Reggie and I sat at the café table in the bunkhouse and reviewed the case file of Abigail Nichols’ murder. He handed me an eight-by-ten photo taken in her living room. A pool of blood darkened the floor. Blood was splattered on the wall and the furniture. When I looked up, he handed me a second picture of the victim draped across a bed. The picture was taken from a distance, but the damage to her face was still easily discernible. He handed me another picture and said, “This is what she looked like before she was attacked.”
I handed Reggie the photograph of Abigail Nichols taken by Harry. “I don’t know if it’s any consolation, but your cousin couldn’t have been raised by a kinder person,” I said.
“He should have been raised by his momma and papa,” said Reggie. “Knowing the pain his kidnapping caused my aunt and uncle and still causes my family, it wouldn’t matter to me if she was Mother Teresa.”
I didn’t press the point any further. “So, someone beats her and then carries her to her bedroom?”
Reggie nodded. “That’s what Detective Hunter believes happened.”
I looked again at the picture of Abigail lying on the bed. “Give me a reason to believe that Albert Loftus did this?”
“The prevailing theory is that Albert believed Jennifer Rice was hiding money in the house and kept hitting her to get her to talk. Basically, he just got carried away.”
“And the cops focused on Albert because of an anonymous tip?”
“A guy called and said he saw a man running out of the house and jumping into a truck. He gave a partial plate number and hung up. A neighbor told police that he thought he saw someone come out of the garage door. He didn’t see where the man went, but he confirmed that a truck parked in front of the driveway was driven away shortly after he saw the man come out of the garage door. Not exactly consistent but close enough. They caught up with Albert trying to leave town.”
I studied the two photos. “I was in a minimum security facility with lots of white collar criminals. Most of these guys were wimps, afraid of the shadows, afraid to sit too long on the toilet, afraid of sleeping at night. But not all were like that. Sometimes a prosecutor would trade time in a minimum security prison for information, so we had a few thugs in our midst. An inmate named Carlos was an accountant accused of stealing money from his employer. Rumor was that he had a stash of cash. Three tough guys were getting out and wanted Carlos to tell them where the money was. He wouldn’t or couldn’t. The beating was methodical and slow. His fingers were broken. Most of his teeth were knocked out or broken. When it was done, Carlos was brain dead. Abigail doesn’t look to have been tortured, just beaten.”
“So what’s your point? Albert wanted to know where her money was. He hit her too hard, thought bad about it, and put her in her bed thinking she was still alive. Case still closed.”
“Show me the close-ups of her face and hands”
“You sure?” asked Reggie.
I nodded and understood why he’d asked. Abigail’s left eye had been punctured and her nose bent to a horrific angle. But for all the gore, the photographs offered an alternate theory of why she was beaten. I pointed to her hand. “Tell me that someone intent on stealing money would have left what looks like a two-carat diamond ring on her finger? Even if it isn’t real, it looks like it might be.” I showed Reggie the photo of the living room. “That’s a diamond stud earring next to the chair leg. Why didn’t Albert pick it up?”
“The facts never line up perfectly. Albert admits to being at the scene, and there were stolen items in his car. Those are pretty solid reasons to accuse him of murder. There is no evidence that, as he claims, he was framed. For Albert’s story to be true, the actual killer would have had to be in the house when he arrived, avoided being seen, and taken the jewelry to Albert’s truck before he got there. Albert said he came in, saw the body, and left. You have to go where the facts take you, even if your gut says something’s not right.”
“All right. Now tell me why we should think that Albert didn’t kill her.”
Reggie handed me two DNA reports. “This sample is from a cup found on the kitchen counter. It’s a partial match to the victim. It’s probable that it belongs to a sibling of the victim. Keep in mind that for now, the police believe that the victim is Jennifer Rice. She didn’t have any known siblings, so the DNA evidence is considered inconclusive. Abigail Nichols, on the other hand, has a brother, Willet, and it’s likely that the DNA came from him.
