by Mel Odom
“Which of you is Commander Coburn?” Dr. Allen Greer asked.
“I am,” Will said. “This is Special Agent Gautreau.”
“Okay.” Greer gazed at Will for a moment, then shifted his attention back to the corpse on the table. The medical examiner didn’t seem overly disposed to a friendly personality. He was heavyset and wore thick sideburns that had gone gray with age. He leaned over the open chest cavity of a middle-aged man. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re holding the body of Bobby Lee Gant for us,” Will said.
“You’re here to take custody of the body?”
“No.”
Greer looked at him again. “I was assured that body would be gone before morning.”
“It will be.”
“Then why are you here interrupting my work?”
“I came for Bobby Lee’s personal effects that were on the body.”
“I see.” Greer pulled off his bloody gloves and threw them into a biohazardous materials container. “I heard about the shooting yesterday. It happened in front of several witnesses.”
“Yes.”
“I was told there’d be no problems clearing the man responsible.”
“There won’t be.”
Greer walked over to a wall of small vaults and checked a notebook. Then he searched the vaults till he found the one he wanted. He reached inside and brought out a large plastic Baggie containing the last things Bobby Lee had had with him that day.
“That’s good,” Greer said. “If you ask me, more force should be shown to those motorcycle outlaws. But they’re making good money in the area, which means they can hire the lawyers necessary to keep them in business and out of jail.”
“Maybe we can change that a little,” Will said.
“Just sign the chain of custody book and the contents of that bag are yours.”
›› Office of the Chief of Police
›› Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department
›› 601 East Trade Street
›› Charlotte, North Carolina
›› 1437 Hours
Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Chief Ben Tarlton was a young, energetic, and simple man. In his late thirties, he was one of the youngest police chiefs the city had ever seen.
He was a no-nonsense man with an open and honest face that he kept meticulously shaved. His brown hair was cropped short, and his hazel eyes were sincere. His uniform was neatly pressed with creases that looked sharp enough to slice cheese.
His office was compact, filled with law enforcement manuals as well as pictures of his family. Most of the photographs revolved around Little League sports.
One of the plaques on the wall was a toastmaster award, and others were for coaching and Bible study. There were also pictures of Tarlton in a Marine uniform.
“Commander Coburn, sir,” Tarlton greeted as he stood up behind his desk and offered his hand.
“Chief Tarlton,” Will responded. He introduced Remy, and they shook hands as well. “I appreciate you seeing us on such short notice.”
“Not at all. It’s my pleasure. How is your agent?”
“He’s fine,” Will said. “Thank you.”
“He’s a lucky man.”
“He’s a good man,” Will said. “God seems to take care of those.” Even as he said it, though, Will felt a pang as he thought of Frank Billings.
“More times than not, I’d agree with that assessment.” Tarlton gestured to the chairs in front of the modest metal desk. “Please. Have a seat.”
Will and Remy did.
“So what brings you here?” Tarlton asked.
“We thought we’d share information,” Will said.
Tarlton leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You’ll forgive me my cynicism, but it’s been my experience that federal agencies aren’t in the habit of sharing information with local law enforcement agencies unless they want someone to blame or just to throw their weight around.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Will replied.
Tarlton waited, but he rolled his wrist over and glanced at his watch.
“We ran the pistol that Bobby Lee Gant used on those people last night,” Will said. “We didn’t pull any federal hits. No wants, no warrants.”
“You get a clean gun every now and again,” Tarlton said.
“I know. But generally only weapons that have been used in the commission of a murder or a drug deal get logged through channels.”
“Not every weapon hits the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives’ regional crime gun center,” Tarlton agreed.
“But,” Will said, “one of the things I’ve learned while working at the NCIS is that local PDs often have records of their own.”
Tarlton maintained a level gaze. “Some do.”
“I know you by reputation,” Will said. “You do an honest job here.”
“Flattery?” Tarlton smiled a little then.
“I didn’t figure you were susceptible to something like that.”
“I’m not.”
“I’d like to know if the serial number of the pistol Bobby Lee Gant used last night is in your database.”
For a short time, Tarlton just stared at Will. The hesitation, Will knew, wasn’t anything meant personally. But the chief had some departmental pride to salvage.
“You and the FBI,” Tarlton said, “came into my city without so much as a by-your-leave-”
“That’s incorrect, sir,” Remy interrupted. “Shel and I checked in the minute we were inside city limits. The commander insists on that. We let your office know about the pick-up order we had on Bobby Lee Gant. We played by the rules and kept the house respect.”
“The FBI then,” Tarlton said.
“Yes,” Will agreed.
“And between the two of you, one of my citizens was killed.”
“We didn’t have control of that situation,” Will said.
“I’m fully aware of that.”
Will felt a little exasperated. He knew Tarlton was distancing himself from the situation on purpose. Straining relationships with the FBI wasn’t a good thing to do. Maybe Tarlton didn’t depend on them, but they obviously helped him out every now and again.
“You were a Marine,” Remy said, nodding to the picture of Tarlton on the wall behind him.
“Yes, I was. I made my way up to captain; then I pulled the pin and took the position here. I grew up here. It was a good fit, and it came at a good time.”
“Shel,” Remy said, “my friend Shel, is a Marine too.”
Tarlton sat silent.
“Most of the NCIS agents you hear about,” Remy said, “are drafted out of civilian law enforcement agencies. Commander Coburn’s team isn’t. All of us are Navy except Shel. And we take a lot of pride in our Marine.”
Tarlton looked at Remy and grinned. “Leave it to a sailor to lay it on so thick.”
Remy smiled back. “I’m not a sailor. I’m a Navy SEAL.”
“Oh, a poor man’s Marine.”
“But trained to take over when a Marine fails out.”
Both of them laughed at that. Will was still trying to sort out all the posturing that had just gone on.
Tarlton turned to Will. “You said you had a serial number on that weapon. Let’s have a look at it.”
20
›› Otis’s Salvage Yard
›› 5000 Wilkinson Boulevard
›› Charlotte, North Carolina
›› 1507 Hours
“You’ve got to watch yourself while you’re dealing with Gerald,” Tarlton said as he put the police car’s transmission in park. “He’s what you might call a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”
“I’ll follow your lead,” Will said.
“That’ll probably make us all a lot happier.” Tarlton got out, then reached back in for his baseball cap and pulled it on.
Will and Remy got out on the passenger side.
The salvage yard was large and gave the sense of a long history. A t
en-foot-tall white fence with peeling paint and graffiti lined the yard. A hand-lettered sign made from a four-by-eight-foot slab of plywood hung on the fence and advertised “Otis’s Salvege Yard.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told him he misspelled salvage?” Remy asked.
“Sure.” Tarlton stepped around to the rear of the police car and took out a pump shotgun. “I’ve told him myself. He says he misspelled it on purpose because people remember something that’s wrong a lot longer than they remember something that’s right.” He closed the trunk. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s right. But I don’t think that’s why the sign’s misspelled. Gerald’s just not that bright.”
Will nodded at the shotgun. “Is there anything we should know?”
“Don’t stand in front of me when this thing goes off.” Tarlton grinned. “This is probably a little overkill, but Gerald’s got a couple uncles who ran their wife through a wood chipper almost forty years ago. They got out of prison year before last.”
“‘Their’ wife?” Remy echoed.
“Yep. She married one of them. Then divorced him and married the other. She cheated on both of them. So one night they got drunk and decided they’d had enough. None of the Otises have got enough brightness between them to power a lightbulb, but they know how to scrap cars just fine.”
Will reached under his jacket and released the safety catch on his shoulder holster.
“The shotgun’s not really for Otis or his uncles,” Tarlton said. “It’s for the guard pigs.”
“He has guard pigs?” Remy asked.
“Yeah. Arkansas razorbacks. When the uncles ran the salvage yard, they went hunting in Arkansas and brought back a half-dozen young pigs. Started raising them up to be guard pigs.”
“Meaner than a junkyard pig?” Remy asked.
Tarlton smiled. “Sounds catchy, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds insane is what it sounds. But I knew a guy down in New Orleans who kept a guard alligator in his gris-gris shop. It actually caught a burglar one night.”
“Interesting. But if the Otis junkyard pigs ever caught anybody, there wouldn’t be anything left of him come morning.”
›› 1511 Hours
Sobered by Tarlton’s nonchalant explanation of one of the strangest things he’d ever heard of, Will trailed the police chief to the salvage yard’s main building.
The building had evidently started life as a small home, probably a two- or three-bedroom. Then a few extra rooms had been added on. Somewhere in there, the salvage yard had been tacked onto it, and the fence ran in two directions. The house was covered with the same peeling white paint and graffiti as the fence.
Tall oak trees butted up against the house and the junkyard wall. Although houses were on either side of the salvage yard and a large street ran in front of it, the business looked like it should be located out in the middle of a rural wasteland.
Tarlton had gotten a hit on the gun’s serial number almost immediately. He’d turned to his computer and worked from a short list of known gun dealers in the area. Keeping track of weapons was a problem in smaller towns, he’d pointed out, because people had a tendency to swap them out, sell them, and borrow them for years.
Gerald Otis had once owned the pistol Bobby Lee Gant had used yesterday on Shel. Tarlton had been forced to take it from the man during an altercation at the junkyard. A group of young drivers barely old enough to drive had been liberating parts to build a race car. Upon discovering them one night, Gerald had held them at gunpoint till Tarlton arrived. No other police officer would do.
During the heated moments that had transpired, Tarlton had taken the gun from Gerald. He’d later returned it, along with a polite explanation of why he’d taken it.
In the meantime, though, Tarlton had logged the weapon into his own private records system. He’d been doing that with the merchandise of every pawn shop and private dealer that he could. The list was nowhere near complete.
Tarlton walked to the front door and knocked loudly. Then he stood there and waited.
A frazzled woman in her fifties answered the knock. She peered at them owlishly from the other side of the screen door. Her hair was so white it shone like pale fire.
“Afternoon, Chief Tarlton,” the woman said in a cigarette-roughened voice.
