November's Past (Larry Macklin Mysteries Book 1)

by A. E. Howe

  “Nothing from the teeth?”

  “The man didn’t have any major dental work. Only a couple fillings. No good. And the assailant did a damn good job smashing up his teeth. Would be very hard to get a comparison with X-rays taken before the assault. Unless we were reasonably sure who it was… Then the teeth and the little bit of work might be able to confirm his identity.” He shook his head and shrugged. “I took palm prints… Not likely to help much without the fingers.” He held up his hand and wiggled his fingers as though I might not know what he was talking about without his own digits as examples.

  “Death was most likely caused by the massive chest wound which in turn was most likely caused by a slug fired from a twelve-gauge shotgun. Powder marks on the skin suggest that the shotgun, if it was a shotgun, was fired from a couple of feet in front of the victim.”

  “What was used to smash his face in?”

  “Standard carpenter’s hammer, most likely. I took 3D images to use if we find a weapon. Also, I sent all the images to a forensic artist. However, they might need the skull in order to do a complete reconstruction and rendering of what he looked like before someone went all Thor on his face.” He shrugged again. “Anyway, the artists are very backed up so it will be a couple of weeks before you’ll get anything back.”

  I was trying to think how I was going to convince the Florida Department of Law Enforcement to pay for the forensic artwork. The state had deeper pockets than Adams County did. Dad would grumble for a week about lab money spent on an out-of-county victim.

  “How far do you think he was transported after death?”

  Darzi looked up and seemed to be making calculations in his head, but I knew that this was a ruse. He was perhaps the most meticulous professional I’d ever met. I was sure that he’d already thought of and made his guestimates before I arrived. He always dictated thorough notes for an assistant to type up before closing up the body and sending it to the morgue.

  “Not much more than an hour. I’d say he was shot, dismembered and defaced, then quickly moved to a vehicle where he was placed in a face-down position and finally shoved down the embankment. All in under an hour.”

  Armed with the tattoo pictures, I decided to visit a couple Tallahassee parlors to get a professional’s opinion of the work.

  At the first parlor half a dozen tattoo artists gathered around and commented on the pictures. The gist of it was that the work had “crisp lines, good color contrast, intricate and unique lettering.” If done locally it would run about a thousand bucks. One interesting comment was that the guy had taken good care of it after the work was done.

  After they had hemmed and hawed over it for a while, I was directed to another shop in town to speak with Erick. According to the first crew, he had an almost encyclopedic memory for styles and might be able to tell me who the artist was, or at least where it might have been done. The “where” part of it could be a lot harder than I thought, because they all started speculating on what country it might have been done in. An overseas tattoo parlor had never crossed my mind.

  I met with Erick, a giant with a Viking beard and hairstyle. He took one look and said it was very similar to work that a girl in New Orleans was doing. He didn’t know her last name but she went by Dahlia, and he was able to give me the last place he knew she had been working. He shook my hand with an enormous bear paw that left me wondering how he could possibly manipulate a tattoo needle with any precision.

  Back in Calhoun, I had to deal with a few reports before I could follow through on the tattoo lead. Nothing much—a smash-and-grab that netted the perp thirty bucks and a bar fight with the victim already wanting to drop the charges. Phone calls to the officers who took the reports told me everything I needed to know. The thirty bucks was filed away in the “if something else happens that might make this important” drawer. The assault was going to require me to do some more interviews. Other folks had witnessed it, so it was not in the power of the victim to make it go away. Depending on what everyone else might have to say, it would probably remain a decision for the State Attorney whether to pursue charges or not.

  Finally I had time to check with Google and discover that the New Orleans tattoo shop still existed and had a phone number. A call told me that Dahlia worked there, but was off looking for a new place to live because she’d been evicted blah, blah, blah. I interrupted and asked for an email address to send the pictures. and said that I’d call back tomorrow if I hadn’t heard from Dahlia before then.

  I made a quick stop at the store on my way home. Home for me was an old mobile home on twenty acres. The property was a mix of oaks and pines with a small creek running across the western edge. My twenty acres had been part of a much larger farm before it was broken up and sold. The mobile home had belonged to the farm’s foreman. The house wasn’t much; I’d bought it for the land. Someday I hoped to build a cabin between four ancient live oaks. I always wondered if they had been planted there, as they formed an almost perfect square. All four of the trees were a couple hundred years old. Knurled and knotted, they were all over twelve feet in circumference. The largest was almost fourteen feet around.

  I was met by Ivy crawling out from under the front porch steps, meowing for her evening meal. I let her in, trying to open the door, carry the groceries and not step on her toes. The tabby cat had been living rough in the parking lot of the sheriff’s office before I adopted her. Even the burliest of deputies would feed her scraps from their lunch when they thought no one was looking. I took pity on her, bringing her home with me one especially cold night last winter. She’d never left.

  We settled on the sofa after dinner. I scratched Ivy’s back while I read emails and checked my social media obligations. The investigators took turns being on call and I had the eleven-to-seven shift that night. Most of the time it just involved answering a deputy’s questions over the phone, but every once in a while you’d get called in to a crime scene.

