37: A Thomas Ironcutter Novel

by David Achord

  Her smile faltered slightly, but then she recovered. “Oh, like a lawyer-client kind of secret.”

  “Yeah, something like that. I have a confidentiality clause in the contract.”

  She gave a scoff, which she somehow made a sound like a prelude to an orgasm. “Nobody can keep a secret from me around here; I’ll find out.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, as long as you don’t find out from me.”

  “So, please tell me you’re still considering joining?” she asked.

  “I am,” I answered with another polite smile, not at all sure I was telling the truth. She must have sensed my reticence.

  “And?” she drawled while twirling a tress of hair.

  “I’m still on the fence, but I must admit, you make it hard to say no.” Did I just say hard? Did I just see her make a quick glance downward? I checked my watch. “I have to go, but I’ll see you Saturday, okay?”

  “I would hope you call me once or twice before Saturday.” She maintained eye contact this time.

  I nodded. “Absolutely.”

  I hadn’t thought of making any phone calls before our date. Obviously, I’d been out of the game far too long, or maybe I wasn’t as interested in her as I thought I was—I didn’t know. She stepped forward and gave me a light peck on the cheek before we said our goodbyes.

  One of the differences between the police and a private investigator is expediency. A police detective usually has a dozen or more investigations going on at the same time. And, that did not include court time or doing busy work for your boss. Nope, none of that for a PI. As a PI, I could control my caseload, I did not have a boss to answer to, and a subpoena to court was only honored if it was convenient to me. Therefore, once I was hired, I could begin investigating the case immediately.

  Once seated in my car, I gave Ronald a call.

  “I’ve got some info on a young man I need you to investigate.”

  “What kind of info?” he asked.

  “Bank account, cell phone number, social media accounts. Do your thing on them and see what you find out.”

  “What kind of case is it?” Ronald asked.

  “Missing person. He went down to Manchester to watch a martial arts tournament back in February and hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Oh, man, do you think he’s been abducted or did he take off?”

  “I don’t know. I’m heading down to Manchester right now. Do you want to go with me?”

  “Oh, hell no,” Ronald immediately answered.

  “Are you sure? It’s a beautiful day, it’ll be good for you to get out of the house for a little while. Besides, have you ever even been to Manchester?”

  Ronald stammered a moment before responding. “It’s just that, well, I need to get the house cleaned up. I have a date tonight.”

  “You have a date?” I asked in surprise.

  “Um, yeah, but don’t worry, I’m going to get on this right now. Give me thirty minutes or so,” he said, and then promptly hung up.

  I chuckled at his embarrassment. Ronald was probably the most socially awkward person I knew, so for him to actually have a date was a positive step. Honestly, I don’t think Ronald is in touch with his sexuality. A few months ago, he had a male acquaintance over for dinner. I never asked if it was two buds hanging out or if there were something more to it. For that matter, I had no idea if this ‘date’ was with a boy or a girl. Whoever it was, I hoped the best for him.

  After speaking with Ronald, I called ahead to the Coffee County Sheriff’s Department, which was the agency handling the case. I was put on hold for several minutes before being connected with a man who identified himself as Detective Walter Brannigan. He was friendly enough and agreed to meet with me.

  I maneuvered through the heavy Nashville traffic and soon was driving east on I-24. I was in my Mustang this morning. I had not driven her in several days and felt the need to show her some attention. When I accelerated onto the interstate, the throaty growl of the exhaust was like her telling me she wanted to stretch her legs, so I opened her up. I was ten miles outside of the Coffee County line when Ronald called back.

  “On February twenty-first, your boy made an ATM withdrawal of a hundred bucks and he also filled up with gas at a Delta market in Nashville. He made a phone call an hour later. I’ll send you the coordinates of the tower that was pinged. That was the last time the phone was used.”

  “Have you tried to ping the phone?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but either the battery is dead or it’s been disabled,” Ronald said. “Alright, that’s all I have for now. Give me a little time and I’ll research his social media.”

  “Thanks, Ronald. Have fun on your date. Take her somewhere nice.”

  Ronald giggled before hanging up.

  The Coffee County Sheriff’s Department was in a brown brick building located on Hillsboro Boulevard less than a mile from I-24. I was using my Google app for directions, but I could have found it easily. I drove into the parking lot and parked. I noticed a man about my age standing outside, smoking a cigarette and watching me curiously.

  “Are you Ironcutter?” he asked as I approached.

  “I am. You must be Detective Brannigan.”

  “Walter,” he said and stuck out his hand. He was six feet, average build, short-cropped brown hair with a touch of gray in it and wearing wire-framed glasses. He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it.

  “Alright, let’s go inside.” He motioned for me to follow him through the security door and back to a simple office that was cluttered with files. A solitary picture was on the desk of him and a teenage boy, both holding up fish and grinning.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked once we got seated.

  “As I said on the phone, Joseph Belew has hired me to try to locate his brother. Would it be too much trouble for a briefing on the case?” I asked. He knew why I was there, so I was uncertain why he asked.

