A Dredging in Swann

by Tim Garvin

  Prince folded his arms. He said, “You asked was I seeing a lawyer because I was in trouble. No. We’re starting a new drone website. A place to post your videos. Numerous legal documents must be created, such as who gets the billion dollars when we sell to Google. Soon you too will be able to invest. Check it out on Overflight.com.”

  “I will. So here’s the deal. I talked to Squint Cooper last night, and he accused you of flying a drone over his farm. I did not call you or question you because I don’t give a shit and neither does the sheriff. The law reads you can’t do surveillance on private property, but you can do newsgathering, and, like you said, until we get a bunch of court decisions refining that distinction, the sheriff’s office is on the sidelines. I did, by the way, advise Squint to get a drone himself and try to follow you back to your LZ.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s not interested.”

  “Tell him he can also get a drone with a net hanging down. They’ve been testing them as a way to catch intruder drones. He and the mystery drone flyer could have a dogfight. Instead of trying to shoot it down. If he ever hits one of my drones, by the way, the FAA says he has to pay. That’s federal law. That, by the way, is not an admission that it was me overflying Cooper Farms. I will say this though. Three days ago, that asshole forklifted fifty dead hogs out of one of his buildings. He filled up a dead box and left the rest of them lying on the ground. They’re still lying there.”

  “He said a fan system went down.”

  “Well, that’s piss-poor management, isn’t it? And he sprays in the rain, and it runs into Council Creek, which he also flooded with hog shit a few years ago. Which is probably why somebody is overflying his wretched-ass hog factory. And because the asshole legislature cut the budget for inspections. And last week passed a limit on nuisance suits.”

  “Well, that’s one subject dispensed with. Now here’s another one. I want to find out if this mystery drone-flyer will send me a video of the footage he took yesterday around noon.” He held up a hand, forestalling Prince’s response. “The very important reason is, there was a man murdered around noon yesterday out at the Ford lodge. You know where that is?”

  Prince nodded, waiting.

  Seb said, “So the lodge is a short two miles from Cooper Farms on Twice Mile Road. The only two houses out there are on the east side of the inlet, and that’s the Cooper house and the lodge. We contacted a few families on the west side of the Cooper land, and have a few leads, but nobody lives on Twice Mile, so nobody to ask. But what if the mystery drone flyer happened to catch some traffic out there around noon?”

  Prince said, “The drone would be over the barns which is a mile from Twice Mile Road on the other side of the farm.”

  “I know, but maybe he caught something on Ruin Road or Crandell, which are the only two ways into Twice Mile. How far away does a drone flyer have to be to stay in contact with his drone?”

  “Depends on the equipment.” Prince paused, then added, “Also, if he installed relays along the inlet. In that case, he could be miles away.”

  “Which he might do if he was pissed off at a particular farm.”

  Prince pouted his lips, a minimal shrug.

  Seb said, “You launched from a boat, didn’t you? Then you followed your relays down the inlet. Squint showed me the video just after it was posted, and in that version there were a lot of creeks and swamp. Then when I went to look at it, all that was gone. It was edited.”

  “Can’t bore the public with empty frames.” The waitress brought a glass of water and set it in front of him. She tried a smile exchange, but Prince did not glance up.

  Seb watched her walk away, then said, “So here’s the deal. If the drone flyer, whoever he may be, does not send the video to me by tomorrow morning, nine o’clock, search warrants and subpoenas will be issued, and the full force of the law will descend on his hapless ass. I want every frame.”

  Seb fished a card from his jacket pocket and offered it. Prince unfolded one arm, took the card, and refolded.

  Seb said, “Tell him to send it to the email address on the card anonymously.”

  Prince, who had gone pale, said, “If I run into him.”

  “Do yourself a favor, bro. Run into him.”

  The Laws of the

  Universe

  Cody was seated on a storage box, flipping the putty knife, practicing doubles. Charlene had brought homemade pizza out to the garage, and they had finished it and opened their second beers. The boat was scraped and ready. He had run mineral spirits through the automatic sprayer, and it was ready too. He would start spraying in the morning, after the dew dried. Charlene had gotten the conversation around to Keisha, where, he admitted, he might be seriously intentioned.

  “Are you hooking up?”

  He said, “That’s nosy.”

  “I know. Are you?”

  “Yeah. A little.”

  “A little? How does that work?”

  “Twice.”

  “You got some years on her.”

  “Who cares?”

  “I’m not saying anything. It’s just her mother’s in the picture.”

  “Her mother likes me.”

  “You like Keisha?”

  “So far.”

  “A lot?”

  “So far. She a hypodermic.”

  “Oh, Jesus …”

  “I mean she has that effect.”

  “She gets you high?”

  He tried a triple and caught it neatly. He said, “That’s right. She puts a needle right into my vein.”

  They smiled together, both used to and indifferent to his offhand baiting. He said, “If things work out, we might get married.”

  “Have you talked about it?”

  “No, but it’s like an open secret when we look at each other.”

  “She is black.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “So there’s the kid question.”

  “Fuck the kid question. And fuck anyone who asks it.”

  “The world does ask it.”

