Thicker Than Water (20 page)

Louis swung the Mustang into the gravel drive of J.C. Landscaping and stopped. He could see Ronnie and Eric loading plants on the truck. Black clouds were rolling in overhead and he could hear the distant rumble of thunder.

Louis turned off the engine, picking up Cade's knife from the passenger seat. He got out and started toward the truck.

Ronnie saw him coming and nudged Eric. Both of them stopped working, waiting for Louis to get closer.

“You've got no business here,” Ronnie said coldly.

“I need to see your father.”

Ronnie's eyes dropped to the knife in Louis's hand. “Why? He fired you.”

Louis hesitated, knowing he needed something to say to Ronnie.

“Look, Ronnie, I owe you an apology. I know you didn't kill Kitty and I shouldn't have accused you without cause. Especially in front of your son.”

Ronnie glanced at Eric, and his face softened. He ran an arm across his forehead and pulled off his work gloves.

“Okay. I appreciate that.”

“And I think we can prove your father didn't kill her either.”

Ronnie's eyes widened, then he broke into a slow smile. “That's great,” he said. “I mean, that's really great. Did you hear that, Eric?”

Eric's sour expression didn't change.

“Where's your father?” Louis asked.

Ronnie motioned toward the trailer. “He's over there, on the porch. He's sick.”

“He's hung over,” Eric muttered.

Louis headed across the yard toward the front of the trailer. He could see Cade sitting in a plastic chair, his feet propped up on the wooden spool table. Cade took a drink, and set the beer can on his knee, watching Louis approach.

Louis came up to him and stopped. He brought Cade's knife from his side and stuck it hard into the top of the wooden spool. Cade glanced at it.

“What do you want? I fired you.”

“We need to talk,” Louis said.

Cade's eyes flicked beyond Louis. Louis turned to see Ronnie and Eric coming up behind him.

“Dad, did he tell you?” Ronnie asked.

“Tell me what?”

“Louis says he can prove neither of us killed Kitty.”

Cade didn't move.

“Dad?”

Cade slowly pulled his legs off the table and set the beer down next to the knife.

“So now you believe I was set up. Took you long enough.”

Louis started to say something but stopped. First, he just didn't like agreeing with anything Cade said, but there was something else too, pulling at him.

“I'm waiting, Louie. You believe now that somebody stole my tool and threw those panties in my truck?”

Louis ignored him, trying to focus in on what it was that was bothering him. He could accept that the real killer had found Cade's tool and used it on Kitty. But how could the killer have known the semen on the panties would match Cade's blood type? He would have had to have been damn sure—or damn lucky—to set Cade up.

Cade was talking about money now, but Louis wasn't listening. He was seeing Joyce Novick, and hearing how she described Jack Cade.

He looked at me and . . . he touched himself
.

“So, Louie. Who can I sue?”

Louis looked back at Cade. He was standing there, scratching his stomach.

“We can sue? I thought you told me we couldn't,” Ronnie said. “How much can we get?”

“Millions,” Cade said, looking at Louis. “Right?”

“Forget that for now,” Louis said. “I need to talk to you, Cade. Alone. Let's take a walk.”

Cade followed Louis toward the front gate. When they had gone about halfway, Louis stopped and turned. He was facing the sun and he moved so that he could see Cade's face clearly.

“So,” Cade said, “what do we have to talk about?”

“The panties in your truck.”

“What about them?”

“How did the semen get on them?”

Cade shrugged. “Well, that's obvious, ain't it? That girl's killer left it, you know, as part of the setup.”

Louis shook his head. “The killer would've had to know that those stains would match your blood type. How did he know that,
Jack?”

Cade scratched his chest, then looked off across the yard. “You already know the answer, don't you?” he said.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Cade hesitated. “I found the panties on the floor of the truck in the morning when I was leaving for work. I knew Ronnie had taken the truck out the night before. I figured he just got lucky.”

Louis shook his head. “You said he was a loser around girls, a virgin. Try again, Cade.”

Cade shrugged. “Okay, so he was a horny kid who couldn't get laid. He found the panties and jacked off in them. He didn't do nothing wrong.”

Louis stared at Cade. ”You lying sonofabitch. You found those panties that morning and
you
jacked off in them.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then Cade wiped his mouth with his arm. “You're going to believe what you want about me,” he said. “Just like everyone else.”

