Killerfind

  Chapter 22

  The Cape Girardeau County Sheriff’s office occupied a concrete afterthought of a building adjacent to the county jail. Vertical bars enveloped its small gloomy windows on the outside, as though to prevent anyone from breaking in. The county had painted the building battleship grey with a red stripe encircling it, giving the impression it was held together with a big rubber band. Someone’s idea of art moderne, Rhetta thought. It was one of the ugliest buildings she’d ever had the misfortune to see. The interior wasn’t much prettier.

  The tiny waiting room was chaotic. Reporters clamored for an interview with a spokesperson, if not Sheriff Talbot Reasoner himself. Media people chattered on cell phones, scribbled in note pads, or lit up the drab interior with flashes from cameras. The floors were littered in paper from the overflowing waste cans. Most of the litter was generated by empty Styrofoam coffee cups. A television station from Paducah, Kentucky had their evening news anchor and her cameraman in attendance. No one had been granted an audience with the sheriff, and everyone was complaining. All six waiting room chairs were filled, so the media types crowded together as best they could. The noise level from their clamoring was deafening.

  Randolph held Rhetta close to him while he edged his way past the herd to the harried-looking desk sergeant, a beefy veteran of an officer who sat at a metal desk safely behind a bullet-proof glass partition. His short, unkempt hair that looked as though rats had nested there, evidenced his rough morning.

  After Randolph waited for over a minute, the sergeant slid open a small glass partition, much like Rhetta used to see in her doctor’s office. “Yes?” he said, his brusque manner displaying his impatience. He ran his hand through his hair, the action explaining why tufts stood out all over his head.

  “I have Rhetta McCarter here to give a statement.”

  “Are you her lawyer?” the sergeant asked, head bent over a list on his clipboard, finger running down a list of printed names. “McCarter, here it is,” he said, before Randolph could answer. “I’ll let you in.”

  A loud buzzer sounded at the metal door alongside the partition, and the media surged forward. “Folks, you’ll have to stay back while I let these people in, or I’ll have the deputy come out and start arresting you,” the sergeant said, waving everyone to stand aside.

  As Rhetta and Randolph started toward the still-buzzing door, reporters jabbed microphones in front of them, firing questions. Neither she nor Randolph answered. Safely on the other side, Rhetta exhaled. “That was pretty scary,” she said, threading her arm through her husband’s. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

  They were instructed to follow a young deputy down a grey hallway. “I bet Sears had a sale on grey paint,” Rhetta whispered to Randolph.

  “What?” Randolph said, and looked around. Then, he smiled. “I think you’re right.”

  At the end of the hall, outside a door bearing a brass nameplate, which read, Lieutenant J. Adams, Rhetta and Randolph were instructed to take a seat and wait until they were called. They had their choice of six folding chairs lined up along the wall. All were empty except for one.

  A short, plump woman who appeared to be in her late sixties, maybe early seventies, sat primly in the chair closest to the door. She was wearing a pale blue polyester pantsuit, her feet enclosed in white diabetic shoes parked close together and flat on the floor, hands folded in her lap. When she nodded as Randolph and Rhetta walked to take a seat next to her, her short grey curls bounced.

  Rhetta looked over at Randolph, who was studying the woman. He surprised Rhetta by walking up to the grandmotherly-looking lady.

  “Mrs. Griffith?” The woman turned, and glanced at Randolph, a quizzical look on her face.

  “Yes. Do I know you?” She tilted her head and studied him.

  “Randolph McCarter,” he said and extended his hand.

  “Of course, Judge, I didn’t recognize you.” She gripped his hand in return.

  Turning to Rhetta, Randolph, said, “May I introduce my wife? Rhetta, this is Mrs. Malcom Griffith.”

  Chapter 23

  Rhetta felt her mouth open, but she closed it quickly.

  “Mrs. Griffith. How do you do?” Rhetta managed, shooting her husband a penetrating look over the top of Mrs. Griffith’s head. He should have warned her that’s who this lady was. Maybe Mrs. Griffith hadn’t seen her mouth flop.

  “Please, call me Adele,” she said, grasping Rhetta’s hand. Her grip was frail.

