Murder in Rat Alley

by Mark de Castrique

  We approached the scene slowly. The two EMTs looked up, nodded a greeting, but said nothing. As we drew nearer, I could see Newly, Tuck, and a Buncombe County deputy in conversation. They stood spaced like points of a triangle enclosing a figure sprawled on the barn floor. Efird saw us coming. He must have said something to Newly, because the lead detective pivoted to face us and raised one finger, signaling we should hold up.

  Nakayla and I sidestepped closer to the house to get out of earshot of the EMTs. Newly left the other two men and joined us.

  “I’m going to have to keep you out of the barn,” Newly said. “At least until Sheriff Browder has his look. I’ve offered our mobile crime lab which is better equipped, and I played my best card to keep us in the game.”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “That I won’t call the feds until you’ve had a look as well. I sort of fudged your role, claiming you were a consultant to the department on a cold case. You had tipped us off to question Johnson in the matter, and you were also in consultation with the FBI. I told Browder I could probably convince you to delay notifying Special Agent Boyce for a few hours.”

  “Aren’t you crawling out on a limb?” Nakayla asked.

  “Well, technically Tuck and I are on the Loretta Johnson murder and the firebombing of your house. By the way, there are several cans of gasoline in the back of the barn. One’s newer and almost empty. I told Browder you and Sam are on the Frank DeMille murder, and that’s the case under the province of the FBI and Sheriff Hickman. Once Browder understood there were multiple intersecting jurisdictions, he focused on protecting his.”

  “So what can you tell us?” I asked.

  “Not much. After I spoke to you, I waited as long as I could before calling Browder. I can delay the FBI but not the sheriff’s department, not if we want further cooperation. I informed the sheriff that Tuck and I had arrived to question Randall Johnson and found him hanging from a crossbeam.”

  Nakayla took in a sharp breath.

  Newly glanced toward the barn where Tuck Efird and the deputy were still talking. “Unfortunately, Browder had a man on nearby patrol who was here in less than five minutes. The sheriff instructed him to secure the scene and keep us on the perimeter. Browder also called the EMTs. I guess he didn’t trust our assessment that Johnson was dead.”

  “The deputy’s established a pretty small perimeter,” I said.

  “The deputy’s a rookie. I thought he was going to pass out when he saw the body. And I guess Johnson’s been dead for twenty-four to thirty-six hours. The ME will make the call, but accuracy might be hard given the heat wave.”

  “Speeds up decomposition,” I clarified for Nakayla’s benefit.

  “I’m glad we found him when we did,” Newly said. “Apparently, Johnson threw the end with the noose over the crossbeam and tied off the other end around the horizontal plank of what used to be a horse or cow stall. Looks like he stood on a small stepladder and kicked it away.”

  “You cut him down?” I asked.

  “No. The deputy did.” Newly shrugged. “Shouldn’t have, but I don’t blame him. It wasn’t a pretty sight. And you’re not going to get any usable prints off an old hemp rope.”

  “So should Sam and I leave?” Nakayla asked.

  “No. I told Browder you’re investigating. And although you can’t go into the barn, the deputy said nothing about the house.” Newly looked up at the clear evening sky. “Damned if I didn’t feel a drop of rain.” He walked away.

  Sirens echoed off the ridges. Sheriff Browder and his posse were coming fast.

  I grabbed Nakayla’s hand. “Let’s go in. We might only have a few minutes.”

  We hustled up the steps of the front porch. A frayed screen door was unlatched, and the solid door behind it stood wide open. Lights were on. I wedged my fingers under the warped edge of the screen door, pulling it open without touching the knob. Browder would want to print anything he could. A good cop considers even the most obvious suicide as a potential homicide.

  We walked into a small front room furnished with a La-Z-Boy from the last century and two cane-bottom chairs. An acoustic Martin guitar stood upright beside one of them. I figured that was where Johnson played his instrument and taught his students.

