Justice for Sara (9 page)

Wednesday, June 5
1:00
P.M.

Danny Sullivan. Sara’s jock boyfriend. Big man in a little town. Had played ball for LSU and never let anyone forget it—even though he’d gotten minimal playing time and never started.

She hadn’t liked him. And she hadn’t kept it a secret from Sara. Of course, back then if it hadn’t been about her, for her or worked to her advantage, she’d had no use for it.

Had her dislike of him been about anything more than that?

Kat thought back. If Sara had talked to her about her romance, she hadn’t been listening. She had overheard a few arguments between them, a particularly explosive one just two days before Sara’s murder. The last time she had seen Ryan.

She rubbed her temple, working to remember the details. She’d been grounded. No phone, computer or TV. Sulking in her room. Pissed at Sara. Growing desperate. What would Ryan think when she didn’t show up for their “date.” Would he be angry? Would he dump her for a girl closer to his own age, one who didn’t have an overprotective sister?

Then Danny was there. He always tooted his horn when he arrived. She’d listened at her door. At first, all she’d caught was the murmur of their voices, then an occasional laugh.

Quickly, the mood had changed. Raised voices. Her sister crying. Saying something about not being able to trust him. Him begging, apologizing.

Sara kicking him out; the squeal of his tires as he drove away. Her sister’s bedroom door slamming shut. Then … silence.

She’d felt bad for her sister. Figured Danny had cheated on her, and thought about checking on her. The thought had been chased away by a realization: this was her opportunity to sneak out. Find Ryan. Explain why she hadn’t answered his calls or texts, why she’d stood him up.

Her opportunity to be with him.

Kat frowned. What had they been been fighting about? Twenty-four hours later her sister had been dead.

It could be nothing. It could be
the
thing.

Who else would know?

He was probably a pretty decent guy. Had treated Sara well. Had seemed to love her.

He’d testified at her trial. Sara had been worried about her sister. She had cried to him over the things Kat had said and done. She had been looking into boarding schools.

That had been a shocker. Kat hadn’t had any idea.

Danny had broken down crying. He’d gotten a ring for her. He had planned to propose.

Or so he had testified.

The prosecution had held the ring up for the jury’s inspection, entered the sales receipt into evidence.

Had he asked and she turned him down? Is that what their fight had been about? Or had they fought, perhaps over an infidelity, then he’d gotten the ring?

She meant to find out.

Tammany West High School serviced the western edge of the parish, not only Liberty and surrounding communities, but taking in all the unincorporated areas as well.

Home of the Gators. Kat parked in a visitor’s spot, stepped out of her vehicle and gazed up at the school. It brought back so many memories. A blur of them.

A blur. Because her life had been spinning out of control. She had been spinning out of control. Way before her sister had been murdered.

She made her way inside, to the principal’s office. Mr. Bishop was talking to the receptionist. Mrs. Lange. Another thing that hadn’t changed.

They both recognized her. Mr. Bishop greeted her warily. “How can I help you, Katherine?”

Not much of a welcome back, but then she hadn’t expected much. “I’m looking for Danny Sullivan.”

He frowned. Mrs. Lange looked like a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t allow you to wander the school halls.”

As if she’d want to.
“I’d like to speak with Danny, if he’s available.”

“He’s not,” Mrs. Lange chirped. “He’s in class.”

Summer school for P.E. Amazing. Unless the requirements had changed since her days here, to pass one had only to show up and dress out.

“When do classes end?”

The two exchanged glances. Fred Bishop cleared his throat. “He doesn’t deserve more heartache, Katherine.”

Condemnation in both their gazes. If they only knew she considered Danny a suspect. “And I don’t want to cause him any. Could I leave him a note?”

Bishop hesitated, then nodded. “Fine.”

She scribbled a note, folded it and handed it over. “You’ll make certain he gets it?”

This time he didn’t hesitate. “I’ll personally see to it.”

“Thank you.”

She started off; Bishop called after her. “He never married, you know. Nobody measured up to Sara.”

Kat didn’t stop or look back. Didn’t comment. What could she have said? She agreed.

