Side(H)arm

by James E. Abel

  As Tommy watched the possum pick at some garbage, his mind drifted to memories of his late son, and how things could have been. He’d coached Billy from the time he was six years old, working with him as he evolved into a very special athlete. By the time Billy Reynolds was a freshman in high school, he was already considered one of the top catching prospects in the state. He could hit for power and average, he had a cannon of an arm, and he had catlike reflexes behind the plate. Billy’s best friend, Kevin Phillips, had also started to raise eyebrows. At the age of sixteen, he was already throwing at eighty-miles-per-hour from the left side of the mound. College scouts from all the major Southeastern Conference powerhouses and from schools as far away as Texas regularly showed up to see both of them play.

  Then came Billy’s sophomore year, the year his mother left and Tommy turned to drinking. Tommy thought back to the night that Kevin Phillips showed up at the house, told him that Billy was doing drugs, and how he had called him a liar and thrown him out. And he remembered how Kevin kept coming back every night until he had finally got through to him. He knew how much he owed that kid.

  By Billy’s junior and senior years, everything had gotten back to normal, the way it was supposed to be. Billy and Kevin went off to the University of Georgia, where they were both redshirted their freshman year. Their grades were good, the times were good, and they worked hard with their coaches in preparation for big “come out” seasons the following year.

  Then came the phone call. Billy hadn’t showed up at practice, so his coach went to his dorm room. That’s where he found Billy, white powder up his nose and more on the floor. The coroner’s report said he had died from an overdose of cocaine. His heart had given out. None of it made sense to Tommy at the time, and it still didn’t. Billy had kicked his habit. Everything seemed fine. All Tommy knew is that it had to be his fault. He had failed his only son.

  Shaking his head to clear the memories, Tommy finished his beer, tossed the bottle to the ground where it rattled off an earlier arrival, and slid off the car. He started for the house, paused, and then redirected toward the side door of the garage. He opened the door, hit the light switch, and stood there, scanning the contents. It had been there for two years now. That’s how much time had passed since Jordan had helped Tommy move Billy’s personal belongings out of the house and into the garage. It was the same night that Jordan had talked a gun out of Tommy’s hand. And it was the same night they had come up with their “X factor” bonding ritual.

  Tommy looked at the dozens of trophies, the framed pictures lined up on the dresser, and finally, Billy’s catcher’s mitt—gathering dust as it sat alone on Billy’s old nightstand.

  Then he turned out the light, closed the door, and went to bed.

  *******

  Five miles away, Cayden James was in the front seat of his silver Toyota rental car, watching China Girl slip through the fog on her way toward the Port of Savannah. She was one of the new mega ships, measuring in at more than 1,200 feet long with the ability to transport almost 1,300 containers. James tossed the binoculars on the passenger’s seat and glanced at the time. It was 2:30 in the morning.

  James, thirty-five-years old, was a quiet, athletically built man who seldom smiled. When he shook another man’s hand, he grabbed it tight, looked him in the eye, and then slowly turned his hand under his own. It was meant to intimidate.

  James started the car, pulled out of the cobblestone parking lot, and headed to the port. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the entrance, presented his carefully forged access credentials as a crane mechanic, and passed safely through the gate and into the parking area. From there, James left his car and made his way into the area where thousands of containers were staged for pick up by the semi-trailers that would move them across the nation’s highways. James moved quickly and quietly between the countless rows of containers, edging his way toward the massive dockside crane that would be offloading the containers from China Girl. If he were spotted, James knew that he’d be arrested and taken in for questioning. But he wouldn’t be spotted. He was good at what he did. Tonight, he needed to sit, watch, and wait. He needed to know where a specific container, number DRGU-00842-7, was moved to after it was taken off the ship. He’d likely be there until it was almost dawn. He’d return another night to get inside the container and find what he was looking for. James reached a good observation point, sat down, pulled out his binoculars, and settled in. It promised to be a long night.

  Chapter 8

  Molly zipped up her jacket, waved goodbye to her friends, and walked out the door to the school parking lot. She saw Casey’s minivan, waved, ran over, and jumped in.

  “Mom! We leave tomorrow, right?”

  “That’s right, and that’s why I picked you up today. I wanted to stop by the office and remind Mr. Penstock.”

  “Did you talk Dad into coming with us?”

  “No. But I’m gonna give it one more try.”

  “Why is he mad at Pop-Pop anyway?”

  “I don’t think he’s mad, honey. They are both just a little bit, you know…”

  Molly interjected, saying, “Thick headed. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Molly, were you eavesdropping? You know that isn’t polite.”

  “I wasn’t trying to. But you guys talk awful loud sometimes. Especially about Pop-Pop.”

  They reached the minivan and got in when Casey’s cell phone rang.

  Jordan was on the other end and said, “Hi there. How’s everything going?”

  “Fine. I just picked up Molly. Oh, and I think I can still get you a seat on the plane.

  Should I grab it?”

  “Case, you know the answer. Look, I appreciate you going up there, and I promise, I’ll try to patch things up with Dad. But for now, between the new job and everything, well you know. Oh, and as for the job, I may be home a little late tonight, but please try and wait up. I want to see both of my girls. Love you.”

