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  “No, Anne Bishop told me.”

  “I don’t know Anne Bishop, but I’m thankful she shared that information with you.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Heather. But I’m not a homicide investigator, so there’s not much I can do to help you. Who were the original investigators?”

  “Perry Jackson, if you call that asshole an investigator, which I don’t. He’s a useless piece of slime, if you want my opinion. But the other guy, the FBI agent, he was good. I liked him.”

  “Do you recall his name?”

  “Greg Harkins. He’s in the Owensboro office.”

  Owensboro is a town about thirty-five miles from my hometown.

  “Is he still actively investigating the case?” I said.

  “He says the case is still open, but…you know what that means,” Heather said. “It’s no longer a high priority for him.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with Greg Harkins?”

  “Three days ago. I know I’m driving him crazy, and I understand that unless some new evidence pops up, there’s not much he can do. But I can’t let it go. I want justice for Sharon.”

  That last statement unleashed a flood of tears. Angel placed her McDonald’s bag on a table, reached into her hip pocket, took out a package of Kleenex, and handed it to Heather.

  “Thanks. I’m such a big baby,” Heather said, after blowing her nose. “I know it’s been almost three years since Sharon was taken from us, but I refuse to give up hope. I want her killer caught and severely punished.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. Sharon Anderson’s murder had been bouncing around inside my head ever since Anne Bishop told me about it. Anne had pooh-poohed the notion that the murders of Luke Felton and Sharon Anderson were somehow connected, and even though I had no logical reason to contradict her line of thinking, I couldn’t escape the feeling the two homicides were linked. Maybe my imagination was playing tricks on me. But maybe it wasn’t.

  Either way, I couldn’t give Heather even the slightest hint that I was thinking along those lines. I didn’t want to get her hopes up unnecessarily. Besides, if the FBI couldn’t solve the case, what chance did I have?

  “Heather, my suggestion is to keep after that FBI agent,” I advised. “He’s your best chance for finding those answers you’re looking for.”

  Heather nodded, handed the package of Kleenex back to Angel, and silently walked away. I had no idea when or if she would speak with Greg Harkins again. But after our conversation, two things shifted to the top of my to-do list. First, I wanted to watch the tape of Perry Jackson’s interview with Todd Brown. I felt it necessary to judge for myself the quality and the fairness of Jackson’s technique, which Anne had given a poor review. And second, I most-certainly would contact Greg Harkins.

  Surely, an FBI agent should be able to address my notion that the two cases were linked.

  Twelve

  “God, I feel for that poor woman,” Angel said, emotion in her voice. “Her murdered sister’s body is left in a car the killer obviously attempted to hide in that pond. No wonder she’s so upset.”

  “Partial body.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Sharon Anderson’s head was missing. It has never been found.”

  “Thanks, Dad. That’s just what I wanted to hear while I’m eating supper.”

  We were in my room. I suggested coming here so I would be close to my laptop. That way, if an idea or thought popped into my head, some tidbit I didn’t want to forget, I could type it on the computer.

  “Who is Anne Bishop?” Angel asked.

  “Todd Brown’s attorney. And the answer to your next question is, no, I’ve never slept with her.”

  Angel grinned, said, “Good to know.”

  “What do you say we talk about you for a while?” I suggested.

  “Why? So you will be bored to tears? Okay, what do you want to know? And the answer to your first question is, no, I am not involved with anyone. Fact is, I don’t have time to devote to a serious relationship. Next question?”

  “What’s your major?”

  “I have yet to declare one. But that has to change when classes start this fall. The time for waffling has expired. I have to decide between psychology and, are you ready for this, creative writing.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not blind to the psychological analysis I’ll get if I do choose creative writing. There will be those who’ll say I’m doing it because I love my father and I want to follow in his footsteps, and others who’ll say I’m doing it because I hate my father and my goal is to put him down by proving I’m the superior writer. Neither of those judgments would be entirely right, nor would they be entirely wrong. However, to avoid any criticism, the safe road would be to forget writing and concentrate on psychology.”

