Imperfect Escape

by Gregg E. Brickman

  She found the laundromat on one of the main drags. It was clean—and seemed expensive. It had been years since she'd ventured into such a place, and she wasn't aware of the huge increase in price. Three young women with children in tow gathered in the seating area in front of the windows. Sophia put her things into three adjacent washers—an advantage, she supposed, of doing her wash at a laundry—and joined the group.

  When two of the women smiled, she introduced herself and included the fact she was a nurse working in Crestville. "I'm new to the area. We live in Plateauville."

  "Good choice to come to this place," a petite blonde with a babe in arms said.

  "Why's that?"

  "I live in Plateauville, too. The laundry there is monitored by a guy who is usually hyped up on meth. Kinda scary, if you ask me."

  "Tell me about his behavior. This whole meth thing is new to me. In South Florida, opioids are more of an issue. Sure, I'd read about meth in the paper, but we didn't get much in the emergency department where I worked."

  "Jasper, that's his name, is hyperactive, like a kid off his Ritalin. He's thin. Looks like he's starving to death. I guess in a way he is. And he seems, sometimes, very anxious. Talks to himself like he's seeing things. Paces around. I haven't seen it myself, but my friend who goes there, says she thinks he's paranoid, too. She saw him having a fight with himself—at least she didn't see anyone else there."

  "Why do the owners of the place let him work there?" Sophia leaned forward, signaling her interest.

  "He's local. He's a vet," the blonde said.

  "And," a heavy-set woman said, "there is no one else who will take the job. Stop and look at the place. It's horrid. Half the machines don't work. Then there is a pool table in the back that attracts guys who are sometimes flying high, too." She frowned and touched the shoulder of the toddler playing at her feet. "I'm saving up to buy my own machines. Soon, very soon."

  "Do you know anything about the meth labs in the area? They tell me at work home-cooked meth is a big issue. We get lots of burn victims every time one of them blows up."

  The heavy-set woman looked thoughtful. "To me, it's like there are two layers of society. There are us regular folks, then there's the whole drug thing. I try my best to ignore that part of our community. If you know what I mean?"

  "I do," Sophia said.

  "But, you can't ignore it entirely," the blonde said. "You need to lock things up and pay attention to what's going on. Out in the Cove, that's the area by the golf course south of town—"

  "That's where we rent one of the cabins," Sophia said.

  "Anyway, they've had several break-ins. Some of the people are seasonal residents, and their houses have been almost destroyed by meth heads looking for stuff to sell, money, and drugs."

  "I didn't know that," Sophia said.

  "My husband installs security systems, and lately, his best customers are out there."

  The conversation drifted to more pleasant things. Sophia listened, enjoying the Middle Tennessee cultural lesson. As soon as her clothes were finished, she left, thinking the visit to the laundry for the ladies was social as well as a necessity of life—like going to the hair dresser in Florida.

  She turned in the direction she thought would take her to the mall, got lost, and stumbled upon the Cumberland County Library. She parked and went inside, vowing to make better use of the GPS on her phone.

  The conversation while doing her wash raised questions. She sought out the computers, picked one, and went on the Internet for some private browsing. She sought to avoid another clash with Ray over the issue.

  The first thing she did was look at several sites discussing the issue of methamphetamine use and the characteristic behaviors of chronic users. The same words kept appearing—skinny, malnourished, anxious, sleepless, paranoid, and violent. She learned ingested meth led to a prolonged, less extreme high, while, when smoked or injected, the high was intense, as was the crash afterward.

  There were descriptions of users with dilated pupils, elevated blood pressure, and intense sexual excitement. They became hot and sweaty with physical activity. She made notes and sent several links to her work email address. Her overriding thought was that meth was a vehicle of self-abuse, maybe the modern devil's curse right there in Middle Tennessee.

  She moved on and Googled the Friday night fire and explosion. A link took her to the Crestville paper, which ran a sanitized version of the incident. What she found most interesting was a statement that explosions leading to death of the workers were not rare. She surfed around and found several examples.