“The other report is from a sample taken from a glass in the dishwasher. That sample belongs to Baby John. Again, my uncle isn’t known to have any children. We also know that violence is not something that Albert is known for. The DNA doesn’t prove anything because we have no way of knowing when the cup and glass were used. But just the fact that Willet and Baby John knew the victim well enough to be in her house makes them persons of interest. Until Detective Hunter eliminates them as suspects, it’s hard to imagine a defense attorney who couldn’t convince at least one juror that Albert isn’t guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Of course, we haven’t told Detective Hunter about Willet and Baby John, so she can’t really do her job.”
“So far, we’re doing it for her,” I said. “I don’t see how we’re impeding her investigation in any way.”
Reggie grimaced. “I don’t know if I can play this game, Shep. I screwed up using the DNA database for my own purposes. Now I’m keeping a colleague of mine from doing her job. What if Albert killed Abigail but the truth about who she was, and about the DNA, doesn’t come out until the trial or on appeal? He’ll walk and Detective Hunter’s reputation will be ruined. I don’t think I can keep quiet any longer.”
I ignored him. “Willet has been looking for something in the old Nichols home for years, so maybe he thought his sister knew where it was. He might have asked her and, when she said she didn’t know, he hit her”
“So how do you explain the stolen jewelry found in Albert’s car?” asked Reggie.
“I don’t know. Maybe Albert did it.”
Reggie shrugged. “So basically we have no idea who killed Abigail or where Baby John is. How is all of this talk getting us anywhere?”
I retrieved two beers from the fridge and offered one to Reggie. “You know how this works. A few days ago, we didn’t know whether Baby John was alive or who took him. Give me a few more days. I’ll keep asking questions until something turns up.”
“You keep saying that,” replied Reggie. He slipped the pictures and DNA reports into the folder. “A few days and that’s it.”
“You hungry? Frieda left half a meat loaf and part of a German chocolate cake in the fridge.”
I put the meat loaf in the microwave. Reggie stared at me across the kitchen table.
“Something you’d like to say?” I asked.
“Now that we’re friends again, I think I can be honest and say, no offense intended, that it appears you’ve moved from one dump to another. Reilly left you a lot of money. You could afford to live better.”
“Robbie, Doc, Frieda, my aunt, the cats—all want to know what I’m going to do with my life, and I give them the same answer. I don’t have a clue.”
Reggie scoffed. “That’s bullshit. If you didn’t have a clue, you would have left here after you were shot. But you didn’t. So, you see, I think you do have an idea. I think something has popped into your head but you’re keeping it to yourself. I want to know what it is.”
I heard the microwave ding, but I didn’t move. “I might have had a thought or two. So what?”
“Tell me.”
“I haven’t really thought it through”
“Tell me anyway.”
“All right, but if I even think you’re chuckling, I’ll break this beer bottle over your head.”
Reggie stifled a laugh. “No chuckling.”
“When I was high on pain pills, I used to think about reopening the poor farm. It’s crazy, but that’s what’s occurred to me. So, now that we’re done with that, let’s eat.”
Reggie grabbed my arm. “That’s one fucking crazy thought,” he said. “I think it is like fantastically cool!”
I waved my hand at him. “It’s a drug-induced fantasy.”
I put the meat loaf on the table and let Reggie help himself. “So how would your poor farm actually work?” he asked. “Would you bring in the poor and the helpless and use them as free labor? You know, raise cotton, corn, and taters, like in the song?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said defensively.
“Yup. You could be called Massa Shep. I think it suits you. You could sell Massa Shep mugs and T-shirts online.”
I put down my fork. “All right, all right. Here it is. I would find people capable of sustaining themselves but who’ve had bad luck. A lost job. An illness. An abusive spouse. A one-time brush with the law. I’d have a training center for the adults, and a school for the kids. After training, I would help find each adult a job or help him or her start a business. For a year, I would provide them adult housing and maybe subsidize their salary. If a graduate of the program agrees to help train another person, I would help with the expenses. I’d like to build an amphitheater in the pasture so that, during the summer, we could have benefit concerts to raise money for the farm. Maybe we’d also have a music program for the kids.”
