The Psalmist (5 page)

Toward the end of his years in Tidewater, Jackson Pynne had, improbably, adopted Luke as a friend. By then his frustrations with the zoning process and the “old boy” network had made him an angry man, cutting him off from nearly everyone else in the county. Sometimes he'd show up at the church unannounced and rant to Luke about the ­people who had “screwed” him, using his colorful nicknames for zoning board members—­Baby Huey, Mr. Magoo, and the kraut, among them. Charlotte claimed Luke had a weakness for underdogs, and by then Pynne's whole life seemed to have become a long shot. Luke tried to find the good in ­people, and there was a lot of good in Jackson Pynne, even a sense of nobility at times. There was also a deep yearning for something more meaningful in his life, which was probably what had drawn him to Luke. Jackson was a strange amalgamation of traits, which didn't seem to mesh well.

­People used to say, “Something strange happens every time Jackson Pynne comes to town.”

Remembering the sentiment, Luke felt a chill race through him.

 

Chapter 5

T
HE DEBRIEFING
MEETING
of the Homicide Task Force was scheduled for eleven-­thirty at the Public Safety Complex. It left Amy Hunter time to drive into town and talk with Louis Gunther, Robby Fallow's attorney. But she called ahead, and was told that Gunther wasn't in the office on Wednesdays this time of year.

Just as well, Hunter thought.

This case wasn't about Robby Fallow, she was certain of that. The Tidewater killing was sophisticated and remarkably clean, in a way that didn't yet make sense, but that almost certainly eliminated the Fallows as suspects.

Investigators talked about a forty-­eight-­hour rule on homicides. Forty-­eight hours after the victim was discovered, detectives should know what kind of case they had. But Hunter didn't believe in those kinds of rules. In a case like this, without witnesses, the circumstances of the crime were like a heavy fog that had drifted in from the bay. You worked in the fog until it began to clear, however long that took. The idea that it should happen in forty-­eight hours was just an excuse for lazy cops. On Wednesday morning the fog in the church killing was still impenetrable. There were no good leads on the victim's identity, or on the killer's. And the way the woman had been left, posed in a rear pew as if praying, felt not only like a challenge, but a taunt. A puzzle left for Hunter to solve.

Also, the case had tabloid potential, she knew, because of the numbers carved into Jane Doe's right hand, which was why Hunter wanted to make sure that this detail was kept from the media for as long as possible.

Complicating the case was the unspoken conflict with Sheriff Calvert. This was the first Tidewater County homicide since commissioners had taken away his authority. Hunter would have to work around that.

She was thinking about Jane Doe's eyes as she walked down the bright corridor to the conference room, wind driving dried snow against the ceiling-­tall parking lot windows. Hunter had stood directly in front of the woman and stared into her film-­coated eyes, wondering where she'd come from and why someone had done this to her. In every case, Hunter kept an image of the victim on her desk and also in her head, a reminder of who she was really working for. Years earlier she had herself been the victim of a violent crime, in a leafy suburban neighborhood where violations of that kind didn't happen. It was something she didn't talk about. But the way the case was mishandled had shaken her priorities and given Hunter her interest in law enforcement. She'd begun her career in Pennsylvania, working CID for the state police before Maryland hired her on an investigative track five years ago. The MSP had one of the most successful homicide units in the country, with a closure rate of ninety-­two percent and a conviction rate over ninety-­nine percent. But some cases defied percentages; some went cold for weeks and months, and a few never warmed up at all. This was beginning to feel like it could become one of those.

“All right,” she began at the task force meeting. “Let's just summarize what we've got, where we need to go. Bottom line, somewhere, probably in this county, someone knows something about what happened. We need to find them.”

