Blood from a Stone

by David M. Salkin

  There hadn’t been any DNA evidence to link Ben to the rape. The body showed signs of forced sexual assault, but the saltwater had removed any DNA. Of course, DNA technology twenty years ago wasn’t as good as it is today, either, so maybe not having any DNA evidence wouldn’t have been unusual back then. This was Harkers Island twenty years ago—not last week in New York City.

  Ben was linked to Casey by his own statement, given to police—they had been secretly dating—as well as the accounts of friends. Ben was the last person to be seen with Casey. Everyone placed him with the girl right before she was reported missing by her parents that Friday night.

  She was found on Saturday morning, floating near the dock, not far from where the kids had said they had all been partying on the beach. Ben admitted under questioning that he and Casey had been secretly seeing each other but he denied having sexual intercourse with her. The prosecutor was quoted as saying, “Of course he would deny it. She said no, he forced himself on her, she threatened to tell her father and he killed her to keep her quiet.”

  The jury bought it. The jurors were from the surrounding area and Stone was an area judge. Before that, he had been a successful lawyer who had been politically active with the county and state party. The suspect, Benjamin McComb, had been represented by the state. His attorney should have requested a change of venue but he didn’t. According to the newspaper, Ben had been raised by a grandmother. He had never known his father, and his mother had died young from breast cancer. Ben’s grandmother had testified. Her testimony about what time Ben had arrived home had been shot to pieces by the prosecutor.

  At the end of the trial, Ben was charged with second-degree murder and sentenced to thirty years to life. He was sent to the Maury Correctional Institute in Greene County, North Carolina.

  I read a few more articles, looked at Casey’s face a few more times and decided I needed to go for a walk on the beach.

  I walked down the driveway of my house and realized that in another twenty minutes, it would be so dark I’d never find my way home. Where were my night-vision goggles when I needed them? In my gear, with Ice, but I didn’t bother to get them. My great plans for a walk dashed, I decided to try my Jacuzzi instead. Definitely a sound move on my part. After a long, hot soak, I hit my mattress and was asleep and drooling in two minutes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Making Plans

  I woke up to the phone ringing on Monday morning. I was totally out of it when I picked up and grumbled hello.

  “Were you still sleeping?” Amanda was laughing. “Do you know it’s almost nine-thirty?”

  I blinked a few times and looked around the room, trying to figure out where I was. I still felt like a visitor in my own house. “Hey…sorry. Yeah, I guess so.”

  “All that manual labor knocked you out?” she teased.

  “Yeah,” I said, then thought to myself, That, and a whole bottle of really great cab. I marveled at the fact that I had slept soundly a few times in my new house. Maybe my combat readiness was finally subsiding enough to let me start being a civilian.

  She told me she was calling between patients. We chatted for a few more minutes until I was more awake, said our goodbyes when her patient arrived and I hit the shower. As I brushed my teeth, I decided that I would be launching my own investigation into a twenty-year-old murder case, which was already considered solved.

  I threw on a pair of old shorts and an old T-shirt from Bravo Company, 3rd Ranger Battalion. It proudly boasted ‘Rangers Lead the Way’ across the chest. What the hell… I figured I was getting ready for something. When I’d left the Rangers for Delta, we hadn’t gotten T-shirts. In fact, sometimes we hadn’t even gotten uniforms with patches on them.

  I made coffee, the lifeblood of any true military man, and a quick bowl of cereal, then I was off to the computer for more digging. I decided on several projects for that morning. First, I would meet my neighbors—preferably older neighbors who had lived on the island when Casey had been murdered—and second, I would try to track down Benjamin McComb, starting with where they had sent him. If he was still there—and still alive—he would be pushing forty. Not so old and still a lifetime in prison ahead of him.

  Maybe I could find a local cop to talk to. Somebody somewhere had to know something. I’ll admit it. I am a stubborn sumbitch. Once I make up my mind to do something, I will find a way.