  Lastly, she Googled Carl Silken in Plateauville. The results were several links about his store and his wife's community service. One link, however, mentioned that he moved to Tennessee from Miami. It didn't take long for her to find news articles linking him to the drug trade in Florida. She couldn't find any record of his being arrested, much less convicted. Ray, of course, would know all that—even if he hadn't shared the information.

  She thought she'd ask a few questions when she visited Connie in Florida. What could it hurt?

  Chapter 9

  Ray

  Ray signed in with the sheriff's deputy guarding Flocker's hospital room door. "I won't be long."

  "Take all the time you need, Detective." The deputy returned to whatever he was reading on his smart phone.

  When Ray entered the room, he was surprised at the sheer size of Bubba Flocker. His three hundred-pound girth filled the bed from side to side, and his length did the same from top to bottom. Bubba's wounds on his face and hands were open to air, and seemed, to Ray, to be healing.

  "Detective Stone, Plateauville PD." Ray stood near the head of the bed and flashed his badge. "I have a few questions."

  "Didn't know the big town of Plateauville had its very own de-tec-tive. No sir, I didn't." Flocker laughed, then coughed.

  "What's your full name?"

  "Bubba Flocker."

  "Tell me your real, legal name."

  "Charles Malcolm Flocker, but everybody always called me Bubba—except Ma that is." He laughed again. "Seems to fit some better, you understand."

  "Why are you still in the hospital? Your wounds look fine to me."

  Bubba pointed to the oxygen tubing draped over the head of his bed and the IV in his arm. "Can't catch my breath sometime. Doctor thinks I have pneumonia, too. I need the medicine."

  Ray motioned to the oxygen tubing. "Why don't you have the oxygen in your nose then?"

  "It blows and dries things out. I take it off to let my nose rest a spell."

  "Where do you work?"

  "I live with Ma on the farm. That's where I work."

  Ray absorbed the information, thinking Bubba had issues on all fronts. "Tell me about the explosion in your lab."

  "It wasn't my lab. My friend asked to put it on the back of my property where it would be safer. I have lots of space. He has family at his place and doesn't want them exposed to the shit he cooks up. Since I help him out sometime, I said he might could put it out back my land. Ma's pissed about it."

  "Who's your friend?"

  "Can't tell you that. No, sir." Bubba shook his head.

  "Why not?"

  "Wouldn't be gentlemanly of me."

  "You're telling me you are willing to do the time for your friend? That's very neighborly of you."

  Flocker glared at Ray. "What's it to you? My land and the explosion were in the county. You have no jurisdiction there. Why are you here?" Bubba coughed several times and reached for the oxygen, pulling the tubing over his head and fitting the plastic prongs into his nostrils.

  While Ray waited for Flocker to catch his breath, he marveled at the man's ability to turn off the good-old-boy accent with no apparent effort. "Someone saw you at Vast's place before the fire and explosion on Friday night." Though Glad hadn't described anyone, Ray didn't feel any compunction about stretching the facts.

  "Don't you mean explosion and fire?"

  "No, I don't."


  Flocker looked thoughtful. "Bullshit. I was there, alright? I rode my bike over when I heard the boom."

  Flocker's property was less than a mile down Dripping Springs Drive from Vast's. Ray brought up a mental image of the map he'd looked at earlier. Flocker lived right outside the city limits in the unincorporated area. He would have heard the blast—even clearer if he caused it. But, if he did, why would he admit to being there?

  Flocker said, "You expect me to believe someone set a fire and blew the lab on purpose?"

  Ray nodded. "That I do."

  "And you're here because you think I did it?"

  Ray deduced that Flocker was smarter than he looked or acted. "It's a possibility. You are on my list."

  "Well, shit. I didn't do that. Just went over to have a look."

  "I heard you say that. Did you see anyone around?"

  "No. I heard LeRoy Vast bought it. Is it true?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. It might not be Vast's body. The ME is working on identification."

  "My buddy said Ashley is hurt bad, and so is Dylan."

  Ray nodded.

  "Said Harold's dead. Said Vast's dead. Said Richie's missing. No one has seen him."

  Ray waited for Flocker to continue.

  "Bet everyone over at the Vast place is off the friggin' wall."

