Chapter Eleven #2
She smiles. “Nora says you’re going to the news conference too.” I nod. “Why don’t we walk down there together. Go a little early so we can get a good seat.”
Tandy leads the way back to the sidewalk out front. She pulls a tan cashmere wrap tight across her. The wind is in our face, but it’s not as cold as in Riverbend.
“You’re a reporter,” she says.
I’m not sure if the spiky-haired woman told her my name or if Tandy recognizes me. Either way, she’s getting right to the point, which works just fine for me.
“I am.”
She glances at me. “And you attended Poison Wood?”
“I did.”
“Just awful about what was found. I’m still shook up about it.”
Her demeanor doesn’t seem shook up, though. She is poised and calm and quite far from the hysterical moniker assigned to her society by my waitress the other day. “I can imagine.”
“At least now maybe Heather Hadwick’s next of kin will have some closure.”
I keep my gaze straight ahead. Ms. Tandy’s demeanor might change at this news conference.
“What can you tell me about the recent renovations at Poison Wood?”
“I can tell you they’ve been a thorn in my side ever since we decided renovating that school for the hundred-year anniversary would be a good idea.
I mean, listen, hon, we’ve wanted to do it for years, but the state kept fighting us on it.
They saw money, and we saw a historical structure.
I swear that woman was a dog with a bone.
” She points to a building up ahead. “We’re just up here on the left. ”
“What woman?” I ask. Nurse Grace had referred to the eco-tourism ladies as glamorous ex-governors.
We approach a two-story redbrick building with a green awning running the length of the front. It looks like it was once a clothing store. Nothing about it looks official, but people are streaming in the front glass doors.
Tandy slows her walk. “Eleanor Chamberlain. When she was governor she had a daughter at the school.” She eyes me. “You probably know that, though.”
“I do.” I don’t offer her any other information.
“Now, Eleanor did some good things for this part of the state when she was governor and that’s saying something.
You know how everyone at the Capitol treats us like ugly stepchildren up here.
No offense to ugly stepchildren. But that woman got so full of herself, thinking she had power even when she was out of office.
You just don’t mess with history. Even if—”
Tandy starts to say more, then seems to remember she’s speaking to a former student who happens to be a reporter now.
I stop her before we enter the glass doors. “Even if what?”
She squares her narrow shoulders. “On the record or off?”
“Off.”
“Hi, Ms. Tandy,” a woman in ironed jeans says as she passes us for the front doors. “You coming in?”
“In a minute, dear.” She smiles and waves, then looks back to me.
In a softer voice, she says, “If I were you, I’d start asking questions about why it took a girl dying to close that school down.
Didn’t have to come to that. They could’ve shut it down long before that happened.
And we could have made that historical school into something less . . . troubled.”
My pulse quickens. “What specifically are you referring to?”
I think about Halloween, but it seems like Tandy Higginbottom might be hinting at something else.
“You need to talk to Martha Lee,” she says. “She was the cook out there forever.”
“I remember her.”
Tandy says, “She works down the street now. At a little café called Mockingbird Café.”
“Thank you,” I say.
She opens the front glass door, and I follow her in.
The city council room in back is small and jam packed. Every chair is already taken. Tandy walks to a group of women standing off to the left, and I find a spot to stand against the far right wall.
I fire off a text to Katrina.
Change of plans. Meet me at Mockingbird Cafe.
A wooden podium sits in front of where the council would normally sit, but there’s no scrum in front of it. No reporters scrambling to be the closest, only one small video camera attached to a tripod. I doubt that will be the case after today.
A crest hangs on the wall behind the podium, with a fleur-di-lis and the date 1714, the year Louisiana’s oldest settlement was established. An American flag sits on the right, the Louisiana flag on the left.
A tall Black man wearing a peaked cap with a gold badge, navy slacks, and a navy dress coat adorned in gold buttons and another gold badge walks in and approaches the podium.
I open my phone to my camera, attach the wireless mic, and wish like hell I had a tripod. Shaky footage is not going to do NCN any favors. And my hands are shaking.
