by Scott Pratt
“The problem we’re all having—oh, and these two gentlemen are Eugene and Ronnie, James’s brothers, and this big guy here is Michael, but everybody calls him Big Pappy. He’s a close friend of mine and is going to enjoy watching you hang. Like I was saying, the problem we’re all having is that you were supposed to do the right thing. You were supposedly one of the good guys. A career prosecutor. But you might be the biggest hypocrite and the worst criminal I’ve ever known. As a matter of fact, I’ve decided you’re a damned psychopath. And your precious judicial system has been letting you get away with lying and cheating and killing for years and years and years. How many innocent people did you send to death row, Ben? You don’t have to give me an exact number, just a ballpark figure will do. Five? Ten? You don’t want to say? That’s all right. Let’s be conservative and say seven. That makes you a serial killer, as far as all of us are concerned. You do know that’s why you’re here, right? We had a trial before we came and picked you up. We were the prosecutors and the jury and the judge. We decided not to allow you to have a defense. Sound familiar? You’re being awfully quiet. Anyway, we convicted you of being a miserable son of a bitch who deserves to die, and we sentenced you to getting what you deserve. And now we’re going to hang you. Do you hear those pigs snorting over there? After we hang you, we’re going to feed you to them. Do you have anything to say before we carry out your sentence, Ben?”
I was hoping he’d cry and beg for his life, but I knew he was too proud. He wasn’t getting out of this, and he knew it. He looked at each one of us through those beady gray eyes and said, “You’re all just pimples on my ass. You’ll be burning in hell while I’m walking with the Father.”
“We had a choice when we were planning this out, you know,” I said. “We could’ve dropped you in a humanitarian way. There are tables for body weight and the length of the rope. We could have measured it all out and dropped you so that your neck would break and you wouldn’t feel much at all, if anything. But since you’ve never had an ounce of humanity in you, we decided to short-drop you. You’re going to strangle slowly. It could take as long as five or six minutes for you to die. I hope you suffer, but sadly, I think you’ll probably pass out in about twenty or thirty seconds.”
I turned and looked at Eugene, Ronnie, and Pappy.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “I think it’s time for Mr. Clancy to go meet this maker he’s talked about for so long.”
All four of us grabbed him at the same time. I dragged him up the ladder by the collar of his coat while the others pushed from the bottom. Big Pappy and Eugene each used one of their hands to steady the ladder while Granny held it with both hands from the back side. Clancy tried to kick and squirm at first, but he knew it was hopeless, and after a few seconds accepted his fate. I slipped the noose around his neck and tightened it snugly around his throat while Ronnie held his feet on one of the rungs. I jumped off the ladder and backed away a couple of steps. Pappy, Eugene, and Ronnie stood with me. Granny stayed behind Clancy.
“We’re waiting,” I said.
Clancy looked down at me. His eyes had taken on a far-off look. “For what?” he mumbled.
“For you to be a man and step off on your own.”
His legs were shaking as he stood, awkwardly balanced, on the third rung of the ladder.
“Fuck you,” he said. “Fuck all of you. Enjoy hell.”
He stood there defiantly for another ten seconds. Suddenly, the ladder was jerked backward. It clattered to the floor while he began to writhe as the rope tightened and he slowly strangled. We watched the same way a crowd would have watched back in the days when the government was hanging people in the town square—with prurient fascination. His eyes bugged, his face contorted and turned pink, then purple, then it began to fade to a pale white. He passed out within a couple of minutes, and I took a great deal of satisfaction in knowing that he knew I was largely responsible for ending his life. I felt no sorrow, no remorse at all. It was very much like the feeling I’d experienced after shooting Frazier and Beane. I felt empowered.
Granny walked into a stall and came back with a bottle of Tipton’s Mountain Moonshine, a brand the family was now producing legally. She said, “To killing a son of a bitch that needed killing,” and took a long swig from the bottle. “None of us will ever speak of this to anyone.”
We passed it around while Clancy dangled from the end of the rope. Twenty minutes later, we cut him down and dragged him to the pigpen. Granny hadn’t fed them in three days, and they tore into him. I turned away, not really wanting to watch that particular brand of gore, and walked to the van.
“It’s done. Time to move on,” I said to Pappy, and we walked outside, climbed in the van, and drove away.
CHAPTER 29
There was a large gun show in Knoxville the day after we took care of Ben Clancy. I don’t know exactly why I felt the need to buy a gun, but I did. I think I just wanted something I could use without having to get Big Pappy involved. Tennessee has virtually no gun laws on the books, so I knew I could go to a show and find something in the parking lot. I could just buy from an individual, and there would be no paper trail.
I told Grace I was going to go fishing for a little while at Volunteer Landing Park and headed out. My first stop, after the usual doubling back and pulling into and out of parking lots to make sure I wasn’t being followed, was at the same costume shop in the Old City where I’d bought the disguise before I went to West Virginia. I bought a beard, some glasses, and some adhesive and put the disguise on in the parking garage a couple of blocks from the store. Next, I went to an ATM and withdrew $500 in cash.
