Murders on the Ridge

by ANDREA SMITH

  Actually, when Dalton thought about it, the whole experience of being down in this thinly populated rural county, lost at the foothills of Appalachia, a mere dot on the map for the State of Ohio, had given him a different perspective on life - and on survival. It certainly wasn’t a place he’d ever have chosen to live. His first impression upon arriving in the county months ago had been: It could’ve very well have been the filming location for the 1970’s Cult Classic movie, ‘Deliverance.’

  Over time, he’d managed to lift the county veil of secrecy to some degree, but not nearly enough to have prevented the massacre of one family it seemed.

  After he’d been grilled by the local yokels, swarms of law enforcement from bordering counties infiltrated Briarton. Dalton was instructed to stay in town and be available for further questioning.

  Back in his motel room, his private cell vibrated in the pocket of his jeans.

  Jack.

  “I’ve got several DEA agents on the scene down there. Want to tell me what the hell went down with the Hatfields? Eight people shot execution style? A bundle of cash tossed around one of the bodies, who does that?”

  “Got no answer Jack. What’s your Intel saying?”

  “The fucking AG is running his pie hole along with some BCI spokesperson. They made fast tracks down there that’s for damn sure. But as usual, they’re going with the Mexican Cartel theme, no specific cartel named naturally, as if they all fucking look alike, and a large hydroponic pot grow operation.”

  “That’s bullshit, Jack! What about the shitload of poppies being harvested in that hidden grow lab below?”

  “No poppies found there. Not even a petal, Dalton.”

  Dalton had felt his jaw drop with this bit of news. He rubbed the stubble on his chin desperately trying to put the puzzle pieces together in his head. “How is that possible?” he hissed.

  “You tell me, Edwards. It wouldn’t be the first time an underpaid agent switched sides.”

  “Fuck you Jack!” he yelled, “Fuck you for even thinking that, much less saying that to me!”

  “Calm down, Dalton. The truth will come out eventually, won’t it? In the meantime, you’re to sit tight right where you’re at. Keep your cover if that is even possible, and let the FBI and BCI do their work. Don’t get in their way, do you understand?”

  “I wouldn’t think of it Jack,” Dalton replied pushing the screen to END CALL.

  Fuck Jack.

  Fuck the D.E.A.

  That’s when Dalton had opened his bottle of Jim Beam and turned on the television to see the live coverage carried by local news stations. Even the cable news stations all over the country were running a news crawler at the bottom of the screen mentioning the execution-type murders of eight family members in Briar County, Ohio.

  He turned to a live report now rolling on a Cincinnati network station. A reporter from that station had a mic held up to one of the Briar County Sheriff’s deputies, asking questions about the discovery of the bodies earlier that morning.

  “We were getting ready to serve warrants on the compound later that morning when a phone call came in around seven-thirty. A male caller who does occasional work for them discovered two bodies in the main house. Once deputies arrived on the scene, a full search was done on the premises. That’s when we discovered six more bodies who had apparently been shot and killed as well.”

  “Can you identify all of the victims?” the reporter pressed.

  “We’re not at liberty to disclose the names of the victims until all the next of kin have been notified.”

  “I understand,” the reporter continued, “Any sense of what the motive might have been for this . . . massacre?”

  “Again, we have B.C.I., F.B.I., D.E.A. and local authorities working together to thoroughly investigate this case. It would be premature at this time to render any conclusions or toss out theories without allowing the local, state and federal officials time to complete their investigations.”

  Search warrants?

  Dalton grabbed his cell and called Jack Reynard back, pushing aside for the moment that Jack was at the top of his shit list.

  “Reynard,” he answered, his mood obviously still prickly.

  “Jack, a local deputy was just interviewed by a Cincinnati television reporter. He told the reporter the county was preparing to serve warrants on the Hatfield compound.”

