she kept poking at it. Like somebody stoking a dead fire, you know, trying to get it blazing again.”
“Would you happen to know if she’s still alive?”
Mrs. Hunter shook her head. “No, she’s not alive anymore,” she said. “She died a couple of years ago.” She lowered her voice slightly. “In the state home.”
“State home?”
“For the insane,” Mrs. Hunter added. “She had some mental trouble.”
“And so there are no Dinkers left in Sequoyah, I suppose,” Kinley said. “Since Ellie was an only child.”
“That’s right. There’s not even a house. The old Dinker place burned down.”
“When was this?”
“Right before they put Mrs. Dinker away,” Mrs. Hunter said. “She took to wandering around. I mean, people took her in, but I guess she just went off, you know, mentally, after the house burned down.”
Kinley reached for his notebook. “Where was the house?”
“Right at the edge of the mountain,” Mrs. Hunter told him. “Where the road starts to go up it.” She turned toward the window and pointed toward the mountain. “There used to be a little house right up that way,” she added. “It had pink siding. Mrs. Dinker always lived there. That’s where the two of them lived. Her and her daughter, I mean.”
Kinley remembered the house. It was hard to miss it going in or out of Sequoyah along the mountain road. It sat at the very base of the mountain, so close he’d often wondered if the front was the false façade for what was actually the mouth of a cave.
“When was the last time she did this ‘poking around’ here at the courthouse?” Kinley asked.
Mrs. Hunter’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Now, let me see, I been County Clerk for almost twenty-five years, and I guess it was about five years ago was the last time she came around.” The eyes continued to search the ceiling. “So what does that make it? Let me see, well, that’s about 1986, I guess.”
“Over thirty years after the trial?”
“Yeah, that’s about right.”
“Did she say why she’d suddenly started looking into it again?”
Mrs. Hunter shook her head. “No, she never did. She just came up and said she wanted to look at whatever we still had on that case, and so we let her. Matter of fact, she sat right there at that same little table.”
Reflexively, Kinley’s eyes shot down at the table, then back up at Mrs. Hunter. “But she never said anything to you about what she was looking for?”
“No, sir, she never did,” Mrs. Hunter replied flatly. “At least not to me. Mrs. Calhoun was the County Clerk then; she might have said something to her.”
“Where would I find Mrs. Calhoun?”
“She’s on a trip right now,” Mrs. Hunter said. “But I can ask her about it when she comes back.”
“Yes, thanks,” Kinley said. “I’d appreciate that.”
Mrs. Hunter’s mind drifted back. “But I can tell you that something was eating at Mrs. Dinker, that’s for sure.” She considered it a moment. “’Course something like that, losing a daughter, it’d be hard to let that go.”
Kinley could see the evidence vault a few yards beyond him, his body already poised to shoot toward it. “Yes,” he said. “It would.”
• • •
Once Mrs. Hunter had returned to her desk outside the vault, Kinley set to work on the transcripts, using the method he’d developed over his years of reading them.
Every transcript began with a kind of dramatis personae of the significant figures in the case, a listing of all the witnesses called by either side in the order they’d been called. He knew that if Thomas Warfield had worked like most prosecutors, he would have presented his witnesses in a particular order, beginning with those whose testimony had to do with the discovery of the crime, moving on through those who had participated in the subsequent investigation, and finally bringing his case to a close with those witnesses whose testimony was designed to prove
“Would you happen to know if she’s still alive?”
Mrs. Hunter shook her head. “No, she’s not alive anymore,” she said. “She died a couple of years ago.” She lowered her voice slightly. “In the state home.”
“State home?”
“For the insane,” Mrs. Hunter added. “She had some mental trouble.”
“And so there are no Dinkers left in Sequoyah, I suppose,” Kinley said. “Since Ellie was an only child.”
“That’s right. There’s not even a house. The old Dinker place burned down.”
“When was this?”
“Right before they put Mrs. Dinker away,” Mrs. Hunter said. “She took to wandering around. I mean, people took her in, but I guess she just went off, you know, mentally, after the house burned down.”
Kinley reached for his notebook. “Where was the house?”
“Right at the edge of the mountain,” Mrs. Hunter told him. “Where the road starts to go up it.” She turned toward the window and pointed toward the mountain. “There used to be a little house right up that way,” she added. “It had pink siding. Mrs. Dinker always lived there. That’s where the two of them lived. Her and her daughter, I mean.”
Kinley remembered the house. It was hard to miss it going in or out of Sequoyah along the mountain road. It sat at the very base of the mountain, so close he’d often wondered if the front was the false façade for what was actually the mouth of a cave.
“When was the last time she did this ‘poking around’ here at the courthouse?” Kinley asked.
Mrs. Hunter’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Now, let me see, I been County Clerk for almost twenty-five years, and I guess it was about five years ago was the last time she came around.” The eyes continued to search the ceiling. “So what does that make it? Let me see, well, that’s about 1986, I guess.”
“Over thirty years after the trial?”
“Yeah, that’s about right.”
“Did she say why she’d suddenly started looking into it again?”
Mrs. Hunter shook her head. “No, she never did. She just came up and said she wanted to look at whatever we still had on that case, and so we let her. Matter of fact, she sat right there at that same little table.”
Reflexively, Kinley’s eyes shot down at the table, then back up at Mrs. Hunter. “But she never said anything to you about what she was looking for?”
“No, sir, she never did,” Mrs. Hunter replied flatly. “At least not to me. Mrs. Calhoun was the County Clerk then; she might have said something to her.”
“Where would I find Mrs. Calhoun?”
“She’s on a trip right now,” Mrs. Hunter said. “But I can ask her about it when she comes back.”
“Yes, thanks,” Kinley said. “I’d appreciate that.”
Mrs. Hunter’s mind drifted back. “But I can tell you that something was eating at Mrs. Dinker, that’s for sure.” She considered it a moment. “’Course something like that, losing a daughter, it’d be hard to let that go.”
Kinley could see the evidence vault a few yards beyond him, his body already poised to shoot toward it. “Yes,” he said. “It would.”
• • •
Once Mrs. Hunter had returned to her desk outside the vault, Kinley set to work on the transcripts, using the method he’d developed over his years of reading them.
Every transcript began with a kind of dramatis personae of the significant figures in the case, a listing of all the witnesses called by either side in the order they’d been called. He knew that if Thomas Warfield had worked like most prosecutors, he would have presented his witnesses in a particular order, beginning with those whose testimony had to do with the discovery of the crime, moving on through those who had participated in the subsequent investigation, and finally bringing his case to a close with those witnesses whose testimony was designed to prove
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