  I drifted off for a nap with Ivy kneading my chest. Three hours later I woke with a dry mouth from snoring and a stiff back from not moving. Ivy jumped down, perturbed that I was trying to get up. Then my phone rang. Still fuzzy-headed, I flailed around until the annoying ringtone led me to it.

  “Hey, Deputy Sykes here. I knew you were on call this evening so I thought you might be interested in knowing that we picked up your runner from the trucking company.”

  Who? I thought. The trucking company! “Oh, yeah, right. Great.” I really wasn’t that interested. I had done a background check on him and he had a record for a dozen petty offenses. Just the type of guy to run when he sees a deputy show up at his job. No doubt he was running some small-time scam out of the place. Maybe drugs. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Thanks.”

  “Yeah, well, I also got a guy here that says he saw a murder and can point me to the crime scene. That’s why I called.”

  “You kind of buried the lead. What did he see?”

  “Said he saw a guy shoot another guy with a shotgun.”

  I was wide awake now. “When?”

  “Two nights ago.”

  “Where are you?”

  He gave me a location about ten miles away. “Fine, I’ll be there in twenty. Just let him sit and I’ll question him when I get there.” Sykes was not the sharpest tack in the drawer. I didn’t want to take the chance of him confusing the issue.

  Chapter Five

  A large, older black man stood smoking a cigar next to Sykes’s car.

  “I’m Larry Macklin,” I said as I held out my hand. He looked at my hand, a little surprised, but then threw the cigar down. After stepping on the glowing stogie he took my hand and shook it.

  “Leon.”

  “Nice to meet you, Leon. Sykes said you saw a shooting?”

  “Yeah.” He sighed and looked down at the ground.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Ha, no. But I got to.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Saw it two nights ago. Two white g
uys, one shoots the other. I thought, hell, that ain’t none of my business. But I haven’t been able to forget about it.”

  “I can tell you’re a good man, Leon. Makes sense that you see something like that, you can’t forget it.”

  “Yeah, well, I hope this doesn’t bite me in the ass.”

  “You’re doing the right thing. I give you my word I’ll do what I can to make sure you don’t have any trouble from this.” Reassuring people was half the job. Not breaking their trust was the other half.

  He looked unconvinced, but determined to get it off his chest. I pressed on. “Exactly when and where did you see this shooting?”

  “Around midnight two days ago, Monday. They was arguing at the old warehouse by the tracks. That big old white one you can see from Jefferson. I seen one of the men point the gun at the other and shoot him right in the chest. Man dropped to the ground.”

  “Where were you?” I had taken out my pen and pad and was trying to take notes in the light from the street lamp.

  “I was walking down Jefferson.”

  “What were you doing walking around at that time of night?” I didn’t want to sound accusatory, but I had to get the complete story.

  “I’d had a few beers at home. I live a couple blocks back from Jefferson. I wanted some smokes so I was headed up to the Fast Mart. It closes at one on weeknights.”

  He’d been drinking, which wouldn’t help if we ever got as far as the witness stand. “But you weren’t drunk?”

  “Noooo. But I deliver for Southern Chips. I don’t take any chances where my license is concerned.”

  “I hear that. So what made you look over and see these men?”

  “There was a car. SUV with its lights on. I looked over and saw two white guys facing each other.”

  “How far away were you?”

  “Seventy-five yards… no more than a hundred.”

  “You sound pretty sure.”

  “I was a spotter in the army. Got so I could judge distances pretty good.”

  Military, full-time job—those facts would help offset the few beers he’d had.

  “Could you describe the men?”

  “Not really. The glare from the headlights and the distance made it pretty darn hard to see them very well.”

  “Anything? Tall, short, fat, thin.”

  “One was taller than the other. The shooter was a little taller than the other guy. I think their hair was light colored, but that was maybe ’cause of the glare from the headlights.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Nothing special. Shirt, pants, about the same for both.” He was looking into the distance and trying hard to remember.

  “What did the shooter do after he killed the guy?”

  “He looked around. I put my head down and started walking fast. I doubt he could see me ’cause of the fact he was standing in the light from the car. When I got over the tracks I looked back to make sure he wasn’t going to come after me.”

  “What’d you see?”

  “Lights were off on the car, but it hadn’t moved. I thought about calling the cops when I got to the store, but I didn’t want no trouble. Didn’t seem to be any of my business.”

  “What kind of car was it? Can you think of any details about it?”

  “No, the lights made it too hard to see. Just big, guess it was dark colored, but the light…” He shrugged.

  Sykes had left on a call while we were talking. Leon and I rode over to the warehouse. Being careful not to tread on the crime scene, I got him to point out where he had seen the two men and the car while I made notes.

  Blood on the pavement was all I needed to see to call in the crime scene unit. Marcus Brown and Shantel Williams, two of our most skilled crime scene technicians, arrived first. They looked things over and called FDLE, which has much better equipment, for assistance. I left them to set up the perimeter and wait for the state folks. I dropped Leon off at his house, telling him that we’d be in touch and not to worry about any repercussions from being a witness. He looked unconvinced.

