A Beautiful Corpse. Christi Daugherty

‘RIP, Harper. It was a great career while it lasted.’

      Harper logged into the system and began searching local websites to see if any other news outlets had something she’d missed. Anything she could substitute instead of the father. But nobody seemed to have anything new. All news on the Scott case had stopped when Wilson Shepherd was arrested last night.

      One article on a television website said Shepherd had a history of drug dealing, back in Atlanta. Harper made a note to look into that. It didn’t seem to fit the clean-cut, law student he’d always appeared to be.

      But that was it. Just a line, buried in the middle of the article about his arrest.

      The desk phone began ringing insistently but, absorbed in her research, Harper took her time before finally snatching it from its cradle.

      ‘McClain,’ she snapped.

      ‘Miss McClain, this is Gary at the front desk. There’s a man down here who says he needs to talk to you.’ He sounded irritated. Gary hated visitors. ‘His name’s not on the visitors’ list. Now, you know the rules about updating the list with any expected guests. It’s a security issue, Miss McClain. I keep telling you –’

      Harper let her head drop back hard against her chair.

      ‘I’m not expecting a visitor, Gary,’ she said, cutting him off impatiently. ‘Who is it?’

      ‘Says his name’s Jerrod Scott. Should I send him away?’

      Harper stood up so abruptly she knocked over her coffee, sending dark liquid flowing across her desk toward her scanner.

      ‘Don’t send him away for God’s sake.’ Her voice rose. ‘Send him right up.’

      ‘Fine,’ Gary sniffed. ‘But he should be on the list.’

      Swearing under her breath, Harper set the phone down and threw a copy of yesterday’s paper on the spill.

      Grabbing a clean notepad and pen from a drawer, she ran across the room, reaching the newsroom door just as a tall, thin man with dark skin and neatly cropped, graying hair walked in.

      ‘Mr Scott?’ Harper said.

      He nodded, looking around the newsroom warily.

      ‘I’m here to see Harper McClain.’ His voice was deep, with a strong Savannah accent that gave her last name three syllables.

      ‘I’m Harper.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Scott.’

      His fingers were long and sturdy, and his grip on her hand was so powerful it almost hurt. Up close she could see that his brown eyes were rimmed with red – from exhaustion and grief, she guessed.

      ‘Miss McClain. Your friend Bonnie told me I could trust you.’ His eyes searched her face with unexpected intensity. ‘Can I trust you?’

      ‘You can,’ she promised him, hoping it was true.

      Conscious of the reporters watching this exchange curiously, she gestured for him to follow.

      ‘Come over here. Let’s talk.’

      She led him to a quiet back corner of the newsroom.

      Something about Scott – a kind of exhausted energy in his manner – told her she should get straight to the point.

      ‘I suppose you know about Wilson Shepherd’s arrest?’ Harper said.

      His eyes rose to meet hers. ‘It was all over the front of the newspaper today. If I wanted to miss it I’d have to go blind.’

      ‘Bonnie told me you don’t think he killed your daughter,’ she said. ‘You still feel that way?’

      He didn’t hesitate.

      ‘I am one hundred percent positive Wilson didn’t lay a finger on Naomi.’ His voice was firm. ‘That’s why I’m here. You have to do something about this situation.’

      Harper thought of the Wilson she’d seen last night – waving a gun and screaming at the police.

      ‘I watched him get arrested last night,’ she told him. ‘He didn’t look very innocent to me.’

      ‘I don’t know about that.’ Scott fixed her with a stern look. ‘I know how he was when we got the news about Naomi. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. Grief …’ He paused – his eyes reddening. ‘Grief can break your mind as well as your heart.’

      Harper knew this better than anyone. But what she’d seen last night had seemed beyond grief. Still, she didn’t want to argue with a man who’d just lost his daughter.

      She studied his tired face. Deep lines were scored into his forehead. More radiated out from the corners of his mouth.

      ‘I hear you,’ she said.

      Scott must have seen her doubt.

      ‘I know what you think, Miss McClain,’ he told her. ‘You think I’m a sad old man, who doesn’t know what’s going on right in front of him. But I’m telling you, the police arrested the wrong person. And while they’re so focused on Wilson, the real killer is walking free.’

      ‘Tell me why you believe he couldn’t do it.’ She reached for her notebook. ‘Do you know where he was that night? If you know someone who can vouch for where he was at the time of the shooting that would really help.’

      He shook his head.

      ‘I don’t know where Wilson was when my girl was shot. What I know is, that boy would let a spider crawl across him before he’d hurt it. He’s got no killer in him, Miss McClain. And he loved my daughter.’

      His voice broke and he pressed his fingers against his forehead.

      ‘Mr Scott.’ Harper softened her voice. ‘He had a gun when the police pulled him over. If it’s the weapon used in the murder, they’re going to charge him.’

      He shook his head stubbornly.

      ‘You have to believe me. It was someone else. I know my Naomi was scared of someone. A man from school. She wouldn’t tell me what happened, or why she didn’t like him, but something about him made her afraid.’ He jutted his finger at her. ‘Find him. Find that man. Ask him your questions.’

      Harper had hoped he’d have something concrete for her about Shepherd or Naomi – but random theories about unknown men the dead woman might have been anxious about … That wasn’t what she was looking for.

      She tried to guide him back to what she needed.

      ‘First, tell me about Naomi and Wilson,’ she urged. ‘How did they meet? What brought them together?’ Seeing a rebellious look in his eyes she added quickly, ‘This will help me understand why you think Wilson couldn’t hurt her. I need to know more about them.’

      ‘Well.’ He rested his hands on his legs. ‘They met at college. And Naomi knew right away that he was special. She made her mind up fast about things, even when she was little. She decided she wanted to become a lawyer when she was ten. Watched some TV show and said, “That’s what I want to do, Daddy. I want to help people.”’

      He smiled at the memory.

      ‘Being a lawyer – that was a big dream in our family. Maybe you know, but I drive a cab. My father, he lived outside Vidalia. Worked the land. Our family has always been working people. People who use their hands. Naomi wanted something different.’

      He drew a breath, hands clenching convulsively.

      ‘She made straight As all her life, always top of her class. When the time came, she wanted to go away to college. Got a scholarship to UGA, over in Athens. But we couldn’t afford to send her. Housing’s too much over there. So she went to Savannah State, instead.’

      His voice trailed off.

      ‘And that