The Righteous Path: A Parker County Novel (The Parker County Novels Book 1)

by James D F Hannah

  Like Campbell, Matt thought. Like me.

  On the end table next to Campbell’s chair were three separate compartmentalized pill containers, each lid marked for a different day. Campbell popped the lid on one and dumped the contents—several pills of varying shapes and sizes and colors, looking like mints or candy—and threw them into his mouth. He swallowed, struggling at first, then reached for the glass of water and took a long drink to force them down. He heaved a deep breath and exhaled.

  “I’ll offer you a bit of free advice, Sheriff,” Campbell said. “Don’t get old. You’re captive to an endless series of medications and humiliating medical procedures. If society had a drop of decency, we’d plop old goats like me on icebergs and let us float off into our great beyonds.”

  Matt leaned back in the love seat, trying to get himself comfortable but not able to. “Doesn’t sound like an appealing way to spend the twilight years.” He shifted his weight around, working to get his bones in spots where cushion springs didn’t push up against them.

  Campbell noticed Matt’s movements and laughed. “My wife won’t let me get rid of that damn chair. She says we’re old, and we’re the only ones here, so why go to the expense of dealing with new furniture.”

  “For your own comfort, I suppose.”

  “No one ever sits on that thing. You’re the first person in years.” Campbell smiled. “What do you want, Sheriff? I need to take a nap soon before I go to the hospital and visit Wilma.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s unconscious still. Doctors won’t know anything until she wakes up, so all I can do is sit around and wait.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Campbell.”

  “Don’t apologize; a man in authority doesn’t apologize for things. He acts. Do your goddamn job and catch these people.”

  Matt brought out a notepad and a pen from his shirt pocket. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to see if you might remember anything additional from the attack.”

  “I remember what I told you, Sheriff. I never got a look at either of them. They were both wearing masks.”

  Matt paused, pen over the notepad. He flipped through a few pages. “Both?”

  Campbell frowned. “What did I say?”

  “You say ‘both.’ So there were two attackers? Because you said at the hospital that there were four.”

  Campbell blinked several times and ran a hand over his liver-spotted skull. There were still bandages and bruises.

  “I mean all, not both. Sorry.”

  “Right, but just before that, you said ‘either of them,’ so that sounds like you saw two people.”

  “Sheriff, I’m an old man who got brained upside the head. Are you going to sit there and try to call me out on something because I might have gotten words mixed up?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Campbell. But I need to know for sure what you saw that night.”

  “I saw four people. I presume they were men. Like I said before, they wore masks, so I couldn’t tell, but their voices were husky. They might have been older. I’m not sure about that, either. Probably because they beat me like a dog.”

  “And you’re sure they came in through the back door?”

  “Yes. I had to have a new door installed this morning, and the locksmith came by and keyed a new lock for me. I don’t trust the locks that come with those doors, anyway.”

  “Did the men say they wanted anything? Money? Jewelry? Was anything stolen?”

  “No. I’ve not found anything missing, not that I’ve had much chance to look.”

  “Would you recognize their voices if you heard them again?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “What about clothing? What were they wearing?”

  “Blue jeans. T-shirts. The way kids dress these days.”

  “But you think they were older?”

  “Yes. I—” Campbell’s head dropped. “I can’t be sure, Sheriff. I’m sorry.”

  Matt put the pen and notepad away. “That’s fine, Mr. Campbell. I won’t take up any more of your time.” He stood and watched as Campbell worked to do the same. “Stay where you are, sir. I can show myself out.”

  Campbell fell back into the chair with a grateful sigh. “I appreciate that, Sheriff.”

  “Are you able to drive yourself to the hospital? Or will your daughter be coming by to pick you up?”

  Campbell’s body stiffened and his face dropped into something expressionless. “My daughter’s no concern of yours, Sheriff. I’d appreciate it if you’d just choose not to bring her up.” He pulled back on a lever on the chair’s side, reclining the chair as he closed his eyes. “I need that nap now, if it’s all the same to you, Sheriff.”

