Tell Me (7 page)

“You’re dreaming,” she told herself, as she glanced over her shoulder, switching lanes to exit the freeway on the outskirts of the city. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. And just maybe it would be one of Uncle Alex’s good days.

“I
t’s a mess, that’s what it is,” Morrisette said, eyeing all the boxes and chewing her nicotine gum as if her life depended on it. She and Reed had been summoned by Kathy Okano, who had asked that they meet in the training room that was to be converted for a special use: reconstructing the case against Blondell O’Henry.

The state of Georgia wasn’t giving up on keeping one of its most infamous criminals right where she was.

“It’s not just a mess,” Okano announced as she joined them in the area that was being set up primarily for the review of Amity O’Henry’s homicide. “It’s
your
mess. I’m putting you in charge, Reed. And, Morrisette, you work with him.”

“We have other cases,” Morrisette said.

“Oh, I know.” Okano, a tall woman with a blond bob, wire-rimmed glasses, and a sharp mind, frowned as she eyed box upon box of dusty documents and information that had been archived for nearly two decades and that were now spread over two tables. “And you can’t ignore them, of course. But I’ll spread the wealth, trust me. But for now, you need to lock this down. The press is already all over this case, and the department doesn’t need any new black eyes.

“You two weren’t here at the time of the trial, so you’ll have fresh eyes. No prejudice. Unfortunately, some of the detectives who worked the case are long gone, and their expertise and knowledge would have helped. The DA at the time, Garland Brownell, died two years after prosecuting the case. Forty-nine and dropped dead of a massive heart attack after working out at the gym. Jasper Acencio moved to Phoenix five or six years ago. He’s still there, as far as I know, working for the Phoenix Police Department, so contact him. Flint Beauregard, of course, was the lead. He died a couple of years back. Too bad, that,” she said, shaking her head. Reed didn’t say what flicked across his mind: the scuttlebutt that Flint Beauregard had died from complications of emphysema and congestive heart failure owing, at least in part, to too many years of cigarettes and rye whiskey.

“I don’t know if Deacon can help,” Okano went on, mentioning Flint’s ADA son, “but maybe.” Her gaze locked with Reed’s. “God knows, he’s chomping at the bit. Anything to ensure his father’s reputation isn’t tarnished.”

Reed nodded. He also didn’t say that in his estimation Deacon Beauregard was a class-A prick.

“DNA has come a long way in twenty years,” the assistant district attorney continued. “If they can now prove that a handkerchief that was supposedly dipped in the spilled blood from Louis the XVI’s beheading really is his, then we can certainly come up with DNA, if it’s not corrupted, from that cigarette butt left at the scene, for starters. And find out about that damned snake. Why was a copperhead found flattened at the scene?

“Also, we’ve got a bit of a problem. Most of the evidence is here, but the tapes are missing. Videos of the crime scene and all the video from the trial, though I imagine if you dig deep enough you can find it on YouTube, or wherever. Everything else is out there these days.” Okano glanced from Reed to Morrisette. “So if you see something that seems a little off, I want to know about it immediately.”

Her cell phone rang, and she said, “Anything you need, just call,” before clicking the phone on and opening the door to the hallway. Noise of the department filtered in: ringing phones, shuffling feet, buzzing conversation punctuated often by the ripple of laughter. Then the door shut behind her, blocking everything but the steady hum of the furnace.

“Jesus!” Morrisette shoved her fingers through her spiked blond hair as she opened an evidence box and peered inside. “What won’t we need?”

“Good question.” Reed eyed the crates, walking from one to the next. Everything—from the physical evidence, to the medical examiner’s reports to the testimony at the trial—was there. Pictures of the victims and the crime scene, ballistics reports, hospital information, theories and interviews that had been bundled and locked away had been retrieved.

“Hey, here’s something!” Morrisette said and reached into one of the boxes.

“What?”

