The Evidence Room: A Mystery (10 page)

James tried not to look at the details; a silver anklet looped around her bare right foot, a partially scraped-off temporary tattoo heart on the inside of her wrist. In his mind he repeated the last alligator fact that Raylene Atchison had given him that night, something he did often when cases hit a little too close to home. He could still hear her honeyed voice forming the words:
Alligators have a third eyelid. It closes horizontally over the alligator’s eye as it submerges, giving the alligator perfect vision underwater while still offering a layer of protection
.

In his mind, James closed his own third eyelid. He signaled to Ernest to head back home, where James’s table waited for Madison Leo, and where Aurora Atchison waited somewhere, back in town after all these years. He thought about the bones in their plastic shrouds, on a gleaming lab table in another county, waiting to tell their story. James moved to a seat across from the body and looked out across the bayou, where a gator began its descent, its luminescent eye the last thing to disappear.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“You know, once upon a time, I wanted to be a cop,” Samba reflected, watching Josh pull the last of the wilting cardboard boxes onto the evidence room’s sturdiest table, a Day-Glo yellow Formica monstrosity that looked as though it had been a kitchen table forty years earlier.

“Oh, yeah?” Josh set the box down and wiped his face with his T-shirt. He was wondering how long Samba was going to wait before telling him what the case was about.

“Yeah. Can you imagine?” Samba snorted. “I mean, no offense. But out there”—he gestured through one of the dirt-streaked windows—“sure, that’s where they think the action is. But the evidence room—this is where the magic happens. They might slap the cuffs on somebody, but this stuff is what catches the bad guys.”

He stood back and patted the tops of the boxes, turning one to face Josh.

“Remember that one? Some yahoo truck driver, used to pick up kiddos and then dump them along the highway back in the eighties.”

“Yeah, I remember. They caught the son of a bitch, right?” Josh forced his tone to sound casual, even though he’d read up on the case.

“Yep. He got some hundred-year sentence.” Samba shook his head. “It’s a load of bull, if you ask me.”

“Why?”

“I think,” Samba said pointedly, “those kids’ families should have the right to do whatever they want to the bastard.” He issued this declaration through a mouthful of chocolate crumbs. “Being around all this long enough, seeing the things people do—well, it’ll turn ya. I’d say I’m a peacenik in all other parts of life, but I’m pretty much a card-carrying fascist when it comes to criminals.”

“Me too.”

“They told me when I started, don’t take nothing personal. Biggest load of bullshit you ever heard, excuse my French. The only woman I ever loved is in one of these boxes.” He blinked, the tears searing his eyes the brightest blue Josh had ever seen.

“I’m sorry,” Josh said, knowing how empty the words were.

“She was an angel on this earth,” Samba said in a wobbled voice. “And I tell everybody who will listen, this job is personal. If it ain’t under your skin, you ain’t doing it right. We’ve all survived something. But you have to take that step back sometimes, let the evidence do its work so it can show you the right way.” Samba crossed the space between them and put his hands on Josh’s shoulders. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Samba kept one hand on Josh’s shoulder. “The cops came to me this morning with a request to pull some evidence for an ID,” he said. “Listen. I know you’re a strong man, Josh. I see that. But if you don’t want to be a part of this, I understand that too. I just want to give you the choice.”

Josh reached across him and twisted one of the boxes so that the label was facing them.

Hudson, J.

His brother’s box.

“Listen to me,” Samba said. “They found some remains, over by Baboon Jack’s, washed up on the beach in a duffel bag. Doc Mason sent them to some state lab, but word is they’re those of a male child.” Josh stared at the letters of his brother’s name, Samba’s voice fading in and out of his consciousness.

“Jesse.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Samba said quietly. “I know how hard this is, Josh, believe me. They asked me to pull all the missing kids’ files from the early nineties, and I knew your brother was one of ’em. I know all these kids. It’s my job to know them. And if we do this right, this could be the end of their story. A real burial, answers for the family.”