  I left my house and walked down the narrow road to see who might be out and about.

  On a weekday morning, most folks would be at work, unless they were here on vacation.

  They would not know anything about the subject.

  At first, I didn’t find anyone. When I got to the end of my road, it led to a dock. I walked out to where several boats were moored and found a few old-timers working on the inboard diesel engine of a large fishing boat. The hull was wood and painted red. I smiled and waved, and they waved back but kept with their work.

  I ambled over to the three men and caught their island accents. Holy crap. I’d thought the Realtor had a thick accent until I heard these three. As Amanda had warned me, the islanders, especially the old timers, spoke High Tider, which sounded like Hoi Toider when they said it, and they might as well have been speaking Greek. It might be English, but it was nothing like I’d ever heard before. I think it was easier speaking to the tribes in the Northwest Frontier of Pakistan.

  I walked over and listened as closely as I could. I’m pretty sure they were bitching about the engine, but maybe they were bitching about me. It was hard to say. I did catch the word ‘dingbatter’, which I came to find out later referred to new folks to the island.

  I decided to try my best to make friends. Back in the day, I would give a kid a chocolate bar and he’d tell me where the IEDs were buried. These guys would be a tougher nut to crack.

  “Nice-looking boat,” I lied. It might have been nice forty years ago.

  The three of them gave me a look that said it all and went back to working on the diesel inboard.

  “Y’all commercial fishermen or you run day trips for the tourists?” I asked, as I walked closer. Obviously, I didn’t know shit about fishing.

  One of the fishermen couldn’t contain himself. He stood and said something that sounded like, “Oh yeah, we take the tourists out to feesh. Always bettah with a net.”

  I glanced up at the huge nets suspended from the outriggers. The trawler was definitely a commercial boat, which anyone with half a brain could see. Yup. I’m an idiot. “Just kidding, fellas. Y’all sound like natives. I just bought the old Stone House.” I realized after I’d said it that they were probably confused. “As in Earl Stone, not made out of stone.”

  They looked at me in silence. Finally, one of them stood and walked over. He looked to be in his sixties, maybe. It was hard to tell. He was weather-beaten, with skin that had probably been tan his entire life. He reminded me of some of the Afghans I had met, with wrinkled faces and deep-set eyes that looked wary. His dark hair, streaked with gray, was slicked back with sweat. He wiped his greasy hands on his overalls then on a greasy rag that was hanging from his pocket. He looked at his hand again. It was still black.

  I figured this was my chance to make friends, so I grabbed his hand and shook it firmly. “Cory Walker. Nice to meet you.”

  “Caleb Jackson. The Stone place, eh?” He looked over at his friends and probably said something about me buying the house, but quite frankly, I don’t know what the hell he was saying.

  One of the other guys got up and walked over. He was a tall, lanky fellow, with slightly stooped shoulders and a slow, relaxed manner. If he had told me he was a flight mechanic in the Second World War, I would have believed him. He also gave me a black greasy handshake and told me his name was Thomas—not Tom, no last name, just Thomas. He looked to be about a hundred years old.

  I missed everything Thomas said. He used the phrase ‘dit-dot’ a few times with his buddies, which I later learned was a reference to me needing Morse code. Evidently
another jab at the ‘off islander’ who needed a translator. Listening to these guys made my head hurt, but I needed to learn whatever I could from them, if they’d talk to an outsider.

  “Did you know the Stones?” I asked Thomas.

  He just laughed and walked back to the engine he was working on. The third guy went back to work on the engine with him, never having introduced himself.

  Caleb looked at me in a way that made me feel like an outsider. “We all knew the Stones. They was royalty, so to speak. Had a real nice place. Used to come out here from the county every summer.”

  He was referring to Carteret County—the mainland. I was surprised to learn that the Stones weren’t here full time. I had just assumed, wrongly, that this was their only house. Super detective work. “How many years did they come out here?”