  Randolph sat in the chair closest to her. “I suppose you’re here about Jeremy Spears too?” He leaned back and crossed his legs. “A terrible thing.”

  Rhetta’s brain clicked feverishly. Why would Mrs. Griffith be here about Jeremy Spears? What did Randolph know that he hadn’t told her?

  Mrs. Griffith shook her head. “Jeremy? No.” The curls bounced. “Lieutenant Adams called me this morning and asked me to come and identify some items he thinks belonged to my husband, Malcom.” Then, turning to Rhetta, a puzzled look on her face, Adele Griffith added, “What’s wrong with Jeremy?”

  Rhetta stared wordlessly at Mrs. Griffith, not knowing how to answer. Then she glanced at Randolph, pleading with her eyes for him to say something.

  He was saved from answering when the office door opened. Adams’ wrinkled golf-style shirt hung out over faded blue jeans, partially hiding the badge hanging on a leather badge holder on his belt. His police revolver nestled in a leather holster on his hip. He escorted a sobbing woman from his office. Rhetta recognized a grief-stricken Anjanette Spears.

  Adele Griffith jumped to her feet when she spotted Anjanette. “What is she doing here?” she cried, leaping with an agility that shocked Rhetta. Moments earlier, Rhetta had thought of her as frail. Randolph reached for Mrs. Griffith’s arm.

  Anjanette Spears didn’t look anything like the well-put-together matron Rhetta had met mere days ago. Her silver hair clumped against her head; her eyes and cheeks were distorted with tears. Her tan slacks were wrinkled as was her white blouse. Her hands trembled as she reached for Lieutenant Adams.

  Randolph gently touched Mrs. Griffith’s arm. “Mrs. Griffith, Anjanette just lost her son, Jeremy. Please, sit here.” He steered her back to the chair.

  Adele Griffith looked confused. “Jeremy? She’s not here about Malcom?”

  “No, ma’am.” Randolph eased his arm away from her and glanced at Rhetta. Adams guided Anjanette down the hall. Her shoulders shook from sobbing. Anjanette hadn’t appeared to recognize Rhetta, but then, Rhetta hadn’t stepped forward to speak to her. It was obvious that the woman was distraught. Rhetta was uncomfortable in this kind of situation. When her own mother had passed away, she absolutely hated people offering mealy-mouthed words of sympathy. As a result, she could never find the right words to console anybody.

  Adams handed Mrs. Spears off to a deputy, who led her toward the back of the building, presumably to the rear exit to avoid the media.

  Rhetta glanced at Mrs. Griffith. The woman had regained some of her composure, smoothing her slacks, and patting her hair.

  Adams walked up briskly and asked Mrs. Griffith to step into the room.

  As soon as the door closed, Rhetta said, “I didn’t know that you knew Mrs. Griffith.”

  “You forgot I’m the judge who declared her husband dead.”

  “I should’ve asked you about her instead of Woody-the-Answer-Man-dot-com.” Rhetta gave herself a headslap.

  “She seems like she’s gone downhill since the last time I saw her, about five years ago. She was so vibrant then. I wonder why she was so upset at seeing Mrs. Spears?” Randolph said. He reached for Rhetta’s hand and kissed it. “She’s been through a lot, and now, after those remains….”

  Rhetta thought she had the answer as to why Adele Griffith was upset. She’d tell Randolph about the letter, but later, when they left. She didn’t want to risk Anjanette overhearing her. She leaned against her husband. She was so relieved he was there with her. He kept her calm. She
whispered, “What do you think they want to talk to her about?”

  “They probably have the things you and Ricky found and want her to identify them, like the wallet and ring.”

  “After all this time, can they can still use DNA to identify the body?”

  “More likely they’ll have to rely on dental records. I think the body was way too decomposed for any DNA, except for the type found in bones. Since Malcom Griffith was local and had a local dentist, I would think dental records would be the easiest and fastest way to identify him. I think that’s what they’ll start with, then go from there.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, the door opened and Mrs. Griffith emerged, looking paler and frailer. She no longer looked plump and healthy.

  Randolph stood and offered his arm. “Are you all right, Mrs. Griffith?”

  When she nodded, a tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away. She patted Randolph’s arm, but didn’t take it.