  Jordan ended the call and glanced over at Tommy sitting next to him in the passenger’s seat of the police cruiser. They were on U.S. Route 80 on their way to Tybee Island. When they reached the island, Jordan took a right turn onto Catalina Drive and then another right, cutting between two Southern live oak trees and onto the narrow lane that sloped down to the sand and shell parking area fronting Wilson’s Swash. As soon as the car passed under the tree branches, Jordan saw a white paneled news van and its crew standing nearby. A pretty, young, over-dressed female reporter was already interviewing two teenage boys in front of some lights and a rolling camera. Jordan parked the car, pointed at the news crew, and said, “Tommy, they can’t be there! Tell that reporter they need to move back.”

  Tommy threw Jordan a juvenile smile, opened the car door, and said, “No problem. I can handle her.”

  Jordan ignored Tommy’s remark and said, “Oh, and don’t let those two kids leave before I talk to them.”

  Jordan stepped out of the car and looked around, noting that the entire swash was shielded from the view of outside observers. The wetlands surrounding the water on the other two sides were full of scrub trees, mostly maples, that had found a way to survive in the mucky mix of the black soil, sand, and brackish water. The area where Jordan stood had been manmade, to provide access for boaters to the water. Someone, perhaps by the name of Wilson, had long before removed the trees and brought in enough fill to create the parking lot and the grassy area behind it. Further up the slope, there was nothing but dense underbrush, mostly wax myrtles, that extended all the way back to the live oaks bordering the road. Jordan concluded that the seclusion of Wilson’s Swash was by design. It was meant for locals only.

  Jordan turned back toward the media and looked up to see an African-American police officer headed in his direction. His name was Detective Sanders. Former military, Sanders still looked the part with a shaved head, flat stomach, and gold-rimmed, mirrored sunglasses. Jordan and Sanders had a past, and they didn’t like each other very much. The latest clas
h came when Sanders was told that some of his responsibilities for the opioid investigation were being turned over to Jordan. While Sanders would still have overall responsibility for investigative work, coordination, and logistics, Jordan was given field command over the department’s ground operations, including the recently failed raid.

  Sanders strutted toward Jordan smiling. With his deep southern twang he said, “Sorry, Nichols. I know this is your case and all, but my house is just up the road. I heard the call, so I rushed over to secure the scene until you and your partner arrived.”

  Jordan motioned toward the media set up.

  “Oh really? Is that what it’s called when you give an interview, and then stand by and watch while they contaminate the crime scene?” You media whore.

  Sanders slowly took off his sunglasses and said, “Loosen up, Nichols. Those two kids were out crabbing in the middle of the swash when they locked onto an old plastic bag. Take a look inside, and you’re gonna understand that this crime scene was contaminated a hell of a long time ago.”

  Sanders slapped Jordan on the shoulder, glanced over at Tommy, and said, “So best of luck, y’all!”

  Then he got in his car and tore out of the lot, kicking up seashells and sand in Jordan’s direction on his way out.

  Ass hole!

  *******

  In a dive bar on a side street in downtown Savannah, Kevin Phillips watched as the headline rolled across the television screen: “Breaking News from Wilson’s Swash on Tybee Island.’’ Kevin had aged a lot more than the three calendar years that had passed since the night at the swash with Billy. He still had the same long hair, but the gleam was gone from his eyes, his face was drawn and tired, and the natural energy that only the young seem to possess was long gone.

  As the reporter on the screen finished her update, Kevin was still thinking about his best friend when WHACK, the bartender’s hand slammed down on the bar in front of him.

  “Hey, Kev, anybody home?”

  Kevin pulled out of his fog, smiled, and said, “Yeah, I’m right here.”

  “Well, do you want another drink or not? Happy hour’s just about over.”

  “Uh, no thanks, Lou. What do I owe ya?”

  Lou pointed to a piece of paper sitting in an empty glass and said, “Tabs right there.”

  Kevin picked it up, looked at it, threw down a $20 bill, and headed for the door.

  Lou called out to him, “Hey, Kev, get some sleep. You don’t look so hot.”

  Kevin didn’t look back.

  *******

  Back at the swash, floodlights cut a path of light through the gathering fog. The few remaining reporters had been moved back behind police tape, watching six investigators using handheld flashlights comb through the underbrush leading down to the wetlands. But Jordan knew Sanders was probably right. He was investigating a crime that had been committed long before tonight, and little, if any, evidence would be found. When Jordan had worked up the courage to hold his breath and inspect the contents of the bag, he saw what looked like yellow and green wax melting off a skull connected to a badly decomposed body. He stood his distance as a forensics team prepared the remains for transport back to the lab and then walked over to Tommy.

  “Tommy, I need to get home. Can you finish up here?”

  “Sure, but why the hurry?”

  “I want to try and catch some time with the girls before they leave.”

  “Oh, that’s right! They’re going up North to see the family, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah. I’m taking them over to the airport first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Gonna be gone long?”

  “Until late Sunday.”

