Nashville Noir (9 page)

“A trophy?”

“Award, then. Same as.”

“Like a Grammy or an Oscar?”

“A CMA, Country Music Award. Big and heavy. And before you ask again, yes, I had my guys check out the staff and whoever else was in the building.”

“And?”

“His secretary, a Ms. Anderson—Edwina’s her first name—said he was alive when she left for home at five and passed your girl in the hall coming in.”

“Is she the only one who saw Cyndi?”

“No, ma’am. The security fellow—” Biddle leaned forward, winced at the chair’s creaky objection, and ran his index finger down the front page of the report on his desk. “Clevon Morgan of Smoky Mountain Security Services said that when he tried the door to Marker’s suite at five forty-five, she came flying out of there like a bat out of you-know-where, crying and hysterical.”

“It’s not surprising that she’d be hysterical at discovering a man fatally injured. She might not even have known that he was still alive.”

Biddle sucked a bit of chocolate off his thumb and nodded. “If she hadn’t taken off, her story might carry more weight. But she hid out until we found her. Juries tend to see that as an indication of guilt.”

“She was obviously frightened and not thinking clearly at that moment,” I offered.

“Had a lot of time to think in the days after. Never came forward.”

“She’s very young, Detective Biddle.”

“The jails are full of young people, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Unfortunately true, but—”

Biddle raised his hand to stop me. He eased back in the chair, again to the accompanying creaks. “Tell you this. Don’t know if she went in meaning to kill him or not. The shrink will give us a better idea. But these things happen. From what I hear, this type of situation is not unfamiliar to someone like you who writes about crime, so you know how people can snap if they’re under pressure. Found a letter on his desk signed by Cyndi Gabriel, accusing the deceased of having stolen songs from her and demanding payment. Mentioned that to your Sheriff Metzger and he confirmed it, said he’d heard that from people in—What’s the name of that town you’re from?”

“Cabot Cove.”

“Right. Cabot Cove. Anyway, that letter, and your sheriff’s confirmation, ties a neat bow on it for me.”

“Did you respond to the call from the scene yourself ?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Call that came in said the victim was dead, so we got involved. Was me along with our west precinct commander, our ranking officer, and a crime scene investigator to collect evidence. Because the vic was still breathing, the fire department sent EMTs, who took him to the Vanderbilt University Medical Center. They’ve got the Level One trauma center for this area.”

“Did he ever regain consciousness?”

“No, ma’am, and we had a twenty-four-hour guard on him, but no opportunity to question him about the attack. Once Marker gave it up, the case moved from aggravated assault to murder.”

“And you arrested Cyndi.”

“Yes, ma’am. Once we finished questioning her here, she was run past our night court commissioner. He advised her she was being held for a capital offense and denied her bond. We turned her over to the sheriff’s office, the ones who run the jail.”

“How is she?” I asked.

“What I hear, she’s doing okay. I called out there to check on her. She’s sort of a fragile type, so I asked them to handle her with kid gloves, keep her away from the hardened criminals. They’re very sharp out there. Already had her in isolation for her own safety. Don’t worry, she hasn’t been abused or browbeaten. But they can watch her more carefully, make sure she doesn’t become a suicide risk.”

“Good heavens! Is that a possibility?”

“You never know, especially with first-timers.”

“How long do you think the lawyer will be?” I asked, anxious to see Cyndi and gauge her frame of mind for myself.

He shrugged. “Could be some time.” He heaved himself out of the chair, which continued rocking as if his body were still sitting in it. “I’ll go check,” he said, leaving me alone in his office.

The detective had been remarkably cordial and forthcoming, considering we’d never met, and looking back at the rocky start we’d had over the phone. I had to credit our Cabot Cove sheriff for that. Mort had paved the way, giving me not only Biddle’s name, but calling the detective in advance and alerting him to my interest in the case. What was distressing me at that moment was a suspicion that the Nashville police were convinced that they had already solved the crime, convinced that Cyndi was Marker’s killer and disinterested in pursuing other leads, other suspects. I hoped that wasn’t the case. A rush to judgment wasn’t unusual in other cases in which I’d unfortunately ended up involved, much to my dismay and to Seth Hazlitt’s chagrin.