She pulled out an evidence bag that held the well-preserved carcass of a freeze-dried snake. “What do you think?” she asked, holding up one booted foot. “If we crack this case and prove that good old Blondell really did off her kids, maybe I could end up with this bad boy as a souvenir. Get myself a new set of boots?”

“Yeah, that’s what’s gonna happen,” Reed said as he pulled up a chair and scanned the list of evidence. It looked like it would be a long morning.

 

“You know your uncle is ill,” Aunty-Pen said gently. The epitome of a genteel Southern woman, with polite manners, effusive charm, a dulcet-toned voice, and a backbone of steel, she added, “I don’t see how he can possibly help you.”

She led Nikki through the marble-tiled foyer and past a grand staircase that wound to the second-story gallery, with its coved ceiling and enormous chandelier, the one Nikki’s mother had once referred to as gauche. The house had been built before the turn of the last century and remodeled at several points over its lifetime, so that it resembled a Southern mansion on the outside but was modern and efficient on the inside.

Ever the hostess, Penelope Hilton (no dear, not one of
those
Hiltons) poured them each a glass of sweet tea and offered Nikki a chair on the screened back porch with its view of her sweeping gardens of magnolia, jasmine, crepe myrtle, and gardenias. Paths wandered through the lush, fragrant foliage to fountains and birdbaths. She and Nikki had never been close, but that was just how Penelope handled all people—at arm’s length. Though sisters-in-law, Charlene, Nikki’s mother, and Aunty-Pen had never really gotten along. Their rift had widened considerably when Penelope lost both of her children in a tragic accident years earlier.

“Even if Alexander were well enough to help you,” Aunty-Pen was saying, “he couldn’t, you know. Client-lawyer privilege.” She sat in one of the cushioned chairs near a round wrought-iron table where a vase of fresh flowers had been placed. Tall and athletic, Aunty-Pen had once ridden dressage for her college team, and as she’d been known to point out, had
almost
been selected for the Olympic team a quarter of a century earlier. Her hair was clipped short, a warm blond touched with gray, her eyes as blue as a Georgia summer sky. “And he’s not here. I had to move him three, no, dear Lord, it’s been nearly five months ago, though, of course, I do bring him home once in a while.”

“I know,” Nikki agreed. “But it would be good to see him anyway. The case is really just an excuse.”

“You don’t need one, dear,” Aunty-Pen said with her cool, knowing smile. “He’d love a visit, though it may be that he won’t remember you.” A dark cloud passed behind her eyes. “His is a very insidious disease. Robbing the man of being who he once was.” She sighed and sipped from her tea. “I’m going out to Pleasant Acres today, of course, and you’re welcome to join me. I always plan my stays between his lunch and nap.”

“Every day?”

“Mostly. Well, except Sunday, when I go directly after church and eat with him.”

“I would like to see him.”

“All this business with that O’Henry woman,” she said, waving off the idea as if it were a bothersome insect. “I don’t know what the fascination is, but then what counts for news these days . . . If it were up to me, they’d keep that woman locked up and throw away the key. My God, what she did.” Aunty-Pen glanced out the window to a plaque she’d had installed in her garden, a stone etched with her children’s names. “Burning at the stake would be too good for her.”

“Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Which she was. Proven guilty. That’s why she’s in Fairfield.”

“But the prime witness recanted.”

“Her
son.
A boy who now questions what he saw with his own two eyes. To think what he and his sister have lived through. It’s impossible to imagine.”

“Uncle Alex might be able to help me.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Still, I need to visit him.”

Her mouth twisted downward at the corners. “But you’d better brace yourself, Nicole. It won’t be easy. You were, or, I mean,
are
his favorite niece, I know, but . . .” She shook her head sadly, then lifted her chin. Aunty-Pen wasn’t one to wallow in grief. “We can go this afternoon.”

“Good.”

“Oh, and how’s your mother?” She asked out of duty; they both knew it.

