Page 26 of They Never Tell


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“Why the hell is it so hot up here?” Webb said. And it wasn’t like the temperature gradually changed. The moment he stepped up onto the landing, he ran into the heat headfirst like he’d hit a wall.

“There’s no air conditioner up here. It’s like an oven.”

Webb was too hot to respond, so he simply removed his suit jacket and hung it on the pool table, right next to Ackerman’s.

The men silently made their way from room to room, mostly finding dust, mold, junk, and the occasional wasp nest. The techs had done a good job collecting evidence. If only they’d done it the night of the party instead of months after the fact.

They reached the end of the hallway and the room that had been Nyleah Faust’s final resting place. Webb wasn’t superstitious by nature, but after being close to so many dead bodies over the course of his career, he’d developed a kind of extrasensory perception. His therapist said it was a coping mechanism, but whatever it was, it comforted him. It was a feeling, like the victim was watching over his shoulder. Maybe even guiding him.

The thing is, he wasn’t investigating cases because he was a black Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t love solving the puzzle, and he really didn’t enjoy mysteries at all, if he was being honest. For him, solving cases meant the spirits that left those decaying, bloated, earthly shells could finally rest.

I’m here, Nyleah. Talk to me.

In the bathroom, an exposed wooden beam crossed just under the ceiling. That’s where she’d been hanged. Just behind it was a shower with no curtain. The toilet sat to his left. As bathrooms went, it was your typical guest bath. There were three bright blue hand towels on the rack behind the door, and a space between them, as if one had been removed. Not much to work with, but Webb filed it away just in case.

He wiped his forehead and opened the cabinets. The techs had confiscated the rope they’d found under there, and it was sitting safely in the storage locker in evidence control. Whoever had strung her up had gotten lucky. The rope had been in that cabinet for a while, and there was enough dust on it to prove that.

After their inspection, the pair drove back to the office in silence. During the ride, Webb took stock of where they were so far. He’d interviewed fourteen kids from the party. Thirteen of them weren’t members of the Twelve, and all thirteen of them told similar stories: They saw Nyleah here and there, but none of them saw anything untoward. And each of those thirteen interviews shared one common thread: not one of them mentioned Demetrius Branch.

Mr. Branch was also never mentioned by name in the original case file. In fact, there was no mention of a security guard being present at all. It was odd. Almost like he didn’t exist until the fourteenth interview with Bria Lane. Founding member of the Talented Twelve.

After they left Nicole Faust’s home last week, Webb went back to the office alone and did a little research on the Twelve. He found a news article, a few blog posts, and a viral Twitter thread praising the group and calling for more black parents to take such measures. He was equal parts impressed, proud, and disgusted. Yeah, it was a good idea, and it actually seemed to be working, but the reaction to it, on all sides, was unnerving.

White folks were either irritated by the black families “segregating themselves,” or they were shocked and impressed that black parents actually cared about their children’s’ education. Webb only had himself to blame for his anger, though. Everybody knows the first rule of being black on the internet is Don’t Read The Comments. But the black folks commenting weren’t much better, going straight for the low-hanging fruit of criticizing black parents who don’t have the means or opportunity to do what the Lanes did.

Webb was raised by such parents; proud black folks who didn’t have much. But what they did have were high expectations. And while his parents didn’t know how to network or fill out college applications, they stayed on his ass about his homework, and they cheered him on while he was studying for the SAT and going on field trips to colleges for tours. You’d be hard-pressed to find parents in his working-class neighborhood who didn’t want their children to succeed academically even though they weren’t exactly sure how to get them there.

So as far as Webb was concerned, kudos to the Lanes and them, but money and success, which they already had, begets more money and success. Children probably weren’t in the cards for him, so he made sure to pass his wisdom on to his nieces and nephews. It takes a village, after all.

They got back to the office around lunchtime. Webb logged onto his computer immediately to do a records check on Bria Lane. There was nothing. No surprise there. And it was also no surprise that, after methodically checking and rechecking, none of the other kids at the party that night had records, either. Only one person did: Demetrius Branch. And when that record popped up, Webb was confused.

Drug possession, possession with intent, theft by taking, intent, intent, and finally, a misdemeanor weapons charge. How in the hell did he get hired on at a security firm?

“I’m ready for lunch,” Ackerman announced. He was always ready for lunch, and Webb wasn’t in the mood for his hungry whining. The man was like a toddler when it came to his food. And his naps.

“Where you going?” Webb asked, realizing he was hungry, too.

“KFC. You want?” Ackerman asked.

“Get me a three piece dark with a sweet tea.”

“Got it.”

“Real quick, man. Did evidence send anything down here besides her clothes?”

On his way out the door, Ackerman called out, “Not that I know of.”

Webb sighed and shook his head, more bewildered than angry. This fucking town…

Woodson was an odd little place. Located east of Atlanta but still considered part of metro Atlanta, its population rested at about 18,000 or so. Half white, half black, and the rest other. Everyone says that, nobody questions the math, and somehow everybody understands exactly what that means.

The town was pretty well segregated, and everyone seemed to be okay with that on the surface of things, but times like these reminded Webb how much the handling of cases differed depending on which side of the city you were on. On this side, the western-most side, stuff got done a hell of a lot slower and with much less precision than on the eastern-most side.

When they hastily decided the girl killed herself, nobody thought to do a rape kit. Toxicology reports are standard, so Webb was able to confirm the presence of both alcohol and THC, more commonly known as marijuana, in the victim’s blood. No big deal for teenagers, and hardly information that would break the case open. What was more important was the DNA testing, and the results came in from the lab at about 5:50 that evening, just before Webb started packing up to go home.

It had taken a month, but it was well worth the wait. The lab detected the presence of semen on the victim’s dress, in her underwear, and on the couch in the upstairs room of the clubhouse. A DNA profile was included, so all Webb had to do was enter it into the national database and wait for the results.

The lab also found three non-human hairs on the victim’s clothes. When they visited Nyleah’s home, Webb didn’t detect the presence of any animals. Those hairs could prove to be important down the road.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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