Boyd could not figure out how McCain did it. He had no survival training, no experience in the jungle; he did not even hunt as a kid, but he managed to keep them one step ahead of the Vietnamese soldiers at every turn. On their fifth day, they were faced with a dilemma: they had run out of jungle. They were going to have to cross some open fields, traverse a river, and then resume hiking through open fields again. That, or cross a mountain, which was not an option for the injured gang of men.
As they bedded down near the river in the middle of the day to rest and avoid trekking across open ground during daylight, Boyd was assigned the first watch. He found a crook in a low-lying tree limb to rest on that gave him great cover while providing a reasonable view of the area around their camp. Boyd was armed with an M16A2 rifle. He prayed he would not need it; they were down to 25 rounds of ammo. Lt. Gerhke did have his Colt M1911 pistol, but he was also down to one full magazine.
Boyd had been on watch for a little over an hour when he saw the movement. A little over a hundred yards out. Two soldiers were fanned out looking for any tracks that might lead them to Boyd’s group. It would have been an easy shot for Boyd, but so far, staying hidden had done a great job keeping them alive. The problem was the men were getting closer, and he could not be sure there were only two of them. Boyd decided to change his position for a better look.
Maybe his plan would have worked if he had not been using a makeshift crutch out of a tree limb, maybe not. Boyd would never know. Instead, while placing weight on the crutch to move up a tiny rise, the crutch broke sending Boyd crashing into the ground alerting a soldier that Boyd had not seen. One that was much closer.
The Vietnamese soldier yelled loudly giving away Boyd’s location shortly before firing his AK-47 at him. Boyd was pinned down behind the small rise. His only option was to slide down the bank toward the river. Thankfully, the Vietnamese soldier was inexperienced, or scared, because he did not try to modify his position. He just fired wildly in Boyd’s direction and waited for reinforcements from the other two soldiers. Boyd glanced over the small rise and saw the other soldiers advancing. If he did not make it to the river, he was a dead man.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the advancing soldiers aiming at him from 40 yards out. Unless the soldier flunked every aspect of shooting instruction, Boyd knew he was going to get hit. He swung the M16A2 into position, ready to fire, but never had to pull the trigger. What he saw was unbelievable, the kind of stuff you would only expect to see in movies. Lt. McCain was running through the jungle from the soldier’s right side brandishing a survival knife. He moved like greased lightning; Boyd could not believe a man the Lieutenant’s size could move that fast. The soldier turned toward the sound of Lt. McCain crashing through the vegetation. From 40 yards out, Boyd could see the look of surprise on the Vietnamese soldier’s face. It probably matched the look on Boyd’s. All he could think of was who brings a knife to a gun fight.
The soldier never had a chance. The Lieutenant was too fast. He plunged the survival knife into the soldier’s right side to the hilt. In one fluid motion, McCain had the rifle out of the soldier’s hands before he even hit the ground and aimed it at the second advancing soldier.
Boyd saw McCain pull the trigger on the AK-47, but nothing happened. Then he watched McCain pull the charging handle back. An unfired round was ejected and another round was charged as he allowed the bolt to seat. Boyd realized the Lieutenant could not find the safety. “The lever on your right! Push down!” he yelled as McCain dropped to the ground to avoid incoming fire from the second soldier. Dirt was flying up all around McCain as the bullets impacted the earth. McCain finally depressed the lever down and pulled the trigger. The rifle fired on full auto. The Lieutenant let off the trigger, took aim and fired again. Boyd was still pinned down, which prevented him from seeing the second soldier, but he knew McCain had killed him when he stood up and meekly smiled in Boyd’s direction.
He was still smiling when he was struck in the left thigh by a single 122-grain bullet fired by the original soldier that fired on Boyd. It seemed like it happened in slow motion; Boyd actually saw the blood splatter exit the back of L.T.’s thigh. The rest of the story is foggy in Boyd’s brain. He remembers firing at the soldier, who dropped to the ground now that bullets were coming his way. The next thing he remembered was watching Lt. McCain drown the soldier in the river with his bare hands. In less than 45 seconds, a Navy officer who could not even find the safety switch on an AK-47 had killed all three Vietnamese soldiers. He had saved all their asses that day.
Ten years later and Boyd was hoping that L.T. still had the same killer instinct.
CHAPTER 26
Friday morning marked the fourth day of my unpaid leave. Originally, I had been scheduled to work the night shift that Friday. Instead, I was sitting in my kitchen trying to figure out what my inner voice kept saying last night when it told me to work the clues. What clues? The visit to the library had been educational, but I had not found it particularly illuminating? I still didn’t know where to look next. It looked as if my hopes were resting on my original plan involving Boyd.
Frustration was setting in, so I grabbed a quick workout before driving over to a local automobile dealership. I was thinking of selling the Mercedes. It ran great; it looked fabulous, but I was not convinced it was my type of car. The dealership offered $15,000 more than I had in the car; a nice return on my investment. If I got fired from the hospital, maybe I could fix up wrecked cars for a living. I seemed to have a knack for it. But I didn’t sell it right then. I wanted a couple of days to think it over. Even though it did not have a manual transmission, even though it was not exactly nimble through the corners, it was still the smoothest riding vehicle I had ever ridden it. And gorgeous.
