Not in the Heart (6 page)

C
HAPTER
8

Dennis Sawyer pulled up to the Denny's in an ancient Toyota Camry. Not exactly the image of the grizzled ex-cop/crack PI I'd expected, but at least he was on time. Portly and balding, he wore white Dockers, open-toed sandals, and a tentlike Hawaiian shirt that hung loosely over his belly. With the sunglasses and mustache he could have passed as an aging rock star. I waved at him from the back of the restaurant, but he seemed to know where I was as soon as he hit the front door.

He shook my hand and glanced at my face. “Run into some trouble?”

“Yeah, IHOP got jealous.”

He snickered and the waitress arrived. He ordered without ever looking at the menu: coffee and the special. I wasn't sure how the food would sit on my acid-filled stomach but I was starving and ordered pancakes. Easier to chew. The orange juice and coffee were probably a mistake, but I couldn't help myself.

My head still felt cloudy without much sleep. I needed to focus. I thanked him for meeting and he seemed uninterested in small talk.
How are the kids? Do you have kids? What's your favorite color?
It wasn't his style, which I appreciated.

“Why are you so interested in Conley?”

“He and his family asked me to write a book. It's what I do.”

He seemed unimpressed. “A little late to change the outcome, isn't it?”

“I think he's resigned to the needle. He's actually trying to become the first heart-transplant donor from death row.”

“Who's the lucky recipient?”

“My son.”

He stared at me. The coffee came and we both partook, our first station of Denny's communion service.

“How much do you know?” Sawyer said.

“What I've read from the news clippings and court transcripts. Chandler said it was the cleanest conviction he'd ever had.”

“Is that what George said?” He pursed his lips like someone had squeezed a lemon into his coffee. “Well, he was right. It was the easiest.”

“You had doubts about Conley, though.”

“Still do. Everybody congratulated themselves. Made a lot of people happy to catch a perp and get a conviction that fast.”

“Chandler called you a bleeding heart. Against the death penalty.”

Sawyer gave a wry smile. “I got no problem with the death penalty for people who deserve it. And I don't know about Conley. Something tells me he probably deserved being behind bars for a lot of things, but not the murder of Diana Wright.”

He used her name, not just “the victim.” Interesting that after eleven years he still had a connection. “What happened with the investigation?”

“We got the missing-person report from the mother. We interviewed people who worked at the shop. There had been some kind of altercation with a drunk on the street. We got the surveillance video from the salon and the pet store next door, made a positive ID on the guy, and traced Conley to a junkyard.”

“He lived there?”

“Slept in a little pop-up trailer toward the back of the lot. The owner said he'd hired Conley as a night watchman, if you can believe it.”

“How'd you find the body?”

“A dog. Took her about a minute to find it. Shallow grave by a '67 Mustang. Out in the open, like he wanted us to find it. Yellow tape went up and that was it.”

“And he was asleep in the trailer?”

Sawyer nodded. “Still had half a bottle left, too.”

“What about a car? If he was just a drunk on the street, did he have transportation?”

Sawyer nodded. “Rusted-out Mazda. Looked a lot like him. It wouldn't even turn over. But that little piece of the puzzle wasn't important.”

“Chandler and the prosecutor said he found out where she lived, waited outside, snatched her, and killed her. But why?”

“He threatened her. It's in the court transcript.”

“Was there forensic evidence in the car?”

He opened a grape jelly packet and scooped it into his mouth with a butter knife. “We found her hair. Her purse. One shoe. It felt conveniently haphazard. Looked like a drunk had tried to pull off the perfect crime. Ineptly meticulous. To me, it didn't fit.”

“You find a dead girl in the dump and evidence everywhere and you don't think it fits?”

“How did he abduct her without anyone seeing? How did a drunk get her back to the dump? And why bring her back there? Why not dump her body in a river or the swamp?”

I shook my head. “The case was open and shut. The guy's guilty.”

“Maybe so. But I've got more questions. Where did he get the revolver with the serial number filed down? And who keeps a murder weapon in a kitchen cupboard? What about the owner of the salon where Diana worked? That guy is a piece of work.”

I gave him my best reporter's quizzical stare, the one where I furrow into a unibrow. Always worked with political figures and heads of businesses to get them to elaborate without me even asking another question.

“The manager of the salon owned three of these places across town. Now it's just one.
Shady
is an understatement. Actually, it would be a compliment. I heard he had the girls do more than cut hair, if you know what I mean. Sleazeball. And he had a brother who's now in jail.”

“What's the manager's name?”