“Okay, I guess.” Charlene Gillette, never a particularly healthy woman, had, in recent years, grown frail to the point that she hovered somewhere just above a hundred pounds, which wasn’t much for even her petite frame.

“She’s got to be ecstatic about the wedding, though. You’re her great last hope.”

“She’s looking forward to it,” Nikki agreed, but she bristled a bit, knowing what was coming next.

“You’d think Lily would settle down.”

“She doesn’t want to.”

“But for Ophelia? What’s Lily thinking, raising her without a husband?”

“It’s the thing now, Aunty-Pen. Women don’t need a husband to start a family.”

“Don’t be silly, Nicole. That’s ridiculous! Any woman needs a husband, and certainly every child needs a father.”

“That’s antiquated thinking,” Nikki said, and her aunt sent her a look guaranteed to cut through steel.

“You can be as modern as you want to be, but let me tell you, marriage is more than a ritual and a piece of paper. It’s not just a privilege, it’s a sacred union, not to be taken lightly. You’re sure you’re ready?”

“I think so,” Nikki said, fighting her irritation. She knew the well of Aunty-Pen’s grief and how it came out in these picky little ways. She would never get to be mother of the bride, never have grandchildren, or great-grandchildren. Rather than argue, Nikki changed the topic. “How about I drive this afternoon?”

“Let’s just not speed as if we’re running from a fire. The world won’t stop if we arrive at Pleasant Acres five minutes late.”

Reed spent most of the morning sipping bad coffee and reading through Flint Beauregard’s notes. The case file was thick and seemingly complete, at least at first glance, but he intended to study the notes in greater detail once they’d sorted through all the physical evidence, read the statements, and gone over the testimony at the trial. There were depositions to read, witnesses to find, and lab work to scrutinize and double-check with today’s technology. Along with all the physical evidence found at the scene, there was a bundle of letters, yellowed with age, written in Blondell’s distinctive loopy handwriting, all addressed to “My Love.” None, it seemed, had ever been sent. They had been preserved in plastic, and as Reed read them, he felt as if he were invading a couple’s privacy. The notes were intimate and sexy and flirty and spoke of undying love and desperate need, but gave no indication the author intended to do anything malicious or harmful. If anything, they seemed more like a plea for the same adoration the writer was offering.

Bothered, he set them aside and concentrated on the scientific evidence rather than the romantic yearnings of a woman who eventually would be found guilty of murder.

Meanwhile, Morrisette worked on organizing the evidence and sorting through what, in her opinion, was relevant and what wasn’t. A junior detective was given the job of searching all the Internet databases looking for the addresses and phone numbers of the witnesses for the prosecution, as well as those who had spoken for the defense. The idea was to see if anyone else was changing his or her testimony and, if so, what would it be. The state hoped someone would come forward with more damaging evidence, but Reed wasn’t betting on it.

Skimming the files, Reed made notes to himself. A few anomalies jumped out at him, not the least of which were Blondell’s injuries. Had she somehow fallen against something on purpose to make it look as if she’d been attacked, and had she really fired a gun point-blank into her own arm to add credence to her story? If so, it was a gutsy move, but her injuries, for the most part, weren’t life-threatening. No serious concussion or blood clot on her brain, no nicked artery in her arm. In that respect she had been much luckier than her children. While the defense had insisted she’d been wounded in a struggle with an assailant for the gun—hence the gunshot residue on her hands—the prosecution had argued that Blondell, a woman who could murder her own child in cold blood and try to kill the others, could certainly shoot herself. Reed wasn’t convinced. Not completely. If she’d been dead set to get rid of her kids, why even drive them to the hospital? Why not finish the job and say she’d been knocked out in the attack, that the assailant had thought he’d killed her.

Why leave witnesses?

No, despite the outcome of her trial, it didn’t quite jibe that she was a cold-blooded killer, so he figured it wasn’t so much his job to find the evidence to keep Blondell O’Henry in jail as it was to uncover the truth.