  “Then fuck the world.”

  “Sounds like you’re feeling ready.”

  He could reply, but he felt self-pity tears trying to start. He steered. He said, “What’s up with your Mike guy? Are you hooking up?”

  “A little.” She smiled but let sadness through. “I’ve been waiting on a call. Tap tap tap.”

  He caught the knife and held it, pointed it at her. He said, “You’re a deep well, and he needs to have a deep thirst. If he don’t, fuck him and the horse he rode in on.”

  She was sitting on the overturned boat and now rose and kissed the top of his thinning scalp. She said, “You gorgeous younger brother.” She collected dishes and went back into the house.

  If he could vanish, would be one solution, but vanish with no memories. Teleport to a new life where he could wake up, and it would be amnesia. What country is this? What food do we eat here? Elton Gleen would actually sell Stinger missiles to Arab terrorists. It was natural to him. It was not evil as much as ignorant. What if Elton saw five hundred terrified people falling toward earth? Could he look them in the eye as they fell, the kids too, and say, fine, where’s my ten million? Some guys could, but most probably not. Most guys would have at least a twinge of feeling. Maybe that was mostly what evil was, blanking things out.

  Cody went back to the workbench to test the paint. The stir stick glided without obstruction, the paint well-stirred by his dependable sister. It was a deep rich lovely blue and ran like warm honey. He turned the stick, watching the blue fluid fold and flop into the blue pool, the laws of the universe faithfully functioning despite his troubles. There was no trouble anywhere except for his life, and everyone’s life. After the boat was painted, he could get a bunch of gas and drive into the ocean, far as he could, many miles, until the gas
was gone, give himself to the universe—your problem now.

  But don’t be an idiot. If he wasn’t going to kill himself, he had to solve the fucking problem. He needed a Mylar blanket to defeat their night vision, a ploy he recalled somewhere from his training. First, he needed to google to make sure that was still right.

  Detectiving

  It was five-thirty on a Sunday, and the detectives’ area was empty. There were two cardboard file boxes on Seb’s desk, and on top of the larger one a typed note:

  Here is the murder book (smaller box) for the Hugh Britt murder of yesteryear and also the trial proceedings. Also, after much research, I, Bonnie, your servant, figured out how to call the governor and got her number from a very possessive secretary in Raleigh, who also didn’t like being bothered on her day off. Dial 011-8816-7690-4511. The 8816 part is the Iridium system prefix of the governor’s sat phone, which means she doesn’t have to pay a dime for incoming calls. And if you have international calling set up on your cell phone, you don’t either, at least to call the Caribbean. Do you? Yes, you do. You left your laptop open on your desk, and I checked.

  Your faithful gem,

  Bonnie

  PS: Incidentally, Zetta in property, being a storage hawk, cleared the evidence box from the Britt murder after Leo Sackler was released and reports that her son is now using the murder weapon (axe) to chop wood. She didn’t tell him where it came from.

  A single rose, Seb thought. For her desk tomorrow morning. He clicked open his ballpoint and drew a reminder X on the back of his hand, then lifted the boxes from the desktop and tucked them out of sight—Stinson’s sight—behind his trash can. Then on impulse he retrieved the smaller box and browsed the investigation file until he found the lead detective’s name: Jason Braughwell. He woke his computer and entered the name in Google with Swann County Sheriff. He found the man’s 1996 obituary in the Swann Sun. He lifted the larger box onto the desk and leafed for the prosecutor’s name. The trial and two appeals, all two years apart, were handled by the county district attorney himself, Thomas Felton. Which made political sense, the DA wanting lead on a high-profile sure thing. Seb googled again. Thomas Felton was also deceased. He tucked the boxes behind the trash can again. If he dead-ended, he would read them front to back.

  He opened the case file on his computer. He had not gotten back to the Sackler death scene, which meant the report would not be ready for tomorrow’s briefing unless he arrived early the next morning. Or be late with it, endure a Stinson frown.

  He sat at his desk and gazed into space, a brief consider. He had an hour before he needed to get outside by the water, where he had formed a habit of sitting to cool out before the sing. He could call Barb and Marty, see if they had anything. But he’d see them in the morning. So best time use was call real estate agents for the white car, then the governor, then try to make fifteen minutes for Queeny Barker, who, he learned yesterday, had been transferred to the jail infirmary. But first, on impulse, he shouted long and loud into the empty room: “Kate! Kate, are you here?”

  He searched for Swann County Realtors, came up with a list of over thirty, and copied them to a Word document. He lifted his desk phone and dialed the first three digits of AAA Realty, then heard:

  “Did you just shout my name?” Kate was holding the side of the hall door and leaning into the squad room, gibbon-like.

  He said, “That was me having fun on a Sunday. I thought you’d be gone by now.”

  “Well, I’m not. I have been watching those videos of your murder victim. He’s been singing ‘Long Tall Sally.’ And other hits from the past. He never told his little friend exactly what he was looking for, but he was definitely looking for something. Also, your extortionist wasn’t on there.”

  “You finished them?”

  “Just finished them, and I’m leaving.”

  “How many hours?”