Nine others had gathered around the conference table, showing various levels of interest: state homicide investigators Sonny Fischer and Ben Shipman, Hunter's partners—­sometimes called “Fisch and Ship,” an endearment neither of them cared for; State's Attorney Wendell Stamps, a large, shrewd man with a perpetually impassive expression; the state's attorney's lead investigator Clinton Fogg, a thirty-­year veteran who still had a hard time looking Hunter in the eye—­as if he couldn't accept that she was really in charge of the Homicide Task Force; sheriff's deputies Barry Stilfork and Susan Jones, whose allegiance was to the county sheriff; John Jay Blount, a captain with the Tidewater municipal police, who often gave Hunter the creeps, the way he stared at her; and the county's public information officer, Kirsten Sparks, who vigorously chewed gum with an exaggerated motion of her jaw and neck as Hunter spoke. Hunter's boss Henry Moore, the case officer with the state police homicide unit, was also in the room. He'd given her latitude in this case, like a coach allowing his quarterback to read the defense and respond accordingly. There were eighteen men and women in the state police homicide unit, and seven of them were now assigned to this case.

The sheriff, although part of the task force, had skipped the meeting, which was his way of making a statement. His loss, Hunter thought.

She glanced at her notes and continued: “Jane Doe arrived at the M.E.'s Office on Penn Street yesterday morning shortly before noon with Ben Shipman accompanying to maintain chain of custody. Preliminary autopsy and forensics reports from the state CSI are now back. Toxicology pending. Trace and biological analysis still under way in Pikesville.”

She then shared details from the M.E.'s report: “The victim was five foot five and a half inches tall, weight one hundred sixteen. Estimated thirty to thirty-­five years old. Asian or Hispanic heritage. I want to make sure we get that out to the press today,” she said, making eye contact with Kirsten Sparks, the public information officer. “The paper used the word Caucasian. Which, as you know, is a word we don't even use anymore.”

Sparks stopped chewing; her pale skin colored. “I've already spoken with them,” she said defensively. “Obviously, I wouldn't have used the word Caucasian. I don't know where they got that from.”

“I'm not saying you did. I'm just saying let's make sure they have it right in future references.”

Hunter looked back at the report as Kirsten Sparks resumed her gum-­chomping at a faster pace.

“So far, dental, fingerprints, and DNA have not resulted in an ID. Yesterday, two photos of Jane Doe and one of the tattoo on her ankle were sent electronically to law enforcement agencies throughout Delaware, Virginia, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, and D.C. A physical description and sketch to area media. We've contacted every police department in the state for missing persons reports. With no match so far.”

Hunter turned another page. “Okay,” she said. “This next part isn't for the media yet, or for public consumption.” She glanced quickly at Sparks. “Preliminary autopsy shows four broken bones in her legs, two broken ribs, and a broken bone in her left arm. All of those wounds appear to be postmortem. The cause of death is two .22 caliber gunshot wounds to the chest.”

Kirsten Sparks stopped chewing. For a moment even Clinton Fogg's eyes rose to look at her. “Wow,” Sparks said.

“Lividity of the body indicates she had been moved, probably twice, before the perpetrator carried her into the church and left her in the pew. The M.E. found signs of ligature on her wrists. Nowhere else.

“Yesterday, investigators went house-­to-­house interviewing residents along Bayfront. We've got four ­people who say they saw vehicles near the church overnight or early Tuesday. Two say they saw a white or tan SUV driving along the church road. One put it at around one-­thirty, the other at one forty-­five or one-­fifty. Then we've got two reports of a silver pickup on Bayfront just after sunrise Tuesday. No plate numbers on either vehicle, unfortunately.

“State police have talked with church employees, including the six ­people who had keys to the building, and most or all of the AA members who attended a meeting in the parlor Monday night. It's likely the parlor window had been left unlocked and the perpetrator entered through that window.” She turned a page in her notes. “Three stores in Tidewater County were open all night and we're still reviewing the tapes. There are several cameras up on the highway and at the Bay Bridge, so we're in the process of checking everything coming and going.” She nodded to Henry Moore, who had moved three state police homicide investigators to Tidewater County just to help sift through surveillance tapes.

