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

by Kirk Jockell

  The driver lowered the camera to see the Bronco on the move. It was charging across the lawn. It was still accelerating when it jumped the curb. The Bronco was headed right toward the Crown Vic. At the last moment, Logan stood on its brakes, the wheels stopped turning and the tires squealed as it came to a stop inches from the Crown Vic. He blocked the Vic from moving forward. As Logan jumped out of the Bronco, the driver pulled her service weapon and held it in her lap.

  With a brisk pace, Logan approached the driver clearly showing his open palms: unarmed. When he reached the window, Logan grabbed the car door with both hands. “Who are you: Moe, Shemp, or Curly?” He noticed the Glock in the detective’s lap. “What do you plan to do with that? Shoot an innocent unarmed man?”

  The detective said nothing. She was under strict orders to observe only and not to engage the suspect.

  “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and call you, Moe. Moe, I need for you to pass along a message to Larry.”

  “Larry? Larry Anderson?”

  “Keep playing stupid and I’ll start calling you Curly. Got it?”

  Moe said nothing.

  “Tell Larry to leave the girl alone and to do it now.”

  The detective maintained eye contact and placed the Glock on the passenger seat and felt around until she found her cell phone. She brought it to her ear and said, “Did you hear that?”

  The voice on the other end said, “Put him on.”

  The detective handed the phone to Logan and said, “Tell him yourself.”

  Logan took the phone. “Thanks, Moe.”

  He stepped away from the Vic for some privacy. Not that it mattered; he knew the conversation was being recorded. “Larry. I don’t know what kind of shit you are trying to pull, but leave Grace Matthews alone. Do you hear me?”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Logan?”

  “It’s a goddamn demand, asshole.”

  “Oh, I hear you … but I don’t think I can acquiesce. You see, I have good reason to believe Ms. Matthews knows more about the Lundsford murder than she lets on. I can’t even rule out her being an accomplice. Hell, she may even be the killer.”

  “That, Larry, is impossible.”

  “No, it’s not. None of it is. She was there, Logan. She was definitely there at the bar the night he was murdered. She was one of the last people to see him alive and she failed to mention that during our interviews with her.”

  “Leave her alone, detective. She had nothing to do with this.”

  “You seem mighty sure of yourself. Why is that, Chief?”

  Logan said nothing.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Leave her alone. I’m telling you. I swear, if you don’t…”

  “Nice touch, but I can’t do it, Logan. She was there. She had motive. She’s a suspect now. I have to bring her in for more questioning. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Detective, you’re playing games. I hate games. You and I both know...” Logan let the rest fall away.

  “We both know what?”

  “We both know ... you’re bluffing.”

  “Don’t bet on it, Logan.”

  If District Attorney James needed something new, then Detective Anderson wasn’t going to hesitate. As soon as he got back to his desk he pulled that old familiar file. Scanned over the old material again, like he has so often before, but this time thinking New … Something new. What am I missing? With a green light to pursue Logan, he did so with renewed energy. Another detective, a rookie named Sammy Lott, was assigned to assist. The same detective that would later get caught tailing Logan to a morning meeting with Grace Matthews and then later to the location of one full-sized Bronco.

  Detective Lott was small, but tough. She was also smart, which Anderson appreciated. Her serious, business-like deportment hid the fact that she was much prettier than she appeared. She is single and lives alone with her brown Labrador named Butch and a stray cat she hasn’t named yet.

  While Anderson poured over the notes from the investigation, he had Lott review all the surveillance video that had been captured as part of the original investigation. This is where her smarts and savvy with technology proved beneficial.

  She began with the video that captured everyone as they entered the nightclub. She let the video run in real time. The bottom right corner of the video displayed the time of day that the footage was captured. She began reviewing the footage about an hour prior to when the club opened its doors. It would be hours of coverage, but she was prepared. She sipped on a Monster energy drink and sat back to watch the screen.

