The Closing: A Whippoorwill Hollow novel (The Whippoorwill Hollow novels) (9 page)

Nate wanted to discuss the case with a forensic pathologist before he returned to Bloxton, but the state’s budget didn’t provide enough money to hire an expert and Nate didn’t think the volunteer experts available to him were strong enough to meet his needs. The best forensic pathologist he knew was Shirley West. She and Nate were old friends. They had won a lot of cases together and she owed him favors, but he didn’t think she would talk to him about Deatherage because she’d testified for the commonwealth at the trial. Nate decided to give her a try anyway. When he called her, she answered on the first ring.

“This is Shirley West. Can I help you?”

“You can help me, but my guess is you don’t want to.”

“Who is this?”

“Nate Abbitt.”

There was a pause. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah, well, I got fired.”

Another pause. “I heard you resigned.”

“No point in being delicate with me, Shirley. I got fired, and I deserved it.”

“I don’t believe much of what I hear in the rumor mill.”

“Whatever you heard about me can’t be any worse than what I did.”

Shirley fell silent.

“I’m working the other side of the courtroom now,” Nate said. “I represent Kenneth Deatherage. I’d like to talk to you about the case. Can we get together?”

“George Maupin told me you took the appeal. He also told me to stay away from you. You’re on the opposing team now, Nate.”

“I got fired because I ignored the fact I had an obligation to be fair to the defendants. Don’t follow my bad example.”

There was a long silence.

Nate said, “Come on, Shirley. Help me out. I promise I won’t ask you to compromise your duty to the state.”

There was another pause. Then she said, “Where do you want to meet?”

“Is that coffee shop down the street from your office still in business?”

“Jane’s Kitchen Table. Still there.”

“I’ll meet you there in two hours.”

It took Nate an hour and a half to drive from Jeetersburg to Roanoke. He arrived at Jane’s Kitchen Table at two thirty, went inside, and ordered two coffees and three glazed donuts dripping with syrup and sugar. Outside the shop a red brick patio with tables bordered the sidewalk. Nate found a table in the shade of a beech tree, sipped coffee, and waited.

Shirley trundled down the sidewalk a few minutes later. She was a stout woman of average height dressed in a frumpy dark brown tent dress. Her brown hair was short and stiff. She wore no makeup. She smiled when she saw Nate. He stood and they hugged. She glanced at his scar and looked away. They sat at the table.

Nate set the three donuts in front of her. She clapped her hands and laughed. “I haven’t eaten one of these fat bombs since you resigned.”

“The first case you and I worked together, your old boss, Clancy Tilden, clued me in on your addiction.”

“Good old Clancy. He used to bring a box of glazed donuts to the lab every morning. I couldn’t keep my hands off them. If Clancy hadn’t kicked the bucket in 1954, I’d weigh two hundred and fifty pounds.”

“Maybe, but you look like you’ve lost weight. You on a diet?”

“Always. One eighty-six and falling. Till I inhale these bellybusters.” Shirley bit into a donut and closed her eyes, savoring the moment. “Okay, I’m yours.” She laughed and took another bite. “Ply me with sugar dough and I’ll give you anything.” She laughed raucously and took another bite. With a full mouth she said, “Oh my God. What do you want from me?”

“I want perspective.”

“Speak plainly, Mister JD degree. I’m a scientist.”

“Did anything look strange to you in the Deatherage case?”

Shirley was quiet for a while. “Take a close look at the exhibits.”

“The scarf?”

Shirley shrugged and bit into the donut.

“What am I looking for?”

“You’ll know when you see that scarf.”

“Deatherage claims Jones didn’t find the scarf on him. What do you think?”

Shirley swallowed a chunk of donut and paused. “George will kill me, but then again, he doesn’t bring me sugar-glazed donuts.” She smiled. “I’ll die happy at least.” Her smile lingered and then gradually fell away. “Think about it, Nate. It was strange the victim was wearing a scarf in the first place.”

“How so?”

