“What’d he do?” asked King.
“You’ll have to ask Harry about that.” He went to the door. “I’m calling the state police in too. They’ve got real homicide detectives.”
“You might want to think about involving the FBI as well,” said Michelle. “If this is a serial killer, VICAP can do a profile,” she added, referring to the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program.
“Never thought I’d have to fill out a VICAP form in Wrightsburg.”
“They’ve simplified the paperwork a lot,” she added helpfully.
After the chief left, Michelle turned to King. “I feel sorry for him.”
“We’ll do what we can to help.”
She sat back. “So who’re Junior Deaver and the Battles?”
“Junior’s a good old boy who’s lived here all his life. On the wrong side of the tracks, you could say. The Battles are a different story. They’re the wealthiest family by far around here. They’re everything you’d expect to find in a good old southern family.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Meaning they’re, well, charming, quirky… you know, slightly eccentric.”
“You mean crazy,” said Michelle.
“Well—”
“Every family’s crazy,” Michelle interrupted. “Some just show it more than others.”
“I think you’ll find the Battles are right at the top of the list in that regard.”
Chapter 7
Harry Lee Carrick lived on Alarge estate on the eastern edge of Wrightsburg. As they drove over, King filled in Michelle on the jurist-turned-practicing-attorney.
“He was a lawyer here years ago and then went on the local circuit court and then onto the state supreme court for the last two decades. In fact, he swore me into the Virginia State Bar. His family goes back about three hundred years in the commonwealth. You know, those Lees. He’s well over seventy but sharper than ever. After he left the bench, he came back here, settled down at the family estate.”
“You said Junior was from the wrong side of the tracks.”
“Let’s say he’s occasionally strayed on the other side of the law. But from what I’ve heard he hasn’t been in any trouble for a long time.”
“Apparently until now.”
They passed a set of wrought-iron gates emblazoned with the letter C.
Michelle looked around at the expansive grounds. “Nice place.”
“Harry’s done well for himself and his family certainly had money.”
“Married?”
“His wife died when she was young. He never remarried and doesn’t have any children. In fact, he’s the last of the Carricks as far as I know.”
They caught a glimpse of a large brick home with white columns nestled among all the mature trees. Yet King turned away from the direction of the main house and drove down a narrow gravel road, stopping in front of a small clapboard structure painted white.
“What’s this?” asked Michelle.
“The opulent law offices of Harry Lee Carrick, Esquire.”
They knocked on the door and a pleasant-sounding voice called out, “Come in.”
The man rose from behind the large wooden desk, his hand outstretched. Harry Carrick was about five-nine and slender with fine silver hair and a ruddy complexion. He was dressed in gray slacks, a blue blazer, a white button-down shirt and a red-and-white-striped tie. His eyes were more the color of periwinkle than true blue, Michelle decided, and were also pleasingly impish. His eyebrows were thick and the same color as the hair. His grip was firm and his melodious southern accent as smoothly enveloping as three fingers of your favorite libation and an easy chair in which to enjoy it. His energy and manner were that of a man easily twenty years younger. In short, he was the Hollywood version of what a judge should look like.
Harry said to Michelle, “I was wondering when Sean would get around to bringing you to see me. So I felt compelled to take matters into my own hands, you see.”
He led them to chairs in one corner of the small room. Stout bookcases lined most of the wall space. The furniture all looked to be antique and well used. Cigar smoke hovered in the air like miniature cumuli, and Michelle spotted an old Remington typewriter on one side table, although there was also a PC and laser printer on Harry’s magnificently carved desk.
“I’ve altogether given in to the efficiencies of the modern age,” he said, his alert eyes observing her wandering gaze. “I resisted computers until the last possible moment and then threw myself wholeheartedly into their embrace. I reserve the Remington for correspondence with certain friends of advancing years who’d consider it positively disgraceful to receive a missive on anything but monogrammed bond paper graced with the touch of the manual typewriter keys, or else my own personal scrawl, which unfortunately grows ever more indecipherable. Growing old is so darn unappealing until you consider the alternative. I’d recommend always staying young and beautiful, like you, Michelle.”
Michelle smiled. Harry was quite the gentleman, and a charmer.
He insisted on making them tea and served it in delicately worn china cups with matching saucers. Then he settled down between them.
“Junior Deaver,” prompted King.
“And the Battles,” said Harry.
“Sounds like an odd couple,” remarked Michelle.
“The oddest,” agreed Harry. “Bobby Battle was brilliant and as tough as nails. He made his fortune through his own sweat and brains. His wife, Remmy, is as fine a lady as I know. And she’s made of steel too. She’d have to be, being married to Bobby.”
Michelle looked at him curiously. “You said ‘was.’ Is Bobby Battle deceased?”
“No, but he suffered a massive stroke recently. Not too long before the incident Junior is accused of, in fact. Not sure of his recovery prospects just yet.”
“Is that the whole family, Bobby and Remmy?” asked Michelle.
“No, there’s a son, Edward Lee Battle, though everybody calls him Eddie. He’s about forty. Bobby’s full name is Robert E. Lee Battle. We aren’t related. Lee was a given name for him, quite common in these parts, as I’m sure you can understand. There was another son, Bobby Jr., Eddie’s twin. He died of cancer when he was a teenager.”
“Then there’s Eddie’s wife, Dorothea. And Eddie’s younger sister, Savannah,” added King. “She just finished up college, I understand.”
“You said Eddie’s about forty and yet Savannah just graduated from college?” asked Michelle.
Harry said, “Well, Savannah was somewhat of a surprise. Remmy was over forty when that little bundle of joy arrived. Ironically, Remmy and Bobby were separated for some time before Savannah was born, and looked headed toward divorce.”
“What was the problem?” asked King.
“Remmy caught him with another woman, a prostitute. It wasn’t the first time; Bobby had an appalling affinity for those types. That was all hushed up back then. I really thought that was going to be the last straw, but then they patched things up.”
“A baby will do that for you,” said King.
“Do they all live together?” asked Michelle.
Harry shook his head. “Bobby, Remmy and Savannah live in the big house. Eddie and Dorothea live next door in what was the estate’s carriage house, but which is now a separate piece of property. I’ve heard rumors that Savannah may move away.”
“I imagine some of her trust fund is due upon her college graduation,” said King.
“And probably none too soon for her,” said Harry.
“I take it she doesn’t get along with her parents?” said Michelle.
“Let’s put it this way: Bobby was very much an absent father, and she and Remmy are both strong, independent women, meaning they don’t agree on much.”