  Scattered about his desk, Anderson had various reports and transcripts staring up at him. In his hand was the initial interview with Logan; he was reading it, again for probably the hundredth time. His eyes were always drawn to Logan’s final words. Anderson had underlined them with pens and pencils several times over the years. He would underline them again on this day. I did nothing wrong.

  He put the transcript down and pulled the police report where Logan had reported his weapon stolen. The report was dated six weeks before the same weapon was used to take the life of Terrance “T-Daddy” Lundsford. It detailed the events leading up to the discovery of the theft from Logan’s pickup truck at a local thrift store parking lot.

  The report showed and confirmed that Logan had checked his handgun out of the base armory for range shooting at a private gun club in Virginia Beach. The firing range records and eyewitness accounts verified Logan’s arrival and use of the facility.

  During Logan’s drive back to the base, he stopped at a large chain sporting goods store on Military Highway where receipts confirmed the purchase of two boxes of 9mm ammunition and one bottle of gun oil. He later met a female companion (Kim Tillman) for dinner at a popular Mexican restaurant called Fat Sombrero. Due to the crowded parking lot, Logan parked his truck next door at Karen’s Consignments, a local thrift store that was closed at the time.

  Upon returning to his truck, Logan noticed the glove box open, papers scattered about, and the weapon and ammunition missing, along with an unknown amount of small bills and change from the center console. He called the authorities immediately. The thrift store had no security cameras and those from the restaurant did not cover the adjacent parking lots.

  Anderson slung the report down on the desk and said aloud to himself, “It means nothing.”

  “What means nothing?

  Anderson looked up to find Lott standing at his cubicle. He grabbed the report again, held it up, and said, “This!”

  “That might not mean anything,” said Lott, “but what I found might mean everything in the world.”

  In an instant, she had his full attention.

  Anderson stood behind Lott and watched over her shoulder as she sat at the terminal. She said, “This is footage of folks coming and going from the night club.”

  “I see that,” Anderson replied in an impatient tone. “Get on with it. What do you have?”

  She rolled the footage and pointed to someone approaching the bouncer at the door checking identification. When the person got close enough, Lott stopped the footage. The person’s face was framed in a green square with a caption underneath identifying the face. Anderson said, “Son of a bitch. Look what we have here.” He laughed and pumped a fist. “Yes!”

  Lott said, “Hello, Miss Matthews.”

  “Why wasn’t this found before?” asked Anderson.

  “You probably weren’t even using facial recognition then,” said Lott. “And, if you were, it would have been limited in its effectiveness. Thanks to social media and the wide availability of photos online, the FBI has been able to expand and update its availability of profiles in its database.”

  “This is awesome,” he said. “Are there any more?”

  “This is it, so far. I haven’t even started with the footage inside and what was captured by other surrounding cameras.”

  Anderson patted her on the back and said, “Great work, Sam. Keep looking.�
�

  District Attorney Patrick James was enjoying his morning coffee and reading the paper. He liked starting with the sports section and working his way to the more serious front-page stuff. The local community section he skipped altogether as it mostly contained human interest stories with little to no relevant news value. Plus, there were all those recipes he would never use and the church announcements he felt he didn’t need. The commentary section he saved for last.

  There would always be at least two guest contributors with substantive content and the Letters to the Editor could prove to be pointless or informative, either of which created some level of entertainment value. He felt it was a good way to end his morning reading ritual.

  James poured what was left of his pot of coffee into his cup and sat back down to the paper. He turned the page and waved the paper in the air and folding the section back on itself. There were only two guest columnists today.

  One article served as a congratulatory message to the leadership within the City of Norfolk. It had to do with their decision to move forward with a rehabilitation and revitalization of the Waterside District, the festival market along the Elizabeth River waterfront. It was written by a prior city commissioner who had played a role in the original development of the community project.

  In its heyday, it was quite the attraction. It was marked by good places to eat, fun places to shop, plenty of slippage for transient cruisers, and a large green space with an amphitheater stage for musical acts and the occasional movie on the lawn. It was fun and family-friendly, until it was discovered by the city’s undesirables.

