by Tim Green
He had already raided and gutted Tyson Electronics, buying the company for less than its book value and then selling off all its assets. Never mind that he had cost more than two thousand people their jobs. Never mind that he had destroyed a successful company that had taken over forty years to build. Tyson had something he wanted. He made money on the raid, but the real prize was a piece of land that Tyson was planning on using to expand its operations. It was an enormous undeveloped plot adjacent to the highway north of the city. It was the perfect site for a sports stadium, a couple of hotels, a mall, a business park, and countless satellite commercial entities.
The entire project would be worth more than a billion dollars to Crawford, and the dismantling of Tyson made his entire investment, in effect, free. He had taken the company and the land right out from under its shareholders. This wasn't the first time that Crawford had raided a company for his own purposes. He allowed himself an evil smile. It was almost poetic that the linchpin to the entire project might be a football team named the Marauders. In a way, he fancied himself to be a marauder as well.
His intercom buzzed.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Wilburn is here, Mr. Crawford," his secretary said.
"Send him in," Crawford said, without moving anything beyond his mouth.
The great wooden doors swung open, revealing to Martin Wilburn an opulent office that was somehow different from the way he remembered. Maybe it was darker, maybe it was that the shiny assemblage of antique firearms that decorated the walls had been altered in some way.
"Sit down, Martin," Crawford said, his back to the man who controlled the Florida Marauders.
Martin sat down and stared at Crawford's small squared-off shoulders.
"How did your meeting with the sports committee go?" Crawford asked, without taking his eyes from the roiling storm clouds.
"I don't like the fact that suddenly they're talking about Arizona possibly coming in," Wilburn complained.
A small ray of sun broke through the dark clouds and lit a distant building like a shrine. Crawford smiled.
"You shouldn't like it," he said. "If Arizona is serious about moving, you may find yourself without a deal."
"You seem rather cavalier about it, "Willburn said stiffly."
Crawford turned around slowly. "My biggest concern is getting a team into Memphis. The Marauders would obviously suit my needs better than another, but my only imperative is getting a team. Your fortune, on the other hand, hangs in the balance," he added without emotion. "I personally think that's a good thing, Martin. Nothing motivates people like greed, and the harder you work at getting your team here, the better it is for me . . ."
Wilburn stared at the man without looking away. He'd known Crawford too long to be cowed by his wealth and his power.
"You said you had some advice for me," Martin said flatly.
"Yes," Crawford said, turning back to the window, "I do. These buffoons on this sports committee are more concerned with touchdowns than money I suggest you focus your energies on getting your team into the playoffs. If you have a better showing than Arizona, it will give you the edge. No matter what they say about terms of the lease and the split on luxury boxes, the biggest concern with these people is that they have a winning team. They seem to think that matters."
"That has always been a concern with me. I've always worked to ensure the team was the best it could be," Wilburn said.
"But now you have a problem with your best player," Crawford said. "People tell me that without him, you may have problems winning these last few games and making the playoffs.
"As I said," Crawford continued with the wave of his hand, "all this bores me. But if the committee wants you to win, you should do what you can to win. Its better for me. And for you?"
Crawford let his own question hang like a spider twisting on a single thread before answering it himself. "Well . . . this may be your last chance, Martin. Who can say when a deal with this kind of upside will happen for you again? I'm aware of how you feel about this Luther Zorn, but don't let your emotions get in the way, Martin. That has always been your weakness."
Wilburn nodded to himself. "I appreciate your advice. I'll do what I have to."
Crawford nodded. He'd heard what he wanted to hear.
"And how is Vivian?" he asked as an afterthought.
"Vivian?" Wilburn said, unable to hide his surprise that Crawford would even ask.
"Yes, Vivian," Crawford said with a smile that Wilburn couldn't see. "I take it she's getting on through her . . . difficult time."
Wilburn didn't quite know how to answer.
"I guess she is," he said finally. "She seems to be doing fine."
"Good," Crawford said. "That's all."
Wilburn knew he had been dismissed, so he rose and left.
