Chapter 22
Hank
AFTER THE ALIBI
Pete Sanders’s visit has left me with a simmering rage that is threatening to boil over. It’s been three days since Ben’s body was discovered and it feels like everything I’ve worked so hard for is crumbling around me.
One of our paralegals, Scott, is by far the best researcher I’ve ever come across. He can find a needle in a haystack in record time. So I’ve pulled him from his cubicle and set him up at the table in my office.
I’m done with playing catch-up.
We’ve been working for a couple of hours and he’s already pulled all the information on Paul Granger’s case, including the transcript from his trial, as well as information on Aubrey Price and the two guys who own the business that restored the Mustang, Shane Phillips and Eddie Reynolds.
Shane and Eddie have worked as mechanics in various repair shops throughout town over the last decade.
They started a restoration business for old muscle cars not long after moving to the house they share with Aubrey Price.
A recent social media post showed them celebrating an anniversary, so they are a couple as well as business partners.
Shane was popped for auto theft when he was twenty and served a six-month sentence.
Eddie has either never broken the law or never gotten caught.
At this point I’m not even surprised at the way they are all connected.
Now we’re getting into the weeds of Paul’s case.
When I looked at it the first time, I read through the summary the pro bono group made and that was all I needed to see to believe I had a good chance of winning an appeal on his case.
There was a lack of forensic evidence and no eyewitnesses who saw Paul drive his truck that night.
The prosecutor argued the kids who had been partying at Paul’s had left an hour before the accident, which also meant none of them were there to see Paul leave his house behind the wheel.
It seems like the moment the police identified the owner of the truck as Paul Granger, there was no reason to assume he wasn’t the driver.
It’s half-assed and lazy work but also sort of expected from a department that has little to no experience with processing scenes like this.
But now we’re digging in.
“Scott, pull up the arrest records and give me a rundown.”
Scott taps away. “Paul Joseph Granger. White male, age thirty. Arrested at his home at 742 Oak Street, Corbeau, Louisiana, on July eighth, 2016, at seven twelve a.m. Arrest made by Kevin Foster.” A few more clicks.
“Foster was also first at the scene of the accident on Maple. Report says he arrived at one thirty a.m. He’s also the one who collected all the witness statements. ”
I flip through the pages in the files Ben had in his home office. “There were over two dozen people at his house that night. One cop took all those statements?”
Tap, tap, tap. “Huh.”
Scott’s confusion has me turning to him. “What?”
“Kevin Foster was the chief of police for Corbeau for the last thirty years.”
I get out of my chair and come stand behind him so I can see what he’s seeing. “You’re telling me the chief of police was the first on the scene in the middle of the night.”
Scott shrugs. “That’s what the report says.”
There’s a niggling feeling in my brain that I can’t quite pinpoint. “Did someone call 911 about the accident? How was the accident discovered?”
“No mention of a 911 call coming in. Doesn’t mean there wasn’t one. All it says is what time Foster arrived there.”
Looking at this as if I were Paul Granger’s defense attorney, Kevin Foster would be the first person I tried to discredit.
I would pull apart every witness statement he collected, looking to see if he potentially influenced the memories of the witnesses or collected the information incorrectly.
Since he was also one of the first responders, I would try to determine if he mishandled any evidence or didn’t follow the correct procedure in collecting it.
“You said he was the chief of police? Is he not anymore?”
“No. Retired a few months ago.”
Scott is switching screens too fast for me to read what’s popping up before it’s gone again. “Oh, wait. He’s dead.”
This has me straightening up. “Dead? When?”
Within a few seconds, Scott has his obituary pulled up. “September first. Pancreatic cancer. Hold on. His Facebook account is still up and wide open.”
I watch as Scott pulls up an old post. “Diagnosed in December last year.”
We both read the entry where he details how he found out and what his prognosis is. We scroll down and see pictures of him in the hospital getting treatments, as well as links to a GoFundMe drive and a MealTrain sign-up.
Scott pulls up a picture of him from May in a fishing boat. He’s almost not recognizable as the person in the earlier images.
“Man, he looks like he’s aged ten years,” Scott says, and I have to agree.
There’s a long post with the image sharing that his cancer had spread. He had made the decision not to seek further treatment and instead enjoy his last days as much as he could. This must have been right before he decided to retire.
Scott continues to scroll through his feed, then stops on a graphic Foster posted in late May. It’s an image of Jesus in front of the pearly gates. “And here it is. He found God. Knew that was coming.”
