The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(41)

Very pleasantly, Lacy said, “We know he lived there around 2000 and worked as a painter and remodeler. This might be useful to you.”

Napier closed the file and managed another grin. “His girlfriend, the one he was living with, said he moved into this area a few years ago, but she has proven to be unreliable, to say the least.”

“And his family is from the Atlanta area?” Lacy asked. It was a question but her tone left no doubt that she knew the answer.

“How’d you know that?”

“We found his obituary, if you could call it that.”

Napier said, “We’ve had little contact with his family. Quite a bit, though, with the Dunwoodys.”

Lacy offered another smile and asked, “Is it fair for me to ask if you have a suspect?”

Napier frowned at the sheriff, who returned the scowl. Before they could say no, Lacy said, “I’m not asking for the name of a suspect, I’m just curious as to whether you have any solid leads.”

Sheriff Black blurted, “There are no suspects.”

“Do you have one?” Napier asked.

“Maybe,” Lacy said without a smile. Both cops exhaled loudly, as if suddenly relieved of a burden. Darren would say later that he caught them glancing at each other as if they wanted to pounce on her single word: “Maybe.”

Lacy asked, “What can you tell us about the crime scene?”

Napier shrugged as if this might be difficult. Black said, “Okay, what are the rules here? You’re not law enforcement, you’re not even from this state. How confidential is this little chat? If we talk details they stay here, right?”

“Of course. We’re not policemen but we do occasionally deal with criminal behavior, so we understand confidentiality. We have nothing to gain by repeating any of this. You have my word.”

Black said, “The crime scene revealed nothing. No prints, fibers, hairs, nothing. The only blood belonged to the two victims. No signs of resistance or a struggle. Verno was strangled but also had a severe head wound. Dunwoody’s skull was splintered.”

“And the rope?”

“The rope?”

“The rope around Verno’s neck.”

Napier was about to respond when Black stopped him. “Wait. Can you describe the rope?” he asked Lacy.

“Probably. A thirty-inch piece of three-eighths nylon, double twin braid, marine grade, either blue and white or green and white.”

She paused and watched as both faces registered disbelief. Then, “Secured at the base of the skull with a double clove hitch knot.”

Both cops recovered quickly and regained their poker faces. Napier said, “I take it you know our man from somewhere else.”

“Possibly. Can we take a look at the photos?”

Lacy had no idea of their frustration. For five months now, every lead had gone nowhere. Every Crime Stopper’s tip had done nothing but waste more time. Every new theory had eventually petered out. Verno’s murder was so carefully planned that there had to be a reason for it, but motive eluded them. Little was known of his unremarkable past. On the other hand, they were convinced that Dunwoody had simply picked the wrong spot. They knew everything about him and nothing suggested a motive.

Could Lacy and the BJC be their first break?

They spent half an hour poring over the gruesome crime scene photos. Sheriff Black had important meetings elsewhere but they were suddenly canceled.

When Lacy and Darren, still silent, had seen enough, they packed their briefcases and got ready to leave.

The sheriff asked, “So, when do we talk about this suspect of yours?”

Lacy smiled and replied, “Not now. We see this meeting as the first of several. We want a good working relationship with you, one built on trust. Give us some time, let us do our investigation, and we’ll be back.”

“Fair enough. There is one other bit of evidence here that might be helpful. It’s not in the file because we’ve been sitting on it since the murders. It seems as though our man may have made a mistake. We know what he was driving.”

“Helpful? Sounds pretty crucial.”

“Perhaps. You saw the photos of the two cell phones he took from his victims. He drove about an hour north of here to the small town of Neely, Mississippi. He put them in an envelope, a five-by-eight-inch padded mailer, and addressed it to my daughter in Biloxi. He dropped the package into a standard blue box outside the post office.”

Napier pulled out another photo, one of the mailer with the address.

The sheriff continued. “We tracked down the cell phones within hours and found them in the box in Neely. They’re still at the state crime lab but so far have given us nothing.”

He looked at Napier, who took the handoff. “Someone saw him stop at the post office. It was about seven p.m. on that Friday night, roughly two hours after the murders. There was no traffic in Neely because there never is, but a neighbor saw a pickup truck stop at the post office. A man walked to the box and dropped in the package, the only one deposited after five p.m. on that Friday. Not much mail in Neely either. The neighbor thought it was odd that anyone would choose that time to drop off some mail. He was on his porch a good ways off and he cannot identify the driver. But the truck was a gray Chevrolet, fairly late model, with Mississippi tags.”

“And you’re certain it was the killer?” Lacy asked, a very nonprofessional question.