  Caleb rubbed his chin, which was now black with grease. “They been gone a long time now. I reckon the girl was a baby when they first come out.”

  “Sad story about the girl,” I said softly.

  “No one talks about it.” He gave me a firm look. “Not good for business.”

  “Yeah, I guess not. Although they got the killer, right?” I asked, trying to read his answer.

  “Local kid. ’Bout her age.” He yelled over to one of his buddies and they barked back and forth so fast I missed almost all of it. He turned back to me and said, “Ben. Ben McComb. Kid’s name. His nana was an old islander. A good woman. That whole business broke her heart. She died right after he went to jail. Bess…that was her name. Bess McComb. Ain’t said that name in many years,” he mumbled to himself.

  “Did you know the kid? Her grandson who went to jail.”

  “Last I heard, he’ll die there.”

  “Think he did it?”

  Caleb crossed his arms and looked at me real hard, the way I do when I’m trying to look into someone’s brain. “You bought the Stone estate, and now you think you’re gonna to write a book about it?”

  I smiled. “No, sir. I’m not a writer. I’m a retired soldier. I just heard some things, that’s all. Made me start wondering.”

  Caleb grunted. “Don’t wonder too much. Most folks here just as soon forget about the whole yethy business.”

  “Yethy?” I asked.

  He shook his head and mumbled about me being a dit-dot again. “Yethy… The damn thing stank to the heavens. Now ya folla?”

  “Uh-huh,” I lied. I learned later that ‘yethy’ was High Tider for an unpleasant odor.

  “Best let that poor girl rest in peace. Her momma, too.”

  That’s right. I hadn’t thought much about her mother’s death, but that was certainly a part of this whole mess. Caleb told me he needed to get back to his boat and said a ‘welcome to the island’ of sorts. I watched the old man walk away and wondered what all the locals must think about what had happened.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mr. Detective

  I went back to my ‘estate’. After a morning of walking around the local houses, I realized just how special my house was compared to the rest of the ones on the island. My house had a definite Southern Gentry style architecture. Many of the other houses, except for a handful of new ones, were old wooden bungalows. Very few had the ornate wood workings of my veranda. Basically, I had the rich guy’s house in a neighborhood of fisherman. My immediate neighbors also had nicer homes and I guess we were considered the local aristocracy. I figured I’d find out how we were viewed as I came to know more of the locals.

  I called the prosecutor’s office, which I was supposed to have done the previous week but had forgotten about. The assistant prosecutor I spoke to was obviously pissed that I was late checking in.

  “You were advised to keep us informed of any address or phone number changes, Mr. Walker. We were ready to issue a warrant for your arrest.”

  “A warrant? I was told that your office didn’t anticipate any formal charges. The man I spoke to over there, Grant Williams, said this was a self-defense case that most likely wouldn’t go farther than a few more questions and I could forget the whole thing.”

  “Please hold for Mr. Williams,” grumbled Mr. Personality.

  “Hi, Cory,” came his familiar voice. “You moved. You were supposed to notify us. We thought maybe you got scared and flew the coop.”

  “Not at all. I just sort of made a spontaneous decision on a house. Got a little caught up and forgot to call. Is there a problem?”

  “Nah. Don’t sweat it. I don’t expect anything to happen ‘til the end of the summer, at the soonest. Most likely it’ll all be officially dismissed. Where are you?”

  “Harkers Island.”

  “You bought a house on Harkers Island?” he exclaimed.

  “Yeah. What’s the big deal?”

  He laughed. “No big deal. I guess you just like it real quiet. Damn, Cory, they didn’t get electricity and phones until a few decades ago. You buying a boat?”

  “Thinking about it,” I said. “I’m an excellent fisherman.” I was thinking back to the trawler catching mullet in nets for sport fishing. “Okay…not so much.” My sarcasm was wasted on him.