He folded his napkin and closed his eyes. “Curtis Tompkins. Brother's in prison for dope dealing, but that was the plea deal. He was guilty of a lot worse.”

He gave me the name of the salon, but I had that in my notes.

“What did Chandler say about these inconsistencies?” I said.

“Two and two make four, and when things fit as neatly as this did, investigations shut down. But it wasn't just Chandler. The prosecutor, Boyle, was up for election that year. He wanted a quick conviction. Push it through. Get the ink dry on the headlines.”

My cheek throbbed and I popped a couple more Advil and washed them down with the watery orange juice.

“It smelled to me like something else was going on but for the life of me I don't know what. As soon as we found the body, the reports were written and everybody went home.”

“If you were so sure it wasn't right, why didn't you follow up?”

He shrugged. “Like I said, he was probably guilty of something. And I did have other work. But it's bugged me over the years. Why did he pick her? There were other people on the street. Why go for her?”

“Did the defense bring any of this up?”

“The defense was inept. Conley got shafted on all sides. Unless he really did do it.”

“Which makes the most sense to me.”

The food arrived and he dove into his eggs with abandon. I dove into my pancakes like a timid swimmer, pushing small bits to the right side of my mouth, away from the pain. Despite the good detective's concern, the conversation made me think Sawyer was a sour-grapes guy who didn't mind stirring things up for his old partner. Maybe Chandler had cheated him out of a dozen donuts. Still, there was something about his questions that felt disconcerting.

“Is this why you left the force?”

Two pieces of bacon went into the bottomless pit and Sawyer wiped his fingers on a napkin. “I'm no saint. I didn't leave over some moral problem if that's what you're asking. Let's just say it was a mutual decision between my superiors and myself.”

“So he might be innocent but you'll just let him die?”

He spread grape jelly on a biscuit this time. “Nothing's going to stop the wheels of justice. Short of some action from the governor, Conley's dead. Which puts you in an interesting position with your son.”

“Yeah. Interesting.”

Sawyer leveled his gaze and spoke softly. “If he needs this kind of procedure, he must not be doing well.”

The man's sensitivity surprised me. Almost choked me up. Almost.

I changed the subject. “What was Conley's motivation? Revenge for not giving him money? The autopsy said she wasn't sexually assaulted.”

“Ask Conley. Ask Chandler. I got no answers to that, other than what he yelled at her and what witnesses saw and testified.”

“I haven't read that yet.”

“Witnesses outside the salon say he approached her and asked for money. He followed her, begging. He finally got in front of her, and when she refused, he screamed he was going to kill her. She got by him and climbed on a bus. The next day she didn't show up for work. Then we found her body in the junkyard.”

He wiped his plate with the remainder of his biscuit and popped it into his mouth. All done. Good boy. The waitress brought the check and I tried to ignore it, but it just sat there. He remained quiet until I pulled out the hundred-dollar bill. It still had some Betadine on it.

“When do you see Conley?” he said.

“First meeting is Friday morning.”

“Buy some new clothes. Don't walk in like that. And get your face checked. Looks like it's infected.”

Thanks, Ellen.

“How'd you get that?” he said.

“I had a run-in with a couple of guys who think I owe their boss some money.”

“Do you?”

I nodded.

“Must be quite a loan.” He gave me a look like he'd seen this type of thing before. A sad look. “Did you get the authorities involved?”

“Not yet. I think I can handle it.”

“Does your wife know?”

I hesitated.

“Friendly advice if you'll take it,” he said, pointing at my face. “That was a message. And the next one won't be as subtle. Pay the bill. Fast. I'd hate to get a call from your wife asking me to look into this after you're in the morgue, which is where you're going to wind up.”

He rose and shook my hand. “Good luck getting the story. And with your son.”

C
HAPTER
9

From the pictures among Oleta's clippings, the row of shops near the salon hadn't changed much. The pet store was now a tanning salon and there was a convenience shop on the corner. On the other side of the salon was a locally owned office supply store that seemed to have more employees than customers. The street looked like it was something from a Mayberry reunion show with awnings that shaded the sidewalk and a brick facade. Across the street sat a public parking lot. Same as before.

Mane Street Hair and Nails sat in the middle of the block, a narrow building with the usual signs outside stating they were full service. Hair and nails, walk-ins welcome. I decided to test them and walked in.

The front section was set up for nails, while two women and one man were styling hair toward the back. All three were busy. Only one Asian woman was doing nails and she was occupied with a blonde woman whose hair seemed to stretch in prayer toward the water-stained ceiling tiles.

