“Gun drawn, but never fired. How about that?”
“I have nothing more to say. Call me after lunch. I will have had my caffeine fix by then and will be more civil.”
“Arguable point, but since you have me at a disadvantage, I will call.”
The police in Elizabeth City checked and rechecked our story. We sat and waited. We sat and talked with interviewers. We sat and listened. Rosey was in one room with an interviewer and I was in another. Separate rooms to get separate stories. I told them the same story at least twelve times. No doubt Rosey did the same thing, at least as many times. They never once asked Sam a thing. His story was the same as mine anyway.
They gave us a break around 1:30 but we couldn’t leave. They left us in the separate interview rooms staring at the small two-way mirror and the walls. I decided that the room could use some improved décor like paint and maybe a photograph of some retired police personality from the greater Elizabeth City annals of crime fighting. Anything would have been an improvement over the grisly green of that claustrophobic cell.
Around 3 p.m. some official looking man walked into the station and spoke with the lead investigator on our case, as they often referred to the man. We watched Mr. Official talk with the detectives and the policemen for at least twenty minutes, then they came into my interview room and told me that I could go.
“My friend being released as well?” I said.
“Yes.”
We walked out together. Whatever adrenalin we had accumulated earlier that morning trying to save our hides was long since drained. I was exhausted. Rosey appeared to be as fresh as he ever was.
Since the police had insisted that we ride in their cars from the motel to the police station, we had no transportation back to the motel. They didn’t offer us any either. We walked. Sam had been arrested as well and kept in some holding cell in the back of the building. He was at least as happy to be set free as I was.
“Did they paw-print you?” I asked Sam, but he ignored my humor. I think he was miffed at me.
I called Starnes to see if she would be saddened by the loss of her once-upon-a-time acquaintance and to see if she had any insight into the question of why Sam Gunther might want to kill us. She had nothing, not even a tear. She said she would call if she found something in her subsequent search.
The three of us found our way back to the motel. The three mile walk helped to clear our heads from the incessant and ubiquitous questions at the police station.
Rosey’s room card-key wouldn’t work on his door. I tried mine. It failed. The three of us walked to the office.
“My room key won’t work,” Rosey said.
The man behind the counter stared at him, then at me, then at Sam. He appeared to be angry. I was still a good detective.
“Of course it doesn’t work. Your room, sir, is a disaster. Madam, your room is less so, but, since the two of you arrived together, and the two of you were involved in that rather distasteful incident this morning, we took the liberty of checking you out. Here are your bills. We would like for you to pay and leave.”
“So much for their marketing technique,” I said to Rosey.
Sam sat down on his back haunches and stared at the motel clerk. I could tell that Sam was indignant over this turn of events. He was civil and said nothing to the man.
“I think I will notify my auto club,” Rosey said.
“You may notify whoever you want to. You will not be staying here another night.”
“Ever?” I asked.
“Not in my lifetime,” the clerk said.
We paid our bills and left.
My cell phone rang at 4:40. It was Wineski and Starnes. Conference call. I figured a high level discourse was about to occur.
“You didn’t call me back,” Wineski began.
“We were busy trying to get some separation from the police,” I said.
“Everyone released?”
“Even Sam, the innocent canine. Did you send that official looking man to our rescue?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Wineski said.
“Thanks.”
“Starnes has some information for you. You two talk and I will go do some police work,” Wineski said and clicked off.
“Clancy, Starnes here. I have sent you a photo of Sam Gunther. You should be receiving that any second now. We did go through the academy together, but I went back to my files and found some notes that I had made. I kept a journal during my time there and while at Quantico. I wanted to be sure that I remembered everything that those beasts tried to teach me. Part of the journal was regarding some candidates that tried to hit on me. There weren’t many, but Sam Gunther was one of them.”
“I take it you spurned all advances?”
“Well, let’s just say that I spurned his advances,” Starnes said matter-of-factly.
“The reason being?” I said.
“I didn’t like him. I didn’t trust him.”
“Evidence or gut?”
“He lied a lot.”
28
The photographic image that Starnes Carver emailed me via my cell phone was a much younger version of the man Rosey had killed in the shootout. It had crossed my mind that Sam Gunther was not the real Sam Gunther, that someone was impersonating him, and, to some extent that is exactly what happened. I assume that most law enforcement people begin their career with the best of intentions to do good, to prevent mayhem and other atrocities, and to keep the bad guys and girls from taking over our society. I want to believe that Sam Gunther started that way as well, Starnes’ evaluation notwithstanding. Somewhere along the line he lost sight of the goal which is the same thing as losing himself, so that the man who was killed was not the real Sam Gunther, only a pale reflection of the man who once was a genuine F.B.I. agent. In Gunther’s case he could have lost himself as early as Quantico.
So much for my reflection upon life and death and law enforcement officers.
Since we had worn out our welcome in Elizabeth City and were now famous enough so that even the most remote of motels recognized our faces, we decided to follow Hwy. 158 East and find some place where we could sleep and still commute to Riley Corners. We stopped at a motel in Camden. A codger who was at least a hundred years old, if not more, was manning the front desk. Old but cute in his own codgerly manner.
