Murder in the Courthouse (18 page)

“Yes, I can do that. But, uh, what do you want me to suh-say?” Snodgrass had a hard time spitting it out.

“How about ‘Urgent. Who found this black beaded bag placed in courthouse lost and found?' and attach a photo of the bag to the email,” Hailey interjected. “That's easy. Right?”

“Take a picture and attach it to the email?” Snodgrass was still a little slow on the uptake.

“Yes. A picture. You know, with your iPhone?” Hailey answered. He looked a little dazed. The excitement of telling them he could send an “omni,” or all courthouse personnel email, had certainly faded quickly.

“Here. I'll just do it right now for you. It'll only take a second.” Hailey reached into her pocket, withdrew her iPhone, and snapped a photo of Eleanor's pouch.

“OK. I've got it. Now, what's your email address?” Hailey plowed forward.

“Why do you want my email address? Why does it have to be mine? I don't want a killer mad at
me
.” Snodgrass turned to Hailey, but Billings cut in, exasperated.

“So you can send the picture of the bag out so we can find out who put it in lost and found.” Once again, Billings was speaking loudly and in slow motion, mouthing his words carefully as if Snodgrass had to lip-read them.

“Honey. Not vinegar,”
Hailey whispered to Billings, a little too loudly. She turned back toward Snodgrass with a smile in place.

“Right. OK.” Cecil Snodgrass seemed to be absorbing it, slowly. The other clerk stood by, saying nothing, his eyes still darting around nervously between the five of them standing there and the beaded bag.

“Right,” Billings answered him.

“And you're sure you think Elle was
murdered
? I thought she had a heart attack. Or a stroke or some kind of seizure. Who would do such a horrible thing? And you say the little bag will help?” Snodgrass was clearly trying to figure out what the pouch had to do with Eleanor Odom having a heart attack.

“That's right. It wasn't a heart attack, and finding out who found her bag and where could help.”

“Right,” Snodgrass repeated himself, still thinking. Now he was staring down at the purse solemnly, as if he were at a funeral.

“And, uh, when is it you want me to send out the email?”

Finch, Billings, and Hailey paused just a nanosecond, glancing at each other incredulously. What didn't this guy understand?

“Now!”
They all three practically yelled it, blurting it out simultaneously.

“And offer a reward!” Hailey followed up.

“A
reward
?” Billings asked.
“What reward?”
He turned to give Hailey another
what-are-you-talking-about
look.

“I didn't say how much, did I? Listen, Cecil, we'll go with you to your desktop right now and send out the email. Somebody will probably write back in ten minutes. OK?”

Looking from Billings to Hailey to Finch, Cecil Snodgrass acquiesced. “OK.” With that he turned, his shoulders curved downward in a semicircle, and trudged to his cubicle.

His cubicle turned out to be the same one where Fincher had been snooping just twenty-four hours before. Its prefab plastic walls were covered in a vanilla blended fabric nearly to the top, where butterscotch-colored plastic took over. His cubicle's “walls” were covered with photos of exotic animals.

A faux-gold plaque had been glued near the top of his wall stating his name, Cecil Snodgrass, and underneath in smaller engraved letters was his title, “Sr. Inmate Intake Manager.”

The pride he must have taken in putting that plaque up . . . Hailey smiled. When Snodgrass plopped down into his chair, it rolled a little to the left. He slid it back into the center of his cube, scooting forward to align himself directly in front of his computer screen. Hailey promptly positioned herself behind him, staring over his slumped shoulders to get a bird's-eye view of what he typed.

“Miss Dean, did you send me the photo?” Snodgrass asked over his shoulder, methodically opening up his screen as he'd done a million times before.

Noticing a tag still hanging down off the seat bottom of Snodgrass's chair, Hailey proceeded with the
honey vs. vinegar
technique she'd recommended to Billings and complimented it. “Nice chair.” She had to get this email out pronto.

“Thank you,” he responded with a businesslike air. “It's the top of the line for county-issue office furniture. I got to pick it out when I got promoted a few months ago to Senior Intake Manager. It's a Series Two Tone High-Back Racer Executive by Techni. I love it. Like I said, I got to select the one I wanted.”