  It was one-thirty by the time I got back to the warehouse and the state van pulled up just as I was parking. Marcus and Shantel had done a good job of figuring out and marking the site of the shooting. So while the four guys from the state started setting up lights, the three of us looked through the abandoned warehouse. Old machinery designed for God knows what lay at odd angles as though dropped by a giant who had gotten tired of playing with his toys.

  “Keep an eye out for any place that looks like it was cleaned. Or where something was moved,” I said.

  Shantel, a middle-aged mocha-colored woman with broad hips, an infectious smile and eyes that could burn you down to the ground said, “Thank God you told me that, this being my very first day on the job, sir.” The sarcasm dripped off her words, but she was smiling as she said it.

  “I know you know what you’re doing, but did you ever think that I might not know what I’m doing and saying it out loud helps me remember what I’m supposed to be doing?” I smiled back.

  “God lord, why do I even talk to you?” She threw her hands up in the air.

  We went through the building starting at the corner closest to Jefferson Street and the murder scene. Marcus, a black man in his late forties who’d worked for NYPD before taking early retirement, was covering the middle of the warehouse with quick, efficient sweeps of his flashlight. He’d actually taught me quite a bit about processing a scene. A lot of our guys didn’t pay much attention to him, but once I figured out how much experience he’d gotten working in New York I started listening to him and asking questions. Knowing I’d pay attention to what he had to say, he’d throw me advice whenever he could.

  Marcus and I were almost halfway done when Shantel yelled out, “Got something!”

  She was standing near an old loading bay. As Marcus and I drew closer we could see she was standing on one side of the bay door. There were some pipes running down the wall nearby. She was shining her light at a spot on the floor.

  “A drain and a faucet,” Shantel said proudly. “Bet he chopped that man’s fingers off and smashed his face right here.”

  I walked over to the wall and inspected the faucet. There was a little drop of moisture at the lip.

  “Don’t touch that. There might be some evidence there.” Shantel couldn’t resist being a smartass and getting back at me for earlier.

  “Don’t you know this is the sheriff’s son? Investigatin’ is in his blood,” Marcus said, joining Shantel in ribbing me.

  I pointed my flashlight at him. “Don’t you start, or I’ll have you standing in a cold warehouse collecting evidence all night. Oh wait, I’m going to do that anyway.”

  “Yay,” Shantel said with false cheer.

  “It’s going to be a bitch finding out where the trap is for that drain.” Marcus was getting serious about the job ahead of them.

  “I’ll go get some crime scene tape,” Shantel said, turning and heading back toward their van.

  I looked at my watch. It was close to two-thirty now. “We could use a couple more guys to help search the rest of the building, but we can wait until morning.” I said. “I’m going up to the jail for a bit, then I’ll be back.”

  I’d remembered Sykes telling me that they’d picked up Eddie Thompson. I might as well go talk to him. If he didn’t have anything to do with this, then he could be released. Honestly, I didn’t care why he’d run from me if it wasn’t connected to this murder.

  The jail was a separate building across the street from the sheriff’s office. Not big, but it could house about thirty prisoners in a pinch. If we got more than thirty we had to start farming them out. I went in the front and put my Glock 17 pistol and magazines in a locker.

  The deputies on duty at the jail always looked forlorn to me. They were assigned to the jail for various reasons. Some of them were on light duty because of injuries or illness, while others were young officers being rotated through all the different possible duties o
f a deputy. I’d spent six months there and hated every day of it. Dealing with all the drunks, addicts and badass wannabes got old real quick. Out on the street you used the jail as the place you dumped the creeps when you were tired of dealing with them. Crap rolls downhill and the jail was the bottom of a mountain.

  I was waiting in the interview room when they brought Eddie in. A tall man in his late twenties, he sat down in the chair across from me. Since I’d only requested that he be brought in for questioning, he wasn’t handcuffed and they’d been keeping him in a comparatively comfortable private holding cell. His running had been a weak probable cause to bring him in, but luckily he hadn’t lawyered up.

  “I know who you are,” he said. The guard who brought him in left and closed the door.

  “Good for you. I know who you are too. Guess we’re two well-informed people.” I took out my notepad and set it on the table.

  “Don’t they record all of this?” he asked. His hair was long and black, contrasting oddly with his blue eyes. I could see the Thompson in him. He had the long face and Roman nose of the family patriarch, Daniel Thompson, who had been Calhoun’s fire chief for many years until he retired.

  “I’m not recording this interview.”

  He narrowed his eyes and his brow furrowed as he tried to decide if he could trust me or not.

  “Why did you run when I came to AmMex on Tuesday?”

  “I was wearing black lace underwear and thought you might arrest me.”

  For a minute I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. And then I was sure that I hadn’t. “What?”

  “You heard me,” he said quietly, not quite meeting my eyes.

  “What did you think I might arrest you for?”

  “Who the hell knows? But that’s what you all do.”

  “I don’t have time for this bullshit.” I decided to leave the lace panties alone.