A Thorn Among the Lilies (25 page)

C
HAPTER
55

L
eah went back to Corwin Strait's place, this time carrying a search warrant. Once again, the man answered the door and Leah could smell guilt on him. But he had the demeanor of someone who was
constantly
guilty of
something.
Not necessarily guilty in this case.

While Strait read over the warrant, Leah pushed past him and entered his shotgun-style house. It was a disaster area. It looked like a bomb of pizza and Chinese take-out boxes had gone off in his living room. No sign of anything menacing, mind you. Leah was looking for any clues that he might be hiding a woman somewhere with her mouth taped up and eyes sewn shut.

If the living room looked bad, the kitchen looked worse. The smell hit her first. Rotten food that had long ago turned to mold littered the room. Dirty dishes had overflowed from the sink and were stacked beside it on the counter. A bunch of cockroaches skittered away when they saw Leah coming; she almost threw up when she walked inside the room. Again, though, nothing suspicious. The man's allowed to be a slob, providing he ain't stashing away bodies.

She checked the rest of the house and it was all the same. Lots of garbage scattered everywhere. By the time she was through searching thoroughly, she'd almost grown used to the sight of cockroaches and the smell of old food rotting away. Not a single decoration or even a Christmas tree stood anywhere in the house. There wasn't even an empty cross hanging on any of the walls—at least none that Leah could see.

“You a religious man?” Leah asked him.

“Sure, as much as anyone.”

“Yet you haven't got a single cross on the wall or a picture of Jesus.”

“My religious beliefs don't concern you.”

“I s'pose that's true,” Leah said. “What 'bout Christmas? You have no decorations up. Not even a tree.”

“Once again, Detective, my beliefs don't concern you. Are you just 'bout done?”

“Just 'bout.”

Strait was still reading the warrant when she got back to the main entrance of the shack. She wondered how well he could actually read. “Now I need to check out your garage,” she said.

“This warrant don't say nothin' 'bout my garage.” Strait's voice had a very “hillbilly” sound to it.

“Yes, it does,” she told him, and pointed to the clause that read she had the right to search anywhere on the property. “I plan on searchin' the garage and your pickup.”

“My pickup ain't part of my residence.”

“No, but it's
on
your property.” She decided to check the pickup first, before he got the thought to drive it out to the street.

The back of the pickup was caked with mud and dirt. She took a sample of it and bagged it, labeling what it was. There also seemed to be a dark red substance dried in the truck bed. “What's this red stuff back here?” she asked Strait.

“Blood.”

Leah cocked an eyebrow.

“Don't get all excited. It ain't human blood. It came from hogs. I sometimes use this truck to take hogs into town for Quinton Russell. Occasionally, I don't let them bleed out long enough before loading them into the truck.”

His story sounded plausible, but Leah took scrapings of the blood anyway, bagging them with the tongs from the CSI kit.

“Who's Quinton Russell?”

“Lives down near Oakridge. Has a little pig farm. We go back a while. . . .”

Leah assumed he was saying they met in prison.

Next, she checked the truck's cab. It was also a mess of fast-food wrappers and Chinese take-out boxes. She especially concentrated her investigation on the passenger seat, looking for anything that might be there as evidence. She found a long blond hair on the headrest. Very carefully, she took it and placed it in the evidence bag. It looked like it had the follicle still attached to it. If it did, it would be a tremendous find as far as DNA evidence went. Without the follicle, it was still good evidence, but it couldn't be traced to an individual.

“What's that you're takin'?” Strait asked.

“Just somethin' that I might be able to use as evidence.”

“Evidence for what? I ain't done nothin' wrong.”

Last thing Leah did was investigate Strait's garage. She figured if she was going to find anything of real value, it would be in here. As she walked inside and fumbled for the light switch, she thought Strait was starting to look a little antsy.

The garage was empty. She supposed Strait only owned the one vehicle.

Compared to the house and the truck, the garage was like a paradise. It was actually somewhat clean. At the other end, running from one side of the wall to the other was a long workbench, above which hung a number of tools. He also had drawers with sorted screws and nails and other things. It was like a completely different person lived out here.

There was no oil patch on the concrete floor like there usually was in garages. “You ever bring your truck in here?” Leah asked him.

“Sure, when she needs a tune-up. Mechanical work is my hobby.”

“How good are you at sewing?”

“What?”

“You know,” Leah asked, “with needle and thread?”

“Sewing's women's work. Why the hell would I be sewin' anythin'?”

“Just a question.”

“Are you just about done?” Strait asked.

“I am, but just so you know, I may be back.”

“I'll bake you a cake.”

“Baking another of your hobbies?”

“No, it won't be a good cake.”

C
HAPTER
56

L
eah and Chris pored over the background checks Leah ordered on Mayor Hubert James Robertson and his wife, Susan Lee Robertson nee Susan Lee Williams, which came back with the rest of the fifty-seven background checks she'd asked for. It didn't take Leah very long to see there was something fishy-smelling off the Gulf of Mexico.

“Susan Lee was indeed in an automobile accident back in 1976 involving a drunk driver named Anna Marsh,” Leah said to Chris. “And just like our mayor told me, she was in a coma on life support at Providence Hospital in Mobile for twelve years.”

