Earl had told Jack that Ann’s security system wasn’t activated, so we concentrated first on people Ann knew. If she had known her killer, she would have turned off the security system to let them into her home.
We pieced together what we knew of Ann’s last hours. She’d walked across the street to attend the evening worship service at her church. The service ended at 7:00, and sometime after that, the killer entered Ann’s house and murdered her.
The next day, Monday, Ann was scheduled to have lunch with her fiancé, Bob. When she didn’t answer the door or her phone, Bob became alarmed. He could see her car in the garage and was concerned that she was inside and hurt.
Bob walked across the street to the church and called the police. Since Ann had told him Earl had a key to her house, Bob suggested that they also call Earl.
The police and Bob were waiting outside when Earl arrived. Earl knew that Ann hid a spare key on the first holly bush near the back door. The key was missing. They eventually found it hanging on a different bush.
They entered the house together, the officers going from room to room, calling for Ann.
Earl started down the basement stairs. He saw the lower half of Ann’s body lying in the shadows at the base of the stairs. He stopped in mid step when he saw her bloodied hands. Calling for the police, Earl backed up the stairs.
As the miles passed, Jack and I made a mental list of possible suspects.
Joseph Knight, “the crazy renter,” was first on our list. He could have become enraged if she told him she was evicting him.
“Actually, any renter could be a suspect,” observed Jack. “She had a lock box outside where they dropped off their rent. I guess one of them could have forced their way inside. And someone was always behind in their rent.”
As we moved down the mental list of suspects, Jack paused.
“It’s hard to imagine a family member could have done it, but we have to consider the possibility,” he said softly.
“I just can’t believe that,” I said.
“There’s one thing I’ve learned as an investigator. Never rule out anyone.” Jack shook his head and continued. “And the first suspects are always family.”
We drove for a while in silence, mentally digesting our conversation thus far. I looked over at Jack’s profile. His jaw was set so slightly that only someone who had known and loved him for thirty-five years could detect the stress.
Jack was wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt—he said it was easier to draw his weapon in short sleeves. My gaze traced the taut muscles in his arms and moved to his knuckles, white from gripping the steering wheel too tightly. Jack could be intense, but not with the loud, fast-talking, hand-waving demeanor often associated with intenseness. “Still waters run deep” could have been written to describe Jack.
“Speaking of family members,” Jack said slowly. “I don’t think we can eliminate Grace.”
“You’re kidding.”
“On Saturday, Anna Mae said Grace’s cancer had spread to her spleen and possibly her brain. She’s gotten so hateful no one can stand to be around her for long,” said Jack. “She’s never gotten past the anger stage of dying. She’s angry because she’s the youngest sibling and she’s dying first.”
“Not anymore.”
Jack nodded. “She actually told Anna Mae a couple of weeks ago that she should be the one dying, and not her.”
The thought of a family member hurting Ann was more than I was ready to consider.
Several exits blurred by. I closed my eyes and listened to the hum of the Goodyear Eagle F-1s, built for speeds up to 175 miles an hour. I knew they were being tested today. I could smell Brut, Jack’s familiar aftershave, the same one he’d worn since high school. Jack didn’t trust change, and if something worked, then good enough. I smiled slightly as I remembered when Jack’s public corruption task force moved from a dingy undercover hole-in-the-wall to a brighter office. The old office was rundown, but it was familiar. So Jack drew a detailed diagram of his old office and placed everything in his new work area in exactly the same place.
Even good change was hard for Jack. What must today and its nightmares be doing to him.
Jack’s voice interrupted my musings. “Ann had two employees, a handyman and a housekeeper. I don’t know much about either of them, but they’d have access to the house and she’d have opened the door for them.”
“Is there anyone we’re ruling out?” I asked.
“Honestly? Only the family members who live out of town. And Mother. Everyone else is a possibility.”
Madisonville is a coal-mining town of about 15,000 people. To a passing motorist, its welcoming sign might seem like an oxymoron of the run-down buildings and closed shops that pepper its main thoroughfare: “Welcome to Madisonville, Kentucky—Best Town on Earth.” But we’d lived there once and we knew it was a good town.
Dirty snow and gray slush blanketed the town as we drove in on that mid January morning. We stopped first at the police station, cautiously maneuvering the icy parking lot and stepping out of the car. I abruptly remembered how long we’d lived in the South as my open-toed shoes disappeared into the snow. We pulled our lightweight coats tightly around our necks and walked gingerly through the inches-deep snow to the police station.
Before a word or glance was exchanged, we sized up the receptionist as one of those people who served her time at work, arriving in a sour mood and leaving in a worse one. As we approached her desk she seemed oblivious to our presence.
“Is Captain Randy Hargis here?” asked Jack. “I’m Ann Branson’s nephew from Georgia.”
Still staring at her computer screen, she replied, “Captain Hargis is in a meeting.”
Jack is even-tempered and calm until someone presses his buttons. Arrogance and laziness are two of his buttons, and the receptionist pushed them both. I was surprised that she didn’t feel the current in the air. I did, and I wanted to shout to her, “Duck!”
Jack drew his federal badge as quickly as he would have drawn the gun he wore under his trench coat. He slammed his badge case on the receptionist’s desk. She tried not to ruin her aloof image, but I saw her flinch.
“Then tell him there was a federal agent here to see him.”
Moving like syrup on a winter day, the receptionist got up and—still not looking at her opponent—adjusted a stack of papers near her computer, then inched her way out of the room.
“Let’s go,” Jack told me, and we were out the door before the receptionist returned. As Jack helped me across the snow, he made a prophetic observation.
“This case will drag on as slowly as that MPD receptionist moved. A town this size is going to have trouble solving a complicated murder case.”
As we pulled from the parking lot, a young uniformed officer trotted through the snow toward us.
“Mr. Branson?” he called through the rolled-up window. “Captain Hargis would like to see you if you’re still available to talk.”
Inside Captain Hargis’ office, Jack’s prophecy began to unfold. Within minutes we realized that Ann’s murder was the most complicated case the MPD had investigated in a long time.
Early on I sensed a strain between Captain Hargis and Jack. Jack already used his federal badge to lay the first bricks of the wall between