  Matt surveyed the room, the pall of sadness that lay over everything like a wet blanket heavy and smothering. This was what aging bought you: a contemptuous despair, a waiting for finality. This phase in life played like the last minutes of a movie, where you waited for the closing credits to appear. To Matt, aging seemed like a luxury he didn’t have, and he wasn’t sure if this was the price he wanted to pay for the extra time. It might be considered unfair and cruel that this was the reward someone got at the end of their life.

  Near the television, Matt noticed the photographs clustered together in tarnished brass frames, the pictures themselves aging and yellowing from time. He recognized them as pictures of a younger version of Campbell, grouped with other men at different social events. The images showed a sharp passage of time, with the clothing changing from polyester pants and wide colors in the ’70s to pastel polo shirts and khakis by what Matt guessed was the late ’90s. Hair got long, got short, then vanished.

  Matt said, “When were these photos taken?”

  Campbell’s eyes opened, and he craned his head up at Matt. “Long time ago, Sheriff. A long, long time ago.” Campbell’s voice lightened, a tone that denoted pleasant memories. “That was the local chapter of the Benevolent Order of the Everlasting Knights.”

  “I’m not familiar with them.”

  “You wouldn’t be; fraternal groups like that aren’t for young men like yourself the way they were for the men of my generation. When I owned the stores, it was a common thing to join, and you worked with the community. That way, you got to know the people who did business in town, and you gave back to your customers.”

  Matt tapped at the glass of one photo. It was a prime ’70s shot, full of thick muttonchop sideburns and paisley shirts and nut-hugger shorts and everyone holding a cigarette and a can of beer. “I’d guess you were all a rather social bunch.”

  “Everyone’s young once, Sheriff. It’s all on credit, where you have your good times then, and you pay for it all years down the road. Now if you don’t mind—”

  Matt took his cue. “You have a good day, Mr. Campbell.”

  Outside, Matt pulled the door shut, listening for the click, and gave the doorknob a twist to make sure the lock had caught. He headed back toward his cruiser parked in the driveway. Walking down the sidewalk, he glanced toward the shrubs planted against the house, where the cabling bolted into the house exterior caught his eye. He looked up, following the cable’s path, until he saw the video camera mounted underneath an overhang.

  Matt walked around the house perimeter and found two more cameras—one directed toward the back door, and another at the garage.

  10

  Nothing about Dr. Lillian Wilder screamed “high school principal,” which worked to Wilder’s advantage, Crash thought. She was younger than Crash remembered her own principals or teachers being, though Crash knew she herself wasn’t so far outside the high school experience. Crash had expected someone older, someone befitting the doctor part of her name. Instead, what she got was a smiling woman, about forty, with well-styled blonde hair, wearing a smart red dress and chunky black heels and thin-framed black glasses.

  Wilder pulled Micki’s class schedule from her computer and printed out two copies—one for herself and one for Crash—before leading Crash out of her of
fice.

  “Some of Michelle’s teachers have been asking about her,” Wilder said as she guided Crash through the school corridors. The hallway was still. The only sound as they passed by classroom doors were teachers working their way through practiced rituals. The silhouettes of students moved behind the frosted glass: some remained straight and alert, others stared away into the void, and others struggled not to topple over asleep.

  “Micki’s teachers ever say they’ve had problems with her?”

  “No. She’s never been a disciplinary issue. Then again, we have more than a thousand students, so to get attention in the front office, you’re either a star or a problem. The very top and the very bottom get the most attention; the rest get left to their own devices.”

  Wilder stopped outside a room and double-checked the printout. “This is Michelle’s—Micki’s—this is her second-period English. The instructor is Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  Wilder knocked on the door. A man’s voice on the other side said, “Come in,” and Wilder opened the door.

