand weights or something.”

Sonora took a long sip of Coke, savored the jolt of sugar and caffeine. “Your sister have a good sense of humor?”

“Oh
God,
she was funny. We always did the joke thing at Christmas. One year she gave me these horrible disco earring balls—I mean, purple sequins, the height of tacky. And I was thanking her, you know, and thinking, what in the
hell.
She got to laughing and told me my real present was in the trunk of her car. That's what started it, it was her. So the next year I got her a goldfish—Jules hated fish, she could not stand to be around aquariums, said they were tedious beyond belief. She got me an M&M dispenser. I'm not going to be able to stand it this year. Christmas and no Jules.”