Justice for Sara (4 page)

Tuesday, June 4
8:10
A.M.

Luke sat at his father’s desk—he still thought of it that way—surrounded by files, case notes and crime-scene photos. On the computer monitor were the results of his search:
The People of Louisiana vs. Katherine Ann McCall.

Though he hadn’t slept, he felt wide awake and energized. He’d left Kat McCall’s place and come directly here. He’d been off at LSU when the murder occurred. The trial had come a little over a year later; he’d still been at school, partying his way toward flunking out.

The trial hadn’t even been a blip on his radar. And after spending time with Kat, after seeing the anger that had been—and still was—being directed at her, he’d wanted the particulars.

Truth was, he didn’t get it. She didn’t seem like a cold-blooded killer to him—his father’s words—or a lying, sneaky snake, another description he’d overheard.

He liked Kat. She seemed remarkably calm, considering. And she still had a sense of humor. In fact, he hadn’t picked up on any of those unfortunate characteristics acquired by people who’d been through great trauma. No, Kat McCall seemed to have both feet planted firmly on the ground.

Though, as he was sure his father would point out, he didn’t know her very well. They’d spent, all combined, maybe an hour in each other’s company.

He’d like to spend more time with her. He rubbed his stubbly jaw. He could just imagine, that would probably send his old man straight into orbit. Or directly into the ground.

One corner of his mouth lifted in wry amusement and he shook his head. Just a few years ago that would have been reason enough to get involved with her. It’d been reason enough for most of the ridiculous things he’d done.

Luke shifted his gaze to one of the framed photos that graced the big, old desk. His brother, Stevie. Holding up the prizewinning bass he’d caught on his tenth birthday.

The same summer he drowned.

The summer that everything changed between him and his dad.

With a familiar pinch in his chest, Luke dragged his attention back to the information spread before him. Forced himself to focus. He’d wanted the particulars to understand the level of fury directed toward Kat McCall. His father’s. Those people who had written with such hate. The folks of Liberty who refused to forget or accept. This “fan” who had followed her for ten years.

Had the jury botched the verdict that badly? Or had the prosecution blown it?

Luke looked down at the crime-scene photos, fanned out on the desk in front of him. Awful. Gruesome. Whoever had killed Sara McCall had beaten her to a pulp, even bashing in her face. The pathologist had confirmed that the perpetrator had continued to beat her after she was dead.

That was pure rage. Personal. Directed against Sara McCall.

She had known her attacker. A stranger didn’t do that.

Strike one against the angry little sister.

Kat had found the body. That’d been another strike. She’d called 911 but hadn’t sounded upset. In fact, she’d sounded calm, some had thought happy. Her story about sleeping through the murder had seemed farfetched; later she changed it, then changed it again. More strikes.

The prosecution had laid out a parade of witnesses who testified Kat and her sister had fought constantly, that Katherine McCall had publicly wished her sister dead and had told friends she wanted her inheritance, that it wasn’t fair that her sister wouldn’t give it her.

The bat had belonged to Kat. Four days before the murder, Sara had discovered her sister had been lying to her about going to softball practice. She had confronted Kat and grounded her, which had led to a shouting match on Sara’s front porch.

Four days later, Sara was dead. Beaten to death with the softball bat.

But that was all they’d had. No bloody fingerprints. No bloody tracks leading from the home. No blood-spattered clothes. No DNA evidence on the bat. And Luminol tests on all but the kitchen sink had been negative. If Kat had been covered in blood, she hadn’t showered it off at the scene.

Luke sat back. Circumstantial. All of it. Weak. In his opinion, if the jury had found her guilty, it would have been a huge miscarriage of justice.

Yet everyone in this town, including his dad, thought she’d gotten away with murder. They’d been so convinced, they never pursued other suspects. Why?

He frowned, remembering something she’d said. She’d used the bathroom window to sneak out to meet her boyfriend. But no boyfriend was mentioned anywhere in the case notes.

