Dead Man's Curve

by Jack Patterson

  Cal laughed. “You’re full of over-the-top hyperbole, Steve. Nobody can exist above the law forever. Not even Sheriff Wilson.”

  “Maybe not. But he might exist there long enough to make your life hell.”

  “He’s already started trying.”

  Steve slapped the counter with a towel and began clearing their plates. “Then know it’s only just beginning. It’ll only get worse from here on out.”

  Kelly’s hand began to shake. “Billy Riggins was a college friend of my cousin’s. And he sent him some interesting findings from his autopsy of Emily Palmer—”

  “And look where that got Billy.”

  “We refuse to let Billy’s death be in vain. It’s going to be the undoing of whatever is going on here,” she added.

  Cal slid $30 on the cleaned counter at Steve. “Thanks for your help and your advice.”

  Cal and Kelly walked toward the exit. With Cal’s hand on the door, Steve shouted at them from across the restaurant.

  “Wait. If you’re gonna stick around and do this, you might wanna start by interviewing Callie Anderson, Emily Palmer’s best friend. Callie’s the captain of the cheerleading squad and she lives about a quarter mile down the road in the big white house on the right. Something happened that night at a party and I’ve heard Callie knows what it was. Nobody’s talking, but maybe you can get it out of her. Just remember that you didn’t hear anything from me.”

  Cal nodded. “Thanks, Steve. We’re gonna find some answers and get to the bottom of this no matter what it takes.”

  Cal and Kelly climbed into their car. “What did you make of that?” he asked.

  “I think he’s like everybody else in this town and is dancing around something.”

  “Any hunches?”

  “Not sure yet, but we need help on this one.”

  His mouth dropped. “Help?”

  “Yeah, you need to call your friend from the FBI. We need some protection in case this thing starts to go south.”

  CHAPTER 8

  ON TUESDAY MORNING, JUSTIN PALMER stepped out of a steaming shower and toweled off. Work was the last thing he wanted to do today. If he had his druthers, he’d leave his position as shift supervisor faster than he could say Jack Daniels. It was a thankless task, managing a bunch of high school dropouts whose time was equally divided between discussing weekend conquests and making them up. At least they were trying to make an honest living, though Palmer wondered how noble a task it really was. Surely there were better things to do with one’s life than distilling an elixir that would help others forget the pain of reality.

  He pulled on his Lee Creek Distillery coveralls and said good morning to Angel, the woman who watched his wife while he was at work. He knocked on the doorjamb leading into the guest room, where his wife stayed. Her eyes flitted open as she looked up at him after he called her name.

  “Justin,” she said weakly. “What are you doing?”

  He caressed her head and stroked her tangled brown hair. “Elizabeth, I’m going back to work today. Angel’s going to take good care of you.”

  “Did you have a good weekend?”

  Palmer nodded. He’d resisted the urge to tell his wife that Emily was gone. She didn’t need to know about such troubles. It wouldn’t be long before she’d forget about Emily altogether. She barely knew her own name as it was. Palmer couldn’t stand to watch her blubber over and over. He made that mistake once when he told her that their beloved poodle, Chi-Chi, got run over by a car. Every time he reminded her that Chi-Chi was in dog heaven, she’d burst into a puddle of tears. He finally started telling her that Chi-Chi was outside getting a drink of water, and she eventually stopped asking.

  Maybe she’ll forget about Emily.

  He left the room to finish getting dressed.

  “Don’t forget her pills,” Palmer said to Angel as he passed her in the hall. “She’s not doing well.”

  Angel nodded and continued moving toward the kitchen. “You know I always take good care of her.”

  Palmer knew his wife was in good hands, but he couldn’t help but feel helpless. He longed to connect with her, but it wasn’t easy these days. When he looked deep into her eyes, he could still see a flicker of life. But it was waning. To make matters worse, the day before her memory started to deteriorate, Elizabeth told him that she had something she wanted to tell him about an incident that happened years ago. He was on his way to work and he promised they’d talk when he got home. The conversation never happened, as Elizabeth couldn’t remember anything about it. It gnawed at him.

  If I would’ve taken just five minutes to listen to her instead of being in a hurry …

  There were moments when she snapped out of it and seemed alive again, the kind of alive that made Palmer fall in love with her in the first place nearly twenty years ago. But those days were a memory nearly forgotten by him too. It was a different kind of love now, the kind where he threw off all romantic notions and determined that he was going to take care of her no matter what it cost him. It was the kind of love Palmer always hoped to have for his wife. He just wished it didn’t take such a tragic circumstance to help him understand how to find it. But it was too late—for both of them. Fate had run its twisted course, and Palmer could do nothing about it now.

  He rambled down the front steps of his house and to his truck. He wanted to wash it, but the chipping paint job could barely sustain another high-powered spray from the Millersville Car Wash. Palmer saw more rust spots than he did paint these days. He turned the ignition key and the truck roared to life, blaring George Strait’s version of “All My Exes Live in Texas” out his windows and into the crisp morning air. He couldn’t relate to the song, but he could relate to just about every other country song about being broke and wondering how he was going to make it in this world.

