Scott Pratt - In good faith

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “The only time I’ve ever seen a task force formed is when the police aren’t making any progress in a case and they want the public to think they’re doing something.”

“But that’s exactly where we are, Joe,” Mooney said. “Word of these killings is already leaking out. By morning, everybody in northeast Tennessee is going to know about it, and we’re going to have a panic on our hands. We have to make people think we’re doing something.”

“Where are we now?” I said to Fraley. “What do you have that you didn’t have before?”

Fraley looked around nervously, as though he were afraid to share information with Bates in the room. Blake’s assertion about distrust between law enforcement agencies was already evident.

“We’re still nowhere,” he said quietly. “We’ve got more footprints that we’ll compare with the Beck murder scene. My guess is that some of them will match up. We’ve got more tire tracks, but we know they’re not from the same vehicle that was at the Beck murder scene. We’ll compare the shell casings and bullets to see if they match, and I’m betting they will. We’ve got two more bodies with crosses carved into them and wounds to their right eyes. They carved ‘ah Satan’ into Norman Brockwell’s forehead just like they did on Mr. Beck. We’ve got hair and fiber and a couple of latent prints from the Becks’ van, but we’ve run the latents through AFIS and haven’t found a match. We’ve got hair and fiber from the Brockwells’ home. We’ve got the rope they used to tie Mr. Brockwell to the tree. The medical examiner says Mrs. Brockwell was probably stabbed with an ice pick, but we don’t have the weapon. She also says Mr. Brockwell had abrasions on his back, elbows, and knees. She thinks he rode out to the woods in the trunk of a car. We’re checking to see if we can find any connection between the Brockwells and the Becks. Talking to family, friends, acquaintances, people they worked with, anybody we can think of. But as of right now, we don’t have a single suspect.”

“The first thing we should do is tell the media the cases aren’t related,” Mooney said. “That should at least keep people from panicking.”

“Forget about the media,” I said. “Somebody’s going to leak it whether we tell them or not. And what do you mean by ‘panic,’ Lee? Do you think people are going to riot in the streets? They’ll put better locks on their doors and they’ll buy guns and ammunition and guard dogs. They’ll watch out for their neighbors. We don’t need to start stonewalling, and I don’t think we need a task force. We don’t want to bring the feds and their egos anywhere near this, and as far as the local guys go, no offense to the sheriff, but the TBI agents are as good as it gets.”

“So what do you suggest?” Lee said. “Status quo? Tell people we’re doing all we can?”

“Give these guys some more time,” I said, nodding towards Fraley and Blake. “Let them do their jobs. And how about we let the sheriff handle the media from now on? I’ll brief him whenever he wants. He can do the press conferences, press releases, whatever. He has an outstanding reputation in the community and people trust him. What do you say, Sheriff? Will you keep the hounds at bay for me?”

“Whatever you need, brother Dillard,” Bates said.

I turned to Fraley again. He was in his early sixties, a little on the heavy side, with receding gray hair, a pink complexion, and a bulbous nose. Despite our shaky start, I’d already developed a significant amount of respect for him. He was smart, tough, hardworking, and despised bullshit.

“Surely you have some ideas,” I said.

Fraley cleared his throat. “A few,” he said.

I expected him to keep talking, but he sat there in silence.

Mooney stared at him. “Care to share them with the rest of the class?”

“Who kills a school principal?” Fraley said. “Think about it. Forced entry through the window at the side of the house, but there was nothing taken, so it wasn’t a burglary that went wrong. Same MO as the Beck killing, as far as the shooting goes. Shot to pieces. And if it wasn’t just some random killing, then you have to ask yourself, who would want to kill a principal? And who would want to kill him and kill him and kill him?”

“Family member looking to speed up the inheritance?” Mooney said. “Disgruntled teacher? Or maybe it was the wife they were after.”

“It wasn’t the wife. They kidnapped Mr. Brockwell, took him for a long ride, tied him to a tree. They terrorized him. He was the target. They wanted him to suffer. His wife just happened to be in the way.”

“So answer your own question,” I said. “Who wants a high school principal to suffer?”

Fraley shrugged his shoulders. “I’m thinking a kid. A kid with a grudge. Probably looking for revenge.”

“But there were more than one,” I said. “Maybe three or four. How do you explain that? And what about the Becks? Why would a kid, or a group of kids, want to kill the Becks?”

“I don’t know yet,” Fraley said. “But at least I know where I’m going to look.”

“Mr. Snodgrass is here,” Rita Jones said over the office intercom.

“Thanks,” I said. “Would you tell him to come on back?”

William Trent, accused of having sex with his young female employees, was scheduled to go on trial in less than two weeks, and my case was in the toilet. Cody Masters, the young investigator who had originally brought the charges against Trent, had gone back out and interviewed more than two dozen of Trent’s current and former employees. Nobody wanted to get involved in a trial that would undoubtedly be highly publicized and would cause as much embarrassment for the victims as it would for the defendant. Not one of them would cooperate with us.

Two of the girls who had originally given statements to Masters had recanted. Girls who had talked to him but refused to give statements were now telling him they had nothing to say. All that was left were the two girls who had originally made the complaint, Alice Dickson and Rosalie Harbin. Both were now nineteen years old. Alice, the girl who’d kept a very detailed diary, was shy and backwards, and I was worried about how she’d do on the witness stand. Rosalie Harbin was a wild child who’d recently been arrested for forgery and theft. And the man who was about to walk through my door, William Trent’s lawyer, knew I was in trouble. He’d called a week earlier to set up an appointment with me. I didn’t have to ask what he wanted-he’d be looking to make a deal.

Snodgrass’s appearance surprised me, to say the least. I was expecting a refined, smooth-talking pretty boy, but what oozed through the doorway was a gargantuan man who seemed to fill the entire room. Snodgrass was at least six feet, seven inches tall and three hundred and fifty pounds. His face reminded me of a Chinese sharpei’s, with rolls of fat across the forehead, sagging jowls, and a flat, wide nose. He looked to be around fifty, with a greasy shock of wavy black hair that fell to his collar. Peering at me from behind thick glasses were small brown eyes that didn’t seem to fit his face. The white shirt he wore beneath a dark gray blazer looked like he’d been wearing it for a week.

“Have a seat,” I said after I introduced myself and shook his moist, fleshy hand. Small droplets of sweat had formed on his pink forehead, and I could hear him wheezing slightly. The effort of moving all that mass from the parking lot into the building and up the elevator to my office must have been almost more than his cardiovascular system could bear.

“Are you all right?” I asked as he dabbed his forehead with a stained white kerchief.