Death Come Quickly (14 page)

“I have an undergraduate major in art history,” Kitt put in. “And Dr. Prior was interested in the concept because it involved the museum. She was on the board of directors.”

“She was?” I asked, surprised. Ruby hadn't mentioned that—or maybe Ruby hadn't known.

Kitt nodded. “Just for the last six months or so, I think. And she had done a documentary of her own on art fraud, a couple of years ago. It was shown on PBS and got quite a lot of attention.”

McQuaid nodded. “Now I get the connection.”

“But basically,” Kitt said, “we liked the idea of making a film about this quiet, sleepy little town, not at all the kind of place where you'd expect a murder—especially a sensational murder. There were plenty of newspaper photos we could use, and people who remembered it and might be willing to talk about it. Apparently, the victim was quite a character, a troublemaker, according to some people. And the fact that the killer got off—”

“The
accused
killer,” I corrected gently.

“Oh, yeah, right.” Kitt nodded. “The accused killer was acquitted, which we thought was a curious kind of twist. Everybody said it was because Ms. Morris was such a bitch and the killer—excuse me, the
accused
—was a really nice guy who did a lot of volunteer work around town. The jury liked him, even though he killed—” She stopped and glanced at me. “Even though he was
accused
of killing this woman. It seemed like a good story.”

“And it's set right here in Pecan Springs,” Gretchen put in, “which cut down our travel time and saved us money. Of course, the victim and the . . . the—”

“Defendant,” I offered, for the sake of variety.

“Thank you. Anyway, the victim and the defendant are both dead, and so are the prosecutor and the defense attorney. So we wouldn't have to worry about defaming them. Not that we'd do that, of course,” Gretchen added hastily. “At least, not on purpose. But sometimes documentary filmmakers get into trouble for that.”

They certainly do, I thought. Even Michael Moore gets sued for defamation every now and again. And while truth is an absolute defense, it is sometimes difficult to prove. Not everybody agrees on what is true and what isn't. Ms. Morris would probably not have used the word
bitch
to describe herself.

“Bowen is dead?” McQuaid sounded surprised.

Gretchen nodded. “After the trial, he quit his job, sold his house, and moved to Houston. He committed suicide three or four years ago.”

“He sat in his car in his garage with the motor running,” Kitt said. “Carbon monoxide poisoning.” She looked regretful. “We couldn't interview him, but we shot some video of the house where he lived, and we got some archival material on his death from one of the Houston television stations.”

Suicide, I thought, after he was acquitted of murder. That was ironic. Remorse? Guilt? Did that mean he was really guilty? Or it could have been something else. Maybe he'd been sick, or he hadn't been able to find another job. Maybe—

“So where are you on this documentary?” McQuaid asked.

“We've done most of the research,” Kitt said. “Dr. Prior approved our storyboard, and we've shot a lot of interview footage—not all, though. There are still several people we wanted to talk to. But we've got shots of the newspaper coverage and some really good archival footage from a couple of the Austin television stations. The next big step is the editing.
Was
the editing,” she corrected herself and pulled down her mouth. “As Gretchen said, we've decided that we just can't go on with the film. It . . . it just doesn't feel right.”

“It's more than that, actually.” Gretchen's voice was tight. “It feels dangerous. Dr. Prior is dead. I was attacked and my camera and memory cards were stolen. Next time, it could be Kitt. And one of us could end up—” She shivered.

“End up
dead
,” Kitt said, throwing up her hands dramatically. “Like Dr. Prior.”

I wanted to dispute her assertion, but I couldn't. She was right.

McQuaid stood up. “The reason it's dangerous is because somebody apparently feels threatened,” he said, leaning against the porch railing. “Somebody has something to hide. He—or she—is afraid you'll uncover it. Or that you already have.”