Reggie stared at me for a moment, then returned to eating. “Yup. I can see you haven’t thought about it much.”
“Now you know.”
We ate in silence. I cleared the dinner plates and offered Reggie coffee.
“What Abigail offered those kids at the church was hope,” he said.” Hope is a very precious thing to offer folks looking down a dark hole. I think your idea for the farm may seem way out there to some, but that’s what hope is about. For all your flaws and demons, you’re the most hopeful person I know. I like your idea. I think you should think it through some more, get some advice from people who know about these things, and go for it.”
I brought two large slabs of cake to the table. “Jesus Christ, Reggie, you’re as crazy as I am.”
He laughed. “It would appear so.”
Reggie left me the case file and a lot to think about. He promised that he would resist any impulse to call Detective Hunter, and I promised to keep him in the loop with whatever I learned.
With so much to think about, I was like a cat in front of a door. When inside, the cat wants out. When outside, the cat wants in. Basically, the cat wants the door to be removed so it doesn’t have to decide one way or the other.
So when I was thinking about Abigail’s murder, I was distracted by the idea of opening the poor farm. When I was thinking about the farm, my thoughts turned to the pictures of Abigail and the fate of Reggie’s cousin. In the process, I forgot about calling Robbie, an oversight that I regretted as soon as I heard my phone ring.
“You better have a good reason for not calling,” she said.
“Reggie said pretty much the same thing when I forgot to call him”
“I’m waiting.”
“I’m sure I do, I just can’t recall what it is at the moment”
“So did you make nice to Agent Bauer?”
“I did. I think we were on our way to being good friends when Reggie showed up. He and I kind of got into a shouting match.”
“Kind of how bad?”
“You know. Two guys showing off their muscles, talking loud, and spraying spittle at each other.”
“And Agent Bauer witnessed this confrontation?”
“Some of it. I think he ran to his car and took off before things settled down. So, that’s where things are.”
“I need to talk to you about your making-nice skills and about Doc, so I’ll see you at the Bowlarama in an hour.”
I arrived early and found the bowling alley mostly deserted. I tossed the case file on the table and sat down. Chester Atkins brought me a cup of coffee, grunted a “howdy,” and departed. A few minutes later, the Reverend Billy Tripp ambled up to the table and lowered his massive posterior into the chair across from me. I will admit that the first thought that crossed my mind was how much weight the old wooden chair could hold.
“So how’s my favorite atheist?” he asked.
Billy was not really an ordained preacher, but a paroled felon who, by accident or providence, had gotten on the wrong bus and ended up in Lyle. The townsfolk thought he was their replacement minister, and he played the part. That was sixteen years ago, and he’s been playing the part ever since. When he’s not fretting over his hook ball, he is a voracious reader. He might be as close to an intellectual as Lyle has to offer.
I offered him a coffee or beer but he waved it all off. “Just need to tie my shoe. Takes me a while to get my leg up so I can reach my foot.” He tugged on his pants leg with both hands and forced his left leg across his right knee. “So I hear you’ve got yourself another murder investigation,” he said affably. “Last killing prompted questions about chimpanzees, the treatment of animals, and the Great Chain of Being. I thoroughly enjoyed that exercise. Any moral underpinnings of this killing that we can chat about?”
My Aunt Sarah joined us. “I thought you were done with investigating murders. Now you got Doc in a state. Like old times.” She turned to Billy. “What’s up with you?”
“Shep was about to tell me if the murder he’s investigating has an ethical component that is worthy of discussion,” replied Billy.
“Eugenics,” I said.
“Ah yes, the science that was supposed to provide a rational basis for racism. Being prejudiced is such a nasty state. But if it can be couched in scientific principles, we can be free of the moral burden that comes with hating someone who might be a different color or religion.”
“I doubt most people have ever heard of it. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you have.”
Billy pursed his lips. “Well, you might be surprised to learn that, in prison, I was once a member of a skinhead group called the White Brothers.”
“I’ll go out on a limb and guess that that’s not the name of a bowling team.”
