by Douglas Hall
“I have nothing more to say.”
“Let me refresh your memory. It was on the day my partner and I first came to see you. There was a call placed on your iPhone to 256-468-5555 which is the number of Paul Proctor’s private smart phone,” West referred to his notebook. “It was made at 11:07 on that morning and terminated 27 seconds later.” Checking his notes again he continued, “Deputy King and I arrived at your bank at approximately 9:08 that morning and left at approximately 11:04 three minutes before that call was placed.”
Mayfield was totally flustered, “How can you be so sure?”
“I always make an entry in my notebook as to the time I arrive for an interview and the time I leave. Care to tell me what that call was all about?”
“I will not say anything more without my lawyer present.”
“That is your privilege. Be sure to tell your lawyer I will meet him, along with you, promptly at 9:00 tomorrow morning in Sheriff Culpepper’s office.”
Mayfield was curious from the moment West walked into his office without King. It was eating him up and didn’t help when West used the singular and did not include King when he said I will meet him and not we will meet him.
West picked up his briefcase, “Until nine tomorrow morning, and please, be prompt, I have a busy day ahead of me.”
LIKE WEST, KING never conducted an interview without first being well-prepared. He had asked Culpepper to give him a detailed profile of the very complex Pastor Sammy Proctor before he left for Boca Raton. Culpepper ended with, “You should take the time to watch one of his telecasts. They are still on the web. All you have to do is type in Pastor Sammy Proctor. It was the best comedy on television according to some people who were not into his brand of religion.”
It didn’t take King long once he began watching the hour-long program to realise the attraction Proctor had for the gullible and his ability to communicate. He was lean, lithe with a matinée handsome and had a full head of jet-black hair complete with a pompadour that was the style for televangelists in their glory days. He looked the part for the role he was playing.
Dressed in a three-piece, white suit complete with white shoes, he stood behind a lectern holding his Bible high when not prowling the platform. When the camera panned the audience, all eyes were firmly riveted on him. He used his voice with captivating skill. It ranged from booming highs to seductive lows as he preached his version of heaven, hell and punishment. The sermon ended with a heart-wrenching appeal for support for his television ministry and Child Waiting.
West didn’t know what to expect when he arrived at the Bethesda Senior Retirement Centre. He tried the truth and said he was a Canadian police officer who was investigating the two-year-old disappearance of a young girl. After a brief telephone conversation, he was told to wait in the lobby and Pastor Sammy would be brought down from his unit.
All he had in his mind was the image he recalled from the telecast and was taken back when a care giver appeared before him with a stooped frail man. The black hair had changed to snow-white and rheumy eyes peered out from behind a pair of large coke bottle thick spectacles that were more for magnification than appearance. His once admired body was encased in a sweat suit that was too large for his frame.
“Thank you for seeing me,” King said as he extended his hand which was accepted with a less than enthusiastic shake. “The receptionist said she was not sure that you would see me as you don’t have many visitors.”
“I wasn’t going to but when the receptionist said you were a police inspector and had come all the way from Canada just to see me, I became curious. There is nothing more I have to say to our police, but I was interested because you are not American or international. I hope you are not going to ask me about my past sins. If that’s what you came for, you have wasted your time.”
“I did not come all this way to ask you anything about the past. It is something else altogether.”
“If we are going to talk, we had better find a place with a bit of privacy. Follow me to the sunroom, and we can get a couple of chairs in the corner where we won’t be overheard.”
Proctor sat down in a comfortable padded wicker chair and suggested that King pull his chair closer. He apologised for his hearing which was not what it once was and silently eyed King as he took his measure. At the same time, King was taking the measure of the man sitting in front of him. The ten-year sentence in a federal prison had taken its toll.
“I don’t get many visitors and that suits me just fine,” began Proctor followed with a guttural clearing of phlegm from the throat. “Being a police officer, I assume you know all about my past sins which I will say have all been forgiven by God. My slate has been wiped clean.”
“I know about your past.”
“What brings you here if you are not going to rehash my past like most people, especially writers who think I have a story to tell, and they might have a book or even a movie like Elmer Gantry which was on television a few weeks back. You know all about me. Now, it is your turn to tell me all about you.”
“I’ve been a police officer for longer than I care to remember, and over the past two years, I have been the lead investigator of one of the most frustrating cases in my varied career. It concerns a young girl who unexpectedly left home one night and has never been seen nor heard from since. The case went cold until I got new evidence and that is what brought me to see you. This is a photograph of Cindy Madison. It was taken shortly before she went missing.”
Proctor took the photograph and angled it to the sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Beautiful child and what made you think that I might be of help? What could I possibly know about a young Canadian girl that has gone missing?”
“She is the only child of Victor and Martha Madison,” King replied in the present to give the impression that she might still be alive. “They are devastated, especially Cindy’s mother.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. I don’t recall reading anything about it in the local papers but not surprising. They are only interested in printing Florida news and scandal, but, occasionally, they drop in some Canadian news for the Snowbirds who come south for the winter.”
