Rigged

by D P Lyle

  “Brett Collins?” Pancake asked. He already knew it was. Giving the guy a chance to lie if he was so inclined.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Pancake introduced himself and Ray, told him they were investigators looking into the murder of his brother.

  “Yeah, I heard about that. Our cousin called.”

  His concern seemed nonexistent.

  “We have a few questions about Jason,” Ray said. “Mind if we come in?”

  Collins hesitated as if deciding what to do. Maybe he was feeling helpful, or maybe it was Pancake’s size thirteen shoe already across the threshold, blocking the door, that proved the deciding factor, but finally, he said, “Sure.” He stepped back. “Want a beer?”

  “We’re good,” Pancake said.

  “Have a seat.” He raised the beer. “I need a refill.” He headed into the open kitchen, dropped the bottle in the sink where the glass-on-glass clank suggested it wouldn’t be lonely. He yanked open the fridge, twisted the cap from another beer.

  Despite the fact that Collins looked like he needed a shower and maybe a good night’s sleep, the place was fairly clean. Cheap furniture but in good repair. TV tuned to the local news, sound off. A police officer being interviewed in front of a convenience store that according to the crawl banner had been robbed. Pancake and Ray took the sofa, Collins a chair, facing them.

  “We’re sorry about your brother,” Ray said.

  “Yeah, well, he and I never really got along. Not even when we were kids.” He took a slug of beer. “He’s four years younger so even in school we ran in different circles.”

  “When did you last speak with him?” Pancake asked.

  “Couple of years. Maybe three. I can’t remember.”

  “So you didn’t know the girl that he was dating? The one that got killed at the same time?”

  “Sure didn’t.”

  “What can you tell us about Jason?” Ray asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. What was he like?”

  Another sip of beer. “You might say he was the good one.” He shrugged. “I was the wild one.”

  “How so?”

  “Just that. Mom and Dad always liked him best. He took school seriously. Went to church with them. Played some sports. All that righteous stuff I didn’t do.”

  “How’d you feel about that?” Ray asked. “The parents seeming to favor him?”

  “You a shrink or something?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Be curious about something else.”

  “I know that older brothers often feel more pressure to perform than do younger ones,” Ray said. “Sometimes that leads to rebellion.”

  His head gave a quick bob as he tipped his beer toward Ray. “That’s me. The rebel of the family.”

  “What about drugs?” Pancake asked.

  “What about them?”

  “We know your history.”

  His back straightened. Jaw set. “So you been digging in my life?”

  “We wouldn’t be very good investigators if we hadn’t,” Ray said.

  Collins mulled that for a few seconds, then grinned. “I guess that’s true.” He worked the label on the bottle with a thumbnail. “Guess you know I spent a little time in lockup then?”

  “We do. Drug related. But we’re not interested in that. Not judging and not trying to hammer you about your life choices.”

  “I made a few dumb ones.”

  “We all do,” Pancake said.

  “You been locked up?”

  Pancake tilted his head toward Ray. “Ray here had me and his son locked up once when we were kids.”

  “For what?”

  “Doing stupid stuff.”

  Another slug of beer. “Stupid does rear its head, don’t it?”

  “Especially with teenage boys,” Ray added.

  He slapped a knee. “Wish you could’ve talked to my parents. Explained that to them.”

  “What about Jason?” Ray asked. “He ever do anything stupid?”

  “Not much. Like I said, he was the good one.”

  “He ever use drugs?”

  “Did that have anything to do with his death?”

  “Maybe. We’re not sure.”

  “We smoked a little weed. Jason rarely. Me, all the time.”

  “Anything harder?” Pancake asked.

  “Coke a few times. I got him to try it. He didn’t much like it.” He shook his head. “Only person I ever met that didn’t like a little marching powder.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “Would it surprise you if he used anything recently?”

  “Actually, it would. But then I don’t really know him anymore.” He pushed his hair back. “Hell, I never really did.”

  “What about you?” Pancake asked. “You still use?”

  “Every chance I get.” He smiled.

  “What?”

  He shrugged.

  “Weed? Coke? Meth?”

  “Sure.”

  “I take it you have a local supplier?” Ray said.

  “Ain’t hard to come by around here. Half a dozen places here, and the trailer park next door, I could go knock on the door and get well real quick.”

  “What about over in Fairhope? Know anything about the scene over there?”

  He shook his head. “Never been there in my life.”

  “You never visited your brother over there?” Pancake asked.

  “Why would I? I didn’t visit his room when we lived under the same roof.” He sighed. “I know that sounds bad but it’s the way it was.” He caught Pancake’s gaze. “Look, I’m sorry he died, or got killed, but it ain’t something I’m going to cry over.”

  They left Brett to his beer and drugs and miserable little life. Once back on the highway, Pancake said, “I’d like to shoot him just on general principles.”

  “Don’t think anyone would miss him.”

  Pancake grunted. “Want to go back?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I wouldn’t really shoot him. Maybe break something.”

  “We’ll stop and grab you a burger,” Ray said. “Let you work your anger out on that.”

  “That’ll do.”

