Chasing The Dead

Chapter Twenty-One

Alex went home and changed into faded jeans, a long-sleeved navy polo, and boots. She played fetch with Quincy in the backyard using one of the many tennis balls he’d stashed around the house and yard, waiting for him to tire while she thought about Jared’s case.

When she met him at the jail, she didn’t ask him to tell her his version of what happened. She was more interested in getting a sense of him and beginning the process of building a rapport. The more he liked, trusted, and believed in her, the more likely he’d be to tell her the truth. She was under no illusion that he’d ever tell her the entire truth. Few, if any, of her clients did that. The most she hoped for was that he’d tell her enough of the truth that she could build a defense. And the more she knew about the case when she had that conversation with Jared, the more she could tell when he was lying.

Rossi’s investigative report and the prosecutor’s complaint gave her the outlines of the state’s case. It would be a while before she got any discovery from Kalena Greene and before Grace Canfield tracked down Jared’s army buddies or anyone else who might know something useful. That left the crime scene.

The courtroom was Alex’s favorite place, but the crime scene, alive with smells, colors, and textures and speaking a sign language peculiar to the horror it had witnessed, was a close second. The challenge was figuring out what the scene was trying to say.

She didn’t have the police photographs, the forensic report, or the physical evidence taken from the scene or Jared’s confession. And that was fine with her. She wanted to see the scene through her eyes first. There would be other versions told by people with an agenda, but the crime scene didn’t have an agenda. Though bloodstained, it was pure.

She’d driven by the scene countless times, the grassy, overgrown stretch of ground flitting past in her peripheral vision. It was flanked by I-435 on the west, Truman Road on the north, and Twenty-Third on the south. Jackson County had two courthouses, one downtown and another in Independence, Missouri, which bordered Kansas City’s easternmost edge. She regularly used both Truman Road and Twenty-Third to get to that courthouse, never thinking to detour onto the winding side streets that led to where the murder had occurred.

She exited from I-435 onto Truman Road, passing a porn shop called Erotic City. Its sign towered above the store’s roofline, enticing customers with the promise of literature, films, books, playthings, and videos. Once when she and Bonnie were about to pass the store, Bonnie made her stop, claiming she couldn’t live another day without knowing the difference between pornographic literature and pornographic books. She discovered that the difference was in the price and walked out with a few delightful playthings.

According to Rossi’s report, the police had entered the area from the north. Alex did the same, thinking to retrace Rossi’s steps. The north end was narrow and studded with stunted trees, their limbs bent and bare, and clusters of runaway weeds that tugged at her jeans as she strode past. The ground was riddled with hidden rocks and cracks in the earth that could snag a careless ankle and twist an unguarded knee.

The area opened up as she approached the center, which was flat and grassy, with few of the hazards of the north end, making it an inviting place to pitch a tent. The southern end was tapered like the north, with woods so thick she couldn’t see Twenty-Third Street.

A creek running north and south cut through the area at an angle. She was on the east side. There was another hundred yards of grass and scrub on the west side of the creek, with the interstate just beyond.

Rossi’s report described a campsite with a number of tents. Now there was only one, set deep in the shadow of a rock wall carved out of what was once a bluff marking the eastern border of the unofficial campground. Murder was bad for property values, even in a homeless encampment, Alex thought. Or maybe it wasn’t the murder. Maybe it was the scrutiny that came with the murder. Either way, the campgrounds had been abandoned save the one tent. Grace would have a hard time running down anyone who had been there that night.

Rossi’s diagram of the scene put Jared’s tent near the midpoint between Truman Road and Twenty-Third Street. She had no trouble finding his campsite. The grass was still beaten down and faded from where the tent had been. And it was the only vacant site with crime scene tape ground into the turf by an anonymous boot.

She made her way to the lone remaining tent, stopping when she was within twenty feet. The tent flap was half-open and she could hear someone stirring inside.

“Hello in the tent,” she called out.

There was no reply.

“Anybody home?”

Silence, then a raspy, smoke-addled voice answered. “Who gives a shit?”

Alex bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “I do. My name is Alex Stone.”

“Good for you. Go away.”

“I’d rather talk to you first.”

“And I’d rather be the queen of England, so it looks like we’re both gonna be disappointed.”

“No reason for both of us to be disappointed. All I want is to talk to you. That’s a hell of a lot easier than you giving up all of this to marry Prince Charles. And I’ve got twenty dollars for you if that will help.”