Two middle-aged women in plastic chairs leafed through magazines, the requisite bottles of designer shampoo, conditioner, and hair coloring stacked in glass cases behind them. A thirtyish, jowly woman sat at the front desk and didn't look up when I approached. Her short hair was colored several hues of yellow.

“Name?” she said.

“Truman.”

She wrote it on a pink slip under a row of names that had been crossed out. “Haircut?”

I looked at the prices and gulped. It had been a long time since I cared what it cost to cut my hair. With my dwindling funds, I was a little protective.

“Yeah, just a cut today. I do my nails on Thursdays.”

“Fifteen minutes,” she said.

I leaned on the counter and took off my sunglasses, waiting until she glanced up to speak. “Are you the owner?”

“Is there a problem?” she said, staring at the bandage on my cheek. In the mirror behind her I could see what a hideous sight my face had become.

“I'm just looking for who's been here the longest. Would that be you?”

“I've been here a few years.”

“Do you remember Diana?”

A cloud came over her and she cocked her head. “You here for a haircut or something else?”

“A little of both,” I said.

“A few more days and all of this will be over. We'll finally have it behind us.”

I nodded. “You were the witness at the trial, weren't you? You saw the whole thing.”

“No, that was Wanda. But we don't talk about it. She gets upset.”

She went back to whatever she was doing and the ladies held their magazines. I smiled, though it hurt a lot more to smile than frown, disproving that saying about the muscles in your face.

A tall man was led to the front by the male hairdresser and they exchanged pleasantries. Either the sitting women were having their nails done or they were waiting on the female stylists because the man came toward me. He seemed not to notice my injury.

“I'm Dexter. Is this your first visit to Mane Street?”

“It is. How long have you worked here?”

“Going on four years,” Dexter said. He was a small man with a slight build and a pleasant face. He buttoned the cape around my neck and looked in the mirror, lifting his hands to my head as if preparing to sculpt a work of art. “So what are we doing today?”

I love it when stylists talk in the first-person plural. “Let's just do a three on the side and a five on top and call it good.”

He frowned. “Really? That drastic? Are you sure? A man with all your hair should show it off.”

“Shorter means less gray,” I said. “Plus, it'll take the attention away from my face.”

He laughed. “I'm not sure any haircut could do that, my friend. All right, five on top, three on the sides, and I'll blend a bit.”

He began the small talk dance of hairdressers and I wondered if they took Chitchat 101 in beauty school. Make a connection. Form a verbal bond.

“You have the day off today?” he said.

“I'm actually working right now. On a project about the lady who used to work here. Diana.”

He turned off the clippers and stared at me in the mirror. “I thought I recognized you. Didn't you use to work for—oh, what's that news network . . . ?”

I told him and he snapped his fingers. “Yes, Truman. The reporter. It fits.” He turned and looked at his coworkers. “Wow, we have someone famous in the shop today.” He giggled and his eyes twinkled. “Weren't you the guy who got caught in that melee in San Francisco between all the protesters?”

I nodded. “You have a good memory.”

He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. “No, I was there. What a night.” He told me much more than I wanted to know, but it was clear he really had been there.

“How did you wind up in Tallahassee?” I said.

“Series of life changes, choices. My partner moved here for his work and then we split. Left me for someone taller. I always said he only loved me for the free haircuts. He had such a lovely mane. I hope it all falls out. Well, that's not true. I don't wish him ill.”

“I know the feeling.”

“So how did you get the bandage and bruise? Covering another riot? Shark invasion?”

His quick wit made me smile. And then wince. “Let's just say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I've had my share of those. All right, I won't pry.” He leaned close to my face and I could smell the coffee on his breath. “But you really should get that looked at. It could get infected.”

He finished the back and sides and began blending with scissors. “You covered the execution in South Carolina, too.”

“You have way too good of a memory.”

“The bane of my existence. I remember too much. Bits of conversation. Meaningless details. Latin words. Middle names of presidents. Which company makes which candy bar. It's not photographic, of course—I'm not that talented. God wouldn't give me anything I could actually use. Just enough to swirl my mind and keep it going when I'm trying to get to sleep. And to win at Trivial Pursuit. Most people won't play me.”

An older woman came into the shop and trudged through as if walking in a snowdrift. Someone said, “Hey, Wanda,” and I deduced that this was Wanda. This is why I'm such a good reporter. She gave me a quick glance in the mirror as she slipped past the falling hair and closed the door to the office.

“Round or square in the back?” Dexter said.

