by Jeff Abbott
“Hard drive. The fingerprint dust might very well do that. But I need to type on the keyboard to see what’s inside. Why don’t you want to have Franklin or Nelda do this anyhow?”
“Because I told ‘em I’d do it,” Junebug snapped back. He usually talks in this languorous drawl so you forget he has a temper. “I’m gonna catch the son of a bitch who killed that poor man that awful way in my town. Anyhow, you can teach me the basics while you do this. Kill two birds with one stone.”
I shook my head at his foolish pride. “Okay, so how do I avoid getting my prints on the keyboard?”
He left and returned with evidence gloves, those clear kind you see cops handling the murder weapon with on TV. I slipped them onto my hands. “Damn, they’re tight. Of course my hands are enormous anyway.”
“Bull. You got the hands of a hamster. I never saw such a tall man with such little hands, and you know what they say about men with little hands.”
“Yeah. They have to help their friends with little peckers figure out computers,” I answered. “Okay, why don’t we see what’s on these diskettes first. Have you dusted these?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. I’ll make copies of the diskettes so you can dust the originals.” I thumbed through Greg’s diskettes. “Oh, this is interesting. One’s marked LOUDERMILK FILES 2. What do you imagine could be on there? And where’s Loudermilk files 1?”
“That’s what I want to know,” Junebug said, sounding just a tad impatient.
I glanced through the rest There were six diskettes in all, three unmarked, the one marked LOUDERMILK FILES 2, another labeled MIRABEAU PROJECT ESTIMATES, and another titled FINANCIAL.
Junebug followed me like a puppy while I found some blank 3.5-inch diskettes in a box in the supply office. He seemed calmed when I pointed out that Greg’s diskettes were made by one manufacturer and were colored blue, while the station’s were colored tan. No danger of getting them confused.
On Nelda’s machine, I quickly formatted my disks so they could receive data, then copied Greg’s six disks. I carefully labeled each of the copies so it matched the original. Junebug watched, fascinated by this simplest of computer tasks. He slid the originals back into an evidence bag as I finished with them.
“Okay, let’s snoop,” I said as I loaded up the first of the copied disks, choosing LOUDERMILK FILES 2. Nothing. I tapped keys, then turned back to Junebug. “Sorry. It looks like the disk is blank.”
“What did you do wrong?” he wailed.
“No, listen. I didn’t do anything wrong. There’s just no information on this disk. Zilch.” I sat back in the chair, rubbing my arm. I’d taken it out of my sling to type faster, and it felt rebelliously painful. Better than yesterday, but still not well. “Maybe he’d labeled it but didn’t format it. It might have been that he was planning on putting files on it he hadn’t created yet.”
“Or maybe it was erased,” Junebug mused. “Can you tell that from the disk?”
“Someone probably can. I can’t. If they just erased the stuff on the disk, it would still be formatted to receive information. Or, they could have formatted over the information. That would completely destroy whatever was on the disk.”
“Crap. Can you tell if someone reformatted it to ruin whatever was on there?” Junebug asked.
“There’s probably a way, but I don’t know it,” I confessed. “You’d have to send the original to a business that specializes in data recovery. They have programs and means of getting back stuff that gets accidentally—or maybe on purpose—deleted. But there’s only so much they can do.”
Junebug gave a long sigh. “Let’s check the others.”
The story repeated itself five times. Each of Greg’s diskettes was blank.
“So what happened to them?” he said, half to himself.
“One, Greg or someone put these labels on perfectly okay blank disks but never put information on them. To me, that doesn’t seem likely. I never label a disk until I’ve put information on it. Or the disks did have stuff on them—at least the ones that were labeled—and someone has either erased or destroyed the information.” I stopped and turned to him. “But if someone wanted to get rid of the information, why not just steal the disks and destroy them later?”
“Maybe they didn’t want them on their person. And if they can destroy them by using the computer, they don’t need to steal them.”
“There might be the risk that the data could be recovered, though.” I scratched my nose with one plastic-sheathed finger. “But, like I said, I don’t know how much the data-recovery folks could do. Maybe it was enough to destroy the stuff on these files.”