  Mr. Fitzgerald was older, bald, round around the middle, and wore shiny gray slacks with a permanent crease, a short-sleeved dress shirt, and a tie that hung too short with a thick knot tight at the throat. Scrawled on the dry erase board behind him were character names and concept themes from Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury. The students stared at him with a mixture of boredom and thinly veiled contempt.

  The students turned to Wilder and Crash standing in the doorway, most of them looking grateful for the reprieve. When they saw Crash in her uniform, a low buzz began and spread across the room like a poisonous cloud.

  Fitzgerald smiled at them. Wilder motioned for him.

  “Could we have a moment, Mr. Fitzgerald?” she said.

  Fitzgerald told the students to read ahead and walked into the hallway and shut the door.

  He assessed Crash with suspicion and curiosity behind thick-lensed glasses. “I’m guessing this isn’t about those speeding tickets, is it?”

  Wilder gave a small, half-hearted laugh, the sound Fitzgerald might have expected. “Chief Deputy Landing is here about Michelle Miller. A student in your class.”

  Fitzgerald nodded. “Micki. She has been MIA for a while now.”

  Crash removed her hat. “Micki’s mother filed a missing-persons report. We thought some of her friends might have information that would help.”

  Fitzgerald pursed his lips, tented his fingers together. “Micki’s usually quiet in class. My class, at least. She’s smart. Puts effort into her work. Keeps to herself.” His eyes trailed toward the door, and he leaned toward the glass, listening. “There’s not very many people she talks to regularly. Your best bet might be Cassie Peters; she sits across from her. They’re chatty together.”

  He poked his head inside and called Cassie out to join them.

  Cassie Peters was tiny and red-haired, pale-skinned, with dark eye makeup and blood-red lipstick. She wore a Misfits T-shirt and skinny jeans ripped strategically in spots. She kept her arms crossed against her torso and her back against a wall of lockers as her eyes flitted between faces.

  “Am I in trouble?” she said. “Because—”

  “There’s no trouble, Cassie,” Wilder said. “But we are worried about Micki Miller, and Mr. Fitzgerald said you’re friends with her. That true?”

  Cassie’s body loosened until she was almost holding herself up against the wall, and she shrugged. “We talk, but we don’t hang, anything like that.” The look of casual disregard vanished from her face. For a moment, she gave up that practiced teenage sense of not caring and seemed concerned. “Is she okay?”

  Crash said, “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Her mother hasn’t seen her in several days, and she can’t get in touch with her. She’s worried.”

  And just like that, Cassie turned back on the attitude. Eyes went hard. A slight smirk curled on the edge of her mouth. “She’s fine. Her mother, she doesn’t give a shit about her except for dealing with her asshole brothers.”

  Fitzgerald tapped Cassie’s shoulder with a sharp poke. “Cassie, watch your mouth.” His voice was sharp and practiced. “That language isn’t tolerated here.”

  Wilder set one hand on the teacher’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go back to class and let the deputy and me talk to Cassie?”

  Fitzgerald nodded an acquiescence and walked back into the classroom.

  “Okay, class, enough excitement for the day,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “Back to Faulkner.”

  Wilder stepped in closer to Cassie, leaning forward over her, and said, “Cassie, you can turn off the hard-ass attitude now. If Micki has gone somewhere and you know where she is, you need to tell us.” Her voice took on an edge, and Cassie seemed to shrink a little in the woman’s shadow.

  Crash let a small smile cross her lips. She liked Wilder. Wilder didn’t talk like an administrator; she sounded like someone well-versed with teenagers and bad attitudes. Knowing that polite language and empathy didn’t always work, that sometimes you needed to be as tough as the kids thought they were.

  Cassie blinked and swallowed hard. “I don’t know. Honest to God. But she’s been pissed off about shit, and it’s been stewing about for a while.”

  “Pissed off about what?” Crash said.

  “She wouldn’t say. Started about a week ago. It was on a Monday, and she showed up with a shitty attitude. I tried to get her to talk about it, but she wouldn’t.”

