Mercy Killing

by M. Glenn Graves

  “That’s the actual name?” Rogers said.

  “I kid you not.”

  “I should be able to find that information without much trouble. Call you back soon.”

  “Where are you going to take me for supper?” Rosey said as I put my phone in my pants’ pocket.

  “Well, I figure that the High Sheriff and Police named Tanner will be canvassing the whole town for your Jaguar, so I suggest we drive to the next town and find a place where we are not known.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Which direction?”

  I called Rogers back.

  “Look up the directions for the closest biker club to Riley Corners.”

  “Biker club,” Rogers repeated, as if surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “You joining?”

  “A drop by.”

  I waited while Rogers searched the internet links and the databases at her disposal. Truth was, there were few websites and databases in the world that were out of reach for her skills. Hacking into archives was simply an art form for her.

  “Biker club? What are you planning?” Rosey said while we waited.

  “I’d like to find those two muscle guys.”

  “You assume they are bikers?”

  “Just a guess.”

  “Racial profiling.”

  “Not their race, but I’m guessing Caucasian.”

  “Still, you’re judging those men by the length of their hair and some tattoos.”

  “Bingo.”

  “That’s not fair, you know. I have tattoos.”

  “And short hair.”

  “Some bikers are bald.”

  “But they still look like bikers.”

  “You have some innate prejudices.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “No. I am pure in that regard.”

  “Sure you are. Tell me, do I look like a biker chick?”

  “Hmmn...if I say yes, you will accuse me of lying. If I say no, you will have proven your point. Tell you the truth, you don’t look like anybody’s chick,” Rosey said.

  “Shrewd, Sherlock, shrewd.”

  My phone interrupted us. Rogers was calling. I put it on speaker.

  “Okay,” Rogers said, “the closest biker club, as you call it, to Riley Corners is about twenty-two miles south of where you are at a town called Bakers Station. There seems to be a favorite watering hole and greasy spoon there for bikers my sources inform me. It’s called Joe’s Stomping Grill. Sounds like a lovely place to spend the evening. I would imagine candles, tablecloths, and probably a violinist playing requests. Very chic.”

  “That’s the one. Thanks for the info,” I said.

  I turned and smiled at Rosey, “Let’s go to Bakers Station and visit Joe’s Stomping Grill.” I showed him the map that Rogers had sent me.

  “This is where you are taking me for food?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “I wanna eat and you wanna dance around with some bikers.”

  “Dancing might be a bit overstated.”

  “As well as eating there, I imagine.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is this a wise thing to do?”

  “Wise?” I said. “No. Expedient? Yes. I’d say even necessary. If John told us the truth, then we have a couple of murderers to find.”

  “Like you know that they will be there waiting on us at this establishment,” Rosey said.

  “I have good intel,” I said. “Let’s go, Mack. We’re burning daylight.”

  He started up the Jag and gradually drove away from the nursing facility.

  “Is this wise?”

  “Wise? No. Expedient? Yes. Even necessary. If John is telling us the truth, then we have a couple of murderers to find.”

  “Like you know that they will be there waiting on us to find them. So, tell me how it is that you know this to be the very place where your so-called bikers will be,” he said.

  “Mrs. Tanner’s young assistant,” I confessed.

  “That teenage girl at the desk?”

  “The very one. Imagine that.”

  “And how is it that she knew the whereabouts of those men?”

  “Romance was in the air,” I said.

  17

  We had second thoughts about our decision to visit Joe’s Stomping Grill when we arrived at the edge of his graveled parking lot. Besides several trucks and a couple of old style Jeeps, there was nothing but rows and rows of motorcycles lined across the front of the place. Hog city.

  The noise emanating from inside the grill should have made us wary enough to change our minds on the spot. However, true to our hard-headed natures, we parked the out-of-place Jag on the fringes of the parking lot away from the bikes, and proceeded to enter the sanctum of this hard-core world. I seriously doubted that my love of bikes would earn me any points with this clientele. In fact, I doubted that anything I had would resonate with these men and women with the possible exception of the 9mm I carried.

  “We should walk softly in this arena,” Rosey said to me.

  “And don’t lose hold of our big sticks.”

  “Crossed my mind as well.”

  “You think I should go in alone?” I said wary of our geography.

  “Yeah, if you have a death wish. Go on in alone and see if you can find the two bikers who visited with Bishop Tanner this morning. I’ll wait in the Jag…with the motor running.”

  “Okay, okay. I was...whose idea was this anyway?”

  “You mean coming here or going inside now that we know the house is full and the two of us are going inside to spoil their fun?”

  “I think either one is crazy, but that’s only my thinking at the moment,” I said.

  “We don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “Yeah, we do.”

  “Okay, but I get to be Butch and you get to be Sundance.”

  “Not sure it makes much difference. The story has it that they died together.”

  “Butch was the boss.”

  “Oh, yeah. Okay, boss. Lead on, I’m right behind you. Like that is really important at the moment. For sure.”

  “Who have you been talking with?”

