Dead to Rights Page 4

  Cal and Kelly headed toward the door, both stopping just before they exited.

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Arant, and you have a nice day.”

  Arant was already walking back to his desk and didn’t turn around, throwing one of his hands in the air for a half-hearted wave.

  Once Cal and Kelly were outside, Kelly gripped her husband’s arm.

  “I’ve got a feeling that Drake was right about this place.”

  Cal shook his head. “Well, I certainly didn’t expect it to be Disney World.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE PICKETT COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT located two blocks due east from the newspaper was so quiet when Cal and Kelly stepped inside that Cal wondered if the door was left unlocked by mistake. The air conditioning window unit hummed behind them, and a CB radio unit on top of the receptionist desk crackled with unintelligible chatter between bursts of static. But there wasn’t a person in sight.

  Cal walked up to the desk and looked around. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  A few seconds later, quickening footfalls grew louder until the door behind the receptionist area swung open. A uniformed deputy hung his head as he entered the room.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Mrs. Rollins’ cat got stuck in a tree again, and you know how she can be,” the deputy said without looking up.

  “Actually, we don’t,” Cal said.

  The deputy looked up, his eyes widening.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought—”

  “It’s okay,” Cal said. “We’re clearly not from around here, are we? Mrs. Rollins must be quite a character.”

  “Yeah, a character who doesn’t know how to keep her cats inside her house.”

  Another man entered the room through the door behind the receptionist desk.

  “Give her a break, Tillman. She’s eighty-two years old and doesn’t have anyone to help her,” he said before turning to face Cal and Kelly.

  “I’m sorry,” Tillman said. “I didn’t mean anything by it and—”

  “Tillman, that’s enough. Go on back and finish up the paperwork. I’ll help this nice young couple.”

  Tillman scurried behind the door and pulled it shut behind him.

  “Now,” said the other officer, “what can I do for you two?”

  Cal offered his hand. “Cal Murphy, Seattle Times. This is my wife, Kelly. We were wondering if we could speak with Sheriff Sloan.”

  The man spread his arms wide and grinned.

  “You got him, in the flesh,” Sloan boomed, his deep voice echoing in the room. “Let me be one of the first people to welcome you to Pickett.” He then eyed them carefully. “Unless you’ve been here before . . . and in that case—”

  “This is our first time,” Kelly said.

  “And as you might well imagine, we’re not here as tourists.”

  Sloan put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I never assume such things here. You might be here to report a stolen car or wallet. Or you misplaced some camping equipment in the swamp and don’t know where to turn.” He paused. “Or maybe you saw the Marsh Monster.”

  “We aren’t here for any of those reasons,” Cal said dryly.

  “Then how can I help you?”

  “We want to talk with you about Isaiah Drake.”

  Immediately, Sloan’s affable demeanor turned cold and distant.

  “That was a long time ago, and I really don’t have much to say about it.”

  Cal took a deep breath. “I know it’s a painful topic to you and—”

  Sloan banged both fists on the counter. “You know it’s painful? You know it’s painful? Have you ever had to scoop up your daughter’s lifeless and bloody body and put it into a bag? If you haven’t, you have no idea how painful that was for me.”

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I didn’t mean to—”

  “To what? Offend me? I’m not offended by any question about my daughter, but I sure as hell ain’t interested in talkin’ about it.”

  “I understand, but it’d be helpful for me if you could,” Cal said softly. “There are a lot of people who don’t know or don’t remember the details around that night. And I’d rather get it straight from the source than rehash articles from over a decade ago. I’m just trying to do my job well, sir. And to my knowledge, your side of the story’s never been told.”

  “Who wants to hear what a grieving, bitter old man has to say about his dead daughter?”

  “You’d be surprised. It might even help people who are going through the same thing right now. It’s not necessarily about getting people to pity you.”

  Sloan exhaled and glanced upward for a moment. “Fine. I guess I’ll answer a few questions for you.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. We really appreciate it,” Kelly said.