  “All those things,” she angled her chin toward the door, “are my Malcom’s. I signed some papers to allow them to get his dental records.” She sighed heavily. “I guess he truly is dead after all.” She pushed her purse up on her arm. Another officer took her arm, and began leading her. “Thank you, officer, for driving me. I just don’t drive anymore,” she said and shuffled alongside him down the hallway.

  After Adams introduced himself to Randolph and Rhetta, he invited them to follow him. His office was painted in the same drab grey as the rest of the building. The small space was filled nearly to capacity with his county-issued metal desk, which faced the door, two metal guest chairs squeezed in front of the desk, and a row of four mismatched filing cabinets along the wall. Behind Adams’ chair, certificates and awards filled the brag space on the wall.

  Rhetta and Randolph sat and waited while Adams opened a thick file and thumbed through it.

  “Mrs. McCarter, it seems like you wind up in the middle of things, don’t you?”

  Rhetta glanced at Randolph, not sure how to answer. First of all, the question was rhetorical, and second, she found him rude. “I came here voluntarily, Lieutenant Adams. You don’t have to be rude. I know my husband already notified you I was out by the barn Saturday night, so let’s just skip the asinine observations. Do you have pertinent questions for me?”

  Adams snapped the folder shut so suddenly that Rhetta blinked. Still staring at her, he retrieved a yellow legal tablet and reached for a pen.

  “All right, ma’am, no offense.” He held up his hands, palms out in an exaggerated mock surrender. “Let’s begin by you telling me, Mrs. McCarter, exactly what time you were out at the barn at Oak Forest Subdivision last Saturday night.” Pen poised in midair above the pad, he awaited her answer.

  “It was just getting dark, so probably around 8:45.”

  “Did you see anyone in or around the barn?” He began to jot.

  “No. I did see Jeremy’s truck, but I didn’t see him.” She squirmed uncomfortably. Randolph slipped his hand into hers. She relaxed.

  “Why did you go to the barn in the first place?” He scrawled feverishly as she spoke, firing his questions while barely looking at her.

  “I received a strange phone call, asking me to go out there.” Rhetta groped in her purse for her cell phone.

  Adams stopped writing. He stared at her, his dark eyes revealing nothing. “Strange phone call? From whom?”

  “A woman who said her name was Mylene Allard. “ Rhetta said. She passed her iPhone across to him, and pointed to the number on the recent call list.

  He set the pen down and took the phone, staring at the display. “This Mylene Allard, how did she know how to reach you?” He continued examining the phone while he waited for her answer.

  Rhetta shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Randolph interjected. “My wife’s picture and information about where she works and the barn’s location were all in the media recently, if you recall, Lieutenant.”

  Adams nodded, set the phone aside and resumed writing. Rhetta and Randolph sat in silence for a minute while he wrote. Abruptly, Adams lay his pen down and leaned forward. “May we borrow your phone, Mrs. McCarter? We’d like to record that phone list.”

  Rhetta frowned, and turned to Randolph.

  “No, you may not have the phone. If you’ll excuse me, I need to confer with my client.” Randolph guided Rhetta a few feet away and whispered, “Is there anything on that phone that he shouldn’t see?”

  “No, it’s just got my recent personal calls and a few business calls.”

  Randolph led Rhetta back to Adams. “We’ll let you look at the call list only—no browser history, nothing else. Understood?”

  Adams picked up the phone and held it in one hand while he punched a button on his desk phone with the other hand. He barked an order, summoning a deputy. As he disconnected, he answered her. “Just for a few minutes. We can pull that list from here, right now.”

  Adams handed the iPhone to the deputy who had arrived clutching a sheet of paper, which he slid across the desk toward Adams. Adams snatched the sheet and scanned it.

  “We have the results of the fingerprints found on the metal detector. There were two sets.” He tapped the paper. “Yours, Mrs. McCarter, and those of Miss Victoria Lane.” He set the paper aside, stood, then came around the desk and propped a slender haunch up on its corner. He examined his fingernails and as casually as though asking what she had for dinner last night, asked, “Did you two ladies murder Jeremy Spears?”

  Chapter 24

  Rhetta’s head spun. Grabbing the edge of Adams’ desk, she stood and whirled around.