“Holy moley, it’s Bonnie and Clyde,” he said as we walked through the door.
“Close,” I said. “My partner here is taller than Clyde and darker. And, we’re the good guys. We don’t rob banks.”
“But you shoot people,” he said with a wicked, almost toothless smile. But hey, it don’t make no matter to me Miss Bonnie. You’re both welcome as rain here. One room or two?”
“Is this Southern hospitality at its best?”
“Southern kindness,” he said. “I figure that the folks in Elizabeth City ran you out town and you’re looking for a place to rest up a bit.”
“Got us pegged,” Rosey said. “We would like two rooms, please.”
“I have a dog, too. Do you have a room where both the dog and I could share?” I said.
“Dog lovers are welcomed here. Notta problem, lady. Just give me your information and credit cards.”
We registered, took our room keys and thanked him again for his kindness. We left him with his almost toothless smile and genuine hospitality. We found a small café nearby and were enjoying their blue plate special when Rosey got a call. He listened for several minutes, said only that he understood, then put away his phone and returned to his food.
“You gonna tell me what that was about?” I said after a minute or two of soft chewing among us.
“Finish your meal. You won’t like what I have to do.”
“I can digest bad news along with my fish. Go ahead and spell it out.”
“I have to go to Washington.”
“Right now?”
“Need to be there tomorrow. Got some questions to answer. Apparently you ca
n’t kill an F.B.I. agent and not have to answer a few questions. S.O.P.”
“Standard procedure even with the death of an agent who had crossed over?”
“Apparently so. Perhaps they didn’t know that Sam, Mr. Big Mike, had crossed over. If I leave tonight, I can drive all the way and be there for my afternoon grilling.”
“This must be the first F.B.I. agent you’ve gunned down,” I said.
He almost smiled, but I could tell he was not really amused.
“You in trouble?” I said.
“Don’t know. They said they just want to talk with me face to face. Maybe I’ll learn something.”
“Maybe not.”
“You have about as much faith in the alphabet agencies as you do in preachers.”
“Don’t get me started.”
“Sam and I will ride as far as Norfolk with you. I can pick up my Jeep there, rest a day or so, and return here to the hot soup we seem to have created for ourselves.”
“Hate to pull out on you since we were having so much fun,” Rosey said. “Did Bonnie ever go solo from Clyde?”
We thanked the centenarian desk clerk for his graciousness, told him to keep the money for the night’s lodging on both rooms, and traveled northeast to my city. It was after nine that evening when Rosey dropped us off at my apartment in Norfolk. He headed to Washington. Sam and I headed to bed. I checked in with Rogers for a few minutes, answered some of her probing questions about my latest shootout, and then fell asleep on the couch next to Sam. He was already asleep by the time the sandman had thrown sand into my eyes and I succumbed to fatigue.
29
I was nursing my third cup of coffee when Rogers insisted on going over the events of the last several days with me. More recapitulation. The way of my life. I was still tired from my near death experience with Sam Gunther. I said as much as an effort to thwart Rogers’ tenacity for data.
“That weapon the F.B.I. agent was using against the two of you was a German made machine gun. It’s manufactured by Heckler and Koch. Overall it’s a good weapon, but it does have some flaws to it.”
“Okay,” I said as I sipped my brew while waiting for her to continue.
“I just thought you would want to know that it was not your charmed life that saved your bacon during the gun battle. It’s more likely that the shooter had limited knowledge concerning the weapon he was using. The G. 36 has a tendency to shoot high unless the shooter allows for that fact and aims a little lower than normal. One more thing...I have a hunch that the Heckler and Koch G. 36 is not standard issue for F.B.I. agents.”
“However you deduce the outcome, I maintain that I possess some kind of charm or luck, or whatever you wish to call it, and that, yes, Gunther did not know his weaponry and I am allowed once more to argue with you. It could even be bad luck when viewed in one way.”
“Poor marksmanship is what it was, and, insufficient knowledge. But, my point in this is more along the lines of Sam Gunther and why he was using that weapon at all. Why not come after you two with the standard weapon issued to the F.B.I.?” Rogers said.
“I imagine that he was working off of the books. He didn’t want any kind of record of his agency gun being filed,” I said as I put down my coffee cup on the floor of the apartment. “He was freelancing for someone. My guess is that he was hired to kill us by the gun runners. Using his F.B.I. standard issue would have been stupid.”
“He was stupid for using the G. 36 without a thorough working knowledge. But here me out. You are guessing and not interpreting the facts. You need to consider that he may have been hired by someone in Riley Corners who did not want you to continue digging around in the past. The question is how would that person know about Sam Gunther, or did the person who hired him simply luck out and accidentally hire a rogue F.B.I. agent? I seriously doubt the likelihood of that second possibility.”
“I hate it when you form a logical deduction concerning something which I have missed.”
