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Jerome had broken down and sobbed into his hands, muttering the name of his wife over and over. They left him inconsolable.
For her part, Pearl was only upset that Jerome had even offered to enter a plea without talking to her first. “He didn’t do it, so he shouldn’t be punished. No, no, no.”
“All right, but you really need to tell us where you were that day,” said DuBose.
However, Pearl curled into a little ball of stiffened resistance and refused to answer.
Jack and DuBose headed out in his Fiat. Their next stop was the medical examiner’s office to see the bodies.
Herman Till was tall and loose-jointed, with ruddy cheeks and curly gray hair, and wore a stained lab coat. He escorted them over to a wall with metal drawers.
“How’s your momma?” Till asked Jack.
“Doing okay.”
Till said to DuBose, “We go to the same church. She sings in the choir, has a fine voice.” He eyed Jack curiously. “I know your daddy doesn’t come anymore, but Hilly did with Lucy. Only they haven’t been attending lately.”
“Momma’s going through some... things right now,” replied Jack.
Till nodded. “Well, let’s get to it.”
He opened one door and slid out the tray. He picked up a clipboard lying on the chest of the sheeted deceased.
“Mr. Leslie Randolph. Very nice fella. He sponsored me into Willow Oaks.” He lifted off the sheet to reveal the dead man. “Multiple slashes to the neck and chest. One hit the carotid artery right there,” he added, pointing to a dark, jagged spot on the man’s neck with his pen. “The slash is at a forty-five-degree angle and was struck with an upward motion. Almost completely severed it. Woulda bled out real fast. And the killer was almost certainly right-handed.”
DuBose glanced at Jack, who recalled Jerome signing his X with that hand. He nodded.
“Time of death?” asked DuBose. “Your report said between three and five?”
“Yes. I’m confident with that range.”
“And you noted the footprints,” said Jack.
“That’s right. Sheriff’s deputies took the shoes the defendant was wearing and compared them to the marks found in the room. Perfect match.”
“Dirt marks, but not blood marks with the shoes?” said Jack.
“Correct.”
“How about Mrs. Randolph?” asked Jack.
“Her carotid was fully severed. It was strange, though.”
“What was?” asked Jack quickly.
“She had a slew of old injuries. Bone fracture to her right scapula. Broken left wrist. Badly healed index finger on the same hand. And there were others.”
“So not from her killer?” said DuBose.
“No, these were from years ago. Poor thing probably fell a lot.”
“Can we see her body?” asked DuBose.
“Sure thing.”
He opened another drawer, slid out the table, and lifted the sheet. The petite Anne Randolph looked supremely wilted in death as though only barely half of her remained.
Jack took out his Brownie camera. “You mind?”
