The Guilty by David Baldacci
“Schizophrenia can happen to anyone at any time. It happens to teenagers. In fact, a lot of cases are diagnosed between eighteen and twenty-one.”
“But if that is Laura and she’s forty and she was committed only two years ago, that means she was diagnosed in her late thirties.”
“No, she came here two years ago. She could have been in another facility before this. Or she could have been in someone’s home and she became too much to handle, so they committed her. We have no way of knowing how long she’s been like this without taking a deep dive into her personal and medical history.”
“Damn, could she change that much, though?” asked Robie.
“Like you said, it’s been twenty-two years. You’ve been away from her longer than you knew her. People can become unrecognizable, Robie. Especially someone with her condition.”
“I guess.”
“But let’s look at this logically. If she was committed, there had to be a court hearing. So how could they commit Laura Barksdale as Jane Smith? It’s inconceivable.”
“Unless she was brought to the court as Jane Smith with accompanying documentation,” noted Robie.
“But with what purpose? To cut her out of the will? It doesn’t seem like Henry Barksdale was exactly rolling in dough. And she obviously isn’t all there. She should be in a place like this under a doctor’s care and with medications. She clearly can’t be on her own.”
“But it doesn’t explain what happened to her. Unless, like you said, she became schizophrenic.”
“The thing is, when that happens, and depending on the severity, the person can sometimes manage it with meds. And lead a relatively normal life. Every situation is different, of course, but if Jane’s on three very powerful antipsychotic meds and she still has the mental capacity of a four-year-old, something else is going on.”
“Like maybe she suffered irreversible brain damage?” asked Robie.
“Yes.”
“But how? An injury?”
They got in the car and Reel started it up.
“Well, maybe Ted-slash-Emmitt can provide some much needed answers,” she said.
Chapter
69
WELL, THE GUY’S not rich,” said Robie as they pulled into the neighborhood where Emmitt Barksdale lived under the name Ted Bunson. The homes and yards were in good condition, but the houses were modest and old.
“So there goes any theory of skullduggery and a will.”
They pulled into the driveway of Barksdale’s house. There was a Toyota Camry parked there that was a good ten years old. The yard was small but well maintained, and a few potted plants were on the front porch, though the flowers in them drooped in the heat.
They got out of the car and approached the house. Robie looked to his left and saw a woman out watering some flowers in a planting bed. To his right a man worked on his car in the driveway.
Neither paid much attention to Robie and Reel.
Robie knocked on the front door.
And waited.
They heard nothing from inside.
He knocked again.
Once more, nothing.
“Think he has more than one car?” asked Reel.
“I don’t know. The carport’s a single.”
“Are you looking for Ted?”
They glanced over to see the woman watering her flowers staring at them, the hose still in her hand.
“We are,” said Reel. “Do you know if he’s home?”
“Well, he should be. He only has the one car.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
The woman paused to think. “Maybe two or three days ago. My memory’s not as good as it was.”
“Maybe he went somewhere with his family?” suggested Reel.
“Oh, he has no family. No wife, no kids.”
“You know him well?” said Robie.
The woman frowned. “Not that well, no. He’s nice enough, but keeps to himself mostly.”
“Do you know what he does for a living?”
“Who exactly are you?”
“We’re trying to find Ted to ask him about Jane Smith?”
The woman looked at him blankly.
“He’s her guardian. She’s a patient at a mental institution. We have some information that needs to be conveyed to Mr. Bunson about her.”
“Have you tried to phone or e-mail him?”
“It’s information that needs to be communicated in person,” said Robie. “Fairly serious.”
“Oh, dear, I see. Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t even know he was someone’s guardian.”
“I think he might be home.”
This came from the man who’d been working on his car.
He wiped his hands on a rag as he walked over to them.
“Are you cops? Is Ted in some kind of trouble?”
“I really can’t say. We just need to speak with him. You said you think he’s home? Why?”
“The car’s in the exact same position it was two days ago. Ted usually pulls it into the carport. Keeps the sun from beatin’ down on it. And I would’ve heard it start up. I’m a light sleeper.”
“How about when you weren’t here?”
“Thing is, I’ve been here the last three days. Got laid off from my job, so I’ve been workin’ here fixin’ a bunch of stuff up. Haven’t left once.”
“So you saw Ted come in?” said Reel.
“Yeah. Two days ago. And that car hasn’t moved from that spot.”
“How can you be so sure about that?” said Robie, glancing at the car’s positioning.
“I’m a mechanic. I notice stuff about cars. You see the left rear tire? It’s a retread. Has those yellow marks on the sidewall? Well, you see that yellow arrow? It’s pointin’ straight down. It was pointin’ straight down when he drove in and stopped. I noticed because I asked him what had happened to his tire. He said he’d run over a nail and had to get that one. I went over and looked at the retread to make sure it was okay. Sometimes they screw you on that, but it looked fine. That’s how I got a real good look at that arrow. So how likely is it he’d park a second time with that arrow in the exact same position?”
“Not likely,” said Robie. “Good eye.”
He glanced up at the front door and then at Reel.
“What do you think?” he asked her.
“I think we need to find out if the man is home or not.”
“Do you think somethin’ might have happened to him?” said the woman.
In answer Robie and Reel drew their weapons.
Both the man and the woman took steps back.
Robie said, “If we’re not back out in five minutes, call the cops, okay?”
The woman looked like she might faint, but the man said, “Right, got it. Five minutes.” He looked at his watch as Robie went to the front door and Reel headed around back.
* * *
Robie picked the front door lock.
Reel put her elbow through a glass pane of the back door, reached through, and turned the knob.
They met in the middle of the first floor, having each cleared their half of the main level.
They both eyed the stairs going up.
“Mr. Bunson?” called out Robie. “We need to speak with you. Are you okay?”
