He checked the window for Marla before putting the recorder to his ear and pressing play. The volume was low, and he heard Faith’s voice reading Tommy Braham’s confession. Will had not wasted the entire night worrying about his schoolgirl crush on Sara Linton. He’d prepared himself for the day by reading every single word in the reports and listening to Tommy Braham’s confession over and over again until he had memorized almost every word. He listened to the whole thing again in the office, the cadence of Faith’s voice so familiar that he could have spoken along with her.
Her tone was dispassionate, offering no inflection. “‘I was in Allison’s apartment. This was last night. I don’t know what time. Pippy, my dog, was sick. It was after I took her to the doctor. Allison said she would have sex with me. We started to have sex. She changed her mind. I got mad. I had a knife on me. I stabbed her once in the neck. I took the extra chain and lock and drove her to the lake. I wrote the note so people would think she had killed herself. Allison was sad. I thought that would be reason enough.’”
There were murmurs in the squad room. Will glanced up to find a couple of uniformed cops staring at him in disbelief. One of them started toward the office, probably to confront him, but his partner stopped him.
Will leaned back in the chair, hearing the squeak again. He took out his cell phone and called Faith. She picked up on the fourth ring. Her hello was more like a grunt.
“Did I wake you up?”
“It’s seven-thirty in the morning. Of course you woke me up.”
“I can call back.”
“Just gimme a minute.” He heard her moving around. She yawned so loudly that Will felt his own jaw twitching to open. “I pulled up some info on Lena Adams.”
“And?”
She yawned again. “Let me get to my laptop.”
Will couldn’t stop his own yawn. “I’m sorry I got you out of bed.”
“You’ve got me until four this afternoon. That’s when I meet my doctor at the hospital.”
Will started talking so she wouldn’t explain the procedure again. “That’s great, Faith. I guess your mom is driving you. She must be excited. What about your brother? Have you called him?”
“You can shut up now. I’m at my computer.” He heard keys being tapped. “Salena Marie Adams,” Faith said, probably reading from the woman’s personnel file. “Detective first grade. Thirty-five years old. Five-four and a hundred and twenty pounds.” Faith mumbled a curse. “God, that’s enough to make me hate her right there.”
“What about her history?”
“She was raped.”
Will was taken aback by her abruptness. He’d been expecting date of birth, maybe some commendations. Sara had said that she suspected Lena had been raped by her ex-boyfriend, but he’d been under the impression no formal charges had been filed. He asked Faith, “How do you know that?”
“The case came up when I cross-referenced her file. You really should Google more.”
“When did it happen?”
“Ten years ago.” He heard her fingers pecking the keyboard. “Her file is pretty clean. She’s worked some interesting cases. You remember that south Georgia pedophile ring awhile back? She and Tolliver broke it open.”
“Does she have any black marks?”
“Small-town forces don’t air their dirty laundry on paper,” Faith reminded him. “She took some time off the job six years ago. She worked security at the college less than a year, then went back on the job. That’s all I’ve got on her. Have you found anything else?”
“I had an interesting conversation with the man who runs the diner this morning.”
“What did he say?”
“Not a whole lot. Allison was a good kid. Hard worker. He didn’t know much about her personal life.”
“Do you think he killed her?”
“He’s sixty-something years old with a fake leg.”
“A real fake leg?”
Will thought about Lionel knocking on the prosthesis, the hollow sound. “I’ll see if I can confirm it, but he was putting on quite an act if the leg is real.”
“You never know with those small towns. Ed Gein was a babysitter.”
Faith was never one to miss an opportunity to compare a kindly old man to one of the twentieth century’s most notorious serial killers.
She said, “Spooner’s background check didn’t offer much, either. She’s got a bank account with eighteen dollars and change. She must be a cash-and-carry gal. The only checks she’s written in the last six months are to the college and the campus bookstore. The statements are delivered to the Taylor Drive address. Other than that, she’s got no credit cards. No utilities in her name. No credit history. No cell phone on record. No car.”
“The old guy at the diner says she drove a Dodge Daytona with Alabama plates.”
“It must be registered in someone else’s name. Do you think the locals know about it?”
“I don’t know. My source also says that Allison had a pink book bag she kept in the car when she was working.”
“Hold on a second.” Faith was obviously doing something on her computer. “All right, I’m not finding any BOLOs for the car coming out of Grant County or any towns in the vicinity.” If Frank Wallace knew about Allison’s car, he would have posted a “be on the lookout” to all neighboring counties.
Will said, “Maybe they already know where the car is but they don’t want me to find it.”
“I’m posting a BOLO around the state right now. Your chief will have to tell his boys to look for it during their briefing this morning.”
“It’s an old car. Allison’s lived here a couple of years without changing the plates.”
“College town. Wouldn’t be odd to have cars with out-of-state tags. The only reason not to register a car is because it’s not insured,” Faith pointed out. “I’d buy that. This girl was living on the margins. She barely made a blip on the radar.”
