Mercy Killing

by M. Glenn Graves

  “We should fit in better this time,” I said.

  “You mean the truck?”

  “Yeah, the truck. You don’t have a gun rack, but the windows are tinted so it doesn’t matter.”

  “And you don’t think that when a black man and white woman climb out of this machine those folks are going to be suspicious?”

  “We have a dog with us.”

  “Whoever hired Mike and Knucklehead to get rid of Bishop needed it done quickly. Somehow they found out that Bishop was about to tell us something,” Rosey said.

  “Or they decided to silence him because he had already talked with you that morning. At any rate, they knew that you were in conversation with Bishop.”

  “We’d better stop and eat before we arrive in Riley Corners. I doubt that we are welcome to dine at Maybelline’s,” he said.

  “Maybelline wouldn’t mind,” I said, “but you are right about some of the constituents. We might want to keep our presence in town a secret as long as we can.”

  We stopped at a diner a few minutes later and gobbled down a couple of hamburgers. Actually Rosey ate two and I had one large cheeseburger. We shared the fries. Sam had a special patty made just for him. I spared him the greasy fries and he was miffed at me for the rest of the trip.

  Rogers called me ten minutes out from Riley Corners.

  “You were right about the rap sheets being extensive. It took a few minutes to go through their bulky files. Both have moved from petty items to major events. Big Mike has served, off and on, about half of his life in prison or local jails. His list includes B&E’s, assaults, and so many misdemeanors that I will not bore you with my thoroughness. Knucklehead wins the prize, in my opinion, for the jerk of the year. In addition to mirroring Mike with a string of B&E’s, assaults, and petty crimes, he also has done a long stretch for rape, attempted murder, and on one occasion served a couple of weeks for contempt of court. Model citizens to the core. Oh, both have had some handgun charges against them, but I couldn’t find where anything was followed through on those charges. Could have made some deals to get off. Also some photographs of these likeable gents which I have sent to your phone.”

  “Impressive.”

  “And, you wanted to know who owns the Morning Glory Nursing Care Facility.”

  “I do.”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “I’m riding in a truck.”

  “Mary Elizabeth Johnson Carpenter.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Indeed, I do. She is the listed owner of the establishment, land, building, contents, etc. You name something about that place, and she owns it.”

  “No partners.”

  “Just that silent one I mentioned the other day. No name found yet. Mrs. Carpenter is the owner of record. However…” Rogers stopped before she finished.

  “However…” I said to prime her pump.

  “Mrs. Carpenter is in the process of selling the establishment.”

  “To whom?”

  “Don’t know. It seems that the sale of the place is something of a secret. All I found was that there is a contract being drawn up by her lawyers and the sale of Morning Glory is imminent.”

  “Anything on Cynthia Tanner yet?”

  “You’ll be the first to know when I find something,” Rogers said.

  “Also, see if you can find any joint ownership of any property between Mary Elizabeth and her cousin, Roscoe Tanner. Also, check to see if there is any alignment between the owners of the Wilkens-Billings Funeral Home and Roscoe Tanner.”

  “So, the good Sheriff Tanner is still under suspicion.”

  “Of something. And one among others.”

  “Others?”

  “A list in progress. I’ll give you names whenever the opportunity calls for it.”

  “In other words, keep the office help in the dark until you need me.”

  “No sense having you do needless research. I’ll be in touch.”

  “No research is needless when it helps.”

  “Touché.”

  “Say hi to Rosey.”

  Rogers clicked off.

  “The computer sends her regards.”

  “Should I be wary of her advances?” Rosey said.

  “Only if she develops arms and legs. You’re safe for the time being.”

  19

  We parked the truck in the familiar spot at the far end of the church parking lot. Mostly hidden. Since I suspected Maxine of informing Sheriff Tanner of our comings and goings, we decided to wait for either Reverend Ainsley to leave and then follow him, or wait for Maxine to leave and then approach the good preacher with her out of the way.

