A Judgment of Whispers (5 page)

Seven

“What do you call
this muscle?” Victor Galloway asked as he cradled Mary Crow's foot in his lap.

“That's my toe, Victor. It's not a muscle.” Mary was sitting in bed, foregoing the Sunday
New York Times
for a thick report from Emily on George Turpin's tenure in office. Emily had done her homework—Turpin was twice as likely to go soft on domestic abuse cases, and twice as likely to double down on females charged with crimes. The statistics were so clear Mary was amazed that some judicial oversight committee hadn't already pointed this out to Turpin.

“Sure it's a muscle,” Victor went on. “You have to move your toe with something. It's not just there, hanging on to your foot.”

“I don't know what muscle it is,” Mary said absently. She looked up from the Turpin report and stared at Victor's bare back. The word
Rosaria
was tattooed on his left shoulder blade, a youthful declaration of love he now claimed to regret. Suddenly she remembered that he'd ducked out of the League breakfast yesterday, and had crawled into bed long after she'd gone to sleep. “Where did you disappear to yesterday?”

“You working any criminal cases now?” He was always careful to make sure she wasn't playing defense in the great battle for justice.

“Nothing more criminal than the Hargood Burton estate. Properties in three different states, heirs who remind me of the suspects in Clue.”

Victor laughed. “Professor Plum and Colonel Mustard?”

“All arguing with Mrs. Peacock.” Mary flopped back on her pillow. “I wish I had a capital case. It would be more fun than the squabbling Burtons.”

“Do you remember the Teresa Ewing murder? Back in 1989?”

She thought back.
1989. Fourth grade, Cherokee Elementary. Miss Batson was her teacher. Jonathan Walkingstick sat across from her. He wore jeans and black Chuck T's. Even then it was hard to keep her eyes off him.
“Everybody remembers that one,” she said, willing Jonathan Walkingstick's image back into the ancient-history file in her brain. “Little girl vanishes while delivering food to a neighbor, then turns up dead under the
Undli Adaya
.”

“Well, your officer Saunooke stopped off to check on some bulldozers on the girl's old street. The stray dog he was taking to the pound dug up a pair of underpants with Teresa's name on them.”

Mary lowered her pencil. “You're kidding.”

“No. But the capper is that the old detective who'd worked that case was wandering around that Ugly Adama tree … ”

“
Undli Adaya
,” she corrected. “It killed one of Desoto's scouts. They say there's a Spanish helmet up in the branches.”

He frowned. “The tree killed a Spanish scout?”

“So say my ancestors. Probably the Spaniard got drunk and ran into it.”

“Yeah. Anyway, this old cop claimed he wanted to have a look at the neighborhood before they built that new development.”

“And maybe plant some evidence he'd been withholding? Get something off his chest before he kicks the bucket?”

“That's Cochran's take. Whaley's not so sure.”

Mary looked at him, even more surprised. “Hang 'em High Whaley's squirting the milk of human kindness?”

“Whaley and this old guy were partners back then. Lead detectives on the case. Grandpa could recite every detail of that homicide like it happened last week.”

“So you took the underpants to the lab in Winston?”

He nodded. “Handed them over myself. They're trying to date them. If they're new, then it's probably some sicko's idea of a joke. If they're original, then it's a whole different ballgame.”

“No kidding,” said Mary. She was about to ask Victor when he expected results back when her work phone buzzed. “That's odd,” she said, reaching for the thing. “Work doesn't usually ring on Sunday morning.”

She cleared her throat. “Mary Crow,” she answered in as professional a voice as she could muster. After a long pause, a soft voice came on the line.

“Mary? This is Grace Collier.”

Mary sat up straighter in bed, looking at the campaign signs she'd brought home from the breakfast. “Grace, how are you? I'm sitting here admiring those incredible signs you designed.”

“I'm okay,” Grace said, then came another pause. “Well, actually I'm not so great.”

“What's up?”