“You look like hell.”

He glanced up. His father stood in the doorway, using a cane for support. “Like father, like son.”

He snorted and made his way into the office. He lowered himself into a chair, bushy eyebrows drawn into a scowl. He gestured the cluttered desktop. “What’re you up to?”

“Familiarizing myself with the McCall case.”

“I heard you were over there last night.”

“Did you?” Luke folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “How, Pops?”

He bristled. “You think I’m so old and sick I don’t have eyes and ears anymore? That I don’t have friends anymore?”

Why wouldn’t he give him a straight answer?

The anonymous call.
There’s trouble over at the McCall place
.

“I’m worried about you, boy.”

“Me,” Luke said, surprised. “Why?”

“You’re my son. The only one I have left.”

Several emotions hit Luke at once, anger the strongest of them. He struggled to keep it leashed. “Really, Pops? You’re going to pull out the ‘only son I have left’ card? Already?”

“You could at least listen to what I have to say.”

“Fine. I’m listening.”

“Don’t get sucked into her stories. She’s a liar.” His motioned the paperwork strewn across the desk. “Read the transcripts.”

“I have.”

“Then you saw how many times she changed her story.”

“Katherine McCall was seventeen years old,” Luke said, indicating the information spread out on the desk between them. “And, I imagine, pretty damn traumatized.”

His dad made a sound of disgust. “I should have known you’d take the opposite stance from mine. You always do.”

Luke narrowed his eyes. “Nobody can have a different opinion, right, Dad?”

“I don’t have to take this crap.” He got up, his gruff words belied by the way he struggled to gain his footing. “If I wanted someone chewing on my ear, I’d have stayed home with your mother.”

“This isn’t about you.”

“To hell with this.” He started for the door.

“Why didn’t you interview her boyfriend?” Luke called.

His old man stopped. Turned. “She didn’t have one.”

“That’s not what she told me. She used to sneak out of the house to meet him.”

“Or so she told you. She changed her version of what happened the night of the murder four times!”

“The notes here say three times.” He paused. “I’m reopening the case.”

The words flew out of his mouth, surprising him. Until that very moment, he hadn’t realized that’s what he intended to do. “In fact, I’m reopening both of them.”

With his free hand, his dad grabbed the doorjamb for support. “How could you do this to me?”

“Do to
you,
Dad? You should be pleased. McCall was Liberty’s only unsolved murder. And Wally Clark was one of your men.”

“I know who Wally was and what a black mark McCall was against me. I don’t need the criticism. Especially from you.”

Luke shook his head. “Not criticism. A fresh perspective. It’s been known to work on many a cold case.”

“I solved the McCall case but the jury bungled the verdict. As for Wally, that wasn’t ours. Look to the sheriff’s department.”

“Have you ever considered the two crimes might be related?”

“You don’t think I looked into that?”

“Did you?”

“Son of a bitch, boy! What kind of lawman do you take me for?”

“A good one. But even the good ones miss things.”

“What could I have missed? The two murders had nothing in common. Wally was shot on the road, McCall was beaten to death with a bat.”

“Nothing but the fact they happened on the same night, less than five miles apart. Besides, like I said a moment ago, this isn’t about you, Pops.”

“The hell it isn’t. The only reason you’re so interested is because it’s my failure.”

“Not true, Pops. Maybe once upon a time it would have been, but no more.”

“You’re my own flesh and blood. Why can’t you leave this alone?”

“Because two people died. They deserve justice.”

His father seemed to crumble, all bravado sucked out of him. Luke moved to help him, but he angrily waved him off.

Luke watched as his father limped slowly out. Why did his old man feel so strongly about the case being reopened. Was it his pride? Or was he hiding something?

Chief Stephen Tanner
2003

The morning after the murder

A swimming pool, bright blue water like glass. The sun reflecting off it, almost blinding. No adults. Just two boys.

His boys.

