CHAPTER SIXTEEN PODCAST: DID HE OR DIDN’T HE DO IT

Trayvon: Yeah, yeah, yeah. He had the tattoo. But we still have the misidentification problems. Maybe she didn’t even see a 666 tattoo. Maybe she just imagined it.

Shardai: (Groans.) That is such a stretch, Tray.

Trayvon: She had met him at a party, right? So maybe she knew him and was just thinking of him subconsciously when she got attacked.

Shardai: Also a stretch. But okay … let’s go with your theory for a moment. Let’s say Leigh Jones misidentified him and his tattoo because he’s White or she’s in shock or whatever … then how do you account for the other witness?

Trayvon: (Pause.) What other witness?

Shardai: The one who saw him around the lodge a few days before Nicole White’s murder.

Trayvon: Who? (Pause.) Oh, the farmer’s wife?

Shardai: The farmer’s wife? Did you really just say that?

Trayvon: (Laughs.)

Shardai: What … did she cut off his head with a carving knife?

Trayvon: Okay, okay. (Laughing.)

Shardai: Yeah, Tray. I think we can safely assume the farmer’s wife might have an actual identity in her own right. Esther Thompson is her name. The farmer’s wife, even though her husband’s been dead for some time now. But, yes, he was alive back then. And she saw Eric Myers loitering … I’ll repeat that … loitering around Hobbes Lodge earlier that day. She said, and I quote, “It looked like he was casing it.”

Trayvon: She did. She did say that. But … they also mentioned that she had cataracts. So …

Shardai: Oh, please Tray. Don’t even.

Trayvon: I’m just saying …

Shardai: And Esther Thompson is White, so it’s not a cross-race issue. And we can’t claim she’s in shock or anything. So … now that’s two witnesses that place Eric Myers at the scene. How you gonna explain that one away, Tray?

I take off my heavy headphones, my ears stinging.

I already tried calling Leigh Jones twice now, obtaining her number too easily off WhatsApp. I left messages announcing myself as a Crimeline reporter, which often triggers an immediate call back, but not in this case. And I don’t want to cross the fine line between investigation and harassment.

But Shardai gave me another lead.

She’s right. It wasn’t just Leigh Jones who identified him.

I decide to reach out to the farmer’s wife herself, Esther Thompson. I search social media sites for her, but nothing comes up. She’s in her eighties, so I figured she might at least be on Facebook to show off her grandkids or decry Democrats or whatever. She’s not. But searching Whitepages on the computer, I get a hit on Esther right away. Jotting the number on a Post-it note, I pick up the receiver on my bulky office phone and make the call.

After four rings, Esther Thompson answers.

“Hello?” She sounds short of breath, as if she ran to pick the phone up.

“Hi,” I say, shifting in my chair and playing with my lanyard. “My name is Alex Conley. I’m a reporter at Crimeline and wondered if I could ask you a couple questions about an old case.” Crimeline usually pops up on the caller ID, so people trust my identification.

“What old case?” Esther asks, a wobble in her voice.

“Yes. It’s about the murder of a young woman named Nicole White, which took place about ten years ago. I understand you were involved in the naming the—”

Click.

The dial tone floods into my ear. I glance at the screen on the office phone to make sure the call wasn’t dropped. But it looks like the obvious occurred, she hung up on me.

Undeterred, I call her back.

“Hi,” I say, as soon as she picks up. “I’m sorry. I think we got disconnected and—”

“No, we did not get disconnected,” she says. “I hung up on you. Because you’re a despicable person.”

The accusation floors me. “I’m sorry … did I say something that—”

“Goodbye,” she says.

“Wait, wait,” I call out, then duck my head down as a few interns look my way. “I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to upset you. I’m just reviewing some of the facts and—”

“I’m hanging up now,” she announces.

“Wait,” I say again, in desperation. “Do … do you have Noah’s number at least? Can I speak with him?”

A long pause comes over the phone then. When she speaks again, venom pulses through her words. “Don’t you dare drag my son back into all that. He’s finally put his life back together and you’re trying to pull him down again?”

“I’m … I’m sorry,” I stutter, taken aback. “I really didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t call back here,” she hisses, and hangs up again.