*

June in south Louisiana could be brutal, scorching hot and suffocatingly humid. Today lived up to its reputation. After grabbing her thermos of water, she found a shady spot at one of the picnic tables to sit and wait.

She had a clear view of the faculty parking lot and had gotten a bead on which vehicle she figured was his. A Ford truck. Blue and in need of a wash. With a gun rack and a trailer hitch. Danny had liked to hunt. Men in the South did that. Duck. Deer. Whatever moved.

And from this truck’s hitch hung a pair of balls—Truck Nutz, they were called. Did they have those anywhere besides the South? she wondered. She had never seen them in the Northwest, that was for sure.

Kat soon discovered she’d been wrong about which vehicle was his. He drove a Fusion Hybrid, just like hers. Even the same color—dark gray.

He walked toward her, sun glinting off his Ray-Bans. He had the swagger of a jock, the loose-limbed walk of someone utterly confident in his physical capabilities.

How old was he now? she wondered. He’d been a few years older than Sara. Three, maybe. Or four. Fortyish, then. Give or take.

“He never married.… Nobody measured up to Sara.”

He stopped in front of her. She wished she could see his eyes. “I got your note. What do you want?”

“To talk. About Sara.”

Tightly coiled fury emanated from him. “That was a long time ago.”

“I haven’t forgotten. How about you?”

He shook his head. “Not here. Can I meet you somewhere?”

“How about the house?”

He hesitated, then agreed. “When?”

“An hour.”

“See you then.”

Chief Stephen Tanner
2003

The morning after the murder

Tanner found the murder weapon in the kitchen, on the floor in front of the sink. A wooden baseball bat. The murderer had wiped the grip.

He stood and stared at it, stomach roiling. This time, he wasn’t afraid of embarrassing himself—he’d emptied his stomach the first go-around.

He fitted on latex gloves and squatted to study the grip. The perp hadn’t done a very good job of cleaning it, mostly just smeared the gore around. Still, effective, he thought, noting the absence of visible prints.

The prints might have been obliterated, but every contact left something behind. Locard’s exchange principle. What had this perp left behind?

Tanner moved his gaze over the floor around the bat. Bloody footprints that led from the foyer to the kitchen, then stopped here, in front of the sink. As if the perp had simply disappeared.

But she hadn’t, of course. More likely she had removed her shoes, then carefully made her way from the crime scene.

She?
He stopped on the thought. When had he decided the killer was a woman?

The answer popped into his head.
When Katherine McCall giggled
.

Tanner shook his head. No. He needed to keep an open mind. Doing anything else would prejudice the investigation. He shifted his gaze once more to the footprints. Large for a woman’s foot. But small for a man’s. He frowned and made a mental note to check the size of the shoes in Katherine’s closet.

The perp had carried the bat to the kitchen, most likely with the intent of wiping the grip. The bloody trail supported that theory. She—or he—reached the kitchen, cleaned the weapon … then what?

The scenario unfolded in his head. With his mind’s eye, he saw Kat McCall standing over her sister. The blood splatter would have been tremendous. It would have been all over her, on her clothes, her face, in her hair.

So she heads to the kitchen with the bat. First she wipes the grip, then sets it aside.

What does she use? A dish towel? Paper towels? Where are they?

Tanner swept his gaze over the floor, counters, sink. Gone. She disposed of them. How? Where?

The trash receptacle. He crossed to it. Popped it open. It’d been emptied. A clean white liner stared back at him.

He turned back to the sink, aware of his heart pounding heavily against his chest wall. Smear of blood on the edge of the counter. Another on the cabinet door below the sink. It stood ajar.

A moment later, he inched the door the rest of the way open. The cabinet was crowded. A jumble of bottles and cans of cleaning supplies, grocery bags. A brand-new, unopened box of trash can liners. Beside the box, a tall can of furniture polish had fallen backward, sending several other cans tumbling.

He stared at the hodgepodge of supplies. At this point the killer’s realized she’s covered in blood. She grabs the open box of trash can liners, pulls out the last one or two. She strips here, shoes, undergarments, the works. Stuffs the bloodied garments and paper towels in a bag.

