October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  “Buddy, drop the shovel and get on your knees. Now,” said Spence, inching closer.

  Lori backed onto the bottom stair and glanced up at Summer. “Just a second. Please, honey, stay there.”

  “You don’t understand. I had to do it.” Buddy screamed, a heartrending roar, and lumbered forward, the shovel posed for a sweeping arc to take off Lori’s head.

  He covered the distance in two large strides, desperation and fear clouding his eyes. Four shots rang out, deafening in the underground enclosure. The scent of smoke and blood filled the cellar. Buddy, a wet, black blossom spreading across his sweater, fell to his knees with a thud, wavered a moment, and collapsed face first into the dirt.

  Outside, a vehicle skidded to a halt, dirt and gravel crunching under the tires. A door slammed and feet padded against the ground as someone ran toward the back of the house.

  “Summer? Summer, baby, where are you?”

  “Mommy.”

  When Lori stepped fully into the sunlight, Miranda Harmon had enveloped her daughter in a tight embrace, tears flowing down her cheeks as she stroked Summer’s hair.

  “Lori,” called Spence from the cellar. “You need to see this.”

  Assured of Summer’s safety, Lori joined Spence who shone his light on Buddy’s excavation project.

  “Is that hair?” Lori stared down on what appeared to be several strands of dark hair attached to a smooth rounded object. At first glance, she thought it was a stone, but no…the dome of a skull.

  “Yeah, and there.” Spence drew the light along the length of the hole and froze on the skeletal remains of a hand and wrist jutting out from the earth. “I think we found Sarah Harmon.”

  CHAPTER

  26

  Marlowe assembled the SVCU team, along with the entire Rosser County Sheriff’s Department, and all auxiliaries on loan from other counties and the state. Over eighty officers crammed into the department briefing room, which normally seated twenty at most. Someone forgot to turn down the heat, and in spite of the chill outside, so many people packed shoulder to shoulder in a small room strained temperaments as well as deodorants.

  News about Sam Ewing hit Marlowe hard, and he could not help but blame himself. He should have insisted Sam accept protection. It did not take a clairvoyant to foresee the Pitts or someone else would take a swing at Sam. The whole damn county was primed to explode, and cleared or not, he made an easy target.

  “Okay, let’s settle down.” Marlowe moved to the lectern. The officers bustled about, taking seats or finding places to lean along the wall. “Give me an update on Sam Ewing.”

  “Still in a coma with several broken ribs, a broken leg, and a concussion,” said Troy. “The Pitts brothers claim they only meant to scare him, and he walked right out in front of the truck. Who knows? Either way, they tested over the limit and both are on parole. Likely they’ll see some time behind bars. If Ewing doesn’t pull through, they’ll see a lot more.”

  Marlowe nodded. “Koop, any results back on the Harmon girl?”

  “Full results may take a few days, but DNA confirms the remains are indeed those of Sarah Harmon.” Koop adjusted his eyeglasses and glanced over the file in his hand. “Furthermore, the girl was pregnant. Paternal testing confirms William “Buddy” Harmon as the father.”

  “Sick fucker. Can we kill him again?” asked Spence, to the agreement of everyone in the room.

  “Alright.” Marlowe raised his hand, quieting the grumbles. “Anything else?”

  “Photos of Emily and Sarah Harmon were found hidden beneath floorboards in the cabin. Child pornography and molestation charges in addition to murder,” said Lori. “Not that it matters now, but still, vindication for Emily and Sarah.”

  “What about the mother? Did she know?” asked Marlowe.

  “Uncertain, but probably,” said Lori. “Social Services is involved, so it’ll be up to a judge whether Summer Harmon returns home or goes into foster care.”

  “So, we can cross Sam Ewing off the list of suspects,” said Marlowe, “and Sarah Harmon as not linked to the missing girls.”

  “Since Ewing was the only name on the list, what now?” asked Troy. “We’re dead in the water, back to square one.”

  “You’ve had a week to comb through friends, family, delivery drivers, anyone working in the area. Who are possibles? Give me some names.”