The gun show was at the Chilhowee Park & Exposition Center off Magnolia Avenue in East Knoxville. I showed up at eleven in the morning and just sat in the parking lot and watched for a while. It was a decent morning, sunny but chilly with a light breeze. I was surprised at how many people were there. From what I’d read on the Internet, it cost ten bucks just to get in, and most of the guns they sold were more expensive than if you went to a local gun shop. But the Second Amendment supporters were out in force. I was also surprised that there were no police vehicles, at least none that were identifiable. As I sat in my car for about thirty minutes, watching, I saw at least two hundred people walk up to the Jacob Center and go inside. Finally, I’d seen enough to identify at least two people who were dealing out of their vehicles.
About fifty feet to my right was a green Honda CR-V. I’d noticed the occupant get out of his vehicle a couple of times and have conversations with people. He opened his trunk once and retrieved a box, and then he and the man he was talking with got into his car. The man got out of the passenger side a few minutes later carrying the box. I suspected he wasn’t doing anything illegal—he was simply selling a gun or two out of his private collection. I walked up in front of his vehicle and gave him a small wave. He rolled his window down.
“Looking for anything in particular?” he said in a thick Southern drawl. He looked around forty, had bright-green eyes, was wearing a University of Tennessee baseball cap, and had a perfectly waxed, brown handlebar mustache.
“Handgun. Probably a twenty-two, and I’d like a silencer if you have one.”
“Got a Walther P22 and a Gemtech Seahunter,” he said. “Last year’s model but there ain’t been a round through either one of them. They’re still in the box.”
I assumed the Walther was a pistol. I had no idea what a Gemtech Seahunter was. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Come on around and hop in.”
I walked around to the passenger side, and he went to the back of the CR-V as the rear hatch opened. He reached inside and pulled out a couple of boxes, then walked back around and got in on the driver’s side.
“Nice little combo,” he said as he took the pistol out of the box. “Do you know a lot about this particular gun?”
“Probably not as much as I should,” I said.
“Well, as you can see, this is a semiautomatic. The pistol h
as a prethreaded barrel for the suppressor mount. The magazine holds ten rounds. You use this little wrench, insert it right here near the end of the barrel, and remove the thread protector. Then you put the suppressor mount on that, and then click the suppressor into place.”
“How loud is it with the suppressor?”
“Like a whisper,” he said. “It’s extremely quiet.”
“How much?” I said.
“Cash, correct?”
“Of course.”
“Three hundred for the Walther and seventy-five for the suppressor.”
I figured he was gouging me a little, but under the circumstances, I was willing to pay it. There was no way this gun could ever be traced to me unless I was stupid enough to leave it at a crime scene with my fingerprints all over it.
“I’ll take it,” I said as I reached into my pocket and pulled out some cash.
“Just as a formality, I have to ask. You’re not planning to use this pistol for any illegal purpose, are you?”
“No, sir. I’m just taking it up as a hobby. Bored with the wife.”
“And you’re not a convicted felon?”
“Never been convicted of a thing.”
He smiled, took the money I handed him, counted it, boxed everything back up, and handed the boxes to me.
“Good luck to you, friend,” he said. “Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”
I got out and walked back to my car with a little smile on my face. I’d just bought a pistol and a silencer without even having to tell the guy my name. What a damned country.
CHAPTER 30
Will Grimes picked up the phone. Sammy Raft was calling, and Grimes hoped he might have some information that would help. The double-murder case in Cowen had stalled, and Grimes needed a break.
“I been thinking about what you said,” Raft said.
“And?” Grimes hadn’t heard anything from Raft and wondered why he was getting this call out of the blue. Had Raft grown a conscience?
“I might want to take one more look at those pictures you showed me. I’m thinking that might be the same man that was in the bar that night.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can’t say for positive, I really can’t,” Raft said.
“Then you’re no good to me,” Grimes said. “I need a positive identification, not some wishy-washy ‘maybe.’”
“It was him,” Raft said.
“You’re sure,” Grimes said.
“I’m sure.”
“You’re positive.”
“I’m positive.”
“You’d take an oath in court and swear to it in front of a jury?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?” Grimes asked.
“I’m at work. At the bar.”
“I’ll be there in two hours.”
Grimes showed up right when he said he would, almost two hours on the nose after he and Sammy Raft had hung up the phone. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and the bar was empty.
Grimes walked in wearing the forest-green uniform of the West Virginia State Police. A “Smoky the Bear”—or campaign—hat sat atop his head. He’d worn the uniform because he thought it might both impress and intimidate Raft. As he looked into the mirror behind the bar, he concluded that he’d made the right choice. Grimes was six feet tall and lean, with a square jaw, dimpled cheeks, and intelligent brown eyes. The uniform made him look bigger, and it was definitely intimidating. Grimes removed his hat and sat down on a bar stool.
“You look scared,” Grimes said.
“You look different.”
“It’s the uniform. Makes me look taller than I am. Where are your customers? How do you keep the place open?”
“I made them leave because you were coming,” Raft said. “It’s no big deal. The building was paid for a long time ago. I don’t make a lot, but it pays the bills and gives me something to do. Business has been a whole lot better since those two boys got shot in here. I thought people would stay away, but just the opposite happened. People are strange. They’re curious about it. Ask me all sorts of questions.”