“There's a situation with a family member.” Grace spoke in a hush, as if she were afraid she might be overheard. “It's been going on for a long time … ”

Mary pictured the pretty woman who always wore her shirts long-sleeved and buttoned to the wrist. She'd seen it before, far too many times in Atlanta. Someone was abusing Grace and she didn't want the bruises to show. Maybe that was why she'd been so passionate about Mary's stand on domestic violence.

“The police were here yesterday … ”

Mary was about to ask what exactly had happened when Victor's phone rang. He rolled off the bed and went into the bathroom to answer it, closing the door behind him.

“I really need to talk to a lawyer,” Grace was saying. “Could you possibly come over to my house this afternoon?”

Mary had planned a slow day with Victor, but with both their work phones ringing, that now seemed unlikely. “Sure,” she told Grace. “Where and what time?”

They agreed to meet at two. Mary scribbled the address down on the back of the Turpin report. “Okay,” she replied. “I'll see you then.”

She clicked off about the same time Victor did. He strode back into the bedroom, frowning. “Duty called?” she asked.

“Yep. How about you?”

“The same.”

“Anything you can talk about?”

“I'm guessing domestic abuse,” Mary replied.

“Right up your alley,” said Victor. “You got a meeting today?”

“At two.”

“I'm meeting Cochran at one,” he said. “Here's a totally off-the-record newsflash for you. Those underpants Saunooke found? They were manufactured by the Carter Company from 1985 to 1990.”

“Holy shit, Victor. Hartsville will go nuts all over again.”

“I know,” he said, shoving the
Times
to the floor as he took her in his arms. “But until then, how about you and I go a little nuts right now?”

Grace Collier lived in a small, nondescript ranch house made incredibly descript by its landscaping. Mary could see an artist's eye in the varying greens of the ivy and azaleas and rhododendrons that bloomed close to the house, accented by purple phlox and yellow impatiens, all pulled together with white alyssums. The effect was not studied, but natural, as if the house had just sprouted up in the middle of a bank of flowers. The only thing that spoiled it was a tall privacy fence that surrounded the back yard. Even there, though, beauty had been encouraged. Thick trumpet vines draped the fence, bees buzzing among the lush red flowers.

Aware that she was coming as an attorney more than a friend, Mary shouldered her briefcase as she walked to the door. She lifted a brass doorknocker in the shape of a Cherokee bear mask, and remembered that she and Grace were sisters in skin—both were part Cherokee, living in a world different from the reservation.

She heard heavy footsteps nearing then thudding away from the door. She knocked again and lighter ones came, growing louder. A lock turned, the door opened. Grace stood there in an oversized shirt with paint spatters down the front.

“Mary.” She smiled. “Come on in.”

Mary stepped into a small living room, bare of furniture except for a single sofa and a wingback chair. Grace's paintings hung on the walls, and the room held the scent of oranges. Distantly, Mary heard what sounded like a cartoon show on television.

“I really appreciate this,” said Grace. “I know you probably don't work on Sunday.”

“No problem.” Mary smiled at the memory of her Sunday morning with Victor.

“Would you like some tea?”

“No, thanks.” Mary replied, sitting on the sofa. “I just had lunch. So tell me what's going on.”

Grace sat next to her. For a moment she gazed at her lap, picking red paint from beneath her thumbnail, then she said, “The reason I called you is my son, Zack.”

“I didn't know you had a son,” said Mary.

“He's autistic,” said Grace. “A forty-two-year-old man who's emotionally still a child.”

Mary heard the weariness in Grace's voice. “I'm afraid I'm not very knowledgeable about autism. It's a birth defect, right?”

“Not exactly. It has to do with the brain, but they're not sure how. Mostly it affects boys. People who have it can range from being near geniuses to being barely able to speak.”

“And your son?”

“Zack's relatively high-functioning—he can read, sign his name, remember long series of numbers. He's also talented—he can draw and paint.”

“Just like his mother,” said Mary, wondering when the downside of this story was coming.

“What he can't do is live a normal life. Autistic people can't relate to other people as we do. They live inside themselves, struggling with social skills you and I would find easy.”

“And Zack's world is what?” asked Mary.

Grace sighed. “This house and the back yard is Zack's world.”

