Down the Broken Road

by J. R. Backlund

  Rachel wanted to see the location for herself. It was on the outskirts of Monroe, a small city to the southwest, just twenty-five miles from Charlotte. Her phone said it would take two hours and forty-five minutes to get there.

  She took a quick shower and slid into a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. She decided to bring along one of her black blazers, just in case she needed to talk to anyone about the case. It always helped to look a little more professional. As she slipped on her shoes, her eyes moved to the tiny gun safe on the floor of her closet. It housed her Glock 19, a compact 9mm she hadn’t touched in several months.

  It wasn’t the gun she had used to shoot Lauren Bailey. That had been her service weapon, issued by the SBI. Nevertheless, there was something disconcerting about the thought of handling it again, of carrying it around as if she were still an agent. She left it in the safe.

  She went to the kitchen and gathered the photos and put them back in the binder. Stuffed her laptop into her briefcase and double-checked that her license, credit cards, and a bit of cash were tucked into her phone case. Then she loaded everything in the Camry and headed out.

  Her mind was on Hubbard’s murder as she maneuvered through the parking lot toward the road. She didn’t notice the black F-150 pickup sitting in a spot near the entrance. Nor did she see the man inside it, who was watching her as she passed by.

  * * *

  It was an easy drive, once Rachel cleared the rush-hour traffic on I-440. The route took her to an industrial zone on the north end of Monroe. When she reached the intersection near the mill, she spotted a convenience store on the corner, one that had figured prominently in the police investigation.

  The sign by the entrance said SHARKIE’S. Rachel guessed the store was as old as she was, though it hadn’t aged as well. A dilapidated canopy stood over an uninhabited concrete curb, the gas pumps having been removed long ago. There were stickers and painted ads covering the dirty windows, which made them nearly impossible to see through. One of the doors had a paper sign with an arrow drawn on it, a handwritten note that said THAT ONE’S BROKE. USE THIS’N INSTEAD.

  Rachel parked and went inside.

  The cashier was a teenager in a ball cap. He had a bad complexion and thin lines of facial hair that looked like they had been drawn with a black marker. He sat on a stool by the window and kept his eyes on his smartphone as Rachel walked by, went to the coolers, and picked out two cans of Monster Energy drink.

  When she stepped up to the counter, he sighed and put the phone down, rang up the total and mumbled it to her. She gave him cash and took the opportunity to look around while he dug her change out of the register drawer. There was an old monitor showing a security-camera feed overlooking the counter, another watching the aisles behind her, but nothing that showed the view outside.

  He dropped the change in her hand and then climbed back onto the stool to continue staring at his phone. Rachel considered asking him if he knew anything about the murder but decided it would be best to wait. She wanted to walk the scene first, to get a look at where it had happened before she started asking questions. And she knew he hadn’t been the one minding the store at the time anyway. The police report said the clerk working that shift was a thirty-one-year-old Hispanic male.

  She went outside and cracked open one of the cans, drank half of it as she walked over to the intersection and looked around, taking in her surroundings. There were a few old houses directly across the street, most of which looked dilapidated. To the left, a rundown strip mall had a single store selling electrical supplies, though it didn’t appear to be open. Red-lettered placards taped to the other windows begged for new tenants. A warehouse complex to the right showed the only signs of life in the vicinity. A pair of forklifts loaded tractor trailers with cellophane-wrapped boxes on pallets.

  Deputies had canvassed the area immediately after discovering the body, looking for cameras and witnesses. Aside from what they’d found inside Sharkie’s, they’d come up empty on both counts.

  Rachel turned around to look back at the parking lot and the store. Beyond it, the red facade of the mill lay dead, like the fossilized remains of some prehistoric giant. Green vines climbed its walls. The branches of a withered maple pressed against its side, piercing one of the windows.

  Things come here to die, she thought.