  “Where’s Ashton Kutcher?” She swiveled her head and looked back at the door. “I’m getting punk’d, right? There’s no other explanation for that kind of question.”

  Randolph stood when she did, and lay his hand on her arm. “Rhetta, please, sit down and be quiet.” His voice was firm, professional. She had never heard him use that tone with her before. Turning to Adams, he said, “I’m no longer just Mrs. McCarter’s husband. I am now her attorney. She isn’t going to answer any questions like that unless you arrest her and Mirandize her. In fact, you made a serious mistake. You can’t use anything you get off her phone, since you haven’t Mirandized her. That phone can’t be used as evidence.”

  Rhetta grabbed Randolph’s arm. “For God’s sake, Randolph, don’t give him any ideas!”

  Adams spread his hands apart, palms out, and shook his head. “Hold on, Judge. I’m not going to arrest your wife, I mean client.” He cleared his throat. “It’s just a question I needed to ask, to get it out of the way. We weren’t looking for evidence on her phone.”

  “Either ask what you need to know to determine if she’s a witness, or my client and I will be leaving. As she told you, she’s here voluntarily. That means she’s free to go.”

  Rhetta’s heart hammered against her ribs. Did this cop really think she had anything to do with Jeremy’s death? Her head broke out in beads of perspiration. She had an immense dislike for Jeremy Spears, but unless she’d had an out-of-body experience, she hadn’t killed him.

  “Are you warm, Mrs. McCarter?” Adams asked, obviously noticing her glistening brow.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m burning up. Doesn’t the air conditioning work in this place?” She snatched a nearby magazine and began fanning herself.

  Randolph took her hand and gave her The Look. She shut up.

  Adams cleared his throat. “All we need to see is her recent call list. We need to find this woman who supposedly called your wife.” He paused to scan his notes. “Mylene Allard.”

  Randolph again asked Rhetta to point out Mylene Allard’s phone number on the list. “Write this number down, Lieutenant.” He rattled off the number, then lifted his head and addressed Rhetta.

  “I don’t have any further questions, Mrs. McCarter, so yes, you’re free to leave.” Adams motioned to the door. He didn’t bother escorting her to the door or down the hall lik
e he had with the two previous women.

  Probably because they weren’t murder suspects, like me.

  They walked a few steps, then Randolph turned back to Adams. “You sure you got that number, Lieutenant?” Adams nodded. “Good, then have a nice day.”

  Randolph held the door for his wife, then followed her into the hall.

  * * *

  “The nerve of Adams accusing me of killing Jeremy Spears. Especially after we came down here voluntarily to try and help,” Rhetta fumed.

  “He’s only doing his job.” Randolph opened the passenger door of his truck. Rhetta climbed in. “I wish you hadn’t gone back to that barn.” He shook his head. She began to protest and he raised his hand to silence her. “What’s done is done. I know you didn’t have anything to do with Jeremy Spears’ death, or with Malcom Griffith’s. With these two deaths, the sheriff’s department has its hands full now, no doubt about it. I guess we could cut them a little slack.”

  While Randolph and Rhetta were elbowing their way out through the waiting room amidst an even larger gaggle of reporters and media people, through a tangle of wires and laptops, cell phones and microphone stands, Sheriff Reasoner had announced over a public address system that he’d be giving a news briefing in thirty minutes. The media folks had surged forward when the door from the back had opened and were visibly disappointed when they spotted Rhetta and Randolph instead of the sheriff. Grumbling, they returned to scanning their iPhones, iPads and whatever else “i” that abounded.

  Randolph maneuvered the Artmobile 2 out of the crowded parking lot and onto Highway 61, and aimed it for home. After cranking the air conditioner on high, Rhetta sank back against the plush comfort of the seat and headrest. She closed her eyes for a moment. Then she snapped them open. “What about Streak? It’s still at my office.”

  “Text Woody to lock it up and leave the keys in your desk. I’ll take you to work tomorrow. We need to go home.”

  “Good idea.” Rhetta searched out her iPhone and texted Woody. She received an immediate answer. He’d take care of it. “Woody’s a lifesaver,” Rhetta said, and sat back again.