  He shrugged and pointed at one of the many case files cluttering his desk. “There’s not much to tell you. He’s still missing.” He paused a moment, apparently thinking something over before speaking.

  “Your name rang a bell with me, so I did some Googling. You used to be a cop with Nashville.”

  “Yes, I was,” I said.

  “Alright, that makes this a little easier. The victim’s vehicle was found at the location of the fight, which is an abandoned business located on McMinnville Highway. It was processed, and we found nothing. There’s been no activity on his bank account or cell phone. There are no John Does in the area hospitals or morgue. I have him entered into NCIC, but so far, no hits. So, I am currently at a dead end.”

  He then held up a finger and looked pointedly at me. “What I’m about to say next is off the record.”

  I gave a slight nod. “Of course.”

  “We’re not a high-tech police department. All of our reports are still done the old-fashioned way, by hand. When a report is written out, it’s handed over to a sergeant. He reads them over, approves them, and then puts them in an in-basket where a sweet, motherly lady name Lucy takes the reports, compiles the data for the TIBRS stats, and then hands them over to my boss who decides which cases are filed and which cases are investigated.”

  “Did something happen?” I asked.

  He nodded and gave a slight, rueful smile. “On March tenth, she came to work, took her clothes off, sat down, and began reading scripture like she was preaching to the dead.” He shrugged. “They think she had a stroke or something. Anyway, we found several reports crammed in her purse, along with Joseph Belew’s missing person report.”

  “I’m curious why she did that,” I remarked.

  “The sheriff was curious as well and asked her why. She looked at him all serious like and said, and I quote, donkey balls.”

  “Donkey balls? I asked.

  “Yep,” Walter answered. “She was asked to elaborate, but it was futile. She’s currently in an assisted care facility. So, anyway, as you can surmise, the
re was no investigative work done until yours truly got assigned the case. I’m also under the impression you are unaware of the missing girl.”

  I absently frowned. “No, I’m not.”

  He nodded somberly, then reached into a manila folder sitting on his desk and pulled out a picture. It was an eight-by-ten of a pale, plain-looking girl who appeared to be in her late teens. Walter confirmed it.

  “Her name is Telisha Thompkins. She’s seventeen and according to her mother, she’s in her full-blown rebellion stage. Typical teen. Goes to the local high school, poor grades and close to dropping out, mother is an alcoholic and father is not in the picture. She doesn’t have a car, so she caught a ride from a friend who lived in the neighborhood.”

  “She went to the fight alone?” I asked.

  “It appears so. The young man who gave her the ride said she told him she was meeting someone there. She gave him two bucks for gas and he dropped her off in front.”

  “I take it he was interviewed.”

  “Extensively,” Walter replied. “We even took him to the TBI for a polygraph, which he passed with flying colors. Oh, I almost forgot, he told us she had a knapsack that was crammed full. He asked her about it and she said if everything worked out, she wasn’t going back home. We’re treating her as a runaway, therefore no Amber alert was issued.” He said it and then waited.

  “Do you believe she ran away with Jason Belew?” I asked.

  “It’s possible, right? I mean, two horny teenage kids. They’re probably in Florida right now and will come home when they get bored with each other and the money runs out, right?”

  “There is one problem with your scenario,” I said. “Jason Belew is gay.”

  Walter stared in puzzlement and reached for a coffee cup. He tried to take a drink and found the contents cold.

  “Well, this may change things,” he said. “We subpoenaed her phone records. During the last two weeks, she had multiple conversations to a specific phone number. Turns out it’s a burner phone and is no longer in service.”

  I nodded. “I don’t think it’s Jason, but I suppose it’s possible. I’ll ask his brother if he had a burner. Once the report was found on Jason, what was done?”

  “The deputy who took the initial report found his car immediately, looked around, but didn’t find anything. He put the info in the report thinking it’d be followed up on.”

  “I understand it was an underground fight event,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Unsanctioned. There were supposed to be eight fights, but they ended up only having four. Afterward, they had a rave party that lasted all night.”

  “Where was this event at?” I asked.

  “About ten minutes from here at an abandoned business on McMinnville Highway. The property owner was told it was going to be an amateur boxing event. Admission was twenty-five a person. It’s my understanding a lot of side bets were going on and a lot of drugs were being bought and sold.”

  “You guys didn’t know about it?” I asked.

  “Again, we were told it was an amateur boxing contest. I imagine a couple of our younger deputies might have known about it and didn’t say anything.” He glanced out of his open door and lowered his voice. “Besides, the property is owned by a county commissioner who has more than one business in this town. He’s good friends with certain people. Elected people.”

  I read between the lines and deduced he was talking about his boss, the sheriff. Walter paused and rubbed his chin.

  “Google had some interesting information about you,” he remarked.

  I nodded but didn’t answer. I can’t say I liked getting Googled, but I suppose if I were in his shoes, I would’ve done the same.

  “A rogue FBI agent killed your wife and a corrupt assistant chief tried to frame you for the murder. That’s straight out of some crazy-ass Lifetime movie,” he said with a grin. “The part where you caught those two killer cops was the most interesting story though. Do you know why?”