Louis turned away, walking toward his car. Thunder rolled overhead as shadows from the clouds moved across the ground.

“Hey, Louie,” Cade called. “Who's going to handle this lawsuit thing for me? That bitch lawyer?”

Louis didn't turn. He was finished here. “She can't. Find someone else.”

“I don't know any fucking lawyers,” Cade hollered, hurrying after him. He grabbed Louis's arm, spinning him around. “You need to find me someone.”

Louis jerked his arm free. “I don't need to do
anything
for you.”

Cade glared at him, then turned, heading back to his trailer. Louis started to get in the Mustang, but paused. He could see Ronnie and Eric over Cade's shoulder as they tried to load a large potted plant onto the truck. It tipped, scattering dirt at their feet.

Louis shook his head slowly. Damn, he wasn't finished. He did need to do something.

“Cade!” Louis called out.

Cade turned and waited.

“I'll find a lawyer,” Louis said. “But for Ronnie and Eric, not you.”

Cade gave him a wave of his hand and kept walking.

The Guilty Party was packed with lawyers, a smokey blur of white shirts and loosened ties. Louis spotted Scott Brenner in the back, a pool cue in his hand.

As Louis wove his way through the crowd, Scott saw him and waved him closer. Scott extended a hand, which Louis took.

“Give me a minute here, would you, Louis? I'm about to kick some very expensive ass.”

Louis watched as Scott sank the last of the striped balls, then snapped the eight ball into the side pocket. His opponent, a small man with thin brown hair handed Scott some bills and moved to the bar.

Scott turned toward Louis. “You want to play?”

“No thanks. Like I said when I called, I need to talk to you about Jack Cade.”

“We can talk and play. Just for fun. Let me get you a drink first. Name your poison.”

“Brandy and water.”

Scott handed Louis the billiard rack. “Rack 'em while I'm gone, would you?”

Louis racked the balls and picked up a cue stick, trying to remember the last time he held one. Had to be years. He was chalking it when Scott came back. He set both drinks on the table.

“I like to break,” Scott said. “Do you mind?”

Louis motioned toward the table. “Be my guest.”

Scott broke, sinking the six. He circled the table, looking for another. He paused behind the two ball, eyeing the angles. Louis noticed there was an easier shot with the ten.

Scott gave Louis a grin then took aim at the two. It rolled toward the pocket and stopped short. Scott shook his head, his grin never fading.

“You had a sure thing with the ten,” Louis said.

Scott picked up the chalk. “The victory is sweeter when the odds are greater. Your turn.”

Louis took a shot and missed. Scott started circling again, deciding finally on the fourteen ball. He bent over the table, his arms extended, his stick poised behind the cue ball.

“So, what about Jack Cade?” Scott asked.

“I thought you might be able to do something for his family.”

Scott's eyes flicked up to Louis, then back to the table.

“And that is?”

“Make a motion for a new trial.”

With a crack, Scott sent both the fourteen and the twelve balls zipping across the table. Both hit their pockets.

Scott came over to Louis, resting the butt of his stick on the floor. “I like a challenge, but I like winning even more. Give me a reason to believe I could.”

“He didn't rape Kitty Jagger and we can prove it.”

A flick of interest lit up Scott's eyes and his lips tipped up in a slow smile. He set his cue back in the rack. He picked up his drink and started toward the rear of the bar, nodding for Louis to follow.

Scott slid into a wooden booth, moving aside a small unlit candle. He leaned back, his fingers around his glass, the smile still on his face. Louis slid in across from him.

“You have my attention,” Scott said.

Louis quietly gave Scott the whole story, starting with the AB-negative blood in the report and ending with the theory that whoever killed Kitty shot Spencer Duvall and took the 1967 Redweld in an attempt to protect himself.

Scott reached for his drink, saw that it was empty and set it back down. He sat back, his gaze drifting to some far place of the bar.

“What do you think?” Louis asked.

Scott's fingers were tapping lightly on the empty glass. “We called him Creepy Cade back then. Everyone did. We all thought he did it.” He paused. “God, twenty years of his life down the drain.”

“Will you consider taking this on?”