  Sloan motioned for them to follow him behind the reception area and toward his office. The rest of the department was filled with open desks, most of them arranged so neatly that Cal doubted they were ever occupied.

  Once they reached Sloan’s office, the only one with a door, he slumped into the chair behind his desk and gestured for Cal and Kelly to sit across from him. Stacks of paper cluttered Sloan’s desk. On the file cabinet behind him, several stained coffee mugs sat atop another mound of papers, which were also surrounded by wadded up cigarette packs and Snickers wrappers. Directly behind Sloan was a framed panoramic picture of Jordan-Hare Stadium, captured moments before the kickoff of a night game. A well-worn blue Auburn baseball cap sat on the corner of his desk.

  “War Eagle,” Cal said in an attempt to loosen up the sheriff.

  “War Damn Eagle,” Sloan responded. “Just because you know the saying doesn’t mean you know how to say it.”

  “It’s not my alma mater, but I know a little bit about life on the plains from when I lived in the south,” Cal said.

  “You used to write for the Atlanta paper, didn’t you?”

  Cal nodded.

  “I thought I recognized your name.” Sloan pulled a cigarette pack out of his desk and tapped the package against the palm of his hand. One of the cigarettes tumbled onto his desk, and he put it on his lips before fumbling through his desk drawers.

  “Where’s that lighter at?” Sloan mumbled.

  Kelly reached onto Sloan’s desk and grabbed it.

  “Here it is, Sheriff,” she said.

  He took it from her and smiled. “I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to my neck.” He flicked the lighter, and the cigarette crackled to life. After a long drag, Sloan threw his head back and blew a lungful of smoke into the air.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I smoke,” Sloan said, thumping the cigarette against the ash tray.

  Cal shook his head. “By all means.”

  Sloan grinned. “We don’t have all those stiflin’ regulations you big city folk have. If a man wants to smoke at his work and no one objects, he can smoke at his work.”

  “Well, where should we begin as it relates to the night of May 7, 2004?” Cal asked, sliding his digital recorder onto the edge of Sloan’s desk.

  Sloan eyed the recorder and folded his arms. He leaned back in his chair and looked upward as if pensive about Cal’s question.

  “I was workin’ the overnight shift, and it was relatively uneventful. I think we had a domestic dispute that one of the deputies handled, and that was about it. I went straight from the office to the restaurant.”

  “So you never left the office that night?” Cal asked.

  Sloan shook his head and pointed at his chair.

  “I sat right here all night long. Just another boring night in Pickett County.”

  “But it turned out not to be that way.”

  Sloan nodded in agreement. “That’s an understatement. It was far busier than usual when it came to criminal activity, though nothing we knew about until the next morning.”

  “What happened the next morning?”

  Sloan sighed and looked down. “I went over to check on Susannah and found her dead on the back porch.
” He took a deep breath and looked over his shoulder, fighting the tears. “I couldn’t believe it. My baby girl was gone. It was brutal.”

  “Did you normally go check on her?”

  Sloan bristled. “Is this an interview or an inquisition?”

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff. Let me rephrase that: What led you to go over there and check on her?”

  Sloan exhaled. “We met every Saturday mornin’ at eight o’clock for breakfast at Pat’s off Second and Main. The night before, she had called me to confirm we were still on and told me she had some big news. I asked her if she was going to tell me she was pregnant, but she just laughed and said she wasn’t that kind of girl. I was somewhat relieved. But when she didn’t show up, I called her but didn’t get a response. Then I decided to drive to her house and check on her. I thought maybe she’d slept in or had a hangover. I certainly wasn’t expectin’ what I found.”

  “Do you still have your logs from that night?” Cal asked. “I’d love to see them to give us some context for what happens in this town.”

  “Why the hell not? It’s all public record anyway. If I didn’t, you’d probably have some big city lawyer suin’ the county.”