  He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes. Not enough time to grab a coffee, something he needed to avoid sleepwalking through the day. He’d make do with the break room coffee, the kind that put hair on your chest.

  Palmer pulled onto the main highway and headed toward work. He glanced out his window at Wilfred Lee’s sprawling estate and resisted the urge to cuss. Then he quit fighting it and let out a string of expletives, the kind he reserved for when he was by himself.

  He stuck his hand out the window and embraced the cool nip that had settled on the hills of Millersville along with the slow-moving fog that wouldn’t burn off until noon. He pulled his visor down and stared at a family picture from several years before. His wife and Emily both looked like they were enjoying life, a far cry from the images that haunted Palmer now.

  With anger welling up within him, Palmer determined to do the right thing—even if it wasn’t right.

  CHAPTER 9

  JOSH HOOD SNAPPED OUT of his trance as someone was rapping on the door to Mr. Wiggins’ history class. He actually enjoyed the subject—just not the way his teacher droned on and on regurgitating names, dates, and events like he called roll. Instead of listening to his teacher’s dry recitation of the death of John Brown, Josh read the section in his book three times about the raid at Harper’s Ferry and found it fascinating. A man guilty of leading a massacre yet fought for the voiceless. It provided an interesting paradox, one Josh felt was similar to his current situation despite being guilty of nothing more than excelling at basketball.

  Mr. Wiggins and the mystery man at the door spoke in hushed tones. Josh craned his neck to get a glimpse of the man’s face, but couldn’t see any more than an arm covered by a suit jacket.

  “Josh, I need you to step into the hall, please,” Mr. Wiggins said.

  Josh didn’t move. “Me? What did I do?”

  “Now, please.”

  He stood up and shuffled toward the door. “What’s this all about?”

  Mr. Wiggins didn’t say a word. He stepped aside and shut the door after Josh, leaving him in the hallway with the visitor.

  “Hi, Josh,” said the man as he offered his hand. “I’m Tom Cor
liss with the FBI. I have a few questions for you.”

  Josh drew back. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “What for? I’m just here to ask you some questions.”

  “About what?”

  “About the death of Emily Palmer.”

  Josh looked down and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I know about as much as you do. Not sure I can really help.”

  “But you were one of the last people to see her alive, weren’t you?”

  “I watched her drive away from a party I was at, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Didn’t you confront her before you left?”

  “I’ll shoot you straight, suit. I liked Emily. She was a friend. But I was a little drunk. I probably said some things that could be taken the wrong way, but that’s all I’m guilty of. I didn’t leave the party until much later. I don’t know what else I can tell you that might help your investigation.”

  Corliss paused. “How drunk were you?”

  “I didn’t drive myself home, if that’s what you mean.”

  Corliss looked down at his pad with notes scribbled on it. “You don’t remember going after Emily or saying, ‘Wanna go one on one this time’?”

  Josh glared at him. Before he could say a word, he heard a click. He jerked his head in the direction of the noise and noticed two students with their phones out, taking pictures of him. “Look, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but all I know is that I said a few things to Emily that I now regret—but that’s it. If you think I have anything to do with her death, you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “Thanks for your time.” Corliss handed Josh a business card. “If you think of something that possibly slipped your mind, please don’t hesitate to give me a call. Understand?”

  Josh snatched the card and shoved it in his pocket without saying a word. He opened the door to Mr. Wiggins’ classroom and returned to a flurry of questions.

  “Who was that?”

  “Was that the FBI?”

  “What did that guy want?”

  “Are you being investigated?”

  “Was he from the NCAA?”

  Josh ignored them all and slumped into his chair.

  “All right, class. Enough. Let’s give Josh a break. That was frankly none of our business.”

  “Damn right, it’s not any of your business,” Josh muttered under his breath.

  ***

  CAL GLANCED AT HIS PHONE. It was Tom Corliss.

  “Tom, did you make it down here yet?” Cal asked.

  “More than that. I already interviewed Josh Hood.”

  “Whoa. That was fast. What do you think?”

  “He’s hiding something, that’s for sure. I would put him in the not-very-cooperative category.”

  “So, this wasn’t a waste of your time?”

  “Not yet anyway. I’ve still got plenty of rocks to turn over, but I’ll keep you apprised of what I find. And I’d love to compare notes with you at some point.”

  Cal cleared his throat. “Do you want me out of the way? The last thing I want to do is hinder your investigation. I know a case like this could make your career. Big-time corruption in a small town—it’s got FBI written all over it.”

  “You’re not in the way now. Just don’t stir up too much trouble, okay? I’ve got a strange feeling about this place.”

  “I understand. Good luck, Tom, and let’s touch base later.”

  Cal hung up and looked at Kelly. “I’m glad you dragged me into this.”

  “I wouldn’t call what I did dragging—more like nudging.”

  “You know I’m a sucker for a good mystery.”

  “This goes beyond a good mystery. What’s happened here is criminal and somebody needs to pay—not only for Emily’s death but also for Riggins’ too.”

  “They will. Don’t worry.”

  ***

  JOSH HOOD TURNED ON HIS PHONE as he exited Mr. Wiggins’ class. He opened his Twitter feed to find over 200 notifications of mentions of his name.

