Free A Judgment of Whispers by Sallie Bissell Page B

Native American brand.”
    â€œAny DNA or prints?” asked Whaley.
    â€œPrints on the bag, but they don’t match anybody in the system. They’re working on the underpants. The smoke was clean.”
    â€œThere go your butts, Saunooke.” Whaley laughed.
    â€œNot necessarily,” Saunooke replied. “Somebody could have strolled through the yard sale, smoking, casual-like. Then he sneaks off to bury the underpants. Maybe something scares him off and he doesn’t notice a cigarette’s fallen out of his pocket.”
    Cochran shrugged. “That’s possible. One smoke could fall out of a baggy shirt pocket if you’re bending over a hole in the ground.” He drew a question mark on the board. “So what does all this tell us, gentlemen?”
    â€œSomebody, possibly a smoker—possibly a Native American smoker—has kept a pair of little girl’s underpants for a very long time,” said Victor. “And very recently buried them in the spot where Teresa Ewing’s body was found.”
    â€œAfter he finished his bologna sandwich,” said Whaley.
    Cochran ignored Whaley’s sarcasm. “What sort of person might do that? Young? Old? Male? Female? White? Cherokee?”
    â€œSomebody local and older,” said Whaley, now serious.
    â€œAgreed,” said Cochran. “Someone would have to be at least in their mid-thirties to have any real memory of this case. Let’s look at our old suspects.”
    He listed their names on the board—Zack Collier, Devin McConnell, Lawrence Russell, Adam Shaw, Arthur Hayes, and Two Toes McCoy. Hayes is off the list—he fell off a fire escape and broke his neck while peeping into a woman’s apartment.”
    â€œI thought Two Toes was doing twenty in Craggy Prison,” said Whaley.
    â€œHe’s out on parole. He now lives on the reservation, claiming to be a priest in some Native American religion.”
    Whaley laughed. “Two Toes behaves pretty good in prison. It’s in real life that he fucks up.”
    Cochran went on. “The rest of the suspects were all neighborhood kids. Four males, between eight and twelve, except for Zack Collier, an autistic boy who was fifteen at the time. From the old interviews I read last night, they were about to get into some sex games.”
    â€œAt that age?” asked Galloway.
    â€œShannon Cooper and Janie Griffin were two female witnesses. They claimed that on that last afternoon the boys dared the girls to play Bottom Up, a version of strip poker where you start betting your shoes and work your way up. They refused and went home. Teresa said she didn’t want to play either, but the last time the girls saw her, she was still under the tree, talking to the boys.”
    â€œWhat did the boys say?”
    â€œThey all denied that anybody played anything.”
    â€œSame old shit.” Whaley laughed. “He said, she said.”
    â€œDo those kids still live here?” asked Galloway
    â€œDevin McConnell, Butch Russell, and Zack Collier do. Adam Shaw’s father sent him to live with relatives in New York shortly after they found Teresa’s body. Shannon Cooper and Janie Griffin moved away years ago.”
    â€œHave they stayed clean all these years?”
    Cochran checked his tablet. “McConnell and Russell have a number of DUIs. Shaw and the girls are clean, and the Collier boy lives with his mother. He’s not capable of living alone.” He squinted at the screen. “Get this—Lawrence Russell, aka Butch, works campus security at the college.”
    Whaley snorted. “Hope they vetted his application for possible murder suspect.”
    Saunooke asked, “So where do we go from here?”
    Cochran studied the board. “For once, let’s get ahead of the curve here. Whaley, I want you to check in with the Salola Street boys. Saunooke, you take Two Toes. Just say we’re updating our