“I think this proves once and for all that I am superior to you.
“Proves nothing of the kind. Merely proves that now and then you stumble onto the truth. But I concede that you do have a point here. Whoever hired Gunther knew he would eliminate us for the right price. That same person has to have knowledge of both the east coast gun running operation as well as the secrets of the Johnson/Tanner families of Riley Corners. Rogers, you may have provided a bonafide lead in this case.”
“It’s about time you acknowledge my acumen.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Pray tell me how could I possibly let it go to a destination that is non-existent? It is simply a matter of superior knowledge and voracious fact assimilation. I shall store it as data like I do all other pieces of viable information.”
Despite knowing that it is superfluous to argue with Rogers’ mathematical logic and artificial intelligence, I seem to get into these tiffs with her more often than not. She’s more like an older sister than a highly functioning computer with a unique microchip. Our relationship borders on the adversarial. Like sibling rivalry.
“Check something for me, O superior intellect,” I said.
“Sarcasm will never diminish my abilities to perform tasks for you, O blithe spirit,” Rogers said to me.
“Revisit the genealogical information on the Johnson and Tanner families. See if you can find someone else close to the family, someone who would want to keep the information about how Colby died a secret. Let’s see if your angle has some merit.”
“Once again I am doing your work for you.”
“Since you are clearly more intelligent than I, it should come as no real challenge to you. And, it should actually be in your wheelhouse to accomplish this sophisticated task.”
“Brother. Talk about deep piles to walk through. Listen, why is it if I do all of the vital fact gathering, you get all of the credit when the case is finally solved?”
“You’re a secret weapon, but you knew that already.”
“Yeah, I guess so. But, still, I would like to have some credit along the way if not at the conclusion.”
“It might cost you dearly if some clever newspaper person out there started snooping around once I hinted that I have an extra-special computer. You don’t want to be compared to a regular computer, do you?”
“Hardly. But it does seem a bit unfair that I remain in the shadows when I am clearly the brains of the outfit.”
“I depend on you to find out the delicious details in these cases,” I said instead of commenting on her cutting remark.
“Just proves my original point.”
“Find something, and work on your attitude.”
“Respect, I get no respect.”
I took Sam and headed back to Riley Corners to see what trouble I could brew without getting myself killed in the process. While Rogers was working on a Riley Corners’ connection between Gunther the gun runner and Gunther the hired assassin, I thought it a good idea for me to nose around and see whose cage I could rattle this time. Sometimes we gumshoes have a way of aggravating the folk of this world by our evidentiary presence. Likewise, it is tantalizing and deliciously impish to contemplate a gumshoe walking about the Tar Heel state. Maybe more than some sticky metaphors.
It rained all the way to Riley Corners. Sam slept and I brooded over the holes in my information regarding the Johnson and Tanner families. At the last minute, I decided to bypass Riley Corners and go straight to Elizabeth City. I knew I would be welcomed at B.C. Jenkins’ home. I called ahead to let them know I was coming just in case the welcome mat had been removed due to recent bad press.
“Come in out of the rain, Clancy. Heard about the shootout. You okay?” B.C. said as opened the door for Sam and me.
“Practically unscathed except for the ordeal with the local police.”
“Who was it that tried to kill you?”
“Still checking into that. Got a name, but nothing we can lay claim to as to who hired him and why.”
“I would imagine that the why would be rather easy in your line of work,” B.C. said.
“Are you suggesting that my effervescent personality brings out the worst in people?”
Bergamot laughed and shook her head. “Just thinking that in your profession it would be rather easy to disturb the delicate balance of the status quo in any community.”
“Can’t make too many assumptions and work effectively off of those assumptions without upsetting the status quo, as you say.”
“I understand. Many of my specific tasks are the same. Provable facts are the meat of my work as well.”
“Ain’t it the truth.”
“You want to speak with Mother?” she asked.
“If that’s possible.”
“Mother is always ready and willing to talk to folks. She gets so few visitors these days, naturally. We have to keep a lid on her social life.”
“Tell me why you feel the need to protect her.”
“About ten years ago, someone tried to run her down. She was walking home from the store. It occurred while she was still living in Riley Corners. The car hit her, but only a glancing blow. Still, she was in the hospital here in Elizabeth City for a few weeks. The police checked into it, but nothing ever came of their diligent investigation. I took it as a warning that someone wanted her dead.”
“I take it you were not so thrilled with the thoroughness of the Riley Corners’ law in regards to the hit and run?”
“You got that right. I figured that they couldn’t care less about an old black woman who was nearly run over.”
“Did it cross your mind that someone on the side of the law might have been complicit in her accident?”
“I didn’t draw that conclusion at the time, no. But, it does make a body wonder when due diligence seems to be missing from something so horrible as a motorist trying to run down an octogenarian walking along on a town’s sidewalk. At any rate, we took it as a warning that someone wanted my mother out of the way,” B.C. concluded.
“So how did the cover story about her supposed death get out?”
Mercy Killing Page 14