Page 16 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

By the time Nikki Gillette pulled into the Dahlonega office of the sheriff’s department, it was late, after nine P.M. She’d been on the road for hours and her bones ached. Her stomach rumbled, her head pounded and she still hadn’t figured out how to get to Pierce Reed. Worse yet, she wasn’t alone. Several news vans were camped out in the department lot, more parked along the street. And her heart sank when she recognized not only Norm Metzger, but Max O’Dell from WKAM, a Savannah television station. There were other reporters as well, some from Atlanta and a couple of others she knew but couldn’t name. Whatever had happened up on Blood Mountain was shaping up to be the story of the week.

Some way, she had to get the inside track.

Norm spotted her and climbed out of his car. “What’re you doing up here?”

“Same as you.”

“Mike put you onto the story?” he asked, arching an eyebrow above his rimless glasses. The photographer had slid from behind the passenger side and joined a growing throng of reporters huddled around the police station.

“I just thought I’d come up and check things out,” she said.

“It’s a pretty long trip for a joyride,” Norm observed.

“I was interested, okay?”

“So you found out about the bodies.”

“Yeah.”

“And that Pierce Reed was called up here.”

She nodded as Norm pulled on a pair of gloves. “He doesn’t like you, you know.”

“He doesn’t like any reporters.”

“But you in particular. You really got on his nerves during the Montgomery case.”

“Is that right? Did he tell you that?”

“He didn’t have to. I saw the way he bristled every time you approached him.”

“He’s a bristly kind of guy.”

“Especially when you’re around.” The main door to the sheriff’s department opened and Sheriff Baldwin along with several detectives, including Pierce Reed, appeared on the concrete steps.

The sheriff, without the aid of a microphone, asked everyone to “Listen up.” The shuffling, whispering and general speculating stopped and everyone poised, pen, recorder, or pencil in hand. Cameras were pointed at the group of officers. “We’re all tired here, and I suppose you are, so I’m going to make this short. This afternoon there was an emergency call to 911. It sounded like a hunting accident involving two youths. When we got to the scene, we life-flighted one of the young men to Mason Hospital in Atlanta, while the other one gave us a statement. The two had found what appeared to be a grave up near Blood Mountain, so we went up to investigate. Sure enough we found a grave and not one, but two bodies. At this time, pending ID of the bodies and notification of next of kin, we’ll give out no further information, but we are looking into the situation as a possible homicide. That’s all.”

But the reporters wanted answers. Several began shouting at once.

“Sheriff Baldwin? Do you expect to find any more bodies?”

“How long had the victims been there?”

“Why did you call in a detective from Savannah?”

“Is the hunter going to survive?”

“I said, that’s all,” Baldwin reiterated in a voice that was firm and bordered on belligerent. He looked weary but determined as he raked his gaze along the crowd. “We’ll have more information in the morning. For now, you all best get some rest.” He waved off any more questions and disappeared inside. Nikki edged closer and thought she caught Reed’s eye, but if he saw her, he made no sign of acknowledgment, no indication that he recognized her. The door swung shut behind him and lest any reporter be so bold as to follow, a deputy was posted at the door.

“So, now what?” Norm said, sidling closer.

“Now, I guess, we wait,” Nikki said, though she had no intention of sitting around and waiting for parceled-out information. Not when she lived only a few streets away from Pierce Reed.

“Two bodies in one coffin?” Sylvie Morrisette wrinkled her nose as she flopped into one of the side chairs in Reed’s office the next morning. Her platinum hair seemed even more spiked than before and there was the faint, ever-present smell of cigarettes that wafted across the desk. “That’s a new one. Someone couldn’t afford his own accommodations?”

“Hers,” Reed clarified, not amused at her attempt at humor. He wasn’t in the mood. He’d spent half the night in northern Georgia knowing that the sheriff and a couple of the detectives considered him a suspect, then had grabbed a couple hours of sleep before walking nearly comatose through the shower and landing behind this desk around six-thirty. He was surviving on coffee, Tums and Excedrin. A half-eaten doughnut was in his wastebasket, the only reminder of his last meal. He wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

“One of the vics is Barbara Jean Marx. The other is still a Jane Doe.”

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