Finally, Gretchen spoke. “I just don't get it, Ms. Bayles. In his interview, Chief Harris laid out all the evidence the police collected, piece by piece. Bloody shoes, the broken golf club, the matching clubs in Mr. Bowen's garage, even blood on the garage door and a bloody rag on the floor. It all pointed to Mr. Bowen, every bit of it. The jury let him off, yes. But in his interview, the chief—”

“The former chief,” Kitt amended.

“Right. The former chief said that he got off because of a smart defense attorney and a sympathetic jury who liked Mr. Bowen too much to convict him. But that he was guilty, just the same.”

“The cops can be wrong, Kitt,” I put in firmly. “That happens, you know.” Worse than that, the police can lie on the witness stand, plant incriminating evidence, and deliberately overlook exonerating evidence. They can, and they do—although of course
nobody
would ever want to say that this could happen in Pecan Springs, where everybody always does the right thing, every time, in every circumstance. And if they happen to do the wrong thing, it's because . . . well, because they just weren't paying attention, or they had a momentary moral lapse. Or something.

“And if Bowen didn't kill her,” I went on, “somebody else did. It's possible that the killer is still here in Pecan Springs and is terrified of being found out.” The words hung like an ill omen in the quiet air.

“But it was such a long time ago,” Gretchen protested. “It's ancient history. Surely—”

“There is no statute of limitations on murder,” I said.

There was another silence. “Uh-oh,” Kitt said softly.

“Yeah,” Gretchen said. She looked from me to McQuaid, her eyes wide, now, and frightened. “Do you really think . . . ?” Her voice trailed off.

“I don't know about the cops making mistakes or a killer running around,” McQuaid said slowly. “I'm not ready to go there just yet. But I do think it's possible that your documentary has scared somebody. Which is why Dr. Prior was attacked and you”—he looked at Gretchen—“spent a day in the janitor's closet and a night in the hospital.”

There was a silence. At the back of the house, the screen door slammed and Brian called out to Jake. From upstairs came the sound of Caitlin's violin, the clear, sweet melody of “Clair de lune.” Ordinary family sounds, in an ordinary house, on an ordinary night. And we were talking about murder. Two murders, over a decade apart. I thought about Bowen's death and shivered. Two murders and a suicide.

“The people you've interviewed,” McQuaid said. “Do you have a list?”

“Well, of course we do.” Gretchen sounded frightened. “We told you. We have a storyboard.”

“Which is what, exactly?” McQuaid asked.

“Which is, like, a series of sketches that tell the story of the film,” Kitt said. “All the interviewees are listed there. You could look at that.”

“Or you could look at the interviews themselves,” Gretchen added. “I have my laptop here. I've downloaded all the video files to it.”

“And I have mine,” Kitt added. “We could look at the video on your TV.”

“We've done some editing already,” Gretchen said, “but it's still a rough cut, and most of the interviews are raw footage. So there's a lot of stopping and starting and hemming and hawing, and some of our questions are audible. It'll be a lot cleaner and smoother when we finish.” She stopped. “Anyway, that was the plan. I guess we won't be doing it now.” She looked at Kitt, frowning. “Maybe we should find out the date of the last day to drop the course. I don't want an incomplete.”

Kitt nodded, agreeing. “I don't want to finish it with another instructor, either.”

“Dr. Prior's students won't be penalized,” McQuaid said. “On Monday, check with somebody in the dean's office. They'll tell you what to do.”

“How much time would it take to see the whole video?” I asked.

The girls exchanged glances, shrugs, head shakes. “The rough cut is maybe five or six hours,” Gretchen said.

“Or more,” Kitt said. “We could look at some of it tonight, if you want. It'll give you an idea of what we have.”

“Sounds right,” McQuaid said, pushing away from the porch rail.

Gretchen got out of the swing. “I'll go set it up,” she offered.

“Oh, one other thing,” I said. “Chief Dawson says that she'd like to talk to the two of you. I told her that you were staying here overnight, and she said she'd stop by around ten in the morning. So let's don't stay up until all hours—okay?”

