Free Monument to Murder by Margaret Truman Page A

“Her mother has a photograph of Louise with some of your students at the retreat. I thought that if I showed you the photo, you could help identify who’s in it with her. I know it’s a long time ago, the late eighties, but I really would appreciate your help.”
    “Well,” she said after a pause and a meaningful sigh, “I suppose I would be willing to do that. But I must say that our students come from prominent families here in Savannah, from all over the state as a matter of fact. Their privacy is of paramount importance to us.”
    “Sure, I understand,” he said. “I just need some help in sorting things out. I’ll arrange to get the photo from her mother and call you when I have it. Will you be in all day?”
    “Yes.”
    “Hopefully I’ll get back to you by early afternoon. Thanks very much for your assistance. Have a nice day.”
    A call to Eunice Watkins confirmed that she would be at home and that he was welcome to come by and pick up the picture, provided he returned it. It was one of her favorite photographs of her daughter because it showed Louise in happier days. He said he understood and pledged that the photo would be back in her hands safe and sound.
    The Southside United Freedom Church was on a leafy street in a virtually all-black area, surrounded by modest houses on small plots of land. A group of boys dressed in Little League uniforms—he gauged their ages as somewhere between ten and twelve—milled around in front of the church, waiting for someone to pick them up and deliver them to a ball field. Brixton parked on the street and approached them on his way to the rectory.
    “Got a big game today?” he asked.
    His question was met with shouts followed by high fives. The other team didn’t have a chance, if their bravado was any indication.
    Brixton looked past them and saw a man he assumed was the minister standing on the small front porch in front of the rectory. He was imposing in height and weight. He wore a black suit and white shirt with a clerical collar. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard were neatly trimmed. He raised his hand. Brixton returned the wave.
    “Looks like a bunch of all-stars out front,” Brixton told him.
    The Reverend Lucas Watkins laughed. “Their enthusiasm makes up for any shortfalls on the playing field. Come in, Mr. Brixton.”
    The inside of the rectory was neat and orderly, the air smelling of fresh paint. “Coffee, tea?” the minister asked.
    Brixton opted for coffee. Watkins had a glass of water. They sat in what Watkins termed his study, a compact, nicely furnished room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases on one wall and a large open window looking out over a small backyard. A set of lacy orange-and-yellow curtains fluttered in a welcome breeze. Brixton noted that among an array of photographs hanging behind the desk was a large color photo of Eunice Watkins with her daughter. He commented on it.
    “Breaks my heart every time I look at it,” Watkins said, slowly shaking his head. “Louise was a victim and paid the price.”
    “A victim? Of what?”
    “The society we live in, Mr. Brixton. She fell under the influence of evil people who inhabit it.”
    Brixton was tempted to challenge the statement. As far as he was concerned, today’s society was no different than it ever had been and most people didn’t fall victim to anything. For Brixton, life amounted to nothing more than a series of decisions. You make good ones, and barring some freakish act of nature or accident, a tornado or being hit on the head by an air conditioner falling from a high window, things go pretty smoothly. Make bad decisions and things don’t go so well. But he wasn’t there to argue philosophy.
    “I understand that it was you who urged your mother to come see me about Louise,” he said.
    “That’s correct, Mr. Brixton.” Watkins’s voice filled the room and Brixton visualized him delivering a fire-and-brimstone sermon. “However, I didn’t suggest you specifically.