Mercy Killing

by M. Glenn Graves

  I returned to the truck. Sam and Rosey were waiting. Their walk and Sam’s business concluded.

  “You fellows have a good walk?”

  “Delightful. You learn anything from Maybelline?”

  “Yeah. The three of us get free sandwiches next time around.”

  Sam wagged his tail in anticipation. I was fairly certain that it was the word sandwiches and not free that made him express his future pleasure.

  “Must’ve been that Clancy charm on full throttle,” Rosey said.

  “Naw, just won a guessing game. Now let’s go see John Boxley.”

  “What more could you want to know from him?”

  “How he knew Big Mike’s real name,” I said.

  45

  I called Roscoe and told him my suspicions and told him where to look. I also told him to call me back as soon as he found anything informative.

  Sam, Rosey, and I drove across town to the nursing facility.

  The door to Boxley’s room was ajar. We could hear him talking to someone. We waited for a few seconds, listening for the other person’s voice. It was a one way conversation. Unless he was talking to himself, Boxley was on the phone with someone.

  The monologue from Boxley sounded harsh and demanding, so we decided not to intrude upon his privacy. We waited and listened.

  “Listen to me, you slug head, I don’t want any delays. You get that shipment outta the building tonight.”

  Pause.

  “No excuses.”

  Another pause.

  “I don’t care if Hopalong Cassidy is in town and he’s meeting up with Roy and Gene. He knows nothing.”

  Pregnant pause.

  “Call me after the swap.”

  Shorter pause.

  “I don’t care what time it is.”

  There was a snapping sound, the noise a mobile phone makes when it is closed. Distinctive. Old school like mine.

  We pushed his door open and walked into the room. John was sitting in his wheelchair by the window. He had a blanket over his legs. He seemed surprised as we entered.

  “I thought you two would be gone by now,” he said.

  “Not finished with our work,” I said.

  “More questions for me about my grandfather? Say, I don’t see any sandwich for my trouble,” he said moving around as if searching for some food we might have brought in with us but hidden from his sight.

  “No sandwiches this time,” Rosey said.

  “Well, then the deal’s off. No sandwiches, no answers.”

  “We don’t have any questions regarding your grandfather,” I said.

  “So this is a social call,” Boxley said.

  “Social only in the sense that we’re giving you a head’s up about what’s going to happen.”

  “A head’s up?” he said.

  “Yeah, since you’ve been so helpful in our investigation of the Colby Johnson death, we thought it only fair to tell you what we sort of accidentally found out about the gun running along the east coast.”

  Boxley chuckled a little, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh that expressed joy or amusement. It was contrived and forced. It came out the way a powerful man might express his displeasure with the direction a conversation was going. The laugh stopped as abruptly as it had come.

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “The movement of guns along the eastern seaboard of the United States. The illegal sales and distribution of both automatic weapons and handguns with their serial numbers removed. The use of the pseudo-biker gangs to mask the real work of hauling the guns out of Riley Corners to the various distribution points in some of the coastal towns.”

  “Am I supposed to know something about this?”

  “I would expect so,” I said.

  “And why would I know anything about illegal gun running?”

  “Because you’re the head kahuna, the main man, the chief, the boss, the guy with the sign on his desk that says the buck stops here.”

  “You’ve been smokin’ something powerful, lady. You can’t prove a word you are saying.”

  “Ah, movement from denial to lack of evidence. Interesting,” I said.

  “You got nothing on me,” Boxley said and his tone had turned towards nasty.

  “Well, let’s see, I should be receiving a phone call in the next little bit regarding something we might have on you, but in the meantime, let me tell you the mistake you made.”

  “People make lots of mistakes. Don’t mean nothin’,” he said.

  “This one did. You knew Big Mike’s real name.”

  “Who’s Big Mike?”

  “The man you identified as coming to the nursing home here and snuffing out your roommate, Bishop Tanner. He’s also the man you sent to take care of us, as in remove us. And he’s the man you referred to as Gunther on our most recent past visit with you. When you told us that you were glad we were still alive and that you had heard about our run-in, as you referred to it, with Gunther, you sort of tipped your hat in the wrong direction.”

  “So I named a guy. What difference does that make?”

  “Only a handful of folks knew his real name. He wouldn’t have given his real name to just anyone since he was an undercover F.B.I. agent. So you had to know him, and know him well. So well, in fact, that he worked for you. You bought him and it was fun to have what you might call a double agent working with you while seeming to be working for the Feds. He would feed them bogus info and you could continue to run your little operation. Good game plan. Game’s over though.”

  My phone rang before Boxley could offer more innocence. It was Tanner. I pushed the speaker phone button so Boxley and Rosey could listen.

  “Sheriff, did you find anything?” I said.

  “If guns were gold, then King Tut’s burial ground would take second place to what we are currently hauling in,” he said with some pride.

  Boxley’s face tightened a little, but he said nothing, knowing that Tanner could likely be bluffing.

  “And where did you find this munitions treasure?”