  “Why’s that?” I asked, not at all sure I wanted to hear his answer.

  “Because it tells me you have good detective skills.”

  His statement surprised me. It took me a moment to acknowledge the compliment. “I appreciate that,” I said.

  “So, humor me here, what would you have done differently?” he asked.

  “Have you interviewed the two men who he went to the fight with?”

  He tapped a three-ring notebook on his desk. “Benny Newton and Charlie Thomas. They rode down together with the Belew kid. The two of them hooked up with two local girls and went home with them. They said the last time they saw Belew, he was gushing over one of the fighters. I’ve also gotten copies of a couple of cell phone videos of both the fight and the rave party. He’s easily spotted at the fight. I also managed to get some cell phone video of the party, but I didn’t see Belew in it. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t there though.”

  “How did those two boys get home?” I asked.

  “They advised they tried calling Belew the next morning, couldn’t get ahold of him, so one of the girls drove them home. I obtained copies of Newton’s cell phone record and it confirms he made a couple of calls to the victim. Oh, I also got Belew’s phone records. Belew had sent a text to his brother shortly before midnight. At that time, his phone pinged a tower near the location of the fight, but it’s off now.”

  I took a moment to jot a couple of notes. Detective Brannigan waited patiently.

  “Did I hear you correctly, Jason’s car has been located?” I asked.

  “Yeah, in the parking lot. We towed it here. It’s parked out back. Our tech checked for prints. Two sets of prints match the two men who rode down here with the victim. There is an unidentified set in various places in the car, mostly on the driver’s side, so it is assumed they belong to the victim. He’s never been arrested, so we have nothing to compare them to.

  “Our tech even squirted Luminol all over it, but it yielded nothing. By the way, I’ve left a message with the mother to come down here and get it, but she hasn’t done it yet. Do you think you can expedite that for me?”

  “Yeah, I’ll make sure of it,” I said and jotted a reminder. “Detective, I’ll have to say, you seem to be on top of it and I apologize for wasting your time. I’ll relay all of this information to Jason’s brother; it might help his state of mind.”

  He gave a small nod at the compliment. “It’s no problem.” He thought for a couple of seconds and gestured at the notebook again. “If you want, I can get you an electronic copy of the case file. I just need an email or a flash drive.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “Yeah, that’ll be great.”

  I always kept a flash drive with me for occasions like this. I retrieved it out of my pocket and handed it over. He got on his computer and a couple of minutes later handed it back to me.

  “I certainly appreciate it. You guys are on top of the computer stuff,” I said.

  He let out a small chuckle. “No, we’re still stuck in the twentieth century, but my son is awesome with computers. He scans all of my case files for me. He wants to be a cop one day, but I’ve already told him he’s going to do better than that.”

  I gave a polite smile and absently wondered what kind of father I might have been. “I’m sure he’ll do the right thing. Would you happen to know the address in question off of the top of your head?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Are you going there?”

  “I thought I’d have a look around and take a few pictures. I hope you don’t mind.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. Up until now, Detective Walter Brannigan had been both professional and polite. But this was the part where he was probably going to tell me to butt out of his investigation, and if he did so, I had to decide whether or not I was going to ignore his directive.

  “Since that event, the real estate company has fenced off entry to the parking lot.” He paused and looked at his watch. “I’m taking the afternoon off, but if you want, you can fol
low me out there.”

  I readily agreed. It was only a ten-minute drive to the location, which was three prefab metal buildings. There was a chain-link fence and gate blocking the entrance and a big for sale sign erected. Walter stopped, got out, and unlocked the padlock. He opened the double gates and motioned me to follow him. After we parked, he saw my questioning look and pointed to the real estate sign. The surname of the realtor was, coincidentally, Brannigan. Walter sensed what I was thinking.

  “She’s my sister-in-law,” he explained.

  “What kind of business was this?” I asked.

  “Kind of a cross between a farmer’s co-op and a home improvement center. It was a vibrant business for several years, but I have no idea why it closed. Since then, they occasionally have yard sales or church revivals here.”

  “So, a county commissioner owns it,” I remarked.

  “Yeah, his nephew hooked up with some two-bit hustler and they put it all together. I had to practically beg to put out a statement to the media about Belew’s disappearance. They didn’t want the bad publicity.”

  I scoffed. This county commissioner was worried more about his reputation than Jason Belew’s welfare.

  “Do you have any idea who this two-bit hustler is?” I asked.

  “He goes by the nickname Candy-Man. He’s black and in his thirties. That’s all I know. According to my son, he has a social media account on Snapchat. How familiar are you with it?”

  “Not very,” I said.

  “Me neither. Young people love it though. The way I understand it, if I were to send you a message, after you read it, it disappears. If that’s true, if I were to find his account and then put a subpoena on it, I would not be able to retrieve any data.”

  “That’d make it hard to get evidence on him,” I said.

  “Yep. I think he lives somewhere in Tennessee, but that’s only because he’s done three other promotions like this within a two-hundred-mile radius of here. He’s always paid the property owners cash up front, so there’s no paper trail.”

  “Do you think he has something to do with Jason’s disappearance?” I asked.