  Troy shook his head. “So far everyone checks out. The Sorrels have alibis, and no problems with the neighbors or family. Nothing out of the ordinary with delivery drivers or workers.” He flipped the page on his clipboard. “Dana Baldwin’s mother is avoiding us. She answered the phone once, said she didn’t want to get involved, then disappeared. Claimed she was headed out of town for a while. Local law enforcement has tried the house multiple times, no luck. We could get a warrant, but doubtful to find anything, and we can’t compel her to cooperate unless there’s a case for obstruction.” Troy glanced over the next entry. “Hmm, looks like we brought Jeff Baldwin in once for assault. No charges pressed. We cut him loose.”

  “Why am I just now finding out about this? A principal with a violent prior, you don’t think it worth a mention?” Marlowe narrowed his eyes on Troy.

  “I remembered it a few days ago.” Banks stood up from his seat, sandwiched in along the middle of the room. “Brought him in myself. The guy’s dad had recently died. Right after, the bank foreclosed on his family farm. Anyone would’ve got a bit miffed about it. No real harm done.”

  “What else do we know about him?” asked Marlowe.

  “We know he’s dead. What difference does it make? Wasting time if you ask me.” A surly deputy in the front row locked eyes with Marlowe.

  Marlowe refused to take the bait. With the entire contingent wound tight, jumping at every minor insubordination would not help.

  “Humor me,” he said.

  “He served in the military, Army, I think, over in Afghanistan,” said Troy. “Sent home early, discharged.”

  “Dishonorable?” asked Marlowe.

  “No. Honorable. Says here, medical.”

  “Medical? Physical or mental?”

  Troy shrugged. “We’ve put in a request for more information, but the Army doesn’t just hand stuff out.”

  “Lori, call the governor’s office. Ask them to make sure the appropriate department within the Army knows this is time sensitive. Deputy Banks, do you recall any noticeable medical conditions regarding Baldwin? Missing an arm or something?”

  “No sir, nothing like that. Nothing wrong I could see.”

  Marlowe nodded. “Anything else?”

  “He worked construction for a while with Clyde Simmons’ outfit, local contractor,” said Troy.

  “Fired? Laid off? Quit?”

  Troy turned pages back and forth. “Huh, doesn’t say.”

  “Okay.” Marlowe’s gaze swept over the room. “I want you to go back through every name, every person—family, friends, neighbors, anyone who worked in the neighborhood over the past few weeks. Go over Jeff and Dana Baldwin again. Go as deep as you can. Flag anything out of the ordinary. And I mean anything, no matter how seemingly insignificant.”

  “Seriously, Lieutenant, we’ve already looked at Baldwins, why spend more time on them?” asked a deputy from the back of the room. “We have limited time, like none. The Baldwins are victims and…dead.”

  “They should live so long.” Marlowe gathered his files and stepped down from the podium.

  “But they’re dead.”

  “I’m padding the job,” snapped Marlowe, his patience evaporated. “Just do it.”

  The officers and staff marched out of the briefing room, mumbling and disgruntled, leaving Marlowe alone with Spence, Lori, Koop, Troy, and Banks.

  “The deputy kinda had a point, ya know,” said Spence. “Why the interest in the Baldwins?

  “If some random perv took the children they are probably dead or halfway to Russia by now. If so, the only way we find them is someone spotting one of th
e girls or recognizing one of them from a TV spot.” Marlowe rubbed his chin. “Let’s keep the focus on what we have close to home. Baldwin lost his family farm and was living on disability, maybe he borrowed some money from the wrong people and couldn’t pay it back. I don’t know, but it’s what we can do.”

  “Does it matter? I mean to us?” said Spence.

  Marlowe arched a brow at him. “What are you saying?”

  “Well, we’re SVCU. That’s three related violent crimes.” Spence held up three fingers. “Sarah Harmon isn’t linked to the kidnapping and neither is Tommy Beacher. So, one crime—the missing girls. That takes it out of our jurisdiction.” Spence shrugged. “Can we stay on now? Will the state continue to foot the bill, or want us to leave the clean up to the locals?”

