“Seldom. And she was crazy,” Rosey said, “but she did have a methodical bent to her insanity. It does beg the question.”
“The how question.”
“Yep, that question.”
“We’ll never know.”
“I can live a long time without knowing,” he said.
“Curiosity is my investigative technique,” I said.
“That, and the strangely wonderful computer of yours.”
“Oh, speaking of said computer, I should call her.”
“I am surprised that she has not called you—” he said as my phone rang precisely at that moment. I looked down at the number on my screen. Speak of the devil.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just checking in to see if you are alive.”
“So far.”
“Developments.”
“Plenty,” I said and told her what had happened. She asked for details and I supplied as many as I could from yesterday’s mind blowing events. Rogers refrained from interrupting me as I relayed the gory details with precision. She absorbed all of the things I could recall and relate.
When I finished, I waited for her to respond. My wait was met with silence.
“You have a theory,” I said.
“I do. But before I tell you my theory, you need to know something I have uncovered. I kept digging on Bella just to see if anything would surface. It seems that there are still some unsolved murders in and around Corbin, Kentucky over the last few years. I just happened upon them while I was searching for more data on Bella. About once a year, the authorities find a body with a head wound, left temple, shot with a rifle. And it is always a Hatfield relative who dies. Police records list it as coincidental. When I saw that word, I knew you would want me to check it out. You would have to know.”
I smiled at her comment.
“This head shot, to the left temple, was it the same caliber each time?”
“I compared all of the records going back seven years. In the oldest case seven years back, the police either did not bother to determine the weapon or the caliber, or simply could not. But in the last five years, they brought in an expert on handguns and rifles who determined that all five victims were shot with a .308 Winchester cartridge. He also determined that the each of the murdered victims was shot at a distance of 800 meters.”
“Wow. Sounds like a marksman.”
“Expert,” Rogers said.
“Same difference.”
“Not according to the military records from the Korean War on their Carbine Qualification Modified Course ‘B’ with adjusted sight.”
“I should have known better,” I said. “I fell into your trap.”
“Of course you did. Planned and executed. Are you a little curious?”
“You had me at the Korean War.”
“During the Korean War, the U.S. Army tested the soldiers in their ability to use a rifle. They had three levels of achievement – marksman, sharpshooter, and expert. Expert was the highest level.”
“May I ask why you chose to do your research with the Korea War?”
“You may. The .308 Winchester round was introduced to the commercial hunting market in the United States in 1952. Two years later NATO adopted the 7.62x51mm NATO T65 centerfire cartridge. The specifications for the two cartridges are not identical although they are similar. The .308 Winchester remains one of the most popular hunting cartridges around the world.”
“You sound like an article from a rifleman’s journal,” I said.
“That a compliment?” Rogers said.
“Not really, but do continue, if there is more.”
“There’s a tad more,” she said. “The military adopted this cartridge simply because that preferred the devastating terminal performance – their words, not mine – when the cartridge could be loaded with a bullet that expanded, tumbled, and/or fragmented in tissue.”
“Sounds horrible.”
“Bottom line here is that if death doesn’t come quickly, suffering is significant. Sounds more gruesome than horrible to me, but what do I know? I’m just a machine, right?”
“Okay, your history lesson is quite good. Well, maybe not good good. But, per usual, you are succinct. However, you still did not answer my question about why the Korean War?”
“Little known to the residents of Corbin, Kentucky, there is a man who lives there who achieved the badge of expert according to the January 18, 1951 report on Company B at Camp Atterbury, Indiana. This man scored an outstanding mark of 195 in an official test offered by the Army.”
“His name?”
“Master Sergeant Bartholomew Poindexter. Sgt. Poindexter served in the U.S. Army from 1950-1954. If you recall from your history, the Korean War was officially from 1950-1953, although there was continued action after the ceasefire.”
“You think Sgt. Poindexter is the one killing all of those Hatfield relatives during the last several years.”
“Not too many people could make a kill shot from 800 meters with such deadly accuracy.”
“Did the police talk with Sgt. Poindexter?”
“No. Not yet. They don’t know about Sgt. Poindexter.”
“But you know about Sgt. Poindexter.”
“I do.”
“How is it that you know about him and they do not?”
“Do I really need to answer such a ludicrous question?”
“Humor me.”
“I am sufficiently smarter than the police of Corbin, Kentucky.”
“Besides that. How did you find Sgt. Poindexter and they have not?”
“I first did the research on the .308 Winchester cartridge. When I discovered its beginning history, I just decided to see if there were any folks around that neck of the woods who served during the Korean War. I found Bartholomew Poindexter when I did my search.”
“How old is Mr. Poindexter?”
“A mere lad of eighty some years.”
“So you think this old coot is going around shooting some relatives of the Hatfields of Kentucky with deadly accuracy that belies his many years.”
“True, but there is one more tidbit that might interest you.”
“Let me have it.”