She scrubs her hands, arms, face—anything that’s marked with blood. Washes out the sink. More toweling to dry her arms. He shifted his gaze toward the kitchen doorway, the rooms beyond. She walks naked to her bedroom, her closet. Clean clothes and shoes.

He started in that direction, making his way slowly, scanning every inch, looking for confirmation of his theory. Anything. More blood, a handprint, anything.

He reached Katherine’s room. There was no doubt it belonged to a teenage girl. A pink hurricane. Closet doors stood open, so did several drawers. That could mean something, but in such a mess, it was hard telling.

He crossed to the closet, rummaged through it. No bag of incriminating evidence. That would’ve been too good to be true.

What next? He closed his eyes. She’s dressed. She knows she has to get rid of the evidence.

She makes her way back to the kitchen. Tanner followed the path he imagined for her. He pictured the waiting bag, moved his eyes from where it would have been, then to the rear door.

Tanner crossed to it. He found it unlocked and stepped out onto a small rear porch. A garbage can sat at the far corner of the house, near the driveway. Lid askew.

That was it
. He thundered toward it, heart racing. He flipped the lid the rest of the way off. It clattered to the ground.

Not what he’d expected. Not what he’d hoped for.

He’d hoped for the obvious—a bloody bag, stuffed with everything they’d need to tie this up with a neat little bow.

“Chief!”

He turned. Guidry hurried toward him. He heard the wail of a siren. “Judas Priest! What now?”

“Miz Bell’s had a stroke or something! I knocked on her door and saw her there … right there in the front room. Scared the crap out of me! Thought maybe—”

“She’s alive?”

He bobbed his head. “Sloane’s with her.”

“Is she talking?”

“Not a word! That’s why I figured she’d had a stroke. Really, I thought she was dead, but then—”

“Focus, Guidry! Miz Iris will be fine.”

Guidry looked confused. Tanner wanted to shake him. “You spoke with the other neighbors?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“I need your help here.” He nodded and Tanner went on. “The other neighbors, anybody see or hear anything last night?”

It was a short block, the list of neighbors was woefully small. Miz Bell across the street. An empty rental next to her, the Hingles, a family with young kids, next to her. Ms. Russell across from them. She was single, went out a lot.

An empty lot on the McCalls’ left, the old cemetery tucked into the bend in the road, on the right.

Guidry opened his notebook. “Barbara Russell saw headlights. Late. Thought she heard car doors slamming.”

“Doors? Plural?”

He checked his notes. “Yup.”

“Time?”

“One a.m., she thought. She’d gotten up to get a couple Tylenol.”

“Nothing earlier?”

“She got home ten, ten thirty. Lights were still on over here. Said she didn’t pay much attention—she’d a had a couple cosmos and just wanted to get to bed.”

“What about the Hingles?”

“The entire family was in bed by nine thirty with the exception of Bill. He’s conducting interviews today and wanted to review the applicants’ resumés while the house was finally quiet. His words.”

“And?”

“He was aware of some activity over here. More than usual, he said.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Vehicles passing. Headlights.”

“He didn’t look out the window? See what might be going on?”

“Nope. Said he wishes he had now. Turned in around midnight.”

Tanner frowned. “Somebody had to have seen something. Somebody—”

He bit the last back, remembering what Trixie had said earlier about Miz Bell calling in. Something about Katherine McCall. Things going on over at the McCall place.

Tanner shifted his gaze. The ambulance had arrived; the EMTs were carrying the woman out on a stretcher. Sloane was watching over their progress like a patient mother hen. All the time in the world.

He scowled at Guidry. “Go get Sloane. Tell him if doesn’t get his ass over here right now, I’m going to shit a load of purple bricks to bury him under!”

Wisely, Guidry didn’t comment and set off to retrieve his colleague. Tanner headed back into the house, to the kitchen. Where were those clothes?

And then he knew. The washing machine. Of course. He looked around. This was an old house, built at least a century ago. Before fancy washers and dryers went in large, well-appointed laundry rooms.

A lot of these old places had them hooked up in garages or sheds. Some on screened-in porches.