Sharyn McCrumb - The Ballad of Frankie Silver

“Fate Harkryder.”

“There’s nothing you can do about that one, either. Are you still thinking about going to the-” She didn’t want to say execution.

He nodded. “I called and told them I would. If it happens.”

“Which it won’t,” said Martha. She stood up and brushed imaginary dust from her trousers. “Well, I wish I had time to sit up here in this pretty place looking at mountains and playing detective, but I guess I have to go prowl for expired car-inspection stickers.”

Spencer smiled. “Prowling for expired county stickers isn’t unimportant, Martha. The county needs the revenue. How is Joe doing?”

“Oh, he’ll be up one of these days. You know how he is.”

“Tell him I’m not sick,” said Spencer. LeDonne would rather work twenty-hour days than visit sick people.

When Martha had gone, Spencer turned again to the article in the newspaper. He had not wanted her to see how concerned he was about the case. Martha worried too much.

The photograph seemed to be staring directly at him from out of the newspaper. Charles Wythe Stanton, still alive, still fighting the enemy. Spencer remembered him well. He had been the one to inform the colonel that his only daughter had been murdered.

On the night of Emily Stanton’s murder (and Mike Wilson’s as well, but people tended to forget about him), Spencer and the TBI officer spent the rest of that night making a grid of the crime scene, stretching twine from one wooden stake to another so that the entire area was marked off into small squares like a checkerboard. They would search each parcel of the site for cigarette butts, gum wrappers, clothing fibers-anything that might have a bearing on the case.

At last the sky lightened to a pall of gray, and the objects beyond the reach of their flashlights began to become more distinct in the haze. The TBI man glanced at his watch. “We’ll check the site again in about twenty minutes,” he said. “For now, let’s check all the approaches to this clearing to see if the assailant discarded anything.”

Spencer glanced at the two bodies, which were becoming clearer with every passing minute, and he thought of a photograph taking form in the developing fluid. “When are we going to move them?” he asked.

“Within the hour. They go to University Hospital in Knoxville for a complete workup. I’ll give you that information to pass along to the families.” He looked down at the two sprawled bodies in the clearing and sighed. “We’ll move them before the flies come out, I promise.”

“Good,” said Spencer. One side of the girl’s face looked as if she were only sleeping, and he didn’t want to see her covered in insects.

“When it gets light enough, we’ll tilt the bodies, see what’s under them. I found a tooth under the victim once. Belonged to the killer.”

Spencer nodded. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He set off on a path that led back into the forest, training his flashlight on the ground in front of it and letting the light play left and right to illuminate the weeds at the side of the trail. He saw no broken twigs or evidence of a struggle, or even of footprints, and his hunch that the killer had not come this way was confirmed a few moments later by a triumphant cry from the other officer. Spencer had forgotten his name almost the instant he heard it, and he would forever think of the investigator as “the TBI man,” the embodiment of a faceless state bureaucracy.

He hurried back to the clearing. The officer had laid out the wallets on the log where Willis Blaine, the ranger, had sat for much of the night. The dark brown leather one was worn and scratched, obviously the property of the man. Beside it lay a small red clutch purse containing a compartment for coins, as well as a notepad and a compartment for paper money. “I found them about twenty yards down the hill,” said the TBI man with a satisfied smile. “Killer must have taken the money and thrown down the billfolds as he ran. Who knows? We might even get prints.” He pried open the two sections of leather with a gloved finger. “Can you read that? I’m no good at fine print in this light.”

It seemed perfectly clear to Spencer, who was still a long way from thirty, from bifocals, from having to read the newspaper at arm’s length, as he did these days. “Michael Wilson,” he said. “Virginia driver’s license. He’s twenty-one. There’s a student ID in there, too. University of North Carolina.”

“Yeah, I figured they were college kids. A lot of these hikers are. So they’re not from around here. That figures.”

“How so?” asked Spencer.

“Stranger killing. They were ambushed out in public land. This wasn’t some guy offing his girlfriend, or a fight between two old enemies. Somebody was hunting, and hunters don’t care about the identity of the victim. Who was the girl?”

Spencer fingered the soft leather clutch purse. He imagined it still warm from being tucked away in the hip pocket of the girl’s jeans, pressing against her buttocks. “Emily Stanton. Driver’s license says Wilmington, North Carolina.” A solemn young woman with long auburn hair and dainty small-boned features looked out at him from the license photo. He could see tiny gold hoops in her ears, and a pearl necklace against the dark blue background of her dress. Sorority type, he thought. I wonder what she made of the trail. He said, “There’s also a student ID for UNC.”

“Yep. I figured. College sweethearts, taking a little vacation together after classes ended. Rich kids, too. At least, she was.”

Spencer glanced at the body. The small figure had been wearing jeans and a plain black sweatshirt. Now they lay crumpled a few feet away from her body. “How can you tell?”

The officer smiled. “It helps to have kids, Deputy. I recognize the brand names on her clothing. That outfit may look like old jeans and sneakers to you, but she paid a couple hundred bucks for them. I probably would have known even without that, but it isn’t something I could explain.” He shrugged. “Her manicured nails. Her hairstyle. After you observe people for enough years, you just know .”

“A robbery that got out of hand then?”

“No. There won’t be any money in the wallets, but taking the cash was an afterthought.”

Spencer poked a finger inside the billfold. Empty. The TBI guy was right. “Not the motive, though?”

“Incidentally, sure. I mean, the cash is just lying there. It’s not going to do the victims any good. Why not take it? But that’s not the real reason the killer did this. He did this for fun, because he’s so mad at something that this is his way of striking back.”

Spencer said, “I am reckless what I do to spite the world.” He shrugged. “I always liked that line.”

The older man smiled. “Macbeth,” he said. “It’s nice to hear Shakespeare every now and then from an officer, instead of Kris Kristofferson, which is what passes for philosophy these days.”

“I like him, too,” said Spencer. “So you think this guy we’re looking for is more than a thief whose robbery got out of hand?”

“He’s a killer first and foremost. Have there been any other unsolved murders around here?”

“No.”

“Any disappearances? Maybe you just didn’t find the bodies.”

“No missing persons.”

“Maybe he’s not from around here then. You’d better hope he doesn’t decide to stay a while. This kind of thing is habit-forming. There should be more victims sometime… somewhere.”

“How do we go about looking for him then?”

“Stranger killers are hard to catch. No pool of suspects. Could have been anybody. You have to hope they do something stupid. But we’ll do what we can to help you with the forensic evidence. It will take some time, though.”