Injustice for all

21

I leave Leon Bates to what he believes is his crime scene shortly thereafter. There isn’t anything I can do. He’s already put in a call to forensics, a department he’s also funded with money seized from drug dealers. He’s hired and trained specialists so he doesn’t have to go begging to the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation every time he finds himself with a serious crime on his hands. His department even has a mobile minilab. It won’t surprise me if Bates winds up funding his own full- fledged lab sometime in the not-too-distant future. He’s become so proficient at arresting drug dealers that I find it hard to believe there are any left in the county. But I guess they’re like rats, multiplying in the darkness while the world around them pretends they’re under control. I take the puppy to a woman in Jonesborough who boards dogs, then drive back to the office.

I find Mooney in his office, sipping coffee, fiddling with his mustache, and reading the Johnson City newspaper. He must read every word, including the obituaries and the classified ads, because he pores over it for hours every day.

“No luck,” I say as I peck on the door frame.

“No luck? What do you mean?”

“Her car’s there, her purse is on the bed along with a jacket, but she’s nowhere to be found.”

“You looked all over?”

“Twice.”

Mooney leans back in his chair and rubs his chin. “Christ, I guess we ought to start checking around to see whether anybody’s heard from her.”

“Don’t bother,” I say. “Bates is on it.”

“ Bates? What do you mean, Bates?”

“I called him.”

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“Because there’s a puppy in the house that’s obviously been alone for a while. Because there’s meat spoiled in the refrigerator. Because her house is outside the city limits, so it’s his turf. Something’s wrong, Lee. Bates thinks there’s blood in the trunk of her car.”

“Bates is a redneck.”

“Bates is a good cop.”

Mooney leans forward and puts his face in his hands.

“My God,” he says, “she’s such a sweet kid. I’ll never forgive myself if something’s happened to her. And with what’s happened to Judge Green… what will people think?”

What will people think? We have a murdered judge and a young woman missing, and he’s calculating political fallout. My distaste for him is growing faster than a garden weed.

“There has to be some reasonable explanation,” I say.

“I’m the one who talked her into coming here, you know.” Mooney’s voice takes on a dreamy sort of monotone. “She gave a seminar in Nashville about the importance of compassion for victims in the district attorney’s office. She was so convincing, so persuasive. Bright, funny, attractive. When she finished, I felt like I’d been saved at a revival. I saw her in the hotel lobby a little while later and introduced myself and asked her if she’d like to have a cup of coffee. We ended up talking for a couple of hours, and I convinced her she’d love northeast Tennessee and she’d enjoy working here.”

“No offense, but what you’re saying sounds like a little more than professional interest.”

“No!” Mooney says, slamming his palm onto the desktop. His eyes open wide, and he glares at me. “Why is everybody’s mind always in the gutter? It wasn’t anything like that. I just thought she might bring some fresh air into this place. Besides, I’m not a cradle robber. I’m old enough to be her father. That’s the way I felt about her. Fatherly. Protective, you know?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted you to know where it stands.”

I leave him with his head in hands, surprised at the depth of his emotion and relieved that he didn’t mention Ramirez again. But there’s something that’s bothering me, something he said: “That’s the way I felt about her. Fatherly. Protective, you know?”

Felt about her. He’s referring to her in the past tense.

Maybe it was just a slip of the tongue.

Or maybe he knows something I don’t.