Greg Iles - Turning Angel

“No. The police talked to Mrs. Townsend not long ago. That’s what I heard, anyway. They asked for the names of Kate’s closest friends.”

“Do you know whose names she gave them?”

“No. The truth is, Kate didn’t have any close friends. Not for the past year or so. I mean, we all thought of her as a friend, but nobody was really in her business, you know? Half the time, no one even knew where she was.”

The police are going to find this fact very interesting. “Did you ever ask her where she was? Or try to figure out where she might be?”

“Not really. Steve did, of course. Like I told you, he always insisted she had some secret boyfriend, one she was ashamed for us to know about. But no one ever saw her with another guy.”

I’m tempted to ask Mia if she ever saw Kate alone with Drew; she and her classmates might have seen them together and not thought twice about it. But there’s no point in alerting her to the true nature of that relationship. “Was Kate tight with any of the black kids at St. Stephen’s?”

Mia looks curiously at me. “Why?”

I’m not going to tell her about the blackmail call or Drew’s assessment of the possible caller. “It might be important.”

“Don’t tell me they’re going to try to railroad a black guy for this.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, from what I’ve read, that used to happen all the time around here in the old days. You know how it was. That’s why you took that civil rights case, right?”

“Yes and no. The truth is, I’m worried about ’them‘ railroading a white guy for Kate’s murder. What about my question?”

“Well, we only have four black guys in our class. We’re a pretty small class, so everybody knows everybody. But Kate didn’t have any special thing with any of the black guys. You talking about sex?”

“Not necessarily. Any special relationship.”

“I’ll ask around, but tonight my answer is no.”

“Okay.” I pull the towel tight across the cut on my back. “Thanks for staying tonight. I’m going to hit the shower now.”

She smiles and gives me a little wave. “Bye.”

“Hey, did Caitlin call while I was gone?”

“No. No calls.” Her eyes probe mine for a hidden reaction to this news.

“Thanks.”

Her gaze lingers a moment longer, and then she walks down the hall to the front door. “Tell Annie I’ll see her tomorrow afternoon.”

“I will. Thanks again.”

The front door slams.

I’m almost asleep when the telephone rings beside my bed. I’m too tired and sore to roll over and look at the caller ID. I took three Advil after my shower, knowing that without them I’d hardly be able to move in the morning. The answering machine can get this one for me.

“Penn?” Caitlin says after the beep, her voice sounding clipped and very Northern after Mia’s soft drawl. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your earlier calls. I was at a party for a reporter who’s leaving the Herald, and the band was so loud I couldn’t hear anything. I’m sure you’re sleeping now. Look, I got a call from one of our reporters at the Examiner. She said a St. Stephen’s girl named Kate Townsend was murdered today. Raped and strangled, she said, or at least that’s what it looks like. No autopsy until tomorrow morning. Have you heard about that? I think I played tennis with this girl at Duncan Park. She was really sharp, going to Harvard, she said. Well…I guess I won’t talk to you until tomorrow. I hope we can see each other soon. I know this sucks. I’m really getting a lot done, though. I may crack this thing soon. I hope the new book’s going well. Talk to you tomorrow. I love you. Bye.”

I was near to picking up the receiver when Caitlin signed off. I’m not sure why I didn’t. But I can’t help wondering why a Natchez reporter was able to get through to Caitlin when I wasn’t. And half of her message was about Kate’s murder, almost as if she were calling me to get details for a story. It’s not that I don’t want to share things with her. But I want her to be here to share actual experiences with me, not call for reports when things sound interesting.

A wave of relief goes through me when the phone rings again. I roll over onto one elbow and answer.

“Hey, babe,” I murmur. “Sorry. I was half sleep before.”

“Penn?” says a male voice.

“Yeah, Drew. What is it?”

“I was surfing the Web, and I found a site maintained by the Mississippi Supreme Court. They’ve got the whole criminal code posted there. And from what I can tell, statutory rape only applies to girls under sixteen, not eighteen.”

I blink in the darkness. “Are you sure? I remember the statute pretty well. Of course I learned it before moving to Texas for fifteen years. The legislature could have changed it.”

“Here’s the applicable language. ’The crime of statutory rape is committed when any person seventeen years of age or older has sexual intercourse with a child who: one, is at least fourteen but under sixteen years of age.‘ There are qualifications, but they all deal with even younger victims and the age difference between victim and perpetrator. It also says, ’Neither the victim’s consent nor the victim’s lack of chastity is a defense to the charge of statutory rape.‘”

“They must have changed the statute,” I say in disbelief. But even as relief courses through me, a sense of foreboding rises in my mind. “Drew…I think I read somewhere that some states were moving in this direction because there were so many suits being brought by parents who hated their daughters’ boyfriends. You’ve got two seventeen-year-olds having consensual sex. The guy turns eighteen and bam, the girl’s parents try to lock him up for statutory rape.”

“So, I’m in the clear?”

“Under that statute,” I say uneasily. “But somehow I don’t think you’re out of the woods yet.” What is it? I wonder, searching my memory for the source of my anxiety. “There’s definitely a sexual harassment issue here, but of course that’s a civil matter. It’s criminal charges we’re worried about, felonies in particular.” Suddenly, a voice is sounding in my head, the voice of my old boss, the district attorney of Houston: lascivious touching or handling of a minor…contributing to the delinquency of a minor, and then the big one, sexual -“Drew, are you still at your computer?”

“Yes.”

“Look up sexual battery.”

I stare up at the dark ceiling, listening to the clicking of keys and praying that my instinct is wrong. “What does it say?”

“Just a minute. Okay…uh…”

“Read it aloud.”

“Here…’A person is guilty of sexual battery if he or she engages in sexual penetration with (A) another person without his or her consent.‘ I’m okay there.”

“Keep reading.”

“ ’(B) a mentally defective, mentally incapacitated, or physically helpless person. (C) A child at least fourteen but under sixteen years of age, if the person is thirty-six or more months older than the child.‘ Thank God.”

Drew sounds so relieved that I’m tempted to let him hang up and get a good night’s sleep. But I’m almost certain that bad news is coming. “Keep reading.”

“Okay. There’s a second paragraph. ’A person is guilty of sexual battery if he or she engages in sexual penetration with a child under the age of…‘ ”

His voice falters. “Drew?”

“Eighteen,” he whispers. “It says eighteen here.”

“Keep reading.”

“Oh, God. Oh, no.”

“Please read it for me.”

“ ’…if he or she engages in sexual penetration with a child under the age of eighteen years if the person is in a position of trust or authority over the child including without limitation the child’s teacher, counselor, physician, psychiatrist, psychologist, minister…‘ ”