Chapter 20
M artin Wilburn wanted Kratch to conduct a low-key murder investigation, but that was just too damn bad. Kratch needed a conviction. That's what he was being paid for, not for the well-being of the Marauders football team. He wasn't waiting for the end of the football season, and he wasn't going to do things quietly. The more he could get out of Zorn, the better. It wasn't unusual for Kratch to get full-fledged confessions. That was good police work.
Part of getting a suspect to talk involved creating the right environment. Confusion, fatigue, guilt, and dehydration all helped. Kratch had timed Luther's arrest knowing he would be tired and dehydrated at the end of a long practice. It was an unusual opportunity for a cop. He also knew it would be especially disconcerting for Luther to be pulled off the practice field in the middle of broad daylight with the TV cameras rolling. So he did that as well.
Kratch tipped off all four local news channels and even put in an anonymous call to CNN's Miami bureau. He then sent Lawrence and Gill out to the Marauders' facility at around three in the afternoon. It was spectacular, really, and Kratch wasn't upset at all with the escape.
Luthers struggle, his break for freedom, the hunt, and the capture all made for good TV and it all reinforced the idea that Luther Zorn was a killer. Kratch had chuckled through the smoky pall of his Camel cigarette as he watched the story unfold on CNN. He congratulated himself . Despite the irate call he got from the teams new president, Martin Wilburn.
Luther, unfortunately, had smartened up considerably since the last time he and Kratch had spoken. The first time they had talked, Luther hadn't been under arrest and the words spilled from him like an overturned bucket. The advantage of not arresting someone was that the police weren't required to give them a Miranda warning. If they talked voluntarily, as Luther had, and as Charlene had, there was no need to remind them about the right to a lawyer and the right to remain silent. The downside was that without arresting someone, they didn't have to come with you at all. Kratch was amazed at how many did come just because they were asked.
Now, though, Luther wasn't talking. In fact, he seemed to have taken his Miranda warning quite seriously. The only thing he would say was that he wanted a lawyer. Fortunately for Kratch, the only people who had contact with Luther at the station so far had been Gill and Lawrence, and they seemed to have developed temporary problems with their hearing. Kratch might have to have them tested. There was the risk that Luther might tell the judge he had asked for a lawyer long before he was given one, but the judge heard the same thing from almost every defendant. It was no big deal.
Most people under arrest couldn't resist the urge to talk. Even if they were innocent, and especially if they were guilty, it was a rare criminal who could resist the temptation to start explaining things. Once they started talking, you almost always got them. Sometimes it took people a little bit of time to want to talk. That's why Kratch was waiting. He figured he could let Luther sit for up to eight hours before getting himself into trouble over unreasonable police procedure.
Kratch's phone buzzed.
"Yeah," he said brusquely.
It was Gill. He said, "The lawyer's here, wants to talk w
ith Luther Zorn."
"Stall," Kratch said and punched off.
He reached into his desk drawer and removed a cellophane packet. Inside, like a coiled snake, was a thick gold chain. Attached to the chain was a diamond-covered pendant in the shape of the number "1." To Kratch it was an insignificant trinket, but for Luther it was destiny. Kratch yearned to see Luther Zorn's face when he showed him the necklace. Sometimes a good shock to the system could jar loose all kinds of information. It was time to try.
Emmit Stone was the youngest sheriff Canal Point had ever known. It was his older presence, however, the permanent five o'clock shadow, his mild manner, and his receding sandy brown hair that made his youth tolerable. Every sheriff before Emmit had been a middle-aged, seasoned law enforcement veteran, most of them too tired for the constant strain of big-city police work. Emmit was just the opposite. Fresh out of the criminal justice program at the University of Florida, he had enthusiastically returned home to apply his newly acquired knowledge. It wasn't that Emmit didn't think big. He did. He no more intended to be the Canal Point sheriff for the rest of his life than he intended to turn to a life of crime. No, Emmit would do big things one day.
