Page 49 of The 1 Lawyer

Her loud entrance had roused him. Jenny watched as he rolled over and sat up. His close-cropped hair stood straight up on his head. He ran a hand over his face and blew out a breath that had a faint odor of whiskey. In a groggy voice, he said, “Jenny? Are you okay?”

A wave of relief nearly knocked her flat, because dead men couldn’t talk. She sagged against the wall, gasping. After a moment, she pushed away from the wall and padded over to the bed. While she tried to summon the right words, she caught him glancing down at her legs. Self-conscious, she tugged at the hem of her T-shirt again. But in the present circumstances, the decency—or lack thereof—of her pj’s was an insignificant matter.

Jenny sat on a corner of the bed, faced him, and took a breath to steady herself. “Something has happened,” she said. She was amazed by the sound of her own voice. It was calm. It didn’t break.

“Something has happened, Stafford Lee,” she repeated. “At your house.”

CHAPTER 37

I SAT in Jenny’s car, gripping the dash. I punched the molded plastic with my fist. “Can’t you go any faster? Jesus, Jenny.”

Her face was taut. “We’ll be there in a minute, Stafford Lee.” She had to speak over the dinging noise inside the car. In a terse voice, she added, “Would you please kindly fasten your seat belt? The alarm is driving me nuts.”

We reached the block where I live and Jenny stopped the car. I flung the door open and bailed out of the vehicle. Police cruisers lined both sides of the street, their red and blue flashing lights illuminating the canopy of tree branches overhead.

My neighbors stood outside their homes wearing T-shirts, sweats, and jersey shorts. I ran past a man who lived three houses down from mine. “Stafford Lee!” he called. “What the hell is going on at your house?”

My property was circled by yellow crime scene tape. I stepped over it, tore across the lawn, and ran up the porch steps. A uniformed officer, some kid I’d never seen before, stood guard. He had a handgun and a Taser on his police duty belt. He said, “Sorry, you can’t come in here.”

But I had the motivational advantage. Fueled by adrenaline, I shoved the tall kid into a wicker rocking chair and pulled the screen door open. He tried to tackle me, but I knocked him off the porch and into our azalea bushes. He got to his feet, shouting in protest.

Inside the house, I charged past a couple of uniformed cops milling around the living room and another one leaning against the mantel of my fireplace.

When I reached the bedroom doorway, my knees almost buckled. At the first glimpse of Carrie Ann’s body in our bed, I bowed my head and bent over. The moment had a weird sense of unreality; I felt like I was stuck in a nightmare.

In the bedroom were plainclothes cops, including a detective I recognized—Hank Sweeney, a good guy. He extended a hand and helped me straighten up.

“Sorry for your loss, Stafford Lee.”

The detective’s words penetrated my trancelike state. I looked again at Carrie Ann, processing the sight. She lay on the far side of the bed, where she always slept, with a gaping wound in the center of her chest. Her body was completely nude, but her face wore an expression of surprise. Her eyes were open, her lips slightly parted.

I felt a pain in the center of my chest, like a fist squeezing my heart. She’s really gone, I thought. I can’t stand it. This is gonna kill me.

Detective Sweeney said, “We’re working on the identity of the second victim. Sorry about the mix-up. We just assumed it was you because—you know.”

Sweeney pointed at the body lying next to Carrie Ann. My sole focus had been my wife, but at the detective’s urging, I looked at the other body. It rested on my side of the mattress; the gory head lay on my pillow. He was a muscular guy, bigger than me, heavier too. Each arm bore a colorful tattoo of a sports team logo, the Mississippi Braves on the left, Ole Miss Rebels on the right.

Like Carrie Ann, the man was naked.

“Any idea who he might be?” Sweeney asked.

I had no words, no clue; I just shook my head. The guy’s face was blown away—how could I recognize him?

“So he’s nobody you know? Can you make a guess based on the tats?”

I shook my head again.

He said, “You see a killing like this one—” He stopped and sighed. “So much brutality in this crime scene. Makes you wonder. You know what I’m saying?”

I didn’t know what he was saying; I couldn’t follow the thread. I grabbed the doorframe to stay standing amid the agony of my loss. Who would want to kill Carrie Ann?

Sweeney said, “I’m thinking there must have been passion involved. Heat of passion.”

His words barely penetrated my mind. When I didn’t respond, he said in a flat voice, “So you can’t give us any insight at all about who that second victim is.”

“No,” I said. Speaking required a huge effort. My gut twisted as I studied the gory remains of his head on my pillow. Looked like the result of a shotgun fired at close range. I didn’t offer the opinion aloud.

The young cop I had left shouting in the bushes outside marched up to the doorway. “Detective Sweeney, this man assaulted me and forced his way in.”

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