Hunter didn't bring up the numbers that had been carved into the Jane Doe's right hand. She also didn't mention that sheriff's deputies, in particular Barry Stilfork, had compromised much of the crime scene and probably contaminated evidence. Nor did she speculate on the possibility that this crime might be connected to others, which Hunter was beginning to think possible. She thought it would help explain why the local case had such big problems.

“Questions?”

No one spoke. John Jay Blount, she noticed, was staring at her, a cryptic, lopsided smile on his face.

“Captain Blount, how's your day going so far?” Hunter said, and he immediately lowered his eyes.

Then Kirsten Sparks, talking and chewing at the same time, said, “I'm getting inquiries about whether this was a homicide. Can we at least tell the media it was a homicide?”

Hunter nodded. “I don't see any reason not to. Unless there are any objections.”

State's attorney investigator Clinton Fogg made a snorting sound.

“Mr. Fogg?”

He shook his head and closed his eyes. He was a peculiar man, who barely acknowledged some ­people and was overly friendly with others. Often he acted as if he was hard of hearing, though he wasn't. Fogg was thorough and highly competent as a detective, but loyal to no one but the state's attorney, Wendell Stamps.

“Okay,” Hunter said. “Anything else, then? If not, let's get back out there and solve this thing.”

Hunter took her time pushing papers together as the others rose and filed from the room. She knew that she sounded more like a football coach than a homicide investigator, but that was how she approached her job; so far it'd served her well. Sometimes she caught herself saying a phrase that reminded her of her father, who'd coached high school ball most of his adult life, and who had drilled in her simple lessons about winning and losing, pumping her with sayings from ­people like Vince Lombardi and John Wooden.

State's Attorney Wendell Stamps waited until the others had all left.

“How do
you
feel about this?” he asked Henry Moore, the case officer with the state police homicide unit, who was still seated. “Just curious.”

But Moore wouldn't bite.

“It's Hunter's investigation,” he said, looking at the state's attorney. Moore was a deliberative man in his late fifties with a ruddy, wind-­burned face. “I won't comment beyond what she told you.”

Hunter tried not to smile. The state's attorney nodded to her politely, said, “Sergeant Hunter,” and left the room.

 

Chapter 6

“P
ICK U
P SOME
lunch?”

Ben Shipman was standing in Hunter's doorway, wearing his old red lumberjack coat and worn, bleach-­spotted jeans.

He twirled his keys once around his index finger. “I'll drive.”

Ship was a stocky man with rusty, wool-­like hair and earnest blue eyes. He was in his mid-­forties, divorced four or five years, with a teenage daughter. But he could be like an adolescent himself at times; this morning, Hunter had noticed, his socks weren't matched—­almost the same color, but one thick wool, the other nylon—­and he'd missed two belt loops on his jeans. Also, he looked tired; the day before, Ship had driven to Baltimore and back, to witness the preliminary forensics on Jane Doe.

When Shipman asked if she wanted to “pick up” lunch, it meant McDonald's, one of the two fast food restaurants in Tidewater County. Usually, it also meant he wanted to talk.

The Beatles' “Strawberry Fields Forever” blasted from the car's speakers as Shipman started the engine. “Whoops,” he said, punching it off. He kept two CDs in his car,
The Beatles 1962-­1966
and
The Beatles 1967-­1970.
It was, as far as Hunter knew, the only music he listened to.

“You know what's going on, don't you?” he asked as they cruised onto Main Street.

“No, what's going on?”

“G.J. city, here we come.”

“What's G.J. city?”

“Grand jury.”

“For whom?”

“Fallow.”

“But Robby Fallow didn't do this.”

“I know, I'm just saying.”

Shipman went silent after that, hunched over the steering wheel. The homicide unit was assigned unmarked cars, none of them too obvious, like a Crown Vic. If Ship's Mazda had been a suit of clothes, it would've been two sizes too small. Shipman had grown up here in Tidewater County and his speech was rich with Eastern Shore inflections—­
water
was “wu-­ter,”
about
was “a-­boat.” He'd worked for the sheriff's office for three or four years before earning his stripes as a state police investigator, and was still friendly with some of the deputies. He was Hunter's liaison to what the “other side” was thinking.