  "Tell me about your relationship with Carl Silken."

  Flocker blinked, then took a moment to adjust his bedsheets. "Needed work. He has stuff to unload. I don't talk to him much. He doesn't cotton to my kind, I don't reckon."

  "What is your kind, Flocker?"

  "You know. A working man."

  "I heard you're cooking for Silky, and he buys your product," Ray said, leaning a bit closer.

  "Listen, my man. Pay attention. I don't have any product. I help my friend sometime. He pays me. That's why I do it. Money's not good on the farm, so I need it to help out."

  Flocker's voice was emphatic, too emphatic in Ray's view.

  "Do you know anything about Silken being connected to the meth labs in the area?"

  Flocker seemed to be puzzling something out. "Well now," Flocker said, "I have heard some around town. I don't reckon I know if it's true or not, but it's been said. Fact is, I heard Vast's big operation was financed by Silky. Don't know if it's true."

  "What's the source of your information?"

  "Can't say. Just talk," Flocker said.

  "What else do you know about Vast's business?" Ray said.

  "Nothin'."

  Ray asked several more questions along the same lines, which Flocker refused to answer. Ray wondered about Flocker's motivation for commenting on the alleged Silken and Vast relationship at all.

  Ray glanced toward the door when he heard it open. A shadow of concern crossed Flocker's face when Deputy Krantz stepped into the room and left the door ajar behind him.

  "What you doing here, Stone?" Krantz said, scowling at Ray.

  "My job."

  "Shim told me to stop by and ask Bubba some questions."

  "Shim must be a busy man," Ray said, hoping to push Krantz a bit off center.

  "I don't know how it was where you were before, but here, we all help out. Best you figure it out sooner rather than later."

  "You're telling me you're working Flocker's case with Shim?"

  "I'm telling you, I have questions. If you're done, I'll get to them."

  Ray debated about making an issue of the whole thing with Krantz, but decided to check with Shim first. Ray knew Krantz was out to discredit him and didn't want to give him more material to use—especially with another deputy in earshot outside of the room.

  "I'm done. Hope you have better luck than I did." Ray stepped close to Krantz and continued in a quiet voice. "If you ever publicly disrespect me again, there will be consequences."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "No. Not a threat."

  Chapter 10

  Ray

  On Wednesday morning, Ray, Jim Johnson, and Eric Shim convened at the Plateauville PD. Ray sat behind his desk and the other men occupied the mismatched chairs he'd pulled in from the squad room a couple of days earlier.

  "I talked to the ME in Nashville this morning," Ray said. "He hasn't established an ID on the unidentified victim, but is leaning toward—unofficially, of course—the hand not belonging to the body. The DNA results will take several days, even with the rush request."

  Johnson laughed. "So much for hittin' up his friend for a favor."

  "The ME implied that was the favor." Ray looked from Shim to Johnson. "As far as I'm concerned, we don't have a verified body for Vast—don't know where he is if he's not on the slab—and are missing his cousin Richie, too."

  Shim sat straighter in his chair. "I went to Vast's place with Krantz the night of the explosion to talk to the wife."

  "I saw the report," Ray said.

  "What's not in the report is she knew about the meth lab, though they don't live on the same property."

  Ray nodded, remembering his brief tour of the crime scene.

  Shim shifted his weight, scowled, then slouched a bit. "Kelly Ann is her name. Who, by the way, looks to be near the end of her pregnancy. She said she and LeRoy met in rehab. When I asked, she said she's not using meth anymore, implied it was mostly about the baby."

  "Did you ask her about Vast's drug habits?"

  "She clammed up. All she wanted to know was if her baby was going to be born an orphan."

  "The chief sent me to check on her Sunday." Johnson looked at Ray. "That's why I was near the park. She told me she was fine, said Krantz had been by to check on her, and I should leave her alone."

  "Any evidence she wasn't alone?" Ray said.

  "No. She looked like she'd been crying. That was all."

  "I think we should talk to her again, look around if we can. It's been a couple of days, so maybe she'll be more forthcoming," Ray said. "You game?"

