A Specter of Justice Read online

  I jotted the word “motive” on the pad. A personal animosity to Molly seemed the most likely candidate, but the context of the ghost tour raised the possibility that someone was taking out their anger on the event’s participants and Molly happened to be the most vulnerable. But why the costume change? Although the ME report probably wouldn’t be ready for a day or two, I felt certain the autopsy would show that Molly was killed elsewhere, maybe even in the early afternoon or morning. Either the killer didn’t have access to Molly’s planned wardrobe or the gown bore some other significance.

  And until it could be determined whether Molly was the specific target or a symbolic target, Newland’s investigation would have to cast an extremely wide net. He needed a breakthrough lead to narrow the focus. I looked at the office phone. A lead like a threatening call. Or a disgruntled boyfriend who in this case happened to be Newland’s partner.

  I stared at the list of names for a few minutes before adding Clyde’s parents, Nelda and Cletus Atwood. As an afterthought, I wrote down Horace Brooks, the preacher quoted in the newspaper. He was the type of person who might still throw around the word harlot, and the voicemail wasn’t so whispery as to thwart identification completely.

  A knock sounded from the outer door. I glanced at my wristwatch and realized at some point my fruitless thoughts had become dreamless sleep. It was eight-fifteen. I swiveled the chair toward the door, expecting to see Nakayla and maybe a bag of warm muffins.

  Homicide Detective Newly Newland entered. He wore the same wrinkled suit from the night before. Gray stubble covered his unshaven face. Bags under his eyes looked like they were packed for a two-week vacation.

  Before I could utter a word, he said, “Yeah, I know. I look like hell. But I take consolation knowing you look bad twenty-four/seven.” He glanced over his shoulder to check Nakayla’s empty office. “Where’s your lovely partner?”

  “Asleep, I hope. Someone’s got to keep a clear head.” I stood. “Want a cup of coffee?”

  He waved the offer aside. “If I have any more caffeine, I’ll induce a heart attack.”

  “Then have a seat while I get a refill.”

  Newly crossed the room and plopped on the leather sofa. Returning with a fresh mug, I found he’d laid his head back and closed his eyes. I thought he’d fallen asleep.

  “Those Japanese sure take a lot of pictures in a short period of time.” He made the pronouncement, too tired to move anything but his lips.

  “Is that what you’ve been doing? Reviewing photographs?”

  He leaned forward. “Yes. And then one of our technicians pulled them off and saved them in a computer folder under the person’s name. Tuck’s been taking statements from each of them.”

  “Any protest that you’re confiscating their pictures?”

  “Not from the Japanese. I explained that they are evidence and I need to keep them in a chain of custody so that they’re not altered or publicized.”

  “Collin McPhillips felt differently?”

  “Of course, he did. When he learned he wasn’t getting his photos, he started screaming freedom of the press. I told him he could either have his camera back with all the pictures except for Molly’s body, or I’d log everything—camera, lenses, bag—into the evidence room and he’d see them after the trial, if there ever is one.”

  “He caved?”

  Newly nodded. “With the encouragement of his writer friend.”

  “Angela Douglas?”

  “Yes. She told McPhillips that having some of the pictures was better than none, and she could write her article without police restraint.”

  I took a sip of hot coffee and considered how far to press Newly. “You learn anything from the photographs?”

  Newly shook his head. “You know I can’t go there. And I know you’re champing at the bit to get involved.”

  “Then just tell me if you think the case is solvable.”

  He smiled. “All cases are solvable. The question is when. This murder is so bizarre that I’m confident a solution is out there. A run-of-the-mill drive-by shooting, now that’s another matter.”

  I understood and agreed with what Newly was saying. The more unusual the crime, the more likely the perpetrator will be discovered. That principle was expressed by none other than Sherlock Holmes. Although he’s only fictional, the principle is not. “Is your when soon?” I asked.

  “Our when depends upon the speed with which we can exercise the process of elimination. I think motive and opportunity will reveal our killer.”

  I stared at him.

  “I know,” he said. “Not much above a drive-by. So, I’m interested in your voicemail.”

  “That’s why you’re here?”

  “I thought it would be best to listen to it straight from your machine. I could tell there was ambient room noise on what you recorded for me. I’d like to have one of our techs pull a copy from the line so the only ambient sound is from the caller’s location.”

  I was pleased Newly was taking the threat seriously. “Okay.”

  “Does your system record caller ID?”

  “It’s stamped on the message readout. I didn’t recognize the number.”

  Newly brightened. “Well, that’s at least something. Can I hear it?”

  He followed me into my office and we stood over the phone. I replayed the message.

  “Again,” he said as soon as the caller finished.

  We listened a second time. I noticed how melodramatic and contrived the delivery sounded, as if read from a script. I thought of Clyde Atwood’s cheering section, the men behind him that first day of the trial, and their tough-guy posturing when I took the stand. “Sounds like a bad impression of Marlon Brando’s Godfather, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe that’s what it’s supposed to sound like,” Newly replied. “What someone believes a threat should be.”