“I'm not a criminal attorney, but I can make a motion for a new trial. If it gets that far, I can either pass it off or take on a second chair.”

“The Cades don't have any money.”

Scott waved his hand. “I wouldn't expect any for this. Jesus Christ, Louis, there comes a time when you just have to do something human. This poor man wasted twenty years.”

“But there is something you want, right?” Louis asked.

Scott leaned forward, the alcohol shimmering in his eyes. “You know what I want, Louis? I want a shot at lawyers like Spencer Duvall, who treat the legal system like their own personal toilets. And prosecutors who would walk over their mothers' bodies if they thought they could convict. And the fucking state of Florida that doesn't give a damn how many innocent men they fry.”

Louis had a feeling it was the potential publicity and not any real sense of altruism that was getting Scott Brenner fired up. But he didn't care. He knew that Scott Brenner, with his connections and experience, could help Ronnie and Eric.

“Besides,” Scott said, “if we pull this off, I want the civil suit.” He was trying to catch the waitress's eye. “Lot of potential for big money.”

“What about the chances for a new trial?”

“Before we go any further, can I ask you a question?” Scott said.

“Sure.”

“You want to be in on this?”

Louis took a drink. “Yeah, I do.”

“Okay, this is how it is. The whole key is
new
evidence,” he said. “The vaginal semen sample you mentioned isn't new.”

“But it was never submitted in trial.”

“The law doesn't care,” Scott said. “If Duvall had that report and didn't use it, too bad. Having had a stupid lawyer won't get you a new trial, either. Nor does the probability of innocence. We've got to find something new.”

For the first time since he had started talking to Scott, Louis felt a twinge of discouragement. “There isn't anything, Scott,” he said. “Believe me, I've been over all the files, all the records. There isn't anything we can dig up.”

Scott took a long, slow drink of his vodka. He leaned back in the booth and leveled his brown eyes at Louis.

“Oh yes, there is,” he said. “Kitty Jagger.”

The mechanical clamor stopped and the quiet rushed in. The hush stretched over the cemetery and then was broken by the chirp of a bird. Then came the
beep-beep-beep
drone as the backhoe crept away from the hole in the ground.

Louis watched as two men jumped down and secured the straps around the concrete vault. He looked up, his eyes traveling over the knot of people standing in the shade of a tree a few yards away. There were a couple of Lee County uniforms and a guy Louis assumed was the detective Mobley had just assigned to the case, all with the usual stone cop faces. There were also two men in suits. The shorter one, the cemetery administrator, wore the benign expression of a man used to watching the dead unearthed. The other was Scott Brenner. He was standing a few yards away, his eyes locked on the hole, his expression determinedly stoic.

Over by the road, a small group of reporters and rubberneckers were cordoned off by yellow crime tape. He saw someone standing off by himself away from the crowd, under a tree. It was Bob Ahnert.

The vault was hoisted out and carefully set down. Gray concrete, mottled with mud and mold. The workers took out crowbars.

Louis had never been to an exhumation before. It was all so . . . business-like. He had not expected that. There was something disturbingly commonplace about it, like the dead were routinely taken from their graves, like children rousted from sleep to get up for school.

The smell was terrible. Louis had not expected that either. He looked up, as if for relief. The tree's canopy stretched for about fifty yards. The branches were heavy with flowers that looked like lilacs. It made a beautiful umbrella of lavender over Kitty's grave site.

They lifted the casket out. The dark wood still had a sheen to it, but the brass handles had gone green. He thought of what Joyce had said about Willard.
He spent a fortune on the coffin, mahogany with these beautiful brass handles. But then, he was so upset he didn't even come to see her.

Louis was staring at the casket. Why wasn't he feeling anything? He should feel something—sorrow, regret, at least a sense of propriety. But he was dry inside.

The thud of a car door made him look up. A green uniform ducked under the yellow tape. Mobley ignored the reporters' questions and came up to Louis's side.

“Thanks for coming, Sheriff,” Louis said.

“I had to get out of the office,” Mobley said. “They won't leave me alone. Between the damn reporters and Sandusky, I don't have enough ass left to take a shit.”

Louis nodded slightly, his eyes going back to Scott Brenner. He was staring at the casket now, his eyes narrowed, his hand clasped over his mouth like he was going to be sick. Suddenly, Scott turned away and walked off.