  Sam slept during this surveillance. Rosey dozed. I was the one designated to keep vigil and notify my sidekicks when something broke. I spent the time watching and pondering. The watching was easy and boring. Usual fare for stakeouts. The pondering was less boring, but offered little relief to my many questions. Something happened to baby Colby Johnson long ago. Someone could have killed him. It moved me to motive. Why would anyone want to kill an infant of 13 months? It was possible that Mary Elizabeth, a five year old at the time, saw something but pushed it into the recesses of her subconscious. Pain has a way of forcing us to bury our excruciating experiences. Time has a way of breaking down and re-creating those memories into hard-to-recognize bits and pieces when they surface. It seems that too much of the time they do resurface. There was also the other death, the one which no one has yet to mention. Mary Elizabeth lost a 13 month old baby boy when she was a young mother. Mother and daughter both shared some agonizing moments in life with alarming similarities. What on earth do I make of this? Too much of a coincidence? It was definitely worth exploring.

  I often deliberate with little results. However, now and then a question that my conniving mind proposes alerts something deep inside that triggers a possible lead. A clue. And I live for clues. As Dirty Harry might say, they make my day.

  Before I could call Rogers to have her check on my musings, Maxine exited the church house, climbed into her red Mustang, and drove off with her tires spitting small rocks and anything else lying helplessly in the parking area. It crossed my mind that the woman was in search of class.

  “Wake up you sleepy heads. It’s time to talk with the good preacher.”

  Sam accompanied us into the educational wing of the Riley Corners Baptist Church. We knocked on Reverend Ainsley’s door. A voice said to come in.

  The shock was evident on his face as he stood.

  “I was hoping that you were gone for good,” he said unsmiling.

  “Like death and taxes, I remain steadfast.”

  “I told you that I could not talk with you.”

  “You did. Indeed, you said almost verbatim that very thing. But you see, once you involved me in this, I can’t for the life of me let it be. Not in my nature.”

  “You could be hurt.”

  “Acceptable risk. What about you?”

  “It’s not my nature to provoke people.”

  “I can understand that. However, all things being equal, I would imagine provocation to be something a preacher might want to have around in his or her arsenal.”

  “If I could re-create who I am, then, yes, it might be good to have that ability. But sometimes I stumble onto things which are out of my league.”

  “And this is one of them.”

  “No question about that.”

  “Were you threatened?”

  “I was encouraged to leave this history alone,” he said.

  Reverend Ainsley sat down, Rosey and I followed suit. Sam sniffed his way around the office while we talked.

  “You know that it is likely Bishop Tanner was murdered because of this history, as you refer to it,” I said.

  “There is no proof of that, is there?”

  “The fact that someone is working overtime to cover it up makes me think otherwise.”

  “People die all the time. Mr. Tanner had some age on him. He could have
died of almost anything.”

  “Someone been suggesting things to you.”

  “No, not about Mr. Tanner. I simply refuse to believe that someone would murder a person just to cover up some ancient history.”

  “What if that history proved that a person in the past actually killed another person? It is possible that the cover up is intended to protect the murderer. You do recall that Mary Elizabeth Carpenter told you she saw someone kill her brother.”

  “She had no clear memory of such a thing. It was only bits and pieces. And she could have imagined it, or created it. You know the mind can play tricks,” Reverend Ainsley said.

  “As well when a body is threatened,” I said.

  “All of this is only conjecture. You have no solid evidence about anything.”

  “That’s the way of my cases. I follow up on conjecture. I investigate. I snoop around. I follow leads. I look for clues. I talk to people. I generally disturb the status quo. It’s what I do.”

  “And you go into bars and threaten people with guns.”

  “Wow. Our adventures are circulating, Rosey.”

  “It was the gossip tidbit of the morning at Maybelline’s,” Josh said.

  “Any backlash from that?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Any official word from Sheriff Tanner?”

  “No, nothing from the sheriff. But, some of his deputies were eating breakfast this morning and talking about paybacks.”

  “Hmm. Interesting that the deputies would know something about that.”

  “You mean your appearance at Joe’s Stomping Grill a few nights back?”

  “No, I mean the fact that the deputies would have information regarding any possible payback from the bikers.”

