Smoke & Mirrors

by John Ramsey Miller

  “First, I’ll show you the shooter’s position,” Brad said. He drove past the driveway leading to the house. Fifty yards farther on, he turned down a thinly graveled road that led into the fields toward a tree line.

  “We haven’t had a hard freeze yet, and I didn’t see any fresh deer tracks in the field between the tree and the house that could point to a hunting accident.”

  Winter nodded. After seeing his business card he had immediately ruled out an accidental shooting.

  Brad parked near a downed tree accented with yellow crime-scene tape. “It’s difficult to imagine that anybody could make a shot at this distance that wasn’t an accident,” Winter said.

  “The right man could do it, given the conditions we had this morning,” Brad said.

  “You know much about long-range shooting?” Winter asked.

  “I know as much as other Marine snipers.”

  “How accurate is a sniper rifle at this kind of range?”

  “Match-grade .308 ammo is accurate at eight hundred to a thousand meters. The brass this guy left was from a.338 Lapua Magnum. Its trajectory is a whole lot flatter and longer than the .308 and can deliver what the shooter can see.” Winter saw Brad’s eyes lose their focus as he remembered. “It was like an alligator grabbed her head and tore most of it off. I’ve seen my share of bad death, but this is one I’ll remember forever.”

  “This where you found my card?”

  Brad pointed to the trunk. “About here, weighed down with the polished shell casing.”

  “And the footprints?”

  Brad pointed at the ground. “From here…” He turned to point through the woods. “Straight back that way a quarter mile to tire tracks.”

  Winter was looking down at the leaves when he saw something red stuck into the ground through a leaf, something small and perfectly pointed. Kneeling, he lifted the leaf and saw what it was.

  “Got an evidence bag?” Winter asked.

  “What is it?”

  “Looks like the shooter left another calling card.”

  “That a toothpick?” Brad asked, handing Winter a plastic bag.

  “Got a business card with you?”

  Winter took a card from Brad, folded it, placed the flats on either side of the point and slid the toothpick out of the ground, dropping it into the bag.

  Brad looked at the toothpick, darkened where it had been in the damp dirt.

  “He chewed the end,” Winter said, smiling. “It isn’t a driver’s license, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Son of a bitch. That means it’ll have the perp’s DNA on it.”

  Winter put the open bag to his nose and sniffed. “Damn,” he said.

  Brad leaned over and sniffed it also. “What is that?”

  “Oil of clove,” Winter said, feeling the way he had felt as a kid when he happened upon a snake he hadn’t been prepared to see. Son of a bitch!

  “You all right?” Brad asked.

  “That smell triggered a bad memory.” In the realm of understatements, that one took a blue ribbon.

  “Judging from the way it knocked the color out of your face, must be a powerful memory attached to that toothpick,” Brad said.

  “I’ve run across toothpicks soaked in clove oil before.”

  “Somebody you chased for the marshals service?”

  “The man I’m thinking about is someone I knew in New Orleans a couple of years ago. It’s complicated. I’m not going into it right now.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  “There are good reasons not to discuss him just yet.”

  “What can you tell me? I mean, it’s sort of important I know who did this. And you seem to know.”

  “The guy I have in mind is a professional killer. Don’t know about his shooting at this kind of range, though he most likely has the training. But the man I’m thinking about probably didn’t do this. It seems more likely somebody wants to make me think that guy was here.”

  “You don’t think he’d kill an innocent girl?”

  “There’s no telling how many innocent civilians he’s killed. No question he would do it, but if he did, somebody would be paying him a lot of money. That or he’s working on his own with another purpose.”

  “What other purpose?”

  “Killing me,” Winter replied.

  Brad pulled up to the house’s garage and the two men climbed out of the Tundra. Through the only open garage door, a dirt-streaked white Lincoln sat with its rear end visible.

  “She’s home,” Brad said, suddenly stern-faced.

  “Who?” Winter asked.

  “The owner, Leigh Gardner. She’s been out of town picking up her daughter, Cynthia, from college. The victim stayed overnight with Hampton, Leigh’s son. He’s ten. The maid heard the shot, saw her down, and called nine-one-one.”

  Winter said, “What time did it happen?”

  “Call came in at six-thirty-nine this morning. Jesus!” Brad said as they walked toward the house. “Some idiot hosed off the crime scene! Where’s the crime-scene tape?”

  On the wide wet cobblestone walkway, Winter could see no evidence of bloodstains. Water was pooled in a low spot, and the strong smell of bleach rose from the bricks.

  The back door of the house flew open. An attractive rosy-cheeked woman, her blonde hair in a ponytail, slammed the door behind her and strode directly toward them. She was no more than five six and wore jeans, a cotton shirt under a wool cardigan, suede cowboy boots, and a frown.

  “Damn,” Brad muttered. “By the way, Leigh can come on a little strong.”

  “Brad, what the blue blazes happened out here! Who in the hell killed Sherry?”

  “Hello, Leigh. Leigh Gardner, this is Winter Massey. He’s—”

  “What are you doing about it?” she snapped at Brad without looking at Winter.