  According to the affidavit detectives had prepared for the arrest warrant, everything had started here in this parking lot. Hubbard and Strickland had come to the store together, in Strickland’s car. He had pulled up in front, then gone inside to buy a pack of cigarettes. Hubbard had stayed outside, where he met with his dealer to buy a bottle of Percocet. After the deal was done, Hubbard and Strickland had gone behind the store, sneaked through a hole in the chain-link fence surrounding the mill yard, and found a quiet place to divide the pills between them.

  But something had gone horribly wrong.

  Rachel went to her car, set the unopened can in the cup holder, and grabbed the crime scene sketch and the photos from the binder. She walked around to the back of the store and found the tear in the fence. She pushed against the rusty mesh to make the hole bigger and squeezed through. Then she used the sketch to orient herself as she slowly approached the mill.

  There was no sign of the violence that had taken place here. Nearly six weeks had passed, erasing all traces of it. Rachel had to rely on the photos to take her back in time. With each step, she shuffled to a new one, moving in a circle around the spot where Hubbard had died.

  A pair of teenagers had stumbled upon him. They had been passing through the mill yard, using it as a shortcut to get to and from the store, as they did almost every day. Occasionally they would explore the building, looking for a place to kill time, or maybe get high amid the rubble of red brick and rotting timbers. This time they had found a man, lying on his back with half his face battered to a pulp.

  Strickland and Hubbard had argued over the Percocet, according to the affidavit. Most likely because Strickland had thought he wasn’t getting his money’s worth. The detectives had speculated that the dealer had raised the price he was charging for each pill. Desperate for a fix, Hubbard had agreed to pay it. But that meant walking away with less than he’d originally planned. Strickland still wanted the amount he had agreed to pay for, which would’ve left Hubbard with even fewer for himself.

  That disagreement had turned into a fight. A fight Hubbard lost.

  Rachel stared at the photo of his face. Blood and bone with bits of grass and gravel and brick … it would have taken several blows to do that kind of damage. Relentless pummeling fueled by wild rage. It didn’t seem right that someone could do this over a few pills, although Rachel had seen crazier things in her career.

  A prior history of violence would help to explain it. She wondered if the detectives had discovered anything like that in Strickland’s background. If he had been known for dishing out severe beatings, it would certainly help their case. She didn’t see anything about it in the binder, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t found something. Unfortunately, she didn’t know anyone in the Union County Sheriff’s Office. If she was going to learn more about the man accused of killing Hubbard, the best place to start would be his court-appointed lawyer.

  EIGHT

  The office of Charles Dunn, Attorney at Law, was on the second floor of a rehabilitated foursquare house, just west of downtown Monroe. Rachel found him sitting at his desk, eating what looked like an egg-salad sandwich and a bag of potato chips. He was in slacks and an undershirt with a paper napkin tucked into the neckband. A jacket, tie, and pinstriped dress shirt were draped over the only other chair in the room.

  Rachel tapped on the doorjamb to get his attention. He looked up and stared for a second until he seemed to realize the state of his appearance. “Shoot … I’m sorry.” He jumped out of his chair and jogged around to clear her a seat. He tossed the jacket and tie onto a cluttered credenza, then faced away from her as he slipped his shirt on. “The AC up he
re ain’t worth a damn, but I guess I can’t complain too much. That accountant downstairs pays almost twice what I do.”

  Rachel thanked him and sat down.

  Dunn settled in behind his desk and pushed his sandwich aside. “I have to say, you’re not exactly what I was expecting when you called.”

  “I get that a lot,” she said, trying not to sound resentful. She was a brunette with deep green eyes, a square jaw, and an athletic figure. Most of the men she met found her reasonably attractive, but in the insular world of criminal justice professionals, she was all but a perfect ten. Occasionally, that could be an asset. More often than not it proved to be a hurdle.

  “So you’re here about Kyle Strickland,” he said. “You have some information for me?”

  She told him about her background as an SBI agent and her experience with the Larson investigation. How she had questioned Adam Hubbard, though nothing had come of it at the time. Then she told him how the case had ended.