  There was a pause. Then Dalton heard Jack growl from the other end. “Sounds like the dirty cop Vince Hatfield had in his pocket either parted ways, or had a better offer. This is a fucking mess, Edwards. Sit tight. I’ll be down in the next couple of days. I don’t trust anyone anymore.”

  Dalton took another shot of whiskey.

  He’d drink to that.

  Chapter 20

  The last few days had been almost like an invasion in the small community of Briarton.

  Law enforcement of all flavors was crawling over every nook and cranny in the county. The network and cable media was omnipresent, eager to shove their mics into the faces of the locals to ask questions, get opinions, or urge them to share backgrounds and relationships of the slaughtered victims.

  Of course, the spotlight attention on the tight knit community was spawning rumors faster than a melting snow cone in hell.

  Dalton had made sure to be out and about, stopping in at Pike’s Peak the day before funerals of the six members of the Hatfield family were to take place. He still was officially employed by the D.E.A. He was still technically undercover, and so it was still his responsibility to see if loose lips might provide solid tips.

  He was nursing a draft beer at the bar, when Courtney came up, wiping the bar down in front of him. “So there, Dalton, how’s it going?” she asked.

  He was gnawing on a toothpick, the same way Harlan used to do. Probably a habit he’d picked up along the way. “It’s fucked up, Courtney, what can I say?”

  “That’s a fact,” she said nodding. She stopped wiping for a moment to study him. There was a pause, and Dalton knew what was coming next.

  “How . . . how bad was it when you went in there?” she asked quietly.

  Morbid curiosity. He knew more than one person would ask him about that now that he was out and about with the rest of the community, in mourning for the loss of eight people of their community.

  “It was as bad as you could probably imagine,” Dalton replied honestly. “Don’t think I’ll ever be able to totally scrub the images from my mind.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t imagine how horrific that must’ve been. It sure has people around here rattled good. Why would somebody do this and how could they possibly have gotten away with it?” she asked.

  Jimmy Lee Jackson, one of the other part-time workers for the McCoy’s came up to the bar, standing to the right of Dalton. “Can I have another Bud, Courtney?”

  “Sure thing,” she said, moving down to the cooler at the end of the bar.

  “Heard they’re pretty sure it was the Mexican cartel who done them in,” Jimmy said to nobody in particular.

  Dalton turned to look over at him. “Oh yeah? How do they figure that, Jimmy?”

  Courtney popped the cap off the Bud, and placed it on the bar in front of Jimmy who had now lowered his girth down onto the bar stool next to Dalton, slapping a five dollar bill down on the bar. Courtney wasn’t making a move to grab the money until she heard what inside information Jimmy apparently possessed.

  Jimmy was going to keep everyone in suspense until he’d taken his first long draw of his cold Budweiser. “Heard one of the local cops talking to Duel about it yesterday at the ranch. Said the fact that the killers left all the youngins alive points to cartel policy. Plus the fact they left forty-eight thousand dollars in neat piles around Vince is also the mark of the Mexican cartel.”

  “How so,” Dalton asked, taking a sip of his draft beer. He knew
enough about the cartel to know the shit Jimmy was spewing was inaccurate. The cartel didn’t care whose blood was shed when it came to retaliation. They’d kill puppies, kittens and yes, even babies and toddlers to prove their point, and to inflict fear so that anyone they dealt with knew exactly what the repercussions would be if ever crossed. There was no code of honor or conduct with those bottom feeders. And they sure as fuck didn’t slaughter eight family members over a pot grow operation.

  “Duel did the math,” Jimmy continued, “The cost of a funeral down here is around six grand apiece. Do the math, six times eight? Forty-eight,” he replied giving a nod.

  “Wow,” Courtney said, finally picking up the five and taking it to the register. “I surely didn’t know all that.”

  Yeah, because it’s horseshit Dalton thought to himself. The Mexican cartel foots the funeral bills for those they slaughter? Yeah. Right.

  “Why would Duel know the cost of their funerals?” Dalton asked.