  “If you’ll calm down, I’ll discuss it with you.”

  Fists on her hips, Leigh Gardner fixed the sheriff with what could only be described as a warrior’s glare. “I’m as calm as I’m going to get.”

  “Who cleared off the crime scene?” he asked her.

  “I guess Estelle did,” Leigh said.

  “It was cordoned off with crime-scene tape. Where is it?”

  “You’d have to ask her.”

  “Tampering with a crime scene is serious.”

  “We’re talking about Estelle. She sees a mess and she cleans it up. Did you tell her not to?”

  “Well, no. I didn’t think…”

  “Did you leave someone here to protect it?”

  “I left crime-scene tape around it.”

  “Are you planning to arrest Estelle for cleaning up?”

  “Arresting her is hardly the point. It’s blatant obstruction of justice and willful destruction of evidence. It was a clearly roped-off crime scene.”

  “How many crime scenes do you suppose Estelle’s been around? If you weren’t done out here, you should have stayed until you were. Roy Bishop told me you took off without telling him where you were going.”

  “If it’s any of your business, I went to talk to Winter Massey here who agreed to come out and offer his expertise. He’s a highly respected ex–law enforcement officer with a great deal of experience with the type of individuals who would do this sort of thing.”

  “Well, maybe Mr. Massey ought to be our sheriff. A potted plant could see you’re no good at it.” She turned her glare on Winter. “So, Mr. Murder Expert, who killed Sherry?”

  “That’s totally uncalled for,” Brad said. “I understand you’re upset, but this attitude is counterproductive. He just got here, and we’re just starting to gather information to figure this out. If you’ll calm down, we can get started.”

  “Brad Barnett, you’re about as useful as a milk bucket under a bull,” she said. “Well, quit standing around wasting time. Y’all come on in out of the cold.”

  8

  WINTER AND BRAD FOLLOWED LEIGH GARDNER INSIDE through a mudroom, where he co
uld see down a wide hallway all the way to the front doors at the far end of the house. They turned right adjacent to a utility room, entering into an expansive kitchen with high ceilings. The floor was well-worn wide oak boards. An island was topped with a thick, ancient butcher’s block. There were two gas ranges standing side by side and a built-in refrigerator that looked like it had come from a florist shop—its contents on steel wire shelves visible through the glass doors.

  At the dining table a young boy with large blue eyes and thick auburn hair sat behind a plate of bacon, grits, and eggs. He wore a black cape with a red lining over his pajamas and he looked up and blinked owlishly when the men walked in. A matronly ebony-skinned woman in a bright white uniform stood at the sink washing dishes. A ceiling fan turned lazily to redistribute the warm air issuing loudly from vents.

  A girl with long light-brown hair nodded at the men, tugged back the sleeves of her sweatshirt, and placed the blood-sugar monitor she had just used on the green Formica-topped counter. Her sweatshirt advertised a place called Junior’s House of Blues. Her tattered jeans stopped above her bare feet, the toes of which were painted a shade of tangerine.

  “Winter Massey, meet Hampton and Cynthia, Leigh’s children, and Estelle Johnson, their maid.”

  “Estelle is our housekeeper,” Leigh corrected.

  The children merely stared at Winter, but Estelle turned and smiled at him. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Massey,” she said.

  “Without her the house does not function. Estelle, the sheriff is not pleased that you washed off the walk,” Leigh said, crossing her arms.

  “Good Lord, Sheriff Brad,” Estelle said. “I couldn’t leave that for Miss Leigh and Cyn to see. After your people left it was a terrible mess out there. They got most everything up, but…” Her lip trembled. “Anyhow, I rolled that plastic line up on a stick and left it in the garage for you.” She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. “I can’t believe that baby’s dead. Sherry was a bright, churchgoing child. I’ve known her since she was born.”

  “And I know you were upset when I first asked, but since then have you thought of anybody who would want to hurt her?” Brad asked.

  “No, sir. Everybody loved her,” Estelle said. “She was an angel. Pure angel. She was going to be a nurse. Got herself a scholarship to Fisk. Only reason she didn’t start college was because her mama was down again with the breast cancer.”

  Estelle turned back to the dishes in the sink.

  “Sherry worked for us since she was Hamp’s age,” Leigh interjected. “She was a serious, sweet girl and the idea that anyone would purposefully kill her is absurd. Some hunter must have shot at a deer and the bullet went astray. A high-powered rifle bullet can travel a couple of miles.”

  “No,” Brad said. “Whoever did it shot from the tree line straight behind the house.”

  “From way out there?” Leigh asked, pointing out the kitchen window at the trees that were amazingly small in the distance. “Preposterous.” She continued, “I’ve shot rifles myself and those woods are too far away for it to have been done on purpose. There must have been a deer in the field. He missed it and hit Sherry.”

  “I found the place he fired from,” Brad told her. “And he sat there and waited for her to come out of the house.”

  “A sniper?” Leigh asked, frowning.