“Excuse me, Sheriff,” Louis said.

Louis went over a small rise and saw Scott standing, head bowed, hands in his pants pocket.

“You okay?” Louis asked, coming to his side.

Scott looked up. “What? Oh yeah . . . yeah.” His voice dropped off and he looked away.

Louis followed his gaze down to the large granite headstone in front of them.

BRENNER
Charles 1914–1981 Vivian 1919–1953

 

“Your parents?” Louis asked.

Scott nodded.

“Your mother was a young woman when she died,” Louis said.

“Yeah, I was seven,” Scott said quietly. “At least I remember her. Brian doesn't at all.”

Louis looked back at the headstone. “But you had your dad.”

“It was just the three of us,” Scott said. “Dad was away most of the time in Tallahassee and we were raised by the housekeeper. I ended up watching over Brian.” Scott looked back down at the headstone. “But my father was there when it counted.”

They fell silent. Louis looked at the Brenner headstone. It was only then that he noticed the three small markers set down in the grass.

 

Geraldine Infant Baby Girl Infant Baby Boy
1942–1944 1945 Stillborn 1948 Stillborn

 

Scott noticed Louis looking at the small markers. “Dad always wanted a big family, but my mother—she had a difficult time with her pregnancies.” He paused, looking at the marker. “Dad always called them blue babies,” he said. “That's what they called stillborns in those days.”

The sound of a car door made Louis look back toward the grave site. They were loading Kitty Jagger's casket into a county van. Louis turned back to Scott.

“Thanks for getting this done so quickly.” He extended his hand and Scott shook it.

“No problem,” Scott said.

Louis looked over at the crowd behind the tape. Bob Ahnert had disappeared.

“Aren't you going with her?” Scott asked.

Louis turned to Scott. The sympathy in his voice had surprised him.

“Yeah,” Louis said quietly. “I guess I better.”

 

 

The door to the autopsy room opened and Octavius walked out.

“She's on the table, Vince,” he said. The diener went back into the office, leaving Vince and Louis standing at the door. Louis was looking at the window, but he couldn't see the table.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Vince asked.

“Yes.”

Vince wasn't wearing his Walkman or earphones. It was the first time Louis had seen him without them. But other things were different today too, like the whole place was muted somehow. No sounds, none of the usual numbing smells. Even the florescent lights seemed dimmer than usual.

“I don't know what we're going to get here, Louis,” Vince said. “If there was a lot of water damage or if the—”

“Her father bought her the best casket,” Louis interrupted.

Vince just looked at him for a moment, then pushed the door open. Louis followed.

A spot of pink. That was the first thing he saw. He moved closer.

She was wearing a dress. Pink, with a high white collar. White shoes. He hadn't expected her to be dressed. He had expected . . .

It hit him now. He had been expecting decay, putrified flesh and bone, like the corpses he had seen pulled from mangroves, or at least a shattered shell, like the bodies lifted from car wrecks.

Not this . . .

Her skin was waxy and sunken, her long hair limp and bleached to ash from the decades of laying in darkness. But as she lay there, hands folded over her chest, Kitty Jagger looked almost as if she were asleep.

Louis felt a dullness in his chest, but he couldn't look away.

“Man, whoever did this was a hell of an embalmer,” Vince said. “They don't usually come out of the ground this well preserved.”

But Louis did not hear him. He was staring now at her hands. Small fingers, a silver ring on the right hand. She was holding a pink rose. It was shriveled but still intact, like a cherished prom corsage.

Louis realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out. Bones . . . if it had been just bones, he could have stood that. He had seen bones before, like Eugene Graham, the young black man whose skeleton he had found in a Mississippi swamp with a noose still wrapped around the vertebrae. Eugene had been violated and brutally murdered just like Kitty. But this was different. Kitty was still here. A ghost of herself, but she was still
here.

He stared at the pink rose. Something so beautiful . . . so damaged. Something so alive . . . so wasted.

He felt his throat tighten. A whisper in his head:
Don't be afraid, just let go.

Something broke deep in his chest. He was hearing her, just like Ahnert. God, he was hearing a dead girl talk to him.

Oh Jesus, am I going crazy?

“Send me your report when you're done, Vince,” Louis said. He turned quickly and left.