“Punished for what?”
He turned back to her, waving a hand in the air. “That’s not important. What’s important is that you have a killer on your hands. A cruel killer, one who mocked the way I died. I died for a cause that might have had serious flaws, but I believed that I was fighting for my family and my state. Why should we be mocked so?”
“We?”
“The Donegal clan.”
“You think someone killed Charles—to hurt the family?”
“The days of cotton and sugar being a means to all ends has long passed—the plantation survives on the guests who come. Donegal does well because there are always visitors. If the place becomes known as the site of a heinous recent murder, the people will not come.”
“Oh, well, that may not be true,” Ashley said dryly. “It may attract more.”
“It will hurt, I believe.”
She pointed at him. “You’re not really a ghost, and I’m not really seeing you. You are a creation of my subconscious, and you’re logic—telling me that I can figure this out if I think hard enough.”
“I’m afraid I’m not going away.”
“I’ll just ignore you.”
“Then you’ll be behaving in a most foolish manner. Think about the day, about the event. Think about the men involved, Ashley. Your friend is right, and you know it. Someone close to Donegal Plantation committed that murder.”
7
“No hairs, no fibers, nothing on the bastard but the wool of his uniform and fluff from a pair of cavalry gloves,” Colby said, disgusted. “And, of course, there are so many fingerprints on the tomb, we can’t begin to sort them. Same thing with tire tracks—there are none close to the cemetery wall, and there are thousands in the gravel and the road out front. We have begun to sort them out, but it will take a great deal of time, and when we have them, what will we have?” The man was clearly frustrated. “There was absolutely no sign of a struggle. There’s no sign that Charles Osgood was dragged to the tomb. Science isn’t going to point us straight to the murderer on this one, and we need warrants to just go digging into the personal effects of the hundreds of people who might have been around. He was killed with a bayonet, so getting a judge to move on collecting the weaponry used at the reenactment has been a piece of cake, but once we go beyond that…well, it will be hard to pinpoint the fellow—not unless he strikes again, or gets careless.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t strike again,” Jake said.
“Well, of course. It doesn’t look like a serial killing, does it? The way I see it, someone had a grudge on Charles Osgood and found a way to really drag out his death.”
“We’re grateful, Detective Mack, that your officers began collecting all of the rifles and bayonets used by the men in the reenactment, and that you’ve been so gracious to share information” Jackson said. “Profiling isn’t an exact science. We all know that. And we don’t believe we’re dealing with a serial killer, either, but still, finding someone who holds a grudge—even finding out if there was a perceived slight to someone—can often help point law enforcement in the right direction.”
Detective Colby nodded. “Fine. We’ll track down people. We can narrow the field, but it will still be a big field.” He was quiet a minute. “I heard you all did a damned good job in New Orleans. Some of the information seems to be a bit vague. Do you people mind-read, or something like that?”
“We explore history—history in time, and history as it pertains to individuals,” Jake said smoothly. He had a feeling that with Colby, they’d be thrown out if they were to mention the fact that they sought out ghosts.
“Detective,” Jackson said, “we’re truly grateful that you’re allowing us to work with you. I believe that the cemetery was thoroughly searched when Charles first went missing. When his body was discovered, he was still wearing his uniform, so he was held from the time he disappeared until he was found. He was apparently held in a drugged condition, and perhaps the murderer was able to go about his customary life while stashing his victim somewhere. But if we have alibis for the time before the body was found—we know he had only been dead for a few hours, tops—then we can eliminate those people and concentrate on the lies someone might be telling, or on alibis that might have a few holes in them.”
“You know there were hundreds of people on that plantation for the reenactment,” Colby said wearily. “We’re on it, but the manpower needed for that kind of investigation is great.” He was quiet for a minute and said grudgingly, “This is a sensational case. We’re, uh, grateful that you’re here, too.”
“Thank you,” Jackson said.
“It’s a needle in a haystack,” Colby said.
“What about the bayonets of the men who were already gone that day?” Jake asked.
“If the men were gone with those bayonets, they couldn’t have killed him with them,” Mack Colby said.