  “Downtown Riley Corners. Can you believe it? You were correct. They were running guns right under our noses all along. The cache was directly across the street from the police station. Can you believe that? They were storing guns chiefly, but some ammo as well, on the second floor of Cranebottom’s old office building. The interesting thing is that the only way a person could get to the second floor was around behind the building. There are some cement steps there and you climbed them to a large garage door type entrance that opens onto the second floor. Spacious,...I reckon. The army would covet such a storage unit.”

  “So you found some worthwhile stuff?”

  “I’d say. And we found some people there, too.”

  “Oh, really. Anyone we know?”

  “As a matter of fact, we found an old acquaintance of yours and Mr. Washington’s. You remember Knucklehead Barley, don’t you?”

  “Well, we certainly remember running into him,” I said.

  “He’s here with some fellow cohorts and I think that they could have been taking inventory. Looks like they were planning to move the stuff. Soon, I’d say.”

  “Caught with his pants down, my, oh my.”

  “Indeed,” Sheriff Tanner said. “And he is talking to us freely.”

  “Giving up names?” I said.

  “He’s made a deal with us and told us details about how the guns and stuff have been moved and where and all kinds of good things. He has provided a couple of names so far.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. I am a bit embarrassed by one name. Seems one of my deputies, Del Jeffers, is involved with this outfit. Sort of caught me with egg on my face, you know.”

  “And the other name?”

  “The other name?” he said.

  “Yes, you said that Knucklehead provided you with two names.”

  “Oh, yeah, that other name. Old man Boxley,” he said. “John B
oxley.”

  I had to give it to the sheriff. He knew how to present the evidence while doing his best to antagonize Mr. Big.

  I thanked the sheriff and closed my phone.

  “You got nothing. That was all staged.”

  “You can call the sheriff back if you like, you know, to verify.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt that Roscoe Tanner is in on this. But you got nothing on me.”

  “You own the building. In fact, you own many of the buildings and have interests in businesses in town. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that you own Riley Corners, or, at least, have a majority interest in this place. The point is, you have many people in your pocket.”

  “Should serve me well if you are crazy enough to take me to trial with these bogus charges.”

  “Good point. However, I have no interest in taking you to trial, even though you hired Gunther, Big Mike, to kill us.”

  “So why are you telling me all this crap?”

  “Heads-up, like I said at the outset.”

  “Heads-up for what?”

  “Gun running across state lines is a federal offense. The F.B.I. and the A.T.F. will likely want to talk with you. So, Rosey and I thought, since you’ve been so helpful to us in our other little thing, that murder investigation, we would come by and give you a heads-up. Oh, by the way, the Department of Justice will be in charge of your criminal case.”

  Boxley said nothing. Either he was the true sly old fox that everyone had said he was, or he was completely dumbfounded. I assumed the latter without dismissing the former. While my ego does in fact soar upon occasion, I am also keenly aware that about one percent of the criminal population is intelligent and clever and skillful at evading our justice system. John Boxley just might be in that one percent.

  “Did you see that bead of sweat on his bald forehead?” I said as we walked to our vehicle.

  “It was just one bead,” Rosey said. “Nothing to get excited about. I doubt if the old man sweats much.”

  46

  Maxine Shelton was grinning from ear to ear when we entered the church house and approached her reception desk.

  “Good morning, folks. I hope you are both doing well. Isn’t this a grand day that God has made?” she said with entirely too much energy. It was mid-afternoon and we were fast losing whatever energy we had built up from helping Tanner close out a seven month joint investigation with the F.B.I.

  “Grand,” I said.

  “How may I help you?” she said genuinely pleased with her voice.

  “We would like to talk with Reverend Ainsley, if that is possible.”

  “Let me see if he’s available,” she said as she gently knocked on his office door, opened it, and slid through as if protecting the Pope from tourists.

  Since there were no other cars in the parking lot, and since there was no one waiting in the small office that housed Maxine and the two extra chairs, and since this was mid-afternoon on a non-holy day, I had no doubt that Ainsley was available unless he was in conversation with the Divine. I had to allow for that.

  “Come right in,” Maxine beamed as she waved us through.

  Ainsley met us at the door, shook our hands like a good, Southern preacher, and invited us to sit.

  “We need your professional opinion about Mary Carpenter,” I said.

  “I can’t divulge much of what she and I have discussed,” he said.

  “Nothing like that, Josh,” I assured him. “Since you are the one who actually brought us into this investigation, I think you should be the one to make the call about what we do next.”

  He listened and I told him everything I thought necessary regarding our research. I told him about my theories of the crime, and then I told him that I thought Mary had also committed a crime like her mother’s. He asked some questions, but mostly he listened and reflected upon all that we shared with him.

  When Rosey and I had finished telling our tale and providing him with the data we had uncovered, he sat silently in his chair facing us. I don’t think he was praying since his eyes were opened, but I couldn’t discount that automatically. He might be an inexperienced young minister, but I suspected because of his great passion and respect for his people, he would continue to be an effective pastor and preacher for years to come.