  On the other side of the room, a third straight-back chair was placed a few feet from a small dining table. A vintage Remington manual typewriter rested on the edge of the table nearest the chair. I guessed Johnson had no internet service and no computer or printer. It was like looking at a quill and parchment.

  A piece of white paper was rolled into the typewriter. The typist had returned the carriage a few times to lift the message higher. Only two words—I’M SORRY.

  “That’s certainly inconclusive,” Nakayla said. “Anybody could have typed that.”

  Other papers were scattered across the table’s surface. The words on the pages appeared to have been typed on the same machine, and most were song lyrics. Some I recognized as classic mountain ballads, but others might have been original lyrics. Directly behind the Remington, I saw an opened package of Martin guitar strings. I wanted to pick it up, but I wasn’t gloved.

  “Time to introduce ourselves to the sheriff,” I said.

  Sheriff Browder had recently won a special election when his predecessor resigned for health reasons. I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the man, so I decided to play nice. But I also didn’t want to embarrass Efird and Newly. They should have checked the house for other possible victims.

  We stepped out on the porch and found Newly waiting for us.

  “Well, Sherlock,” he said.

  I knew from his tone that he’d sent us in there knowing full well what we’d find. He hadn’t wanted to prejudice us with his observations.

  “A typed suicide note isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on,” I said.

  “Agreed.”

  “And the guitar strings. I didn’t touch the package, but I’ll bet there’s a missing sixth string.”

  “I plan to let Browder make that discovery. Anything else?”

  I shrugged. “I’d want a more thorough search, and maybe with someone familiar with the house.”

  “We have that someone,” Newly said. “Sheriff Browder takes guitar lessons. He’s out here every week.”

  “Then he’ll know about the lights,” Nakayla said.

  Newly and I stared at her.

  “What lights?” Newly asked.

  “The house lights. They’re all on unless you and Tuck turned them on.”

  “No, we didn’t touch anything.”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that a man goes out to his barn to hang himself and leaves the lights burning? He’s an old man on a fixed income. I think he’d be especially frugal and want to keep his electric bill as low as possible. Even if he was going out to the barn to kill himself, I’d think he’d turn off his lights.”

  “She’s got a point, Newly,” I said.

  “Well, she certainly has a brain. More than I can say for her partner.”

  “So what’s the significance?” I asked Nakayla.

  “That he might not have gone to the barn willingly. And whoever forced him came at night when Johnson would have turned on more lights for a guest.”

  “Come with me,” Newly said. “I’ve told Browder about the typewriter, but you tell him about the lights.” He turned to me. “If you’re smart, you’ll only nod.”

  The three of us stopped at the barn door. A couple of deputies were standing guard. Tuck Efird was still inside, but farther from the body. I could make out a lanky man lying on his back. His hair was braided and flowed out from under his head like a snake. He wore green work pants and an untucked, wrinkled shirt that might have been dressier a decade ago. His feet were sockless and shoed with moccasins, not boots. The noose still tightly encompassed his neck.


  Newly knocked on the side of the barn door. “A word, Sheriff, when it’s convenient.”

  I recognized Browder from his election posters, a trim man in his late forties. He had been a ten-year veteran of the department, well-liked, and won the job by a wide margin. In other words, he should have been secure in his position and authority.

  He looked around from where he was kneeling by Johnson’s head. “OK.” He stood and rolled off his latex gloves. He came toward us.

  Efird, who had been leaning against the stall and watching Browder, followed a few yards behind.

  “What’s so all-fired important?” the sheriff asked Newly.

  The Asheville homicide detective calmly gestured to Nakayla and me. “Sheriff Browder, meet Nakayla Robertson and Sam Blackman. They’re investigating the death of Frank DeMille in cooperation with the FBI. As I told you, Randall Johnson was a person of interest, and they came out here to interview him.”

  “Well, that ain’t going to happen now.” He turned to Nakayla and me. “I’m not meaning to be a hard-ass, but my department has priority here.”

  “Of course,” I said. “We just wanted to share an observation.”