“She was murdered in June during a hot spell, too hot to tie a scarf around your neck. No rain that week, so she wasn’t wearing it as a head cover.” Shirley took another bite and chewed, looking contemplative. “Another thing that puzzled me. If Deatherage needed to gag her to silence her cries, why not stuff the scarf in her mouth instead of grabbing a cast-off rag on the warehouse floor?”

“Unless Updike wasn’t wearing a scarf.”

“Maybe. Take a close look at that scarf. It will interest you for other reasons.”

“Maybe you can help me with another question. At trial George didn’t ask Jones about Deatherage’s physical condition. I’m guessing he avoided those questions because Deatherage didn’t bear any signs of a struggle.”

“Don’t bother to go down that blind alley. George had no evidence to work with because we blew it. When Jones arrested Deatherage, Sheriff Feedlow was out of town. Jones was green, only a couple years as a deputy, and you know Feedlow’s training program. ‘Here’s your service revolver, son. Don’t shoot yourself with it.’ Jones didn’t examine Deatherage for wounds and didn’t take pictures of him. Somers is a passable medical examiner, but he’s a plodder. It didn’t occur to Mac to examine him. I’m to blame, too. I didn’t think to ask them if they’d examined him until we got to the preliminary hearing. Deatherage’s wounds, if there were any wounds, had healed by then. George was livid, but there was nothing he could do about it. We failed to gather the evidence, pure and simple.”

“Too bad. It would have been a strong indication of guilt or innocence.”

“I agree, but there was plenty of evidence of guilt.”

“Deatherage claims he found Updike’s body after she was assaulted. He says the forensic evidence against him is the result of his attempt to help her.”

“Deatherage doesn’t seem like the Good Samaritan type.”

“He’s a hardscrabble character, but he says he was rattled by the appearance of the body. He says he leaned over Updike to untie the rope and he fell on her. Could the forensic evidence against him be the result of his falling on her?”

“It’s not likely.”

“Is it possible?”

“The prevalence of hair on a corpse depends on the pressure and duration of contact with the victim’s body and clothing. The hair follicles we found on Updike required more contact than a single brushup against her.”

“Suppose he struggled to get off her, rolled around on her a bit.”

Shirley frowned and sighed. “It’s possible. That kind of action might cause enough contact and pressure to produce the hair I found on her.”

“He says he found her body sprawled on a pile of mattresses. What do you know about the location of the body when she died?”

“Jones said he found her body on the warehouse floor. He didn’t say anything about mattresses.”

“Maybe Jones didn’t want you to test them.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story. Tell me this. If she was raped and murdered on a mattress, is there any evidence that would survive the passage of time since the crime?”

“It’s been almost a year. You could probably still see a bloodstain on the fabric if it hasn’t been cleaned, but the blood is degraded by now to the point where I wouldn’t be able to determine if it was human, much less its type. Of course, semen degrades within days.” Shirley started in on the second donut. She looked pensive as she chewed and swallowed. “Hair is robust. It retains comparable microscopic characteristics for a long time. Updike had jet-black hair, coarse, thick. If the mattress has hair on it, I could probably determine if the hair was a close match to Updike’s even after a year’s time. The problem with hair is it doesn’t have great persistence. Hair doesn’t cling to fabric. If the mattress has been moved or jostled about or if it was exposed to wind and weather, her hair likely won’t be there.”

“What about fibers from her clothing?”

“Fibers retain their characteristics for a long time, too. She was wearing a black skirt and a red knit blouse with relatively distinctive fibers, but fibers don’t cling to most fabric either. My guess is we won’t find her hair or fibers of her clothing on the mattress. Do you have it?”

“I saw four or five mattresses stacked against a wall in the warehouse, but someone removed them, maybe to prevent me from finding evidence of her on them, but I guess I’m wrong.”

“Not necessarily. There’s at least a remote possibility it would still retain hair and fiber. Maybe someone’s playing it safe.”

Nate nodded thoughtfully.