His goal was to become sheriff of nearby Belle Glade within five years. From there, after five more years, he would ascend into the upper ranks of the Florida State Police. Emmit planned to be the youngest colonel ever to head up the state police force in the state of Florida. They were ambitious plans, but he believed. That was Emmit, the kind of guy who expected to get someplace by toeing the line, doing as he was told, and showing up for work fifteen minutes early every day, the kind of guy who is almost always disappointed.
Emmit was not a man to learn in the ranks. He didnt think of himself as a patrolman. He thought of himself as a natural leader who should be in charge of something, no matter how small. Of course, in law enforcement the only place someone fresh out of school could be his own boss, no matter how good his grades had been, was in a place like Canal Point.
The downside of being your own boss was that you had to take calls late at night. When Emmit s phone rang, however, it wasn't a matter of annoyance to him. His wife might have sighed and rolled her eyes before answering the phone, but not Emmit. Emmit's blood tingled when the phone rang late. It might just be something good. And this time, as fate would have it, it was almost too good to be true.
"It's for you, Sheriff," his wife muttered sarcastically, handing him the phone from the couch where she sat spread-legged and pregnant, her hair held back in a faded blue bandanna like a kitchen slave.
"I'll take it in the kitchen," Emmit said, pulling his large thick frame from the couch and crossing the squeaky floor to the other room.
"Is this you, Sheriff?" came the voice from the phone on the kitchen wall. It was a voice that Emmit recognized, but could not place.
"Yes," Emmit said, "this is Sheriff Stone. How can I help you?"
"I ain't saying who I am," the caller protested unnecessarily His voice was an excited whisper.
"All right," Emmit said calmly. He knew how to deal with crazies. He'd taken all the latest psychology courses at the university. In fact, psychology had become Emmit's hobby of sorts. He had to keep it low-key, though, because Clara, his sharp-faced wife, was deeply born-again. She wouldn't hear of any influence on human behavior beyond God and Jesus Christ. Schizophrenia and manic depression were merely ills of the soul that could be eradicated through prayer. Emmit kept his mouth shut when it came to the power of prayer. Although twice her size, even now when she was a good seven months pregnant, Emmit was no match for his zealous wife when it came to authority. His came from textbooks. Hers came directly from God.
"Now I didn't kill no one," the voice hissed, "I want you to know that straight off!"
"All right," Emmit said, his heart pumping at the idea of a murder. "I believe you."
"Now, I don't want no questions about how I know, but I just know. I ... I was out on route four-forty-one, a couple of miles north of town. Now, I just happened to turn down a dirt road right near highway marker thirty-seven. Now, I wanted to turn around see? I wasn't doing nothing wrong. I was just turning around. But. . . well, I went down in the driveway and kept going a little ways, just looking for a place to turn around, see?"
"All right," Emmit said patiently, still trying to put a face with the voice. He guessed the call was being made from some kind of restaurant pay phone. Emmit could hear the murmur of people and the faint clinking of silverware and plates in the background. There weren't more than about twenty-three hundred people who lived in Canal Point and, because of the heavy Southern country accent, Emmit was sure the caller was a local. He was probably calling from Lucys. Emmit could call back and speak to Lucy herself to find out who had just used the pay phone.
"Well, so, Lord, I didnt do it, I swear, but you gotta go out there and see it, Sheriff," the man whispered. "You just better get out there . . . Lord . . ."
Emmit suddenly realized whom he was speaking with. It was like having the name of a song on the tip of your tongue and finally remembering it.
"Caleb," Emmit said firmly, "I told you about breaking into peoples camps! Now, I'm warning you for the last time!"
"Damn it, Sheriff!" Caleb moaned. "I kept telling myself I shouldn't call ... I didn't do it though. I just went down there--"
"All right, Caleb," Emmit interrupted. "I believe you, but I don't want you breaking in places anymore. Now, what did you see?"
"I can't tell you, Sheriff," Caleb moaned. "But I swear on my best coon hound, it weren't me."