“He goes by Bart Poindexter and he is a close acquaintance of Bella Cantrella Cantrell.”
Chapter 43
I called the Dan River police to see if they had a ballistics report on the head wounds of Marilyn Saunders. I was told that they had some preliminary findings, but that they wanted to do some more checking to verify the conclusions of their lab. They told me to call back in a couple of days.
Rosey and I decided to walk the perimeter of May’s land once again just to see if anything had been missed. In this work, all kinds of strange things can happen to the left-behinds from pistol and rifle firings. The devil was always in the details and it oftentimes took several walk-throughs at crime scenes in order to find the smallest of clues. I learned that little bit of crime scene investigative work by watching Starnes Carver, Miss Personality in Norfolk.
During our exploration of the terrain, I told Rosey the information that Rogers had uncovered about Sgt. Bartholomew Poindexter. Rosey was impressed with the 800 meters.
“If that old man made that shot, he’s the real deal,” Rosey said.
“Real meaning legit?”
“First class sniper. There aren’t too many shooters today that could equal those shots. He must have been a real weapon for our side during that war.”
“Now he’s maybe somebody else’s weapon.”
“Change one killer for another.”
“At least he is not after us.”
We circumnavigated May’s entire acreage, but spent the most time focused upon the grassy knoll from where we were positive the shots had been fired. While there were no trees on this elevated parcel of land, there were many small bushes. The bushes were too small for a person to hide behind; but, they were certainly capable of hiding a shell casing from a fired weapon. The size of the bush
es dictated that Rosey and I crawl around on our hands and knees. I can only imagine what my mother thought as she watched us through the large double doors of May’s cabin.
Our diligence paid dividends.
“Ah ha,” I said after forty minutes of nothing except sighs and moans from bending down and crawling around on my hands and knees.
“Ah ha, what?”
“I have a shell casing,” I said standing and walking towards Rosey to show him my treasure.
“It looks like a .308,” Rosey said, “and it looks old.”
“From a shooter a long while back?” I said.
“Not necessarily. The casing itself looks several years old, but it could have been fired recently,” Rosey said as he studied it carefully.
“Popular cartridge.”
“Very.”
“Too popular to tie to one person?”
“In most cases.”
“This case?”
“Someone with great skill made those two shots that did Saunders in.”
“I have a theory about the location of those two shots,” I said.
“Tell me.”
“The head shot was definitely intended to kill her. Alone, it was sufficient. She was probably dead before the second shot hit her heart.”
“I agree. So why make the second shot? Why take the extra three to four seconds to shoot again and risk being seen?”
“The heart shot was personal.”
“You think Diamond killed her?” Rosey said.
“No. Diamond would have shot her in the head and been done with it. Two shots would not have been her trademark. Professionals do not usually make it personal. No, somebody else shot Saunders. Somebody who knew her, or was acting for somebody who knew her. Diamond would not have wasted that second bullet.”
Rosey smiled at me. It was the first time in a long while that he smiled. Lots of tension.
“I sense a road trip forthcoming.”
“How insightful you are, Mr. Washington.”
“Where to?” he said, “as if I do not know.”
“Corbin, Kentucky. We’re off to see our colorful psychic.”
“Think we might have a chance to meet her friend Bart?”
“We can insist, can’t we?”
“We can. But I’m not sure I want him to know that we are coming.”
Chapter 44
We made good time in leaving Virginia and crossing through West Virginia to Kentucky. Sam was watching the road in front of us from his backseat perch. Ever the faithful and vigilant canine. Rosey had long since stopped questioning Sam’s riding in the Jag. Buds.
We made a quick stop in Dan River to drop off the casing I found in the bush on the grassy knoll. I gave them my cell number and asked them to call when their crime lab had made some conclusions about it.
“We have enough evidence to prove Bart was the shooter?” I asked Rosey knowing full well the answer.
“No,” he said as he headed the Jaguar towards the direction of Roanoke.
“Can we bluff him?”
“He’s eighty years old and probably agile and steady enough to hit a target at 800 meters away. Three hundred yards for sure. His brain likely works well, too. I don’t know if we have sufficient information to offer a believable bluff.”
“Worth a try.”
“Might as well. We’ve come this far. In preparation for such a brazen thing to do with a sharpshooter, we could always have our palms read. Just to see.”
“Sounds like a plan if the bluff fails.”
“No, ma’am. I want the palms read prior to any bluffing. If the bluff fails, we might have to fight for our lives. Bart and Bella could be formidable adversaries,” Rosey said.
“We be formidable as well.”
Rosey eyed me without turning his head.
“Picking up the lingo, huh?”
“Been around you too long.”
The weather was cool when we pulled into the city limits of Corbin that night. It felt more like December than the last few days. Since no one was paying my expenses in this case, we purchased a motel room with two double beds for the night. As much as I loved Rosey, our relationship was not of the bedroom variety. I had no intentions of sleeping in the same bed with him. He was more of a brother than a romantic opportunity. Double beds were the best answer all around. I paid for the room and he said nothing. Sam slept on the floor near the heater. My side of the room.