Shirley picked up the third donut, looked at it longingly, put it down, and frowned at it. “That’s interesting about the mattresses. You know, Nate, I inspected the warehouse. I thought I would find a bloodstain on the floor. Deatherage tore her vaginal wall when he raped her and that wound bled on the inside of her thighs and pelvis. Blood should have pooled on the floor under her hips, but there was no stain.”

“Maybe he’s telling the truth about the mattresses.”

Shirley didn’t respond.

“That reminds me of another question,” Nate said. “You inspected his clothing. If she bled so much, his trousers and underwear should have had blood on them. You only testified about blood on his shirt.”

“The stain on his shirt was on the front tail down near his crotch. I figured he took off his pants and underwear but wore his shirt when he raped her. Jones found a bloody rag at the rear of the warehouse near an open window. I guessed Deatherage used the rag to wipe the blood off his legs and hands before he fled.”

“Makes sense.”

Shirley stared at the last donut. “I’ll be eating carrots and celery for a month because I ate those first two sugar bombs. I eat this last one and I’ll have to cut out the carrots.” Shirley took a last swig of coffee and stood. “I’ve got to get back to the lab before I break down and eat that.”

Nate stood. “Thanks for talking to me, Shirley.”

“I’ll do anything for a sugar-glazed donut.”

Nate grinned. “Anything?”

Shirley grinned back at him. “Most anything.” She turned and walked away.

Nate returned to Jeetersburg after his meeting with Shirley, and the next morning he began the three-hour drive from Jeetersburg west to Buck County. His mother’s house was along the road on the outskirts of Jeetersburg. Nate slowed his car as he passed it. A little farther along he turned around and drove back. No one answered when he rapped on the door. It was unlocked, and he went inside. His mother wasn’t there.

He went out back and saw movement behind the translucent plastic sheeting of the makeshift greenhouse at the far end of the vegetable garden. He walked past rows of staked-up tomato plants and snap beans and picked his way through melon and cucumber vines. Bees droned in the blossoms at his feet.

Nate’s mother was eighty. She was vigorous and healthy, and she’d built the greenhouse herself. It was a flimsy structure, plastic sheeting stretched over pine studs. Nate opened the rickety door. His mother stood by a workbench with her gloved hands in the soil of a potted geranium, a straw sun hat tilted back. Strands of white hair fell across her face. She looked up when she heard the creak of the door. She glanced at Nate’s scar and a look of disappointment darkened her aspect for a fleeting moment. Then she smiled. “Nathan. What a pleasant surprise.”

Inside the greenhouse the heat was stifling and the air was as close as a wet blanket. The acrid odors of pesticide and fertilizer fought for dominance with the fragrances of the flowers. Nate mopped sweat from his brow. “It’s sweltering in here, Ma. You shouldn’t be in this hothouse at the worst part of the day.”

“Best place to be. I’ve got my jug of ice water and my flowers. What more could I want, other than a surprise visit from a handsome lawyer?” She hugged him. The back of her dress was damp with perspiration. Her cheek brushed against his scar.

She stepped back and smiled at him. Her eyes fell on his chest and she frowned. She looked down at her soiled gloves. “Look at that. I left marks on your clean white shirt. I’ve got potting soil all over my gloves.” She took off her gardening gloves and tossed them on the bench. “Come in the house and I’ll clean that spot.”

Nate took her arm and walked with her to the house. She limped slightly. He noticed it. “How did you hurt yourself, Ma?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing. Really. Oh, I might have twisted my ankle a little when I stepped off the back stoop. I’ve lived in this house fifty years, and I still forget that last step every now and then.” She laughed.

“It’s not a laughing matter. I don’t like you living here alone. What if you fall and can’t get up? There’s no one here to help you.”

“If something happens, I’ll live through it or I won’t. Either way, I’m ready. I won’t waste precious time worrying about all the ways I could get hurt.”

“I wish you’d consider moving to that home I told you about.”

“If you came here to badger me about the home for the living dead, you can walk right on out of here and take your shirt to the cleaners.”

“Okay. Okay. I just worry about you. That’s all.”