The police feel under pressure to solve a crime, especially murder, within forty-eight hours. After that, the thinking goes, witnesses begin to forget what they saw or don’t remember it as clearly as they would closer to the commission of the crime, and even the accused may lose track of the details. Television and news accounts can also influence memory, as well as neighborhood gossip and the opinions of family and friends.

I pulled out a small notepad from my shoulder bag and wrote down the names of Marker’s secretary, Edwina Anderson, and the security man, Clevon Morgan of Smoky Mountain Security Services. I’d just finished when Biddle returned to the office and invited me to accompany him downstairs. In the lobby of the building, he introduced me to a tall, young, slender African-American man wearing a gray pin-striped suit that draped nicely on his frame, white button-down shirt, and muted maroon tie.

“This is Jamal Washburn, Mrs. Fletcher, Cyndi’s court-appointed attorney.”

Mr. Washburn extended his hand and we shook.

“I understand from the detective that you’d like to go see my client,” he said, eyeing my rolling suitcase.

“That’s right,” I said, “with your permission.”

“You know you’re not allowed to bring her anything.”

“Of course,” I said. “This is mine. I just haven’t had a chance to check into my hotel yet.”

We stood talking while Detective Biddle moved away to speak with an officer at the reception desk.

“Your visiting her is fine with me, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I’m glad that you’re here. At first she didn’t want to see anyone from home. Now she’s changed her mind. Since you’re a pretty famous person where she lives, I imagine she trusts you.”

“I certainly hope so,” I said. “But before I see her, could we have a moment to talk?”

“We can have more than a moment,” he said. “We can sit there if you like”—he indicated a row of chairs against the wall—“but frankly, I’d like to grab some lunch first, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I replied. “I could use something to eat, myself.”

“Great. Then we’ll drive out to Antioch to the women’s facility. There’ll be plenty of time to talk.”

Before we left, I shook hands with Detective Biddle. “Thank you so much,” I said.

“Not at all, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Glad to oblige a fellow officer. You say hi to Sheriff Metzger for me. It was nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Detective, but don’t think you can get rid of me so easily. If Cyndi is innocent, as I suspect she is, I’ll be back.”

“Is that a threat or a promise, Mrs. Fletcher?”

I smiled to soften my answer. “Maybe a little bit of both.”

J
amal Washburn turned his Saturn onto Interstate 24 and headed east, my suitcase safely stowed in the trunk. We’d stopped for sandwiches at a noisy luncheonette not too far from police headquarters. The tables were all occupied, so we sat at the counter hemmed in by construction workers in hard hats working on a building across the street. I’d refrained from asking the attorney any questions out of a reluctance to shout over the conversations of others and be overheard. However, now that I was alone with him in the car, I gathered my thoughts. I didn’t want to waste this opportunity to learn as much as possible about the case against Cyndi.

“Detective Biddle has been extremely gracious about sharing information with me,” I said. “I’m hoping you can add to what I now know.”

“Biddle’s a good guy,” Washburn said. “He’s been the lead on a number of cases I’ve been assigned to. I like him. He’s a straight shooter, at least most of the time. He’s got his job to do, and I’ve got mine.”

“Of course. From the little I’ve learned, the case against Cyndi sounds almost totally circumstantial.”

Washburn nodded, but quickly said, “Sometimes circumstantial cases are the toughest to defend.”

“I can understand why.” I paused. “Mr. Washburn, Detective Biddle said that Cyndi absolutely denies having had anything to do with Mr. Marker’s death.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you believe her?”

His laugh was sardonic. “It really doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s my job to give every one of my clients the best possible defense, whether they’re guilty or not. But in Cyndi’s case, yes, I do believe her. I don’t know who killed Roderick Marker, but it wasn’t Cyndi.”

I sighed with relief. “I needed to hear that,” I said.

“I not only believe it, Mrs. Fletcher,” he added, “I’ll do everything I can to absolve her in court, but I need her help. Right now she isn’t being as cooperative as she could be.”