  He rubbed his face with both hands. Then he scratched the back of his head as if he had an itch. Finally, he stood up and walked around the room, not really pacing, but not traveling very far either. He turned to us from a still position behind his desk.

  “I suspect that telling Mary about her mother and what the evidence indicates that she did could be devastating. However, she’s the one who asked me to find the answers.”

  “So, you think we should pay her a visit and talk with her about her mother,” I said.

  “I need to go with you, of course. I have to go with you. In case I am very wrong and something traumatic occurs, I have to be there.”

  “We want you to be there,” Rosey said.

  “But as far as the other is concerned, well, I just don’t know.”

  “You think she could face it?”

  “That’s the thing,” he said. “I don’t know if she is stable enough to face her own great sin.”

  “If she’s guilty,” I added quickly.

  “If she is, in fact guilty. Yes. Murder is not the worst thing a person can do, but, in this case, killing your only child, your own son, might just be more than her mind and heart could handle. I would imagine that you would talk about her mother first, then, if we decide to do it, talk about her own possible guilt with her child?” he said.

  “That would be my thinking.”

  “It’s the latter I have concerns about. I just don’t know if she could hear it and accept it.”

  “We had questions about her abilities as well. That’s why we came to you,” I said.

  “What does Sheriff Tanner want to do?”

  “He wants to turn the other cheek,” Rosey said.

  “I don’t think this is what Jesus had in mind in that teaching, but I do think that compassion is in order for Mary. Perhaps when we tell her about her mother, she might remember things about her own life and...maybe her mother’s foibles will open some door in her to a world she has shut out.”

  “Or window,” I said. “I’d be happy for an open window. Small revelations can be helpful.”

  47

  Josh Ainsley called Mary Carpenter and asked if we could come over after supper to talk with her. This was becoming a regular evening ritual. Instead of agreeing to that, she insisted that we come for a late meal and she would have Sugar prepare a delicious Southern fried treat for us. Josh tried without success to discourage her from going to that much trouble. Mary was adamant. Southern lifestyle, Southern hospitality, and Southern cooking all seem to be mainstays even among those who are murder suspects.

  We arrived at seven o’clock that evening. The smell of the cooking drifted along the walkway to the front door. It provided a tantalizing aroma. Azalea had obviously learned much from her mother and grandmother concerning the art of food preparation. Perhaps even Mary Carpenter had contributed to Azalea’s gastronomic education.

  Azalea met us at the door and ushered us inside. She was wearing an apron with several signs of food prep noticeably attached. The smell inside the large home was better than the prelude we had already enjoyed on our way up the long walkway to the front steps. Instead of the parlor, she insisted that we join Mary in the dining room. She was seated at the head of the table. Duly noted.

  Mary stood when we entered and greeted us pleasantly. Azalea poured our drinks and served us some chilled jumbo shrimp with homemade cocktail sauce. When I asked Azalea about the sauce, she whispered in my ear that it was her grandmother’s concoction.

  Our entrees were the fixings of an old fashioned country Sunday dinner composed of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, creamed corn, and cornbread. It was the type of meal I had been used to as a child. My mother had
spoiled our family with such Sunday fare. This was the kind of offering that made a body feel warm, cozy, and extremely comfortable. At least that was true for anyone born south of the Mason-Dixon. Not sure just how my Northern friends might feel about such cuisine.

  Dessert was apple pie, homemade by Azalea, I suspected, and ice cream. Ah, a la mode. I consumed enough food to last me a few days. Fasting would be in order come the morrow. And the next morrow as well. Warm, cozy, comfortable, and stuffed.

  The conversation during our meal was polite and stiff at times. Everyone seemed bent on avoiding the rhinoceros seated at the table with us. Murder investigations will do that.

  “We can go into the parlor to talk if you like,” Mary said after everyone had finished. “Would anyone like to have some coffee in the parlor?” All heads nodded.

  “Sugar,” Mary said, “bring some coffee and the usual adornments into the parlor.”

  After we had seated ourselves comfortably in Mary’s parlor, Azalea brought our coffee along with cream and sugar for those who preferred those additions.

  We talked awhile about generalities regarding the weather and such. I thought it best to move into the difficult subjects slowly and without my normal abruptness. It was a challenge for me, but I persevered. The black coffee was good. It calmed my restrained spirit. I was hoping that we were doing the right thing for this woman.

  At some point when the conversation idled, Mary spoke up and shot point blank at me.

  “Since you asked to come for a visit, I can only imagine that you have something to tell me of significance.”

  “Rosey and I have pieced together some significant facts gathered through witnesses, and through some recently discovered documents. It’s our belief that your mother smothered your brother while he was sleeping in his crib.”

  I stopped at that point allowing our hostess to absorb the horrible meaning behind my words. I could not quite imagine how I would feel if someone was sitting in my parlor telling me that my mother had killed my brother. That was beyond anything fathomable. I could only imagine that Mary was having the same difficulty.