One post in particular clicked the light on for me. It was from Jerry Cunningham, who I didn’t know, but who ended up marrying Kelly Pillter, a classmate of mine. Jerry described himself as a biologist with an interest in ecology. He wrote that he happened to have read a research paper that Bobby wrote on the subject of wetlands, a personal interest of Jerry’s, so he contacted Bobby, praised his work, and said that the Pebble Creek area of Manitou, Bobby’s old stomping ground, would be a prime area for further research on the value of wetlands to the local environment.
Jerry concluded by writing, “Please forgive me, all, if somehow Bobby’s decision to take me up on my idea to investigate the Pebble Creek marsh area ended up leading to his death.”
A long trail of postings resulted from that, assuring Jerry that he shouldn’t feel guilty.
Jerry filled in some of the blanks in Bobby’s e-mail that his wife had discovered, the one mentioned in Judge Prescott’s courtroom. “Primarily business, but very personal.” There it was. He had returned to Manitou, and to his roots, to do some seemingly innocuous research on the wetlands along Pebble Creek. But it didn’t explain exactly why Bobby had made a follow-up trip to the area—one that ended with a bullet in his head.
I glanced over the high school class Facebook page once again, just to make sure I had caught everything. In the process, my mind wandered through high school memories and eventually landed on Marilyn Parlow.
I sat there at the high-top table with my empty espresso cup and the screen of my laptop staring at me.
Marilyn’s death was sinking in. And I thought about my much younger longings for Marilyn, our ill-conceived tryst that night in my college dorm room, and the termination of the life that would have been the one valuable thing, the only good thing, that could have resulted from any of it.
Reaching for my cell, I texted Ashley, At The Java Shop for another 30 min. or so. Let’s talk? Just personal, not business.
I ordered a second espresso and read one of the newspapers that had already been rifled through, but the front page was still intact, containing an above-the-fold account of the court hearing from the day before, and, of course, Donny Ray’s attempt to escape.
I slowly leafed through the rest, then laid the paper down and stepped over to the counter to pick up my espresso, which was now ready. A familiar female voice at the Order Here station next to me at the counter was putting in for a vanilla latte.
I turned to Ashley. “Latte?” I said. “That’s a bit lacy and fluffy for a tough detective, isn’t it?”
She replied, “They know me here. They spike it with a triple shot of espresso.”
“Too strong for me,” I said with a smirk.
“Don’t patronize me, Trevor.” She looked around. “Where are you sitting?”
I pointed to the high-top table.
The two of us sat down. Then she asked, “What’s so personal?”
I took a moment. “You were once very up-front with me about your GAD diagnosis. That took courage. Thinking back, I never told you anything personal about me.”
She said, “Every day’s a new day.”
“Right. So here I am. And you too. Thanks for coming.”
Then I launched into my past, laying it all on the table. My whirlwind marriage to Courtney and our inability to have children; how we’d grown distant and cold. I got emotional when I told her about Courtney’s tragic death, my subsequent bottoming-out, and all the regrets I’d discovered about that relationship in the time since I’d started following Jesus—wishing I’d been a better husband, a better person. I even dug further into the past, including my backstory with Marilyn. How Marilyn had become pregnant after our one-night stand back in college, had an abortion with my passive support, and I’d never heard from her again. Then how I’d just learned of Marilyn’s death, yet another person in my life gone forever.
Ashley asked a lot of questions. First about Courtney—how long we were married. Whether I still thought about her. Of course I did, and I still struggled with regret. And also about Marilyn, our short-lived relationship and some strangely detailed questions about the pregnancy and the dates when it all had happened.
“Regrets,” Ashley said. “Those will kill you.”
“Right.”
“And your feelings about Marilyn now?”
“Truly sorry she’s gone, obviously. But not because I ever thought we could get together again. Or should. Or wanted to, because I didn’t.”
“That’s important to hear.” She said that with a serious tone, with a kind of finality to it.
I wanted to explore that. “So, that’s important to you?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Can you expand on that?”
She laughed loudly. “Sorry, but for some reason that sounds like a direct-examination question from a trial lawyer.”
I laughed too. “Right. Okay. Look, anything you have to say about me is high priority because I think very highly of you. In fact, I have been thinking about you a lot.”
“Then we have something in common,” she said. “You know, Trevor, you blow into town out of nowhere, suck me into this bizarre case . . .”
“Me? That’s not how I remember it. Butch Jardinsky told me on day one that you were the detective assigned to the case.”
“Not true,” she shot back. “That didn’t happen until after he talked to you for the first time. Then he took Detective Colin Jennings off the case and put me in charge of the investigation.”
“Why?”
“It seemed weird at first until I figured out the reason. Colin’s a veteran detective. Sharp and aggressive and was doing a really intensive investigation into Bobby Budleigh’s death. He was pushing it hard. Leaving no stone unturned in the short time that he was in charge. Then you come to Manitou and meet with Butch, and then suddenly Colin’s out and I’m in. That’s how it happened.”
“So, again, what’s behind that?”