  He asked how I was feeling and how Amanda was. He was a good guy. I was dying to ask him about the Stone case but changed my mind and didn’t. I’d wait until I had more, then ask him if it seemed like it was cool. I thought about calling Amanda and telling her about the diary but decided that was a bad idea. Maybe I’d wait until she moved in.

  I went back to the library, dug Casey’s notebook out of the desk and started reading where I’d left off. The entries had apparently stopped for several weeks. I guess the kid had been traumatized after the last episode with that sick-o she called her father.

  I keep wondering if I should talk to Mom. Dad says that if I say anything, I’ll be sorry, and he means it. God, what if she knows and she doesn’t care? He hasn’t been as mean, but he keeps making me take my underwear off like he’s gonna spank me. If I’m quiet, he just gets off on me and leaves without hitting me. It’s better to just be quiet. I want to ask Mom what I did to deserve this?

  I sat back and exhaled. Now there was a thought. What if her mother had known and hadn’t stopped it? How could a mother have allowed this? Had she been scared of him? Had she just been in denial? Or had she really not know what was going on? I could feel myself getting angry. That made me angrier—that I would allow myself to get so caught up in something that happened nearly twenty years ago and get angry and upset. This was all ancient history? Bullshit. Two of the four people were still alive—Ben, in prison until he rotted, and the congressman going to run for President. I decided to get back on the computer and start tracking down Benjamin McComb.

  After a few phone calls and some lying, I confirmed that Ben was now in his later thirties and still an inmate at the Maury Correctional Institute in Greene County, where he had spent the last nearly twenty years. I decided I would be taking a drive to go visit him. The idea didn’t seem any crazier than buying a house on Harkers Island and asking—begging—Amanda to move in with me. Obviously, I am certifiably mad.

  My next call was to the Carteret County Sheriff’s Department. After about three transfers and some bullshitting on my part, I finally got someone to speak to me. The deputy I spoke with, a Bill Peace, didn’t know about the Stone case, but when I asked about an officer named Arthur McDade—I’d read his name in a few articles—he was helpful. Arthur had left the department many years before, but they were still in touch occasionally. He wouldn’t give me his number but promised he would give mine to Arthur.

  When he asked what it was in reference to, I simply said I was an old friend of Casey Stone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Maury

  After a couple of days of phone calls, I finally got Benjamin McComb on the phone. He agreed to allow me to visit him and told me I would be his first visitor in the whole time he’d been there. That was a pretty depressing thought. I decided to bring him a few foil packets of tuna. Prisons didn’t al
low smoking these days, and I wanted to bring him something. I know a care package with anything other than MREs always made me smile when I was deployed. Maybe a few packages of tuna would make his day, too. They had to be better than whatever crap they served in a prison.

  I spoke with prison security and arranged for the visit. Maury was a medium security facility, but they were damned strict about visitation. One hour max, without contact, under supervision.

  I ‘sort of’ lied to Amanda and told her I was going fishing. I mean, I was going fishing—just not for fish. Or ‘feesh’, as I was now calling them, to sound like a Hoi Toider.

  The drive to Greene County was pleasant enough. I got to the prison in a little over an hour and a half. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the place looked pretty darned prison-like. It was a large unpainted concrete expanse of non-descript buildings surrounded by huge barbed-wire fencing with razor wire on top. There were guard towers along the fence and large light towers, which I assumed lit the place up like a Christmas tree every night. It was no place anyone would ever want to visit unless they had to.

  I went through several layers of security, working deeper and deeper into the bowels of the very sterile, unpleasant place. The guards were polite but also very specific about what was expected, what was not allowed, etc. At one point, the other visitors and I, maybe a dozen of us, were taken to a hallway where we were told what would happen to us if we were caught bringing drugs into the prison. The guard then opened a garbage can, told us this was our last chance to discard any drugs anonymously and said he’d be back in three minutes, at which time the drug dogs would be brought in.