  “I live in a world of good old boys. Information travels along several corridors. I have a lot to learn about ways and means,” Josh said.

  “No doubt you do. You also might need to bury some of your naiveté. You can tell the powers that be you have disassociated yourself from my investigation. Tell them you have warned me and tried to stop me from checking into the history. Tell them that you could do nothing with me, that I was not dissuaded. Tell them whatever you have to tell them in order to keep them off of your back. There is no need for you to create trouble in your life.”

  “I appreciate all of that, but the truth is they know that I am the one who brought you into this mess. I don’t think they will let me off of the hook so easily. I think they want me to convince you to leave town permanently.”

  “You think they will harm you if I stay around?”

  “Does that mean do I think they will kill me?”

  “Perhaps nothing quite so drastic as that. I certainly hope not. Maybe tar and feathers, and a good riding rail.”

  “I have told them that I know very little and that Mrs. Carpenter has not shared much with me, only some fragments. And the fact that I have asked you to leave and not come back in the presence of Maxine Shelton has aided my apparent reticence so that I think they believe that I do not want this to continue.”

  “But you do want this to continue, don’t you?”

  “I want Mrs. Carpenter to have some peace in this matter. I don’t know where your investigation will lead, but I do hope you find out what really happened and maybe this knowledge will give her some solace.”

  “Is she still showing some anxiety over her episodic memory?” I said.

  “Yeah. Each visit she begins by telling me that she is glad that I stopped your investigation, but then, somehow, our conversation always returns to her wondering. Then she gets emotional and asks me for help. It is quite frustrating. I’m not sure what I should do here.”

  “What do you want to do?” I said.

  “I want to help her.”

  “Sounds as if you’re complicit in this mess of mine,” I said.

  “Sounds like it,” he said and smiled a little for the first time.

  “If you do get into a jam down this road, make sure that your first phone call is to me and not your lawyer. I may be the only one who could save you if it gets that far. I’m hoping that whoever is trying to cover this thing up will believe that you are out of it. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. My friend Sara Hightower would not take kindly to any mischief perpetrated against you because of my behavior.”

  Josh smiled and stood up. “Mischief is an interesting word if you are correct with your assumptions,” he said.

  We left through the back door after Josh told us that Maxine might be returning.

  “Where to now?” Rosey said.

  “I need to call Rogers and see if she can find some relationship between the deputies and our bikers, Mike and Knucklehead. Wouldn’t that be something to write home about?”

  “My guess is that you hold some of the law enforcement people with as high esteem as you do some of the clergy,” Rosey said.

  “Scallywags are alive and well in all professions, but especially those jobs where there is the greater responsibility for serving the people.”

  “And subterfuge is an easier task while hiding behind a badge or a collar,” Rosey said.

  “You’re leaving out lawyers, judges, and politicians. Doesn’t seem fair,” I said.

  “I meant no disrespect. Let’s include them as well. And private detectives?”

  “By all means. Some of us are rotten to the core.”

  “Present company excluded?”

  “I may have a bent towards good, but I’m a long way from being a saint.”

  “Now that you mention it, I have noticed that you sometimes disregard the law with aplomb.”

  “My vices and sins are never above reproach.”

  “Speaking of vices and sins, how long has it been since you were in church?” Rosey said.

  “Too many Sundays to count. And what about you?”

  “I’m a good Catholic. I have the advantage of making up for lost time in confession.”

  “Methinks you are misusing your religion.”

  “It’s allowed,” Rosey said.

  “I think you might want to address the spirit of the law over against the letter.”

  “Why don’t we stay over in Riley Corners and attend church?”

  “Feeling guilty?” I said.

  “Curious. I want to see who attends the Baptist church.”

  “Nothing more than a spy for the Pope, methinks.”

  20

  We waited until Saturday to call on Mary Elizabeth Carpenter. I figured that the cloak of darkness might help us to stay off the radar of the local law who would have some issues if he saw us in his small kingdom.

  Rogers called.

