Gone to Ground (24 page)

Mm-hmm.

I opened my laptop and pressed the button to turn it on. The chief spoke in low tones to his son. John Cotter left the office and went to his own desk.

Adam Cotter hurried down the short hall toward the interrogation room. I followed, balancing my open computer in both hands like one a the wise men bearin his gift.

In the room with the doh closed we settled at the table, Chief Cotter to my left at the end. His chair squeaked as he sat down. "Okay, Cherrie Mae. What you got?"

The recordin machine sat before us on the table. I surveyed it. "Aint you gon turn that on?" They'd had it runnin for my interview last week. All important interviews was taped.

The chief pushed up his bottom lip, frustration crossin his face. "Sure." He leaned over and hit the button with his fat finger. Settled back in his chair. "There."

"Ain't you gon say who's present?"

He looked at the ceilin. "Monday, April 25th. Present: Chief Adam Cotter and Cherrie Mae Devine." He held out his palm—
go ahead.

This wasn't goin right. The chief was bein way too dismissive. And I hadn't even tol him who the new suspect was yet.

Maybe
dismissive
wasn't the right word. Chief Cotter acted just plain distracted. He had no time for this. I knew where his mind ran. He was stagin scenarios a Mike and Stevie killin Erika. And how they could have killed the other five women too.

My computer finished bootin up. I moved the mouse to bring up the pictures.

"So
what
is it?" He drummed his fingers against the table.

"I'm gettin to it." My hand almost shook.

Up came the first photo—Erika's ring in Mayor B's green hangin file. Suddenly it looked so small and insignificant on my monitor. Why hadn't I printed the pictures out somewhere? I just knew the
po
lice were gon take my computer and destroy everything on it. Some little "slip-up."

I enlarged the picture to fill the screen.

"Cherrie Mae, you're takin my time, and I really am busy right now."

Indignation stalked round my chest. This man was here to serve the town. We weren't here to serve him. I huffed upright in my chair, arms folded. "You want my information—or should I just take it to the newspapers? I got Trent Williams' cell phone number."

A dark look crossed Chief Cotter's face, followed by one a forced patience. "Now, Cherrie Mae, no need to go callin Trent. I'm listenin."

"Good. Get me a Bible and some cigarettes—and I'll talk."

The chief gawked at me, then chuckled. "Since when did you start smokin?"

"The cigarettes is for you. You gon need em."

He drew his head back, then recovered. "I'll be fine."

"I still need the Bible."

"We don't have a Bible in the station, Cherrie Mae. Now if you got somethin to tell me, get on with it."

"Fine then. Pretend you do. And I'm layin my hand on it." I stretched my hand above the table, palm down. "I swear on the Bible everthing I'm tellin you is true. And you know Cherrie Mae don't take the Bible lightly."

He dipped his chin. "Duly noted."

"Okay." I shifted in the chair. "Member last week you wondered bout Erika's ring? It was missin? Well, I found it."

"Really."

"Yup. And you ain't gon believe where. I didn't want to believe it first myself. But evidence is evidence." I turned my computer around and pointed to the picture. "That's it. Got Erika's grandmama's initials in the band, so I'm sure it's the same one."

The chief leaned forward, frownin. I pushed the computer close to him. He stared at it, then looked at me. "Where'd you get this picture?"

"Took it myself. That's the top drawer a the desk in Mayor B's home office."

The chief's beady eyes rounded.
"Austin Bradmeyer?"

"Yup. I got more to show ya." I clunked my chair closer to the chief so we could both look at the computer together, then worked my mouse to bring up the other pictures. "Here's a close-up a the ring. Here it is on the desk, taken some distance away. See—that's Mayor B's office."

Chief Cotter examined each picture, tongue-tied.

"He also got a file in that drawer a the murder victims, you know that? A close-up shot a ever one a the six women, includin Erika."

The chief's eyes snapped up to me. "You got proof of that?"

I showed him the photos a the six gory pictures spread out on the mayor's desk.

When I had nothin more to show, the chief blinked at the computer for a long time, then leaned back in his chair. He studied the far wall. "Who knows about this?"

I hesitated. "A couple other people. They got copies a the pictures."

"Who?"

"Don't matter who. What matters is what you gon do bout it."

The chief studied me. "Tell me, Cherrie Mae. How come you to open a drawer in Mayor B's desk?"

"Why's it matter? Point is I did—and that's what I found."

"Someone give you some kind a tip? A reason to go lookin?"

"Nope." I wasn't gon get into this. The chief had enough to do without investigatin my snoopin. But he sure was lookin at me funny. I come in here with evidence against Mayor B, and suddenly
I
was feelin like a suspect.

He breathed in. "When'd you take these pictures?"

"Late this mornin."

"Today?"

"Yup."

He poked out his cheek with his tongue. "Well, now, that's interesting." He got up and went to the doh. Opened it and stuck his head out. "John."

"Yeah."

"You need to come in here. Bring that piece of evidence from the Phillips'. And a glove."

The chief waited in the threshold until his son stuck a small paper bag and latex glove in his hand. He brought em back to the table and sat down. John Cotter followed, closin the doh and sittin on the other side a me. I glimpsed some writin on the bag, but the chief turned that part away from me.

"Reason it's so interesting"—he pulled on the glove and unrolled the top a the evidence bag—"is within the last two hours, durin a search of Michael Phillips's house, we found this."

He reached into the bag with his gloved hand and pulled out Erika Hollinger's ring.

http://www.pulitzer.org/works/2010-Feature-Writing

2010 Pulitzer Prize

Feature Writing

The Jackson Bugle

Gone to Ground

What happens to a small, quiet Southern town when evil invades in the form of a serial killer?

