Tales from Stool 17; Dark Days of Judgment: The Nigel Logan Stories (3)

by Kirk Jockell

  Nigel stopped and put the truck in park. He sat still there for a few beats and watched the sheriff through his rearview mirror. He was standing there, waiting next to his vehicle. Nigel could tell by his posture and the hour of the visit, this wasn’t a social call. Nigel swallowed and got out of the truck.

  Neither one of them said a word as Nigel leaned up against the fender to join the sheriff. They both stared ahead with their arms crossed. After a few moments, Sheriff Watts asked, “So, is there anything you need to tell me, Nigel?”

  Nigel said nothing.

  Sheriff Watts continued, “I got a call tonight. The one I took at the table. It was from my good friend Lamar Williamson. He’s the sheriff of Franklin County...” Sheriff Watts paused to see if Nigel would volunteer anything.

  Nigel stood quiet.

  “Sheriff Williamson is investigating a rather bizarre situation that occurred in Tate’s Hell. An abandoned vehicle was found and a search of the area discovered a handgun and some other disturbing things.”

  Sheriff Watts didn’t want to say too much, so he didn’t mention the various body parts that had been found scattered about the surrounding woods. They both stood there in the dark: quiet and thinking. The sheriff’s brain raced in one direction, while Nigel’s flew in another.

  “It seems Lamar is having a hard time pulling all the pieces together. He’s kind of stumped and feels like you might be able to help fill in some of the blanks.” He let that cook in Nigel’s mind before saying, “Nigel, I like you. You seem like a stand-up kind of guy. So ... I’ll ask you again. Is there anything you need to tell me?”

  Nigel stood up, faced the sheriff and asked, “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Sheriff Watts thought about it a bit and said, “I guess that all depends. You probably will when you speak with Sheriff Williamson, but not tonight. It’s late and I just want to chat about it.”

  Nigel said, “Come inside. I need a drink.”

  Nigel held up the bottle of Four Roses Single Barrel and said, “Sheriff?”

  Sitting on the couch, he threw up a hand and said, “No thanks. I can’t.”

  Nigel said, “Bullshit. I hate to drink alone and a little snort isn’t going to kill you. And besides, we’re just chatting, right? It’s not like this is an official visit.”

  “Okay. Just a little.”

  Nigel pulled down a jigger and two old-fashioned glasses from the cupboard. He poured a full shot glass and a splash for the sheriff and a four-finger long pour for himself.

  Nigel handed him his whiskey and took a seat, saying, “So ... I guess it’s safe to assume that, if they had enough, there would already be a warrant for my arrest?”

  “Right now they just want to talk to you. You are currently just a person of interest.”

  Nigel took a deep sip and said, “Yeah, I already know how that feels.”

  The sheriff picked up his own shot glass and before taking a small sip said, “Uh huh. I was shocked to learn that myself. I wouldn’t have suspected.”

  Nigel wasn’t sure how much the sheriff knew, but it was obvious. He knew enough about Virginia and Nigel’s difficulties with the Terrance Lundsford murder. If he didn’t know everything, it wouldn’t be long before did.

  Sheriff Watts pulled a folded picture out of his shirt pocket and spread it out on the coffee table. The picture showed an old, purple Buick 225. The driver’s side door was open, as was the trunk. “The vehicle is registered to a James V. Waters. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Nigel was shaking his head no as he studied the picture. He concentrated mostly on the big trunk where he had been stowed for the ride. Till now, he had no idea what kind of car had taken him to Tate’s Hell. It had been so dark, and it could have been any trunk of any big vehicle as far as Nigel knew. But as he stared at the picture, his brow began to furrow. “Wait a minute,” said Nigel. “I remember seeing that car. It was behind me in traffic. It must have been following me that day.” He looked up and continued, “...to the marina.”

  “So, you admit to being there?”

  “Yeah. But it wasn’t by my choice. They took me out there in the fucking trunk.”

  Sheriff Watts threw back the rest of his bourbon. He set the glass down and said, “Damn, you got good whiskey.”