Caleb Voles hung up before Emmit could say another word. Caleb was Canal Point's petty criminal. From time to time, when the welfare check didn't quite make ends meet, he was known to break into a fishing camp and steal tackle and whatever electronic equipment someone might have been foolish enough to leave behind over the winter months. Emmit was certain that whatever Caleb had found, he'd done so intending to commit a burglary.
Emmit walked back into the living room, tucking a loose shirttail into his pants.
"Gotta go check something out," he said with an importance he didn't quite feel.
Clara scowled at the TV and shook her head in disgust. She patted her hand gently against the cotton shift that in no way disguised her distended belly as if reminding him he was running out on two of them.
Emmit sighed and picked his hat off the rack by the door.
"Don't wait up," he said quietly, closing the door on the sour pair of eyes that had followed him to the front porch.
There was only one lonely dirt road near highway mile marker thirty-seven. Emmit suspected Caleb chose this site for its remoteness. His headlights illuminated a thick steel post on either side of the drive. The chain that stretched between them apparently had been cut, probably by Caleb. The dirt drive was wildly overgrown. Saplings and crabgrass scratched and buffed the underside of Emmit's patrol car.
Emmit let the old brown Plymouth roll down the slight incline through the thick brush and trees until he rounded a bend and found himself in a tiny clearing, at the back of which rested a snug little log cabin. The cabin backed right up to the lake. As the dust overtook him, the beam from Emmit's headlights turned into a yellow haze that lit the front corner of the cabin and dispersed in the purple night that clung to the inky water. Only tiny white comet storms of bugs disturbed the stillness. Then Emmit noticed the posts off to the right, just out of the headlights' glow. They were tall, as tall as the cabin's dark shingle roof, long lean poles of knotty pine that were topped off with something that Emmit couldn't quite make out in the darkness. He got out of his car and removed the flashlight from under the front seat. He trained the white beam on the middle post and angled it up high. An involuntary cry escaped his lips when he saw the first head. Emmit staggered backward and pulled the Smith & Wesson .357 from his holster. He spun in a circle, peering at the darkness all around him with the gun trained on the beam of light. Small fearful whimperings involuntarily esc
aped his mouth. Emmit spun around several times with his gun and his flashlight before he calmed himself enough to look again.
There was a head on each of the three posts. They were in various stages of decay. Emmit was no pathologist, but one of them looked as though it had been there for some time. It was mostly a skull. The middle head was a gruesome grinning mash of rotting flesh and long gray hair. The third was fresh enough for Emmit to see that it belonged to the body of a young black woman. Its features were distinctly fine, even atop a pinewood pole.
Emmit vomited in the grass, and carefully wiped his lips with a thin white cotton handkerchief. This was the kind of thing he'd only read about. But he'd read extensively, so he knew that the person who'd done this was sick beyond reason. Most people would suspect that whoever had done this was some kind of raving lunatic. But that wasn't what Emmit thought. He was thinking some kind of psychotic disorder: a schizophrenic, a person who essentially had two selves, one that might function normally, if not successfully, in society, another that had the capacity to commit this kind of crime.
Emmit knew the drill. He would call the state police. They had the equipment and the labs to handle something like this. For all his thrill at the idea of investigating something of this magnitude and delving into the mystery of solving three heinous and horrible murders, Emmit was secretly relieved that he would have to pass this off to someone else. In fact, the three grisly heads made him wonder what had ever made him want to become involved in law enforcement in the first place.
Chapter 21
There were moments when Luther began to doubt himself, thinking that maybe he should talk, tell Kratch his story. Then maybe they would let him out. His sweat-soaked T-shirt had dried long ago. It was now stiff and scratchy and the smell was pungent enough for Luther to notice his own scent. He sat in the brightly lit room, still wearing his swamp-stained football pants and blackened rubber football cleats. He had removed his helmet and shoulder pads sometime during his attempted escape. Luther didn't know what the hell he was thinking about when he ran. It made him look guilty. It was a reaction more than anything. They caught him completely off guard. He was in the middle of a practice, in a zone. They came for him, and it just wasn't in his nature to capitulate without a struggle.