“Whoa.” Kitt looked alarmed. “The chief? Why does she want to talk to
us
?”

“Can't you guess, Kitt?” Gretchen looked at me, her eyes dark. “We really have caused a lot of trouble, haven't we?”

In Malay mythology, the banana plant (
Musa acuminata
) was believed to be the home of spirits called
pontianak
s, the ghosts of women who have died in childbirth.
Pontianak
s were said to attack pregnant women, attempting to snatch their babies out of the womb. Their presence was announced by the fragrance of plumeria or jasmine, then by a horrible stench.

In Hawaii, it was bad luck for a woman to plant a banana in her garden. The planting had to be done by a male who was a close friend but not a blood relative.

China Bayles
“Herbs of Good and Ill Omen”
Pecan Springs Enterprise

For his birthday last year, McQuaid—a fervent football fan who never misses a televised University of Texas game if he can help it—got a big flat-screen television. After much discussion, we installed it on one wall of our living room. Then, for
my
birthday, we built bookcases around it. Just one of the many little compromises that keep a marriage going.

While McQuaid and I got comfortable on the sofa that faced the screen, Gretchen and Kitt, who seemed to know exactly what they were doing, plugged in a cable, turned on Gretchen's laptop, logged on, and brought up the file. A moment later, on the large TV screen, we saw a series of full-color video images of Pecan Springs. The first was the imposing pink granite courthouse and the retail businesses around the courthouse square: Pete's Barbershop, the dime store, the old Grande Theater and Opera House (newly remodeled), and the Sophie Briggs Historical Museum, where you can see Sophie Briggs' collection of ceramic frogs and a fancy dollhouse that once belonged to Lila Trumm, Miss Pecan Springs of 1936. That sequence was followed by footage of the park beside the picturesque Pecan River and the old Springs Hotel, then the gate to the CTSU campus and its turreted, towered Old Main building, a Victorian Gothic built in the early 1900s. Following that, there were video images of tree-lined streets and houses in the older part of town, taken from a moving car.

“We decided to start with different views of Pecan Springs,” Gretchen said, fast-forwarding through the rest of the town's images. “To set the scene, so to speak. We were going to have a voice-over narration through all of this part, telling about the town, when it was founded, something about its history, that sort of stuff.”

“An ordinary, pretty little Texas town,” Kitt chimed in, “that looks like a place where only good things happen. Where you wouldn't expect a murder.”

Gretchen stopped fast-forwarding as a video of a modernistic white house came onto the screen. It was the house at the end of San Jacinto Avenue, which Doug Clark had built for his bride as a wedding present. In front was a tasteful sign, announcing that this was the Morris Museum of Mexican Art, open by appointment only.

To McQuaid, I said, “That's where Christine Morris was killed.”

“But it didn't look like that back then,” Kitt said. “It looked like—”

And there it was: a black-and-white still photo of the place as it was when Christine lived in it. The house was surrounded by a six-foot chain-link fence with a large sign,
Beware: Bad Dog
. A tall utility pole dominated the front yard, one of the two giant security lights, I guessed.

“Ruby says that Christine was paranoid about somebody breaking in and stealing some of her valuable paintings,” I said. “That's why she had those yard lights installed. She left them on all night. She had a Doberman, too.”

“I'll bet the neighbors loved those lights,” McQuaid remarked dryly. He shook his head. “Living alone in that big house with a lot of valuable art—I'm not surprised she was paranoid. She was a magnet for thieves.”

“Here she is,” Gretchen said.

A series of color and black-and-white photos appeared on the screen, beginning with a glamour shot of a beautiful woman, with skin so youthfully taut that it suggested cosmetic surgery and a blond coiffure so artfully styled that it looked like a wig. This was followed by photos of a skinny little girl in a Brownie uniform, a pimply teenager in a sweater with a Peter Pan collar, and a pretty twenty-something wearing an academic gown and mortarboard—images of a much younger Christine Morris. Then a sequence showed her in front of the television camera, in her earlier incarnation as a Houston television anchorwoman; as a smiling bride in an elaborate white wedding dress and veil on the arm of a tall, dark, and handsome man who must have been her rich ob-gyn husband; and in evening clothes as a River Oaks socialite.