“Nope.” Billy lowered his left leg, then repeated the shoelace tying process with the right leg. “We were dedicated to beating the crap out of non-whites. I never really understood why, but when you’re young and in prison for the first time, feeling safe is more important than loving your fellow man. Predictably, there was a brawl. I watched as these men punched and bit each other for no discernible reason. Since I didn’t join the fight, my membership in the White Brothers was short-lived. I got to know some of the older inmates, and one them told me about eugenics. I found some old books in the prison library and read them.”
Chester came by the table, nodded at me, and said to Billy, “I’ve got you set up on lanes twelve and thirteen.”
“It wasn’t all about racism,” said Sarah. “I mean do you really want a jailbird with six kids he can’t support having more? That’s someone that needs to be neutered like an old tom cat.”
“I’m sure most people would agree with you,” replied Billy, “but the argument is without merit. It always comes down to who decides and what the criteria are. Three crimes? Two kids? Four kids? I think history shows us that giving that power to the government produces lots of unintended consequences.”
Sarah glowered at him, “Jesus, you don’t have to get all preachy,” she said standing. “I was just saying.” She managed one more dismissive stare for each of us, then turned and walked away.
Billy dropped his right foot to the floor but didn’t stand up. “To Sarah’s point, not all eugenics was about race. But keeping the race pure for the good of the species seems to be one modern invention we could have lived without. I’d like to think we’ve come to our senses because we don’t teach eugenics in school anymore. Of course, another reason for not teaching it is that it would make our elders look like racists. If you’re interested, get a copy of The Passing of the Great Race published in 1916. It was a best seller, so it reflects the beliefs of its time. Some still believe it.”
He stood and stamped his feet. “Without belaboring the point, a lot of what we find immoral in the Nazis’ treatment of minorities was learned from America. We passed laws prohibiting blacks from marrying whites to keep the white race pure, and we enacted sterilization laws to keep undesirables from procreating. We wrote stringent immigration laws that limited the number of foreigners who could come to America. Asians were not allowed at all. We promoted the concept of a pure race—an Aryan race if you will.”
“But didn’t anyone see how crazy the notion of a pure race was?”
Billy laughed. “I’m sure some did, but they would have come up against folks like Theodore Roosevelt, Woodrow Wilson, Winston Churchill, Alexander Graham Bell, Margaret Sanger, and H. G. Wells. The eugenicists had money and prestige. Lots of work was performed at Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Stanford, and Johns Hopkins. Research was funded by the Carnegie and Rockefeller Foundations. The gene police thought they were doing God’s work. Opposing voices were just drowned out.”
“We never talk about it,” I said.
“I would like to say that we’ve learned from our mistakes, but it’s hard to be optimistic.”
Billy headed to the lanes. A moment later, Robbie arrived. “We’re going to get something straight here and now. You won’t be cutting me out of this investigation. Everything you learn, you will tell me about without me having to browbeat you. Any place you go, I’m going. Tell me that’s understood and agreed to, and I’ll tell you something you don’t know.”
“Message received and agreed.”
“The good news is that Doc Adams heard back from Ruth Littleton’s sister. Her caretaker is still alive. That’s what he told Sarah anyway. The bad news is that Doc isn’t inclined to tell you who she is and where she lives. Apparently, when he called the caretaker, she got real upset. Doc’s back to not wanting to dredge up the past, and his mind is made up.”
I placed a plastic bag of small bones on the table. “These are some of the bones that Gaylord found on the hospital grounds. They could be animal bones, but to me they look like little fingers. If I’m right, dredging up the past is exactly what we should be doing.”
“You know Doc. He’s not going to just change his mind because of some bones.”
I patted the case file. “How badly do you want to know why someone killed Abigail Nichols and what happened to the baby?”
Robbie glanced at the file folder and the bones and gave me an uncertain look. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because there are gruesome photos in this folder of what Abigail looked like after being beaten.”
“And you want to show them to Doc?” she asked incredulously.
