“They sent the assistant principal—Lyssa Simpson—to check on her. Because they were worried about Cocheta.”
Another pause, while Jordan blinked back tears. I was getting agitated, running low on patience. “What, Jordan? Tell me what happened!”
Jordan grimaced. “Mary, Lyssa found her hanging. Cocheta was hanging from a tree behind her house.”
I recoiled. “Sweet Jesus.”
The news knocked me flat. Rendered me silent, too. Because the mental image of Cocheta Bass’s demise was so triggering that words failed me.
CHAPTER
42
I knew for a fact that showing up at an active crime scene was the last thing I should be doing. Especially when the victim was a listed witness in a case before me.
But to hell with all that.
When I pulled up to Cocheta’s house on the outskirts of town, two police cars were blocking the driveway. I parked at the edge of the yard and got out of my car. As I headed across the front lawn, a cop held up his hand to stop me. “Sorry, Judge. Sheriff says not to let anybody back there.”
The cop was Buddy Hopkins. Rookie on the force. I went to school with his parents. Attended his baptism. I held up my hand. “Don’t worry, Buddy. I’ll tell him you tried to hold me back.”
I walked up the gravel driveway past the garage. Behind the house was a thick stand of Alabama pines and red maples. Yellow scene tape was strung around four of the tree trunks, marking off a space about fifteen feet square. I saw Mick Owens, the local sheriff, talking with two deputies in the middle of the square. A police photographer was aiming his camera into the trees.
That’s when I looked up and saw her.
My God!
Cocheta was still hanging there.
Mick saw me coming and hustled over to intercept me. “Mary! Damn it! You can’t be back here! The ME hasn’t even shown up yet.”
Mick and I had history. One look at my face and he knew I wasn’t going anywhere.
I ducked under the tape and walked straight over to the tree. It was one of the maples. Cocheta was hanging from a branch about ten feet up. Her feet were dangling in front of my face. She had one shoe on. The other was lying in leaves below her. Her neck was cocked to one side with a thick rope around it. The other end was tied around the trunk. Her face was twisted and ashy.
Her eyes were open and bulging. Her hands were tied behind her back.
This was no suicide. Somebody lynched her.
Somebody wanted to leave a message.
I turned into the brambles and threw up.
As I was bent over, I felt a hand on my back. It was Mick. “Mary, go back to town. Let me finish up here. I promise I’ll give you the full report.”
I stood up and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. “How long has she been up there?”
Mick looked up at Cocheta’s corpse. “Probably since last night or real early this morning. People saw her at the Quick Serve between ten and eleven. We’ll get a better time frame from the ME.”
I shook my head. “I know this abortion case has people fired up. But who would do this?”
“Mary, we don’t know this has anything to do with the case.”
Mick was right. I was jumping to conclusions. Bad habit for a judge. “What about the ex?” I asked. “It was an ugly divorce.”
“Macon PD informed him. And it looks like his whereabouts last night are accounted for.”
“Hey, Sheriff! Take a look over here.” It was the photographer. He had moved around the other side of the tree. The underbrush was thicker there.