“Surprise me,” I said.

He finished his masterpiece, unfastened the cape, twirled me around, and handed me a mirror. “What's the verdict?”

“Guilty of the perfect haircut.” I pulled some cash out of my pocket and handed it to him. He was about to lead me to the front when I gave him another five and said, “I need to use the restroom. It's in the back, right?”

Dexter nodded. “I'll have your receipt at the front.”

I knocked lightly on the office door and Wanda said something from inside I couldn't decipher. When I opened it, she looked up, cigarette smoke swirling. “Can I help you?”

I closed the door behind me and sat. I told her my name, that I was in town to write a story about the Conley execution and needed to ask a couple of questions.

“You need to talk with Curtis and he's not here.”

“You testified, didn't you?”

“There's nothing I have to say to you that I haven't already said a million times. And if you're trying to make that monster seem human, I don't want any part of it.”

“You saw the confrontation on the street, right?”

“I heard the commotion and went out just as he said he was going to kill her. It was a vile, vicious attack. I hope he burns. Forever.”

“Did you speak with Diana about it?”

She shook her head. “She got on the bus. I called her house later, but her mother said she was in her room. I never talked to her again. If there's anybody on the face of the planet who deserves to die, it's Terrelle Conley. Print that in your story.”

The office had that male touch, meaning
Playboy
calendars and
Hustler
magazines. “Is this your office?”

“I do the books for Curtis. We share this space.”

“Tell me about Diana.”

She took a draw from her cigarette. “Tell you what?”

“What was she like? A hard worker? Did she have a boyfriend?”

“She was the sweetest girl I ever knew. Never said a mean thing about nobody. Took care of her mother, so she didn't have much time for a life. And she never missed work, except for some personal time she asked for.”

“Personal time?”

“I think she had business on the side. I didn't pry. Her mom was sick, so she needed some extra cash.”

“Is her mother still living?”

“As far as I know.”

“Boyfriend?”

She shook her head. “She never talked about anybody and I never saw her with anyone. She was always one of our most popular stylists because she really got to know the people, you know? She even took that guy cookies, that's what kind of person she was.”

“You mean Conley?”

“Yeah, she felt sorry for him. She'd take him food around the holidays. A sandwich or a cool drink on a hot day. Just the sweetest thing.”

I got the point about how sweet she was.

“Do you remember that last day? Was there anything different about her?”

She shrugged. “She was a little antsy. Agitated. I think it was because she saw Conley.”

“Why would he make her agitated?”

“I don't know—maybe he threatened her or something.”

“She said that?”

“No, I'm just guessing.”

Wanda seemed a little impatient and I decided to drop the bomb. That's the main reason you come for the interview—the question you want answered when you walk in the door, that you wait to deliver when the mood is right. My conversation with Sawyer made me at least mildly curious about the boss.

“How did she get along with Curtis?”

The cigarette hung on her lips like a bird on an electric wire in a hurricane. “What's he got to do with it?”

“I've heard stories that he likes to dip in the company pool. Did he and Diana have a relationship?”

“All right, you can leave now,” she said, struggling to get out of her chair. And it was a struggle. A civil war of hips and leg muscles that finally led to her opening the door beside me and blowing smoke in my face.

I lifted my hands. “I didn't mean to offend you. I just wondered if she and Curtis knew each other well.”

She pointed like I was a dog. “I said get out.”

Dexter was holding my change when I passed him.

“Keep it. Sorry for the trouble.”

Wanda berated Dexter as I headed for the door and into the street. I looked at the surveillance cameras near the front and then walked the sidewalk where Terrelle had verbally accosted Diana. I wanted to get a feel of the area so I could put it down well. Capture the uneven concrete, cracking and filled in with makeshift patches. Parking meters leaning like Towers of Pisa. Storm grates that didn't fit properly, jutting up like a waiting lawsuit. Trash cans filled to overflowing. Happy bees that should have been spreading pollen sucking from empty Dr Pepper and Coca-Cola cans.

In my head I was writing the scene, watching Diana come out of the salon, Terrelle accosting her, Wanda following in polyester. Though, for the sensitive, I would have left out the polyester. A smell of stale beer hit me from a nearby bar. Men in long-sleeved shirts stood by a liquor store in the heat, hoping for a drink or a smoke or both. Dogs barking in the pet store window. Let the reader taste and smell the story.

The bus stop was at the end of the street, with a bench sporting graffiti over several layers of paint. I turned and looked back, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of life. This was where the death of Diana Wright had begun.