  “What the—” he said, his mouth agape.

  He scrolled through the comments and replies about his name. Twitter was abuzz with a report that the FBI was allegedly talking to him about the death of one of his classmates.

  His phone buzzed. He had three voicemails. He played the first one.

  “Hi, Josh. This is Ned Wimberly with the Kentucky athletic department. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but based on the reports that we’re hearing and reading, we’re going to have to rescind our scholarship offer to you until all your legal matters have cleared up. We value our reputation here and don’t think it’s prudent to extend a scholarship to someone who’s being investigated by the FBI for murder. I’m sure you understand. If something changes, we’ll be in touch.”

  Who said I’m being investigated for murder?

  He snarled and tapped the screen for the next message.

  “Hi, Josh. This is Jarrett Williams from Notre Dame. I spoke with our athletic director this afternoon and we’ve decided to pull our scholarship offer based on what we’re hearing. I know you probably weren’t coming here and I’m sure you understand, but I wanted to let you know myself instead of hearing it through the media. Best of luck to you in your situation.”

  Josh’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the screen. One more voicemail.

  “Hi, Josh. This is Mark Lattimore from ESPN recruiting. I wanted to get a comment from you about the report that you are part of an FBI investigation into the death of Emily Palmer. I’ve heard that more than a dozen schools have pulled their scholarship offers and I wanted to see if you’d go on record and talk about it. Call me back at …”

  He turned off his phone and jammed it into his pocket.

  You’ve got to be kidding me. This is ridiculous. I’m not being investigated for murder!

  Lost in thought about his predicament, he barely noticed his fellow students snapping more pictures of him. How could this be happening to me?

  He felt a tug on his shirt and spun around. It was his basketball coach.

  “Coach Jackson, what do you need?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve already heard.”

  “I’m not talking about your scholarship, son. I’m talking about your eligibility for this team.”

  Josh’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

  “Serious as a heart attack. We can’t have this kind of mess swirling around our team. We need to be focused right now. We’ve got a big game tomorrow night.”

  Josh stepped back. “But I didn’t do anything! I haven’t been accused of anything yet, as far as I know.”

  “That’s not the point. You’re going to be a distraction. Heck, you already are.”

  “Whether I’m playing or not, it’s going to be a distraction. You might as well let me play so we can win.”

  “I wish we had that luxury, but the board is holding an emergency meeting this afternoon and they’re going with the recommendation to suspend you.”

  “What? This is crazy. I’m totally innocent.”

  “That’s not what everybody is saying.”

  Josh stamped his foot. “Who? Who is saying that I did anything?”

  “Just go home and read the news. You’ll find out soon enough.” He patted Josh on the back. “Good luck, son. You’re going to need it.”

  He watched his coach walk away.

  I’m gonna kill that Cal Murphy.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE FRONT DOOR to Callie Anderson’s house looked ominous. The dark slatted wood with a heavy brass knocker marked the entry into the Tudor-style house situated on a sprawling estate, complete with a and a six-car garage and a horse stable. Two men on their hands and knees worked over the dirt surrounding a pair of rose bushes nestled beneath one of the front windows.

  Cal looked at Kelly. “This ought to be interesting,” he said before banging the knocker.

  After a few moments, they heard the clicking footsteps and then t
he creak of the door swinging open.

  “May I help you?” asked a portly man wearing a tuxedo who appeared to be in his late 50s.

  “Yes, my name is Cal Murphy and this is my wife, Kelly. We were wondering if we could speak to Callie.”

  The man looked up and down at his visitors. “Well, Miss Anderson didn’t tell me she was expecting any guests today, but I’ll check with her. Please give me a moment.” He scurried up the stairs and disappeared.

  “Nice place,” Kelly said as they both peered inside.

  A pair of moose antlers hung from the wall and a bearskin rug covered a large area of the marble floor in the entryway. Cal glanced up at the chandelier overhead. It was comprised primarily of deer antlers.

  “Think they hunt much here?” he asked.

  Kelly laughed. “Hopefully, just animals.”

  A few moments later, Callie descended the steps leading to the entryway, flanked by what Cal presumed to be the house butler.

  “Can I help you?” Callie asked before she reached the bottom step.

  “I’m hoping you can,” Cal said. He introduced himself and Kelly and asked her if she would be open to questions.

  “Depends on what you want to talk about,” she said as she pulled her long blonde hair up into a ponytail. “I’ve got riding lessons in fifteen minutes.”

  “Well, this won’t take long,” Cal assured her. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Josh Hood.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, that tool. What do you want to know?”

  “I heard you might be able to provide some insight to the night of Emily Palmer’s death. Was there any kind of altercation between her and Josh?”

  “Altercation? I wouldn’t call it that. He was trying to hook up with her and she ignored him.”

  Kelly took over the questioning. “Did he try to put the moves on her?”

  Callie laughed. “He tried to put the moves on anything in a skirt. He’s Josh Hood. He thinks his stuff doesn’t stink, if you know what I mean. He’s a little crazy.”

  “Flirtatious?”