  CHAPTER 31

  IT WAS THE camera that caught my eye. Across the street. Long lens, leveled at Nicole and me. The operator a young woman. Short, curly brown hair. Tan slacks, sleeveless white top, messenger bag over one shoulder.

  At first, she looked like a tourist, taking street shots to show off downtown Fairhope to her friends back home. But her aim remained steady. No doubt we were the focus of her attention.

  I had just gotten off the phone with Pancake. He and Ray were on Highway 90, north of Pascagoula, motoring back toward the hotel. Plans were to meet there and compare notes. Nicole and I were walking down Fairhope Avenue toward Mullins Bakery to grab some coffee and a bag of sweets for Pancake.

  I stopped, touched Nicole’s arm.

  The woman saw me staring at her and lowered her camera. I waved. She waved back. Her head swiveled right and left as she darted across the street.

  “Sorry,” she said. She stuck a hand out. “Lauren Schultz.”

  I introduced Nicole and me. Handshakes followed.

  “Aren’t you the private investigators?” It wasn’t really a question. “The ones looking into the recent murders?”

  I hesitated. Not sure what the right answer was. Engage or not. But she had a pleasant smile. Seemed friendly enough. She didn’t wait for my brain to sort it all out.

  “I just chatted with Chief Warren,” she said. “She told me about you.”

  “How’d you know it was us?” I asked.

  “Tall and handsome; blond and gorgeous.” She smiled. “See anybody else around here like that?”

  “Jake is gorgeous,” Nicole said. She bumped her hip against mine.

  Lauren laughed. “I’m working on a story about the murders.”

  “Are
you a reporter?” Nicole asked.

  “Freelance journalist. I write articles mostly.”

  Interesting. My first thought was that Ray wouldn’t be thrilled to see Longly Investigations in some bit of sensational journalism. My second was that she might know more than we did. Truth was, if she knew anything it would be more than we had.

  “How about some coffee?” I asked.

  “That would be nice.”

  We continued our walk.

  “You write crime stories?” Nicole asked.

  “Human interest. This’ll be my first that involves a crime. I’m a little nervous about going there.”

  “Why?” Nicole asked.

  “I don’t know. I see those stories in the paper, online, and blasted on TV all the time. They always make me feel—what’s the word?—vulnerable.”

  “You mean like the world’s out of balance?” I said.

  “Something like that. Not sure I want to get that close to it.”

  “Then why do it?” Nicole asked.

  “I read about the murders. Here in such a pleasant and low-key town. My favorite town to visit, actually. It hooked me.”

  “Where are you from?” I asked.

  “Mobile.”

  We entered the bakery. Allison looked up.

  “You guys back already?” she asked.

  “Need some coffee,” I said. “And pick up something for Pancake.”

  She laughed. “He’s my favorite customer. I can make rent based on his appetite alone.”

  I introduced her and Lauren, telling her that Lauren was writing an article on the murders.

  “Allison was Emily Patterson’s best friend,” I said. “Emily worked here.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Lauren said.

  “It’s been tough.”

  We ordered coffee. Allison waited on a take-out customer and then brought it to our table. She sat with us.

  “What kind of stories do you write?” Nicole asked.

  “Fluff.” Lauren laughed. “I recently did one on Bellingrath Gardens and a fund-raiser onboard the USS Alabama. That was a hoot. Oh, and a fun story on area ghosts. My favorite was the one at the Pickens County Courthouse. The ‘Lightning Portrait of Henry Wells,’ as it’s called.”

  I knew about that one. Not really a ghost but an odd story. The county seat of Pickens County was Carrollton. The story goes that in 1876 former slave Henry Wells torched the courthouse. It took two years to rebuild, after which Henry was arrested. The town had no jail so he was held in the attic of the courthouse. A single small window gave him a view of the world. A lynch mob gathered, and as Henry peered down on them through the window, a bolt of lightning struck the ground nearby. No one was injured, but the strike forever etched Henry’s face in one of the windowpanes. It’s still there a century and a half later. I’ve seen it. Pancake and I drove up once just to take a look.

  I told Lauren about that adventure.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she said. “His face is right there. Plain as day.”

  The conversation then turned to Lauren’s story and why she found it so intriguing. She couldn’t put it in words, just that it struck her as unacceptably tragic. Particularly since it happened here in such an idyllic locale. To her, it seemed unnatural.

  I agreed. This town didn’t have things like this in its history. Or, to my mind, its DNA. Unnatural seemed the right word.

  Lauren went on. She made it clear that she didn’t do crime coverage, too depressing, too violent was her take. But even though this had obviously been an act of extreme violence, she felt compelled to write about the town and the people affected by the murders.

  “You’ll end up digging into the crime,” Nicole said. “Whether you want to or not. It’s the only way you can get to the root of everyone’s feelings. Their confusion and fear.”

  “I know.” She spoke to her hands, now folded on the table before her. “That’s why I debated even doing it. Thought about it for several days.” She unfolded, refolded her hands. “It’s outside my comfort zone but I guess I’ll have to deal with that aspect of the story.” She looked up. “I’ve always written about happy stuff. This is a big leap.”