“Tell me about that,” she said as they came to the first of Tidewater's three traffic signals.

“Well, I mean—­another week goes by, right? We don't have any more than we have this morning? They're going to convene the grand jury. Guarantee.”

“Based on what?”

Shipman shrugged and, as he sometimes did, answered a different question: “I'm telling you, this thing is freaking them. 'Course, being an election year, it wouldn't hurt any if they can show that
they
were the ones who solved it, not us.”

“Guess not.” Hunter waited, knowing he'd say more. Ship tended to open up around her more than he did with anyone else. Early on there'd been a few awkward moments when he'd suggested that they should go “
out
out” sometime. But they were long past that now, and Hunter thought of Ben Shipman as an older brother.

“If they can't have a real solution,” he said, “they'll settle for the appearance of a solution. A ‘necessary outcome.'”

“I don't like the sound of that.”

“I know. I'm just saying. It is what it is.”

Yes, it is, Hunter thought
,
feeling her face flush with anger. They rode in silence again past the Blue Crab Diner, Holland's Family Restaurant, and the white frame Baptist church at the other end of Main Street, then over the northern trickle of Jimmy Creek toward the highway and the county's small commercial strip. As with most of her cases, Hunter had already raised the stakes of this one, figuring there was more involved than just finding a criminal; there was also a darker riddle of human motivation to be answered. She had heard the term “God's work” used to describe homicide investigations years before she understood what it meant. Now she understood, but tried not to think about it.

“What are they saying about the numbers in her hand?”

“Not much,” Ship said. “The state's attorney evidently thinks it's irrelevant. A red heron.”

“Herring.”

“Herring.”

“But for what purpose?”

“Just Robby, trying to divert attention.”

No, Hunter thought. Not possible. Robby Fallow doesn't think that way. The number in her hand is something else. The number in her hand has to mean something. It's probably the key to understanding this.

“There's another reason, too, you know.” Ship was grinning slightly as he switched lanes.

“Which is?”

“A lot of ­people don't like Robby Fallow. ­People respected his daddy, but not him. Lot of ­people'd be glad to see him gone. They just don't want to go to war with him. Robby can be a stubborn guy.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hunter recalled the hand-­painted plywood sign he'd nailed to a tree last winter reading, Private Property. Keep Out. This Means You.

“So this would be a way of forcing him out?” she said. “That seems a stretch.”

“Don't underestimate what the sheriff's capable of when he gets a bee in his bonnet. I can see it going there—­I mean, say they end up working out a plea deal, he agrees to leave Tidewater. The case is quietly dropped. Maybe Robby sells the property, gets enough to buy a nice little retirement place down in Florida or the Carolinas, for him and his son. Everyone lives happily ever after.”

“And a murderer goes free?”

“Well,” Shipman said. “There's that.”

S
HIP PLACED THEIR
orders without asking Hunter: Oriental salad and small fries for her, Big Mac and large fries for himself. Otherwise a healthy eater, Hunter harbored a weakness for McDonald's french fries.

They were driving back when Sonny Fischer, the other local member of the homicide unit, called. Fisch was Ship's antithesis in many ways, a heath and exercise nut who could literally become ill in the presence of fast food. He was also highly antisocial. Both, though, in their own ways, were exceptional investigators.

“Going or coming?”

“Coming,” Hunter said. “Why?”

Ship reached for a handful of fries.

“Might have something. Pickup truck ID'd from description.”

“Video?”

“Partial plate. Checking.”

“Okay.”

Fischer often spoke in a peculiar verbal shorthand, which Hunter was able to decipher.

“Anything?” Ship asked, glancing over.

“Don't know yet. Maybe.”

Maybe it's the break we're looking for, Hunter thought. But probably not. At least ninety-­five percent of her work on homicide cases ended up as wasted time. But she had to go through it to get to the five percent that wasn't. Meaning none of it was really wasted, just incredibly tedious.