A burst of lung-busting coughing exploded inside the tent, after which a short, skinny woman wearing sweatpants cinched around her bony hips and a grease-stained yellow T-shirt stepped into the sun. Her gray hair was stringy and tangled and her eyes were bloodshot. She opened her mouth, sucking in air like it was hard labor, running her tongue where her teeth had been and sticking out a scrawny hand.

“Like the man says, show me the money.”

Alex approached, catching a whiff of the woman’s stench, a sour, curdled odor like garbage left to rot in the sun.

“C’mon, now,” the woman said, snapping her fingers, “I ain’t got all day.”

Alex held out a twenty-dollar bill and the woman grabbed it in a flash.

“Were you here the other night when they found that woman’s body in the creek?”

“You a cop?”

“No. I’m a lawyer. I represent Jared Bell. The police arrested him for murdering that woman.”

“Poor Joanie,” the woman said, fishing a cigarette from her T-shirt pocket. “Got a light?”

Alex caught her breath at the mention of the victim’s name. “Sorry, I don’t. You said her name was Joanie.”

The woman looked at her, squinting. “You deaf?”

Alex had represented enough homeless people to know how unpredictable they could be, whether because of mental illness or substance abuse or both. She didn’t want to antagonize the woman, so she kept her tone even and neutral.

“No.”

“So why you askin’ me was her name Joanie when I just got done sayin’ ‘poor Joanie’?”

“I’m sorry.”

The woman dug into her sweatpants, pulling out a lighter. She put the flame to her cigarette and drew long and deep, hacking and sputtering as she spoke.

“You’re so sorry about everything and none of it’s got anythin’ to do with you.”

Alex nodded. “You’re right. Let’s start over. I’m Alex Stone. Who are you?”

“Gladys Knight. The Pips are around her somewhere.”

“Nice to meet you, Gladys. Tell me about Joanie. What was her last name?” Alex asked, happy to play along.

“How the hell should I know? Last names are the last thing anybody around here cares about.”

“Was Joanie staying in one of the tents that were here the night she was killed?”

The woman’s cigarette had burned down to her fingers. She flicked it onto the ground. “You think I keep track of who comes and goes?”

“I think you haven’t survived this long without paying attention to what’s going on around you.”

The woman squinted at her. “True that, and so’s stayin’ out of what don’t concern me. And that goes double for you and Joanie and that no good, cocksucking, murderin’ Jared whatever the hell his last name is.”

Alex narrowed her eyes, studying the woman, anxious to find out whether her accusation was based on Jared having been arrested or whether she knew something more. She pulled out another twenty-dollar bill.

“Even if it doesn’t concern you, I’d sure like to know why you think my client is a murderer.”

The woman snatched the twenty, wadding it up in the palm of her hand with the first one.

“Wouldn’t you, now?” she said, grinning.

Alex forced a half smile. “Yes, I would.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I told the cops. Go to hell and don’t call me when you get there.”

She turned and disappeared into her tent, zipping the flap closed.

Alex waited a few minutes to see if the woman would return, calling to her but giving up when there was no response, uncertain whether the woman knew anything or had just played her for forty bucks. Rossi’s report made no mention of witnesses who had seen or heard anything, giving credence to the woman’s claim that she had told him nothing. Convinced that she wouldn’t get any further, she walked to the creek to see where Joanie’s body had been found, glad to at least have a first name for the victim, hoping the woman hadn’t scammed her about that as well.

She reached the creek bank, looked down, and nearly fell in when she saw a young girl, no more than ten, with alabaster skin and long, corn-silk hair lying faceup, eyes closed, her head resting in the soft mud, her legs stretched out in the water, her arms spread like wings.

“Oh, my God!” Alex cried, her hand on her chest, terrified she’d found another murder victim.

The girl’s eyes popped open. Seeing Alex staring down at her, she scrambled to her feet and dashed through the water and up the other bank before Alex could say another word. Without uttering a sound or looking back, the girl ran alongside the creek, vanishing into the trees at the south end. All Alex could do was watch her go.

Alex bent over, hands on her knees, and took a series of deep breaths until her heart stopped pounding. Who was the little girl? Was she playing a harmless game or was she reenacting the murder scene, and if she was, how could she have known the details and what could have possessed her to do such a thing? Alex had no answers to any of her questions.

She turned back toward where Jared’s tent had been. The woman had come out of her tent again but went back inside as soon as Alex saw her. Hands on her hips, Alex did a slow turn, taking in the grounds and seeing a sign that had been planted in the ground, christening the area as Liberty Park. Alex thought about that name, imagining what it was like to live and die in this place, and decided that Janis Joplin had been right when she sang Me and Bobby McGee. Freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose.