by Rick Outzen
“I can’t stay here with you too long or my bosses will think I am sharing privileged information,” Razor said.
“Will you?”
He laughed and shook his head no. “I’m walking back to the church. Frost is driving off. You should be safe.”
“Why are you here?” I asked.
He said, “This could be linked to my operation.”
And Tyndall walked away.
I drove the speed limit, came to a full stop at every stoplight, and did my best not to entice law enforcement to pull me over on the way back to the office. I got to Walnut Hill in forty-five minutes. The return trip took an extra thirty minutes.
The pain was tolerable but just barely. I had left the loft in such a rush that I hadn’t thought about taking a pain pill. Covered in mud, I refused to look at myself in the car’s rearview mirror.
When I opened the door to our building, I collapsed on the first landing. How did I climb the stairs last night?
Big Boy’s tags jiggled from the office area, and Summer called after him as he ran down the stairs.
“My Lord, what happened to you? You look like you lost a fight with a mule,” Summer said as she rushed behind the dog.
“I fell into a mud puddle,” I said. I pushed the dog off me and struggled to stand.
“Let me help you.”
“Before you do anything, help me take off this shirt,” I said. “No need to get you muddy, too.”
The shirt took a few tugs and moans to remove. Summer gasped when she saw the bandages wrapped around my chest. Fortunately, they weren’t dirty. My shirt and T-shirt had absorbed all the mud and water.
“Who did this to you?” she asked. “What’s happened in the last twelve hours?”
I said, “Get me up the stairs and let me change into some fresh clothes. I’ll fill you in on the wild adventures of Walker Holmes.”
Slowly we made it up to the third floor. Summer steadied me under one arm, while I kept a grip on the railing. Big Boy led the way, occasionally looking back to make sure we were following him.
Summer refused to let me fall on the bed without her first cleaning me up with a warm washcloth. While she removed the muck, I told her about Hopjacks and the Walnut Hill incidents.
“Please, nothing to the others yet,” I said. “Give me time to tell them about it. I promise I will after I get some rest.”
Summer made sure I landed gently on the bed, gave me two pain pills, and took Big Boy with her downstairs. Exhausted, I slept without any nightmares.
I got out of bed at 11:00 a.m. and texted Harden to meet me for a late lunch. The dog came up the stairs as I finished shaving and dressed. Summer followed. With her help, I put on a fresh T-shirt and white, button-down shirt. Big Boy started drinking out of the toilet.
“Today’s deposit covers yesterday’s check to the printer and most of this week’s payroll,” she said. “Sign these checks before you go.”
“Summer, thanks,” I said. “You told the staff about Hopjacks, didn’t you?”
“Mal and Teddy already knew about it,” Summer said. “Her sister works in the ER.”
“Okay,” I said as I put my hand on her shoulder to balance while I slipped on my deck shoes. No more tying shoelaces for a few days.
She said, “I didn’t mention Walnut Hill, other than to say you drove up there early and needed to catch up on your sleep.”
“Thanks. It’s Friday. Everybody knows what to do. I’m headed to lunch with Harden.”
“Is that smart?” she asked. “You look like a strong wind could knock you down. You need rest.”
“I’ll rest later and will sleep in tomorrow, promise,” I said almost convincing myself.
Summer said, “I’ll take Big Boy home with me so you don’t have to walk him tonight and in the morning.”
Big Boy looked up from the toilet and nodded approval.
19
Driving over to Bangkok Gardens, I got a text from Gravy: “Tatum ex-bookkeeper tends bar on Saturday afternoons. Call me later.”
Bangkok Gardens was in an old Western Sizzlin’ location that went out of business when Gayfers left the nearby Town and Country Plaza. The once thriving shopping center in midtown was mostly empty. Only nail salons, wig shops, and a bingo hall remained.
The restaurant was a popular lunch spot for sheriff deputies and bus drivers since it was within walking distance of the Escambia County Area Transit bus depot, Sheriff Frost’s administration building, and “Castle Grayskull,” the county jail.