“That poor guy,” Chris said. “I can't imagine goin' through somethin' like that.”

“Yeah, and from what I've heard, he came and visited her near on every day. But that's not the interestin' part of all this. The mayor told me the truth 'bout when they pulled the plug on her.”

“That would be just horrible,” Chris said. “I don't think I could ever get through it. It would drive me to alcoholism or somethin'.”

“Or somethin',” Leah said. “I think it did drive him to somethin' actually.”

“What do you mean?”

“Guess what date they pulled the plug?”

“How should I know?”

“Just take a wild stab in the dark,” Leah said.

Chris shook his head. “Fourth of July?”

“Close. How about September the fifteenth?”

“Which was?”

“The date the coroner estimated the first victim—the one found outside of Birmingham—was taken off the streets. Or pretty much thereabouts.”

“What? No, let me see that.” She handed him the background check on Susan Lee Robertson and he sat there staring at it in disbelief for a good thirty seconds. “This can't be right.”

“It's right, Chris.”

“The mayor . . .”

“. . . is our serial killer,” Leah finished. “He even
told
me the laws of this state had him irked because the person driving the other car only got five years. The
maximum
in the state of Alabama. I think his words were: ‘If only she'd been drivin' in Georgia. The other driver would've got ten,' or something to that effect.” She looked up. “He may even have used the word ‘bitch,' I can't remember.” She thought for a moment. “Chris, the timing is
perfect.
”

He just stared at her in disbelief for a moment.

“Can you get a picture of the drunk driving woman who killed his wife?”

“Probably, but it would take a while.”

“I bet dollars to donuts she looks like all three of our victims so far. I mean, think 'bout it. They all match. They're all in their late twenties, with long, thick blond hair. They're all heavy drinkers. It
fits.
”

“You want me to go arrest the mayor?” Chris asked.

“Not yet. What's it say 'bout Susan Lee, his wife?” Leah asked.

Chris read from the background check. “Just that she's survived by her husband, Hubert James Robertson, daughter, Ginger Robertson, son, Paul Robertson, her sister, Luanne May Williams, her mother, Gina Williams, and her father, Alistair Joe Williams. Have you talked to anyone at the hospital during the time Susan Lee was in her coma?”

“No, but that's an excellent idea. And while I do that, maybe you could do me a huge favor?”

“What's that?”

“Go to the library and go through their newspapers back around the time of the car accident that put Susan Lee into the coma. I want a picture of Anna Marsh.”

“Okay,” Chris said. “On my way.”

 

Leah called Providence Hospital in Mobile, where Susan Lee had spent her last twelve and a half years on life support. She managed, after much asking and being passed from line to line, to finally be put through to a nurse who was around at that time. Apparently, she remembered Susan Lee and Hubert quite clearly.

“It will be a while before I forget her,” the nurse told Leah. “If I
ever
do.”

“Why's that?”

“Because her husband came and sat beside that bed for hours a day
every
day. Or at least
most
days. She didn't even know he was here, yet for twelve years he kept coming, day in and day out. That's some kind of commitment if you ask me.”

“What sort of mood was her husband in? Was he angry about what happened?”

There was a hesitation; then the nurse said, “No, if anything, the opposite. His manner was so calm and tender. He was full of love for his wife. He just wanted to see her come back. I think that's what he was waiting for.”

“What about when they finally took her off life support?”

The nurse sighed. “Oh, that was a hard day. Many of the nurses cried. He cried, but not a lot. I think he realized it was best to let her move on. You know, he'd made so many friends among the staff—especially the nurses—that many came to her funeral. He's a very special man. How's he doing?”

“He's mayor of Alvin.”

“Alvin. Is that in Alabama?”

Leah rolled her eyes. “Yes, we're a small town close to Satsuma. Got some good people.”
And one that likes killin'
'
em
. “He seems to do a pretty good job of runnin' things.”

“Sounds like him. He had a lot of charisma. I'm sure he had no problem getting voted in.”

“Well, it seems like you've given me all the information I need,” Leah said. “Unless there's anything else you can think of that might be of use to me. Any strange details?”

“I don't know what you're using the information for, so I don't know what sort of details you need.”

“I'm working a case regarding a serial killer.”

“And you think Mr. Robertson's involved?” the nurse asked. “That's impossible.”

“No, no,” Leah said. “I think he could be a target. This is why I want to solve the case as soon as possible.”

“Hmmm,” the nurse said.

“That sounds like you thought of something,” Leah said.

“No, it's nothing really.”

“Please? Anything might help.”

“Just . . . his wife had a sister.”

“And?”

“Well . . . you know.”

“Pretend I don't.”

“She was just a bit . . . quirky. Sort of rubbed me a little strange. I shouldn't even be saying anything. It was my issue, not hers.”

“Okay.”

“Well, thank you for bringing back those old memories. They are happy in a sad sort of way. And if you see Mr. Robertson, tell him Nurse Sandra says ‘hi!'”

“I'll make sure that I do,” Leah said. “Thank you for all your help.”

