Another push on the shovel’s handle, another toss of heavy snow into the tiny garden by the walkway. And more thoughts about the case. His jaw clenched and he was beginning to sweat beneath his flannel shirt, gloves, and down vest, but he kept at it, working his muscles as his mind swirled in the recent developments.
Merritt Margrove, that has-been attorney, finally found a way to get his client out. According to what Tate had read, the lawyer had found someone, a cop with a newly scrubbed conscience, who suddenly, after all this time, admitted there had been a problem with the evidence found at the scene. The murder weapon, an old sword from the previous century, had gone missing for over forty minutes in the confusion that was the crime scene.
Tate had a call into the cop, Randall Isley, now retired, who lived in Omaha, but Isley hadn’t answered. Tate had left a message.
He also had joined a Facebook fan page for Jonas McIntyre. He’d used a fake name—no reason to tip any of Jonas’s apparent legion of fans by giving his real name. They were so rabid, they’d put two and two together if he logged in with the same last name of one of the victims who’d died that night.
All the same, they were a weird group, dedicated to the belief that Jonas was innocent, and had posted their thoughts, along with links for donations, to the Free Jonas McIntyre Go Fund Me page, which hadn’t reached its fifty-thousand-dollar goal but was close.
What was that all about?
There were three women’s names who seemed to be the ringleaders or, at least, were the most vocal on both sites, so he was looking into Brenda Crawley, Simone Hardesty, and Mia Long. There was also one guy who was pretty vocal, too. Aiden Cross made a lot of noise online about injustice in general and Jonas in particular, though a cross-check of his profile indicated that Aiden was involved in over ten antigovernment causes.
What was their connection with McIntyre?
The women obviously communicated with the object of their cause as all three had posted what Jonas was thinking about his release, the horrible night he’d found his family slaughtered and almost died himself, as well as who he thought was responsible for the heinous crimes. Cross was out of that loop; never commenting on what Jonas McIntyre thought, but always championing his case. It seemed a little off. But didn’t everything?
Tate had created a fake online identity as Jessica Smith, thirty, divorced, no kids, self-employed as a web designer who was into all kinds of causes, Jonas McIntyre’s case being one. He’d bought a picture of a thirtysomething woman online and posted it for “Jessica’s” profile. Average looking in a hat and scarf that obscured most of her features, Jessica Smith, two of the most common names for her age, lurked, gaining information and giving none.
The group was elated that Jonas had been set free.
Several had commented that they hoped to meet him.
Most of those who commented frequently agreed that he was not only innocent and wrongly accused and convicted, but “hot.”
One woman compared his likeness to Jesus on the cross, the white people’s vision of the Son of God depicted in so many pictures, but other than the short beard and long brown hair, the resemblance was lost on Tate.
Then again, people saw what they wanted to see.
There was one member, though, who he found intriguing. Her name was listed as Hailey Brown. She didn’t offer much in the comment section and she was just one of thousands on the site, but the site allowed him to see who was “on” the site at any given time, and there were less than fifty who seemed always to be online, specifically logged into the Save Jonas McIntyre site. He’d been through them all, wondering why they were so connected. Most of the people forever on the site, like Aiden Cross, Simone Hardesty, Brenda Crawley, and Mia Long, could be found easily and confirmed as actual people. Several had seemed sketchy at first, but by process of elimination over weeks and months, there had been several dozen who had no other connection to other online causes about freedom and liberty and social justice, and he’d checked them out. But Hailey Brown from Modesto, California, was different. An online search had proved her profile picture was a stock image. Cross-checking, using identity searches online, he couldn’t locate any Hailey Brown that matched any information he could dig up. The name was so common. An alias. He felt it in his gut.
Not that her fake identity meant anything.
Wasn’t he, like she, a faux person?
But why? The question gnawed at him.
Two more thrusts of the shovel and the short walkway to the cavernous building was cleared. He stood and leaned on the handle, watched as a teenager in ski gear and a cap, ear buds visible, cruised down the street. The kid hurdled a pile of plowed snow at the corner before continuing down the hill at a breakneck speed.