  Nigel said nothing.

  The sheriff stood and said, “That’s enough for now. It’s late. I’ll let Lamar know that you’ll speak with him about this tomorrow. Does that sound alright?”

  Nigel nodded his head.

  “Meet us at the county building. Let’s say, around eleven. We can grab an empty room at the clerk’s office. Sound okay?”

  Again, Nigel nodded his head and took another drink.

  As Sheriff Watts started to leave, he said, “Keep your seat. I can show myself out. Thanks for the drink, and you may want to go ahead and line up an attorney.”

  “Thanks, but I won’t need one.”

  Sheriff Watts stopped and turned around. “And why is that?”

  “Because, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  The sheriff headed for the door and said, “I hope not. I like you a lot, Nigel Logan.”

  A few minutes later he heard the swing and slam of the pet door. He looked up to find Tom, his cat, sitting and staring at him. “Don’t look at me like that, dammit.” Tom ran and jumped into his lap.

  Nigel arrived fifteen minutes early and waited in his truck. It was quiet in the cab. It was a good thinking-quiet. He had done a lot of that since waking from his three-and-a-half-hour sleep.

  The events of that day in Tate’s Hell ran through his mind. He had to sort through what he should disclose and the details he should exclude. He decided to go through the events one last time. He closed his eyes and thought. First the ambush, then the sight of Tom unconscious with blood oozing from his nose and ears. Then everything went black and he woke up in the trunk of a car, bound by duct tape. He remembered the pain from the beating he took, how his head throbbed with every heartbeat.

  Nigel thought about the several stops, the ones he can remember anyway. Many of the details were still so fuzzy. He had taken quite the beating. Then the quiet and his train of thought came to an abrupt end. His thoughts and memory were replaced by the signature guitar riffs of Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water. He opened his eyes and turned his head toward the music. It was Red, his Ford Exploder pulled alongside. Red sat in the car and let the song finish. Before Red shut down the SUV, Nigel heard the voice of Oyster Radio’s Michael Allen say, “Now, let’s take a look at your weather.” Red joined Nigel in his truck.

  Red slammed the truck door and said, “Morning, buddy.”

  “Just Morning, not even a Good Morning, Red?”

  “Well,” Red said, “given the circumstances, I figured I’d let you fill in the blank there.”

  “Thanks! It certainly is morning. You got that part right.”

  “Are you ready?”

  Nigel gave the question brief consideration and said, “Yeah. Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  They approached the security checkpoint. Sheriff Watts was waiting for them on the other side. They emptied their pockets to go through the metal detector. Nigel walked straight through and got the green light. Red was still taking off his belt.

  Sheriff Watts stepped up and shook his hand. “Good morning, Nigel.”

  “Good morning, Sheriff.”

  Then the sheriff said, nodding toward Red, “I thought I said it would be a good idea to bring a lawyer? Why’s he here?”

  “And I told you I didn’t need one. It was Red that drove out to Tate’s Hell and picked me up. I figured Sheriff Williamson might...”

  Sheriff Watts and Nigel were interrupted as Red walked through the gate and was greeted by red lights and alarms. A young deputy taking his duties very seriously, especially with his boss looking on, stepped forward and asked, “Is everything out of your pockets?”

  Red did a quick pat down and said, “Yeah. It seems so.”<
br />
  The deputy took out his metal detecting wand and said, “Spread your arms and legs out.”

  Red did as he was told and the deputy started at the legs and moved the wand around. Nothing there. Then he started at his wrists and checked his arms. As the deputy checked his chest, the wand screeched a warning. The deputy was able to isolate an area around Red’s left breast pocket moving the wand back and forth. The deputy stepped back and said, “What do we have here?”

  “An old battle injury,” said Red. “A bullet lodged next to my heart, too risky to operate. Got it during the Korean War.”

  Nigel said, “Red, you would have been what? Like nine or ten during the Korean War.”

  Red looked at the deputy and said, “Okay, maybe it was Vietnam.”

  “Red! Would you please quit screwing around?” Nigel looked at Sheriff Watts and said, “Maybe bringing him wasn’t such a good idea.”