Will saw that the squad room was filling up. The crowd of cops had gotten bigger. A more fearful man might call them a growing mob. They kept stealing looks at Will. Marla was pouring them coffee, glaring at him over her shoulder. And then, as if on cue, they all looked toward the front door. Will wondered if Frank Wallace had deigned to make an appearance, but quickly saw this was not the case. A woman with olive skin and curly, shoulder-length brown hair joined the group. She was the smallest in the bunch, but they parted for her like the Red Sea.
Will told Faith, “I think Detective Adams has decided to grace us with her presence.”
“How does she look?”
Lena had spotted him. Her eyes burned with hatred.
He said, “She looks like she wants to rip out my throat with her teeth.”
“Be careful. You know you have a weakness for bitchy, spiteful women.”
Will didn’t bother to argue. Lena Adams had the same color skin and hair as Angie, though she was obviously of Latin descent, whereas Angie’s origins were vaguely Mediterranean. Lena was shorter, more athletic. There was none of Angie’s womanliness about her—Lena was too cop for that—but she was an attractive woman. She also seemed to share Angie’s talent for stirring things up. Several of the cops were staring at Will with open hostility now. It wouldn’t be long before someone grabbed a pitchfork.
Faith asked, “What’s this email from you?” She answered her own question. “Julie Smith. All right, I’ll see if I can trace the number. The warrant for Tommy Braham’s phone records shouldn’t be a problem considering he’s dead, but I may need an official cause of death before we get access.”
Will kept his eyes on Lena. She was saying something to the group. Probably telling them to check their weapons. “Can you fudge that a little? Julie Smith told Sara that Tommy texted her from jail. The transcript might help find out who she is. Maybe Amanda can call in some favors.”
“Oh, great. Just who I want to talk to first thing in the morning.”
“Can you get her to rush through a search warrant for
the garage, too? I want to show the locals what proper procedure looks like.”
“I’m sure she’ll fall over herself trying to accommodate your requests.” Faith gave a heavy groan. “Anything else you want me to ask her?”
“Tell her I want my testicles back.”
“They’re probably already at the bronzer.”
Lena took off her jacket and threw it on a desk. “I need to go.” Will hung up the phone just as the detective stomped toward the office.
Will stood up. He gave one of his winning smiles. “You must be Detective Adams. I’m so glad to finally meet you.”
She stared at the hand he offered. He thought for a minute she might rip it off.
“Is there something wrong, Detective?”
She was obviously so angry she could barely speak. “This office—”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Will interrupted. “It was empty, and I want to make sure I stay out of your way.” His hand was still extended between them. “We’re not to that point yet where you can’t shake my hand. Are we, Detective?”
“We passed that point the minute you sat behind that desk.”
Will dropped his hand. “I was expecting Chief Wallace.”
“Interim Chief,” she corrected, just as raw as Sara on the subject. “Frank’s at the hospital with Brad.”
“I heard Detective Stephens had a rough night, but he seems all right this morning.”
She didn’t answer him, which was just as well. Her accent was full of south Georgia twang, and anger made her words blend like cake batter.
Will indicated the chair. “Please have a seat.”
“I’ll stand.”
“Hope you don’t mind if I sit.” The chair squeaked as he settled back in it. Will steepled his fingers together. He noticed that a pen was clipped to Lena’s breast pocket. It was silver, a Cross just like the one Larry Knox had clipped to his shirt last night. Will glanced at the group of officers who were milling around the coffee machine. They all had pens clipped to their chest pockets, too.
Will smiled. “I’m sure your chief already told you why I’m here.”
He saw her eye twitch. “Tommy.”
“Right, Tommy Braham, and by extension, Allison Spooner. I hope we can wrap this up quickly. I’m sure we’d all rather have this off our plate going into Thanksgiving.”
“This good-guy bullshit isn’t really going to work with me.”
“We both have badges, Detective. Don’t you think you should try to cooperate so we can get to the truth of this matter?”
“You know what I think?” She crossed her arms high on her chest. “I think you’re down here where you don’t belong, sleeping in places you have no right, and trying to get a lot of good people into trouble for shit that’s beyond their control.”
There was a loud knock at the open door. Marla Simms stood ramrod straight, a medium-sized cardboard box gripped between her hands. She walked to the desk and dropped the box with a thud in front of Will.
“Thank you,” he told her retreating back. “Mrs. Simms?” She didn’t turn, but she stopped. “If you don’t mind, I need the audiotape of the 911 call reporting Allison Spooner’s alleged suicide.”
She left without acknowledging the request.
Will looked over the top of the box, eyeing the contents. There were several plastic evidence bags, obviously taken from the scene of Allison Spooner’s death. A pair of white sneakers was in one. Streaks of mud went up the sides and stuck into the treads.
The ring and watch mentioned in Lena’s report were in the other bag. He studied the ring, which was cheap, the sort of thing you gave a girl when you were fifteen and spending fifty dollars on a piece of jewelry from the locked display at Walgreens was a big deal.
He held up the ring. “I gave my wife one of these when we were kids.”