  Jimmy was taking another swig of his beer. “He was going to start a fund to help with the burial expenses until the cop told him about the money left there at the scene. It ain’t rocket surgery,” Jimmy said with a laugh.

  “Hey, why was the cop talking to Duel about it anyway?” Dalton asked, “Was he trying to see if little Maddie saw or heard anything that night?”

  “Naw,” Jimmy replied, “It was just a courtesy visit by the cop when he’d heard Duel had wanted to start a burial fund and all. Wanted to let him know there was no need for it. And little Maddie wasn’t with her mom that night anyway.”

  “Oh?” Dalton pressed. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, she was staying with Grandma Ginny that night. What with Tammy’s newborn and all, Maddie’s been with the McCoy’s more than normal. Good thing too. Can you imagine what kind of fucked up that might’ve caused that kid for the rest of her life had she been there?”

  “No shit,” Courtney piped up, hanging on every word coming out of Jimmy’s mouth. “Hey, I heard Brant is taking this real hard. I think he never stopped loving Tammy if you ask me.”

  Jimmy nodded. “Yeah, he’s a mess, that’s for sure. Now he’s gonna be raising that little girl without her mama. It’s a tragic situation for sure. You goin to the funerals tomorrow Dalton?”

  “Yep,” Dalton answered, not looking forward to it, but knowing he needed to be there. “Duel gave me a few days off paid because of . . . well, because of what I saw.”

  “Yeah, man. That must’ve been some crazy shit. Duel’s a righteous man, though. I guess when something like this happens, it shows you who in the community is ready, willing and able to step up to the plate.”

  “You got that right,” Courtney said, “I’m taking off to be at the funeral. Then we’re going to open up afterwards. Duel is paying for a memorial reception here for the Hatfields. It’s open bar and catered-in food.”

  “Damn,” Dalton remarked, “That’s pretty damn generous of him. Didn’t think he got on all that well with the Hatfields.”

  “‘Round these parts Dalton, any differences or spats of the past with folks are laid to rest when they are. It’s bad Karma to withhold forgiveness or carry on grudges against the dead.”

  Dalton was thoughtful. “I guess I never saw it that way, but it makes sense.”

  Chapter 21

  Dalton was dressed in a suit that he’d had to buy especially in Portsmouth for the funeral the following day. He parked his truck in the already over-flowing parking lot of the Dry Creek Church of Christ. Just as he was walking up the steps of the church, trying to loosen his tie a bit due to the warm and humid day, he heard a throat clear behind him.

  He turned and saw it was Jack. He was in a dark suit with sunglasses, and merely nodded at him, not attempting to acknowledge him any further than that lest someone question them as being acquainted.

  The various local media and cable networks had already set up their cameras. The reporters on assignment were televising live as the rest of the county residents piled into the church. There were also a plethora of lookie-loos from parts unknown who crowded into the standing room only wooden church.

  Inside the packed church, Dalton looked around and spotted Courtney already seated in a pew, midway up the aisle, waving for him to join her as she’d apparently saved a place for him to squeeze in next to her.

  Dalton seized upon the opportunity and walked up the aisle, taking a seat at the end of the pew as she wiggled over to make more room.

  She immediately leaned over and whispered, “Are the hearses out front yet?”

  Dalton nodded and whispered his response. “They are. Just pulled up as I was coming in.”

  Right then, the first chords of organ music began to play. Dalton looked up to the right side of the church, and saw the organist playing was Ella Johnson. As Dalton peered around the rest of the church, he saw the McCoy family seated in a pew near the front of the church, Duel, his wife, both sons and Virginia McCoy who was holding Tammy and Brant’s daughter, Madison on her lap.

  Across the aisle were seated, what Dalton could only guess were the remaining relatives of the Hatfield family, some cousins who still lived in the area and some older aunts and uncles who, according to Courtney, had come up from Sandy Hook, Kentucky.

