by Nat Williams
Janet believed she and Obie could do a better job of operating – indeed saving – the orchard. He thought he could do a better job of taking care of Janet.
Instead of stopping, getting out and checking out the trees, David put the truck in gear and headed toward an exit.
“I’m not in the mood. We’ll come back tomorrow and deal with this shit.”
It was time for improvisation. Obie thought he was going to get what he needed outside. The volume level of the classic rock banging in the truck was still high. Change of plans.
“It’s been a long day,” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a cold one.”
“I don’t know. I got some more shit to take care of.”
“Come on. Nothing like a brewski to clear the mind. Let’s stop by Lefty’s. I’ll buy the first one. You can you buy the last one.”
David’s face reflected the stress he had been under. He nearly cringed, as the weight of the recent events came over him. Obie thought about doing some more urging, but didn’t want to push his luck. He was new to this surveillance game, after all.
“I guess,” David said. “Just a couple, though.”
“Attaboy,” Obie said. He immediately felt the guilt, as if he were Judas leading the Sanhedrin’s soldiers to Jesus. Was all this going to be worth his thirty pieces of silver?
The bar was busier than when he and Munro were there. The jukebox was going, which wasn’t good. But at least it wasn’t too loud. He purposely guided David to the end of the bar farthest from the music.
Cindy Dunn broke off her conversation at the other end of the bar and headed toward Obie and David. She was in her forties, with a thick body, wiry dishwater hair and a tattoo sleeve on her right arm. She had worked on and off at Lefty’s for years.
“What can I get you guys?” she said as she placed paper Bud Light coasters in front of the customers.
They ordered two beers and she delivered them. Obie wasn’t sure how to start the process. His audio surveillance course with Professor Bachelor lasted all of five minutes. He decided to let the conversation develop naturally instead of forcing it.
“I’ve had some bad years, but this one may take the prize,” David finally said. He took a swig of his beer and rocked the bottle back and forth on the bar.
“It isn’t enough to have one disaster. They have to pile on,” Obie said. He fought the urge to add more meaningless small talk. He was an amateur eavesdropper and didn’t want the conversation to feel forced.
David sighed. He was being uncharacteristically quiet. Maybe Obie would have to move things along after all. He took the key fob out of his pocket and pressed the button.
“I don’t think the cops have any idea who killed your in-laws,” he finally said.
“Hell, they’ve been bothering me. I guess they’re talking to everyone who’s ever known the Van Okins.”
Purcell took another drink, and turned to face Obie.
“What have they been asking you about?”
“You know, the usual. Where I was that night. If I knew anyone who might have some beef with the doc, stuff like that.”
“What did you tell them?”
“What could I tell them? I don’t know shit. I told him they oughta check other places. Maybe it’s a serial killer or something. Remember, about ten or twenty years ago, when that old man and his daughter were killed not too far from here? They found out years later it was the Railroad Killer.”
“Railroad Killer?”
“Yeah, remember? Mendez, or something like that. Confessed to killing a bunch of people in Mexico and the U.S.”
“Yeah, I do remember that now,” David said.
“Reséndiz, I believe it was,” Obie said. “Anyway, I don’t know any reason someone would kill two people like that in their home.”
“I don’t either,” David said.
Obie took his shot.
“Man, when I first heard about the Van Okins, I couldn’t believe it. Thought I was dreaming.” He paused. “When did you first hear about it?”
David took another swig.
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” Obie said. He thought about clicking the off button on the recorder. Then Purcell started talking.
He went into detail about where he was and what he was doing around the time of the crime, a conversation that was captured very clearly on that key fob.
“Let’s get the hell out of here, Purcell said.”
“No problem.”
A few hours later, Bachelor, Carroll and Munro were sitting in Bachelor’s office. They listened as Obie got Purcell to say exactly what they wanted him to. Getting Obie to record the conversation was a minor gamble that was paying off in a major way.
CHAPTER 51
Hilliard stood up from his desk and shook Bachelor’s hand. Bachelor had asked for a meeting, and the state’s attorney eagerly agreed.
Hilliard was feeling increasing pressure - not necessarily to solve the crime, but to at least produce a suspect. This was the age of the twenty-four-seven news cycle, constant updates on social media, information spreading through the region via cables, satellites and cell towers. The townspeople anticipated every development. The dearth of official statements prompted non-stop operation of the rumor mill, where gossip jumped from computer to tablet to cellphone.
The media types weren’t picky. A suspect from C-Camp would be best. Especially if it were a prominent citizen whom no one suspected. But if it were someone like the serial killer Obie had imagined, that might be even better. Maybe someone who was good-looking and telegenic, or ugly and anti-social. It didn’t matter. Like the Don Henley song, everyone wanted dirty laundry.
“How are you, Vern?” Bachelor said.
“Like a frog in a skillet. And you?”
“I’m feeling some heat too. But I might be able to cool things down a little. I believe we have enough to arrest David Purcell.”
