“We could hire a private investigator,” I offered.
“I was thinking the same thing.” Jack reached across the ’Vette’s console and squeezed my hand. “It’s expensive, and I don’t know if anyone else will go in with us.”
“I don’t see how we can do anything else.”
Jack’s mom came home about an hour after us. She looked frail and tired. She was barely a size two, and we worried about her on a normal day. Her leukemia caused sores to break out periodically on her arms and legs, and her current stress had caused an outbreak.
“You’ve got to get some rest, Mother,” said Jack.
Iva Ray perched on the arm of a leather recliner and nodded.
“Maybe it’ll all be solved soon,” she said. “Grace thinks it’s Maggie, a friend of Ann’s. Grace said Maggie’s always been jealous of Ann. Ann loaned her clothes. She didn’t have a lot of nice things herself.”
“We only met her once,” I said. “It was the time you and Jack and I had supper with Ann and another lady at that little restaurant downtown. That was Maggie, right?”
“Yes,” said Iva Ray. “I don’t know her too well either, but she does seem to have a temper.”
“So does Grace,” observed Jack.
Iva Ray nodded solemnly. “She certainly showed it today. After you left, she talked so hateful to Judy that she had her crying.”
“Mother, until we know who killed Anna Mae, everyone’s a suspect. What do you think about getting a private investigator?” Jack asked.
“I guess that’s a good idea,” Iva Ray said slowly. “I don’t know what the others will say. I’ll ask them, though.”
“That’s fine, and I hope they want to go in with us. But Mary and I are doing it anyway,” Jack assured her. “With or without the rest of the family.”
Later that evening, Jack stopped by The Pantry convenience store to pick up milk. When he returned, he shoved the milk into the refrigerator and slammed the door. Through clenched teeth, Jack relayed his milk-buying experience.
“Two old bags were talking about Anna Mae’s murder.” When Jack is angry, he resorts to mild name calling. Old bag and old geezer are two of his favorites. “One of them said, ‘She had her rings on when she was murdered.’ The other one said, ‘Oh, no, she didn’t.’
“They stood there arguing like two old crows, both of them so sure they were right. Both of them were treating Anna Mae’s murder like small-town gossip.
“I finally walked up to them and said, ‘She had her rings on. And she was my aunt.’”
Friday. Ann’s body would be ready for viewing in the afternoon.
There was some concern about whether Ann’s injuries could be adequately disguised, but the women of the family seemed determined that there would be an open coffin. Maybe they needed to see Ann’s body looking normal so they could imagine she had died peacefully.
A wig would cover the gaping holes in her skull, but it would have to come down far enough to camouflage the parts of her neck that were missing or concave. Iva Ray, Janet and Grace sorted through Ann’s many wigs and found one they thought would work.
The ladies communicated throughout the day with the mortician. A “local boy” now in his fifties, he had worked at Barnett-Strother Funeral Home since high school graduation. He now owned the business and conducted it with the dignity and class you’d expect in a larger city. Always quiet and somber, you felt that he shared your grief.
Funeral home staff instructed the ladies to choose a pair of heavy gloves to cover Ann’s hand injuries. They found black leather gloves and, from Ann’s well-stocked closet, they chose a gray suit with a mink collar to match them. As Iva Ray described the clothing they’d selected, I realized that only the front portion of Ann’s face would be visible.
I had never seen Ann wear the drab combination of clothing Iva Ray described. When she’d worn the gray suit, it would have been accented with bright pink earrings and pink floral shoes. Her wardrobe was filled primarily with oranges, purples and tropical prints. She enjoyed color, and she knew she looked good in it. I wished she could have worn a brightly colored outfit when we said our final good-byes.
Earl called Jack and asked if he’d go with him to Ann’s house to get the large portrait that hung in her living room. In case the coffin had to be closed, Earl was thinking practically.
The portrait was actually an exquisite twenty-four-by-thirty-inch photo that Barbara Yonts, a local photographer, had taken of Ann. Ann had occasionally allowed Barbara to use her beautifully landscaped yard, with its statues and gazebo, for children’s portraits. As a thank you, Barbara had presented Ann with the portrait less than a year ago.
In the portrait Ann is dressed in a pink linen pantsuit and she’s holding a pink rose. She’s stunning. It’s the way I want to remember her.
As Jack was leaving to meet Earl, Judy called.
“Judy’s found what looks like blood,” Jack said as he hung up the phone. “She took down Anna Mae’s portrait and decided to wrap it so it didn’t get damaged taking it to the funeral home. There was some bubble wrap in the basement, along with some supplies Anna Mae used for mailing packages.
“When Judy pulled out the bubble wrap, she found a piece spattered with what looked like dried blood.”
“I guess it’s useless evidence,” I observed.
“Yeah,” said Jack. “But I still want to let Hargis know about it.”
Jack and Earl stopped by Ann’s house for the portrait. Jack thought the brownish-orange stain on the bubble wrap looked more like paint than blood, but he and Earl stayed until a police officer picked it up. Jack had taken off his jacket, and the officer noticed his badge and weapon.
“You’re the one who’s a federal agent,” the officer commented.
Jack nodded.
“Maybe you can help me,” the officer continued. “Do you know how to get the federal reports that show when people make big purchases?”
“Sure,” said Jack. “You can check CTRs and 8300s through the Treasury Department.”
Jack had investigated countless financial crimes—high-stakes gambling, money laundering, counterfeiting, prostitution—and using CTRs and Form 8300s was as natural to him as using credit cards was to me. He was glad to help this officer, who so comfortably admitted that he was venturing into unfamiliar territory.
Banks are required to file CTRs (Currency Transaction Reports) with the U.S. Department of the Treasury any time they have a transaction involving $10,000 or more in cash. A conscientious bank often files a CTR for transactions that appear to be avoiding the $10,000 guideline, such as two $5,000 transactions or a $9,800 transaction. These reports are on file with the U.S. Treasury and can be obtained by other law enforcement agencies by subpoena.
If a $10,000 cash transaction occurs with an entity other than a bank, a Form 8300 is filed. Real estate companies, casinos, car dealerships and boat and airplane sales companies usually keep these forms handy for the occasional person who pulls out a wad of one hundred dollar bills to cover a transaction.
During the days of Prohibition and the beginnings of organized crime, the government learned that it was easier to prove excess money than to connect criminals