“You said that there would also be information on the hard disk on his machine,” Junebug said. “Let’s look at that. God, I hope it hasn’t been erased.”
“I can copy what’s on the hard disk onto diskettes, if you like, or we can look directly onto his hard disk.”
Junebug considered. “Better make the copies.”
I did so. There were plenty of files on the hard disk, so at least it hadn’t been erased. We both confessed to skipping lunch, so Junebug called the Dairy Queen and ordered two country baskets, with strips of fried chicken, peppered cream gravy, buttery Texas toast, and french fries. Cholesterol’s not something we worry about, what with all the fresh air we get.
I finished up the copying while we waited for the food to arrive. (Dairy Queens don’t usually deliver, but Junebug’s a special customer, what with being the law.)
When the food came, we wolfed it down like a couple of good bachelors. The feeding frenzy completed, we took the several disks that held the contents of Greg’s hard drive and went back to Nelda’s computer.
I slid the first disk in and accessed its contents. There were a lot of spreadsheet files and word-processing files, and I went to those first.
“You’re sure we’re not breaking the law by doing this?” I said. “I mean, if you find evidence in here, you’ll be able to use it, right?”
“Yes. Don’t you worry about it, just don’t erase anything.” He leaned over my shoulder as I typed.
“Unless he’s passworded the files, I should be able to see everything here,” I said. “If he’s put a password on any of them, they’ll be locked.”
He made a noise in his throat, and I got to work. The first files I looked at were word-processing files; I preferred to deal with language over numbers first. The files were organized into directories: LETTERS; MEMOS; REPORTS. I peeked first in LETTERS and looked at the contents, then began opening each file to read it.
“Couldn’t we print out copies?” Junebug asked.
“Yeah, but let’s skim through the stuff first and see what’s most interesting. Then we can print hard copies.”
There weren’t many letters, and they all seemed to do with the condo project in Mirabeau. There was a letter to the Lower Colorado River Authority, asking for a list of any environmental requirements that developments on the river had to adhere to (regardless of any local or county regulations); a letter to Chester Blanton at the Mirabeau B. Lamar Bed-and-Breakfast, requesting reservations for Gregory Callahan and Lorna Wiercinski; a letter to Frederick Jacksill of Rivertown Real Estate of Mirabeau, confirming him as their commercial real-estate agent in Bonaparte County; another letter to Martin H. Noone, Attorney-at-Law, in Bavary, seeking a bid on legal services for land purchases in Mirabeau. The letters were written in a no-nonsense corporate style I’d become awfully familiar with in my days in the business world.
“All square and boring,” Junebug murmured over my shoulder.
I nodded and opened another file, marked ZADICHI. Junebug and I had each read about three sentences into the letter when we said “Oh, shit,” in near synchronization.
The letter read:
1213 Brennan Street
Boston, Massachusetts 02114
Mr. Gary Zadich
Chem-Solutions, Inc.
1600 Port-of-Call Road
Deer P
ark, Texas 77536
Dear Mr. Zadich:
I believe that the purchase of land in Mirabeau, Bonaparte County, Texas, will proceed according to our timetable. The land is zoned for both commercial and residential use (private homes and commercial farms are already side by side) and there are very few controls set on which businesses may operate on the river. The land is ideal for your needs as a chemical waste storage facility. Labor in the area is cheap. The slow economy and local unemployment should prevent any grass-roots campaign against your facility. Of course, I will be reselling you the land as soon as title clears. Undoubtedly some environmentalists will be deeply upset at the idea of a chemical waste storage facility on the river, but I think the community will welcome business of any sort. These bumpkins need the money.
I will contact you again as soon as the purchases are complete, or if I run into any difficulties.
Sincerely,
Gregory Callahan
“Holy shit!” Junebug crumpled back and collapsed in his chair.
“Bumpkins? Bumpkins!” I exploded. “That smarmy little bastard. Does he think we all just fell off the turnip truck? We are not idiots, Junebug. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing…” My voice trailed off as I remembered that the source of my ire was in the past tense.