  “What about other friends? Is there anyone else she would have confided in?”

  “No way. Micki, she’s locked down that way. She doesn’t talk about anything.”

  “What about a boyfriend? Is she dating someone?”

  Cassie cast her eyes sideways, trying to not look at anyone.

  “Talk.” Wilder’s tone meant no nonsense.

  Cassie sighed. “There’s a guy, okay? But he’s one of those guys they tell girls not to date, but that’s who we want anyway.”

  “Who’s the boy?”

  The girl’s shoulders slumped, and she looked down. Crash let her gaze fall to Cassie’s sandals. Her toenails were painted black, the polish chipped and worn.

  “Billy McCoy,” Cassie said.

  Wilder looked at Crash. “The McCoy family?”

  “Most likely.”

  Wilder took Cassie by the shoulders. “Thank you, honey. You did the right thing here.”

  Cassie shirked away. “Yeah, whatever.”

  11

  Few companies dealt with private security systems in Parker County; Matt imagined the demand wasn’t high since there wasn’t what a plethora of people with enough shit to worry about things getting stolen. Technology had developed anyway. It was easy to buy cameras online, hook them up to a computer, and record things that way. Which Matt thought was a great idea until someone broke in and stole the computer connected to the cameras. Someone Campbell’s generation, though, he’d go old-school, pay for professionals.

  Matt made the calls from his office and told whoever answered that he was the sheriff investigating a break-in, and he wanted to know if Gary Campbell was a client of theirs so he could see the footage from the video cameras. Call after call, he got nothing.

  Then he hit pay dirt.

  “Tri-Comm Security Services. This is Joyce speaking. How may I help you?” The woman sounded young and perky, and it wore on an already-exhausted Matt. The day had been a long one between visiting Campbell, stopping by the courthouse to sign off on some paperwork, and then going back to the office. It didn’t take much to tire him out these days.

  Matt gave his spiel, and the woman said she’d connect him with a support specialist. The person who answered said his name was Doug Jones, and he had a tone of overdone enthusiasm, like the guy at church who leads the deacons or organizes Boy Scout events.

  “I’m looking at a home invasion case at a home here in Parker County, and I noticed a security camera setup at the home, but I’m not sure if the system was yours or
not. Don’t people usually have signs up? ‘This house monitored by So-and-So Security’?”

  “Some do because they think it’ll scare off people. It’s why you see people putting up the signs but not getting the systems, though. Other people, they think the signs invite problems. Who’s the person in question?”

  “Gary Campbell.” Matt gave him the address.

  Jones tapped on computer keys. “Mr. Campbell is a client. He’s got our Silver Star setup. You said this was a home invasion?”

  “Yes. He said he and his wife were attacked in their home three nights ago. Busted in through the back door.”

  Jones made a humming sound. “According to our records here, everything functioned fine that night. Says here that the code for the back door was deactivated and then reactivated. No issues there. And there’s camera footage from all three cameras surrounding the house.”

  “About that footage,” Matt said. “Any chance I can have a peek?”

  “There is, but it’s the homeowner’s decision, not mine. It’s his system, so I need his authorization to release the footage.”

  “That’s the problem. Mr. Campbell is being … intransigent.”

  “As may be the case, Sheriff, but I still can’t give that to you without Mr. Campbell’s approval. You get a court order and I can hand it over, but otherwise, I can’t help you.”

  Matt made a clicking noise with his tongue. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Matt called the county attorney’s office. Foster Nolan, the county prosecutor, was out of the office—at least that’s what his assistant said—so Matt left a message for him to call back when he got back. Matt had rested the receiver in its cradle when Crash walked in and said, “Matt, there could be a problem.”

  Matt leaned back in his chair. “You need to figure out a way to better preface things, Crash. You have this tendency toward walking in and dropping bombs on me, and I’m a man of not great health, so a little warning would be nice if things are turning to shit.”