He was obviously very proud.

“What's with the cushion?” Finch jumped in. “Is that wood?”

Hailey immediately punched Fincher in the ribs. She didn't want to slow down the email process.

“As a matter of fact, it is. I found it online. It's made completely of high-quality, perfectly rounded wooden beads,” he answered, this time a little smugly.

“Do they hurt? They look painful,” Finch asked.

“Hurt? No. They're specially designed to massage your back. And this chair . . . it's ergonomic. Designed to support your lumbar.”

“Well, they look like they hurt. I'm just saying.”

“Fincher, don't distract Mr. Snodgrass.” Hailey said it with a fixed smile but her eyes clearly said,
Shut up!

“And, oh yes, your email?” Hailey went on.

“It's Cecil . . .” he paused and glanced over his shoulders, rising slightly from his seat to glance over the cubicle wall. He looked back
at Hailey. “You know, you can never be too careful with your personal information.”

Hailey fought back laughter as Billings nudged her in the back.

“You are so right, Cecil. Now what was that email?” She held her iPhone poised in her hand to type.

“It's [email protected]. Did you get that?”

“I believe I did. I'll send the photo now.”

“What's the ‘M' for?” Finch asked out of natural curiosity.

Snodgrass reddened. “It's for Merriweather. It's a family name,” he added defensively. No one spoke.

“OK! I'll do it.”

Snodgrass lifted his fingertips to the keyboard but then paused significantly. Suddenly it dawned on the three of them and they turned away so he could enter his password in privacy.

They immediately heard his fingers typing away.

“Yep. Here's your photo. Now, how would you like the email to read?”

“How about ‘Urgent. Reward to thank the person who located this black beaded purse and placed it for safekeeping in the County Lost and Found.' Give your extension here.”

“It has to be my phone number too?”

“Yes, it does. No one will recognize mine or Fincher's and it should be from someone here in the clerk's office, not Lieutenant Billings. Cecil, remember, we think somebody
murdered
Elle. You
do
want to help, don't you?”

He looked resigned. “Yes. I do. She was a nice lady. In fact, she gave me a ride to my car just a few days ago. Spotted me walking on the sidewalk. Pulled over and asked if I needed a ride.”

He sounded resigned to doing his bit. Hailey watched as Cecil Snodgrass typed the message. From her view just inches above his head, Hailey could see how carefully he'd combed his hair over a balding pate. At barely 5'2”, she would never have guessed from below. He did a beautiful job, though. The smell of men's hair product wafted up to her nostrils. Maybe Rogaine.

“Where'd you get all these photos and postcards? Are you a hunter? They look like safaris. Man, look at this king cobra. That's just freaky. I hate snakes.” Fincher couldn't help himself.

Snodgrass stopped what he was doing and swiveled to look Fincher in the eye. “Actually, Mr. Fincher, I have a deep affinity with the king cobra.”

At the king cobra comment, all three jerked their heads back toward Snodgrass. “An affinity? Why is that?” Finch just wouldn't leave it alone.

“Well, it's quite obvious, isn't it? The
Ophiophagus hannah
, its true name, of course, is the poisonous monarch of the jungle. Rarely seen but always present, it stays under the radar for the most part, avoids human confrontation if possible, but is always ready to pounce, to attack. In a nutshell, it's
deadly
, Mr. Fincher.”

“And you have, what did you say, an ‘affinity' with the cobra?” Finch was fighting back laughter. Hailey only hoped Snodgrass didn't see through Finch's questions, and for her own part, she kept an extremely serious face.

“Well, that's exactly how I see my duties here at the courthouse. Rarely seen, but ready to pounce if necessary.” He turned back to his keyboard, allowing several furtive but highly meaningful glances between Hailey, Finch, and Billings.

“And, I am
very
close to getting my black belt in judo, Mr. Fincher.”

Hailey couldn't help but think again of Barney Fife and his judo lessons on
The Andy Griffith Show
. But this time, in a good way. Wisely, she remained silent and did not voice her comparison.