  “So what did you see?”

  “Lights,” Nakayla said. “Detective Newly said he and Detective Efird found the door to the house open and all the lights turned on. That tells me two things—the hanging happened at night, and Johnson had to have walked out of his house leaving the door open and the lights burning.”

  “Is that consistent with his behavior?” I asked the sheriff.

  “Hanging ain’t consistent with his behavior. But Newland says there’s a note in his typewriter. We’ll check it for prints.” He looked at Nakayla. “And there might be something to your light observation,” he admitted. “Whenever I was here for a lesson, Randall turned on and off lights entering and exiting a room with the efficiency of a motion detector.”

  Since Browder’s tone had softened, I risked pressing for more cooperation. “Sheriff, if Nakayla and I boot up, can we take a look at the crime scene?”

  “A look for what?”

  “Any indication that we’re only seeing what we’re supposed to be seeing.”

  Tuck Efird stepped closer. “I’ve worked crime scenes with them before. They won’t contaminate it, and you’ll get two pairs of skilled eyes.”

  His endorsement spoke not only to Browder but also to me. Efird had been critical and skeptical of Nakayla and me when our paths first crossed. This change of heart meant a lot.

  Browder turned to a deputy. “Larry, fetch two sets of gloves and shoe covers.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “As my mama used to tell me and my brothers in the department store, you can look but don’t touch.”

  When we were properly attired, I went first to the body. Randall Johnson had been a tall man who must have weighed in at over two hundred. He lay on his back, tongue protruding through cracked lips and dried blood caked around his nostrils. It looked like he’d died of strangulation and not the snap of his spinal cord consistent with a proper hanging.

  I leaned closer. “Sheriff, would you loosen and lift the rope off the skin?”

  Browder grunted as he knelt on the other side. With gloved fingers, he pried the rope an inch or so lower, revealing a bruised area that had a darker band in the middle of two lighter ones. I looked up at Newly and Efird. “See anything familiar?”

  “The deeper contact point,” Newly said. “It looks identical to the bruise on Loretta’s neck.”

  No one said anything as Sheriff Browder examined the markings. “I see what you mean. Whatever pressed into his skin with the greater force had a smaller circumference.”

  “Like a guitar string,” Efird added.

  “Look at this,” Nakayla said. She’d moved beyond the body to a section of the rope between Johnson and the stable where the end had been tied off.

  Browder didn’t even bother to stand but crawled to the spot. I hung back, letting him work without breathing down his neck.

  He studied where Nakayla pointed and then stood to look up at the crossbeam. “A good six feet of the rope is freshly frayed. A small length might be explained by Johnson’s weight pulling the rope down, but this indicates the rope rubbed across the beam as Johnson’s body was being lifted.”

  Efird flashed me a devilish grin. “Hard for him to do by himself, don’t you think, Sheriff?”

  Browder ignored the sarcasm. He slowly pivoted in a complete circle, studying everything with a fresh eye. He’d been treating the scene as a possible homicide from the start, but now the protocol was more than just an exercise.

  He jerked his head toward the house. “Let’s see this so-called suicide note.”

  We followed him into Johnson’s front room. Browder made no objection. He read the typed words and then regloved before picking up the open package of guitar strings. His tight lips slowly morphed into a smile.

  He looked at me. “Good job on those neck bruises.” His eyes shifted to Nakayla. “Good job on the frayed rope.” He held the strings up. “But this is the clincher for me. They’re Martin guitar strings. Randall’s favorite guitar was that Martin D-15M.” He pointed to the guitar on the stand. “But the only strings he ever used were Elixir PB lights. He took grief from the Martin purists, but he liked the coating on those strings. Claimed he could finger faster.”

  He counted the strings. “The sixth is missing.” He nodded to Nakayla. “If your light theory is correct, then last night, that missing Martin string was jerked around poor Randall’s neck.”

  “Why not Tuesday night after Loretta died?” I asked.