  Dunn’s expression became a mixture of sympathy and awe. “That’s quite a story. How do you think Hubbard’s death fits into it?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have reason to believe that the murders are linked, and that your client may be innocent.”

  “Mind telling me what that reason is?”

  “I guess you could say I’ve received an anonymous tip.”

  “Uh-huh. And did this tipster give you anything I can use to keep my client out of prison?”

  “Afraid not. But I believe there’s something to it, and I’m committed to finding the truth.”

  He dropped against the seat back. “Well, I certainly wish you the best of luck with that.”

  “It might help if I knew Mr. Strickland’s side of the story.”

  He laughed. “I’m sure it would. But you know I can’t tell you that. Not without his permission. Hell, the only thing I’ve got going for me in this case is the fact that Kyle was smart enough to keep his mouth shut when he was arrested.”

  “You could tell me if I was working for you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The suggestion had seemed to spring from Rachel instinctively, though it made sense when she thought about it. “If I was your investigator,” she said, “you could tell me everything.”

  Dunn sat dumbstruck for a moment. “That’s true, I suppose. Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely. You want to prove your client is innocent, and I want to figure out who really killed Hubbard and Larson. Seems like a good fit.”

  “An alignment of interests, so to speak?”

  “You could say that.”

  “And if there comes a time when those interests no longer align?”

  She shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  He drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “I take it you’re licensed?”

  “I am.”

  He took a minute to consider the idea. “I should be jumping at the chance to have an ex–SBI agent on the case.”

  He pushed his chair over to the credenza, opened a drawer, and dug through it. When he rolled back, he had a one-page form in his hand. He laid it in front of her like it was a challenge. “If you’re really sure about this, all you have to do is fill that out.”

  Rachel grabbed one of the dozen or so pens standing in a black coffee mug and started writing.

  “I’ll be damned.” Dunn sat back, looking pleasantly surprised. “You know how this works, right? As far as the money goes? I can only pay you forty dollars an hour. That’s all the Office of Indigent Services will reimburse me. And I’ll have to get their approval before you start.”

  “They’ll reimburse you up to fifty.” She signed the bottom of the form and slid it toward him. “But let’s not worry about that now. I’d rather get started right away.”

  “Suit yourself.” He held the paper up and looked it over. Satisfied, he set it down on the corner of his desk, cleared his throat, and said, “Kyle claims he had nothing to do with Adam Hubbard’s death. He says they were friends and that he never would have hurt him.

  “On the day of the murder, he gave Hubbard a ride to Sharkie’s convenience store and left him there. Supposedly, Hubbard was expecting to meet someone, but he wouldn’t tell Kyle who it was. He says Hubbard told him he would order an Uber to get home. Kyle went in to buy a pack of cigarettes, and when he came back out to leave, he saw Hubbard standing by himself near the corner of the building, watching the road. That’s the last time he saw him.”

  Rachel thought for a moment, comparing that story with the narrative from the sheriff’s office and her own tour of the crime scene. “Do you believe him?”

  “Isn’t it my job to?”

  “It’s your job to tell everybody else that you do. You and I have to be honest with each other.”

  The corners of Dunn’s mouth hinted a smile. “Well, to answer your question, I do believe him. For the most part. I assume you’ll want to talk to him yourself?”

  “Eventually. I want to get as much background as I can first. You said, ‘For the most part.’ Do you think he’s hiding something?”

  “Maybe. The sheriff’s office thinks Kyle killed Hubbard during a fight over some pills, like he was desperate for a fix. There’s no doubt, Kyle’s an addict, but he says he was working on getting clean. He swears he was completely off oxy for more than a week before the murder. The problem is, it’s going to be hard to prove that. We’re waiting for enough time to pass so we can test one of his hairs. The test can detect opioids for up to ninety days, so we gotta get the timing just right. We need to make sure it’s been more than ninety days since he quit but less than ninety days since Hubbard was killed.”