“Getting information from people is not always a pleasant task,” I said. “We have to decide how important the information is and what we are willing to do to get it. I know Doc’s an old man, but right now he’s the only lead we have. Reggie’s on the verge of spilling his guts to a prosecutor. And I need to know what went on at Sweetwater. If we need answers, we can’t be worrying about being nice.”
Robbie stared at the folder. “Show me.”
I opened the file. “Are you sure you want to see this?”
When she nodded, I slid the crime scene photo of Abigail Nichols as she was found by the police. Robbie recoiled, then jumped from her chair. “For the love of God, how could someone do that to an old woman? Jesus!”
“Doc has to know that the person who did this to Abigail may still be out there and needs to be found. He also needs to know what happened to children at the Sweetwater Hospital when no one was looking.”
Doc’s house and office was a fifteen-minute walk from the bowling alley. He lived and worked on a residential street lined with old houses and older trees. The sun was bright, and the air, despite the remaining snow pack, was warm and sweet smelling. Birds were busily feasting on newly filled feeders. The voices of children playing could be heard even if they remained unseen.
We climbed the stairs to a covered porch that wrapped around Doc’s frame house. The door opened before we could knock. “What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ did you not understand?” he asked, joining us.
“The part of me that doesn’t let blind stubbornness stand in the way of doing the right thing,” I replied.
“You sound more like your mother all the time,” he replied, “and that ain’t no compliment.”
As he turned to go inside, I handed him the photograph and the bag of bones.
“The bones are the remains of babies killed by the doctors at Sweetwater Hospital,” I said. “The picture shows what happened to Abigail. You look at these and see if you change your mind. We’ll wait out here.”
“Then you’ll be here all night.”
The door slammed, leaving Robbie staring at me. “You were a little harsh,” she said.
“I was exercising restraint,” I said.
Robbie sat on a bench. “So what did Agent Bauer want exactly?”
“He’s trying to figure out whether to trust me or not. I think he wanted to see if I had spent my inheritance on expensive art and cars instead of dealing with Reilly’s taxes. Seeing the way I live was probably helpful. But after my tiff with Reggie, I’m not sure what he thinks.”
“I don’t understand the way you live, so I doubt he could.”
To my relief, Robbie didn’t pursue the issue further.
“I saw Gloria Strap the other day,” I said casually. “She seems to be getting worse.”
“Her sister Roslyn is worried about her,” said Robbie, “but they don’t have enough money to pay anyone to take care of her. Roslyn tries to keep an eye on her, but it isn’t easy. Gloria refuses to move to town. It’s tough”
“What do you think will happen to her farm when she’s institutionalized?”
Robbie studied me for moment. “Why would you care?”
The truthful answer was that my vision for version two of the poor farm required acquisition of her farm. But I wasn’t yet ready to have that conversation with Robbie and sought refuge in a plausible response. “I like the neighborhood the way it is,” I said. “I wouldn’t want some noisy neighbors moving in and ruining things.”
“Talk to Roslyn. Her number’s in the card file on my desk.” A few more minutes passed.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said.
“Yes I do.”
I paced across the porch until Robbie insisted that I either sit down or leave. I was about to sit when the front door opened and Doc shuffled out on the porch. He handed the photograph, the bones, and a piece of paper to me. “Sorry if I touched a nerve,” I said.
“Son, you don’t touch nerves. You hit them with both hands. All of this rummaging through the past does no good. But whoever did this… killing babies…” Doc groaned softly. “The caretaker you want to talk to is Carla Davis. She’s being taken care of by Margo Strauss, her niece. She lives in Manassas, not too far from here. Margo wasn’t too keen on you visiting her and bringing up the past and all because it upsets Carla, but I told her you just had a few questions and were trying to solve a murder. Margo wanted to know if she’d be on TV. I told her she might, so there’s that. Anyway, she’s expecting you tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, Doc,” said Robbie.
“Whoever butchered that woman won’t hesitate to kill you both. Don’t you two do anything stupid. I don’t want to regret helping you.” He sighed and went inside.
Robbie looked at me. “Probably too late to consider not being stupid”
“Pretty much.”