“This case was already sensational by Manitou standards, and I think Butch saw it escalating when a former New York City criminal defense attorney showed up and started asking questions.”
“But why you?”
Ashley’s animation was building. “Because I’m a woman. Butch thought I would follow orders like a good little girl and wouldn’t stick my nose in where it didn’t belong, which, for some reason, was the end result that Butch was after. On the other hand, Butch feared that Colin would push the investigation hard. Because Colin’s a man. Of course.”
“Obviously Butch had you pegged wrong.”
“Tell me about it.” She was staring down at her latte, which she had cupped between her hands. Then she said, “But now Butch knows I won’t rest until I hit pay dirt in solving Bobby Budleigh’s murder. And as a result, he’s pushing back.”
“Meaning?”
“Butch is threatening to suspend me from the force. He found out about my GAD diagnosis somehow, my taking medication, the whole shootin’ match. None of which I ever told anyone in the department. He’s saying I’m unfit for service. Plus, he thinks I compromised this investigation by working too closely with you.”
“That’s obscene. A rotten way to treat a hero like you. I’m sorry. I feel responsible.”
“No, Trevor. It’s not about you. It’s all about Butch.” Then she reached out and squeezed my hand. “I don’t know what any of this means about us. Except you’re probably the most unique guy I’ve ever met. My brother, who only met you once, is now totally hyped about how I need to get to know you better.” She tilted her head to the side slightly. “Honestly, I think it’s about the God thing, the Jesus business that the two of you seem to have in common.”
Then there was a sly grin on her face. “Just reassure me. You aren’t into snake handling, or trances, or levitating, or anything like that, are you?”
“Well, I’ve got this friend, Elijah White, who has dreams about me, and he says they are messages from God. Does that count?”
“Not ev
en close. Too tame.” Then Ashley became intense. “Hey. What was the reason you were checking out the Facebook page of your high school class?”
I explained it all. “I think I found out why Bobby may have come back to Manitou. Simply to check out the wetlands along Pebble Creek for a research subject he specializes in.”
“How does that give us anything on his murder?”
“It doesn’t.” Then I thought about something else. “I keep mulling over the pieces in this case, trying to make them fit. That area along Pebble Creek abuts a real estate development area owned by Jeffery Opperdill. One of Opperdill’s men, Henry Franklin, ran into Bobby and asked what he was doing.”
She asked, “Was Bobby’s research a threat to Opperdill?”
“Not that I know of. The point is that Franklin reported to Opperdill that Bobby was in the area.”
“But we already knew that,” she said. “Opperdill informed Butch Jardinsky about it after the murder became public.”
I agreed. “Opperdill told me that too.” Then I added, “Maybe Bobby posed some kind of threat to Opperdill that we’ve missed. I was getting a haircut downtown and I heard the local scuttlebutt that the Environmental Protection Agency was investigating Opperdill.”
Ashley lit up. “I have a contact in the regional office for the EPA, a sort of middle-level staffer. There was an EPA case involving illegal dumping in our area. I ended up becoming the Manitou law enforcement liaison with the EPA.”
“So,” I said, wanting to make things very clear, “are we moving into the business side of things now, official law enforcement matters? Despite Sheriff Butch’s warnings?”
“Absolutely.”
“Terrific. I’d like to hear what your contact has to say about Opperdill. Oh, and one other thing. Have you come up with anything on the license plates of the cars going in and out of Henry Franklin’s trailer park?”
“I had the subpoena served for the surveillance camera footage of that storage facility. We should hear anytime. Possibly as early as today.”
“Good.”
Ashley was eyeing me. “What else is on your mind?”
“I get the feeling that Bobby walked into a trap.”
“Spell that out,” she said.
“Are you sure? It’s the kind of story that once upon a time you said you didn’t want to hear.”
I looked at Ashley, and she was staring into my eyes, maybe trying to decide if I was actually serious about what I was about to tell her.
I made it plain. “What I’m learning is that demons leave a trail, like slugs leave slime. Except in blood. There is a demonic trail from New York to Manitou. And I’m following it,” I told her. “I’m not stopping until I expose the dark, twisted center of this. Anyway,” I continued, figuring I’d better ease up, “thanks for risking so much. For putting your job on the line for me.”
She cocked her head and grinned. “Yeah, well, it’s not all about you, you know.” She reached over the table and patted my hand. But just as quick, Ashley dropped the smile. “I don’t know about this supernatural obsession of yours. Just be careful.” Then, like an afterthought, “Oh, and about the old girlfriend, Marilyn, and the ill-fated pregnancy . . .” She took a second or two, then added, “I’ve got a hunch.”
52
When I was back in my borrowed Ford Fairlane, I had a brainstorm. I put in a call to defense attorney Howard Taggley, knowing at that point he was probably locked in an inescapable conflict of interest, forced to withdraw from representing Donny Ray because he was now an eyewitness to his own client’s criminal chaos in Judge Prescott’s courtroom. As a result, he might play it cagey with me. But there was also Judge Prescott’s comment at the end of the hearing. I could use that.