Hilliard slowly lowered himself into his chair.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Bachelor continued to lay out all the evidence that pointed to Purcell. The sighting of his truck by Manny Tucker and his buddy. The financial problems. The phone calls. The tire tracks. The discrepancy about when and where he was when he heard about the crime, caught on audio surveillance.
“The individual pieces may not point to him,” Bachelor said. “But if you put the puzzle together, I feel pretty good about this.”
Hilliard had a troubled look. The foundation didn’t seem very firm. What if the case were a house of cards that would come tumbling down? Then he pictured a headline in the Cherokee Camp Register: Police, prosecutor still have no suspects in double murder.
Just a few short years and he could retire with his wife, Shirley, to a place that was warm all year long. Maybe Myrtle Beach, or Sarasota, or South Padre Island. Hell, maybe Puerto Vallarta. They hadn’t decided. What a cruel twist of fate, that one of the biggest, most publicized, riskiest cases of his career was kicking sand in his eye right when he was looking at beachfront real estate.
“OK. I’ll convene a grand jury,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Don’t let me down, Frank.”
“We’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Do that. And, while you’re at it, get some more evidence.”
“I know someone who can help with both.”
Hilliard looked like he had just been sucker punched.
“Care to explain?”
“Not right now. Trust me?”
“No.”
“OK,” Bachelor said. “I probably wouldn’t either if I were in your shoes. Truth is, I haven’t told you everything.”
Hilliard cocked his head. “Excuse me?”
“Someone else is involved. FBI.”
“Again, excuse me?”
“David Purcell and Dr. Van Okin have been under investigation on a Medicaid fraud case. We’ve crossed paths – the FBI agent and me. He
has some things for me and I have some things for him. Even though the evidence in the fraud case isn’t directly related to the murders, it points to motive.”
Hilliard’s mouth was open, as if he were getting ready to speak. But nothing came out. Finally, his vocal chords went to work.
“So when were you going to tell me all this?”
“I just did.”
Hilliard stood up, put his hands on his hips and walked out from behind the desk. He turned his back to Bachelor and faced the wall.
“Frank, you’re a damn good cop. But you’re a shitty politician.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Both parts.”
Hilliard waved his hand in frustration, then turned back around to face Bachelor.
“I feel like a manager making a mound visit and the pitcher says, ‘I got this, coach. I can get this next guy out.’ Then the coach walks back to the dugout and thinks maybe he should have pulled him. But it’s too late. He’s already made his mound visit. He isn’t allowed any more. The pitcher tries out a new pitch – a four-seam fastball.”
Hilliard threw up his hands and motioned for Bachelor to leave. But he wasn’t done.
“You know, if this FBI agent collars Purcell, that could really fuck up our case. First of all, he’d have to put him in a federal hold.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“How do you know that?”
“I trust him.”
“That’s the difference between you and me,” Hilliard said. “I don’t trust anyone. And so far, in my sixty-one years, that strategy has served me well.”
“It’s more than that. He doesn’t have enough evidence in his case to bring charges. Especially since his main suspect is three bullets heavier than he was a week ago.”
Hilliard shook his head.
“Just don’t blow the save. I’m the starting pitcher, and I don’t want to risk my contract not being extended because some rookie out of the bullpen gives up a three-run homer, OK?”
“I won’t let you down, Coach.”
“Well, that’s fine. But more important, don’t let down the fans. And by fans, I mean voters. And by contract, I mean another term. And by another term, I mean my swan song before I ride off into the sunset.”
Bachelor made his way out of Hilliard’s office and to his car, hoping he didn’t just throw a hanging curveball.
CHAPTER 52
David Purcell was standing on the floor of the packing shed, chewing out one of the migrants on the peach line. It was a hot day and he was in a foul mood.
“No están trabajando lo suficiente,” he said. He didn’t believe the employees were working hard enough.
He was too pissed off to notice the police car pulling into the parking lot. Frank Bachelor and Jerry Carroll stepped out and walked into the building. Purcell left his latest punching bag and confronted them.
“Can I help you gentlemen?”
“You’ll need to put your hands behind your back,” Bachelor said, as he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt.
“What’s this all about?”
Bachelor held up an official-looking piece of paper bearing a judge’s signature, among other things.
“This is a warrant. You’re under arrest for the murders of Elmer and Norma Van Okin.”
“What? Is this a joke?”
“You need to put your hands behind your back,” Carroll repeated.
Purcell was incredulous. But the two officers didn’t make a move. He did what he was told, and Bachelor cuffed him. What cops call a clean grab. No resistance.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”
Bachelor finished Mirandizing Purcell.
“Let’s take a ride,” he said.
The workers looked on in confusion. No one said a word. They didn’t speak English, but got the general idea, hearing the name Van Okin.
The officers put Purcell in the squad car and stirred up dust as they drove out of the gravel lot and onto the paved country road back to C-Camp. The migrants at the packing shed looked like the Jewish factory workers at the end of Schindler’s List. They didn’t know what to do.
No one said a word until the car pulled into the rear parking lot of the Gilbert County Jail. Two deputies – Trey Bibb and Adam Zilli – greeted them and opened the back door, letting Purcell out.