She hung up the phone, now more interested in the mayor's sister-in-law.

 

Later that afternoon, Chris returned with a photocopy of Anna Marsh's picture. Frustratingly, it was in black and white, but that was clear enough to see what Leah needed to see. She could tell the woman was in her late twenties, had light-colored (probably blond) hair that hung thickly to her shoulders.

Surprisingly, the shot wasn't from seven years ago, but from near on three months ago, when Anna's sentence got changed from simply a drinking and driving charge to vehicular manslaughter.

“I originally looked for her picture in the paper at the time of the accident, but they only ran a picture of Susan Lee's body lying in the street.”

“Figures,” said Leah.

“But Anna Marsh's resentencing was enough to get her own photo.”

Leah held the picture away from her to give it her full attention. “What do you think?” she asked Chris. “Think she looks like our victims?”

“I'd say she's an awfully good match.”

C
HAPTER
57

L
eah brought the videotape to the station and knocked on Chief Montgomery's door. He waved her in.

“I got something here I want you to watch. Tell me if it's just me, or is there something quirky 'bout it?”

“What is it?”

“Videotape. That VCR hanging below your TV still work?”

“Dunno, haven't used it for at least a year.”

“Well, let's give it a shot.”

Leah could barely reach up to slide the tape into the machine. A sparrow was sitting on the branch of the fig tree outside. It squawked, almost mocking her. Finally, the tape slid into the machine and Leah pressed PLAY. Nothing appeared on the screen except the sports channel that was already playing. “You have to turn the TV to channel three, I reckon,” she said to Ethan.

Ethan did. It worked and the video started. She knew it by heart now. First the shot of the body, lying in the darkened mine shaft with the EMT and police investigators working all around it. Then we come up to Detective Truitt—who she'd been meaning to call—standing off to the side, talking to some of the officers, probably one of which was the first officer on the scene. Then everything gets brighter as the camera pans out of the mine and across the crowd and here is where the feeling comes, only this time she thinks she knows why. Her hand quickly goes up and presses the PAUSE button when the image shows nearly the whole crowd of onlookers.

“Looked fine to me,” Ethan said. “Nothing abnormal.”

“No, it
would
look fine to you. I think I just figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“This woman”—she pointed to a woman in a hoodie with the hood up over her head concealing the spiked orange hair underneath—”I believe she's the same girl who called in our crime scene for Mercy Jo Carpenter. That would put her at both scenes.” She looked back at Ethan.

“Way too much of a coincidence.”

“Right. I think that makes her a suspect. Probably top of my list.”

“Who is she?”

“Luanne Cooper,” Leah said. “She lives in Alvin.”

“What would be her motive?”

“Not a clue.” Killers without known motives were the scariest kind.

“How long has Scarlett Graham been gone?”

“Six days, today,” Leah said.

“Then we need to act fast,” the chief said.

Leah left Ethan's office and grabbed the phone at her desk and called the number she had for Luanne Cooper. There was no answer. “Damn it!” She pounded the phone back on the cradle, startling Chris more than anything else.

“What's goin' on?” Chris asked.

“I think I know who's got our girl, but I think we might be too late.”

“Who?”

“There's no time to explain right now.”

Then Leah Teal thought of something else.

 

She went and checked the background they ran on the mayor again. Sure enough, Leah's instincts were right. She
had
seen Luanne Cooper before, in a photograph on the mayor's wall. She was the sister of his dead wife. Only, she had dark, shoulder-length hair and blue eyes instead of spiky red hair and green eyes (the miracles contact lenses could do these days).

Leah opened the door to the main room, and asked Chris, “What did it say on the background report for the mayor's wife? Who were the surviving members of her family again?”

He shuffled through the pages until he found the right one. “She's survived by her husband, Hubert James Robertson, daughter, Ginger Robertson, son, Paul Robertson, her sister, Luanne May Williams, her mother, Gina Williams, and her father, Alistair Joe Williams.”

“Luanne gave me a pseudonym for a surname. We need a search warrant for her house and we need it pronto,” she said.

“I'll make the call,” Police Chief Montgomery said, picking up the receiver from the phone on his desk.

Meanwhile, Leah called Detective Truitt up in Birmingham. “Truitt,” he said, answering.

“Dan, it's Leah. I think we got her.”

“Her? Her who?”

“Our serial killer.”

“It's a her? Didn't see that comin'. I had this one profiled to a guy.”

“It's the mayor's sister-in-law. They pulled his wife off life support around three months or so ago and pronounced her dead. Because the case took place in Alabama, the drunk driver responsible for her death only got five years in prison, which happens to be the maximum.”

“Seriously? Wow. I can see why she might be a little pissed.”

“All the women she's targeted? They're all lookalikes to the drunk driver, Anna Marsh. They're also all basically hookers or loners, so they're people who won't be noticed missing right away, giving her an element of time. She's basically getting revenge in her own way. And, at the same time, taunting us with the messages.”

“I'm coming down.”

“We're getting a warrant to search her house right now. This'll all be over before you make it.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. You've never driven with me.”

Leah sighed.

“Yet,” Detective Truitt added.