  The others nodded their agreement and, by mutual consent, went out and loaded into Shim's SUV. Fifteen minutes later, Shim pulled into the rutted driveway leading to Vast's home.

  The shoddy mobile home needed paint and general repairs, but it seemed to be intact enough to repel the elements. Ray guessed it had once been white with green trim, but it was now chipped grey. "Charming place to raise a kid."

  Johnson said, "It's newer than the other place was. When they got married a couple of years ago, they lived in the other dump first—the one with the lab. When Kelly Ann got pregnant, she insisted they move."

  "You're well informed," Shim said.

  "Small town," Johnson said.

  "Suppose so." Shim opened his door and slid out. "Stone, you take the lead. I'll jump in if I have anything to add."

  "Works."

  Johnson climbed the three steps to the porch and tapped on the jam.

  Kelly Ann Vast opened the door, then cradled her swollen belly with both hands. "What in the hell do you guys want now? Did you come to tell me you identified my husband's body? Is that why you're here?" Her face reddened and tears appeared.

  "No, ma'am." Ray stepped forward and introduced himself. "You know Officer Johnson and Detective Shim, I believe. Can we come in? I have a few questions."

  "No, you can't come in. I don't know nothing about LeRoy's business, and I know nothing about the explosion that killed him."

  "You seemed convinced he's dead."

  "Well, he's not here." She waved her hand around the room behind her. "Do you'uns see him? I haven't heard from him—or about him. What am I supposed to think?" She pushed her stringy blond hair off her puffy pock-marked face.

  "Don't know, ma'am." Ray held his place at the top of the stairs, putting a hand on the knob to prevent her from slamming the door in his face. "Was LeRoy using meth again?"

  "Don't know for sure. Some I guess, 'cuz of his behavior."

  "How about you?"

  "I'm pregnant. I don't want to friggin' kill the kid, though if my asshole husband doesn't show up, I don't know how
I'll feed it." She wiped at a tear.

  "Have you seen Richie since the explosion?"

  "That creep. No. I heard he's missin'. I suspect he ran off." She looked resentful. "You'uns know he's on probation, don't you? I think he hightailed it to avoid going back inside. Just my opinion, mind you." She tugged on the door. "Now get the hell away from my house and off my property."

  Ray didn't release the knob. "We'd like to take a look around the place, if you don't mind."

  "I mind. You got a warrant?"

  "No, but we'll get one."

  "You do that." She jerked the door. Ray released the handle, making sure it didn't slam against her.

  After returning to the vehicle, Shim took his time easing down the driveway. Ray studied the view. There was nothing of interest.

  "I'll get a warrant to search the place. Seems to me if Vast's alive, this is where he'd be hiding," Ray said. "Otherwise, why didn't she cooperate?"

  "Maybe he stored his raw materials somewheres on the property," Johnson said. "Everyone knew where his lab was. You'd not want to leave things around to be ripped off by the competition."

  "That's another reason. Or, maybe Richie is hiding here? What I do know is she's hiding something."

  ***

  Shim pulled onto Dripping Springs Drive and turned toward the unincorporated area. "If you two don't mind, I'd like to stop at Flocker's place and have another look around. His mother was cooperative Monday morning, so I'm hoping she'll agree to a more complete search today."

  Ray, smarting about their eviction from Vast's place, frowned. "Fine with me. They're tied together at some level. When I talked to Flocker this morning, he sounded well-versed on the details of Vast's explosion."

  "Everyone in town knows the details," Johnson said. "Once again, small town."

  "Right," Ray said.

  The properties along the pot-holed, curvy road seemed to claim an average of about three hundred feet of frontage. Most of the dwellings were set away from the narrow road, some obscured by trees. Others appeared stark and unattended, save for the old cars parked on rutted dirt driveways and an occasional lawn chair or battered swing set. A couple were well-maintained newer houses sitting on beautiful lots, surrounded by outbuildings, lush plantings, and newer vehicles. The sights were a mixed hodgepodge, causing Ray to wonder why people of means chose to build on such a road. The mobile homes were the worst of the lot, many seeming to have crashed there forty years ago without a lick of maintenance in the interim.