“That’s why I am asking. Have you heard about the mystery?”
Without answering, Proctor asked, “How did you track me down?”
“An officer friend of mine met Sheriff Culpepper years ago. He was working on a case that centred around Moody Brook and said I should stop off and meet him.”
“And how is Virgil? Haven’t jawed with him since before my trial.”
King knew only too well he had crossed the line from truth to fiction and had to be careful, not to dig a hole so deep he couldn’t get out of it.
“When I told him about the investigation I was working on, he suggested that I make it a point to see you as you might be able to help.”
“Did he say how he thought I may be of help?”
“He said that you were once a well-known evangelist and had a wide following on television before you were convicted of money laundering plus a few other things and received a ten-year sentence and knew where the skeletons were hidden.”
“Did he know,” was Proctor’s comment.
“This girl who went missing do you think she may be dead?”
“I have no idea at the moment, but it doesn’t look good.”
“You don’t sound too encouraging about finding her alive.”
“When you have been a homicide investigator for as long as I have, you never give up, but at times, I have to confess it is discouraging.”
“Just what evidence do you have that connects me with your investigation?”
“This,” King was about to hand Proctor the Interpol e-mail when interrupted.
“Dinner will be served in half-an-hour, Pastor Sammy,” said a pleasant looking woman.
“Thank you, Becky, but Mr King and I are not finished talking. I’ll just skip dinner.”
“Why not invi
te Mr King to be your guest? There is always an extra place for guests.”
“Would you care to join me?”
“I’d be delighted.”
Eleven
MAYFIELD THOUGHT BETTER of phoning Culpepper and telling him he was not taking orders from West. Instead, promptly at nine, he appeared at Culpepper’s office door along with Gaylord Brunson who was his personal lawyer. Brunson preceded him into the office and plumped down in an empty chair beside West.
Brunson was never a man to worry about sartorial correctness. He was attired in a rumpled ash-stained blue, three-piece suit with and an oversize handtied floppy, blue bow tie with small white polka dots. He balanced a battered brief and looked at West.
Culpepper was the first to speak, “Nice to see you, Gaylord, as always it is a pleasure. Permit me to introduce Special Deputy Paul West.”
Brunson handed West his card, “My pleasure, Deputy.” On the front was his name followed by Attorney at Law address and phone number. On the back were his areas of focus: criminal and family law.
“You must be kept busy.”
“Moody Brook is a very law-abiding community, and since I am the only lawyer in town, I welcome new challenges.”
“Well, now Gaylord,” Culpepper drawled, “I am sure Jayden has apprised you as to why he asked you to attend, so I won’t go over old ground.”
“You always were one for brevity and getting to the meat of the matter, which is much appreciated. I must say it is always a pleasure being in your company, and once again, protecting the interests of a valued client, especially one who enjoys the respect of his fellow citizens.”
West found the byplay between the two men interesting. It was totally foreign to the sometimes caustic exchanges between police officers and lawyers, who don’t usually have much respect for each other and have to endure when together in the same room. Their Alabama southern drawl was easy on the ear, but he had to strain, at times, to catch every word as they bantered back and forth.
“Deputy West informed me that your client took exception to his questioning, especially when he was told that the bank’s head office had ordered your client to cease all conversation with my deputies. Is that correct?” asked Culpepper.
Mayfield opened his mouth to speak and stopped when Brunson laid a hand on his arm.
“Now, Jayden, you just hush and let me do the talking.” Mayfield sat back in his chair with a petulant expression. He was not a man to be told to shut up.
Brunson undid the strap on his briefcase and removed a file which he opened. After taking out a pair of half-framed reading glasses from an inner pocket, he positioned them on his slightly bulbous note. Taking a moment to inspect his notes, and following a clearing the throat, he looked at Culpepper and said, “As I understand from Jayden, Deputy West and another deputy who is not present came to his office and presented themselves as Deputy Marshalls who report to you. I am also given to understand that both are Canadian citizens. Is that correct?”
“Indeed, it is on both accounts. Under Alabama, law which governs what I can and cannot due as sheriff, I have the latitude, under extenuating circumstances to swear in special deputies. What I am currently facing is indeed extenuating circumstances so I swore Private Investigator Paul West and his partner Inspector Charles King in as my deputies.”
Brunson made a note and looked up at Culpepper, “And, just what if I might be so bold as to ask, are these extenuating circumstances?”
“I shall let Deputy West answer that question. If you will deputy,” Culpepper responded in an officious tone.
West recited the history of Cindy Madison’s disappearance and what he and King had done to find her before coming to Moody Brook."
Brunson seldom looked up as he continued his note taking. Mayfield sat stony-faced and silent as he took it all in.
“I am sure you were well apprised of this before arriving here this morning.”
“Indeed, and just what led you to The Agronomy Bank of Alabama and my client’s branch?” Brunson asked in a superior tone.
West opened his briefcase and removed a copy of the Interpol e-mail and handed it to Brunson.