  A new element moved in and used the place as a hangout, creating an alternate vibe that was counterproductive for the Waterside merchants and its visitors. Before long, the anchor retailers and cornerstone restaurants vacated their spaces. Some were backfilled with new vendors, others not at all. In short, the place was ruined and no longer had the magnetic appeal that once drew huge crowds. Now, it’s with great hope that the city’s renewed interest in the waterfront parcel will see it restored to its previous state as a crown jewel of the town.

  The other article was titled My Story ... Their Story. It was written by Sherry Stone, television news reporter and occasional contributor to the newspaper. James was trying to decide if he wanted to read it. He was out of coffee and would soon need to jump in the shower and get ready for work. He glanced over the words in the article looking for anything that might pique his interest. His eyes grew to the width of golf balls when he was drawn to a couple of words typed on the page, the name: Nigel Logan.

  He spread the paper out on the kitchen table and started to read the piece. Three or four paragraphs in he stopped and said, “Shit!”

  Over the course of my career as a newsperson, I have reported on some very significant events, from groundbreaking medical advances that have profound benefits for the world, to uncovering corrupt politicians that take advantage of their power, position, and constituents. I have had the misfortune of being shouldered with the immense responsibility of reporting local tragedies. Those that involve small children are the worst. And, of course, I get to report the happier side, such as the heartwarming homecomings of our sailors as they return home from harm’s way.

  Most news is a one-way street. We deliver. You receive. There is very little reciprocating feedback when it comes to delivering the news. You have a need, or a perceived need, to know, and we have a responsibility to inform. As long as we get it right and tell the story straight, all is good. We don’t hear a peep. But, if we get it wrong, you can bet your bottom dollar our switchboards will light up like a Christmas tree. It is the nature of the business and we wouldn’t have it any other way. Luckily, we look at no news as good news, so I guess we are doing it right.

  We tell the stories of others. We are a conduit of information and detail. One that is removed from the influence of emotion and feeling, at least that is what some of us strive for. That all changes when the story you are telling is your own. It is impossible to report the events of your own life and not let the passion show up in the spoken or written words.

  Several months ago, I wrote a piece called Who really killed Terrance Lundsford? It centered on the unsolved murder investigation and prime suspect, retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, Nigel Logan.

  For those of you unfamiliar with the case, the cornerstone details are this. Lundsford was accused of the brutal rape of a young girl, Grace Matthews. The DNA evidence that would have proved his guilt was mishandled during the chain of custody and the case was thrown out.

  Logan is close to the victim’s father and family, and it is suspected he murdered Lundsford to avenge the rape of Matthews. Although it was a bullet from Logan’s own gun that took Lundsford’s life, the Grand Jury failed to bring down an indictment. Logan is still a free man.

  In my article, I let everyone in on a personal, deep, dark secret. I too had been raped by Lundsford. In the article, I admit to being glad Logan did what he did, if he did it.

  Some may think, as a newsperson, I shouldn’t report such personal opinions. To that I would agree, but as I have already established, this isn’t a news story. It’s my story, and I was happy to share it. As it turns out, it is also the story of several others.

  In the days and weeks after that article was published, I received phone calls from five other women that alleged being raped by Lundsford. As a newsperson, I know to be skeptical of such contact. Not everyone that responds to such an article is going to be genuine and truthful. I, however, have good reason to believe these ladies speak no lies.

  I have personally met with each. We shared our stories and experiences. It is uncanny how similar they all are. However, some have dealt with their version of history better than others. For this reason alone, it’s important that we found each other. At the recommendation of one of the women, all six of us got together. I coordinated the event and we had a wonderful lunch. Six women of varying backgrounds and personal lives, but with one common bond: Nigel Logan.