  “Why not a double major?” I said. “Students do that all the time.”

  “I’ve considered that, and it’s a possibility. I love to write, and I think I’m pretty decent at it, but your shadow would always be hanging over me. How could I ever match your talent, your success?”

  “Angel, I’ve got news for you… you are a far more talented writer than I’ll ever be. And believe me, I don’t cast that large of a shadow.”

  “Come on, Dad, you are incredibly successful. You’ve made millions as a writer.”

  “Success very rarely has anything to do with excellence.”

  “Easy for the millionaire to say.”

  “You learned to write before your fifth birthday. Are you aware of that? And you were such an observant child. You paid close attention to everything that was said in your presence. And then you would wander off and write one-page stories for me and your mother to read. Once, after I told you the story about the scorpion and the frog, you went into your room and an hour later you came out with your own version. In your tale, the frog and the scorpion have their talk, the scorpion promises he won’t kill the frog, and they start out crossing the pond. Halfway across, seconds before the scorpion was about to sting his escort, the frog flips over and dumps the scorpion into the water. ‘Why did you do that?’ the drowning scorpion screams. ‘It’s in my nature to kill.’ As the frog swims away, he croaks, ‘True, but it’s in my nature to live.’ That was a very clever reimagining for a seven-year-old.”

  “I’m surprised you remember that.”

  “Remember? I have it framed and sitting on a shelf above my desk in Siesta Key. I look at it when I’m seeking inspiration.”

  “Wow, I’m stunned.”

  “Look, you’ve had a long day, Angel. I’m sure you’re worn out. Go to your room, get some rest. I know you can use it.”

  “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” she said, standing.

  “I want to get with Anne Bishop and take a look at the tape of Todd Brown’s interrogation. Then I’ll try to meet with Mark Robinson.”

  “Who’s Mark Robinson?”

  “The county attorney.”

  “What about Rabbit? Don’t you want to talk with him?”

  “We can always find Rabbit. That’s not a problem.”

  She came forward and gave me a big hug. It’s the first time that’s happened in twelve years. My heart soared with joy. I felt the wall between us was finally beginning to crumble.

  ~ * ~

  William Blake haunted my thoughts, keeping me awake much of the night. A lone thought led the onslaught. Had I become so enthralled by Blake’s belief in the sacredness of human imagination that I had allowed mine to travel a false path? I had to keep reminding myself that I’m no William Blake. He was a legitimate genius who genuinely believed the poetry he wrote was dictated to him by messengers from heaven. I’m a hack writer hoping to get information from a guy named Rabbit. Could the gulf between us be any wider? I doubt that’s possible.

  And yet I could not disconnect the murders of Sharon Anderson and Luke Felton. I was under no illusion that my belief had been sent down from a higher sphere, nor was there a shred of ev
idence to support my belief, but it had taken root in my mind and wasn’t going to fade away.

  Crazy? Insane? Improbable? You bet. I agree that those descriptions are accurate. But my imagination, rightly or wrongly, was as real to me as Blake’s was to him. I can’t escape that truth. In that respect, I suppose I do have something in common with the great William Blake.

  Around four, thoughts of Blake faded and I was able to catch a few hours of sleep. At nine, after showering and dressing, I grabbed my computer bag and went down to the breakfast area. To my surprise, Angel was already there. She was sitting alone at a table cutting slices of a banana and putting them into a bowl of Frosted Flakes. An apple was next to the bowl, along with a piece of toast. I filled a cup with orange juice and joined her at the table.

  I took out my cell phone and gave Anne Bishop a call. When she answered I asked if I could come to her office and view the tape of Perry Jackson’s interrogation of Todd Brown.

  “Sure, that’s not a problem,” Anne said. “But I can send it to your phone in five seconds. That would be quicker, and it would also save you from having to make the trip here.”

  “Maybe later you can do that,” I responded. “But I would prefer to see it on a bigger screen, if it’s not inconvenient for you.”