The public defender took my call, and I asked whether he had gained any information in his defense of Donny Ray about the identity of the real killer. But I cushioned it with a qualification. “Of course, if it is privileged by the attorney-client relationship, I know you won’t be able to share it.”
“Privileged?” Taggley said, repeating me. “No, it’s not privileged. My client authorized me to release it to the other side, to the deputy district attorney. So we waived any privilege.”
“When was that?”
“Just before the preliminary hearing. I was betting that they knew the case against Donny Ray was flimsy, so I sweetened the deal by handing over some exculpatory information about other possible killers. But when I told it to Prosecutor Sandusky, he said it was not compelling enough to drop the charges against Donny Ray. Hence the preliminary hearing that ensued. And the victory in Donny Ray’s favor.”
“And his Wild West fight in the courtroom.”
Taggley started to pull the drawbridge up. “I can’t comment on that. I now find myself a potential witness for the prosecution in the next round of charges against Donny Ray regarding his conduct in Judge Prescott’s courtroom. That places me in an uncomfortable position, as you can imagine.”
No more hedging. I asked him, “What did you tell the deputy DA about Bobby Budleigh’s real killer?”
There was a half minute of silence, at least. Then Taggley finally said, “Why would I share that with you, Mr. Black? You’re an outsider to this proceeding. You don’t have legal standing.”
“What I have,” I shot back, “is moral conviction. My high school friend was shot in the head and then dissected in a swamp. You and I know that Donny Ray didn’t do it. Which means the person responsible is still out there. You know my history, and you may not believe it, but there are forces at work here much meaner and much scarier than the Borzsted brothers. I am telling you right now, I’m not just some man with a personal vendetta; God himself has sent me on a mission to stop the fiend who did it.”
More silence. Then I added, “And by the way, we both know that at the end of the hearing Judge Prescott dismissed the homicide case against Donny Ray without prejudice. The charges could be resurrected against your former client at any time. How would Donny Ray feel about you standing in the way of my campaign to exonerate him?”
That did it. The drawbridge came down again. Taggley began talking. “I told Sandusky exactly what Donny Ray had confided to me. Just rumors. Something he heard while he was in jail awaiting the preliminary hearing. Gossip among some of the other inmates.”
“Gossip, like what?”
“About some small group in Manitou called the Club.”
“What about it?”
“It wasn’t clear. But it wasn’t good. They were powerful.”
“Powerful how? Rich people? Political insiders in town?”
“Not like that, exactly. Sounded like something else.”
“Like . . .”
Taggley hedged. “I’m not going to speculate.”
“So about this ‘club’—what was the point?”
“They were involved in your friend’s death.”
“What are the details?”
“Can’t give you any because I don’t have any,” Taggley said. “Except for the leader of the Club.”
“What about him?”
“I don’t know his identity. Only that Donny Ray heard the other inmates talking about him. People call him the Chief. That’s all I know.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing.”
I pressed. “Are you sure?”
“Well,” Taggley finally said, “I guess there’s one other thing.”
“Which is?”
“The people in the Club, those who know him, are careful of him. The Chief, I mean.”
“Careful of him, in what way?”
“Careful in the way that people act when they are very, very afraid of a person.”
53
Because my arrest was no longer imminent, I checked into the hotel that was in downtown Manitou, in the heart of the Three Points area, named, we were told back in school, for the three Indian trails there. My last talk with Rev. Cannon had jarred my memory, and I’d finally placed it
. As schoolkids we learned that the tribes would convene there, in that meeting place, where they would then summon up spirits.
The hotel was an odd refurb of a turn-of-the-century commercial tower with lots of strange twists and turns, but my room had a big, comfortable king bed, and a desk with a view of the street below and of the hotel entrance, so I was satisfied. I needed a vantage point to spot people looking for me. And not just Sheriff Butch Jardinsky’s men either.
I checked in early. Once I had washed up, stripped down to my gym shorts, and plunked down at the desk, I noticed that I had a missed call from Harlem on my cell.
I returned the call from Elijah White. It was good to hear his voice.
“I know you’re busy, brother Trevor.”
“Not too busy for you. How’s life?”
“I am still working at the drug center. And heading up the jail ministry at church. Oh, and I got a new lady in my life.”
“Congratulations.”
“Church secretary. Very pretty and very gracious. We’re thinking, we’re definitely thinking . . .”
“Yeah, sounds like you’re thinking about it.”
“I believe she’s the one. God’s gift, for sure.” Then Elijah changed his tone and dropped his voice low, as he would often do when he was about to impart something about me. “I had this dream, Trevor. It was another one about you. I need to ask you a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Is your daddy dead or alive?”
A strange question. “He died when I was a boy. Why?”
“Just wondering. I think he was in my dream. And so were you.”
“How did you know it was my father?”
“I don’t know.”
“Describe him to me.”
“Handsome man, balding, white hair on the sides, no glasses, broad face, stocky build, like you. Oh, and a scar across his upper lip.”
It sounded like a good likeness of my father. “What happened in the dream?”
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