  Despite our horrific experiences, we found that it wasn’t Lundsford that brought us together, but the man, Nigel Logan. It was because of Nigel Logan that I wrote that article. And that article, in turn, allowed the six of us to find each other. Together, we find that a blessing, as we support and help each other heal. But our real blessing is Nigel Logan, for it was he who destroyed the monster of our past, that creature that always seemed to live under our beds. Lundsford is dead, and we take great comfort in that.

  “So much for discretion,” said the DA. He finished his cup of coffee and shook his head. The last thing he wanted was pro-Logan publicity floating around in the news. And the timing of the article didn’t come without suspicion. Had Stone thought it newsworthy to mention these other five women, why hadn’t she done it before? Why now? He concluded she knows about the investigation, and the new article was no coincidence. It was a strategic measure to remind the public that Terrance “T-Daddy” Lundsford was a genuine piece of shit. Damn!

  Detective Anderson was driving to the station when his cell phone rang. He looked at the screen. It was the station calling. He answered, “Anderson.” The next thing he heard was the voice of his boss.

  “The DA isn’t very happy this morning. Have you seen the paper?”

  Anderson didn’t care too much and said, “The DA isn’t happy because he hasn’t spoken to me yet. He wanted something new. I got it.”

  Anderson rolled his own eyes back into his sockets, embarrassed to himself that he sounded like he was taking all the credit. Then he added, “Lott found something in the surveillance video footage. I’ll be there in fifteen mikes.”

  At 0400 Nigel’s eyes opened wide. He felt well rested as he continued to lie on the couch. Stone’s couch was actually very comfortable. The room was dark except for the subtle nightlights that glowed here and there.

  He had been dreaming. He couldn’t piece together about what, but he knew it contained Candice. She was the first thing to pop
into his mind after his eyes opened. He missed her. And while thoughts of her made him happy, the thoughts of never seeing her again weighed heavy on his heart. He reached for the coffee table and found his phone. He texted a quick message: Love and miss you!

  Nigel had no idea what the coming days, or even hours, would bring. All he knew was, he needed time to think, and he couldn’t do that under the same roof with Sherry Stone. She was too much of a distraction, a pleasant but unproductive distraction. He needed a drive or a beach, or better ... both.

  He put a lid on a huge Tervis tumbler he borrowed from Stone’s cabinet after filling it with fresh coffee and headed for the door. He slipped out while Stone clutched at her pillow as she dreamt of him. Her eyes drew tighter, then opened briefly as the roar of the Bronco fired up on the street. She smiled and closed her eyes in hopes of picking up her dream where it left off.

  Nigel knew just where he wanted to go. He wanted a sunrise off a North Carolina shore. With empty streets and a press on the accelerator, he just might make it to the Outer Banks in time. The Bronco rumbled through and out of town. Soon after crossing into Carolina, his phone bonged and the screen lit up. He grabbed his phone. It was a text from Candice. He opened the screen and smiled at the single emoticon, a red heart.

  As Nigel crossed the Wright Memorial Bridge on Highway 158, he could see the sky warming as the day over the Atlantic worked its way west. As he rolled into Kitty Hawk, he had to make a choice: Stay on Highway 158 and roll south toward Nags Head, or head north on State Road 12 toward Duck and Corolla. Staying in Kitty Hawk wasn’t an option. He wanted to drive on the beach and there was no beach access in Kitty Hawk. He didn’t hesitate and made a left toward Corolla.

  The beach access at Corolla is pretty easy to find, you just keep driving and the State Road 12 pavement will end. If you keep driving, you’ll plow right into the waves.

  As the asphalt gave way to sand, the night gave way to the sun. He made it. He drove down the beach and found a quick place to park. He got out of the Bronco to watch. The sky was clear and free of clouds. The big star had not yet breached the horizon, but its influence caused the sea to boil red. In the moments before showing itself, the water closest to the sun will seem to catch fire. This is known as civil twilight. Nigel’s favorite phase. It moved as slow as a clock, but Nigel didn’t mind. He didn’t want it to end. Take your time now. There is no hurry.