Lena’s nasty look resembled the same one Angie had shown Will when he’d given her the ring.
He pulled another bag out of the box. There was a closed wallet inside. Will managed to pry it open through the plastic. He found a photo of an older woman beside a young girl and another photograph of an orange cat. There were some bills in the cash compartment. Allison Spooner’s student ID and driver’s license were tucked in the back sleeves.
Will looked at the girl’s picture. Faith had guessed right. Allison was very pretty. She also looked younger than her given age. Maybe it was her size. She seemed delicate, almost fragile. He flipped back to the photograph of the older woman, realizing now that the girl beside her was Allison Spooner. The picture had obviously been taken a few years ago. Allison looked like a teenager.
He asked Lena, “Is this all you found in the wallet?” He listed it out for her. “Two photos, forty bucks, the license, and student ID?”
She was staring at the open wallet in his hands. “Frank catalogued it.”
Not exactly an answer, but Will knew that he’d need to choose his battles. He saw there was one more evidence bag in the box. He guessed it contained the contents of Tommy Braham’s pockets. “Gum, thirty-eight cents, and a metal Monopoly game piece of a car.” He looked back up at Lena. “He didn’t have a wallet on him?”
“No.”
“Cell phone?”
“Is there one in the bag?”
Her combative answers were telling him more than she realized. Will asked, “What about his clothes and shoes? Any blood on them? Any stains?”
“Per protocol for a suicide in custody, Frank sent them to the lab. Your lab.”
“The Central GBI lab in Dry Branch?”
She nodded.
“What about the sheath?”
She seemed confused.
“In Tommy’s confession, he said he had a knife on him when he killed Allison. I imagine he had a sheath on his belt? A knife sheath?”
She shook her head. “He probably got rid of it.”
“He doesn’t mention in his confession what kind of knife he used.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Did you find any knives in the house where Tommy lived?”
“We can’t search his house without a warrant or permission from his father, who’s the owner of the property.”
Well, at least she knew the law. That she was choosing to follow it now was a bit of a mystery. “Are you assuming Tommy used the same knife to stab Detective Stephens that he used to kill Allison Spooner?”
Lena was silent for a few seconds. She had conducted enough interviews to recognize what a corner felt like when it was pressing against your back. “I’ve found in my career that it’s better not to make assumptions about what a suspect will and will not do.”
“That’s a valuable lesson for any officer,” he allowed. “Any reason why the Spooner evidence wasn’t sent to Central?”
She hesitated again. “I assume because the case is closed.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Tommy ran from the police. He stabbed a police officer. He confessed to the crime. He killed himself because he couldn’t take the guilt. I’m not sure how you do it in Atlanta, but down here we generally stop throwing money at an investigation once it’s closed.”
Will rubbed the back of his neck. “I really wish you’d sit down. This is going to take a while and I don’t think I can keep looking up at you without getting a crick.”
“What’s going to take a while?”
“Detective Adams, perhaps you don’t comprehend the import of this investigation. I’m here to interview you about the death of a prisoner who was in your custody, in your jail, in your town. In addition to that, a young woman was murdered. A police officer was badly wounded. This isn’t going to be a quick chat over coffee and doughnuts, not least of all because I’ve been advised not to take any food from y’all that isn’t sealed in a container.” He smiled. She didn’t smile back. “Would you please sit down so we can talk to each other like rational people?” She still didn’t move, and Will took it a step further. “If you’d rather go t
o one of the interrogation rooms instead of being in your dead chief’s office, then I’d be more than happy to accommodate you.”
Her jaw tightened. They had a long, drawn-out staring match that Will nearly lost. Lena was hard to look at. Her pain and exhaustion showed on every line of her face. Her eyes were swollen, the whites shot through with red. Her hand was resting on the chair in front of her, yet still she swayed, as if her knees wanted to give out.
Finally, she said, “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I think you’re the enemy.” Still, she pulled out the chair and sat down.
“I appreciate your candor.”
“Whatever.” She kept opening and closing her fist. He saw two flesh-colored Band-Aids wrapped around the palm of her hand. Her fingers looked swollen.
He asked, “That happen yesterday?”
She didn’t answer.
Will took a red folder out of his briefcase and left it unopened on the desk. Lena glanced down nervously. “Would you like a lawyer present?”
“Do I need one?”
“You should know better than to ask an investigator for legal advice, Detective. How about your union rep?”
She gave a short, sharp laugh. “We don’t have unions down here. We barely have uniforms.”
He should have remembered. “Do I need to remind you of your Miranda rights?”
“No.”
“Should I mention that lying to a state investigator during the course of an active investigation is a felony that can result in fines and imprisonment up to five years?”
“Didn’t you just do that?”
“I guess I did. Where was she stabbed?”
He’d caught her off guard. “What?”
“Allison Spooner. Where was she stabbed?”
“Here.” She put her hand to the back of her neck, her fingers resting a few inches from the spine.
“Was that the only wound?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she answered, “As you said, Frank noticed ligature marks around her wrist.”