“Well, cut it out.” She steered him into the house, took off her straw hat, and washed her hands in the sink. She used a dish towel to mop the sweat off her face and neck. “Take off that shirt and give it here.”

He took off his shirt, handed it to her, and sat at the kitchen table. His mother put the shirt under the tap and scrubbed the soiled spot with a stiff brush. “I was surprised to see you. I’m used to visits from you way after the sun goes down. You’re a workaholic, you know. This is the first time you’ve come here during business hours since you were in law school.” There was an awkward silence. “Are you busy these days?”

“I have enough work to pay the bills.”

“What are you working on today?”

“A murder case. My client’s on death row.”

“Who did he murder?”

“He’s accused of raping and murdering a young woman in Bloxton over in Buck County.”

Nate’s mother frowned. “Is that the sort of work you want to do, Nathan?”

“I don’t have a choice. I can’t prosecute.”

Nate’s mother stared at him. He looked away.

She held the shirt up to the light. “I’ll hang it on the porch and let the sun dry it out. In this heat, it’ll only take a few minutes.” She got a hanger from the wash room and hung the shirt outside, then poured them each a glass of lemonade.

“Hits the spot on a hot day like this.” She sat at the table with Nate and frowned at his scar. “Does your wound still hurt?”

“No.”

“It looks like it hasn’t healed.”

“It’s healed, but the scar won’t go away.”

She placed her hand over his hand. “Are you doing all right, Nathan?”

“I’m getting by.”

“You look sad. You miss Christine, don’t you?”

Nate’s eyes glistened.

“Lately, I’ve thought about you and your father a lot. He died when you were so young. You’ve needed his guidance these past few years.”

“I wasn’t a little boy when he passed on, Ma. I was a senior in college.”

“I know, but your father was still young when he passed. He wasn’t here to show you the way to live out the later stages of your life, to teach you how a man grows old. I’ve thought about that a lot since you got into so much trouble.”

“I made a mess of things, but Dad couldn’t have done anything about it.”

They fell silent, remembering his father. Then Nate said, “Dad’s name came up the other day. That’s why I dropped by. I heard something about him I didn’t know. I heard he and Judge Blackwell were close friends.”

He felt his mother’s hand flinch just a little. She lifted it off his and brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “Who told you that?”

“Judge Blackwell.”

She sipped from her glass. She seemed uneasy. He grew uneasy, too. She said, “What did Harry Blackwell say about your father?”

“Just before Dad died, he asked the judge to promise to watch over me and help me if I ever got in trouble.”

His mother pursed her lips and started to say something, but she stopped.

“Did Dad tell you about Judge Blackwell’s promise?” Nate said.

“No.”

“Did you know Dad and the judge were close friends?”

“Harry Blackwell was your father’s lawyer before you were born. I didn’t know he and your father were close, but it’s possible they were.”

“I’m surprised Dad didn’t tell you he asked the judge to watch over me. It seems odd that Dad would ask someone for a family favor and not tell you about it.”

“Cancer dragged your father to his death slowly. The judge and many others sat by his deathbed near the end. I don’t know everything he said to his visitors. He and I loved each other, but he had his secrets and I had mine.”

Nate’s mother got up and walked out on the porch. She brought the shirt back to him. “It’s dried out. There’s no stain. Your old mom’s still good for something, I guess.” She laughed, too loudly. She ironed the shirt. They remained silent as she did so, and his uneasiness grew. He knew his mother well. She was hiding something.

She handed the shirt to him.

“What’s the matter, Ma? Why don’t you want to talk about Dad and the judge?”

“Your father died hard. It hurts to think about it, even after all these years. I’d rather not take myself back to those painful times.”

Nate buttoned his shirt.

His mother brushed her hand over his chest where the stain had been. “Good as new.” She patted his chest and looked up at him. “The best-looking fifty-six-year-old man in the United States of America.” She chuckled, but she glanced at his scar.

She kissed his cheek, put on her straw hat, took his arm, and walked him to his car. He got in and she smiled at him, a stiff, forced smile. Then she turned away and walked back to the greenhouse.