Josh thought about the splintered remains of his own family, his father in jail, his mother in the ground, Liana God knew where. There was nobody left but him. They knew Jesse was dead. The Shadow Man had given them that much as part of his plea deal to avoid the electric chair—but he’d never told them where, or how. Josh had told himself so many times that those details weren’t important, the right man was in jail, the body was only the shell of the person Jesse had been. It was more important to focus on Liana, the person he could still save. Now Josh saw that Samba was right; that this might be a chance to end the story.

“I can help,” Josh said. “I want to help.”

Samba smiled. “Good,” he said. “Whether it’s your brother or not, we’re going to help someone here.”

Josh opened his mouth to reply and was interrupted by the bleat of the front door buzzer.

“Looks like we’ve got company,” Samba said. “I’ll take care of it.” Dabbing at his face with his hopelessly damp handkerchief, he began to make his way to the front door.

A wave of paranoia rimmed with anger seized Josh. Was it someone coming to make the notification that the body in the bag might be Jesse? Why the hell hadn’t someone from the station called him right away? He felt a surge of protectiveness for Samba. At least the old guy had the balls to say it to his face, to give him the chance to help.

All these thoughts propelled Josh to his feet and he barreled towards the doorway, overtaking Samba in the aisle.

Josh flung the door open, but instead of coming face-to-face with Rush or Boone, he found himself looking at a woman.

She was tall, almost six feet, and her hair was hastily shoved into a ponytail, but a few curls had escaped and tumbled around a little owlish face. She wore black athletic shorts and a white shirt, but she had the stance of a fighter, her green eyes friendly but also determined.

Only his detective instinct told him she was nervous; still half turned towards the door, her body was tense and coiled like a runner at the starting gates.

“Hi, I was hoping you could help me out. I was hoping to request some information about a case. I saw the emblem outside—I wasn’t sure if this was the police station or not.”

Josh struggled with a reply, the rational part of his brain rendered momentarily silent by the caveman side. Samba crowded next to him in the doorway. “You’re in the wrong place,” Samba said. “This isn’t the police station. Although Josh here is a cop.”

“Kind of,” Josh mumbled.

“The police station is over on Cardamine Road,” Samba continued. “But it’s hotter than hell out there. Why don’t you come in for a second?”

She smiled. “Sure,” she said. “That’d be great.” She stepped past him into the entryway.

“We’ve got sweet tea, a couple of waters,” Samba told her. “Got some of the hard stuff too, but it’s under lock and key in the back.”

“Sweet tea’s fine,” the woman said. “Thank you.”

She sat on the edge of the orange paisley couch with the center cut out and stared at the hole in the foam.

“So if this isn’t the police station,” she asked, “what is it?”

“It’s the evidence room,” Josh explained. “All those rows back there, they’re full of boxes of evidence—everything from bikes to guns to booze.”

Something in her face changed. “Every case? How far back?”

“Older than me,” Samba said, handing her the glass of iced tea. “Don’t even hazard a guess.”

She chuckled, at ease again.

“I’m Samba, by the way. And that’s Josh. What’s your name?”

For the first time, she hesitated. It was only for a beat, but Josh saw her consider her options before answering.

“Aurora Atchison.” She almost whispered it. It took Josh a minute to process the name, roll it over in his head, figure out why something about it sounded familiar.

Samba didn’t take as long. “Well, I’ll be darned,” he answered, removing his glasses and studying her. She looked towards the door and shifted uncomfortably when Samba spoke again, this time more gently.

“Are you here about your mother’s case?”

She stood up so quickly that she almost upended the table. “Yes. I can come back, though—I know it probably takes a while to pull the files. You guys are probably busy. Thanks for the tea. I—um, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’m just going to go.”

“I’m sorry,” Samba said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s all right. Really.” She bolted for the door. Josh followed her outside, his brain churning with the details of her case. Aurora Atchison. It was an old case that was almost a legend in Cooper’s Bayou—part horror story, part cautionary tale. An abusive husband, a murdered wife, the baby daughter left at the mini-mart. So this was her—the little girl lost, now returned.