“Shit! He was going to buy up that land then resell it to some chemical dump. How could he do that?”
I took a long breath. “I don’t know—maybe declare insolvency, say that his other investors pulled out of the project and he had to sell the land. Voilà, here’s this chemical waste company that needs some land and oh, I just had to sell it to them. Maybe it’s not even the chemical company itself, but another company owned by them so the folks who want to protect the river don’t know.”
Junebug nodded grimly. “And then, that company dangles the promise of new jobs. God knows we need ‘em, what with so many family farms having troubles. He’s right. Some folks would even be willing to put up with a chemical site on the river if it meant food on the table.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “But others would do anything to keep a chemical dump off our river.”
I heard everything that he was saying, but I had my mind elsewhere. Lorna. Did she know about this? Had she lied right to my face, telling me all about their delightful little condominium development while knowing they were going to sell the land right after they got it? I felt a slow burn of anger.
“Oh, lordy,” I heard Junebug say. “If anyone here found this out, they’d have a helluva motive to kill him.”
I blinked at Junebug. “Well, this should clear Lorna, right? This gives a lot of folks in Mirabeau a motive, and if she knew about this, what motive would she have?” I was babbling and I knew it. I fought back an urge to push my fist against my mouth. God, if she had lied to me about this for the sake of profit—
Junebug saw my vexation. He put a steadying hand on my shoulder. “C’mon, Jordy, let’s look at the rest of the files.”
Believing in the innate goodness of people (most of the time), I kept hoping we’d find another letter from Greg to Mr. Zadich, calling off the collective lie to Mirabeau. Greg, apparently, was not innately good. There were drafts of letters to the city council in Mirabeau, explaining that the condo deal had “fallen through due to investor withdrawal” and that he was actively seeking new investors, followed by another draft that claimed he couldn’t find any investors, and so was selling the land to another “commercial concern.” That commercial concern was no doubt Chem-Solutions, near Houston, but the letter didn’t state that.
The financial files lent heartbreaking support to the letters. There was a set of spreadsheets for the condo project; this was probably what Greg planned on showing the landowners. Another set worked out Greg’s profit on selling the land to Chem-Solutions, with money thoughtfully laid aside for any messy legal actions. As we read each file I felt slightly ill. I’d felt sorry for Greg Callahan at first, but my sympathy was now tempered with the knowledge that he must’ve been a supreme bastard.
There was only one other file that was on the disk, and it didn’t work with Nelda’s spreadsheet or word processor. It was a calendar program, the kind that businesspeople use to set up appointments. I donned my gloves again, went back to Greg’s computer, and copied the entire calendar program over, along with the associated files. I then installed the program on Nelda’s machine, and we began to look through Greg’s last days.
The past week and a half were all that were there. Apparently he’d spent most of those days in Boston, in a few meetings with names that meant nothing to us. He’d taken one side trip to Houston, apparently the day before he came to Mirabeau. That day was marked 9:30-12:00: MEET WITH ZADICH. CONFIRM DEAL. Junebug busily jotted down all the information into his notes.
He’d spent three days already in Mirabeau, not counting today. His schedule, at least as marked down in his calendar went like this:
Tuesday, July 19
10-10:45 Meet with Noone @ Bavary
11:00 Go to county courthouse @ Bavary
12:00 Lunch with Mayor Loudermilk @ Mirabeau
1:45 Meet with Twyla Oudelle (landowner)
3:00 Meet with F. Jacksill @ Mirabeau
5:00 Meet with Dee Loudermilk (landowner)
Wednesday, July 20
11:00 Meet with B. Poteet (landowner)
1:00 Meet with B. D. Goertz (landowner)
4:00 Meet with J. @ Bavary
Thursday, July 21
[reminder—call Gary with update on progress]
[reminder—Lorna arrives @ Austin airport, coming in with rental car—leave J. Poteet to her.]
9-11 Meet with F.