  “I don’t think the governor’s willing to bail on three missing children after a week. With all the media attention, doubtful any number of links would matter. No one wants to face the parents and tell them we’re pulling out. They certainly won’t care about our reasons, or our mandates.” Marlowe shook his head. “Can you imagine the fallout with the media when those girls are found dead, right here, and we could have saved them? Our resources are still needed, and short of an FBI manhunt, we’re the best chance they have. If the governor disagrees, we’ll work it anyway and dare him to test us with the public.”

  “If it comes down to that, I’ll be standing right behind you,” said Koop. “Well, not right behind you. A good distance behind you, but at your side in spirit. I have my pension to consider.”

  “Pension, hell. The department fired your ol’ grumpy ass years ago. Just haven’t bothered to tell you,” said Spence. “Besides you hate being left out of anything.”

  “True,” said Koop. “Honestly, I don’t care if the scrutiny aimed at me is positive or negative in nature. I simply enjoy the attention.”

  “Okay, you two. I can’t hear myself think.” Marlowe squinted and rubbed his temples.

  “Where do you want us?” asked Lori, quick to steer the subject back on track.

  Marlowe relaxed his posture and sighed, collecting his thoughts. “You and Spence head up and find Dana Baldwin’s mother. Mothers don’t stay away when their daughters are murdered, and grandmothers definitely don’t with their grandchild missing.” Troy handed them a slip of paper with an address on it. “Make her talk. I’m betting she knows something. There’s a reason she wants to remain out of the investigation.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Lori.

  “I’ll take Deputy Marks with me. We’ll interview Jeff Baldwin’s former employer and find out why he let him go. Granted, that was a while ago, but Baldwin might have made some enemies amongst his coworkers.” Marlowe grabbed his coat, pulled it on, and nodded to Banks. “Let’s have someone check finances. See if the Baldwins received any cash infusions recently.”

  “The department accountants have been on the Sorrels and Baldwins’ finances for a week with no luck.” Banks flinched at a scowl from Marlowe. “Uh, I’ll tell them to look again.”

  “Thank you,” said Marlowe. “Okay, let’s move. Clock is ticking.”

  * * *

  Highway 79 north of Guntersville ran alongside the largest lake in the state, seventy-five miles of rolling, winding hills overlooking ocean-like expanses of blue water. After a chilly morning, the sun chased away clouds and ushered in unseasonably warm temperatures. A beautiful day.

  Lori frowned out the window. Storms should rock the countryside, the world obscured in blinding rain, the sky filled with lightning. The water below should boil, brown and fetid. Following their discovery in Buddy Harmon’s cellar, today’s beauty seemed an affront to decency. It felt distasteful, as if the gods reveled in apathy.

  “You really okay?” asked Spence.

  Content to travel in silence, the radio tuned to soft jazz, they kept discussion minimal along the way, both obviously still dealing with raw feelings, and internally, searching for that well-practiced professional detachment. What was there to say about finding a child, and Lori considered Sarah Harmon very much a child, both the fifteen-year-old body and a mind considerably younger, buried in a shallow grave, discarded like yesterday’s trash?

  “I guess. I know it’s part of the job, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. Not children.” Lori kept her eyes ahead, focused on the scenery and the road, afraid a sympathetic look might set the tears free once more.

  “I hope you don’t. Get used to it I mean.” Spence took a sip from his Coke and leaned his head back. “Ask Marlowe, it’s one step from being dead. Inside anyway.”

  Lori arched an eyebrow. “Marlowe? I wish I could handle it as well as he does. The man’s a rock.”

  Spence chuckled. “Only since Paige got well and Becca came along. Before, his default setting was self-destruction. He felt everything too deeply and then went stone cold, completely unfeeling. Or that’s how it seemed. Even now, if you know how to look, he’s always an inch from going full on dark mode. Scary shit. If you ever see it, stay very close or very far away.”