“If they were really gone, which, of course, your men will find out,” Jake said. “I don’t think that any of the men who were playing Yankees—who had left the property already—are guilty, but I believe that two of them are local, Southerners who had ancestors who did choose the Northern side. Once we eliminate—” Jake began.
“We’ll get every weapon. Every blade,” Colby said grimly. “They’ll be wiped clean, of course. But sometimes, no matter how you wipe down a blade, the forensics folks can still find a miniscule dot of blood. I’m doubting it with this guy, though. This damned thing was planned out.”
“Yes, it was,” Jackson said.
Mack Colby seemed pleased Jackson agreed with him.
“How much of the property was searched by your men?” Jake asked.
“We had an entire team in the cemetery,” the detective said. “And, of course, I had officers comb the area around the cemetery as well.”
“I think we need to extend that search—take it to a daylight level,” Jake said. “If I had committed such a murder, I wouldn’t have kept the murder weapon on my person anywhere. If you’re found with the murder weapon, it’s most likely you’re the killer. He’s gotten rid of that bayonet—and I believe it might well still be on or near the property. He might have been on the property after the murder, or nearby, and I just don’t think he’d risk being found with the weapon.”
“Hell, we don’t even know how the bastard got his victim there, with no one at all seeing him. The plantation was still crowded—lots of folks staying over,” Mack said.
“The river,” Jake said, imagining the scene in his mind’s eye. “He might have come by the river. The cemetery abuts it. Easy enough to take a rowboat, tie her up, drag your victim in and disappear the same way—you’d never have to go by the house or the outbuildings,” Jake said.
“I’ll have a team back out there by this afternoon,” the detective assured them. “I’ll muster up our best techs to go over the property again, and call in some divers. It will take me a few hours, of course.”
“I’ll do the dive myself,” Jake told Jackson.
“Surfer boy, that’s a hard current—you’d better be a damned good diver,” Colby told him.
Jake held his temper and smiled. He didn’t look like a “surfer boy.” He had just stepped on Mack Colby’s toes the first night of the crime by being there when the body was found. Colby had accepted them; he even seemed to like Jackson. But Jake had been there when the body had first been discovered, and Colby seemed to have a bit of grudge because of it.
“I used to scrape barnacles off shrimp boats, and I’ve fixed a few motors in the Gulf and the Mississippi. I’ll be careful,” he said pleasantly.
He thought that Colby would sniff out his disdain, but he didn’t.
Adam Harrison’s reach was long. The investigation was theirs, not that they had any problem working closely with the local police. Mack Colby just had a chip on his shoulder, even though he was trying to pretend it wasn’t there.
“And, of course, we are talking muddy water and hard currents. I’ll sure be grateful for the help of your police divers,” Jake said.
At his side, Jackson grinned and lowered his head to hide it.
Colby was mollified.
Jackson and Jake left the police station. “You really know that muddy water so well?”
Jake laughed. “Yeah, I actually do. But I have to admit, I’d be in the damned muck anyway even if I didn’t. There’s just something about that damned detective. And I won’t go alone. I know that Cliff Boudreaux is a diver. Cliff has been on the plantation forever. His dad was a manager and tour director here, too.”
“Cliff Boudreaux took part in the reenactment and has lived at the plantation forever,” Jackson said, looking over at him.
“Right—that’s what I said.”
“And that makes him a suspect,” Jackson reminded him.
“An unlikely suspect,” Jake argued. “Cliff has been an open book. Two of his ancestors were Donegals.”
“That could make him a prime suspect,” Jackson said.
“I knew him when I was a kid,” Jake told Jackson.
“He’s still a suspect. I want to believe we can communicate with the dead at times,” Jackson said gruffly. “I don’t want any of us joining them. I won’t let you go alone.”
Jake didn’t argue.
When they reached the house, Jackson motioned for Jake to follow him. They went up to the bedroom Jackson and Angela were sharing to find her at the desk lost in thought.
“Everything is all right here, right?” Jackson asked.
Angela looked up in surprise at his entry.
“Any sense of…anyone who might be able to help us?” Jackson asked.
She quirked a brow. Jackson knew that the world wasn’t always what it seemed, but he still had trouble just asking her if she might have met a ghost who could flat out tell them the truth about the situation.