When I got back to my apartment, I saw that Chief Parker had left me a message. I called him back immediately and found out he had a preliminary report from the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. Cause of death was a .22 to the back of the head. It was unknown whether the shot came from a pistol or a revolver as no spent shell casings were found. Stomach contents revealed he was killed within two hours of eating. The lack of rigor meant he died at least 48 hours before his body was found, yet body decomposition put the time of death as less than four days.
In other words, he was killed the night he went missing. And they were sure he was not killed in the car. No blood splatter in the car and blood pooling suggested he was lying on his back for a little while before the killer put Paul in the car. The Bureau also discovered that the killer had wiped the car for fingerprints. The steering wheel, the door handles, the gear shift, the mirror, were all wiped clean. Even the back door handles.
I said, “So the killer was probably in the car at one time, and he was smart enough to wipe things down. Also smart enough to know what he had touched and what he hadn’t. What about the position of the seat, had it been changed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Paul was average height, average build. If the killer had been anything other average, he might have changed the seat position out of habit. Might have even left a print. Have them check it.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“At the moment, I got nothing to report.”
“No reports about whether I watched Letterman or Leno? Or whether I bought another cabin?”
“No.”
Chief Parker responded in an irritated voice. “Admit it; you were watching me the other night.”
“I’ll admit to nothing, except to tell you that you and your son were both suspects at one time. Once Paul’s body was found, you both fell off my radar. Get over it, Chief. It was nothing personal. Right now, I’ve got something in the works to flush out anyone in your town even remotely affiliated with the Dixie Mafia.”
“Dixie Mafia? What the hell is that?”
My pager went off while talking with the Chief. There was no number associated with the page, but the message was clear and simple. 911. An emergen
cy signal from Boyd.
“Chief, I wish I had time to explain, but I don’t. You have a cute librarian in your town that gave me some books to read. Head down there and have her show you them books. Maybe it will jog your brain. At the very least, it will enlighten you.”
“I call to give you the preliminary report findings, and you direct me to read some books in the library. Somehow I feel like I just got the raw end of this deal.”
“Sorry, Chief. Read the books, trust me.”
The Chief protested a few more times, but in the end, he agreed to try the books. I didn’t know what he was so upset about; it was not like he told me anything I did not already know. Plus, he did not give me any additional information to help me find the killer.
After getting off the phone with Chief Parker, I immediately paged Boyd to let him know where he could reach me. Within a couple of minutes, my phone rang. I did not recognize the number on my caller ID, but the area code and prefix signified it was from Emmettsville. I grabbed the phone wondering what Boyd had found out.
Before I could even say hello, Boyd’s voice came booming out at me. “Hey, Tofu, we got ourselves a pro—.”
Boyd was interrupted by a man with a gruff Southern accent. “What your friend was getting ready to say is that he has a problem. Right now he is tied to a chair insisting he ain’t got any boss but tells me you might be someone who might want him back in one piece.”
The voice sounded strangely familiar. Like I should recognize it from somewhere. Nothing came to mind, but I realized he might think the same thing about me. I was no good at voices or accents, so I tried to sound hoarse. “I think you is looking for my boss. He ain’t here, but I can get him. Twenty minutes.” In addition to my horrible English, I added a cough for good measure.
“You better. I’ll call back in twenty. For Graham’s sake, make sure your boss is ready to talk,” he replied and hung up.
The man had called him Graham, which meant his legend was still intact. I immediately called LeClair’s. It was the only thing I could think of. I was short and to the point; Boyd was being held captive, and I needed him on my phone in less than 20 minutes. He agreed to meet me at the corner of Fourth Street and Beale, just east of the WC Handy House Museum. I picked him up in the Mercedes, and we made it back to my apartment with five minutes to spare. It was enough time to tell him about the call and why I needed his help.
LeClair looked calm. Not one ounce of nervousness was evident. That is, until the 20 minutes came and went with no return call. At that point, both of us were more than a little nervous. The call came in two minutes late. The same number flashed across my caller ID.
I hit the speaker phone button and let LeClair do his thing. “I heard you want to talk to me.”
“If you are the man in charge, then yes.” It was the same voice as before.
“Graham does his own thing, I do mine, but we’re close.”
“Let’s get to the point. Felton County is ours. Has been for as long as anyone can remember. Since I can appreciate Graham’s entrepreneurial spirit, I’m willing to let him go with a warning.”
“Okay, so why call me then?” asked LeClair.
“Cause I needed to make sure his story was straight. Make sure he really is operating alone. So far, your stories match. Good. There’s a fella that has been trying to invade my turf. A real dick. The kind of guy that would sell his momma for a profit.”
LeClair said, “I know the type. What about him.”
“I want to make sure you ain’t him.”
“Need me to send you a picture?”
“No smart ass. I just need you to be willing to give me the money Graham made selling liquor in my county. If lieu of an itemized receipt, I’m thinking two grand is about right. If you’re willing to buy your friend back, then I know you’ve got nothing to do with that asshole. Catch my drift?”
