Williams frowned. “Wait a minute, Sean, like I said, they’re totally different killings. Shotguns and, well, I still don’t know how Jane Doe died, but it wasn’t by buckshot, that’s for damn sure.”
“But what about the watches?”
“Okay, both the kids had watches on. So what? Is that a crime?”
“And you didn’t notice if they were Zodiacs?”
“No, I didn’t. But then I didn’t notice it on the Jane Doe either.” He paused and considered something. “Although Canney’s arm was sort of leaning against the dash.”
“Sort of braced up, you mean?”
“Maybe,” Williams said warily. “But he got hit with a shotgun blast. No telling how that would have blown him back.”
“Were both watches running?”
“No.”
“What was the time on Pembroke’s watch?”
“Two.”
“Two exactly?”
“I think so.”
“And Canney’s watch?”
Williams pulled out his notebook and turned some pages until he found it. “Three,” he said nervously.
“Had the watch been hit by the buckshot?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Williams. “I guess Sylvia can tell us that.”
“The girl’s?”
“Looks like a piece of glass from the windshield hit it.”
“Yet her watch read two and Canney’s three,” said Michelle. “If the girl’s watch stopped at two when she was killed by the shotgun blast, how could the boy’s have stopped at three without being struck by anything?”
Williams continued to be defensive. “Come on, except for this watch business, which isn’t all that convincing, I don’t see any connection at all.”
Michelle shook her head stubbornly. “First killing was number one, Jennifer Pembroke’s was number two and Steve Canney was victim number three. That can’t be coincidental.”
“You really need to see if the watches on Steve Canney and Jennifer Pembroke were Zodiacs,” King told Williams with a sense of urgency in his voice.
Williams used his cell phone to make some calls. When he finished, the police chief looked confused.
“The watch found on Pembroke was hers, a Casio. Her mother confirmed it was the one her daughter wore. But Canney’s father told me that his son didn’t wear a watch. I checked with one of my deputies. The watch found on Canney was a Timex.”
King’s brow furrowed. “So no Zodiac watch, but Canney’s was possibly planted by the killer, as it probably was in the first killing. As I recall, the San Fran Zodiac also committed a lovers’ lane killing. Most or all of his killings were also near bodies of water or places named after water.”
“The bluff Canney and Pembroke were killed on overlooks Cardinal Lake,” said Williams grudgingly.
“And Jane Doe wasn’t that far from the lake,” said Michelle. “You just had to go over the crest of the hill she was on, and there’s a cove right there.”
“What I would do, Todd,” said King, “is start working the Zodiac watch connection. The killer had to get the watch from somewhere.”
Williams was looking down at his hands, his brow furrowed.
“What is it?” asked Michelle.
“We found a dog collar on the floorboard of Canney’s car. We just assumed it belonged to Canney. But his father just told me that they don’t own a dog.”
“Could it have been Pembroke’s?” asked King, but Williams shook his head.
They all sat there puzzling this over when the office phone rang. King went to answer it and returned with a pleased expression. “That was Harry Carrick, retired state supreme court justice, now country lawyer. He’s got a client accused of some serious things, and he wants our help. He didn’t say who or what.”
Williams rose and cleared his throat. “Uh, that would be Junior Deaver.”
“Junior Deaver?” said King.
“Yep. He was doing some work for the Battles. It’s out of my jurisdiction. Junior’s in the county lockup right now.”
“What’d he do?” asked King.
“You’ll have to ask Harry about that.” He went to the door. “I’m calling the state police in too. They’ve got real homicide detectives.”
“You might want to think about involving the FBI as well,” said Michelle. “If this is a serial killer, VICAP can do a profile,” she added, referring to the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program.
“Never thought I’d have to fill out a VICAP form in Wrightsburg.”
“They’ve simplified the paperwork a lot,” she added helpfully.
After the chief left, Michelle turned to King. “I feel sorry for him.”
“We’ll do what we can to help.”
She sat back. “So who’re Junior Deaver and the Battles?”
“Junior’s a good old boy who’s lived here all his life. On the wrong side of the tracks, you could say. The Battles are a different story. They’re the wealthiest family by far around here. They’re everything you’d expect to find in a good old southern family.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Meaning they’re, well, charming, quirky… you know, slightly eccentric.”
“You mean crazy,” said Michelle.
“Well—”
“Every family’s crazy,” Michelle interrupted. “Some just show it more than others.”
“I think you’ll find the Battles are right at the top of the list in that regard.”
CHAPTER
7
HARRY LEE CARRICK LIVED
on a large estate on the eastern edge of Wrightsburg. As they drove over, King filled in Michelle on the jurist-turned-practicing-attorney.