  They were all dressed in black. Several of the females in the group were already dabbing at their eyes as the organ music played softly and the intermittent sounds of sniffling continued. The wooden floor of the church creaked as the first of the six caskets, placed on the aluminum biers, was being wheeled down the aisle past the congregation.

  From above, the choir members in the loft began singing the first verse of Amazing Grace. The congregation stood and faced the aisle as the parade of caskets paced by them. Dalton swallowed as he saw that each casket bore the name of the occupant on a placard attached to the flower arrangement on top.

  Vincent Harlan Hatfield.

  Mary Beth (Stevens) Hatfield.

  Raymond Earl Hatfield.

  Harlan James Hatfield.

  Tamara Grace Hatfield.

  Darrell Edwin Hatfield.

  By the time the caskets were all lined up at the front of the church, the intermittent sobs had turned to near constant wailing.

  The preacher took the pulpit and gave the mourners several moments to collect themselves while he motioned for everyone to sit down.

  For the next thirty minutes, bible verses and gospel readings were recited by the minister. Dalton could see nearly every member of the community present, and many strangers to the area as well. He could tell those who were there on official law enforcement business from those who were part of the curious media, out to get the whole story.

  Dalton looked around and caught a slight wave from someone on the other side of the church. It was Elroy Driscoll. It looked like Elroy was back in good health. Dalton hadn’t seen him except in passing since the day he’d come to his motel room to thank him. Dalton gave him a smile and a nod, and continued to peruse the people around him.

  He didn’t want to be obvious, but so far there was one member of the community Dalton hadn’t spotted: Billy Ray Jensen. Of course he knew that there’d been no love lost between Billy Ray and the Hatfields. Despite personal spats of the past, the whole community had pulled together on this one, so it seemed strange to Dalton that the Hatfields’ closest neighbor would not have put aside any old grudges or past animosity, in order to pay respects to this massacred family. He wondered when grudges and slights of the past died? What good did it do to allow them to linger on?

  His attention was drawn back to the minister’s voice as he introduced the person who had asked to deliver the eulogy for the Hatfield family.

  He watched as Duel McCoy rose and made his way up the few carpeted steps to the pulpit, adjusting the microphone to accommodate his taller stature.

  “Good morning
family members, friends, neighbors and visitors who are here today to share in our grieving for the loss of this family. A loss that is both horrific and unheard of in our peaceful community.

  “Many of you might wonder why I’m giving this eulogy today. My answer is this, I wanted to. Briar County has been the home of the Hatfields for generations, just as it’s been the home for my family for generations.

  “Our parents and grandparents farmed and worshipped together; their children played sports and attended school together; and our children did the same. My granddaughter who sits over yonder on my mother’s lap has lost her mother. We grieve for her. No child should ever have to grow up not remembering the woman who gave life to him or her; to forget a mother’s touch, or a mother’s kiss, or the loving comfort a mother provides for her child each and every day of their life. But Madison Hatfield Wagner will surely have to grow up without those very things.

  “Vince Hatfield and I played Little League together as kids. We went to the same schools from kindergarten through high school. Heck, we even competed for the same girl a time or two. We had some good times over the years, hunting and fishing together, worshiping in this here House of God, watching our kids grow up.

  “Oh, that’s not to say we didn’t scrap with one another a time or two, but anyone in Briar County can tell you that’s just kinda the way of life around these here parts.

  “At the end of the day, Vince was a hard-working, God-fearing man, who loved his family and didn’t deserve his untimely demise. None of his family or their significant others deserved this horrible and tragic end to their lives. And standing here, before you and before God, I want to say that none of us will rest until justice is brought to those responsible.

  “‘Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord.’ Well folks, I’m not looking for vengeance mind you, but I am looking for justice. I hope everyone sitting or standing here today remembers that once we leave this church and put our brothers and sisters into their final resting place. There can be no peace of the mind or the soul until we seek and find justice for those responsible for taking the lives of eight people here in Briar County.”