After that, there were photographs and even some video footage of her life in Pecan Springs: showing off an important Frida Kahlo painting she had acquired; posing beside a Cadillac with her husband, Doug Clark; with Clark at a prestigious gala; posed alone in front of her house. And—in several distinctly unflattering newspaper photos—addressing the city council, her fist clenched, her mouth open, her eyes squinting, anger written across her face. And a montage of stark newspaper headlines:
Morris Bawls Out Mayor Perkins
;
Morris Accuses Zoning Committee of Malfeasance
;
Morris Attacks Bowen for Incompetence
;
Morris Feuds with Neighbors over Dogs, Fence, Lights;
Morris Slams City Officials.

“Yeah,” McQuaid said. “I get the picture.”

I got the picture, too. Gretchen and Kitt had done an excellent job of putting together a vivid, compelling portrayal of Christine Morris' life, from childhood to adulthood. They had covered so much territory that I almost felt I knew the woman. Almost.

But I had been in the business of representing defendants, telling their stories in front of juries. I understood how, with a half-dozen clever tweaks—leaving a few things out, putting a few things in—a man or woman could be made to seem one thing, or something entirely different. Christine Morris couldn't be as superficial as the photographs made her seem, or as angry as Frank Donnelly's newspaper headlines suggested.

As if in answer to my questions, the next scenes documented Christine's art collection. The girls had taken their camera inside the museum, showing dozens of artfully displayed paintings on the walls, along with pottery, sculpture, tiles, baskets, and weaving. A woman of late middle age accompanied the camera, pointing out and commenting on individual objects. She was tall and solidly built, nicely dressed in a brown slack suit, cream-colored blouse, and medium heels. A caption identified her as Sharyn Tillotson, the president of the Morris Foundation and chair of the museum board.

“I'm impressed,” I said. “I had no idea we had something like this, right here in Pecan Springs. They must keep a pretty low profile.”

“It's a private museum,” Gretchen said. “It's open only on a very limited basis, which seems like a shame to me. All that wonderful art, in that great space, and very few people get to appreciate it.”

Then, as close-ups of individual paintings appeared, Gretchen said, “Ms. Morris had been collecting twentieth-century Mexican paintings for nearly twenty years. These are among the best—and the most valuable. There are a couple by Diego Rivera and three by Frida Kahlo.”

I don't know much about art, but even I could see that these paintings were quite striking in their bright colors, bold forms, and folk art motifs. And I had recently seen a Diego Rivera painting on
Antiques Roadshow
, valued at a million dollars. Titled
El Albañil
and painted in 1904, the painting had been in the owner's family here in Texas since the 1920s. They thought it was a copy—or a fake—and hung it behind a door.

Gretchen went on. “Dr. Prior told us that Ms. Morris sold a number of pieces to galleries in New York, for tens of thousands of dollars. When she died, there were paintings all over the house, hung on the walls, stacked in the closets and corners, piled in a storeroom. Until they did an inventory, they had no idea of what was involved. The most valuable paintings were the Riveras and the Kahlos, and another by . . .” She frowned. “I forget.”

“Gerardo Murillo,” Kitt put in. “He signed his work ‘Dr. Atl.' I read that one of his paintings recently sold at auction for one point six million dollars.”

McQuaid whistled between his teeth. “A million six?” he muttered incredulously.

Dr. Atl.
Now I remembered. That was the painter whose forged painting Roberto Soto had admitted to selling—although he continued to maintain, as I recalled, that he had no idea that the work was a fake when he sold it. The prosecutor had decided he didn't have enough evidence to go to trial and settled for a plea to a lesser charge.