  Sloan got up and opened the door to his office.

  “Tillman!” he called. “Help these folks to the archive room. They want to see the logs from May 7 and 8, 2004.”

  Cal and Kelly stood up and followed Deputy Tillman into a backroom. The walls were made of cinder block, and the file cabinets looked like they pre-dated 1960.

  “We keep paper files of everything for the twenty latest years,” Tillman said. “After that, they all go into a file box and are stored at the courthouse. The 2004 files are in that third section, top drawer.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Cal said.

  Cal and Kelly worked together to dig through the folders, which were haphazardly filed. Instead of being in a chronological position, they were grouped by months. But the twenty-fifth of a month could just as easily be at the front as the first of the month could be tucked away at the back of the group.

  After a few minutes of rifling through the papers, they found the logs for May 7, 2004.

  “Will you look at this?” Cal said.

  Kelly leaned over and studied the page before she gasped. She proceeded to pull out her camera and take a picture of the document.

  “Why would he lie about this?” Cal asked.

  Kelly shrugged as she stared down at the paper.

  Cal slid the page back into the folder. He jotted down the details surrounding the log: Sheriff Sloan had logged out around 9:30 p.m. He returned at 11:00 p.m. The reason for his departure was listed as personal.

  “Whoa. Can you believe this? Nine-thirty to eleven—isn’t that the window for the time of death for Susannah Sloan?”

  Kelly nodded. “So we hear.”

  “Why would he lie about something like that when he knows we’re going to check it out?” Cal asked. “He even invited us to look into the books.”

  “Pull that sheet out again,” Kelly said.

  Cal complied, and she studied the sheet for a few seconds and then began to nod.

  “What is it?” Cal asked.

  “That’s not his handwriting,” Kelly said. “Look here.” She pulled out another sheet in the folder that had his signature. “Totally different.”

  “So maybe someone signed him out.”

  Kelly nodded. “And since he was conducting the investigation, no one was ever going to ask him about it.”

  “But he was still covering his tracks just in case.”

  They put the files away and returned to the main office.

  “Did y’all find everything you needed?” Sloan asked.

  “We did,” Cal said. “But I’ve got just one more question before we go.”

  “Fire away.”

  “You said you were on the nightshift the night of May 7th, 2004, right?”

  Sloan stroked his chin. “That’s right.”

  “And you didn’t leave the office until the next morning when you went to go meet with your daughter?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Okay,” Cal said. “I just wanted to make sure.”

  Cal and Kelly thanked Sloan and left the office.

  They were on the street for a moment before Deputy Tillman came hustling out after them.

  “Mr. Murphy! Mrs. Murphy!” Tillman called.

  Cal and Kelly stopped and turned around.

  “What is it, Deputy Tillman?”

  “I just want to encourage you to keep diggin’ around on this story. I’m not so sure I trust Sheriff Sloan myself. Somethin’ isn’t right here.”

  “Thanks for the heads up, Deputy,” Cal said. “The reason we’re here is to find out what really went on that night.”

  “Good luck, and let me know if I can ever help you.”

  ***

  SLOAN STARTED TO WONDER IF maybe he hadn’t covered his tracks as thoroughly as he thought based on the way Cal asked his final question. Trying not to panic, Sloan waited until Tillman wasn’t paying attention before slipping into the archive room.

  Sloan thumbed through the folders until he found the one dated May 7, 2004, along with the other one from May 8.

  He immediately perused the logs, searching for what might have set off Cal’s curious line of questioning. And there it was, almost flickering on the page as if it were a neon sign: Lenny Parker signed Sloan out between 9:30 and 11:00 p.m. the night of the 7th. And he knew exactly what someone could infer from that piece of information.

  He decided to create a duplicate log for that night, erasing his missteps, even though he knew he didn’t really make any. Parker took up this assignment on his own initiative, even after Sloan had warned the young deputy not to do it. Obviously, Parker ignored him. But it was too late to reprimand Parker, who died a couple of years after the incident when he succumbed to the so-called Marsh Monster.