There was a heavy fog in and around Corbin the next morning. We walked across the highway for breakfast around nine thirty. Sam decided to continue sleeping. He knew that I would bring him something delightful from the café.
I ordered a plate full of blueberry pancakes while Rosey took the omelet route. I was enjoying my coffee and watching Rosey finish his deluxe breakfast. That was the name of it on the menu – three egg omelet, two pieces of toast, hash browns, fried apples, two sausage patties, two strips of bacon, juice, and coffee. Deluxe may have been an understatement.
My cell phone broke off my enjoyment of watching his indulgence as if he had not eaten a square meal in months.
“Clancy here.”
“This is Detective Hudgins in Dan River,” the voice said and chuckled a little.
“Good morning, Detective Hudgins,” I said as much for Rosey’s sake.
“Mornin’,” he said back at me. “I’m callin’ about that casing you dropped off here yesterday.”
“Have something from it?”
“Well,” he began and then paused as if he was about to tell me a very long story, “that’s a strange casing you brought in.”
“What makes it strange?” I said to keep Rosey in the loop as he continued feeding himself.
“I first thought that it was a .308 like you suggested. After I had the lab examine it closely, they discovered that it is an U.S. Army issue 7.62x51mm NATO which is in fact a military version of the .308 Winchester.”
“Okay.”
“Well,” he said again and paused, then chuckled, then continued, “that casing was manufactured for the Army in 1954.”
“So, you’re telling me that this casing had nothing to do with the shooting death of Marilyn Saunders.”
“Not at all. I’m saying that it was a very old casing and was recently fired. So, wherever you found it, someone fired it from that spot in the last several days,” he chuckled again. “That’s why it is strange. Not many people save ammunition for that long. Could be dangerous to use ammo that old, but that’s what I am saying to you. It was used, and, I might say, quite effectively.”
I waited to see if he was going to chuckle again. Nothing came over the phone. Perhaps he was smiling.
“Can’t say that it housed the slug the coroner dug out of her, but it could have. If we come up with anything else, I will call. Strange, huh?” he said and chuckled again.
“Thanks, Detective Hudgins,” I said without chuckling.
I explained the missing links in the conversation to Rosey. He was finished with his breakfast by now.
“That sort of fits it with all that strange historical data that Rogers collected when she was searching Bartholomew Poindexter,” I said.
“It does.”
“Why would someone still be using cartridges issued over fifty years ago?”
“Frugality,” Rosey said.
“And he borrowed some from the government when he ended his tour of duty in Korea?”
“A fit for the info we have gleaned so far.”
“Rather nicely, too, I might add.”
“Wonder if the Corbin police found a shell casing in all of those unsolved shootings for the last several years?”
“Worth a phone call before we visit Bella.”
“Let’s do a face to face,” Rosey said.
We stopped by the Corbin Police Station and were led to a remote desk in the back of the squad room. The desk was neatly arranged without a single piece of paper out of place, as far as appearances were concerned. There was a row of tec
hnical books and journals neatly aligned at the front of the desk. In front of the row of books was a name-sign on his desk that read Philmore Gosnell. A small man with black-framed glasses was seated at the desk working some number puzzles. He continued his focus of absolute concentration on the puzzle at hand when we approached. We stood quietly for a few moments in front of his desk.
“Mr. Gosnell,” I said finally when he failed to acknowledge our presence.
“That would be me,” he said without looking up.
“Are you still working on the rifle shootings that have occurred over the last several years here in Corbin?”
He stopped his work on his puzzle and looked up. He stared first at me and then at Rosey. He seemed to give Rosey a longer stare than he did me.
“How did you know about that? That is not public knowledge.”
“I’m a private detective.”
“Is that an answer?”
“I’m good at what I do.”
“Still not an answer, only an opinion.”
“I have a computer with artificial intelligence who came across the data by searching for information related to our case,” I said truthfully. I figured that his skepticism would win out.
Gosnell smiled at me, then gave Rosey another once over for good measure.
“I love science fiction. You must read some as well.”
“Baldacci, not Asimov.”
“Who is Baldacci?”
“Never mind. Look, we only stopped by to check with you to see if you had found any of the casings in those shootings.”
“I found nothing. The police who did the investigating and grunt work found one casing out of all of those killings.”
“You the one who determined it to be a .308?” Rosey said.
Gosnell stared at Rosey as if Rosey had spoken any language but English.
“I did. But, ….” he said and broke off his answer.
“But what?” I said.
“I actually reported to my superiors,” he said with a slight inflection in his tone, “that the casing was similar to a .308 but was not a .308. I told them that it was an old Army issue.”
“And?”
“And nothing. They didn’t believe me and put it into their report that it was a .308 and told me to keep working.”
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