Another painting came on the screen and the camera moved in for a close-up. “This one isn't as valuable as the others,” Kitt said. “But it's my favorite. The artist is María Izquierdo. The image is so full of anguish, as if she had lost all heart. She painted it in the 1930s, after her lover had left her for a young student. Dr. Prior said it was her favorite, too. Of all the paintings in the collection, she liked that one best.”

The painting occupied a wall by itself, at the foot of a glass-enclosed stair with glass treads that seemed to float in space. It was dark and moody, with the look of an allegorical narrative: a nude woman, gaunt and angular with long, dark hair framing her face, and dark eyes and a theatrical red mouth. She was staring into a mirror that offered no reflection, only a sinister blackness. Against her breast, she held a flower with five vivid pink petals and fernlike green leaves. The leaves were veined and tipped in red blood, dripping blood onto her flesh. I recognized the plant immediately: Herb Robert. The painting was titled
Muerte llega pronto
—Death Come Quickly
.

I shivered. The artist had perfectly caught the sense of ominous foreboding that Herb Robert was traditionally thought to convey. It was a plant that should never be picked, it was said, for it brought certain death. At the back of my mind rose the dark shadow of an unwelcome thought: it was Karen Prior's favorite painting, and now Karen was dead.

“Gruesome,” McQuaid muttered. “Don't think I'd want that bloody thing hanging on my wall.”

“Me, either,” Gretchen admitted with a shudder. “I prefer cheerful stuff myself.”

“Frida Kahlo always gets all the attention,” Kitt said, “but what people don't know is that Izquierdo was the first woman Mexican artist to exhibit outside of Mexico. That was in 1930, at Manhattan's Art Center. So she really is quite important.”

Gretchen hit the play button and the video moved to the final act in Christine's life. I pulled in my breath as the next photos appeared on the screen, more black-and-white stills, probably police photos. The first was the body of the murdered woman, dressed in a filmy pastel negligee and feather-trimmed robe, sprawled facedown at the foot of a short flight of wide stone steps leading up to the paved plaza under the cantilevered section of the house. One foot still wore a satin mule; the other was bare. One arm was folded under her, the other flung loose, above her head, the fingers curled as if she were clutching at the last precious moments of life. And then a close-up, the back of her head split wide open, her hair a thick, bloody mat, blood pooled under her face. Christine wasn't beautiful now, no. Not beautiful, ever again.

“Dr. Prior told us we should delete this photo,” Kitt said. “She thought it was too . . . grisly.” It was. Murder is ugly, ugly, ugly.

“We thought we'd replace it with this photo,” Gretchen said.

The next shot showed the body covered with a sheet, almost covered but not quite. The hand was still visible, still reaching, still clutching, and one bare foot. In this view, I could see the murder weapon—the metal head of a golf club, attached to a broken-off eight-inch section of wooden shaft—lying on the step beside the body. Beside it was the bloody print of what looked like a tennis shoe with a gridded sole.
The bloody shoe,
I thought. The killer must have bent over his victim and stepped in her blood. I shivered, feeling sick.

McQuaid leaned forward and asked a cop question. “Fingerprints on that golf club? And what about DNA?”

“As far as DNA is concerned,” Kitt said, “we never heard it mentioned. I guess they weren't looking for it.”

I wasn't surprised. Bubba Harris, the Pecan Springs police chief at the time of Christine Morris' murder, was an old-school fundamentalist as far as detective work was involved. He put a high priority on shoe-leather police work. He would have seen DNA as something akin to hocus-pocus. Anyway, the Texas Department of Public Safety's crime lab didn't begin testing DNA until 1994, and the lab operated on a limited basis for five or six years after that.

“Fingerprints,” Gretchen said, pausing the video. “The police said there weren't any, either on the head or the shaft. But the club was part of an antique set that belonged to Mr. Bowen. The police found the top part of the broken shaft in his backyard. It matched the rest of the clubs in a golf bag in his garage.”