“Well, maybe just one,” said Dwight, uncapping the plastic cup of dark and sweet iced tea.
As they opened their lunches, they were joined by an agent nearing retirement age.
“Hey there, Bryant,” said Scott Underhill. He carried a bagel in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other, and a thick brown folder was tucked under one arm. “Terry tells me you got some questions about the Martha Hurst investigation?”
“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. MacAdams,” Mayleen Richards said.
Dr. Grace MacAdams was tall and gray-haired with a firm handclasp and a slightly confused expression on her thin face. “I’m afraid I’m not completely clear on whether or not doctor-patient confidentiality survives the murder of a patient. I’m told that lawyer-client confidentiality can be breached, but—”
“Don’t worry,” said Richards. “I didn’t bring a subpoena with me anyhow. This was spur of the moment. I was talking with the pediatric nurse where Ms. Johnson took Mei and she said you were the one that recommended him—Dr. Trogden.”
“Oh yes.” Dr. MacAdams wore no makeup, but her smile lit up her whole face. “His dad and I interned together. Lovely man. And so is his son.”
“Anyhow,” said Richards, “I was wondering if Ms. Johnson told you who the father of her baby was.”
“The father? I don’t understand. Mei was adopted from China. I don’t think she knew who the parents were.”
“No, I mean the baby she was carrying when she was shot.”
Dr. MacAdams was clearly shocked. “She was pregnant?”
“The medical examiner puts it at about six weeks.”
Sadness shadowed the doctor’s eyes. “Did she know?”
“We aren’t sure.”
“I warned her that condoms weren’t safe, but she was worried about the side effects of the pill.” Dr. MacAdams opened the file on her desk. “She had an appointment to be fitted with a IUD last week, but she called and canceled it. And she was due for her yearly Pap smear in January. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Do you think she would have kept the baby? Carried it to term?”
“I really don’t know, Deputy Richards, but she wasn’t a schoolgirl, was she? If she was planning an abortion, I think she’d have kept last week’s appointment, don’t you?”
“Okay,” said Denning as their shift ended. “Let’s call it a day. We can finish it up here tomorrow morning.”
“Maybe we ought to make just one more sweep around the outer perimeter?” Castleman suggested.
“Waste of frigging time,” Jones grumbled.
“Not if everybody’s careful,” Castleman said pointedly.
“You saying I’m not checking every friggin’ ping?” the older man snarled. Even though modern detectors are featherweights compared to the originals, and even though he’d switched off with the others through the day, his shoulders still ached from carrying it so long.
“Look,” said Denning, ever the peacemaker. “We’re all bushed and getting sloppy. Two hours in the morning when we’re fresh ought to do it.”
“But another half-hour—”
“Give it a rest, Castleman,” said Jones, perking up now that he was sure Denning was going to let them leave. “That damn slug’s probably in the side of a car headed for Florida.”
He spoke facetiously, but Denning glanced at Castleman in dawning surmise.
“Damned if that’s not the smartest thing he’s said all day,” Denning muttered.
“No way,” said Mike Castleman. “Somebody’s car got hit, they’d be right on the phone to us. No, that slug’s here. We’ve just got to find it.”
Nevertheless, every local news channel carried the same story that evening: “And this update on that shooting death of a Colleton County DA last Friday: the sheriff’s department has asked motorists to check their cars. If you or someone in your household drove south on the interstate between Dobbs and Makely around four o’clock last Friday, they’re asking you to look and see if there is a bullet hole or a spot of freshly chipped paint on the driver’s side of that car. If you find one, you should call the number you see at the bottom of your screen and report it.”
CHAPTER 16
Florence Hartley,
Tuesday morning found me back in a courtroom in Dobbs for juvenile court, where I listened to a drugstore manager tell me how this was the second time this year that these two white teenage girls had shoplifted nail polish and lipsticks.
“The first time, they cried and said they’d done it on a dare. I gave them a good talking-to and they swore they’d never do it again, so I didn’t press charges. Now here they are back and, Your Honor, you know they know better. They’re in the school honor society. When I was in school, that meant something. We held ourselves to a higher standard.”
The parents wanted to make restitution, but I wasn’t having it. I fined the girls three times the value of what they stole and gave them suspended sentences on condition that they repay the store with money that came out of their own pockets, not their parents’. In addition, they were never again to enter that particular drugstore, and I