  “Five something. It was a one-twenty-eight-gig phone too, and he was shooting high-def. Next question, did the videos upload to iCloud? They did not, because he didn’t have Wi-Fi out there and that’s the way his phone was set.”

  “So he never once said, boy, I bet I’m getting close to that money or that body?”

  “Sorry. I called maintenance, and I’m meeting two diggers out there tomorrow. So we’ll find what we find. Also, Barb sent in video from Lowe’s and Sears, and I went through those too. Sackler was with his daughter both times. No lurking felons. Now I’m off to cheer for my husband in a fast-pitch softball game. I would invite you, but it’s the first forty-eight. But come anyway.”

  “Next time. Have fun.”

  Kate vanished into the hallway. Seb continued to dial. Then he hung up. He had started with the realty agents instead of the governor out of obedience to Stinson. But it had been a long day, and the governor would be more fun, even if she was part of the hotshot theory. He fished out his cell phone and dialed the fifteen numbers. The phone made a series of disjointed tones and began to ring.

  “Hello.” A woman’s voice.

  “Hello, this is Detective Seb Creek calling for Governor Lerner.”

  “This is she.”

  “Governor, I’m investigating a murder. I wonder if you have time for a couple of questions.”

  The woman said something to someone else, and a door or cabinet clattered. She said, “I do. I read the Observer online so I know about Leo Sackler. Is this about Leo Sackler?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, fire away. We’re anchored in a lovely bay with the sunset on the way, and I have nothing but time. Well, I shouldn’t say that, in case you might become envious.” She laughed the merry laugh that Seb had heard many times on the news, the laugh adored by her supporters and lamented by her opponents. “The article says it’s a suspicious death. So it’s a murder?”

  “We think it is.”

  “You want to know about Germaine? And what she told me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know the name Leonard Castle?”

  “He’s your lawyer.”

  “You’ve done your homework. Leonard, Germaine, and I were all in school together at State. You mustn’t assume a grand conspiracy. Not at all. Germaine and I were no longer in contact, despite what those earlier articles said. But she knew Leonard was my lawyer and contacted him. She was dying. She told him that Leo Sackler was innocent and could he petition me for a compassionate release. Leonard said, Germaine, how do you know he is innocent? She would not say, but said she would leave a written testament. Have you found that, by the way?”

  “No. But there may have been some papers missing at the lodge.”

  “Really? Oh, goodness.”

  “A testament, not a confession?”

  “Yes. Not a confession.”

  “You believed her?”

  “At first, I did not. I telephoned her after Leonard talked to me. She was bedridden and could barely speak, could barely think actually. I did not know what to make of it all, and neither did Leonard. After all, it was only her word. I will say this though, that when I began to look into the Sackler case with Leonard, I found it was completely circumstantial. In addition, Mr. Sackler had been a model prisoner for forty-odd years. And could have been released if he had admitted guilt. But he would not, and that was impressive. Three days later Germaine appeared in my office. Out of bed and at my door. That’s when I believed her. She said she knew the truth and let a man go to prison, and it ruined her life. She wept and pleaded. And I believed her. Either she was telling the truth or was crazy. And she was not crazy. I did get the idea that she was present at the Hugh Britt murder. That’s really all I can tell you. But I am delighted that you have called. It had crossed my mind to call you, or whoever.”

  “What am I forgetting to ask?”

  “If it comes to you, call me back. And if you discover the truth, do please call me back.” />
  He began to call realty agents. All were closed, except for one, whose receptionist agreed to email their agents about white cars and property near Twice Mile Road. He left five messages, notating his list as he went. As he began to dial again, his cell phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Mr. Creek.” It was Deputy Randall Garland. “You asked me to call and check in before I knocked. Did DeWitt call?”

  “DeWitt who?”

  “Press DeWitt. He was the Realtor the Parkinsons saw out on Ruin Road. He sells mostly land and drives a white Prius with a realty sticker on the side.”

  “How did you learn that?”

  “Well, I been calling around as I drove patrol.”

  “No shit. And you found him.”

  “Yeah. He said he would call you. He didn’t call you?”

  “He did not. You got his number?”

  After writing the number, Seb said, “Why didn’t you call, let me know?”

  A silence. Then: “I guess I should have.”

  Seb intuited. He said, “You didn’t want to brag.”

  “I guess that’s right.”

  “Well, see, Randall, you got to go past bragging, thinking about, alert the detective in case the guy doesn’t call.”

  “Right. I should have called.”

  “Anyway, you were out detectiving today.”

  “I guess I was.”

  “In case you ever want to be one, now you know what it is—calling Realtors. Anyway, nice work. It’s going in the report even if it hurts your humble feelings.”

  Randall laughed, and they hung up. Seb dialed the number.

  “This is Press.”

  “Mr. DeWitt. Detective Seb Creek, Swann sheriff’s department.”

  “Oh, Christ. I was supposed to call you. Well, I knew you had my number. I haven’t been hiding. It’s just been going in and out of my mind. So how can I help?” The voice was loud and fast, the voice of a confident, harried man.

  “You spoke with Mr. Sackler yesterday?”

  “Day before.”