CHAPTER 38

Athens, Georgia

AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK THAT morning, Ned Mahoney and I were getting ready to search the office of the late Professor Nathan Carver; we were joined by the dean of the law school, the chief of campus police, three FBI agents from Atlanta, and two local homicide detectives.

“We’re going in there first,” said one of the detectives, a young, short powerlifter named Donny Forbes. His partner, Keely Warren, towered over him.

“Fat chance,” Mahoney said. “This is a federal investigation into the deaths of multiple people across multiple state lines. Have you gone house to house in the neighborhood?”

“Yesterday,” Detective Warren said defensively. “No one saw or heard anything. People across the street weren’t even home. We spoke with a friend Carver had dinner with the night he was killed. Elaine Holmes. From DC. She’s devastated.”

“You get any security video?”

Forbes flushed and clenched his hands. “Not yet. Like Detective Warren said, the people across the street weren’t home, and they won’t be back until this afternoon.”

“But they have a camera?”

“I think so. One of those doorbell things.”

“What about after Carver left the restaurant? Anyone follow him?”

Warren said, “That was top of our list for this morning.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” Mahoney said. “We’ll handle the search here.”

Forbes looked like he wanted to argue, but Warren walked off and he followed her. Mahoney asked the dean to open the door.

Professor Carver’s personal workspace was spare and neatly arranged. A single file sat on one side of his desktop computer, a slender leather folio on the other side.

The file contained drafts of a paper he was writing. The folio held a copy of the first public printing of the U.S. Constitution and the Bill of Rights inside a plastic sleeve.

“He loved that,” said Anne Banks, the dean of the law school, misting up when she saw the document. “That folio copy was Nathan’s most prized possession. He called it his ‘certificate of freedom’ and he argued endlessly over the meaning of every word the Founders wrote.”

As they searched, Dean Banks described the late law professor as a tireless writer and teacher who received excellent reviews from the students. Time and again, Carver had been offered positions of power in the judiciary. “He always declined,” Banks said.

“Did you know he was being vetted as a possible U.S. Supreme Court candidate?”

The dean nodded. “I was told by someone working for an advisory panel to Winter. I have her name somewhere. I was supposed to be quiet and discreet in my responses.”

Mahoney raised his eyebrows. “What did you say about Carver?”

“That Nathan’s understanding of constitutional law was unparalleled and that he would make a fine centrist justice, an asset to the court.”

I said, “And did Carver know he was being considered?”

“Not until last month. After the election, someone on the advisory panel called him.”

“Who?”

“I can’t remember. I’m horrible at names. She owns a big soap company.”

An out-of-sync gear suddenly snapped into place. “Theresa May Alcott?”

“That’s her,” Dean Banks said. “Nathan said she was very nice. Very gracious.”

Mahoney said, “What did they talk about?”

“It was short and sweet. She said he was under serious consideration, and if he was interested, she invited him to come to Washington next week for a sit-down with other members of the advisory group.”

“Was he interested?”

“To my surprise, yes. More than interested. But then again, he’d just gone through a nasty divorce, so why not?”

“How nasty?” I asked.

“Even though the divorce was her idea, Sheila made every step of the process an unnecessary ordeal.”

“Is there any way she’s the killer?”

Dean Banks shook her head. “Sheila was always squeamish around guns. She hated that Nathan was a hunter. And she left a year ago, moved to Seattle.”

Mahoney took notes. “Did you have anything negative to tell the panel?”

“No,” Banks said.

“No skeletons in his closet?”

“If there were, I never heard of them, and I’ve known Nathan for twenty-five years.”

I looked at Mahoney. “I’ll call Roche.”

I went into the hall and phoned Roche. She answered on the second ring.

“How can I help, Dr. Cross?”

“You said Nathan Carver had been at the top of your list.”

“He would have been the first American Indian justice, and I think the president-elect would have given him serious consideration if a seat on the court opened up.”

“We forgot to ask you if the panel found anything negative about him during the vetting process.”

“Nothing to disqualify him. He drank, but never to excess. He was passionate about his students but never lecherous. He was a fitness nut, if that’s a negative. And he liked to hunt. Deer mostly, and usually with a bow. But he owned guns and believed in the Second Amendment, although with limits.”

“On guns.”

“Correct. I believe he was in favor of restricting the size of magazines.”

“We heard Theresa May Alcott called Nathan Carver to tell him he was under consideration and invite him to Washington.”

“Was Mrs. Alcott the one? It’s hard to keep track. They all got to do it with various candidates. One of the fun perks of a volunteer job.”

“Did she notify Pak or Franklin?”

“No,” she said. “I know that for a fact.”

“And Carver was supposed to fly up next week to meet the panel?”

“Quite possible,” she said. “Honestly, I’ve been busy with my work and prepping for the inauguration since Christmas, so I haven’t been keeping a close eye on all the comings and goings of the advisory panels.”

“Especially since the possible candidates are always changing.”

“Exactly why it’s not always at the top of my to-do list. But one of my top to-dos today is to meet with a new client, and that new client is here, I’m afraid.”

I thanked her and hung up as Mahoney rushed out of Carver’s office.

“Pigs are flying,” he said. “Detectives Forbes and Warren say they may have the entire shooting on that doorbell camera.”