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“But that doesn’t explain her handprint being found on the floor, does it?” said DuBose. “That was also in your report.”
Till looked uncertain. “No, ma’am, it sure doesn’t.”
“In your report you said a long-bladed instrument was the murder weapon,” noted DuBose.
“Yes. Nearly cut poor Mrs. Randolph’s head off. The mortician will have a job with that unless they’re going to have a closed casket.”
“How do you think it might have been wielded?” asked Jack.
Till squared his feet, lifted his right arm in the air, and took a downward swing with it, his hips rotating and the heel of his right foot lifting off the floor. “Sort of like a tennis player serving a ball. Now that was Anne Randolph. With Leslie Randolph, the blow came from below his neck and hit him at an upward angle.” He lowered his hand and lifted it. “Like that.”
“And the blood patterns substantiate that?” said DuBose.
“Well, close enough. Anything else?”
“Can we see the shoes?” asked DuBose.
He opened another door and pulled out a pair of large, battered brogans that had no visible blood on them.
While DuBose held the shoes Jack snapped several pictures of them.
“Okay, we appreciate it, Mr. Till.”
“You tell your momma to come on back to church. I miss her voice.”
“I sure will.” Under his breath Jack added, “There are a lot of things I miss about her.”
CHAPTER 39
JACK DROVE DOWN A NARROW dirt and gravel street with run-down buildings on either side. Cora Robinson lived in a two-room apartment in one of them. Robinson was small boned and wiry with short, dark hair. Her wide eyes were brown and watery. She had Jack and DuBose sit on the couch while she took a seat in a chair across from them.
“I understand you have children?” said Jack.
“Yes, sir. Little boy and a girl.”
“So that’s why you always left at two from the Randolphs?” said DuBose.
“That’s right. I go to the school to fetch ’em and we walk home together. Their last day of school was when the Randolphs were killed. Just awful.”
“And your husband?” asked Jack.
She looked down. “Been four years now since he died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Hard work with just one of me. After I get the children from school I do sewin’. I get paid for it. Place give me a Singer sewin’ machine to do the work for them. My momma taught me. I do all sorts of dresses and coats and pants and what-not for their customers. After dinner and then when the children go to bed, I keep right on sewin’. But now I got to get another job cleanin’ during the day. Sewin’ alone don’t pay the bills.”
“Can you tell us about that day?” asked Jack.
She looked at him nervously. “I talked to the police.”
“I know. But we’re representing Jerome and Pearl Washington, and we need to hear it directly from you.”
Her lips trembled. “I like Jerome. He a good man.”
“You don’t think he killed the Randolphs?” asked DuBose.
“I never thought Jerome would hurt a fly.”