The four officers surrounded Purcell as he was marched into the jail to be processed and fitted with a freshly starched orange jumpsuit with the words INMATE GILBERT COUNTY JAIL stenciled on the back.
“OK, what the hell’s going on?” Purcell finally said.
“Are you willing to talk to us about this?” Bachelor said.
Purcell began to say something, then hesitated.
“I guess I’m going to wait to see what my lawyer says.”
“Fine,” Bachelor said. “Officers Bibb and Zilli will be escorting you.”
The officers walked on either side of Purcell down a hallway, up a flight of stairs and into an eight-by-eight jail cell, equipped with a metal bunk with a thin mattress, a blanket, a toilet with no lid and a sink.
“Enjoy your new home,” Zilli said as they took off Purcell’s handcuffs, opened the cell door and waited as he walked in. He stood in the middle of the cell, looking at nothing in particular.
The deputies closed the cell door and walked away.
Purcell’s mind raced. What the hell had just happened? He thought back to the days since the Van Okins were found dead in their home. How could they finger him for it? What kind of evidence did they have?
He had never had anything more serious than a traffic violation. Except stealing that bicycle when he was fifteen. It belonged to Willie Paiche, the smart-ass, fat-ass fourteen-year-old kid everyone called Chub. David had been in town with some friends, at the Onion Ring, a teen hangout just down the street from the high school.
Chub was talking some shit. Maybe David brought it on; he couldn’t remember. Chub dissed him, so David did what came naturally. He punched Chub in the nose, pushed him down and rode off on Chub’s bike. He’d teach that fat prick a lesson. No one treated David Purcell like that. After going a few hundred yards, he stopped, got off the bike and pushed it down a steep hill into a gulley peppered with scrub brush and saplings.
Turns out Chub’s dad was an assistant state’s attorney. The kid cried, David was identified and the C-Camp police paid a visit to his home.
His ultimate penalty was a forced apology and a one-week grounding. That’s almost a life sentence for a teen-ager. But his parents spent more time trying to run a struggling orchard than raising their only child. They were under stress and didn’t need more at home. They gave in to his whining on Day Four. That left the next weekend free.
Today, with nothing else to do in the bare cell, David exercised his mind. What had gone wrong? Regrets began seeping in. Maybe he shouldn’t have lawyered up. He thought back to the drunken fight he had gotten into with Janet. That was a big mistake, and one that could come back to bite him.
Suddenly he felt small. Alone. Scared.
He paced back and forth in the cell. A concrete box on three sides with iron bars making up the other. The similitude between the bleakness of this place and his life was apparent.
Finding himself in a place he hoped he’d never be, he was going to be forced to do something he hoped he’d never have to do. It was time to launch the contingency plan. But he couldn’t do it alone.
CHAPTER 53
David Purcell, still dressed in orange, was the loneliest person in the courtroom. There was no lawyer to represent him and no loved ones to offer encouragement. His only companions were deputies Zilli and Bibb.
They were facing Circuit Judge Max Peregrino. At the other table sat Vernon Hilliard and assistant state’s attorney Justin Grimes. It was the suspect’s initial encounter with the court, uncreatively referred to as the First Appearance.<
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“David Edward Purcell, you have been charged with two counts of first-degree murder,” Peregrino said. “You have the right to hire your own counsel. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed by the court. What is your preference?”
“I’ll hire my own lawyer,” Purcell said. Though he meant it to convey confidence, it came across meekly. “What about bail?”
“At this time there is a no-bail motion. That matter will be addressed at the arraignment. Your attorney will advise you.”
Purcell suddenly felt as lost as he was lonely, slowly drowning in a sea of legal jargon. He was going to need to get a lawyer, and quick. But first, he desperately needed to talk to his wife.
Janet was in the kitchen at 7 a.m. the next day, eating a breakfast that consisted of a bagel with cream cheese and half a honeydew melon. The quiet was shattered by sharp, heavy pounding on the front door. She had watched enough true crime on TV to know what a cop knock sounds like.
She wasn’t wrong. She opened the door to the sight of four uniformed policemen: Bachelor, Carroll, Zilli and Bibb. Bachelor held up a piece of paper. That wasn’t much of a mystery either.
“Mrs. Purcell, we have a search warrant for the premises. The house, the garage, the outbuildings. It’s all on here.”
He handed her the warrant, along with a pen. She signed without hesitation and handed it back to Bachelor. He gestured to the three deputies. They had already been briefed on where they could look, what they were looking for, how to handle any potential piece of evidence and what they could take.
Janet walked outside. She didn’t want to be around while cops fanned throughout her home, shaking down clothing in closets, leafing through books and journals, packing up laptop computers, rummaging through bedrooms, looking in the refrigerator, running their fingers through her lingerie drawer. She fought the urge to vomit.
This was one of the times she almost wished she still smoked. She could use a nice drag. It wasn’t just the nicotine and the smoke. It was the feeling of having some control over something, even if it was her lungs.