  “Yeah, becoming accustomed to some of what we see would mean shedding our humanity. But it hurts. I can’t get Sarah, her little body nothing but bones, out of my head. And when I think about the baby…”

  Spence nodded. “It’s why so many cops like the bottle, or worse, pills or the needle. Did you notice Sheriff Beacher? Two hours without a drink and she’s shaking like Van Gogh going for an ear.”

  “I did. Hard to miss. I’m betting hers is more personal than professional. Her son.”

  “Yep, and when home and the job are two versions of the same Hell, that’s when things go black.”

  Once in Scottsboro, Lori clicked the turn signal and pulled off onto County Road 315. As with most rural towns in the state, the dominant locales were a high school, a few dozen churches, and a Wal-Mart. Homes spread out across the countryside, located along narrow roads filled with potholes, when not devoid of pavement altogether. Rhonda Travers’ house, a one-level dwelling, beige wood comprising the top half and dark, brown brick along the bottom—the residence a popular design for lower-middle class families in the seventies. Either due to lack of funds or disinterest, the place badly needed a fresh coat of paint and a new roof.

  A screen door with a broken hinge banged lazily against the façade while three mangy looking dogs created an uproar from a small pen to one side of the home. No cars in the drive, and no lights on inside, made the place appear deserted.

  “The deputy said Ms. Travers claimed she was headed out of town,” said Spence.

  “I don’t think so—” Lori pointed at a dark shadow passing beyond a window at the rear of the house. “Keeping a low profile, though. She doesn’t seem in the mood for visitors.”

  “And that’s how we get in.” Spence smiled and opened his door.

  On the porch, Spence took the lead, knocking loudly. “Ms. Travers? Rhonda Travers. This is the police. Detectives Murray and Kline. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  No response, the interior of the house remained deathly quiet.

  “I understand you don’t want to be involved, so speak with us now and I can guarantee it’ll be the last time.” Spence winked at Lori. “Or, I can call the media and feed them a good story. Maybe let them know you have material information about the case, and in a couple of hours you’ll have two dozen vans and a hundred reporters and cameras camped out in your yard. I’m sure your neighbors will have a bunch of questions for you as well.”

  Steps padded across the floor inside. The door creaked open to the length of a chain and one side of a woman’s head popped into the gap.

  “Show me your badges.” Her voice, coarse and deep, indicated a heavy smoker. They offered her their identification. “You’ve got five minutes.”

  She released the chain and allowed them inside. The air within the house was stifling with the acrid odor of cigarette smoke clinging to every surface. The interior of the home reminded Lori o
f the Baldwins’ house, though without the attempts at charm. The décor here said ‘It is what it is, and I don’t give a damn.’

  Rhonda plopped down in a leather recliner, cracks along the back and footrest, some covered over with silver duct tape. She lit up a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke in their direction. Spence refused to acknowledge the insult, but Lori coughed and waved her hand before her face.

  “So, ask your questions.” A large glass ashtray, overflowing with butts, sat on a plastic end table supported by brass colored metal legs. Rhonda tapped the head off her cigarette, glared first at Lori and then Spence, and let out an impatient sigh.

  “I’m guessing you had a falling out with Dana? Since you aren’t in Red Weed and don’t appear too gung ho about helping our investigation,” said Spence.

  Lori spread out her jacket on the sofa and sat down. It would require a good cleaning before she wore it again. Spence cringed at the sight of multiple stains, but planted himself at her side.

  “I’m not sure why,” said Rhonda, between puffs on her cigarette. “The last time I saw my loving daughter she pointed a shotgun at me and told me never to come back. My grandchild, when I bent over to grab her up in my arms, bit a plug outta me. I had to get stitches and a tetanus shot. The little animal.”

  Lori’s eyes popped wide. “You mind elaborating?”

  “What’s to say? I showed up to check on them ‘cause they’d been acting weird. Elle was playing in the yard. I tried to hug her, she snarled like a damned dog and bit me.” Rhonda kicked out the footrest on the recliner and leaned back. “And Dana, she’s like this bulldog my neighbors had. They trained the thing to fight. The critter was mean, but scared, too. If’n you went close, first it’d try to back away, but once it couldn’t go no further, the psycho mutt would go to tear your throat out.”