“What was the basis of this threat?”
“I believe the Double Eagles knew—or at least believed—that Viola Turner possessed information that could have convicted them for her brother’s murder.” Henry stopped, then added, “There’s also some evidence that the Double Eagles gang-raped Viola Turner back in 1968.”
“Did Mrs. Turner tell you that?”
“No. But I think she was just being modest. The rumor was pretty widely believed back in sixty-eight.”
“You’re talking about hearsay, Mr. Sexton. Even if such a rape occurred in 1968, the statute of limitations would have run out on that crime in 1975. No one could be prosecuted for it today.”
“There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Henry said doggedly.
Johnson sighed. “I reviewed those case files, what little there was. Nobody ever found Jimmy Revels’s body. Luther Davis’s, either. You spend too much time living in the past, Henry.”
The reporter felt his shoulders sag. “A lot of people say that.”
“You can’t even see the obvious. If those Double Eagles were still active, they’d have killed you, not some nurse already circling the drain.” The DA shook his head like a man weary of dealing with a fool. “You’re free to go. I need to make some phone calls.”
Henry packed his computer into his briefcase and left the office.
CHAPTER 9
AFTER ROSE CLEARED my calendar of all noncritical appointments, I began researching legal precedents in cases similar to the circumstances Shad had described regarding Viola Turner’s death. One call to a law school friend in New Orleans confirmed what Shad had told me earlier: Anna Pou, a highly respected EENT physician, might well be charged with murder for organizing the euthanization of eleven patients who couldn’t be evacuated during the worst hours of the Katrina flood. While the circumstances of that case and my father’s are clearly different, what chilled my blood was my friend’s assertion that the prosecution was politically motivated.
Enter Shad Johnson.
The fact that Dad has refused to give me any information about last night’s events is disturbing, yet it makes sense if he played some part in a physician-assisted suicide. In most similar situations, when someone makes a stink about the circumstances of death, common sense eventually prevails and no charges are filed. Based on the percentages, I should be able to assume that Viola’s son will soon realize that his mother’s wishes should trump all else. And yet … the longer I sit at my desk, the more intuition whispers that something out of the ordinary is happening. On impulse, I call the Illinois State Bar Association and inquire about Lincoln Turner. The woman I speak to informs me that four months ago, Turner’s law license was suspended pending a disbarment proceeding. She won’t elaborate on the phone, but a Nexis online search quickly tells me that he’s been accused of embezzling funds from a client escrow account. This is the sterling character accusing my father of murder.
So why won’t Dad defend himself? He’s almost never kept secrets from me, not even in dire circumstances, yet this time something is forcing him out of character. And he’s not the only one. Shad Johnson and I share too much history for me to buy into his stated desire to be helpful to my family.
Sure enough, when Shad calls back, I detect a suppressed excitement not present during our first two conversations. It’s that excitement that drives me out of my office and onto State Street, making for the DA’s office at a fast walk.
The first time someone calls out to me, it barely registers. But when the speaker raises his voice and calls my first name, I turn to see Henry Sexton of the Concordia Beacon hailing me from the window of his Explorer. My first instinct is to wave to the reporter and walk on, but the urgency in his voice persuades me to go over to his window. When he tells me he has information concerning my father and Viola Turner, my heart does a double thump before recovering its normal beat. As I climb into the passenger seat, I realize that Henry is truly upset. In fact, he looks like he’s been crying.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “What’s happened?”
“I only have a few minutes,” he says anxiously. “But there’s something you need to see.”
“What’s going on, Henry?”
In a breathless voice, the reporter tells me a disjointed story that starts my pulse speeding, but it’s clear that Henry wants to help me, or at least my father. The one fact I’ve gleaned is that I need to see whatever’s on his computer before I speak to Shad Johnson.
“I’d better pull around the corner before I play the file for you,” Henry says. “Shad could look out his window and see us sitting here.”
“Do it.”
The reporter slides his Mac onto my lap, looks furtively up at the sheriff’s office, then drives up State Street and turns on Commerce.
I’ve always considered Henry Sexton to be a modern-day Don Quixote, and for that reason I trust him. I’ve been accused of having the same complex, but I’m nowhere near Henry’s league. The articles he writes about unsolved civil rights murders occasionally attract the odd death threat or flying bottle by way of criticism. The man himself is tall and lanky, with the perpetually sad eyes of a faithful hound. With his wire-rimmed glasses and a goatee, he looks like a cross between a college professor and a biologist you’d expect to find checking the acidity of catfish ponds.
“How about here?” Henry asks, pulling up before the old Jewish temple on Commerce Street. My town house is just around the corner, on Washington, but Shad is expecting me in his office at any moment.