“Yes, Mr. Fincher. Many Westerners underestimate the ways of the Far East.”

“But not you.” Finch really didn't know when to stop.

“No, not me. Remember, Mr. Fincher, ‘When you seek it, you cannot find it. Your hand cannot reach it nor can your mind exceed it. But when you no longer seek it, it is always with you.' That's a Zen proverb that could possibly help you.”

“A what?”

“A Zen proverb.”

“OK. I'll keep that in mind.”

Hailey and Billings read over the email contents and its “All Courthouse Alert” address, typically saved for emergencies, weather closings, or other bureaucratic necessities. It was perfectly in order.

“Great, Cecil. Thanks. It's perfect. Please send,” Billings said appreciatively.

They all watched intently as he pushed the send button. Just seconds later, they breathed a collective sigh of relief when it showed up as sent email.

“So where do we get the reward money?” Billings quickly moved on to the next obstacle.

“It doesn't have to be a lot. A hundred dollars will do. Don't you have a petty cash fund?”

“I do. And I will let you explain to the sheriff's party committee why we won't have the punch spiked at the Christmas party.” He smiled when he said it.

“We catch this guy and I'll buy you the Christmas spirits for the sheriff's party myself.”

“Promise?”

“Yep. And you've got two witnesses right here, Finch and Cecil.”

“OK, you're on.” They shook on it, standing there at Snodgrass's cubicle.

Just then, two Savannah police officers entered the room. With them was Tish Adams, following along behind them, talking in a low but strident voice. “I just don't think Todd should be brought over in the jailhouse bus with all the other inmates every morning. It's simply
too dangerous
.”

“Ma'am. Isn't he charged with murder?”

Tish Adams's lips pursed. “Yes. You are correct, officer. But he's innocent. And you'll see that very soon. But that's neither here nor there. My son, Todd Adams, should not be thrown in the pot with convicted felons, dope dealers, child molesters, killers, and I mean
real killers
.”

“Mrs. Adams, what do you propose? Do you want to bring him over yourself like he's in second-grade carpool over at Frederica Academy?”

“Sir, I do not take kindly to your attempt at humor. This is my son we are talking about. And no, I am not suggesting I pick him up and bring him. But what about a sheriff's transport van? They've got those, right? A private van?”

“I will look into it, Mrs. Adams.”

Tish Adams's voice went stern. “Please see that you do. If anything happens to my son . . . there will be a lawsuit against this county like nothing you've ever seen. That's a promise.”

“Yes, ma'am. I will pass that along.”

Adams looked around the group, giving them all a stony stare, including Hailey, Finch, and Billings. She then relented and gave a weak smile.

“Thank you. After all, he is my son. You'd do the same, I'm sure, if you were in my position. I hope you understand.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Tish Adams looked slowly around her as if she couldn't quite take in that she was really here, in the courthouse, begging on behalf of her son. Straightening her back, she turned without another word and walked through the cubes and out the door, pulling her oxygen canister along with her.

Hailey's heart hurt for the woman.

Oxygen or no oxygen, the officers didn't feel as much empathy for Tish Adams, especially after her threat to sue the county. They gave each other a significant look, shrugged it off, and continued directly over to the lost and found bin. They looked down into it and turned around to spot Billings.

“Hi, Lieutenant. Is this it?” One directed the question to Billings.

“Yep, but make sure you photograph it first, if you don't mind.”

“Got it.” The younger one pulled a police-issue camera out of a black bag he wore over his shoulder. He started flashing shots of the pouch in the bin and the bin itself.

In the midst of the flashes, another officer came in, carrying a black suitcase similar to a big makeup case. Without a word, he placed it on the carpet beside the bin and kneeling down, clicked open hinges on either side. As he folded it out in both directions, Hailey saw it was a fingerprint kit. He started dusting with the dark powder.

“Hey, Lieutenant Billings. How's it going?”

“Fair, Traylor. Fair. Thanks for coming over. You're the best.”

“You really think somebody killed Elle?” He tossed it over his shoulder as he worked, never taking his eyes off the slim edges of the bin as he dusted them carefully with what appeared to be a soft-bristled makeup brush.