  “Because Wednesday morning, he gave me a guitar lesson.” Browder searched through the papers on the table and pulled a calendar free. He pointed to the space under Wednesday. “Here’s my name. Randall has nothing scheduled for today. That’s why no one found his body earlier.” He shook his head. “And with four law enforcement agencies and two private detectives involved, we’ve got more feet stepping on each other than drunks trying to promenade at a square dance.”

  Chapter 20

  At ten the next morning, the round table in Hewitt’s conference room again became headquarters for our team. Armed with hot coffee, croissants, and muffins from City Bakery, Cory, Shirley, Hewitt, Nakayla, and I convened to take stock of the investigation’s status. Blue stretched out on his bed that he’d dragged from Hewitt’s office.

  I’d reported the events of the previous day, concluding with Sheriff Browder’s metaphor of the drunken square dance.

  Hewitt laughed, spraying muffin crumbs onto the table. “Browder’s right about that. It’s a jurisdictional tangle. Everybody’s pulling at a separate thread, and we don’t know whether the mystery’s unraveling or becoming more knotted.”

  “Anybody think it’s odd that Sheriff Browder happened to take guitar lessons from Randall Johnson?” I asked. “Very convenient if his prints show up in Johnson’s house.”

  Hewitt shook his head. “You know the old Lovin’ Spoonful song, ‘Nashville Cats’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, substitute Asheville for Nashville and the lyrics still work. We probably have as many guitar pickers per capita as Nashville. Maybe more. I did a little checking on Randall Johnson. I haven’t been just sitting on my butt.”

  “Really?” Shirley interjected. “What else could you do with your butt? Rent it out as shade?”

  Hewitt ignored her. “Johnson didn’t teach beginners. He only worked with skilled musicians who wanted to elevate their playing. And Sheriff Browder’s a good guitarist. I saw him perform at a charity function to raise money for the Diana Wortham Theatre. With that personal connection, Browder won’t slough off Johnson’s death as a suicide, and he won’t take kindly to anyone who he thinks is horning in on his case. No matter if they’re the FB
I, Sheriff Hickman, or the Asheville Police Department.”

  “But he’s the last one to the square dance,” Cory said.

  “Doesn’t matter. The U.S. Army, Navy, and Air Force could all move in, and Browder wouldn’t cede his ground without a fight.”

  “Don’t forget the new space force,” Shirley said.

  Hewitt grimaced. “Space farce. I’d like to put the politicians who dreamed that up on the first saucer out of PARI. Let them go set up a base on Mars where they’ll do less damage to the rest of us here.”

  Cory was seated beside Hewitt. She grabbed his wrist and blinked back tears. “But what can we do? I don’t want my uncle to be reburied by bureaucratic squabbling.”

  “We have to focus,” Nakayla said.

  “How can we focus when we don’t have a clear motive?” Cory asked. “Was my uncle killed because of his work? Was he killed because of his relationship with Loretta? And what about Randall Johnson? Was he killed because he knew who murdered Loretta, or was he killed because someone like one of her brothers or nephews thought he killed Loretta himself?”

  Hewitt tapped his legal pad. “Don’t forget with Johnson dead, Loretta’s estate will go to her brothers. Cory’s right. It’s damned hard to focus on a clear motive.”

  “I know,” Nakayla said. “But barring that the perpetrator is some random homicidal psycho lurking in Rat Alley, the most likely motive for Loretta’s murder was to silence her. That pulls us back to the summer of 1971 with her brothers or tracking station colleagues as suspects.”

  “But not a colleague who could be dead now or living far away,” I added. “The investigation into Frank DeMille’s death compelled someone to take extreme actions. That could be the senior twins, Danny and Bobby, or Joseph Gordowski and Theo Brecht from PARI.”

  Hewitt shook his head. “Or someone still in the area who goes back that far and we just haven’t discovered them yet.”

  Something nagged the back of my brain. “Do we know if either Sheriff Hickman or Special Agent Boyce have cross-referenced all the staff members working at the tracking station in 1971?”