“Afternoon, Maisie. I came out here to see Gerald. It’s official business.”
“Who’s your company?”
“Investigators from the Marine base at Camp Lejeune.”
“Military men?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now you know Gerald don’t like nothing to do with the government.”
“I know. But they need his help.”
Maisie frowned at that, as if trying to figure out why Tarlton would sell her such a big bill of goods.
Will waited patiently even though time was getting away from him.
“All right, you can go on back.” Maisie slipped the lock open on the door and pulled it wide.
“Thank you, Maisie.” Tarlton carried the shotgun across his chest with both hands as he entered.
Inside, the house smelled like motor oil and rust. An engine occupied a table in the center of the living room. A block-and-tackle assembly had been mounted on the roof.
The television in one corner of the room broadcasted a soap opera.
“Gerald’s out back in the garage with Woody and Taylor,” Maisie said. “You can see yourself out.”
Tarlton tipped his hat and went through the room to the door that let out to the back.
As he looked around the smoke-stained room, Will remembered other people like these who’d been frozen in time and pretty much forgotten about.
“You just mind them guard pigs while you’re out there,” Maisie said. “Gerald’s not feeding ’em like he should. They might get a little out of hand.”
“Thank you,” Tarlton said as he stepped out the rear door and onto shaky wooden steps.
Will and Remy followed.
›› 1514 Hours
Outside the house, the ground was barren in all directions. The earth was stained black where automotive oil and all kinds of other fluids had been dumped for years.
The salvage yard was primarily filled with automobiles. But there were also boats, motorcycles, and farm equipment. Two 1950s airplanes interested Will immediately.
Snuffling from under the house startled Will. He turned just as three lean shapes burst into view. The hogs stood almost up to Will’s hips. Yellow tusks curled up from their lower jaws. They were an indiscriminate brown color, covered by sparse curling hair. Rings festooned the wiggling pink noses.
One of the hogs tried to put its snout against Tarlton’s pocket. The police chief popped the animal in the nose with the butt of the shotgun.
Surprised and hurt, the hog let out a bleat of pain and ran away. The other two hogs backed off and snorted and grunted indignantly. Their ears flattened against their low-browed skulls.
“Chief Tarlton,” a deep voice called. “That you?”
Looking forward, Will spotted a tall, rawboned man in an olive uniform shirt and blue uniform pants standing next to a ramshackle building. He was bald on top, but the hair around his head trailed down to his shoulders. He looked like he was in his forties.
“Gerald,” Tarlton called back. “Need a few words with you if I can.”
“Sure. Come on ahead.”
›› 1517 Hours
Gerald Otis stood at least six feet seven and was built broad enough that he made Shel look small. But his weight was from overeating and had gone to fat. He smelled like oil, gasoline, and bacon grease.
The shed was a study of contrasts. Barely standing, it housed a pristine 1969 Pontiac GTO that had been lovingly restored and seemed incongruous to its surroundings. The bright red paint seemed to glow with an inner fire.
“Man,” Remy said as he examined the car, “that is some sweet ride.”
“It is.” Gerald Otis smiled broadly. “I’ve been ta
king my time putting it together.” He shifted his attention to Tarlton. “What brings you out this way, Chief?”
“I’d like you to talk to someone if you would,” Tarlton said. “This is Commander Will Coburn of the NCIS.”
Otis’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Don’t know what that is.”
“I’m a military cop,” Will said. “I specialize in Navy and Marine crimes.”
“I never been in no service. Don’t see how I could help you.”
“The chief tells me you sometimes deal in guns,” Will said.
Gerald hesitated. He ran a big hand across the back of his neck. A guilty flush flamed his face. “I ain’t supposed to do that, I know. Chief Tarlton done explained that to me.”
“I’m not here to give you any trouble over that,” Will explained. “I just need to know if you can identify a gun for me.”
Gerald’s face cleared as worry lifted from him. “Sure.”
Will took a picture of the pistol Bobby Lee had used from his shirt pocket and showed it to the big man. “Have you seen this gun before?”
“Sure. I sold it.”
“If someone asked you to identify it, how would you do that?”
“Serial number. Each one of ’em’s different.”
“Did you write down the serial number of this pistol?”
“Nope.” Gerald frowned again. “That’s one of the problems I got into with the chief. I didn’t write enough stuff down.”
Will looked at Tarlton. The police chief had a twinkle of merriment in his eyes.
“Ask him to identify the pistol for you,” Tarlton suggested.
Will did.
And Gerald rattled off a string of numbers and letters.
“That’s the serial number,” Gerald said when he’d finished.
From the picture, Will couldn’t tell. He took out his iPAQ and brought up his notes on the pistol. Then he asked the man to recite the numbers back again. The numbers and letters matched perfectly.
“Gerald has a gift for numbers,” Tarlton explained. “Once he sees them, they’re his. Always.”
Will was quietly amazed.
“The few times the DA has had to put him on the stage to hammer someone else for trying to sell Gerald something, he’s run numbers forward, backward, and sideways,” Tarlton said. “You could come back a year from now, and he’d still know the serial number without ever seeing it in the meantime.”