A Judgment of Whispers by Sallie Bissell

left the department copies of all my files on the day I retired, ten years ago.” He held up two more notebooks. “This is what I’ve gathered in the years since then. Have a seat if you’d like to look at it.”
    â€œDon’t mind if I do,” said Cochran, sitting down in an old rocking chair.
    â€œWould you like some coffee? A beer?” offered Jack.
    â€œCoffee would be nice,” Cochran replied.
    â€œThen you read and I’ll go brew a pot.”
    He cranked up the Mr. Coffee using the special gourmet blend his daughter had sent him from Minneapolis. As Lucky’s toenails clicked on the floor behind him, he got cups and saucers, found half a bag of Oreos in a cabinet, and put them on a plate. A few minutes later, he and Sheriff Cochran were eating cookies and drinking something called Bonecutter Brew.
    â€œWhaley tell you I was obsessed?” he asked as he turned his desk chair to face Cochran.
    â€œWhaley said you were a good cop who’d let this get under his skin,” replied Cochran.
    He nodded. “That’s true. It’s gnawed at me for years. My wife almost left me over it.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œAlmost. Then I came to my senses. Realized that I had taken my best shot at that case, and it was time to move on.”
    â€œWhere’s your wife now?” asked Cochran.
    â€œUp in Minnesota. Our daughter just had our fourth grandchild. A little girl.”
    â€œCongratulations.” Cochran smiled. “Little girls are awfully sweet. I have one myself.”
    â€œThen you might understand how a case like Teresa Ewing can get to you.”
    â€œIs that why were you there poking around that old tree yesterday?”
    He shook his head. “I just woke up early—couldn’t go back to sleep. Weather was too bad to play golf,” he said, leaving out the part about his twitching thumbs and strange sense of dread. “Beyond that, I can’t say. I just wanted to see that tree again. Pay my last respects, I guess.”
    â€œYour last respects?”
    â€œIt’ll be different once they start putting those new houses up. I know that tree’s important to the Cherokees and they’re building a little park around it, but it won’t be the same. New people will move in—people who will never have heard of Teresa Ewing.”
    â€œAnd you think that’s a bad thing?” asked Cochran.
    â€œI don’t know what I think. All I can tell you is that Logan and Whaley and I did our damnedest to find out who killed that child. It seemed her little life ought to have counted for something.”
    â€œSo who do you think did it?”
    He shook his head. “Logan liked Big Jim McConnell’s boy, Devin. Whaley liked the retarded kid. I can make a good case for any of them. And we’re not even talking about Arthur Hayes or Two Toes McCoy.”
    Cochran said, “But you must like one more than the others.”
    â€œWell, since her underwear is showing up, I guess we can discount the late Mr. Hayes—he’s dead, as I’m sure you’ve discovered for yourselves. That leaves those kids and Two Toes. All were people she knew. They were in the neighborhood, had the opportunity, and managed to keep her hidden for three weeks.”
    â€œBut where would kids hide a body? How could they keep a secret like that for nearly month?”
    Jack shrugged. “You scare a kid bad enough, they won’t talk. That’s where Logan blew it, coming on to those kids like one of the Gestapo. Whaley was almost as bad, until I got him reined in. Anyway, I’ve got another theory.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe Eastern Band was having a big powwow that week. Indians came from all over the country. Vendors on the powwow circuit, roustabouts who put up tents and ran the pony rides. There were probably two or three hundred strangers in the area.”
    â€œAnd you think one of them killed