  The sheriff answered with a grin and raised eyebrows.

  Once Red removed the quarter from his pocket, they were able to proceed.

  Sheriff Watts led them into a conference room with a large table. A man in uniform stood and Nigel went directly to him with an outstretch hand, “Sheriff Williamson, I presume?”

  The sheriff reached out and nodded as they shook hands. “And I assume you are Mr. Logan?”

  “That would be correct. Please, call me Nigel.”

  Nigel and Sheriff Williamson were the only ones in need of introductions. Since Red runs a D.U.I. school in Port St. Joe, he already knew all the other players in the room.

  Williamson looked at Red and acknowledged him saying, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here this morning.”

  Watts injected, “According to Nigel, it seems Red is mildly involved.”

  “Involved,” Nigel said, “is too strong a word. Red isn’t involved at all. I called him first chance I got. He merely came and picked me up off the side of the road.”

  Sheriff Williamson said, “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Nigel, what do you say we both grab a chair and talk.” Nigel took a seat directly across from him. Williamson looked at Watts and said, “Sheriff, would you take Red in another room and gather his statement?”

  Red and Sheriff Watts left and shut the door.

  In the beginning there was some awkward silence, then Sheriff Williamson started things by saying, “Well ... thank you for agreeing to meet with me today. This entire investigation has been quite disturbing. I’m hoping you can fill in some of the gaps.”

  “I’m curious. How did you find me?”

  Sheriff Williamson thought about it for a few seconds and said, “DNA. We found your DNA in the vehicle. Ran it through the database and found a match.”

  “I’m still curious. DNA from what?”

  The sheriff didn’t say anything.

  “Come on,” Nigel insisted with a slight sound of aggravation in his voice. “I’m here, ain’t I? You want me to fill in a few holes? Fill in a few of mine.”

  “Hairs,” the sheriff said. “Hairs in the trunk. We found loose samples scattered about plus matching samples attached to a few wads of duct tape.”

  “So, you figured someone was in the trunk, right?”

  “It seemed a logical assumption.”

  “Well,” Nigel said, sarcasm pouring from his lips. “You can drop the assumption. It was me.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “In a minute. One more thing first.” Nigel saw some impatience seep through the sheriff’s expressions, so he backpedaled a little. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. You’re just trying to do your job. I just want to know how you knew I was in Port St. Joe. But you don’t have to answer that. We both know how you found me.”

  “Nigel, I can’t help you if you don’t help me. I need to know what happened and it seems you are the only one that has any answers.”

  “Sheriff Williamson ... don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t need your help.”

  They stared across the table at each other in silence. It was a moment of understanding and appreciation for each other, both sides only wanting the truth. After a few moments, Sheriff Williamson put his pen down and said, “Fair enough. No offense taken. Just do me a favor and help me.”

  It was small, but a thin smile stretched across Nigel’s face for the first time, and he said, “I’ll try, but much of it is still pretty foggy.”

  The sheriff said nothing.

  “It was early evening. I arrived home after sailing. That’s when this big guy ambushed me. I never had a chance.”

  “What day was this?”

  Nigel thought for a few moments, shaking his head. Then a light came on. He reached for his wallet and opened it. He shuffled through several receipts until he found the one was looking for. He studied it and slapped it on the table and said, “It was the seventh. The seventh of August. I had lunch with a friend. This is the receipt where I bought barbecue.”

  Sheriff Williamson read the receipt and took notes. He looked at Nigel and said, “Paul Gant. That’s damn good barbecue.”

  They both nodded in agreement.

  “So, do you know who ambushed you?”

  “I don’t know. Never seen them before. He hit me so hard the first time that I could never recover to defend myself. He just kept coming after me. He pounded my head into the floor until I was out. I thought I was dead for sure.”

  The memory of that moment brought back the clear image of his cat motionless on the floor. He lowered his eyes to look at the table. His hatred for those two returned, and he was doing his best to contain his anger. But it wasn’t enough.