  “Not at all. Come anytime you want. I’ll have it ready to go when you get here.”

  “Thanks, Anne.” I put the phone away and looked up at Angel. “Are you about finished eating?”

  “I am. But don’t you want something more than a cup of orange juice? That’s not going to last too long.”

  “Not hungry.”

  Angel dumped her empty bowl and the banana peel into the garbage, picked up her apple, and said, “Okay, Dad, let’s book.”

  ~ * ~

  I was in no hurry to get to Anne’s office, so I decided to drive downtown and point out to Angel some of the places where businesses operated back when I lived there. I doubt she was all that interested in hearing about those old days, but I felt it was something I had to do. I wanted her to know a little about my past, and the town where I came of age. Blame it on nostalgia or sentimentality, I don’t care. I was being hauled back into the past, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. Like it or not, Angel was going on this journey with me.

  I turned onto Broad Street and immediately began pointing to my left, telling her that’s where the D&W Café was located. Then there was a florist shop, Winnie’s Grill, an alley, J.C. Penney’s, and the State Theater, those last two having been burned to the ground by a massive fire in the sixties. The heat from that fire was so intense it melted the J.J. Newberry’s sign across the street. To the right, on the opposite corner, there had been a bank, a hardware store, and the pool room, where I spent much of my youth. The next block had been dominated by clothing stores, including Barnes, Cohen’s, Vaught’s, and the M&R Shoppe. Sadly, not a single one of those businesses were still in existence.

  I curled around and headed up Morehead Street past where the elementary school once stood. Then I drove out to the prison where Todd Brown was confined and all the way to Green River. I turned around and went back to town, pointing out where the Coca-Cola Bottling Company once operated. Then we drove up the street and stopped in front of where the high school had been. It had since been torn down and replaced by a nice Convention Center. The old gym, however, was still standing, virtually unchanged after all these years.

  Then I continued up Ryan Hill, eventually connecting with Highway 62. This entire area was totally different from how I remembered it. To the left was a small shopping center, to the right was Walmart, neither of which was around when I was a kid.

  Angel’s silence made it impossible for me to get a read on what she was thinking, although I can’t imagine she was all that impressed. Remember, she had lived in cities like Los Angeles and Carmel, California. It would take a truly special place to make an impression on her. My hometown, then or now, certainly didn’t measure up to the places where she had resided.

  “Was your hometown a wild place to grow up?” Angel finally said.

  “Not when I was a kid, no. But back in the old days, especially the thirties when alcohol was still legal, it had the reputation of being a rowdy town. At least, that’s what a lot of the old-timers used to tell me.”

  ~ * ~

  We drove the rest of the way in silence. I spied a vacant parking spot right in front of Anne’s office and pulled in. Her office was directly across from the courthouse. I planned to check in with Mark Robinson when my business in Anne’s office was finished.

  A young black woman sitting behind a desk welcomed us in. After I told her who we were, she introduced herself as Emma. I didn’t know if she was a receptionist, secretary, or a paralegal. For all I knew, in a small office like this one, she might fit all those categories.

  We followed Emma down a short hallway into a decent-size conference room. In the room there was an oak table surrounded by six high-back leather chairs, two on each side of the table and one at each end, and a metal stand at the end of the table with a large TV sitting on it. Anne came into the room seconds after Angel and I took seats close to the TV monitor. She started to speak, but stopped when she realized I wasn’t alone.

  Seeing a look of concern on her face, I stood, and said, “Anne, this is my daughter Samantha. She’s visiting from California.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Anne paused, then asked, “Do you prefer Samantha or Sam?”

  “Sam works for me,” Angel said.

  “Pleased to meet you, Sam.”

  “Same here.”

  Anne picked up the remote device from the table and showed it to me. “This is a piece of cake to operate,” she said. “Your choices are Play, Pause, Rewind, Fast Forward, and Stop.” She handed it to me. “Take as long as you need. We’ll chat when you’re finished.”