  “Even then,” she said, “that doesn’t prove he wasn’t itching to get back on them.”

  “That’s true.” He spun his chair and gazed out the window. “It also doesn’t stop the DA from attacking the accuracy of the test. But what really worries me is what’ll happen if the test comes back positive. You ever tried defending an addict before?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “I think it’s highly unlikely that Kyle’s as clean as he says he is. On top of that, the sheriff’s detectives are out there right now looking for a witness to shore up their narrative. One way or another, they’ll find someone who remembers seeing him using when he says he wasn’t, even if he is telling the truth.”

  Rachel was immediately offended by the implication, a knee-jerk reaction, though she couldn’t deny that it was possible. “Is there any other way to demonstrate that Kyle was trying to get clean?”

  “Oh yeah. He was a regular over at the local drug clinic. The Monroe Outpatient Treatment Center. As a matter of fact, that’s where he met Hubbard.”

  “Hubbard was a patient too?”

  “Yep.”

  She took her steno pad and pen from the pocket inside her blazer and made a note. “I have to admit, it’s not the strongest defense I’ve ever heard.”

  “It gets worse,” he said. “Just wait till you hear what they found in Kyle’s house.”

  Rachel recalled the inventory from the binder, the detailed list of what detectives had seized when they’d executed the search warrant on Strickland’s house. There were six items altogether, the most interesting of which had been discovered in a trash can in the corner of his garage. “The shirt?”

  Dunn turned to face her. “I guess you’ve been down to the courthouse.”

  She didn’t respond, deciding it was best not to tell him who had given her the binder.

  “That damn shirt,” he said, “has Adam Hubbard’s blood all over it.”

  “How do you know it’s Hubbard’s?”

  “Kyle told me it was. He says Hubbard was helping him replace some shingles on his roof and cut his forearm. Kyle handed him an old T-shirt to stop the bleeding and just threw it away after Hubbard left. Didn’t think anything of it when it happened. Completely forgot it was even there. At least, that’s what he tells me.”

 
; “That’s unfortunate,” she said.

  “That’s one way to put it.” Dunn leaned forward, put his elbows on his desk, and laced his fingers together. “What was the other guy’s name again? The one who died last year in Wendell?”

  “Tyler Larson.”

  “Larson,” he said, like he was trying to commit it to memory. “Well, Miss Carver, let me put it like this. My goal right now is to keep Kyle off death row. The DA’s gonna treat this like a capital case. I’m sure of it. Even if it was just a fight that got out of hand. They’ll try to say Kyle planned to kill him all along so he could have all the pills to himself. They’ll wave the needle around to scare us into a deal. And unless something changes, I’ll probably do everything I can to convince Kyle to take it. In other words, I really hope you’re right about the connection between Hubbard and this Larson fella. ’Cause it’s about the only chance Kyle has of seeing another day of freedom in his life.”

  NINE

  Rachel had spent the last few minutes of her meeting with Dunn staring at his sandwich. She didn’t mind being hungry, but the caffeine was wearing off, and that was unacceptable. She pulled away from the foursquare and found herself cruising through downtown a minute later.

  Once the center of commerce for the county, Monroe had suffered years of decline, much of it due to a steady drain of economic resources to nearby Charlotte. But now the money was starting to come back. Suburbanites were fleeing the congestion of the largest city in the state, searching for a smaller community to call home. And the City Council appeared to be doing its best to attract them.

  The downtown area was in the midst of a revitalization campaign. The signs on the streetlamps said so, as did the new blacktop and the facelifts given to the facades lining Main Street. Buildings from a bygone era repurposed to accommodate new tenants.

  Rachel’s eyes caught one as she passed it looking for food. A large hardware store that was being split down the middle. The signs out front promised that a boutique clothing outlet and an Italian restaurant would be opening in less than a month. A poster on a window offered second-floor luxury condos for sale or for rent. A block away, Rachel found a pizza parlor situated on the corner and parked in the shadow of a bulbous oak.