  “Somehow I think you’ll do just fine,” I said.

  “I hope so.” She sighed. “It’ll be a learning experience for sure.”

  “Maybe you’ll even write a book about it,” I said.

  “I doubt that’ll happen.”

  “That’s what Truman Capote thought,” I said. “He read about the Clutter family murders in the newspaper. Went to Kansas to write an article but once there became drawn into the story. Led to In Cold Blood.”

  “The most disturbing book I ever read,” Lauren said. “I was in high school. We never locked our house. Never had to. But after that, I made sure every door and window was latched before going to bed.” She smiled. “My parents thought I was crazy. But they didn’t read the book.”

  I liked her. Her approach and transparent honesty. Her willingness to step outside of herself. Take on a challenge. I sensed Nicole and Allison felt the same vibe.

  “What has your research turned up so far?” I asked.

  “Not much that isn’t in the papers. They were shot, left on a farm near here. Emily Patterson was going through a divorce and the other victim was a guy she was seeing. From my conversation with Chief Warren, there are no suspects.” She fingered a curl near her left ear. “I suspect that makes the town nervous. Knowing whoever did this is still out there.”

  “Sure does,” Allison said. “From what I see here, everyone is a little paranoid.”

  Lauren nodded. “That’s the story I want to write. How this has affected the town.” She smiled. “Anything you guys can tell me, anything that’ll make it personal, I’d appreciate.”

  “I like that approach,” Allison said. “Truth is, I’ve been waiting for—actually dreading—the press types to show up. From Mobile, or Montgomery, or wherever. Use this town’s pain to sell their newspapers. Not to mention, this is the kind of story those TV magazine shows like to dig up. Then overdramatize.” She shook her head. “If that’s possible. But I don’t want any of that. Don’t want this town painted that way.”

  “I completely understand,” Lauren said. “That’s definitely not my intention.”

  Allison visibly relaxed. “Good. And if that’s the case, I’ll gladly help.”

  Lauren pulled a notepad from her purse. “Tell me about your friend. What was she like?”

  Allison offered many memories of Emily, often through moist eyes and a constricted throat. She told of their friendship. How Emily had worked there. She was pleasant, reliable, and the customers loved her. How Allison helped her deal with her separation, and then her impending divorce, adding that Emily was grateful that it was all very smooth. No real contentions. No animosity.

  As Allison spoke, I sensed she needed this. A catharsis of sorts. Talking openly and honestly about Emily. Saying things that probably invaded her dreams, or more likely kept her from sleep in the first place. Revealing her bond with her friend whom she’d never see again. Nicole’s eyes glistened, and I felt tears push against the back of mine. In ten minutes, I learned who Emily had become. Made me wish I had known her. More importantly, that Pancake had.

  I then related my history with Emily. Pancake’s, too. How Emily’s brother, a Marine on deployment, had hired us. How our investigation morphed from a simple divorce proceeding into a mysterious double murder.

  Lauren mostly listened, scribbled notes.

  Finally, silence reigned. Lauren scanned her notes. Flipping through her pages. She looked at me. “You have no idea who could have done this?”

  I shook my head. “None.”

  “Not the husband?”

  “He has an ironclad alibi.”

  “Maybe he hired someone to do it?” Lauren said.

  “Haven’t found anything to suggest that.”

  “Maybe the guy with her was the target?” Lauren said.
<
br />   “We’re looking into that, but so far we’ve got nothing.”

  Not exactly true. There was the drug angle. Not that it was panning out. I didn’t feel comfortable talking with her about that. It was the one thing Warren wanted to keep in house. I didn’t want to see that hit some article and have me attributed as the source. Warren would kill me. Maybe literally. Besides, it didn’t seem fair to Jason’s legacy if he was indeed completely innocent.

  “Who have you talked to so far?” Nicole asked.

  “The chief, and you guys. That’s it. But I’m just getting started.”

  I told her about our chats with Sean and with Jason’s former employer. I tossed in Charlie Martin.

  “Emily was seeing two guys?” Lauren asked.

  “That’s right,” Allison said. “One more serious than the other.”

  “And one of them was killed with her?”

  Allison nodded. “The more serious one. Jason.”

  “And the other one?” Lauren asked. “How did he feel about being second fiddle?”

  “Not happy,” I said.

  “Hmmm.”

  “But he doesn’t seem the type that would do this,” Nicole said.

  Lauren tapped her pen against her pad. “Triangles are often dangerous. Make people do crazy things.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I don’t think that’s the case here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Talk to Charlie Martin. Make your own judgement.”

  “I will.”

  “See, you’re a crime reporter already,” Nicole said.

  “Don’t know about that. I feel more like a fish out of water.”

  “You’re asking all the right questions,” I said.

  CHAPTER 32

  “SHE’S NICE,” NICOLE said.

  “She is.”

  “I think her article will be a good thing for the community.”

  “How so?” I asked

  “She’s sensitive. Seems more interested in the survivors, the community, than the gritty crime details.”

  We were in her SL zipping back toward the Grand Hotel. Exceeding the speed limit by a good thirty miles an hour.