  Instructions given, she and Emma left the room, closing the door behind them. I looked at the remote, hit the Play button, and the screen came to life.

  Seeing Todd Brown on the TV screen was shocking. Sitting in a chair, dressed in shorts, a Tee-shirt and flip-flops, he looked much smaller than he did in person. But then, most people would if they were being hovered over by two hulking behemoths like Perry Jackson and Jimmy Martin. Perry stood about six-one and weighed at least two-sixty, while Jimmy was six-six and two-forty. Todd was what…five-eight and one-fifty? He resembled a child in the presence of two gorillas.

  Despite the size disparity, Todd didn’t appear to be intimidated or afraid. If I had to describe his demeanor, it would be defiant. He kept his eyes locked on the two larger men, not once looking away. Perhaps this was in preparation for how he would have to act if he were sent to prison. In that cruel world, looking away could be taken as a sign of weakness. Maybe he was just getting ready for what lay ahead.

  It was less than a minute into the interrogation before Sheriff Perry Jackson began to browbeat Todd Brown. His tone became more forceful, and he moved so close to Todd that he was virtually in the poor kid’s face.

  PJ: You murdered Luke Felton, Todd, and I want to know why.

  TB: I don’t remember anything about what I did last night. It’s all a blank.

  PJ: Come on, Todd, no one will buy that pitiful excuse. You kill a man, you remember doing it. So…tell me why you killed Luke.

  TB: I can’t tell you what I don’t remember. Sorry, I just can’t.

  PJ: You did this murder, Todd. Admit it.

  TB: I can’t. I swear. Why don’t you believe me?

  PJ: Here’s why I can’t believe you, Todd. You were in possession of Luke’s ring, his blood was on your clothes, and we know for certain that you were in his car. Who else could Luke’s killer be? You did it, Todd. Admit it…a great weight will be lifted from your shoulders if you do. You’ll feel much better.

  TB: But I don’t remember doing it.

  PJ: Well, you did, Todd. I know it, Chief Martin knows it, and deep down you know it. Confess
. Things will go much easier for you if you admit what you did.

  TB: But—

  PJ: All evidence points to you and to no one else. You killed Luke Felton. Admit what you did.

  TB: Okay, you’re right, I did it.

  PJ: Did what, Todd? Come on, say it. I need to hear the words.

  TB: I killed Luke Felton.

  PJ (patting Todd’s arm): You did the right thing, Todd.

  TB: What happens now?

  PJ: I put the cuffs on you, read you your rights, get you booked and processed. Once that’s taken care of, you get to make a phone call. Now, stand, turn around, and put your hands behind your back.

  ~ * ~

  The tape ended then, before Perry recited the Miranda warning. I punched the Stop button and the TV screen went dark.

  “That was no interrogation,” Angel said, angrily. “That was an asshole bullying a child until he heard what he wanted to hear. The sheriff should be fired for behaving in such a cruel, unprofessional manner. That’s totally unacceptable.”

  I couldn’t disagree. I was as upset about what I’d just witnessed as Angel was. But I vowed to refrain from expressing my anger when Anne showed up. I’d already done that once before; doing it a second time would likely drive a wedge between us that couldn’t be removed. I had no desire to alienate a potential ally.

  Anne must have heard the TV being turned off. She came into the room, stood at the end of that table, and said, “A pretty sorry excuse for an interrogation, don’t you think?”

  Reining in my anger, I said, “It was much worse than I expected it to be.”

  “Like I told you, Todd didn’t confess nearly as much as he agreed with Perry.”

  Fact is, I had a lot more to say about the interrogation… in particular, what was left out… but I would keep those concerns to myself until I had the opportunity to speak with Perry Jackson. Now more than ever, it was imperative that he and I have a serious chat.

  “Thanks for letting us take a look at this,” I said to Anne. “It was ugly, but helpful.”

  “Do you want me to send a copy to your cell phone?” Anne asked.