By: Trent Williams

October 29, 2010

(Excerpt)

"Why?" the residents of Amaryllis ask themselves daily. "Why here, in our quiet little town? Why these particular victims, who had no enemies?" The questions reverberate through the Main Street businesses, the churches and homes. They are whispered at the dinner table, in bed, and on front porches. The drive to understand, to make sense of the nonsensical, runs crucial to the human psyche. After each murder the questions have swirled harder.

Twin sister to
why,
is
who
. The citizens of Amaryllis long to believe the Closet Killer is from another town. Maybe someone slipping over from Bay Springs or Heidelberg. Someone even from the next county—perhaps from the large "city" of Laurel, population 18,000. In the midst of the upheaval and fear, distrusting one's own neighbor is too traumatizing. Friends and families need to pull together for comfort and strength, not point fingers. But with each new murder in the town's boundaries—and with no other similar crimes anywhere else in the entire state—the "someone else" theory has begun to deflate.

"Maybe the killings are done now," Theodore Stets says from behind the counter at the drug store on Main. "Five women—maybe he's had enough. He'll just stop." His tone turns from wistful to grim. "'Course then, we might never know who it was."

Could he live with never knowing, if the murders stopped?

Theodore wipes imaginary dust from the counter. The furrows in his forehead deepen, as if he questions the wisdom of speaking his mind. "Thing is, as odd as it sounds, now we still have hope. Oh, in a way everybody suspects everybody, but not really. I don't
truly
think the killer is my good friend from grade school, my brother or neighbor, the guy I sit next to in church every Sunday. But the whole town can't be right about that. The culprit
is
going to be somebody's brother or father, neighbor or friend. And what's a person to do with a shock like that? Finding out the truth about someone you believed in all your life? You think Amaryllis folk have trouble trusting now. Imagine what it'd be like having your whole world turned inside out."

Tully and I moved to her livin room, where she
could put her feet up. I pulled down the shades. Tully took the couch while I perched in the worn armchair. First I added the new information to our notes. After that I had to get up, move around. We went over everything we'd written down—and didn't come up with a single new insight. Tully was too worried about her husband bein in jail, and what the rest of her life would look like. And I couldn't stop thinkin about Stevie.

And
what
was takin Cherrie Mae so long?

Meanwhile Tully's phone wouldn't stop ringin. No doubt people all over town were hearin about Mike's arrest and wanted details. Tully checked the ID and most of the time let it ring. Then Trent called. Tully gasped. "I don't want to talk to
him
!"

"Don't answer. Besides we agreed we wouldn't tell him anything unless Cherrie Mae's meetin with the police goes belly-up."

Tully bit her lip until the ringin stopped. "There'll be other reporters. I'll have to hide." Despair crossed her face.

Then her mother called. Tully picked up. Judy Starke's voice shouted over the phone loud enough for me to hear.

"
What
are you doing there? I called and called the house—"

"I had a friend bring me over. I needed my car and some clothes. I'll be back tonight."

"
Tonight
? You need to get back over there
now
. What if Mike comes back?"

Tully's eyes closed. "Mom, he's not coming home."

"You never know—"

"He's
not
coming. He's arrested. In jail. Because of what
I
told the police."

"Tully, this is not your fault. He's in jail because of what
he
did."

"I don't want to talk about this right now. I'll see you later." Tully hung up the phone. She stared at the floor.

Poor thing looked so young. She
was
young. What it must be like to be Tully Starke Phillips, caught between a controlling mother and an abusive husband. Who just might be a killer.

"You are goin back there tonight, right?" I faced her from across the room. "You can't sleep here alone."

She nodded.

Another ring—this time from my cell phone. I picked it off an end table and checked the ID. "It's Trent." I pushed the
talk
button. "Hi."

"I just heard Michael Phillips has been arrested for Erika's murder."

"News travels fast."

"What do you know?"

I gazed at Tully. "Not much. Probably just the same talk you have."

He blew out air. "I called the police station to confirm, and Ted Arnoldson actually talked to me. He said they searched the Phillips' house and he found something akin to 'a smoking gun.' But he wouldn't tell me what."

My eyes widened. Tully looked at me in alarm—
what?

"I have no idea what they found."

"Man. Wish I wasn't in Jackson."

"You could always come back."

"Can't. I got stuff here. Do you know Tully Phillips very well?"

Tully's eyes still locked with mine.

"I cut her hair, that's about it. Why?"

"Just wondering if you could persuade her to talk to me. I called her house but she doesn't answer. Called her parents' house too, just in case she's there."

"Maybe she doesn't want to talk to a reporter."

"But it's
me
."

"Trent, you're not callin as a friend. You barely know her. You're callin as the crime writer for
The Jackson Bugle
. Her husband's just been arrested—she's got to be upset."

He sighed. "Yeah, well. I'll keep trying. Phone me if you hear anything, and I'll run it down."

"All right." I hung up.

"What?" Tully sat up straight. "What'd he say?"

"You know anything about the police findin a 'smokin gun' when they were here?"

Her face whitened. "I didn't think they found much of anything. But then I didn't talk to any . . ." She bit her lip. "What could it be?"

"The picture, maybe. Of Mike and Erika."

"But they already had it on the camera. That's not news."

"It is if the hard copy's in
your
house. Last you saw it, Erika had it—just a day before she was killed."

Tully's breaths got fluttery. A sick look twisted her expression. "Oh . . . I'm . . . going to—"

She shoved off the couch and lumbered fast as she could toward the bathroom. A toilet lid slammed open. I couldn't listen to the sound of her throwin up—or I'd be right behind her. The world was already tilted. I wanted to get
off
.