Daryl Gregory - The Devil's Alphabet

Downer sat across from Rhonda and the reverend and turned on the laptop. “We’re going to release a statement to the press very soon,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, hopefully. Normally we’d never share details about an open case like this-you don’t want to hinder the investigation, or expose the office to criticism until we’ve checked all the facts. You have to get your ducks in a row…”

“We appreciate the immense risk you’re taking, Roy,” Rhonda said dryly.

“Well, I think we all agree that in cases like these, the county has to reach out to the local community. Though you all understand this has to remain confidential until we make a more public announcement.”

“Yes, of course,” the reverend said. Blanks were hard to read, but Deke had spent enough time around the clade to know the pastor was on edge. The woman sat straight in her chair, barely moving, like a squirrel catching the scent of a hound dog. “What have you found out?”

“Not a thing,” the sheriff said. He was a white-haired, broad-faced man with a complexion like a permanent sunburn. Deke had worked with him a couple times before when Deke had stepped in to keep the peace between Switchcreek folks and the county police. He was quiet and competent.

“Uh, what the sheriff means,” Downer put in, “is that we’ve found nothing that changes what we already thought. The coroner’s report said that she died of strangulation, not a broken neck, which is typical in suicides. People don’t usually manage to break their necks.”

“Jesus,” Deke said under his breath. Rhonda shook her head, but the reverend seemed to be holding herself in check.

“As for the house,” Downer said, “there were no signs of a struggle, or forced entry. The materials she used were all on hand-the rope was already hanging from the tree for the tire swing, the patio chair was nearby. The two girls didn’t hear anything. They didn’t even know their mom was outside until that morning, when they called Nine-one-one. That was at 6:10 a.m.”

“How long was she up there, then?” Rhonda asked.

Downer looked to the sheriff, and the cop said, “She died at least several hours before the call. The blood had time to pool in her feet before we found her. Besides that…” He shrugged. “It ain’t like on TV. That’s about all we know.”

“And nobody saw her just hanging out there in the open?” Rhonda said.

“The tree isn’t visible from the road,” Deke said. He didn’t add that even if someone from Switchcreek had managed to see something, he doubted they’d have called the police-any one of the clades would have called Deke or Rhonda or the reverend, one of their own.

“Which of the girls made the call?” the Reverend asked.

Downer stared blankly at her. “I don’t see how that matters, but… well, let me see.” He opened a manila folder, started flipping through papers.

“Rainy,” the sheriff said. “Though she doesn’t say so on the tape. Later she told us that she was the one who called. Sandra agreed.”

“What did she say on the tape?” the reverend asked.

Downer opened a folder and started flipping through the pages. “I have the transcript somewhere…”

“You can just summarize, Roy,” Rhonda said.

“The girl gave her address,” the sheriff said. “Then she said that her mother had killed herself. Very calm, very composed.”

“Our girls can sound calm to outsiders, even when they’re upset,” the reverend said.

Rhonda said, “She said that? ‘Killed herself’?”

The cop shrugged. “Near as I recall. We also talked to Dr. Fraelich, the doctor who was treating her. She confirmed that Jo Lynn had been prescribed antidepressants since her operation two years ago.”

“Oh! Here we go,” the district attorney said. “Yes, ‘killed herself.’ Exact words.” He pushed the sheet across the table.

“What kind of operation did she have?” Rhonda asked the sheriff.

Deke looked at the mayor. She wore a concerned expression that was very convincing.

“Uh, female problems,” Roy said. “A hysterectomy.”

“I see,” Rhonda said.

Deke glanced at the reverend, then back to Rhonda. Both these women knew that Jo had had an abortion a month before the hysterectomy, and Dr. Fraelich had helped with both procedures. Rhonda was fishing to find out what Fraelich had told the police.

The sheriff said, “Hormonal adjustment is how the doctor put it. She said it was perfectly normal in women to experience periods of depression after the operation.”

Deke said, “She’d stopped taking those pills months ago.”

“You know this for a fact?” the sheriff said.

“Maybe that was the problem: She’d stopped taking them,” Downer said. “Anyway, we’ll have the drug report this week and we’ll know if there was anything in her system.”

The sheriff said, “We know she was distraught. Her daughters said she’d been upset that night. Crying and whatnot.”

“Upset about what?” the reverend asked.

“They didn’t know.”

Downer said, “I got the impression it was just general weeping. Something she did a lot, evidently. If these kinds of hormonal problems affect menopausal women, who knows what affect it would have on a, a woman in Ms. Whitehall’s condition?”

The reverend leaned back in her chair. “What condition would that be?”

“I think he means the beta condition,” Rhonda said.

“No!” Downer said. “I didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort. It’s just, I mean, even normal women-”

Rhonda raised her black-penciled eyebrows. “Yes, Roy?”

The DA stopped himself before he began sputtering. He’d learned at least one thing since the Sherilyn Manus case, then.

“I think we’re done here,” he said. “If we learn anything new, of course we’ll call you.” He started closing down the laptop. The sheriff stood, hands at his sides.

The reverend said, “The ruling, then, is that this was a suicide?”

“That’s what the coroner’s report says,” Downer said. “I can’t see any reason to overrule it.”

“What about the note?” Deke asked.

“Pardon?” Downer said.

“If it was a suicide, you’d think there’d be a note.”

“Not always,” the sheriff said. “Sometimes it’s impulsive.”

“Did you check her laptop?” Deke asked.

Downer looked up. “The laptop… yes.” He looked at the sheriff.

“We don’t have a computer listed on the report,” the cop said. “And I didn’t see one.”

“It was a Mac,” Deke said. “A little white one with a fish bumper sticker on it. She used it all the time.”

“It’s probably in the house, then. Of course we’ll look at it.”

As they left the conference room Rhonda took his arm and let the reverend walk out ahead of them.

“What’s that look about?” she asked. “You’ve got your Chief face on.”

“I don’t know,” Deke said. “The laptop. Plus Dr. Fraelich didn’t tell them-”

“Shush. Your voice carries like a foghorn. Tell you what: Why don’t we stop back at my office. I’d like to talk to you about some things.”

“I’ve got some errands to run,” he said. “Up in Knoxville.”

“Oh, of course,” she said, as if she knew exactly where he was going. Maybe she did. It was near impossible to keep a secret from Rhonda. And if she knew a secret, she never let you forget it. “I’ll just nab you when you get back, then.”

They passed the cop Deke had seen on the way in. The man watched them as they crossed the lobby. Deke ignored him.

When they were outside Deke said, “Nab me about what?”

“Paxton’s going to sign the papers for his daddy.”