“He was a lawyer here years ago and then went on the local circuit court and then onto the state supreme court for the last two decades. In fact, he swore me into the Virginia State Bar. His family goes back about three hundred years in the commonwealth. You know, those Lees. He’s well over seventy but sharper than ever. After he left the bench, he came back here, settled down at the family estate.”
“You said Junior was from the wrong side of the tracks.”
“Let’s say he’s occasionally strayed on the other side of the law. But from what I’ve heard he hasn’t been in any trouble for a long time.”
“Apparently until now.”
They passed a set of wrought-iron gates emblazoned with the letter C.
Michelle looked around at the expansive grounds. “Nice place.”
“Harry’s done well for himself and his family certainly had money.”
“Married?”
“His wife died when she was young. He never remarried and doesn’t have any children. In fact, he’s the last of the Carricks as far as I know.”
They caught a glimpse of a large brick home with white columns nestled among all the mature trees. Yet King turned away from the direction of the main house and drove down a narrow gravel road, stopping in front of a small clapboard structure painted white.
“What’s this?” asked Michelle.
“The opulent law offices of Harry Lee Carrick, Esquire.”
They knocked on the door and a pleasant-sounding voice called out, “Come in.”
The man rose from behind the large wooden desk, his hand outstretched. Harry Carrick was about five-nine and slender with fine silver hair and a ruddy complexion. He was dressed in gray slacks, a blue blazer, a white button-down shirt and a red-and-white-striped tie. His eyes were more the color of periwinkle than true blue, Michelle decided, and were also pleasingly impish. His eyebrows were thick and the same color as the hair. His grip was firm and his melodious southern accent as smoothly enveloping as three fingers of your favorite libation and an easy chair in which to enjoy it. His energy and manner were that of a man easily twenty years younger. In short, he was the Hollywood version of what a judge should look like.
Harry said to Michelle, “I was wondering when Sean would get around to bringing you to see me.
So I felt compelled to take matters into my own hands, you see.”
He led them to chairs in one corner of the small room. Stout bookcases lined most of the wall space. The furniture all looked to be antique and well used. Cigar smoke hovered in the air like miniature cumuli, and Michelle spotted an old Remington typewriter on one side table, although there was also a PC and laser printer on Harry’s magnificently carved desk.
“I’ve altogether given in to the efficiencies of the modern age,” he said, his alert eyes observing her wandering gaze. “I resisted computers until the last possible moment and then threw myself wholeheartedly into their embrace. I reserve the Remington for correspondence with certain friends of advancing years who’d consider it positively disgraceful to receive a missive on anything but monogrammed bond paper graced with the touch of the manual typewriter keys, or else my own personal scrawl, which unfortunately grows ever more indecipherable. Growing old is so darn unappealing until you consider the alternative. I’d recommend always staying young and beautiful, like you, Michelle.”
Michelle smiled. Harry was quite the gentleman, and a charmer.
He insisted on making them tea and served it in delicately worn china cups with matching saucers. Then he settled down between them.
“Junior Deaver,” prompted King.
“And the Battles,” said Harry.
“Sounds like an odd couple,” remarked Michelle.
“The oddest,” agreed Harry. “Bobby Battle was brilliant and as tough as nails. He made his fortune through his own sweat and brains. His wife, Remmy, is as fine a lady as I know. And she’s made of steel too. She’d have to be, being married to Bobby.”
Michelle looked at him curiously. “You said ‘was.’ Is Bobby Battle deceased?”
“No, but he suffered a massive stroke recently. Not too long before the incident Junior is accused of, in fact. Not sure of his recovery prospects just yet.”
“Is that the whole family, Bobby and Remmy?” asked Michelle.
“No, there’s a son, Edward Lee Battle, though everybody calls him Eddie. He’s about forty. Bobby’s full name is Robert E. Lee Battle. We aren’t related. Lee was a given name for him, quite common in these parts, as I’m sure you can understand. There was another son, Bobby Jr., Eddie’s twin. He died of cancer when he was a teenager.”
“Then there’s Eddie’s wife, Dorothea. And Eddie’s younger sister, Savannah,” added King. “She just finished up college, I understand.”
“You said Eddie’s about forty and yet Savannah just graduated from college?” asked Michelle.
Harry said, “Well, Savannah was somewhat of a surprise. Remmy was over forty when that little bundle of joy arrived. Ironically, Remmy and Bobby were separated for some time before Savannah was born, and looked headed toward divorce.”
“What was the problem?” asked King.