  We entered Joe’s Stomping Grill, Rosey was in the lead and I was following like a good biker chick. I had the terrible feeling we were going to find out why they called it Joe’s Stomping Grill. You know how it is on television or in the movies when a cop or some lawman enters a room full of guys and girls and they all know that this cop or lawman doesn’t belong, and just like a light switch, the room suddenly gets quiet, everybody stops talking or doing whatever they were doing. Like that dead calm you hear on the ocean. Nothing but silence. Well, that’s the way we were greeted not five steps into the crowded room. The only difference was that the silence that fell on us was more gradual, but it finally got there. Everyone turned and stared. I couldn’t decide if they were wowed by our courage or flummoxed at our stupidity. I could have gone either way myself.

  “You lost, boy?” a voice said from the corner table full of bikers, both genders.

  I assumed that they were not talking to me, so I said nothing.

  “I said, Are you lost, boy?” the same voice spoke again, but this time the person who spoke stood up and began to swagger towards us. We were standing about five feet from the crowded bar and way too far away from the door by which we had entered Joe’s place. Maybe it was just me and my apprehension.

  “Yessah, boss man, I guess I is lost,” Rosey said with a distinct Southern African-American drawl.

  The silence in the room was deafening at that moment. Then suddenly, the whole place erupted into laughter as they realized that the voice that Rosey had used wasn’t most likely the genuine article from his massive 6 foot 3 inch frame. That is, everyone laughed except the biker swaggering toward us. He stopped swaggering and suddenly realized that through some twist of fate the joke was now on him.

  “You makin’ fun of me, boy,” he spit the words out this time, but he moved no closer to Rosey.r />
  “No sir. We jest lookin’ fer some men,” Rosey said.

  “Well, hell’s bells, boy. You came to the right place. We full up with men tonight. All we got here is men, boy.”

  “We’re looking for two men who visited Riley Corners this morning. They were over at the Morning Glory Nursing Care Facility,” Rosey said as he slowed eased into his deep, natural voice. It resonated throughout the quiet room. Some of the patrons were now whispering.

  The swaggering biker looked around the room. No one moved.

  “What makes you think they’re here in Joe’s place?” he finally said to Rosey.

  “Following a lead. This is as good a place as any for two strong bikers to come celebrate after they suffocated a helpless old man in a nursing home. It took two of them to kill him, by the way, so I suspect they’re feeling chipper about now.”

  The whispering stopped cold. Something about silence and pins dropping crossed my mind briefly. I tried to remain focused upon the table of guys and girls in the corner. I knew Rosey was watching carefully the gangly man with whom he was dialoguing.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw two heads turn toward each other. Then, as if on command, the two men stood up from their table. They were not sitting at the same table from where the swaggering biker had come. He turned and saw them stand.

  “You mean these boys?” Swagger said as he gestured towards the two men standing.

  “Don’t know. Could be. We’ve never had the pleasure.”

  “Dead fellow got a name?” Swagger said.

  “Bishop Tanner,” Rosey said.

  “Bishop’s dead?” a voice from behind the bar said.

  Without turning away from Mr. Swagger, Rosey said, “Afraid so. But it took two strong men to do him in.”

  “You boys know anything about this?” the voice behind the bar asked the question. It was addressed to the two men who had stood.

  “Joe, you gonna believe this nigger?” one of the two men now standing spoke.

  It had been quite some time since I had heard a white man use the N-word. Around my town of Norfolk, I hear African Americans use it when they joke with each other or about each other. Still...it has a power of its own, especially when a white man uses it to refer to a black man. You could feel the hatred sting the air. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn that everyone in the room except the questioner was holding his or her breath. Waiting.

  “Joe,” I said, interrupting the tense silence, “perhaps you will believe me. I’m a private detective from Virginia doing some work for a client here in North Carolina. My partner here interviewed Bishop Tanner this morning but when we returned later to talk further with him, we were informed that Bishop Tanner was dead. We were also told that two bikers were seen leaving the facility right after they found the body.”

  “You boys visit that nursing home in Riley Corners?” Joe asked the two men standing together.

  “What if we did?”

  “We have some questions to ask you,” Rosey said.

  “I ain’t answering any questions from no nigger,” the taller of the two said and reached his hand under his vest.

  My training told me that he was going for a gun. I had no way of knowing if that was the case. Better safe than sorry. My 9 mm was in my right hand before the tall biker had retrieved whatever it was he was going after.

  With my weapon drawn, I began to back towards the door through which Rosey and I had entered. Once I was aware that Rosey had drawn his weapon as well, I turned my back to Rosey. The quiet room began sliding tables and chairs. I scanned the room from left to right, and then back again. Rosey and I moved as one towards the exit.

  We stopped at the door. I turned to face the crowd that Rosey faced. No one looked appreciably friendly. So much for Southern hospitality.

  “Joe, do you know the names of these two men?” Rosey said and gestured with his firearm towards the two bikers standing together behind Mr. Swagger.

  Joe shook his head.

  “Anyone want to give us the names of these two gentlemen?” Rosey said.

  “I ain’t afraid to give you our names. I’m Big Mike and this is Knucklehead Barley. You got something to say to us?”