Brunson took it and the colour drained from Mayfield’s face. Without any visible change of expression Brunson read the e-mail and turned to face Mayfield, “I gather you have seen this?”
Mayfield responded weakly with, “I was going to show it to you when we returned to your office after this meeting.”
“You should have shown it to me before we arrived for this meeting!” Brunson growled back in a tone that caused Mayfield’s face to drain any colour that was left.
“My apologies, Gaylord,” Mayfield mumbled.
“We’ll discuss this later. In the meantime, I have a few questions that come to mind. Since you are not functioning as Deputy Sheriff West, I shall address you as Mr West if that is permitted?”
“By all means.”
Culpepper relaxed in his chair with hands entwined over his chest and thumbs rotating. Most occasions when he and Brunson met, it was to cross swords over his handling of a client following an arrest. At times, it could become quite adversarial when Brunson pushed for charges to be dropped and his client released from custody. He was looking forward to the possibility of Brunson being put on the defensive by a skilled investigator.
“I see here,” Brunson began after looking over his glasses at West, "that Cindy Madison is mentioned. I assume that she is the young lady you are trying to find?
“That is correct.”
“I also see that The Agronomy Bank of Alabama is mentioned as the bank of record.”
“That is correct.”
Brunson extended his lower lip, “The fact that a Canadian client transfers funds to a Lichtenstein bank’s numbered account and that bank redirects the funds to an Alabama bank seems to me to be routine banking procedure.” Brunson turned to Mayfield, “Is that not true?”
Mayfield nodded.
“Then what is the problem, and why did you have to come to Moody Brook to harass my client?”
“Because, sir,” West’s tone was firm, “there is a direct connection between Cindy Madison, Sammy Pines and Pastor Paul Proctor. The monthly amount being transferred from the Canadian bank to the Lichtenstein bank and then to the Agronomy bank includes monthly amounts the missing girl directed to be credited, out of her personal account, to the numbered account. Does that answer your question?”
“Not quite, let me explain,” Mayfield offered.
Brunson snapped, “If you please, Jayden, I will do the talking, and you will remain silent.”
Mayfield slunk back in his chair.
“As I see it all you have to go on is the Interpol statement that money was transferred to a numbered account at my client’s branch. I fail to see relevancy that connects your missing girl to my client.”
West glanced at Culpepper who smiled and nodded what he took as consent for him to continue.
“My partner and I received a warrant which we produced for Mr Mayfield to access the accounts of Sammy Pines, and there is clear evidence that money transfers in the exact amount emanated from the Canadian bank going back to a period before Miss Madison went missing. They have continued without interruption, up to the end of last months’ bank statements.”
“Is this true, Jayden? Why didn’t you tell me our friend had a warrant?”
“It must have slipped my mind when I discussed the reason why I needed you to attend this morning. I…” spluttered Mayfield.
Brunson silenced Mayfield with a withering stare, “Just something more, we have to discuss later on.” He returned to his notes made a new one then said, “I find it curious that an Alabama judge granted warrants to two Canadians who have no status in this state.”
West was about to respond when Culpepper cut in, “I appeared before our local judge with probable cause and the warrants were issued to me to use as I saw fit, and trust me, these two deputies have as much status in this state as I hav
e.”
“You say warrants, there was more than one?”
“Yes, I asked for and received warrants to access the personal and private phone records of your client and those of Pastor Paul Proctor as well.”
“Mr West has told us what he thinks the bank statements reveal. Sheriff Culpepper, would you kindly tell me what, if anything, you gleaned from the phone numbers,” Brunson asked in a condescending voice.
Culpepper was never one to accept being patronised but surprisingly, for the moment, he ignored Brunson’s condescending tone of voice and carried on.
His response was low key and it irritated Brunson further, “The records revealed a trail of calls back and forth between your client and Pastor Proctor over the months.” He was primed for a verbal confrontation, but the door was closed on rebuttal.
Brunson harrumphed in distain, “And just what does that prove? It is not uncommon for a bank manager and a major client to have phone discussions during business hours or after.”
“I’ll let Deputy West reply to your questions. This is his investigation.”
“Yesterday, when I came to see Mr Mayfield after obtaining the phone records, I asked him when was the last time he had a phone conversation with Pastor Paul Proctor. He said he couldn’t rightly recall, so I refreshed his memory. On the morning, my partner and I presented ourselves at his office, on or about 9:10 am, we were there until approximately,” West consulted his notebook, “it was 11:04 am precisely when we left. The phone records show that a call was placed to Pastor Proctor’s iPhone number from Mr Mayfield’s private office number three minutes after we left his office and the bank at approximately 11:11 am. It terminated 27 seconds later. Would you kindly ask your client to inform Sheriff Culpepper, and me, the contents of that call?”
Brunson leaned close to Mayfield’s ear and whispered. “I need time to digest what I’ve heard this morning. Might I suggest that we meet again two days, hence, this time in my office,” Brunson offered in an effort to regain control.