been loaded onto a covered truck before it rained and hauled away for forensic examination, but Anita doubted they’d find any fingerprints that would help identify a suspect.
The judge had apparently been ambushed when he attempted to move the tree from the driveway. There was blood on the tree trunk, and a few samples had been taken from the grass near the driveway and along the path where the judge had been dragged, but Anita expected the blood to turn out to be Judge Green’s. They’d collected some cuttings of grass and some soil that smelled like kerosene. They’d collected the rope the killer used to hang the judge. They’d collected portions of the trunk of the Bradford pear tree that had been lying across the driveway in hopes they might be able to determine exactly what kind of saw had been used to cut it down. Finally, they’d collected two cigarette butts, Marlboro Lights, from the grass beside the driveway. That was it. Anita also believed the judge had been beaten with a blunt object of some sort, but no weapon was found.
So, based on the evidence at the crime scene, they were looking for a man strong enough to drag the judge and string him up in the tree and who might smoke Marlboro Lights, a saw of some sort, and a container that held the kerosene. Not much to go on. Not much at all.
Anita had also learned that two witnesses reported seeing a white compact car in the vicinity of the crime scene around the time the murder was committed. Four blocks away, a neighbor of the judge’s, a retired air force colonel named Robbins, had been unable to sleep and had gone for a walk sometime between 5:15 and 5:20 a.m. He’d seen the car driving out of the neighborhood. It wasn’t speeding, but Robbins said it might have been swerving. He didn’t pay attention to the tag number, and he didn’t get a look at the driver. All he knew was the car was small and white. He thought the car also had a taillight out, but he didn’t remember which one.
Another witness, named Deakins, had called 911 at 5:26 a.m. to report that a white compact car had swerved across the center line on Highway 36 near Boones Creek and nearly hit her head-on. The witness said the car was traveling south, toward Boones Creek. It disappeared before a sheriff’s deputy could respond to the call.
It had taken Anita less than fifteen minutes to determine that one of her primary suspects in the case, Thomas Raymond Miller, age twenty, son of dead lawyer Ray Miller, owned a white 1995 Honda Civic.
Anita pulled the Crown Victoria into the driveway at 1411 Park Drive, the address she’d been provided for Tommy Miller. The large house, stained a deep red, had a cedar shake roof. She felt awkward about showing up less than twenty-four hours after Ray Miller was buried, but this was a murder investigation, and time was important. The fact that Norcross was with her was comforting. The big man was more than a good agent; he was intimidating without having to try. Witnesses tended to talk when Norcross was around. Sometimes he didn’t have to say a word.
Anita stopped the car and looked at her watch. Ten thirty; probably about five and a half hours since the murder. If Tommy Miller killed the judge, he’d certainly be surprised to see them so soon.
As the agents walked toward the front door, Anita saw there was no Honda in the driveway. She peered into the garage through the windows as she passed. A midsized black Toyota sedan was parked inside. Anita followed a concrete sidewalk to the front door, rang the bell, and waited.
After a minute, a red-haired woman opened the door, wearing a pair of pink sweatpants and a white T-shirt. The woman was pretty, but she looked disheveled. Her hair was unbrushed, she wasn’t wearing makeup, and the skin around her blue eyes was puffy. She looked as though she’d been crying.
“Mrs. Miller?” Anita said. She and Norcross displayed their identification. “I’m Special Agent White, and this is Special Agent Norcross. We’re with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. May we come in, ma’am?”
“What do you want?” Her demeanor was not one of compliance and cooperation.
“We’d just like to ask you a few questions,” Anita said.
“About what?”
“Please, Mrs. Miller, it shouldn’t take long.”
“Don’t you know I just buried my husband? Can’t this wait?”
“I’m sorry to have come at such a difficult time, but it’s extremely important.”
“Tell me what you want.” It was obvious she wasn’t going to let them in, so Anita decided to forge ahead.
“Actually, we were hoping to speak to your son, ma’am.”
“Why?”
“We’d prefer to discuss that with him. Is he here?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“It’s a yes or no question, Mrs. Miller. Is your son here or not?”
“I prefer not to answer the question.”
Anita noticed a tremble in Toni Miller’s voice. Her face was stern and emotionless, but she was obviously frightened. She’d moved behind the open door so that only her head was visible. Perhaps she’d heard about the judge’s death and drawn her own conclusions.
“Is there any particular reason why you’re being so difficult?” Anita said. Norcross stepped back off the porch and began to wander away toward the back of the house.
“ Me? I’m being difficult? You come to my home unannounced less than a day after my husband’s funeral, you try to barge in, you’re asking me questions about my son, and you won’t even tell me why you’re here.” She pointed toward Norcross. “And now he is trespassing on my property!”
“We can come back with a warrant,” Anita said.
“For what? Are you going to arrest me for something? Have you forgotten what my husband did for a living, Agent… what was your name?”
“White.”
“He was a lawyer. I know my rights.”
“All right, Mrs. Miller. I’ll tell you why we’re here. We’re investigating a crime, and we think your son may have some information that could help us.”
“My son doesn’t know anything about any crime.”
“We’d like to hear that from him.”
“Well, good luck with that,” Toni Miller said, and she slammed the door in Anita’s face.
17
Anita White knew she was being stonewalled, but she wasn’t the kind to sit on her hands and wait for something to happen. With the sound of the slamming door reverberating in her ears, she walked to the neighbors on the east side of the Millers’ home and sent Norcross to the neighbors on the west side. Both agents worked their way down and across the street. An hour later they were back in the car.
“There’s always somebody in a neighborhood like this who can’t keep their nose in their own business,” Anita said as she pulled back out onto the rain-soaked street and headed for the TBI offices on Boone Street. “It never fails. This one is priceless. She lives right across the street, but she still uses binoculars. Her name’s Goodin. Trudy Goodin.”
“And what did Trudy Goodin have to say?” Norcross asked.
“Tommy didn’t come home last night. Showed up here about a half hour before we did and left about fifteen minutes later. We didn’t miss him by much.”
“Would this nosy neighbor have any idea where he might be?”
“She said he was in a hurry. Made a couple of trips in and out of the house, threw a bunch of stuff into his car, and took off. She thinks he probably went back to school.”
“And where’s school?”
“Durham, North Carolina. He goes to Duke.”
“So let’s lay this out,” Norcross said. “Our suspect’s father commits suicide in Judge Green’s courtroom less than a week ago after publicly blaming the judge for his legal and financial problems. They bury the father yesterday. Our suspect doesn’t stay at home and mourn like a normal person. He doesn’t stay home to comfort his mother or look out for her in her time of grief. He spends the night out. The judge is killed sometime during the night or early this morning. We go to our suspect’s home, and his mother is totally uncooperative, almost