  “What do you know about that preacher Horace Brooks?”

  Newly’s eyebrows arched. “You think it’s him?”

  “Well, the speech is either bad Hollywood or bad Old Testament. The guy’s quoted in today’s paper asserting Helen Wilson is in league with devil worshipers trying to steal the twins away from the Atwoods.”

  Newly thought a moment. “One of the guys at the police station said Brooks showed up on the eleven o’clock TV news last night. Maybe he made the same statement then that appeared in the morning paper.”

  “Does he have a history of calling press conferences?”

  “He’s not shy about sticking his face in front of a camera. Brooks came to Asheville about fifteen years ago as a tent preacher. He never left.”

  “Must be one hell of a tent.”

  “He got promoted to bricks and mortar. The Church of the Righteous. It’s out off the old highway to Canton. Most people call it the Church of the Self-Righteous.”

  “Fire and brimstone?” I asked.

  “That’s my understanding. I’m not saying they keep rattlers under the pulpit, but I bet they take the Bible so literally they believe Jesus spoke King James English.”

  “The Atwoods must be part of his congregation,” I said.

  “Yeah, but I can’t see him for something like this.”

  “Maybe not,” I agreed. “But who’s to say his fiery rhetoric didn’t encourage someone else?”

  Newly sighed. “All right. I’ll get the tech over and we’ll copy the message. Then I’ll have a little chat with the good reverend.”

  “That’s one way,” I said with little enthusiasm. “Or I could just pick up the phone and call the number. The message is on my machine.”

  “Why not?” Newly said. “Can I listen from Nakayla’s extension?”

  “Yeah. Once I dial through, I’ll wave for you to pick up the lit line.”

  I punched in the number and signaled Newly. A click sounded as he
lifted the receiver but the phone was still ringing on the other end.

  No one answered and I expected perhaps the best we would get was someone’s voicemail. Then the ringing stopped as the connection was made. I heard a clunk as the phone struck a hard object like the floor or a table.

  A groggy voice whispered, “Hello?”

  It was only one word but I recognized the speaker immediately.

  Hewitt Donaldson.

  Chapter Seven

  “Hello?” Hewitt repeated.

  Newly looked at me and frowned, expecting me to engage the mystery voice in conversation. He didn’t recognize Hewitt.

  Before I could somehow extricate myself from the awkward situation, Hewitt said, “Sam, is that you?”

  We were done in by Hewitt reading his caller ID. I had his number stored under his name on my cell phone and had long forgotten the actual digits. That’s why I didn’t recognize them on the office system. The curse of making things too convenient.

  “Yes, Hewitt,” I confessed. “I’m here with Detective Newland.” I put Hewitt on alert so he would choose his words carefully. I had no idea why he would have left so tasteless a message that was beyond even his dark humor, but I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.” His groggy voice instantly cleared. “How can I help you?”

  Newly gave me a nod to start talking.

  “Hewitt, did you leave me a voicemail on my office phone last night?”

  “Your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean after we spoke at eleven?”

  “Yes. After that.”

  “Why would I have called your office? I knew you weren’t there.”

  I looked at Newly through the open doors and shrugged. I didn’t know how much the detective wanted me to reveal about the message’s content.

  “Donaldson. This is Newland. Would you mind telling me where you were at one-thirty this morning?”

  “Yes, I would mind. But I’ll make an exception. I was with Nathan Armitage. We were closing down the Thirsty Monk till two.”

  The Thirsty Monk Pub was a popular watering hole around the corner from my office and just a few blocks from Pack Square.

  “Did anyone borrow your phone?” Newly asked.

  Hewitt paused a moment, analyzing the questions to deduce the reason for our call. “Someone left a message from my number, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, taking control of the conversation away from Newly. “A vague threat to me and a disparaging remark about Nakayla. Your name didn’t show up on the office machine.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me and no one used my phone. It was in my pocket the entire evening.”

  “And this is your number?” Newly rattled off ten digits.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it unlisted?”

  “No. You can find it on my business card. But, I have no idea how it appeared on Sam’s office phone.”

  “Some sort of spoof device,” Newly said.

  I had no idea what he was talking about and I knew Hewitt was even less tech savvy than me. “You want to explain?” I asked.

  “You buy a special computer card or a piece of hardware and it substitutes a bogus ID. You can make it read anything you want. There was a huge scam last year run out of India that impersonated the IRS. Those initials actually appeared as the caller. The crooks bilked millions out of intimidated taxpayers.”

  “Should I listen to the message?” Hewitt asked. “Maybe I’ll recognize the son of a bitch.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Newly agreed. “Meanwhile I’ll see if the phone company can break the spoof layer and reveal the actual number.”

  “Good. If there are any charges I can press, then, by God, I will. Sam, how long are you planning to be in the office?”

  “I’ll stay till you get here.”

  “I’ll see you in an hour.” Hewitt hung up.

  Newly and I resettled in the middle room, he on the sofa and I in an opposite chair.