Laughing. Daring each other to swim to the bottom. Touch the drain. Whoever stayed under longer won.

Typical Stevie, oldest and boldest, jumped in first.

Stephen Tanner sat straight up in bed. “Stevie!” he screamed. “No!”

The warning reverberated off the bedroom walls. Heart thundering, disoriented, Tanner looked frantically around. Dark. His bed. Alone. Margaret, where— At her mother’s, he remembered. For the week.

He brought his hands to his throbbing head. His mouth was dry, his stomach rolled. Its contents lurched to his throat, and he climbed off the bed. His right foot caught a bottle, sending it spinning.

An empty bottle.

Captain Morgan spiced rum.

His stomach protested again and he stumbled to the bathroom. He reached the commode just in time, bent over it and retched. Stomach empty, he dragged himself up, crossed to the sink. He rinsed out his mouth, then splashed his face.

His haggard reflection gazed back at him. Unshaven, pale. Bloodshot eyes.

The reflection of a man who couldn’t stay sober. A man who hadn’t been able to protect his family.

He curled his shaking hands into fists. Chief Stephen Tanner. The great pretender.

Tanner turned away from his reflection. No. It wasn’t true. He had everything under control. Liberty and her citizens were safe under his watchful eye.

Tanner returned to the bedroom; the empty bottle mocked him. He scooped it up. One fall from grace. It’d been months. That wasn’t so bad.

A man in his position had to let off some steam every once in a while.

But Margaret couldn’t know. She had warned him what would happen if he started up again. That she would leave him. Then everyone would know. They would see what he really was.

Margaret didn’t understand the pressure he was under. So many people depended on him to be strong. Her. The citizens of Liberty. His son.

His only son
.

He would bury the evidence deep in the trash.

The phone rang. He frowned, glanced at the bedside clock. Barely five. Not the time of day for a social call.

He cleared his throat, snatched it up. “Tanner,” he said.

“Chief, it’s Trixie.”

The night clerk. She manned the phone and the station from 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. She never called.

Her voice was thin, shaking.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Wally, he…” She started to cry. “A sheriff’s deputy called … he said … he said—”

He tamped down the panic that wanted to rise up in him. “Pull yourself together, Trix! Tell me what’s happened.”

“He’s dead.”

Tanner frowned. She couldn’t have said, she didn’t mean— “Who’s dead?”

“Wally!” she wailed. “Somebody shot him!”

For a split second he was certain he had misheard her. Or that it was a sick joke. She couldn’t have said—

But she had.

“Quickly, Trix, tell me what happened.”

“He called in. At two forty-six. About a car with no plates at the side of Highway 22. He was going to investigate.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s what he said. Didn’t he call you?”

“Why would he?”

She whimpered. “He said he did.”

Tanner worked to pull together his scrambled thoughts. “The phone didn’t ring,” he snapped.

“I could be mistaken, I’m not … That’s what I thought he said.”

“Judas Priest, Trixie! Pull yourself together!”

She started to cry again. He cut her off. “Where did they find him?”

“On 22. A hundred feet from the Liberty line.”

“Their jurisdiction? Or ours?”

“Their’s. They made that clear.”

“Nothing else?”

“Miz Bell called. Said she thought something was going on over at the McCall place.”

“She always thinks something’s going on over there.”

“She said she saw Miss Katherine sneaking out of the house last night.”

“And last week she reported a peeping Tom that turned out to be a raccoon.”

“She was insistent. Said she would have called it in sooner, but that she wasn’t feeling so well—”

“Dammit, Trix, focus! Wally’s dead, nothing else matters.”

She went stone silent. He’d never raised his voice to her and he knew he’d hurt her feelings. But he couldn’t worry about a rebellious teenager or her nosy neighbor right now. “What else did the sheriff’s deputies say?”

“That he’d been … he’d been shot. That’s all.”

“I’m heading to the scene. Keep this under wraps until we know for sure what happened.”