  “I all but gave up on finding any connection with your bikers and any of Sheriff Tanner’s deputies. Finally, I found one between Knucklehead Barley, one of my favorite names of all time, and Delmar Jeffers. Knucklehead Barley, whose birth name was Frances Clayton Barley is a first cousin to Delmar. Their mamas are sisters and these two ladies have lived in Bakers Station all of their lives. In fact, they live next door to one other, so Delmar and Frances grew up together. Delmar goes by Del Jeffers. You might not want to call him Delmar in public. I found a newspaper article from the late nineties where he was involved in a brawl at...hold on, guess where? …. Joe’s Stomping Grill, in which he beat up a man who called him Delmar. The man was a distant relative, but that didn’t stop Delmar from pounding him into a pulp. There was a photograph connected with the article, you know how local gore goes, and I can attest that Delmar pulverized him. So, there’s your connection.”

  “Perhaps a lead. Did you check to see if there was any relationship between Roscoe Tanner and either of those bikers?”

  “Nothing that I could find, but, it might mean something that Roscoe Tanner was the arresting officer in that fight between Delmar and his thoroughly beaten-up relative.”

  “Roscoe began his police career in Bakers Station?”

  “Don’t know about that, but in th
is case, Roscoe was a deputy on loan from Riley Corners to the Bakers Station police force. He was attached to that jurisdiction because one of the deputies in Bakers Station had been shot and was hospitalized after yet another incident at Joe’s place.”

  “Sounds like Joe’s place is a breeding ground for trouble.”

  “With a capital T, like River City,” Rogers said.

  “A Broadway reference?” I said.

  “My intellect knows no boundaries.”

  “You have too much time on your hands.”

  “Not my fault...anyway, back to the Bakers Station breeding ground. There are numerous incidents. I found several through the years. And that does not include your little skirmish a few nights back.”

  “So, that could be how Roscoe met Delmar, and then Delmar’s acquaintance with Francis Barley would be only one degree of separation between the sheriff and Barley. Maybe the pieces are falling into place.”

  “Still a long way off from finding out what happened and why,” Rogers said.

  “Keep nosing around all of the names you have and see if anything else comes up.”

  “Like the magic genie says, your wish is my command.”

  “Developments?” Rosey asked.

  “A few.”

  I filled him in on Rogers’ latest findings regarding Del Jeffers and Frances Knucklehead Barley. He smiled but made no comment.

  We drove to Mary Elizabeth Carpenter’s mansion. It reminded me of the days of Southern aristocratic wealth when one could easily tell who had the money by the size of their house. Some families went to great lengths to insure that folks in their town would know where the money was. Either Mary Carpenter came from a family with money, or Mary Carpenter married into one. I had no idea which it was, nor did I really care except that such information might provide yet another of those elusive clues to answering my more pressing questions.

  Some houses were simply large. Mary’s house was beyond that. From the outside it appeared to be three stories of limitless rooms positioned on what I determined to be about six city blocks. That is to say, she paid more in lawn care each week than I pay out in my monthly lease agreement. Her land was not all grass. There were a few hundred trees and scores of shrubs situated here and there to give the landscape some character. Someone even went to the trouble to plant multiple flower beds throughout the estate. This only counts for those flower beds I could see. I had to imagine the hidden ones. She must have loved flowers because that’s what she had systematically spaced throughout, such varieties as pansies, some late dying daffodils, colorful lilacs, pink, red, and white roses, and petunias. There were several fluffs of candy tuff planted around to give some balance to the more colorful offerings. I did spot some peonies coming along making for a comforting scene. I always liked peonies when I was growing up. My mother would never grow the peonies, but my Aunt Mildred loved them and planted an abundance around her country home in Pitt County, Virginia. There was no wall, neither fence nor gate, to keep folks off of Mary’s property. The invitation to come and enjoy was prevalent and clearly understood. The good people of Riley Corners were welcome to use her spacious grounds for picnics, daily strolls, and playtime for parents with children. I had observed all of these excursions on her property from my comings and goings to this small village. Mary Carpenter was not the usual wealthy aristocrat. Her grounds were in effect the town park.