An old Asian couple owned Bangkok Gardens, although we were never sure if they were Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese, or Cambodian. The restaurant had on its walls photos of royal families and Buddhist monks. Wooden cabinets lined one wall and were filled with Hummel figurines, Franklin Mint plates, and Furbies.
The menu only had a dozen items, each served with a spring roll and a cup of broth soup with a tofu cube and slice of mushroom floating in it. The AC hardly ever worked so customers jockeyed to sit close to the oscillating fans.
“You want pad thai?” one of the owners asked as I sat across from Harden. She wore a red blouse over a black skirt.
I ordered the pad thai and two Diet Cokes because she would never think to bring a second one later. Within minutes, her husband marched out of the kitchen and handed Harden and me the Tom yum kai soup, spring roll, and sweet and sour sauce before his wife had time to deliver our drinks. The couple had worked out this routine over the years.
Harden wore a short-sleeved, light blue work shirt, navy blue khaki pants frayed around the hem, and work boots. He looked like an auto mechanic on his lunch break.
“Do you do brakes?” I asked.
“Screw you, Holmes,” he said softly so he wouldn’t be overheard by the bus drivers sitting two tables away. “You called this meeting.”
“What’s the back story on Amos Frost?”
Harden said, “Good guy, a cop’s cop. You went after him pretty hard in your article for his promotions under his brother, but the deputies liked him. You didn’t win any fans in the force with this issue.”
He continued in between spoonfuls of soup. “Amos was the kind of lieutenant that backed up his guys and gals and fought the battles that needed to be fought. He wasn’t afraid to stand up to his older brother.”
“Are we sure it was a suicide?”
He said, “Yes, he was on the phone with Sheriff Frost when he pulled the trigger.”
“Damn, any details on the conversation?”
Harden said, “Frost hasn’t shared it with any of my sources, but he might this afternoon. He has called a press conference.”
Pausing to drink his green tea, he added, “I recommend you stay away and out of sight.”
“Why? What do I have to do with his brother’s suicide?”
He said, “Sheriff Ron Frost is a coldhearted, political animal. You wounded him with your cover story, and he wants revenge, even if he does it with his brother’s death.”
“He’s covering something up,” I said. “Something about Amos’s suicide that he doesn’t want the public to know.”
He said, “Maybe, or you’re the one trying to alter the narrative. This community has had two suicides tied to your reporting. You’ve got a problem.”
“Thanks for cheering me up.” I must have winced as I leaned over my bowl.
“I heard you got your tail kicked at Hopjacks,” said Harden, who didn’t look up from his soup. “Kicking your butt is becoming a sport around here.”
“I’m still standing,” I said.
“Just barely, Holmes. You can’t keep taking these beatings.”
There was genuine concern in his voice.
I said, “I’m okay. Just need to be smarter and more aware of my surroundings.”
“Have you ever thought about carrying a gun?”
I shook my head. “No, I can’t.”
Too many thoughts of Mari popped into my head. Having a gun in the loft wasn’t a good idea
on long nights. Hell, I couldn’t be sure that Big Boy wouldn’t use it against me one night. I smiled at the thought of the dog with a gun. Not sure why I had a grin on my face, Harden moved the conversation into a different direction.
As the old man took our plates and his wife dropped off our main courses, Harden said, “You can’t mess with these people and think everyone is going to be happy. The casualties keep mounting. Nobody can survive the kind of war you’re waging. Nobody, not even Walker Holmes.”
I didn’t take the bait and spent a few minutes enjoying my pad thai. The bus drivers got up and went to pay their checks, never looking our way.
As I poured my second Diet Coke, I said, “Tell me what you know about Monte Tatum.”
Harden hardly broke stride from enjoying his meal.
“Political wannabe. Wants badly to be elected to something, anything, but afraid of the possible fallout concerning his past personal life if he files to run again.”
I asked, “What’s he afraid of?”
“His club trolling before his dad died and left him the dry cleaning business,” Harden explained. “One incident in particular. The bastard picked up some college kid one night. The coed was the mayor’s daughter and ended up having to be taken to the ER for alcohol poisoning. Tatum’s old man smoothed it over with the mayor and cops, but Tatum got banned from several night spots.”
“Really? That made our boy Monte persona non grata on the club scene?”
Harden nodded. “The mayor had a lot of friends, and the bar owners didn’t want the cops setting up DUI checkpoints near their operations.”
“There had to be more to it than that,” I said. The PI was making me work for answers.
“There was. Tatum pushed coke, not a lot, but he loved to prey on other guys’ girlfriends. He messed up several of their lives. The bartenders got tired of his melodrama and used the mayor’s daughter as an excuse to keep him out of their bars. Tatum eventually worked his way back in, but he had to tip them well for the privilege.”
“How come I didn’t hear about this during the election?” I asked.
“You’re not from Pensacola, and this place tends to take care of its own,” said Harden as he finished his red curry. “Most people see Tatum as a goofball with more money than common sense, but he still has a dark side. I once had some parents hire me to deal with him.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Tatum denied everything,” said Harden, “but he left the girl alone after we had our little talk. Much of this was years ago. I haven’t heard of any recent incidents. He has tried to become respectable.”
I asked, “And owning a bar makes him respectable?”
“Well I did say he has no common sense.”
“Ask around,” I said. “See if there are any problems arising from the bar he owns.”
“What does this have to do with the Hines case?” Harden asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Holmes, you’re starting to run up a mighty big tab.”
“I know, but I’m good for it.”
Harden said, “Only if you’re alive.”
No shit.
20
Sheriff Ron Frost’s press conferences were private, invitation-only affairs. He invited only select newspaper, television, and radio reporters. Held in a Castle Grayskull room that was only slightly bigger than a walk-in closet, Frost dominated the setting. A few reporters had complained that the chairs were lower than standard chairs so that the sheriff could seem even taller and more imposing than he was. Their complaints fell on deaf ears.
I had never received an invitation and never wanted to visit the Castle. Too many chances I might not find the way back out.
The press conference led the six o’clock news. The camera showed Frost flanked by his leadership team.
“My brother, Lieutenant Amos Frost, was a troubled man,” he said. “The pressures of the job can wear on a man, and my brother took the responsibilities of his job very seriously.”
A Herald reporter asked the sheriff about his last phone conversation with his brother.
“He had recently separated from his wife and was tired after working nearly thirty-six hours without sleep on a special investigation. Then this article by Walker Holmes came out, questioning his character and professionalism. He offered to resign if I thought it hurt the sheriff’s office or me,” he added. “I told Amos to stop talking such foolishness and come into the office. I thought I had him settled down, and then the phone went dead.”
Frost appeared to be fighting back tears. He paused and gathered himself.
“We must do something about the sleazy tabloid journalism in this town,” Frost said addressing the reporters in the room. “Over a span of two weeks, we have had two suicides because of Walker Holmes and his Pensacola Insider. The man is a menace.”
The sheriff paused to let the words sink in. “Holmes hides behind freedom of the press and ruins lives and destroys this community. It’s time the law-abiding, Christian people of this county put this man out of business.”
I took two pain pills and went to sleep while I was thinking about the time I finally met Mari’s family.
Bringing your boyfriend or girlfriend home to meet your family was an Ole Miss tradition. No relationship was considered serious until that happened. Mari passed the test with my family effortlessly. Her dry sense of humor won over my dad, and her manners impressed my mom. When my younger brothers pranked her, Mari not only laughed it off, she pranked them back.
My family was easy. Mari’s would be a different story. She hadn’t brought many boyfriends home to meet her family—only two during her first two years at Ole Miss. The Rebel football player she dated before meeting me never was introduced to her family. There was a good reason. Mari’s father was a lifelong LSU season ticket holder for football, basketball, and baseball, and the boy wasn’t worth the headache it would have caused Mari.