“Speaking of questions,” Grimes said. “Let’s start all over. Why don’t you come around and we’ll sit in a booth.”
Sammy walked around and sat down in the first booth across from Grimes while Grimes pulled out a pad.
“This is a form we use for witness statements,” Grimes said. “You talk, I’ll write. When we’re finished, you can go back over everything and then sign it. Fair enough?”
Sammy nodded.
“You said a man came into your bar the afternoon of the murders and ordered takeout, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“What did he order?”
“Just a cheeseburger and a can of Pepsi.”
“Did you talk to him at all?”
“Not other than to take his order.”
“Was there anyone else in the bar at the time?”
“Nope. Just me.”
“Okay, so this man came in around two in the afternoon, is that what you told me?” Grimes asked.
“Right. Around two.”
“And then he left and came back later.”
“That’s right. He walked in right around eight o’clock that Friday evening. Sat down on the first bar stool, right there. Donnie and Tommy were in the booth right . . . well, you saw them. You know where they were.”
“What did the man say when he came in?”
“Best of my recollection, he said something about it being awful slow for a Friday night, and I told him it was because of Donnie and Tommy. Told him they’d run all my weekend business off, which was true. They were mean as snakes and loud to boot. If anybody said anything to them, they’d beat hell out of them. They wanted a place where they could come and drink and listen to the jukebox all by themselves, and that’s what they’d turned my bar into. They’d turned it into their own private little club. So I told this man he probably shouldn’t stay long, that they’d give him trouble if he stayed, and he said thanks for the warning and ordered a longneck Budweiser.”
“Which you told me he didn’t touch.”
“That’s right,” Sammy said. “He didn’t.”
“What else did he say?”
“He asked me if I loved my mother.”
Grimes’s head came up, and he raised his eyebrows. “Is that right?” he said. “Now why would he ask you a thing like that?”
“I thought the same thing, and I asked him the same thing. He said I’d understand in a minute, to please just answer the question. So I told him I loved my mother very much, that she was a wonderful person. And he said something about loving his mother, too, and that Donnie and Tommy had raped her. He called them insects. Then he said he was here to kill them, and I could either go to the bathroom or die right along with them.”
“So he threatened to kill you?” Grimes said.
“Yes, sir, he did. And from the look in his eye, I had no doubt he’d do it.”
“And you went to the bathroom?”
“I did, and I locked the door. I know he could’ve kicked the damned door down and killed me if he wanted to, but I didn’t get the message from him that he really wanted to kill me, you know? He wanted Donnie and Tommy, and by God, he got ’em.”
“And the man who came into your bar, asked you about your mother, talked about killing Donnie and Tommy, and was still sitting on that stool when you walked into the bathroom is the same man in the photographs I showed you, but you say he was wearing a disguise.”
“He was wearing a beard and glasses and a hat.”
“But you’re certain the man in the photos is the same man who was in the bar that night?”
“I’m positive.”
“A hundred percent positive?”
“You just don’t stop, do you?” Raft said.
“A hundred percent positive?” Grimes said.
“A hundred percent.”
Grimes finished writing up the statem
ent and after a few minutes, he slid it across the table.
“Read it, then sign right here and initial at the bottom of each page,” Grimes said.
Raft did it. Grimes gathered the statement, placed it in a folder, put the folder in a larger folder, and stood up.
“That’s it?” Raft said.
“For now,” Grimes said. “I’m headed to Webster Springs to talk to the district attorney. It’s time to start rattling this Street fella’s chain.”
CHAPTER 31
Grimes called District Attorney James Hellerman from his cell phone, then drove to Hellerman’s private law office in Webster Springs. Grimes knew that it was in this office that Hellerman did the bulk of his work—estate cases, personal injury, and divorce. He was a part-time district attorney because the legislature in West Virginia had deemed that there wasn’t a large enough population—and therefore enough crime—in his part of the state to warrant a full-time DA.
Grimes walked into the office—a remodeled colonial-style house just off Main Street in downtown Webster Springs—and said hello to Hellerman’s wife, Bonnie, who served as his receptionist, secretary, and paralegal. Bonnie showed Grimes into Hellerman’s office.
“Nice to see you again, Will,” Hellerman said as he stood and offered his hand.
Grimes returned the greeting and sat down. Hellerman was in his midforties, a bit geeky-looking in a red bow tie and white shirt. He was medium height and pasty, with pale skin and a shock of blond hair that he wore long and had to push back from his eyes on a regular basis.
“So what can I do for you, Will?”
“I have a suspect in the double murder in Cowen. I’m here to ask whether you think I have enough to arrest him.”
Grimes recounted the murder of Darren Street’s mother in Tennessee, the subsequent investigation that led to Donnie Frazier and Tommy Beane, the tie-in between Donnie Frazier’s brother, Bobby Lee, and Darren Street, and then the murders of Frazier and Beane in Sammy’s bar.
“They were trying to kill Street and killed his mother instead?” Hellerman asked.