“Sure you did,” I say as I read some of the comments.
“Seriously, my grandpa did this too. They found he had like eighty percent blockage in one of his arteries, and next thing I know he’s at daily Mass with my grandma even though he hadn’t attended in years.
The docs put some stents in and told him he was going to live and he hasn’t been back to church since. ”
After that first image of Jesus, Foster starts reposting nothing but religious content about salvation and Heaven and repenting for your sins and begging for forgiveness.
“Yeah, he’s freaking out about dying and going to hell. Wonder how many skeletons were hiding in his closet?” Scott asks.
“Yeah, it’s a bit dark,” I say, reading a long, rambling post that he was going to “leave this world with a clean slate and pure heart.”
“Okay, let’s move on since we’re not going to get anywhere with Foster. Who was the public defender assigned to Paul?”
Foster’s social media page disappears and we’re back to the court documents. After a few minutes, Scott says, “A guy named Mike Knox, but he’s not practicing anymore. Moved to New Orleans about five years ago.”
“And the judge on the case?”
Click, click, click.
“Judge Landis. Retired.”
I straighten up and move back to the other end of the table. “Will you go through the witness statements and make me a list of everyone the police talked to and a list of everyone who was partying at Paul’s that night?”
Scott nods. “On it.”
I dig through the file Ben had on Aubrey Price and Paul Granger again. I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something.
Rereading one of Ben’s notes stops me cold: Chief—Angola June 6th.
Chief.
Kevin Foster was the chief of police in Corbeau.
Every single file that Ben kept at home or in his briefcase makes some sort of reference to this name. The same files that detail the type of behavior that would cost him his license. I’ve been trying to figure out who was helping Ben, and Kevin Foster has jumped to the top of my list.
But why would Ben make note in Paul’s file about Foster going to Angola?
I think back to Foster’s social media posts and Scott’s comment about Foster “freaking out about dying and going to hell.” Did Foster’s visit have anything to do with repenting for his sins and asking for forgiveness? Asking Paul for forgiveness?
When I look at the rest of the notes in the file on Aubrey, I do it through the lens that “Chief” is Foster, and they take on a whole different meaning.
And then I glance at the dozen other files Ben kept at home, duplicates that show he had help tampering with evidence and intimidating witnesses. All of that help referred back to “Chief.”
Foster was in Corbeau, so it makes sense he could have covered up a crime there, but he wouldn’t have that kind of pull in Baton Rouge. So how was he helping Ben with his cases here?
I pull Pete Sanders’s file back open, skimming until I find the list of names Ben had started down the edge of one page next to a particularly graphic entry about one of the people who came forward as a witness against Pete.
“Chief” is at the top and then an arrow to a dozen other names, some I recognize and some I don’t. All of them have been scratched out.
The names I know are all locals in a variety of positions—other lawyers, a judge, a couple of PIs, and a handful of guys the DA’s office has been trying to take down for years for various criminal offenses.
I read back through the list three times before it hits me.
Once Foster retired and found religion, I’m guessing he wouldn’t have been the help he once was. So Ben was trying to figure out who Foster turned to when he needed something done outside of Corbeau.
I go back to the file on Aubrey. Chief—Angola June 6th.
What if Paul Granger wasn’t the only person Foster felt like he needed to ask for forgiveness?
How many people scattered throughout these files would be scrambling to save their own asses if Foster was repenting for his sins and the truth came out?
How big a problem would it have been for Ben?
Huge.
Career ending.
But would it be life ending? Could this be the reason Ben was killed?
There’s a piece I’m still missing, but now my internal list of who could have killed Ben and why narrows to the group of files on this table.
“Scott, any way you can see who Foster’s biggest campaign donor was?” I’m pretty sure I know the answer to this but I’m not making any assumptions.
“Sure, give me a minute.”
I read back through some of the other files, making note of every time “Chief” is mentioned while I wait for Scott to get that info.
“Okay, so Foster ran unopposed for his last three elections but he still took in campaign donations.” He leans close to the screen. “Oh, wow. For a police chief seat in a town the size of Corbeau, he had some pretty big donations.”
Oh, I bet he did.
Scott sits back and looks at me, a concerned look on his face.
“Whatever you found, it’s okay. Just tell me.”
He nods and looks back at the screen. “Biggest donor is Randall Everett. And the next below him was Mr. Bayliss.”