  Sloan knew his logs didn’t look good, not then nor in a few minutes after he’d have the whole incident covered up, stricken from the official record. If Drake’s case ever returned to court, it’d be a big city reporter against him—and all in front of a jury of their peers.

  Sloan liked that idea and those odds.

  But he had to work quick. He couldn’t let Tillman see him or anyone else for that matter.

  Sloan knew he’d screwed up, but he didn’t count anyone investigating him. He’d make it all go away—or maybe he’d be the one who went away.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE FIRST THING CAL NOTICED when he and Kelly stepped into Curly’s Diner—aside from the smell of burgers and the sizzling sound coming from the kitchen grill—was a signed action photo of Isaiah Drake playing for Auburn. Sports memorabilia lined the walls, and several banners touting Pickett County Pirate state titles hung from the ceiling. A trio of elderly men sat at the bar, huddled over their food. Trying to catch a smattering of their conversation, Cal could tell they were talking about college football and debating which school had the best chance to win the national title in the forthcoming season.

  Cal and Kelly sat down at the bar, leaving two empty seats between them and the trio. They hadn’t been sitting down for more than twenty seconds before a large man wearing an apron and a cap ambled out of the back and behind the bar.

  “Good”—the man paused to glance at his watch, held his finger up in the air, and mouthed a countdown—“afternoon. Sorry, I had to wait until the big hand reached the twelve before I could say it and really mean it. What can I start you fine folks off with?”

  “We’ll need a minute to look over the menu,” Cal said.

  The man slid a pair in front of them.

  “Let me get your drink started while you check it out. What would like?” His voice boomed, undoubtedly loud enough for all the patrons to hear.

  Cal and Kelly both ordered sweet tea and continued to study the selections.

  “You got it.”

  When th
e man returned with their drinks, he fished out a small note pad and a pen. “You decided yet? I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Kelly ordered the Curly Special, while Cal opted for the pork barbecue sandwich. The man didn’t write down a thing before retreating to the kitchen.

  When he re-emerged a minute later, he wiped his hands on his apron and proceeded to lean on the counter.

  “So what brings you two to Pickett?” Curly asked as his gaze darted back and forth between Cal and Kelly. “You don’t write for one of them food magazines, do ya?”

  Kelly laughed. “I wish.”

  Cal cut his eyes over at the picture of Drake on the wall. “We’re here because I’m working on a story about your hometown hero.”

  Curly huffed through his nose. “He ain’t a hero to many people around here any more.”

  Cal furrowed his brow. “Yet you still have his picture up.”

  “Someone has to remind this town about all the joy Isaiah Drake brought us. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let popular opinion or a bogus conviction tell me how I’m supposed to feel about him. Besides, he was set up. I just know it.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I was at the trial, Mr. . . .”

  “Murphy. Cal Murphy with The Seattle Times,” Cal said, offering his hand.

  Curly shook Cal’s hand and continued, “Well, Mr. Murphy, it was a sham from start to finish. The prosecutor and everyone else in this town had already decided Drake was guilty. There wasn’t the kind of evidence that should ever condemn a man to death, but that didn’t stop ‘em. He was convicted and sentenced to death for the sole fact that the victim was Sheriff Sloan’s daughter. But anybody who knew Drake knew that the prosecution’s story about what happened that night was ridiculous. Drake loved Susannah, and there’s no doubt in my mind someone set up him to take the fall.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Drake was popular in Pickett, so it wouldn’t be a long list. Perhaps a jealous friend, a rival, someone with an axe to grind.”

  “Got any names?”

  A bell rung, letting Curly know a plate of food was ready. He held up his finger and turned around to grab a pair of plates beneath the heat lamp on the counter. He quickly returned, sliding Cal and Kelly’s plates in front of them.