  They moved slowly towards us. They had nothing in their hands, only clinched fists. I did notice they had murder in their eyes.

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I said and pushed opened the door behind me. We exited backwards with our weapons still drawn. Our pace increased as we moved purposefully towards Rosey’s Jaguar.

  “Think we can make it to the car before the shooting starts?” I said as I turned to run.

  “Depends on how fast the group collects and realizes what just happened,” Rosey said as he was sprinting alongside of me now. I knew Rosey could easily outrun me, so I appreciated him keeping pace with me so that I wouldn’t be the only target if the shooting began.

  The first shot sailed over our heads at the same time we arrived at the Jag. We wasted no time leaving the parking lot. Fortunately we had previously made plans to drive off in the opposite direction from the bikers who had gathered their wits and guns and were firing at us needlessly.

  “Wonder if Butch and Sundance could have talked their way out of such a circumstance?” Rosey said.

  “Sorry about that n-word used. Never did like it.”

  “Me more than you.”

  18

  “Okay, Miss Holmes, here is what I have found. Cynthia Tanner owns the Wilkens-Tanner Funeral Home. I am waiting on a document I requested that will identify the owner of that Morning Glory place,” Rogers said. “Both establishments have a silent partner – which is interesting, if not coincidental. Nowhere could I find the silent partner listed on any of the proprietorship documents. Apparently the silent partners desire to remain extremely silent.”

  “And just who is Cynthia Tanner?” I said.

  “Frustration beginning to set in, dearie?”

  “Been with me, almost from the beginning. Few people are talking to me, us,...and the ones that do are either labeled senile, threatened, or murdered.”

  “So you think Bishop Tanner was permanently silenced?”

  “I do. He knew something, too much of something. Someone hired those two biker thugs to snuff him out. By the way, see what you can find out about Big Mike and Knucklehead Barley. I suspect some law enforcement agency likely has a thick file on each of them.”

  “Big Mike and Knucklehead Barley...that vaudeville act?”

  “Does sound like one. Sorry, those names are all I have to go on”

  “I’ll get back to you as soon as I find more answers. I’ll also check on that Cynthia Tanner name. My man Rosey okay?”

  “Living and breathing.”

  I pulled out of the quick service superstation and back onto Highway 58 headed east. Rosey was following in the Jag. Riding my Super Glide helped to clear my head from the recent dead ends.

  I needed to get back home for a day or so. My plan was to rest a little, wait on Rogers to find some answers, and then return to Riley Corners in one vehicle together. Since tensions were growing, we both believed that staying together was the safest option. I know I felt more comfortable with Rosey close at hand at all times.

  We took a day to rest and develop a different strategy.

  “Why don’t you call Sheriff Tanner and tell him what you discovered?” Rosey said.

  I was lying on the couch with Sam. That means he was willing to share a small portion of his favorite spot with me chiefly because I had been gone a few days. That, and I was scratching his head moving him towards ecstasy.

  “You mean about the infant deaths.”

  “The same. Surely he will see that it merits some further checking,” Rosey said.

  “Maybe, but it is his family.”

  “You said you would let him know if you found something. You did tell me you told him that, right?”

  “Yes, I did tell him that.”

  “Rogers, call She
riff Tanner,” I said from my prone position on the couch.

  “Do I get to talk or shall I defer?” Rogers said.

  “Defer.”

  I listened to the phone ring through Rogers’ connection.

  “Waylon County Sheriff’s Office. May I help you?” the friendly female voice said.

  “May I speak to Sheriff Tanner?” I said.

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Clancy Evans.”

  “He’s not in at the moment. Should I have dispatch contact him?”

  “No, don’t do that. You expect him back at some specific time?” I said.

  “No. He comes and goes as the need arises. Give me your number and name. I will pass along the information.”

  I gave her my name the second time and my number.

  I shook my head at Rosey.

  “You tried. Maybe he’ll call you back.”

  “When pigs fly.”

  “We’ll see him tomorrow, most likely. You can tell him then.”

  “He’ll be so thrilled to see us once more,” I said.

  Rosey took the afternoon to drive to Sterling to retrieve his extended cab Ford truck after I insisted that Sam accompany us.

  “He can ride in the backseat of the Jag,” I said.

  “He’s a dog.”

  “With manners.”

  “He’s a dog.”

  “He has skills.”

  “He’s a dog and he’s not riding in the Jag.”

  “He’s clean.”

  “He’s a dog.”

  Sam was sound asleep during our little exchange so he wasn’t a bit offended by Rosey’s remarks. I have often wondered if Sam even knows that he’s a dog.

  Rosey returned that evening with his enormous white extended cab Ford truck. That was the extent of my knowledge of his vehicle. It was large and comfortable. Sam had the entire back seat to himself.

  We left early the next morning heading west and then south. Our plan was to use more stealth this time. I would try to be less menacing when encountering biker thugs. Rosey made me promise, like it was my fault that they came after us.

  Riley Corners was fast becoming one of my least favorite places on earth. I suspected that we had already worn out our welcome and that there were folks in Riley Corners that would gladly join the gang from Joe’s Stomping Grill in Bakers Station in shooting at us.