  “Hey, that means you’re gonna be a free man this weekend! I can show you what it’s like to be single.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Listen, walk with me back to the car, okay?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “What do you make of all of this? I mean, from that entry wound in the front of the skull, it looks like an execution to me.”

  Tommy nodded and said, “Yeah. Could be.”

  “Southern Mafia maybe? Pretty sure they’re running the drug scene downtown.”

  “Maybe. But it could also be gang bangers, or a really pissed off wife. Until they ID that mess, who knows?”

  Jordan nodded as he thought about how to handle his first solo investigation.

  Tommy tried to lighten things up. “Hey, did you see that reporter lose her lunch when the wind shifted? Maybe forensics can tell us what she ate.”

  Jordan ignored him.

  Tommy tried again.

  “Oh, and that reminds me. Knock knock!”

  Jordan, not in the mood, tried to wave him off, but Tommy persisted.

  “Come on. Knock knock.”

  “Okay. Who’s there?”

  “Goo!”

  Jordan reluctantly played along. “Goo who?”

  “Damned if I know. That’s for forensics to figure out!”

  Tommy laughed at his own joke while Jordan just smiled and shook his head. He knew that Tommy was a different person since his son died. He had watched him go from being an upbeat, kind, well-liked man to someone who was a Jekyll and Hyde. He was either quiet and withdrawn or busy playing the class clown. Jordan preferred the latter, and he had learned to accept it as Tommy’s way of burying the pain.

  “Tommy, that really sucked. And please, try and get serious. This is a murder scene. Finish up here, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

  Tommy saluted and said, “Yes, sir. Now get out of here. I got it covered.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  Jordan finished the walk to the car, got in, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot.

  Tommy stood and watched until Jordan got to the top of the incline and turned onto the road. When Jordan was out of sight, Tommy pulled out his cell phone and made a call.

  Chapter 9

  I used to love the visits to my grandparents and Aunt Jenna in upstate New York, maybe because so many of them were right around Christmas time. I think of them as my “red and green” years. Back then, I still believed in Santa Claus, that there was nothing to be afraid of, and that nothing would ever change.

  “You guys all set?” Jordan asked as he finished loading the suitcases into the minivan. Casey and Molly appeared at the front door, and Casey said, “Yup. Let’s go.”

  She pulled the door shut as Molly ran past and jumped in the back of the van. Casey climbed into the front passenger’s seat. Jordan, looking at Molly in the rearview mirror asked, “You excited, pumpkin?”

  Molly smiled and nodded her head a couple of times.

  Jordan turned to Casey. “And what about you?”

  “Absolutely. The two of us are gonna have a great time. Too bad you’re gonna miss it.”

  Ah, the guilt trip.

  The words sent Jordan’s mind spinning about his relationship with his father. Casey thought the feud was silly, a simple disagreement about Jordan’s decision to cut short his education and become a cop. But she was wrong. It was deeper than that.

  It was true that Judge Jim wanted Jordan to continue to law school after he finished his master’s in criminal law. He would have been the third generation of the Nichols family to get a Cornell law degree. But what Casey didn’t know was that the judge blamed her for Jordan’s decision. She had let herself get pregnant during Jordan’s final semester. He called Jordan aside one night and told him that he’d spoken to a schoolmate who ran an abortion clinic and offered to help pay for an abortion. The conversation ended with Jordan shoving his father against the wall and the judge telling Jordan to “…get the hell out and don’t come back.”

  Jordan was never going to tell Casey about what happened that night so, whenever Casey begged him to reconcile with his father, all he could do was make an excuse or nod his head.

  Twenty minutes later, Jordan pulled up to the curb at the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport, hopped out, and
grabbed the luggage while Molly and Casey got out and waited on the sidewalk outside the terminal. Jordan rolled the suitcases over to them and kneeled to give Molly a hug.

  “I’m gonna miss you so much. You better behave because Santa’s watching.”

  Molly rolled her eyes and asked, “Really, Dad?”

  Jordan smiled and turned to Casey. “And you, too, because Santa’s got a big surprise waiting for you!”

  “Oh, and just what might that be?”

  “Well, you’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Okay, Santa. I’ll give you a call when we get there.”

  Jordan gave Casey a quick hug and a kiss and watched as she and Molly entered the terminal.

  From there, Casey and Molly would take a connector flight to Atlanta and then catch the three-hour flight into Syracuse, New York. That’s where Casey’s mom, Nancy, would meet them for the one-hour drive north on I-81 to her home near Oneida Lake. Jordan’s parents and sister lived about ten miles from Nancy’s house, in a stately gentleman’s farmhouse overlooking the lake, making it easy for Casey and Molly to spend time with both families.

  As Jordan pulled away from the curb, he noticed some workers putting up Christmas decorations at the airport entrance. It gave him an idea, one that helped him to redirect his guilt. Jordan pointed the minivan toward the nearest shopping center. An hour later, he was on his way home with some new Christmas decorations. The tree would have to wait until Christmas Eve, because that was a family tradition. But he figured he could surprise Casey and Molly by doing a first-rate job on the rest of the house, with candles in the windows, some decorations on the end-tables in the living room, and maybe a big Santa Claus or a snowman in Molly’s room.