LOVING HER SOUL MATE (45 page)

“Yes, sir,” Peete said, hurrying
out.

“And Peete,” John added, “tell
Kincaid to check out that Channel 9 broadcast that supposedly figures so
prominently in why that chief realized he had Glazer in his jail.”

“Channel 9 in
Mississippi?”

“Apparently,
yeah.”

“What’s there to check out?”
Yannick asked.

“I just want to make sure it’s
true, that some news anchor did indeed mention Glazer’s middle name over the
last few days.
 
If we can show that the
chief is lying about that, it won’t be so far-fetched to believe he’s lying
about the rest of it.”

Peete nodded his head and left.

Pamela folded her slender
arms.
 
John looked at those arms and then
looked into her eyes.
 
“We’ll get through
this, Pammie, don’t worry,” he said.

“This is bad, John,” she
said.
 
“If we can’t discredit that police
chief’s story, then we’re screwed just like Craig said.
 
I made it clear, our investigation made it
clear that one perp for all thirteen girls.
 
No ands, ifs, or buts about it.
 
Given the info that wasn’t released to the public, and the fact that all
thirteen were killed in the exact same way, it had to be the same perp.
 
But if it wasn’t Glazer on three of the
thirteen, and we have no evidence that he had some buddy killer with him, we
can kiss our entire case goodbye.
 
And,
by the way, probably our entire careers while we’re at it.”

John shook his head, and then took
a seat.

Later that evening Shay leaned
back on her sofa and watched the news reports.
 
Her article dominated every one of them.
 
John was in the kitchen, pouring himself a drink.
 
When he came back in, he stood behind the
sofa, behind her, and watched too.

Activist Marlon Graham was being
interviewed and he was, as expected, praising the decision and blasting Pamela
Ansley.
 
“She’ll stop at nothing to win,”
he said to the reporter.
 
“Ever since she
became DA she’s been nothing but a terror to our community.
 
She and Malone both are the worst possible
people to be in the positions they’re in.
 
They don’t deserve to be in those positions.
  
But thank God for Shay Turner,” he said with
a smile.
 
“She’s our very own wonder
woman!
 
She came back to town and turned
this town upside down.
 
She uncovered the
lies and the deceits and the whole cover-up.
 
She’s the hero in all of this.
 
But John Malone and Pamela Ansley are a disgrace to the human race and
it’s time for them to go!”
 
 
      

Shay changed the channel.
 
But another activist was on the different
channel: “Malone didn’t investigate,” he was declaring.
 
“He didn’t track down all of the leads or try
to disprove his crazy theories.
 
He made
the facts fit his theory.
 
It took a
young reporter, Shay Turner, to get to the bottom of this.
 
Miss Turner should be commended for her
hard-hitting report.
 
John Malone should
be ashamed.”

Shay quickly clicked the whole
thing off.
 
“What does he know?” she
asked and tossed the remote onto the coffee table.

She looked at John.
 
He walked from behind the sofa, one hand in
his pants pocket, the other one clutching his glass of wine, and lumbered over
to the living room window.
 
He just stood
there, his back to Shay, and then he turned halfway toward her and leaned his
tired body against the window’s side frame.
 
Shay’s heart pounded against her chest.

“They’re just blowing smoke,” she
said to him.
 
“They know there’s no
cover-up or anything like that.”

“If the man said there was a
cover-up, then there’s a cover-up.
 
That’s the way it works in this town.
 
You know it and I know it.”

“But it’s not true.”

“What the hell difference does
that make, Shanay?”

“I was given evidence and I
reported it.
 
That’s all that went down
here.
 
I don’t see
what’s
the big damn deal
.
 
The judge will
make the call tomorrow morning.
 
I can’t
help it if those activists are on TV giving me more credit than I deserve.
 
I just reported the evidence that I saw with
my own two eyes.
 
The police chief in
Hurley showed me the records.
 
He showed
me where Glazer was in his jail for those two weeks when three of those victims
were killed.
 
He showed it to me.
 
And I reported it.”

John was staring at her.
 
“Be careful,” he said.

Shay didn’t like the way he was
staring at her.
 
“Be careful of what?”
she asked.

“Of your own
ambition.
 
Be careful.
 
The Brady Beast has a
way of sucking you in, getting you to be the hero of the community, and then
spitting you out if your hero status gets any kind of tarnish.
 
Because it will be
tarnished, Shay.
 
Willie Glazer
killed those women.
 
All
thirteen of them.
 
I intend to
prove that he did.
 
If it takes me months
and months, I’ll prove it.
 
Regardless of what that judge does tomorrow.”

“So even in the face of
irrefutable evidence, you’ll still believe that Glazer killed those women?”

“I’ll go to my grave believing
it,” John said.

Shay frowned.
 
She never dreamed he’d be that kind of
cop.
 
“You have no DNA on Glazer, you
have nothing but some trumped up confession---”

“It wasn’t trumped up!” John
yelled, pointing his glass of wine at her, some of it spilling over the
brim.
 
“I got that confession myself and
I don’t trump up anything!” He let out a harsh exhale.
 
Then he chugged down his remaining wine in
one swift swoop, as if he wanted it to burn going down, and then sat the empty
glass on the side table with a hard clack.

“I’ve got to get back to the
office,” he said, as if tired of even arguing about it.
 

Shay was disappointed.
 
