Free A Specter of Justice by Mark de Castrique Page B

had nothing to do with it. Please accept my apology.”
    Newly took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay.” He headed for the elevator.
    As I stepped back into the office, I heard him say, “Tuck doesn’t have an alibi. I’ve already checked.”
    The police tech arrived about twenty minutes later. He clipped two wires to the receiver in Nakayla’s office, recorded the message, and left me alone with my list of names and no idea what to do next. I thought about calling Nakayla, but if she was able to sleep, I didn’t want to wake her.
    Shortly after nine, Hewitt stormed in without knocking. He looked far better than Newly had. The green-on-red Hawaiian shirt had been exchanged for a red-on-green pattern. His bright eyes and clean-shaven face belied that he’d been out past two in the morning.
    â€œLet me hear it,” were the first words out of his mouth.
    â€œWell, good morning to you too, Hewitt.”
    â€œYeah, good morning.” He headed for my office without waiting for me to get up from the sofa.
    I found him staring at the phone as if challenging the device to repeat the offensive message ascribed to him.
    I pressed the speaker button.
    â€œMr. Blackman. You have crossed Helen’s Bridge into the valley of the shadow of death. You and your black harlot. Be warned that the scythe of justice is sweeping away all who are found guilty.”
    â€œA self-righteous crank,” Hewitt proclaimed. “Where does it show my number?”
    I pointed to the LED readout displaying his number and the one-thirty time log.
    â€œAnd this spoof device created it?”
    â€œThat’s what Newland thinks. He hopes the phone company can determine the real source of the call.”
    â€œSpoof. This sure as hell isn’t a joke.”
    â€œI know. You recognize the voice?”
    â€œPlay it again and crank the volume up as loud as it will go.”
    We listened again, both leaning closer to the vibrating speaker.
    â€œNah,” Hewitt said. “I’ve got no idea. But the asshole’s trying to sound melodramatic with that ominous whisper.”
    â€œAnd he also sounds like he’s reading a script. You haven’t had any run-ins with the preacher Horace Brooks, have you?”
    Hewitt stepped away from the desk as if now wanting to distance himself from the caller. “Not personally. I’ve heard he’s been bad-mouthing me since I took the custody case for the Atwood twins. But I don’t know what he’d have to gain by making it look like I was threatening you.”
    â€œI mentioned Brooks to Newland so at least the preacher’s name’s in the pool.” I remembered Newly’s comment that Brooks had been on the late TV newscast. “Let’s try something.”
    I sat at my computer and opened the Internet browser. One of my bookmarks was the local television station and I clicked on the homepage for their news. As I suspected, the murder at Helen’s Bridge was the top story in the video-on-demand replay section. Hewitt bent over my shoulder and we saw a reporter with crime scene tape and a portion of the bridge framed behind him. After briefly describing the dramatic appearance of Molly Staton’s body, he gave a brief background on the charity fundraiser and stated not everyone in the community supported the event.
    The video cut to Horace Brooks, a lean-faced white man with dark, narrow-set eyes. He wore a crisp blue suit, white dress shirt, and red tie. Dapper for a backwoods preacher and for so late at night. Framed on either side of him stood the Atwoods. Cletus wore a gray suit and yellow tie; Nelda was in a Sunday dress and her only jewelry was a silver cross around her neck. Each held a framed photograph. Although the single boy in the pictures seemed to be the same, I knew the Atwoods clutched individual portraits of their twin grandsons, Johnny and Jimmy.
    â€œOur hearts go out to the