“Remmy caught him with another woman, a prostitute. It wasn’t the first time; Bobby had an appalling affinity for those types. That was all hushed up back then. I really thought that was going to be the last straw, but then they patched things up.”
“A baby will do that for you,” said King.
“Do they all live together?” asked Michelle.
Harry shook his head. “Bobby, Remmy and Savannah live in the big house. Eddie and Dorothea live next door in what was the estate’s carriage house, but which is now a separate piece of property. I’ve heard rumors that Savannah may move away.”
“I imagine some of her trust fund is due upon her college graduation,” said King.
“And probably none too soon for her,” said Harry.
“I take it she doesn’t get along with her parents?” said Michelle.
“Let’s put it this way: Bobby was very much an absent father, and she and Remmy are both strong, independent women, meaning they don’t agree on much.”
“What do Eddie and Dorothea do?” asked Michelle.
Harry answered. “Eddie’s a professional artist and avid Civil War reenactor. Dorothea has her own real estate firm and does quite well.” Harry gave Michelle a mischievous grin. “Folks in the Battles’ social circle change domestic partners at an alarming rate and thus are often in the market for new and ever more luxurious housing. While good to Dorothea’s pocketbook, it must give the woman fits remembering who’s with whom on a day-to-day basis.”
“Sounds a little like Peyton Place,” said Michelle.
“Oh, we left Peyton Place in the dust years ago,” said Harry.
“And now we come to Junior,” added King.
Harry put down his teacup and reached for a file on his desk. “Junior was doing some construction work for the Battles. Specifically, work in Remmy’s bedroom closet. He’s good; he’s even done some work for me here, and for lots of people in the area.”
“And the crime he’s accused of?” asked King.
“Burglary. There was a hidden cupboard in Remmy’s closet where she kept jewelry, cash and other valuables. It was burglarized and the contents emptied. And there was also a secret cache in Bobby’s closet that was broken into. About two hundred thousand dollars’ worth, I understand, including, unfortunately, Remmy’s wedding ring,” said Harry. As he gazed through the file, he added, “And hell hath no fury like a woman shorn of her wedding ring.”
“And they suspect Junior because he was doing work there?” asked Michelle.
“Well, a certain amount of evidence seems to pin him to the crime.”
“Like what?” asked King.
Harry ticked the points off on his fingers. “The burglar accessed the house through a third-story window. The window was forced and a tool mark was left as well as a bit of metal from the tool that was matched to a crowbar owned by Junior. He also owns a ladder that would reach that window. In addition they found shards of glass in the cuffs of a pair of his pants. They can’t definitively match the glass found to the window at the Battles’, but it’s similar. Both are tinted.”
“You said he forced the window,” said King. “Where’d the glass come from?”
“Part of the window broke when it was forced. I suppose the theory is, he got the shards when climbing through the opening. Next we have shoe prints found on the hardwood floor in Remmy’s bedroom. They match a pair of boots found at Junior’s. There was some building material found on the floor of Remmy’s closet: drywall powder, cement, wood dust, the sort of thing Junior would have had on his shoes, considering the line of work he’s in. There was also some soil found there that has been matched to the ground outside of Junior’s home. Similar evidence was also found in Bobby’s bedroom and closet.”
“So they maintained separate sleeping quarters?” asked Michelle.
Harry raised a single thick eyebrow. “Knowledge that I’m sure Remmy would have preferred to keep private.”
“Okay, that’s all incriminating but still circumstantial,” said King.
“Well, there’s yet another piece of evidence. Or I suppose I should say two pieces. A glove print and a fingerprint that match Junior’s.”
“A glove print?” said Michelle.
“It was a leather glove,” answered Harry, “and those have definitive lines and such just like a fingerprint, or so they tell me.”
“But if he was wearing gloves, how did one of his prints show up?” asked King.
“Presumably, it had a hole in one of the fingers. And Junior owns such a glove.”
King stared at Harry. “What’s Junior’s story?”
“Junior declares his innocence vigorously. He was working by himself until the early morning hours at a new house he’s building for him and his family over in Albemarle County. He saw no one and no one saw him. So there goes any alibi.”
“When was the burglary discovered?” asked King.
“Remmy found it around five in the morning after she got home from the hospital. She was in her bedroom around eight the night before, and there were people in the house until around eleven or so. So the crime probably took place
between, say, midnight and four.”
“Clearly within the hours Junior says he was working alone on the house.”
“And yet with all that,” said Michelle, “you think he’s innocent, don’t you?”
Harry met her gaze. “I’ve represented people who were guilty before; that comes with the territory. As a judge I’ve seen the culpable go free and the innocent occasionally locked up, and I’ve usually been powerless