Читать книгу Murder in Mayberry - Jack Branson - Страница 22
ОглавлениеFriday. Ann’s body would be ready for viewing in the afternoon.
There was some concern about whether Ann’s injuries could be adequately disguised, but the women of the family seemed determined that there would be an open coffin. Maybe they needed to see Ann’s body looking normal so they could imagine she had died peacefully.
A wig would cover the gaping holes in her skull, but it would have to come down far enough to camouflage the parts of her neck that were missing or concave. Iva Ray, Janet and Grace sorted through Ann’s many wigs and found one they thought would work.
The ladies communicated throughout the day with the mortician. A “local boy” now in his fifties, he had worked at Barnett-Strother Funeral Home since high school graduation. He now owned the business and conducted it with the dignity and class you’d expect in a larger city. Always quiet and somber, you felt that he shared your grief.
Funeral home staff instructed the ladies to choose a pair of heavy gloves to cover Ann’s hand injuries. They found black leather gloves and, from Ann’s well-stocked closet, they chose a gray suit with a mink collar to match them. As Iva Ray described the clothing they’d selected, I realized that only the front portion of Ann’s face would be visible.
I had never seen Ann wear the drab combination of clothing Iva Ray described. When she’d worn the gray suit, it would have been accented with bright pink earrings and pink floral shoes. Her wardrobe was filled primarily with oranges, purples and tropical prints. She enjoyed color, and she knew she looked good in it. I wished she could have worn a brightly colored outfit when we said our final good-byes.
Earl called Jack and asked if he’d go with him to Ann’s house to get the large portrait that hung in her living room. In case the coffin had to be closed, Earl was thinking practically.
The portrait was actually an exquisite twenty-four-by-thirty-inch photo that Barbara Yonts, a local photographer, had taken of Ann. Ann had occasionally allowed Barbara to use her beautifully landscaped yard, with its statues and gazebo, for children’s portraits. As a thank you, Barbara had presented Ann with the portrait less than a year ago.
In the portrait Ann is dressed in a pink linen pantsuit and she’s holding a pink rose. She’s stunning. It’s the way I want to remember her.
As Jack was leaving to meet Earl, Judy called.
“Judy’s found what looks like blood,” Jack said as he hung up the phone. “She took down Anna Mae’s portrait and decided to wrap it so it didn’t get damaged taking it to the funeral home. There was some bubble wrap in the basement, along with some supplies Anna Mae used for mailing packages.
“When Judy pulled out the bubble wrap, she found a piece spattered with what looked like dried blood.”
“I guess it’s useless evidence,” I observed.
“Yeah,” said Jack. “But I still want to let Hargis know about it.”
Jack and Earl stopped by Ann’s house for the portrait. Jack thought the brownish-orange stain on the bubble wrap looked more like paint than blood, but he and Earl stayed until a police officer picked it up. Jack had taken off his jacket, and the officer noticed his badge and weapon.
“You’re the one who’s a federal agent,” the officer commented.
Jack nodded.
“Maybe you can help me,” the officer continued. “Do you know how to get the federal reports that show when people make big purchases?”
“Sure,” said Jack. “You can check CTRs and 8300s through the Treasury Department.”
Jack had investigated countless financial crimes—high-stakes gambling, money laundering, counterfeiting, prostitution—and using CTRs and Form 8300s was as natural to him as using credit cards was to me. He was glad to help this officer, who so comfortably admitted that he was venturing into unfamiliar territory.
Banks are required to file CTRs (Currency Transaction Reports) with the U.S. Department of the Treasury any time they have a transaction involving $10,000 or more in cash. A conscientious bank often files a CTR for transactions that appear to be avoiding the $10,000 guideline, such as two $5,000 transactions or a $9,800 transaction. These reports are on file with the U.S. Treasury and can be obtained by other law enforcement agencies by subpoena.
If a $10,000 cash transaction occurs with an entity other than a bank, a Form 8300 is filed. Real estate companies, casinos, car dealerships and boat and airplane sales companies usually keep these forms handy for the occasional person who pulls out a wad of one hundred dollar bills to cover a transaction.
During the days of Prohibition and the beginnings of organized crime, the government learned that it was easier to prove excess money than to connect criminals directly to their crimes. While it was impossible to connect Al Capone with his racketeering, proving that he had money he didn’t report on his tax returns put him behind bars.
The government finally decided to transfer its work to banks and businesses by requiring cash transaction reports, and in 1984, Uncle Sam set up the CTR/8300 system. At the same time, the government made money laundering a federal crime, and banks and individuals failing to report cash transactions were subject to indictment.
“Can you help me get reports like that?” asked the officer.
“I can do it if I have a case open on someone,” said Jack. “Otherwise, those reports are off limits. But you can request them yourself if they’re crucial to a case you’re working on.”
“That’s great,” said the officer. “I’ll do that.”
“Wonder what all that’s about,” Jack told Earl after the officer left. Then noticing Earl’s demeanor, he added, “You okay, Earl?”
Earl, with the normally flat-line emotions, was leaning forward in an antique chair, looking as if he were about to jump up and punch someone.
“I was doing alright until now,” said Earl. “But anger’s set in. When I think what someone did to my sister. …”
Earl got up suddenly. “Let’s get out of here. Come with me to my shop, and I’ll give you the gun you found yesterday. Ann would want you to have it.”
The family viewing was at 3:00. We gathered in a room next to the viewing room, waiting for everyone to arrive. Then we walked in together.
I pulled Jack aside and squeezed his arm tight. “Honey, we can’t let people see her this way. She was too beautiful and feminine. Her features were soft. What’s in that coffin looks harsh.”
“It doesn’t look anything like Anna Mae,” Jack agreed. He pulled his mother aside. “People don’t need to remember her this way.”
Iva Ray nodded, but we knew she wouldn’t speak up. She’d go along with whatever the others chose to do.
“Change the lipstick,” Janet told a funeral home employee. “Ann wore a lighter shade, more of a pink.”
The employee wiped off the red lipstick and put on some pink. The staff had done their best with Ann’s battered body, but the wounds were ghastly and they had been unable to artistically cover them. But the family wanted to, had to, believe she looked fine.
“There,” said Janet with finality. “That’s better.”
And so Anna Mae Winstead Branson’s loved ones and friends said good-bye to what seemed to me a harsh caricature of the real Ann. Unfortunately, the curiosity seekers had ample reason for assumptions and speculations about the covered parts of her body.
Before long, hundreds of people streamed into the funeral home. We stood near the coffin to greet the endless procession of mourners. Over and over we heard “you don’t remember me, do you” as we were reacquainted with people we’d known nineteen years earlier when we moved from Madisonville. And all I could think was that any of these people could be Ann’s killer.
Russell brought his three sons from his first marriage. The oldest was twelve. His twin boys were nine. The twins seemed nervous about approaching the body. Russell placed his arms around their shoulders and they walked together to the coffin. I realized again how scary Ann’s body appeared.
Pastor Tom Branson and his wife, Connie, nearly filled a row with their children. Tom was not the appointed minister for the next day’s service, though he was leading a prayer. However, he and Connie were so used to their ministerial role that they moved among the mourners, greeting and comforting them.
Suddenly a distant family member was beside me.
“Can you imagine!” the family member whispered. “Someone had the nerve to ask me if Ann had been violated.”
She leaned even closer and shuddered. “And someone asked if her fingers had been severed.”
She waited for my response. When I remained silent, she pressed, “Were they?”