  “So, what do you think about the call?” I asked. “Someone making trouble for me or for Hewitt?”

  Newly rubbed a palm across his grizzled chin. “Hard to say. We know Donaldson’s pissed off a lot of people. And you’re no saint, especially in the eyes of the Atwoods. That call was a good way to spite both of you. And pretty chicken shit since it came when there was no way you’d be in the office.”

  “The phone number spoof seems sophisticated for a backwoods preacher.”

  Newly looked at me with disapproval. “Don’t underestimate Horace Brooks, Mister Hotshot Detective. He plays that backwoods preacher role all the way to the bank.”

  “What’s the benefit for him getting involved in Molly Staton’s murder?” I asked.

  “He’s God’s warrior going up against satanic forces. This whole ghost thing was an easy target. He’s championing the Atwoods and fighting evil. He couldn’t have scripted it any better.”

  “But Molly’s the victim here?”

  “Yes, and he’ll skate over that. Probably claim he was only trying to warn people about the dangers of fooling with dark spirits. It was a tragedy brought on by Molly’s own actions and not through anything he said.”

  “You going to check him out?”

  Newly nodded. “Once I get a clean copy of the voice and a reliable trace on the call.” He cocked his head, eyeing me carefully. “Why did Hewitt call you at eleven?”

  “He was checking on us. He invited Nakayla and me to join him for a drink. He knew we’d been through an ordeal and thought we might want to unwind. Going to a bar was the last thing Nakayla and I wanted to do. We went straight back to my place.”

  “And apparently Hewitt found other company.” Newly stood. “I’ve got to get back to the station. I’ll send our tech over.”

  I got to my feet and escorted Newly to the door.

  He stepped into the hall and then turned around. “Did you see Hewitt at all last night?”

  “Yes. When we were picking up our radios from Nathan Armitage. They were more reliable than using our cell phones.”

  “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

  Alarm bells rang in my head. Newly asked the question casually, but it wasn’t a casual question. “A tan jacket and one of those Hawaiian shirts he likes. Why?”

  “No particular reason. Just a little due diligence since his number popped up on that message.”

  I didn’t believe him and I irrationally spoke out in defense of my friend. “Are you doing due diligence on your partner?”

  Newly’s face hardened. “What’s Tuck have to do with it?”

  “I understand he and Molly were an item until a few months ago. If that becomes well known and a former boyfriend isn’t fully investigated, people might think due diligence was being selectively applied.”

  He reddened. “I would have expected more from you, Sam. I don’t take shortcuts and I don’t give passes.”

  I realized I’d overstepped and called his integrity into question. Newly deserved better from me. I threw up my hands. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I guess I’m just upset and I know Hewitt had nothing to do with it. Please accept my apology.”

  Newly took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay.” He headed for the elevator.

  As I stepped back into the office, I heard him say, “Tuck doesn’t have an alibi. I’ve already checked.”

  The police tech arrived about twenty minutes later. He clipped two wires to the receiver in Nakayla’s office, recorded the message, and left me alone with my list of names and no idea what to do next. I thought about calling Nakayla, but if she was able to sleep, I didn’t want to wake her.

  Shortly after nine, Hewitt stormed in without knocking. He looked far better than Newly had. The green-on-red Hawaiian shirt had b
een exchanged for a red-on-green pattern. His bright eyes and clean-shaven face belied that he’d been out past two in the morning.

  “Let me hear it,” were the first words out of his mouth.

  “Well, good morning to you too, Hewitt.”

  “Yeah, good morning.” He headed for my office without waiting for me to get up from the sofa.

  I found him staring at the phone as if challenging the device to repeat the offensive message ascribed to him.

  I pressed the speaker button.

  “Mr. Blackman. You have crossed Helen’s Bridge into the valley of the shadow of death. You and your black harlot. Be warned that the scythe of justice is sweeping away all who are found guilty.”

  “A self-righteous crank,” Hewitt proclaimed. “Where does it show my number?”

  I pointed to the LED readout displaying his number and the one-thirty time log.

  “And this spoof device created it?”

  “That’s what Newland thinks. He hopes the phone company can determine the real source of the call.”

  “Spoof. This sure as hell isn’t a joke.”

  “I know. You recognize the voice?”

  “Play it again and crank the volume up as loud as it will go.”

  We listened again, both leaning closer to the vibrating speaker.

  “Nah,” Hewitt said. “I’ve got no idea. But the asshole’s trying to sound melodramatic with that ominous whisper.”

  “And he also sounds like he’s reading a script. You haven’t had any run-ins with the preacher Horace Brooks, have you?”

  Hewitt stepped away from the desk as if now wanting to distance himself from the caller. “Not personally. I’ve heard he’s been bad-mouthing me since I took the custody case for the Atwood twins. But I don’t know what he’d have to gain by making it look like I was threatening you.”

  “I mentioned Brooks to Newland so at least the preacher’s name’s in the pool.” I remembered Newly’s comment that Brooks had been on the late TV newscast. “Let’s try something.”