LeClair answered, “I’m followin’ ya.”
“Good. And you’ll have to come get him, because I’ve taken a liking to his car as well.”
LeClair immediately replied, “As long as Graham is undamaged, otherwise the deal is off. The boy is like a son to me. Anything happens to him, me and my boys will come in guns blazin’. Are we clear?”
The man said, “I hear ya, if that’s what ya mean. But don’t go thinking we’re scared or anything, ‘cuz we ain’t. You can pick Graham up tonight at the second bridge out of town on Route P. If ya don’t know where that’s at, tough, buy a damn map and figure it out. Be there at eleven. Bring the money and come alone.” Then he hung up.
***
LeClair managed to keep his composure until after the man on the other line hung up the phone. I was impressed with how well he performed under pressure with so little preparation. Immediately after hanging up the phone he started asking me what I had planned. I pointed to the caller ID screen. LeClair did not seem to understand immediately. In December 1988 in Memphis, BellSouth became the first telephone company in the US to deploy caller ID. The feature cost extra each month. Thankfully, I had opted in. “What’s that?” he asked.
“The idiot did not realize I had caller ID.”
“Caller ID?”
“Yeah, it tells me in real time who is calling me.”
“You mean you have their damn phone number. Holy shit. Wait a minute; it’s just a number. How do we figure out who it belongs to?”
“A reverse directory. Police departments have them. So do public libraries, usually. I’ll call the Chief and get him to tell the address associated with that number. You know what this means, don’t you? My idea worked.”
“Yeah, just a little too good, it seems. So, how we going to do this?”
“We aren’t going to do anything if I can help it. I’m going to find out where that call came from and track down the A-holes and get Boyd back. I’m not waiting around to see how things go down on that bridge unless I can’t find them in time.”
“Hey, you can’t drag me out of my bar and have me play the big bad boss, then send me home. Besides, you need me to go with you in case you don’t find him.”
I could not argue with his logic. Even if the phone number led me to an address, it did not mean Boyd was there. I had to plan for all contingencies.
All I wanted was to flush out some organized crime members so I could watch them and see if they led me to anyone of particular interest. Things were getting out of hand. Sure, Boyd and I flushed out some fellow bootleggers, but there was no guarantee they were part of an organization. The man had said that Felton County was promised to him. Maybe that was as far as their involvement went. One thing was for sure; Charles had been right. There were men in this town that were willing to protect their interests. With force. And for only $2000 and an old car.
I nearly called Chief Parker first, and then I thought better of it. He would want answers to questions. Questions I might not feel like answering. I dialed 411 and got the number for the Felton County Public Library. Jenny answered. The library had a reverse directory, but the number was not listed. She could hear the disappointment in my voice as I thanked her for her trouble.
“Dr. McCain, this is really important to you, isn’t it?”
“You have no idea.”
“Give me your number and let me call you right back. This directory is a few years old. Maybe it is a new number.”
“How are you planning on getting it?”
“I have a master’s degree in library science, remember. I’ll get it. Trust me.”
I had no choice but to trust her. I started preparing for my plan while I waited; loading my Glock 21along with both extra magazines. LeClair watched me in silence until I was finished, then he pointed at my pistol. “You think it might come to that?”
Without answering him, I left the room and returned with my Glock 17. “If you’re coming with me, then you might need this. It’s a 9 mm. Here is an extra magazine for it. Load up.”
“This damn gun is made of plastic. You expect me to shoot
a gun made of plastic?”
“That plastic gun, as you call it, is the most widely used pistol by law enforcement the world over. You remember how to shoot a pistol, old man?”
“If I have to, I can handle it, but, for the record, I’d rather have an M16.”
I was getting ready to respond when the phone rang. It was Jenny. She had my number as promised. “As expected, it is a new number. It belongs to a junkyard outside of town. I think they use it as their second line.”
“Let me guess, E’s Salvage Yard?”
“Yeah, you know the place, or do you need an address?”
“No, I know the place. Do me a favor, forget I ever called you. Please. And don’t ask why.” I hung up without waiting for an answer.
I hated to admit it to myself, but I was surprised to find out the call originated from the Estes brothers. I probably should not have been; it seemed everywhere I turned in that blasted town, Junior Estes was in my face. Now he had my friend hostage. Probably tied to a chair somewhere in the junkyard office. Or maybe to an engine block out in the yard. Either way, Junior was going to pay. I was going to do more than just bounce his head off a window this time.
LeClair immediately asked me about the call. He smiled widely when I explained where the call came from. I asked him what he was smiling about.
“Junior is one of the assholes that’s so fond of the n-word, right?”
I understood why he was smiling. “You sure you want to come along?” He nodded. “What about the bar?”
“What about it? It ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He cut me off before I could respond. “I know what you mean. Let me tell you a little secret, the only hard part about runnin’ the place is bookin’ new bands. The day-to-day operations are simple. I got it so it almost runs itself.”
“It’s not that, man. I mean, how the hell is the umbilical cord going to reach 45 miles to Emmettsville? You do realize this is the first time I have seen you outside the bar. You are like conjoined twins.”
Memphis Legend Page 30