She had chosen a different path, forgoing the Bengal Tigers for the red and blue Ole Miss Rebels. Her parents supported their only child and defended her choice to her grandparents, aunts, and uncles. But their love for Mari didn’t make it easier for the hated Ole Miss boys brought to Eunice, a little Louisiana town in the heart of the Cajun plains between Lafayette and Lake Charles.
Mari wouldn’t tell me much about her family. She said it would have given me an unfair advantage. This was a test, and she wouldn’t let me cheat.
The Gaudet family was old school. College boyfriends did not sleep under their roof with the daughter in a nearby bedroom. I would stay in the guest bedroom of Grandma Gaudet. Her family insisted I have breakfast with Mari’s grandmother Saturday morning. If she liked me, she would invite her twin sister and Mari’s uncles over to meet me. If not, I would pack my bags and head back to Oxford, like the last boy. Her dad would bring Mari back to the campus on Sunday.
We took my car to Eunice, arriving near midnight. I let her drop me off at her grandmother’s house, and her Uncle Tom, who still lived with his mother, showed me to my room.
At 6:00 a.m. I woke, showered, and found Grandma Gaudet sitting at the kitchen table impatiently waiting for me. In her sixties, she was dressed in a purple jogging suit with gold tennis shoes. Her eyes were the same bright blue as Mari’s, and her auburn hair had a little touch of gray at the temples.
“Good morning, Mrs. Gaudet. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
In a voice raspy from years of smoking Kools, she said, “Call me, Grandma.”
She poured me a cup of black chicory coffee. “Milk is in the refrigerator, sugar on the counter by the toaster.”
I drank it black, no need to complicate the morning any more than it would be. “Thank you, Grandma.”
She smiled. “Mari says you’re a writer. What have you written?”
I told her that I had interned with Commercial Appeal, the daily newspaper in Memphis.
“Did you cover any murder cases?” she asked.
I nodded
and told her about a trial I covered that had garnered some national attention.
The case had started when two marines heard a woman screaming in the woods near the Millington Naval Base north of Memphis. Minutes later, a beat-up, green Mercury station wagon nearly ran them over. The car was familiar around the base. It was owned by an air conditioning technician who lived in base housing with his wife, an enlisted sailor.
A few hours later, law enforcement found the mutilated body of nineteen-year-old Lance Corporal Suzanne Marie Collins. Covered with over a hundred wounds, she had been violated with a tree limb that had been shoved so far into her body that it punctured a lung. The autopsy showed her skull had been fractured with a screwdriver.
The cops arrested the repair man. His attorney tried to convince the prosecutors that he suffered from a multiple personality disorder. All the networks picked up the story of the gruesome, senseless crime.
“You see the body?” she asked as she poured me a second cup of coffee.
“No, ma’am, but I did see crime scene photos and read the autopsy report,” I said, not mentioning how I almost vomited when I saw the photos.
She said, “Do you buy the story of his multiple personality that would mean he was too crazy to know right from wrong?”
“No, his story never made sense. He was wearing a bloody T-shirt when they arrested him. The screwdriver was found in his car. He claimed that he had been drinking at home. When he drove back to the liquor store, he accidently hit Collins who was jogging near the park, and he had offered to take her to the emergency room. He alleged that he couldn’t remember many details after she got into the car.”
I got up and added milk and sugar to my cup. “He said voices in his head told him to kill the girl. No one believed him, not even his wife and sister.”
Grandma Gaudet smiled. “You know, I once served on a jury in a murder case.”
It was then I knew I had won her over. Grandma Gaudet was an avid fan of true crime stories.
She told me about the trial. When she finished, Grandma Gaudet grabbed her gold handbag and said, “Come on, boy, we’re headed to the slaughterhouse to get breakfast. Everybody will be coming over soon.”