  “I see it upsets you to think about,” said the sheriff.

  Nigel looked up and glared into the sheriff’s eyes and replied, “The sons of bitches tried to kill me. I think I have the right to be upset.”

  The sheriff nodded and waited with patience, giving Nigel time to collect himself. After a while, he coaxed. “What do you remember next?”

  “Waking up in the trunk of a car, hot, sweating, and bouncing down the road. They had bound my wrists behind my back and bound my ankles. They used duct tape. My head ached so bad, it hurt to think.” He stopped to collect more thoughts and continued genuinely, “There isn’t much I remember about the ride. I was concentrating on getting out.”

  “Do you remember any stops?”

  “I remember one.” His eyes opened wider and he said, “No ... it was two. Two stops along the way.”

  “I should have asked this earlier, but do you remember how many were in the car?”

  “There were only two that I saw once I got free.” Then he paused for a minute and said, “But ... I half expected three.”

  “Why three?” asked the sheriff.

  “Because on one of those stops I remember hearing a lot of discussion outside the car. I tried to listen, but couldn’t make out much. Then, when they got back in the car, I heard and felt three doors slam.”

  Williamson finished up some notes and said, “Let’s take a break. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

  “Coffee sounds good.”

  Sheriff Watts was talking to Red in the hall when they noticed Williamson come out of the room. Watts excused himself to join him. When he walked up, Williamson was already on the phone with someone.

  “Yes ... that’s what I said. Every piece of surveillance video available. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “How’s it going in there, Lamar?” asked Watts.

  “I don’t know, Mark. I just ordered my guys to collect any and all security video along Highway 98 from local businesses. That might tell us something.” Pointing down the hall with his head, he said, “How’s it going with Red?”

  “Ah, nothing much there. He’s telling it pretty straight. Say’s Nigel called him up in the middle of the night and needed a ride. Red found him walking on the side of the road. Says Nigel was a mess, looked like hell. He just got in the car and didn’t say anything the whole way home.”

  “Do you b
elieve him?” asked Williamson.”

  “I don’t have any reason not to.”

  “Well ... we should look at his phone records, just to be sure.”

  Sheriff Watts pulled out his note pad and said, “Red showed me his phone and the incoming call. But the thing is, it didn’t come from Nigel’s phone.” He tore out the page where he wrote down the number and handed it to Sheriff Williamson. They looked at each other. “It’s a Virginia area code. I already checked.”

  “What about afterwards? In the days following, has Logan said anything?”

  Sheriff Watts smiled and said, “Probably. But it’s hard to say. Those two are thick as thieves ... in a good way I might add. So, there is a chance that Red isn’t being fully upfront. But, he says Logan doesn’t like to talk about what happened that night.”

  Sheriff Williamson said, “Thanks, Mark.”

  Nigel was up stretching his legs when the door opened and the sheriff returned. They took their seats and Nigel began the next round of questioning. “So, do you have an idea who was involved? Who did this to me?”

  The sheriff thought about it for a few seconds, then opened a briefcase and produced two pictures. They were mug shots. He put them on the table and slid them toward Nigel so he could see them. “Do either of these men look familiar?”

  Nigel didn’t hesitate. “That’s them. Sure as shit.” He continued to stare at the pictures, then asked, “Who are they?”

  Pointing to one of the pics the sheriff said, “This one is James Victor Waters. It was his car we found.”

  Nigel studied the shot. It showed a large bald head, eyes full of anger and contempt. A vein bulged across his forehead and the muscles in his neck were tight.

  Sheriff Williamson added, “He has quite a rap sheet. He’s spent a lot of time inside and is known to be violent. He’s one bad mother.”

  Nigel tapped the picture hard with his finger. “I can confirm that. He’s the one that jumped me at the house and pounded my head.”

  The sheriff moved his finger to an image of a much smaller individual. He had cornrow braids, and a smart-ass look that showed through his tilted head, half smile, and gold teeth. “This is Willie B. Anderson. He’s no stranger to trouble either. Mostly petty stuff though. His prints were all over a handgun we found.”