She stood up.
 
“You aren’t going to stay for dinner?”
 

He shook his head, moving toward
her.
 
“I can’t.
 
I’ve got to meet with some of those activists
that just graced your television screen and once again try to persuade them to
work with my men tomorrow to keep the calm.”

“You’re afraid of a riot if the
judge doesn’t exonerate Glazer?”

He stood in front of her.
 
“A riot is the least of my worries.
 
I’m afraid of retaliatory killings.
 
I’m afraid of death threats that have been
hurled against Pam Ansley.
 
A riot is the
least of my concerns, and it’s a major concern too.”

A look of distress came into
Shay’s eyes.
 
“What was I supposed to do,
John?
 
I had to report it.”

John placed his hands on her
arms.
 
He rubbed her arms.
 
Then he looked her in the eyes.
 
“I know you did,” he said.

“But that doesn’t make it any
easier for you,” she said.
 
“Does it?”

John smiled a smile so drained of
cheer that it crushed Shay.
 
He then
pulled her into his big arms.
 
He was
scared for his town.
 
Scared
for the DA.
 
And
terrified for Shanay.

EIGHTEEN

The courtroom was packed the
morning the judge was set to make his ruling.
  
Every crime reporter in town, including Shay, sat in great
anticipation.
 
Shay, in fact, was given
the seat of honor directly behind the defense table, and all of the other
reporters kept staring at her.
 
Including
Ed Barrington, who was representing the
Tribune.
 
How did
she get the big scoop
, his expression
appeared
to
say.
 
But she ignored all of their
looks.
 
And then it was time.
 
The judge entered the courtroom.
 
They all stood as he made his entrance.
 

As Shay stood, she glanced toward
the back of the room and saw John standing there.
 
She hadn’t heard from him at all after he
left her house last night, although she tried to phone him several times.
 
But she understood.
 
The man was busying trying to keep the powder
keg from exploding.
 
Which,
she prayed, wouldn’t happen regardless of the outcome.

She tried to get a read on his
expression, but she couldn’t.
 
Besides,
he wasn’t looking at her, anyway, but at Pamela Ansley, whom, Shay also
noticed, looked extremely strained.

They all sat back down.
 
The silence in the room was palpable.
 
And then the judge, a small, slight man with
a receding hairline, began to speak.

He spoke for nearly twenty
minutes, about all of his reservations surrounding this case.
 
No DNA, no eye witnesses.
 
Just a confession.
 
A very detailed confession, yes, but a
confession that the accuser now claims he didn’t willingly make.
 
The judge even mentioned Shay and her “keen
investigative reporting” by name.
 
He
agreed with her report that if Glazer was locked up in a Mississippi jail
during the commission of three of the crimes, how could he have committed the
other crimes?
  
He then went case by
case,
making clear each time how the prosecution determined
that there had to be one perp and one perp alone for all thirteen
killings.
 
The judge dismissed any talk
of copy cats and partners in crime because the prosecution never presented any
evidence to even suggest such theories.
 
He had to go with what he had before him, he said.
 
And what he had was flimsy at best.

But when he finally said that he
had reached the conclusion to “drop all charges against Mr. Glazer,” the
courtroom erupted.
 
The victims’ families
screamed foul and the defendant’s family cried relief.
 
And everybody around the defense table, from
the defendant himself and his attorneys, hugged and thanked Shay.
 
And his family hugged her too.

“If it wasn’t for you,” Glazer’s
mother said to her, as the crowd pressed her closer to Shay, “they would have
locked my boy away forever.”
 

Shay felt as if she’d won the lottery,
as she couldn’t stop grinning from ear to ear.
 
When she looked over at Pamela Ansley, however, John was at her side,
taking her briefcase, and escorting her out of the courtroom, his hand firmly
pressed against her back.
 
Shay’s
excitement waned, after seeing the two of them together, but the euphoria
around her wouldn’t keep her down.
 
She
looked at Glazer, who had tears streaming down his face, and she felt like the
queen of the world.

A queen who
was alone that night.
 
John didn’t come over and he didn’t
call.
 
And she wasn’t about to call
him.
 
She knew he was busy.
 
She knew that many of the townspeople were
upset by Glazer’s release, believing that a serial killer was on the loose
again, and he had to quell their fears.
 
Which, she also knew, was a tall order given that he agreed with
them.

So Shay spent the balance of her
evening taking in news report after news report that painted her as the real
hero of the story.
 
And although Shay
never thought of herself as excessively ambitious, it still felt good
nonetheless.

But the more she watched TV, the
less excited she became.
 
Because it was too much.
 
Because she was being given credit that she knew she didn’t
deserve.
 
And then there was a quick,
close shot on one of the broadcasts, of John with Pamela Ansley as they hurried
out of the courthouse.
 
His large hand
was still pressed against her back, a fact the cameras made a point of
recording, and Shay’s heart pounded when she saw it.
 
The microphones were shoved in their faces
and the camera was practically pushed up their noses, but they both walked with
a dignity and grace that Shay couldn’t help but admire.
 
Pamela Ansley was a beautiful woman, and far
closer to John’s age than Shay was, someone who seemed, she had to admit,
perfect for him.
 
Which
made Shay wonder if he was not only working to calm the fears of the
townspeople, but to calm Pamela Ansley’s fears too.
 
Then she dismissed such nonsense.