LITMIR.BIZ

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set aside our personal history and help the police to find a dangerous killer. Dr. Elliott wants to assist the investigation in every way, but he also wants to keep this unfortunate matter from escalating into something that could ruin reputations and break up families unnecessarily.

      I was prepared to say those things, but now that I’m actually facing Shad Johnson, something stops me. It all seemed so clear in the car: pay the short-term price for a long-term gain. But this office, as modest as it is, gives me the old feeling I had when I worked for the D.A. in Houston. Irrevocable decisions are made in this room, decisions about who will be punished and who will not. Who will spend decades in prison? Who will die at the hands of the state? For any prosecutor, Drew Elliott would be a juicy target, but for a man like Shad Johnson—a man who dreams of being governor and more—Drew is a prize elephant.

      There’s no doubt that Drew would look better to a future jury if he told the truth now. But what other consequences might result? Natchez is a small town, and when small-town cops are handed a likely suspect, they don’t look too hard for another. Truth be told, city cops aren’t much different. And confessing to the affair with Kate would immediately open Drew to a sexual battery charge that Shad could use to jail him, should he choose to. No, better to keep my cards close to the vest.

      “That’s a lot nicer desk than the one the last D.A. had,” I observe, stalling for time as I take the chair opposite Shad.

      The district attorney can’t help but brag; it’s his nature. “I got it out of storage from the old Natchez Museum,” he says, rubbing the finely grained wood. “It came from the attic of one of the antebellum homes. Longwood, I think. Ironic, isn’t it? Me working at a cotton planter’s desk? I had it appraised. It’s worth sixty grand.”

      I give Shad a level gaze. “I hope you’re not one of those people who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

      Shad’s eyes narrow. “What are you doing here, Penn? Where’s Dr. Elliott?”

      “He had an emergency at his office. He had to stay and handle it.”

      “Bullshit. Your client’s scared. His dick’s got him tangled up in a capital murder case, and he’s terrified.”

      Shad must have more than the anonymous call in his pocket. “How do you figure that?”

      “Did Elliott tell you about the call I got this morning?”

      “He said you mentioned an anonymous caller who told you some story about him being intimate with Kate Townsend.”

      “That’s right. And the good doctor did not deny it.”

      “Did he confirm it?”

      “That’s what this meeting was for. For him to confirm or deny. Now he’s sent you in his place. The big-time mouthpiece. I didn’t think you practiced anymore.”

      “I wasn’t practicing when I took the Del Payton case either.”

      Shad looks like he just bit into something sour. My punishing Del Payton’s murderers after Shad had resisted reopening the case cost him just enough support in the black community to take the mayoral election away from him. But that’s old news. I’ve got to get a handle on his present intentions before I paint myself into a corner.

      “Shad, let’s—”

      “Stop,” he says, jabbing a forefinger at me. “You’re here because you want something.”

      He’s right. “I would like to know what was discovered during Kate’s autopsy.”

      Shad studies me for several moments. “And you think I’m just going to give that to you?”

      “If you continue to pursue my client, I’ll get it one way or another. Why don’t we try to foster a spirit of cooperation here?”

      “You haven’t done any cooperating with me so far.” He lifts a sheaf of fax paper off his desk and flips to the last page. “But I’m feeling generous. What do you want to know?”

      “Time of death?”

      Shad shakes his head. “We’ll pass on that for now.”

      “Cause?”

      “Strangulation. There was also head trauma that might have killed the girl if she hadn’t been strangled first.”

      “Interesting. There are rumors going around town about rape. Nurses at the hospital did some talking. Was the girl raped or not?”

      “The pathologist says she was.”

      “Genital trauma?”

      Shad nods slowly.

      “Did they recover semen from her?”

      “Affirmative. Both holes.”

      His crudeness is meant to shock, but I saw too much rape and murder in Houston for this to bother me. “So, the killer had some time with her.”

      Shad shakes his head, a strange smile on his face. “Not necessarily. The pathologist already ran serology on the semen samples. They came from two different men.”

      A glimmer of hope sparks in my soul. “Multiple assailants?”

      “You could read it that way.”

      “What other way is there? You have a different scenario in mind?”

      “After the call I got this morning, you can’t blame me for speculating a little.”

      “I’m listening.”

      Shad leans over his desk and steeples his fingers. “Let’s say Dr. Elliott was having an affair with this high school girl. In his mind, it’s true love. Then he finds out his prom queen’s been sharing the poonanny with somebody else when he’s not around. Her old boyfriend, say. The doc finds out, and he flips out. Maybe Kate is cruel about how she tells him—you know some women. So, your client starts choking her, trying to make her shut up. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s shut her up for good.”

      “By that scenario, the girl wasn’t raped at all.”

      Shad waves his hand as though at a minor annoyance. “Rape is a subjective finding in a dead girl. She’s not accusing anybody. So she had some genital trauma. Rough consensual sex can cause that. Hell, I’ve had women get mad if I didn’t traumatize them down there.”

      “You’re reaching, Shad.”

      He settles back in his chair. “I don’t think so. I’ll tell you something else for free. The St. Stephen’s homecoming queen was pregnant.”

      Shit. “How far along?”

      “A little over four weeks. And that—according to the laws of the great state of Mississippi—makes this a double homicide, Counselor.” Shad arches his eyebrows in mock concern. “The community’s going to be very upset by that idea, the murder of an unborn baby. You know, I can see some people speculating that Dr. Elliott was just playing with this poor girl—getting a little on the side—and when she turned up pregnant, he saw his nice little life crashing down around him. He saw thirty years in Parchman for having sex with a juvenile patient, so he killed her.”

      I suddenly see a glimpse of the future. This case is going to trial, and Drew Elliott will be the defendant, whether he deserves to be or not. Thank God I didn’t march in here spouting his secrets. “The public shouldn’t be able to make that kind of speculation,” I say evenly, “because they shouldn’t associate my client’s name with this case in any way.”

      Shad smiles and shakes his head. “We’ve got a simple situation here, Counselor. Somebody is making telephone calls saying your client was screwing the dead girl. I can’t control that caller’s actions. So you’ve got to assume that Dr. Elliot’s name is going to be in the street soon. The best thing Drew can do for himself is provide us a DNA sample and clear his name as quickly as possible. If his DNA doesn’t match

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