I press my back against the wall and hold the phone horizontally, wedging my elbows against my stomach to keep the shot steady.
“Good afternoon,” the officer says. “I am chief of police here in Natchitoches, William Duplantis. First of all, I’d like to thank you for coming out.
Next, I’d like to introduce my staff.” He points to the men and women flanking him in starched white shirts and dark slacks and introduces each.
He shuffles on his feet, then continues.
“We are here today to discuss some recent developments that have come to light in regards to the Heather Hadwick case. Seventeen years ago, Miss Hadwick went missing from Poison Wood Therapeutic Academy for Girls. A maintenance man, Johnny Adair, was later convicted for her murder. Although Miss Hadwick’s body was never discovered, DNA evidence combined with Mr. Adair’s confession led to his conviction.
” He pauses and clears his throat. “However, we have recently discovered Heather Hadwick did not actually die in the early-morning hours of November 28, 2002, and I’m going to let Detective Lane Gautreaux take it from here. ”
A ripple of gasps runs through the audience. I catch Tandy Higginbottom staring at me from across the room. I motion with my head for her to come over to me. The chief’s statement was definitive. DNA must have come back.
Chief Duplantis steps aside, and a short woman in a tailored skirt and blazer approaches the mic. Her short brown hair is tucked behind her ears and her brown eyes tell me this woman is not to be underestimated.
“Good morning,” she says. “I’m lead detective Lane Gautreaux with the Criminal Investigations Division for Natchitoches Police Department.”
Tandy comes to my side, and I lean close to her ear. “If she takes questions, I need for you to ask one for me.”
“What?”
“It has come to my attention that a body found in Key Biscayne, Florida, on February 12, 2019, has been positively identified as that of Heather Hadwick,” Gautreaux says.
Again, the crowd murmurs.
“Please,” I whisper to Tandy.
She nods.
“Heather’s driver’s license was discovered in the home of Laura Sanders, whose maiden name was Laura Smith,” Gautreaux continues.
“Sanders was reported missing by her husband on February 11, 2019. Her purse and cell phone were found nearby. At this time, we are working tirelessly with detectives in Miami to put all of the pieces together. DNA-comparison analysis helped us confirm Laura Sanders’s true identity.
I am limited on the information I can share, but Chief Duplantis and I are open to questions. ”
“What in the world is going on?” a woman in the crowd shouts.
“From the media first,” Gautreaux says.
A scrawny guy who looks like he might still be in high school stands up. “Josh Tanner. Channel six. How did the DNA analysis come back so quickly?”
Not bad, Josh.
Gautreaux says, “We have a man who was sitting in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. This took top priority. The crime lab did an excellent job getting the results so quickly and with samples that were seventeen years old.”
I whisper a question to Tandy.
“What type of samples did you have from the original incident?” she yells.
Everybody turns to stare. Chief Duplantis walks up to the mic.
“Mrs. Higginbottom, we are trying to keep this orderly. But to answer your question, we had blood and hair samples collected from the cottage behind the school and a piece of gum that was collected from Miss Hadwick’s dorm-room headboard. ”
An image of Heather fills my head. She’s blowing a giant pink bubble in class, and Katrina reaches over and pops it so it covers Heather’s face.
“What about the skull found at Poison Wood?” Tandy says. That one is hers, not mine.
“We can’t speculate on that at this time. We are hoping to have answers soon.”
I lean into her ear again.
“What about Johnny Adair?” she says.
Another person says, “Will he be set free?”
“Yes,” Detective Gautreaux says, leaning into the mic. “We will immediately work with authorities to get Mr. Adair released within days, not months.”
My throat feels as if it’s closing off. Johnny Adair could be released from prison in days. I shut my eyes a moment, then reopen them.
“That’s all for today,” Gautreaux says. “We will keep the public updated as new information comes in. Thank you.”
The chief of police comes back to the podium and assures the crowd that their community is safe and that this is not an ongoing threat. Yet I still find myself looking over my shoulder as I exit the room and head for the door.