12 Lunch with Chamber of Commerce @ Mirabeau
2:00 Meet with B. D. Goertz
8:00 Meet with Lorna after her meeting with J. Poteet
10:00 Meet with J.
Thursday had been his last full day in Mirabeau before he died. His plans for that day had been:
Friday, July 22
8 Breakfast with L. and F.
10 Close deal with B. Poteet
12 Lunch with Mayor, solve any problems with TO. and N.H.
He hadn’t lived for that breakfast with (I guessed) Lorna and Freddy, or presumably to give a bunch of money to Uncle Bid, or to “solve any problems with Miss Twyla or Nina.” I scanned back over the list and Greg’s penchant for abbreviations. Some were obvious: J. Poteet being me (and I wasn’t very pleased at the idea of “being left to Lorna”), F. being Freddy Jacksill, TO. being Twyla Oudelle. But who was J.? Another abbreviation for Freddy? Or someone else altogether? A name or a profession? Maybe even Junebug? I thought for a moment, then dismissed it.
We finished and I felt a craving for a cigarette. I used to smoke a pack a day, but then I got into running up in Boston, so I quit (repeatedly). I’d started up again with all the stress I’d felt when I moved back to Mirabeau. Candace hated cigarette smoke, so I’d sworn off for the past three months. I needed one now, though. I borrowed two cigarettes and a book of matches from the dispatcher, and Junebug and I sat outside in the late-afternoon shade of a live-oak tree behind the station, having ourselves a good old think. The summer air, heavy with humidity, draped over us. My shirt started clinging to my back.
“Well, Nina’s reasons for killing him certainly have gone up, if she knew about that letter,” I said, blowing smoke above my head. Nasty habit, I reminded myself, but it did make me feel better. As soon as my arm was healed, I’d have a good solid run to make up for my vices.
Junebug scratched his chin. “But why kill him over it? If she knew about the letter and the plot with this chemical company, why didn’t she just blow the whistle? She could’ve humiliated him and exposed him for a crook. I think Nina would find that a sight more fulfilling than killing him.”
That made sense. I pictured Nina and Greg bickering at the library meeting and her smugness when she challenged him. I thought that she might rather see him squirm than see him dead. “But she’d do just
about anything to help protect the river.” I considered the ember at my cigarette’s end.
“Including murder? That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”
“She’d faced off against him before, and lost.” I paused. “I wonder if he tried this same scam somewhere else. But she had confronted him over this same chessboard; wouldn’t she know his tricks?”
Junebug shrugged. “That bears looking into. But maybe he’s done regular land development before this and just decided to turn crooked with this deal. I think we better try and find out more about Greg Callahan’s business deals. I gotta go make some phone calls.” He stood and dusted off the back of his blue uniform pants.
“So who do you suspect?” I jumped up to my feet.
“Everybody and nobody,” Junebug said. “I don’t suspect you, though, you’ll be pleased to know.”
“My gratitude knows no bounds.”
“Well, neither does mine. Thanks for helping me with the computer. I think I’ll quietly sign up for one of those introductory courses over at Bavary Community College now that you’ve got me on the basics. Can I call you if I need more help with it?”
“Sure, Junebug.” We shook hands and he went back into the station. I stomped on what was left of the cigarette, picked it up and thumbed it in a trash can and headed to my car. Lorna had a lot of questions to answer. I tore off down the street, ready to go confront her. But as I drove off I caught sight of Tiny Parmalee’s battered red pickup truck coming up quick behind me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TINY’S PICKUP, RESPLENDENT WITH ITS battery of dents, smoke-spewing pipes, and oversized Confederate-flag decal in the back window (along with what looked like a deer rifle) stayed close behind me all the way home. I felt a childish fear. I’d never forgotten how Tiny had nearly crushed the life out of me at little provocation. My fear, though, quickly changed to anger as his truck followed barely two feet behind my own back fender. I took a deep breath. I wasn’t a little kid who could be pushed, around again. And I wasn’t about to let a blunt-headed bastard like Tiny Parmalee intimidate me. I’d seen too much pain in life, and backing away never got a soul anywhere.