“Hibiscus,” I said.
“Very refreshing. Just what we need after those fritters.”
“Did I miss anything?” I asked.
“No,” Walt said. “Hank was just about to read the statements, but he couldn’t find his glasses. They were on top of his head.”
“They’re very light,” Hank said. “Just like the optometrist said. Featherweight.”
Hank adjusted his glasses and then read the document in front of him. “Samuel Ricker, age forty-one, transient laborer. Confessed September 18. Claimed he killed both victims after Ruby refused his advances. Knew about the positioning of bodies and the weapon used.”
“Perfect patsy,” Bea said. “A drifter no one would miss or believe.”
“Recanted September 25,” Hank continued, “Claiming Sheriff Roy Milton coerced him with threats of worse charges.”
“Good old Milton,” Dottie said. “His sins are likely to follow us into every investigation we look into. May he rot in prison.”
“Hear, hear,” Walt said, raising his goblet in a mock toast.
“Moving on,” Hank said. “Betty Mae Hutchins, age twenty-eight, worked at the Flamingo Motel. Confessed September 20. Claimed she killed them in a jealous rage after discovering Pickering had been cheating on her with multiple women, including Ruby. A classic case of jealous lover scorned.”
“Was Pickering seeing other women?” I asked.
“Not according to Betty Mae when she recanted,” Bea said. “She later told me Milton threatened to charge her with prostitution if she didn’t confess. She was scared, alone, and did what he said.”
“Prison really isn’t good enough for that man,” I said, thinking of all the lives Roy ruined in his quest for money and power.
The third confession was the most elaborate. “Tommy Garrett, age nineteen. Son of Councilman William Garrett. Confessed September 19. Claimed the murders were drug related, that he was Pickering’s dealer.”
“There were no signs of drugs or alcohol in Pickering’s system,” Dottie said.
“Recanted September 21 after Daddy hired a Charleston lawyer,” Walt finished.
“Three false confessions,” Hank summarized. “Each designed to muddy the waters, each easily discredited. Someone was managing this investigation from the start.”
“Roy Milton?” I asked.
Bea shrugged. “We certainly know Roy could be bought for the right price. But it could have just as easily been he was getting pressure to solve the case, and Roy being Roy, went about it however he saw fit. It wouldn’t matter to him if whoever he arrested was guilty or innocent.”
Walt pulled out a manila envelope marked Confidential. “This was sealed. Never opened.”
“Why would Milton seal something and never open it?” I asked. “What good would that do?”
“Why would he be a low-down dirty snake in the grass?” Dottie said. “These are all questions we ask ourselves.”
We watched as Walt carefully slit the aged envelope. Inside was a single witness statement.
“Statement of Elsie Crawford, September 20, 1985,” Walt read. “‘I was walking my dog at Turtle Point around 9 p.m. on September 15. I saw Reverend Pickering near the tree line. He was with a woman, but it wasn’t Ruby Bailey. The woman was white, blond hair, wearing a white nurse’s uniform.”
The room went silent.
“A witness at the actual murder scene,” Dottie breathed. “And Milton buried it.”
“Look at his note,” Walt said, pointing to scrawled handwriting at the bottom. “‘Witness unreliable. History of mental illness. Statement disregarded.’”
“Elsie Crawford,” Bea said slowly, searching her memory. “She had what they called nervous episodes. Today we’d call it anxiety. But she wasn’t crazy. Wonder why she was out there so late at night. Sounds like a busy area. Maybe George should’ve picked another place for his trysts.”
“A blond woman in a nurse’s uniform,” I said. “At the murder scene.”
