Sanchez’s head to the gun that was lying next to Ramirez when the police found him. We’ve got Ramirez’s fingerprints all over the gun, and he had gunshot residue all over him. We’ve got the money from the trunk of Sanchez’s car. Some of it’s circumstantial, but it’s enough.”
“I disagree,” Mooney says, but he’s interrupted once again by his intercom. He talks for a minute and then looks up at me.
“It isn’t like her.”
“What?”
“Hannah,” he says. “It isn’t like her.”
“Hannah Mills?”
“She didn’t show up for work this morning, and she hasn’t called. How about going out to her house and checking on her?”
As if I don’t have anything else to do. Mooney is strangely dependent on me sometimes, but this seems a little over-the-top, even for him.
“Why me?” I say. “Am I a trial lawyer or an errand boy? If you think something might be wrong, why don’t you call the sheriff’s department and ask them to send a deputy?”
“Just go by and take a look around, will you? Maybe she just overslept.”
“Until one in the afternoon?”
“Just go. I’ve got enough on my mind right now.”
I sigh and start to walk out the door.
“What’s the address?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Mooney snaps. “I’ve never been to her house. Get it from Rita. And dismiss on Ramirez!”
19
Hannah Mills is the victim/witness coordinator for the district attorney’s office. As the title suggests, she deals with victims of crime and their families, offering comfort and reassurance, helping them through the difficult experience of dealing with the criminal justice system. She keeps them up-to-date on the prosecution, lets them know when they need to show up for court, helps them file paperwork for the victim’s relief fund if they’re eligible, and sits with them in the courtroom.
Hannah has been with us only a few months. Mooney hired her away from a similar job in the Knoxville district attorney’s office after he met her at a conference in Nashville. She’s thirty-one years old, holds a master’s degree in sociology, and is compassionate and dedicated. She’s also drop-dead gorgeous, with stunning blue eyes, a trim, athletic body, and a head of long, wavy sandy blond hair that seems to have a mind of its own.
When I first met Hannah, I sensed we had something in common. She was friendly and outgoing, but there was pain behind her blue eyes, the same kind of pain I’ve seen in the mirror. She must have sensed the same thing, because we hit it off immediately. A week after I met her, I invited her out to the house to meet Caroline. The two of them have become shopping buddies. One thing Caroline and I have both noticed about Hannah is that she never speaks of her childhood. Life for her seems to have begun after college.
The address the receptionist gives me is off Bugaboo Springs Road, a couple of miles outside of Jonesborough. It’s a small brick house surrounded by poplar trees, set about a hundred feet back from the road. The yard is neatly trimmed, and the gravel driveway is lined with red and yellow tulips. It’s an idyllic setting, especially since the storm has cleared out and the sun is shining brightly. I park my truck behind the blue Toyota Camry that belongs to Hannah and walk to the front door.
I knock a few times and immediately hear a puppy whining. I cup my hands around my face and peer through the windows in the door and, sure enough, a small puppy-it looks like a floppy-eared cocker spaniel-is scratching at the bottom of the door from the inside. Hannah’s mentioned that she picked up a puppy at the animal shelter, but I can’t remember whether she told me what she named it. I knock several more times and then try the door. It’s locked.
I walk around the house, calling Hannah’s name, looking in and knocking on the windows. There’s no movement inside, save for the puppy, which follows the sound of my voice and continues to whimper. The back door is unlocked, and I debate for a second whether I should go inside. I decide she could be sick or injured, and I open the door. An odor of urine and feces greets me along with the puppy. I pick up the puppy, and it wriggles excitedly. I look down and see two small bowls, both empty. The dog apparently hasn’t been fed or watered. I scratch its ears as I walk slowly through the kitchen and continue to call Hannah’s name.
It takes only a few minutes to go through the house. Besides the kitchen, there’s a small dining area and a den, a bedroom that has been converted into an office, another bedroom, and a bathroom. Given the way the day has gone so far, I expect to find something horrible around each corner. I step into the bedroom and see that the bed is made. A small leather purse is sitting on the pink comforter along with a red Windbreaker. There’s an empty glass in the sink in the kitchen, but aside from that and the feces and urine the puppy has deposited on a mat near the back door, the house is spotless.
I open a door off the kitchen that leads to a basement and peer down into the darkness.
“Hannah? Hannah? Are you there?”
No one answers, so I flip on the light and walk down the steps. The floor is concrete, and the walls are unpainted concrete block. There’s a washing machine and a dryer in one corner and some gardening tools in another, but otherwise the basement is empty. I go back to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. A disgusting odor makes me gag. I look around in the refrigerator and quickly find the source-an unopened package of chicken breasts that has spoiled.
I walk back through the house again, this time looking for some telltale sign of disturbance, some small clue as to what has become of the occupant. I pick up the telephone and go back through the caller ID. She’s missed five calls over the weekend. I don’t recognize any of the numbers. I see there are messages but can’t bring myself to listen to them. I already feel like I’m invading her privacy.
Nothing seems to be out of place, but something is wrong. The abandoned puppy, the foul smell in the air, the purse on the bed, the rotten chicken, the car in the driveway. I put the puppy down, hoping it might lead me to something or someone, wishing it could talk, but all it does is put its front paws up on my knees and whimper.
I pick the dog back up, walk outside, and call the sheriff’s cell phone.
20
Sheriff Leon Bates shows up in less than twenty minutes. Bates is immensely popular with the voters in Washington County. He’s in the final year of his first four-year term, but there is no political opposition on the horizon that will keep him from being elected again. He’s so popular that when visiting politicians come around, they make a beeline for him. They all want to kiss up to him, to have their photograph taken with him. They want to gain his favor in the hope that he’ll endorse them come election time. He has a vast network of political connections, and even includes the governor of Tennessee among his closest friends. His political aspirations go far beyond the office of county sheriff, but for now, he’s content to stay put and wait for the right opportunity to come along.
Bates is the hardest- working law enforcement officer I’ve ever known. He sleeps at the office, a habit that cost him a wife, but even she still likes him. He knows every newspaper and television reporter around, gains their confidence by being honest and straightforward, and then is smart enough to gently persuade them to do stories that cast both him and his department in a positive light. He teaches a criminal justice class at East Tennessee State University for free, and speaks at churches, civic clubs, schools, pancake breakfasts, fish fries, and spaghetti suppers. I’ve never seen it, but I feel certain he helps little old ladies cross the street. Bates is a savvy Andy Taylor, a throwback to the days when sheriffs were admired in their small communities. But he’s also a man confronted on a regular basis by real crime in a county that continues to grow and develop. I was suspect of him when we first met-a natural inclination of mine-but in the past few years I’ve come to respect him as a man and admire him as a