There was only silence as a response.
“Okay, this is getting weirder by the second,” commented Reel.
They headed up the steps, their guns still out and pointing ahead.
They cleared one bedroom, then a second.
And then came the bathroom in the hall and their search was over.
The man was lying in the bathtub. There was no water in the tub but he was naked. His eyes were open. He was not breathing and had not been for a while.
There was dried blood between his legs.
They took a closer look.
“Damn,” said Robie.
The man’s privates had been cut off.
“Emmitt Barksdale?” ask
“Sure looks like him. It also looks like the guy I saw in the bushes at the Willows.”
“I don’t see any obvious wounds. Other than someone turning him into a eunuch. I doubt he bled out from that.”
Robie drew closer and touched the dead man’s arm.
“He’s not in rigor.”
“If it came and went we’re talking at least twenty-four hours.”
Reel pulled out her phone and punched in 911.
With a resigned sigh she said, “The Mississippi cops are really getting to know us.”
Chapter
70
REEL HAD ALSO called Taggert, and she showed up an hour after the local police did.
It had taken Robie and Reel a long time to explain things to the locals, but when Taggert arrived she pitched in, and it seemed unlikely that either Robie or Reel would be arrested for breaking into the place.
The local detective, Clyde Driscoll, was young and obviously nervous. He had mentioned to Taggert, in a voice loud enough for Robie and Reel to overhear, that this was his very first homicide after five years as a beat cop.
Taggert suggested that she could assist and then recommended that Robie and Reel could as well. The result was that, while the coroner was examining the body, the four of them made a very thorough search of the crime scene and the house.
Barksdale’s bed had been slept in, and his pajamas were on the floor next to the bed.
“So maybe the killer disrobed him here,” Driscoll had suggested. “There’s no blood on the pajamas.”
They had found financial records in the name of Ted Bunson that indicated Barksdale made his living through investments. He wasn’t wealthy, but he did make enough to live modestly. There were bills for the care of a Jane Smith, and they were fairly substantial.
“Maybe that’s why he lives so modestly,” said Reel.
“I remember Emmitt from his time in Cantrell,” said Taggert. “And though it’s been a long time, I could pretty much swear that was him.”
Robie nodded. “Though he hasn’t aged well.”
“Well, being dead doesn’t help one’s looks,” retorted Taggert.
They had told Taggert about meeting Jane Smith at the institution.
“You really think she could be Laura Barksdale?”
“Let’s put it this way: I can’t say for sure that’s she not.”
They found only one item from Emmitt’s past life in Cantrell as a member of the prestigious Barksdale clan.
The photo was on a table in the bedroom. It presumably would have shown the four Barksdale family members. Only Laura and Henry Barksdale’s images had been cut out.
“Okay,” said Robie. “Two members deleted and two members left. Father and daughter gone. Mother and son left.”
“And that symbolizes what?” asked Taggert, who was staring closely at the photo and the two dark holes where the images had once been.
“Maybe Laura in a state mental institution and father Henry… out there somewhere?” said Robie.
“You think Henry came here and killed his only son?” said Taggert in disbelief.
Robie said, “I don’t know. It’s one possibility. But to cut off his penis?”
There were also numerous Bibles in the house and writings associated with religious studies, which showed Emmitt Barksdale to be a very devout man. They also discovered he was a youth minister at the local Baptist church.
“I don’t remember Emmitt being that religious,” said Robie.
“Neither do I,” said Taggert. “He was mostly a party animal who did what he wanted and to whoever he wanted. He even tried it with me once when he was drunk.”
Robie looked at her surprised. “What happened?”
“His nose took a long time to heal.”
“Well, sometimes people find religion later in life,” said Reel. “To atone for a past misdeed.”
Driscoll had one of his techs dust the frame for prints, and then the tech took the photo out of the frame and did the same.
The tech said, “What’s this?”
He had turned the photo around. There was writing on the back. It looked relatively recent.
Taggert read out each word and number.
“L 18, Calvin, R-O-H.”
The tech looked at the others, bewildered. “What the hell does that mean?”
“A code maybe,” said Reel uncertainly.
Driscoll nodded. “We have a guy who’s good with that. I’ll get this to him.” He put the photo in an evidence bag and sealed it.
“What we didn’t find was interesting,” said Reel.
“What we didn’t find?” asked Driscoll curiously.
Taggert answered. “No smartphone and no computer. Most people have both. Everyone has one or the other.”
“The killer could have taken them,” suggested Reel.
“You folks explained about the possible connection to the events down in Cantrell,” said Driscoll. “But who would want to murder this Barksdale person?”
“Sherman Clancy, Janet and Sara Chisum, and now Emmitt Barksdale, if he was indeed murdered. They could all be connected,” said Reel. “We just have no idea how.”
The coroner, a petite woman in her forties with short auburn hair, came into the room.
“Okay, I’m goin’ to need to take the body back and open him up, but my prelim is that the cause of death was poisonin’.”
“Poisoned?” said Taggert. “With what?”
“I won’t know until I do the tox screens, but there are no fatal wounds on his body, at least that I can find now. However, I found some bloodstained froth inside his mouth. I hit the top of his trachea with my light and found some more froth. That would point to a poison like cyanide.”
“If it’s cyanide, how long would it take for him to die?” asked Taggert.
“If it was pure acid, ten minutes or so. Potassium or sodium cyanide, a half hour. It’s nasty stuff. Fatal in small doses and it doesn’t take long.” The coroner smiled grimly. “Someone is an Agatha Christie fan, because that was one of her favorite ways of doin’ someone in. The screens will take a while to get back, but I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve finished the autopsy. Cyanide leaves telltale signs in the body. I’m goin’ to start the autopsy as soon as I get him back. I’ll have