“Perhaps I can convince her to do better.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m not a veteran attorney. I graduated from Vanderbilt University Law School right here in Nashville three years ago, and passed the bar two years ago. I’m on a list of attorneys the court appoints to cases where the accused don’t have lawyers of their own. Relatively speaking, I’m fairly new at this game, but I don’t want you to think just because I’m young that I’m green. Court-appointed lawyers get to work on a lot of cases.”

“Age and experience aren’t necessarily a plus,” I said. “The real question is, are you good?”

He broke out into a laugh. “If I didn’t think I was, I’d give up law practice and write country-and-western songs.” He turned on the radio, and a woman’s voice floated out over the speakers singing, “
Guilty, baby, I’m guilty. And I’ll be guilty the rest of my life
.” Washburn gave a soft snort, flipped off the radio, and pressed down the car’s directional signal. “I’m glad you’re coming to see Cyndi,” he said. “She needs a familiar face.”

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into a large parking lot. Ahead of us were a series of imposing buildings. Washburn pointed to the one directly before us, a one-story tan building with a stone front. He then indicated a pair of two-story white stucco buildings up a hill to our left, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with coiled razor wire. “That’s where the female prisoners are housed,” he said as we walked in the direction of the one-story facility. “Here’s where we check in,” he said, holding the door open for me.

He announced us to a woman at a desk to our right, and led me to a row of blue plastic chairs with black armrests. “This is the way it works,” he said in a low voice. “A prisoner’s lawyer can visit anytime, and for any length of time, between eight in the morning and ten at night. I can also bring along an assistant, a paralegal, anyone involved with me on the case. That’ll be you.”

“I’m your assistant?”

“If you want to go in with me to see her.”

“I do,” I said.

We sat back and waited for someone to bring us to where I’d have my first chance to be face-to-face with Cindy, or Cyndi as she now called herself. I took the opportunity to observe my surroundings. I’d been in a number of prisons before—never my favorite places to visit—but this particular one didn’t seem as depressing as most of the others I’d seen. It was brightly lit, and clean. There was a touch-screen unit in the corner where visitors could use their credit cards to deposit funds into prisoners’ prison bank accounts. Farther down the wall were blue lockers, where visitors could secure those possessions that they were forbidden to bring inside with them. And there was music softly playing, definitely a country-and-western song performed by a musical group unknown to me. Of course, knowing that women were caged in cells nearby was depressing enough to mitigate these attempts at civility. I thought of those who’d been wrongly incarcerated. How utterly frustrating and frightening that must be for them, as I was sure it was for Cyndi Gabriel.

A few minutes later, a stocky African-American man in uniform came through a door and approached us. “I’m Lieutenant Atkinson,” he said pleasantly. “I understand you want to visit with Ms. Gabriel.”

“That’s right, Lieutenant,” Washburn said, standing and shaking the officer’s hand. “I’m listed as her attorney, and this is Mrs. Fletcher, Jessica Fletcher, who’ll be assisting me. She’s from the prisoner’s hometown in Maine and has come to Nashville to work on the case.”

“You’re not an attorney,” Atkinson said.

“No, I’m not,” I confirmed.

“You’re a famous mystery writer.”

My heart sank. Did this mean I’d be precluded from accompanying Washburn to see Cyndi?

The lieutenant flashed an engaging smile. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Detective Biddle told me about your involvement.”

“That was good of him.”

“If Mr. Washburn wants you on his team, that’s fine with me. Come on. I’ve already called for the prisoner to be brought down to this building. Let’s go through Security and get you settled before she arrives.”

We stepped through a metal detector, and I handed my purse to a female officer. She gave it a thorough examination before handing it back, and returned Washburn’s briefcase to him. Lieutenant Atkinson escorted us into a spacious room that at first glance reminded me of a school cafeteria. Gray plastic tables were arranged in a large square. The chairs were a vibrant blue, and the floor was a blue-and-white checkered pattern. Large windows along one wall allowed plenty of sunlight to pour into the room, adding to its already sunny atmosphere. I turned to take in a brightly lit alcove where the walls were decorated with a hand-painted series of Disney characters—Cinderella in a pink gown, the fairy godmother, and the mice in their pointy caps and little shirts. I laughed in appreciation.