“Hey, listen,” Josh called to her. “I get it. You don’t want to talk about it—believe me, I get it.” She paused on the bottom step and turned to face him, shading her eyes from the sun.

Josh dug around in his pocket and retrieved a folded white square. He scribbled a number on the back of it. “I mean, if you get lost, or whatever.” That was ridiculous—the town was four streets wide—but she took the card.

“Thanks, Josh.”

“I’m not really from here either, you know,” he said. It was all he could think of to say. “I know what it’s like to be new in town.”

She smiled and nodded, and he watched her walk to her rental, a cherry-red subcompact. In his mind, he finished the sentence.

I know what it’s like to return to the scene of the crime.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Aurora wanted a margarita.

She’d never been much of a drinker. Usually, she just ordered a Diet Coke at bars when she was out with friends. “I’m driving,” she’d tell the bartender when he shot her a questioning look, even though they both knew nobody drove in New York City.

Control freak,
Nicky teased her at work, but she was right. It was better than being out of control, wasn’t it? “Tightly wound,” her attending had called her, which made her think of the cheap gold watch he wore too snugly on his hairy wrist. It wasn’t a completely bad quality. It made her a good friend and a fantastic nurse. It made her reliable and punctual.

It also made her a little bit boring.

Still, this trip to Florida was changing all of that.

She felt a strange comfort in the house on the bayou. She had even ventured into town a few times, to the grocery store, and then to the evidence room. Of course, she hadn’t made any friends here yet, and she didn’t feel like she could just stroll into a local bar and order a drink the way you could in New York. It was an odd sensation, being a stranger in town whom everyone knew. Papa had left her instructions about the house, but he hadn’t told her who was trustworthy. All she knew was that he had been working on something, that some question remained about the night her mother died.

Aurora settled for a glass of iced tea and stepped out onto the porch. In the darkness, the waters of the bayou rose and fell in thick waves, like swirled cream. A boat laden with partygoers idled a mile offshore, music blaring.

They had all been on a boat ride the night of the murder. Aurora, her mother, and her father. She tried to conjure Raylene’s image from the depths of her mind. She remembered climbing into her mother’s lap on someone’s porch, in front of a glass table rimmed in white. “You’re too old to be held this way,” her mother had said with a laugh, but she’d cradled her anyway, rocking her back and forth, Aurora’s spindly legs draped over the chair’s armrest. Aurora couldn’t remember her face or anything she was wearing, or even whose porch it was, but somehow she remembered that grip. Loving. Intense.

Aurora stemmed the tide of emotions that were rising to the surface. There was no time to sit here and let the past engulf her. If Papa wanted her to continue the search for the truth about that night, she was up to the task, no matter how painful it was.

She shut the French doors behind her. Tonight she would tackle the files in the cherry-finish secretary desk in Papa’s office. Royce Beaumont, the attorney, had told her about several documents she needed to bring to their first meeting in the morning. She was counting on the contents of the desk to be what she expected—papers, bills, checkbooks—but was afraid there would be something else there that she wasn’t ready to see.

The sight of Papa’s spindly handwriting on the file folders brought an unexpected rush of tears to her eyes. Why had he left all of this for her to do? She could feel a throb between her eyes beginning to bloom into a headache. Well, it would only take a minute; Papa was organized, and everything was easy to find. The folder labeled
HOUSE
was tucked in the back. A manila folder was among the deed to the house and other legal papers. A folder labeled with a single word.

Raylene
.

She was unfolding the contents even as her mind was screaming at her to stop, to let it be, to leave it alone. So he had done his research after all. She spread the pages out across Papa’s desk. It was an old, blurred photocopy of the autopsy report and the police report. This was what Nana and Papa had been protecting her from all these years, and now she understood why. Aurora read the details, knowing they would never be erased from her memory. Death by asphyxiation. He had strangled her with his bare hands. There was evidence consistent with rape; she had been found half-naked on the shore of the bayou, less than a mile from where Aurora was sitting right now. Papa had circled and underlined words on the autopsy report.
Contusion, right knee. Defensive wounds. Broken fingernails.