You Can't Stop Me. Max Allan Collins
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early October, segment host Shayla Ross had done a cursory study of the case, then abandoned it as a dead end.
The dirtiest little secret about Crime Seen! was the mandate to choose crimes that had enough threads for their team to follow. Cold cases were avoided, as were crimes where no suspects were on the horizon. TV viewers wanted closure, and soon.
As Carmen pored over material from the case, she could not shake the feeling that some important detail had been overlooked. Something small and insignificant to Shayla and the investigators, but enough to set off a tiny if mournful alarm in the back of Carmen’s mind, a foghorn on a faraway shore.
She stopped, rubbed her eyes, shook her head, then rose, stretched, and walked to the break room for a soda—maybe a little distance would shake something loose. She fished change out of her pocket, got a Diet Coke from the vending machine, and tapped lacquered nails against the lid as she mentally riffled through thousands of bits of information she’d read about the Ferguson murders.
At the end of his shift, Ray Ferguson had come home in a well-tended Placida neighborhood. Though he didn’t make nearly as much money as the other members of the community, his real-estate agent wife, Stella, did. The Fergusons had two kids, a boy, Jeff, eleven, and a girl, Jessica, fourteen.
Like Harrow’s wife and son, mother and children had been shot in the chest. Unlike Harrow’s family, each was only shot once. Also unlike her boss’s case, these victims were shot in one room, apparently executed in turn—Harrow’s wife and son with a .357, the Fergusons with a nine millimeter (though in the latter case the efficient assassin had gathered up his shell casings).
A gruesome touch set the Ferguson killings apart, however—the fourth finger of Stella Ferguson’s left hand had been cut off, post-mortem. Forensics indicated a gardening tool had been used.
As at the Harrow home, no fingerprints were found, the only piece of evidence (if that) turning up on the Fergusons’ driveway: a leaf from a corn plant. As far as the investigators were concerned, that leaf might have come from anywhere. But Illinois farm kid Carmen discerned a clue.
Some quick work on the Internet garnered Carmen more—seemed Florida produced more corn than she’d have thought, nearly one hundred thousand acres in all. But compared to the twelve million acres harvested in Harrow’s home state, that wasn’t much….
And a particular photo at the Placida News website sealed her suspicions—it showed a transparent plastic evidence bag with that single corn plant leaf inside.
Rural kid Carmen recognized the difference between a sweet corn plant and a field corn plant. Charlotte County, Florida, home to Placida, was on the northern edge of the highest-producing area for sweet corn in Florida. Virtually no field corn was grown in the northern half of the state. The state’s small field corn crop, produced in the southern end, centered on the ocean side, not the gulf.
Why, in a county that grew exclusively sweet corn, was Carmen looking at the leaf of field-corn plant?
She couldn’t answer that question yet, but she knew one thing: city kid Shayla, formerly of Boston, would never ask it.
Carmen needed help, and she knew precisely who to ask. But she would do more than just ask—this was her shot—this was her chance….
The PA found Harrow, back in his office after lunch, dutifully signing publicity photos. She knocked on the jamb of the open door, then smiled when Harrow looked up.
“Got a minute, boss?”
Carmen knew that many TV stars made outrageous demands for their offices, turning them into virtual apartments. Harrow’s was quite the opposite. A glance would make any visitor think Harrow was nothing more than your average corporate attorney. Furnishings were nice enough but not extravagant, bookshelves filled with research material, his desk a mahogany island mid-room, piled with papers that marked this a workplace and not a showplace. Two leather chairs sat opposite him.
Harrow tossed his Sharpie aside and smiled. “I can spare a minute just to avoid the writer’s cramp.” He nodded to a chair.
Carmen sat on its edge. “Around the fourth or fifth episode, we were in a production meeting where you mentioned a DCI case you worked involving the specificity of plant DNA.”
Harrow gave her a sideways look. “That’s not a question.”
“No. It’s a preamble.”
Wearing half a frown and half a smile, he said, “Fourth or fifth episode. How do you remember stuff like that?”
She shrugged. “You never know when ‘stuff’ will come in handy—like today.”
“Today, huh? What are you up to, today?”
She told Harrow what she’d found so far. No places, no dates, just the circumstances. She connected no dots, however, between the Ferguson and Harrow murders.
“So,” he said, softly, eyes tight, “this was Shayla’s story….”
“Yes, sir. And she thought it was a dead end.”
“‘Sir,’ yet. I am in trouble.” He shifted in his leather chair. “And you went in on your own, and maybe found something?”
“I think so, but I need that plant expert you told us about last year to verify my theory.”
Harrow studied her for a long moment. Carmen might have been a slide under the criminalist’s microscope.
“Then,” he said, “once you’ve found out you’re right, you’ll hand all the information over to Shayla—correct?”
Carmen sat silently for a moment. This was her opening, and she knew it.
“If this pans out,” she said, “I’m hoping you’ll make me the reporter who covers the story.”
After a long silence, Harrow said, “You know I can’t promise you anything.”
“If you tell me you’ll try, that’s all I ask.”
She could tell he was intrigued; but was he also irritated?
Giving away nothing, he said, “And why do you think this nearly eight-month-old case is so important that it merits you a promotion from PA all the way to on-air personality?”
“It’s a juicy murder case we can feature on the live show.”
“We’ve had those before.”
“Not ones that might be related to your case, as well.”
And there it was: out in the open.
She said, “You heard the circumstances. You can see the similarities. And the link back to Iowa, or anyway the heartland, if that plant is what I think it is.”
Harrow’s eyes held hers. Was he trembling? If so, was it with anger? Had she gone too far?
He said, “You think that would influence my decision?”
She stared right back at him. “Frankly, yes.”
He began to protest, but Carmen cut him off. “J.C., I know you’re not like most people in this business….”
“And yet,” Harrow said, exasperated, “you’re trying to blackmail me.”
“I don’t consider it that.” She risked a tiny smile. “Maybe…manipulate you, a little?”
He just looked at her.
She gestured, and her nervousness showed. “J.C., you’ve told me a dozen times you believe in my potential. I’m just asking for the chance to prove you right.”
Was that a smile? Small, barely discernible, but…a smile?
She sat forward. “Give me the name of the man at that seed company, and I’ll follow the lead wherever it goes. I’ll give you the info, all the info, and you can decide who deserves the story—Shayla or me. Is that blackmail?”