“He doesn't go to any kind of school?”

“He has anger-management issues. Not many programs will take someone like that. I've got an application into a new one right now, but if he doesn't get in, he'll have to live here, with me. A caregiver stays during the week, but nights and weekends, it's just the two of us.”

Mary glanced at the long sleeve that had ridden up to Grace's elbow. Bruises dark as tattoos decorated her forearm. “Did he give you those?”

Grace quickly pulled her sleeve down. “Yeah. I saw Emily looking at these yesterday. I bet you all think my husband beats me, don't you?”

“I don't know what Emily thinks,” said Mary. “I've just worked on a lot of abuse cases and connected my usual set of dots.”

“I'm divorced. My husband, Mike, left me when Zack turned sixteen. He just couldn't take having a damaged child anymore.”

Mary asked, “Did his leaving set off your son's outbursts?”

“No, Zack's had anger issues since he was a little boy.” Grace looked down, her chin quivering. “He's always remorseful after one of his meltdowns, but in the moment, he truly can't control himself.” She rose from the sofa and walked over to the front door.

“See this painting?” She pointed to a small landscape of their front yard, sunlight dappling the flowers, the blue mountains hazy on the far horizon.

“It's beautiful,” said Mary. “When did you paint it?”

“I didn't,” Grace replied. “Zack did. Zack also did this.”

She took the painting off the wall, revealing a fist-sized hole in the plaster. “I don't have the money to have them all repaired, so I just started hanging pictures over the worst ones.” She gave a deep sigh. “Sometimes I feel like I've spent my whole life covering up Zack's outbursts.”

Suddenly a high-pitched yell came from the back part of the house.

“Excuse me,” said Grace. “I'll be right back.”

As Grace hurried to her son, Mary remained on the sofa, wondering how many paintings were there on display and how many just hid fist holes in the walls. Soon she heard Grace's footsteps returning.

“Sorry,” Grace apologized. “The VCR chewed up one of his tapes.”

Mary said, “He still watches videotapes?”

“He's obsessed with them—as are many autistic people. He orders them from all over the country. Getting a new video in the mail is like Christmas for Zack.”

Mary didn't know quite what to say, so she asked the obvious. “So how can I help you?”

Grace said, “Have you ever heard of the Teresa Ewing murder case?”

Mary drew a quick breath. First Victor, now Grace. “Of course I have. The little girl under the
Undli Adaya
. Why?”

“My son was the only person they arrested. We lived on Salola Street then. He played with Teresa and the other neighborhood children. Everyone was convinced Zack did it, because he was older and bigger and, well, strange.”

“But they didn't go to trial,” said Mary.

“No. The police scared him into signing a confession. Then Cecil Earp got the thing thrown out.” Grace rubbed her temples, as if she had a headache. “This reason I called you is that a detective came here yesterday. He said they wanted new DNA samples from Zack.”

Mary frowned, confused. If Victor didn't know the date of manufacture of those underpants until this morning, why had the cops asked for DNA yesterday? “Did the detective give you his card?”

Grace gave a bitter laugh. “I don't need Buck Whaley's card. He comes by here every month or so. Zack's the puppy he likes to torture.”

Mary stared at her. “Are you serious?”

Grace nodded, her words pouring out. “Mary, Teresa Ewing's murder was the worst thing that ever happened to us. We got constant phone calls, garbage dumped on our lawn, a rattlesnake in our mailbox. Once I was buying flowers at the hardware store when a man waggled a rope in front of me and said he was buying it to lynch my pervert son. After they threw out Zack's confession, it got ten times worse. I think that's what finally drove my husband away. It was awful for him—awful for all of us.”

“I had no idea,” said Mary.

Grace reached for Mary's arm. “I'm just telling you—we can't go through that again. After Whaley came yesterday, I realized I'd met someone—you—who might understand. Could you help us?”

Mary opened her briefcase, thinking that far worse than Whaley was going to come if they found DNA on those underpants. But now was not the time to go there. She pulled out a legal pad. “Tell me exactly what Whaley said. You may have a case against him for harassment.”