  Brad nodded.

  “There’s only one sniper around here that I know of,” Leigh said, putting her hand to her mouth in a gesture of surprise, then turning her eyes away. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I’m not myself.”

  “Mama!” Cyn said.

  “There’s this one man,” Hampton said in a low voice. “Sherry said he wanted to talk to her. He got mad and grabbed her when she told him to leave her alone.”

  “Talk about what?” Brad asked.

  “Talk doesn’t mean talk,” Cyn said, smiling coyly. “That talk means he wanted to—you know.”

  Hamp continued, “He bugged her. He’d sit in his hoopty and watch her house sometimes. She said he followed her around a lot.”

  “He ever sit and watch this house?” Brad asked.

  Hamp’s brow creased in contemplation. “I don’t think so. If he did, I never saw him.”

  “Did you see him last night, Hamp?” Brad asked.

  “I saw him last night at the Shell station when we were going to the video store. He waved at Sherry and she told me not to look at him.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  Hamp nodded. “Alfoons.”

  “Alphonse,” Cyn said. “Sherry told me all about him. He totally grossed her out.”

  “He got thrown out of the Army,” Hamp said.

  “Why?” Brad asked.

  “He told Sherry he punched a white general for disrespecting him. Sherry said he gambles away all of his money and he owes people he doesn’t pay back. Sherry said even if he was kind of handsome and dressed up fancy, he was no good.”

  “Handsome?” Cynthia blurted. “He looks like a bowlegged monkey in a pimp suit. He has creepy eyes and freckles.”

  “Cyn!” Leigh snapped. “You know better than to say such a thing. If that is what they teach you at LSU, young lady, maybe you’d be better off at the junior college in Senatobia.”

  “I didn’t say it because he’s black,” Cyn said. “Girls like bad boys, but not stupid, ugly ones.”

  “Jefferson,” Estelle said, without turning around. “That’s his name. Alphonse Jefferson. It isn’t Christian to talk bad about people, but that is one lazy, liquor-boned, good-for-nothing boy that comes from shiftless people.”

  “What’s liquor-boned?” Hamp asked.

  “On account he’s mean-tempered when he drinks, which is most of the time. He stays at his grandmother’s and hangs out at Bugger’s juke joint with other no-accounts. He does look like a organ grinder’s monkey in those flashy getups, like Miss Cyn said.”

  “Don’t encourage her, Estelle.”

  Estelle threw up her wet hands.

  Brad opened his murder book and made a note. “I know who he is. We’ve had him in the jail for drunk and disorderly a couple of times. I’ll check his Army records to see about his marksmanship ability.”

  “Well, there you have it. Pick him up,” Leigh said. “Obviously he did it. Put him where he belongs, doing hard labor on Parchman Farm for the rest of his life. Sherry Adams had a productive life ahead of her. She mattered, and if you don’t remember anything else, remember that.”

  “Parchman Farm be the only work he ever did,” Estelle threw in. She put the last plate in the rack, dried her hands, and let the water out of the sink.

  “I’ll check him out, Leigh.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “Hamp,” Brad asked. “Have you remembered anything else about last night since we talked this morning?”

  “Nope,” the boy said, absently spoon-stirring the grits on his plate. “I showed Sherry some new tricks I got yesterday.”

  “Tricks?” Brad asked.

  “Magic stuff,” Hamp said.

  “Hamp is a magician,” Estelle said proudly. “He about the best there is around here. He can make about anything disappear.”

  “And I always get them back,” Hamp added.

  “The Great Memphister,” Estelle said, nodding. “That why he wears that cape he bought at the magic store in Memphis. You wouldn’t believe what those little thingamajigs cost.”

  “It’s the Great Mephisto,” Hamp corrected.

  “He can sure make his mama’s money disappear with them tricks he buys,” Estelle said, laughing.

  “I use my own allowance,” he said defensively.

  “That’s what allowances are for,” Leigh said, smiling.

  Brad looked through his notebook. “Sherry came yesterday morning just before your mother left for Baton Rouge. At around seven last night, Sherry drove you to town to the video store and y’all got two movies. You both watched them until around midnight. There were no phone calls
or visitors during that time. And you didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Except for Alphonse Jefferson at the Shell station,” Hamp said.

  Brad made a notation about the encounter. “The Shell station.”

  Hamp nodded. “Yay-ah, Mr. Barnett.”

  “Yes, Sheriff Barnett,” Leigh chided.

  “Yes, Sheriff Barnett,” Hamp said.

  “Stop playing with your food,” Leigh said.

  Hamp frowned and put the spoon down on his plate.

  “And you were asleep until the gunshot woke you up?” Brad asked.

  “Yeah. It was real loud. I heard Estelle screaming and then I came down and she made me get in the utility room while she called nine-one-one. I didn’t see Sherry.”

  “Thanks, Hamp,” Brad said, patting the boy’s shoulder.

  “Leigh, why did you drive to Baton Rouge?” he asked, turning to her.

  “To bring Cyn home for Christmas break.”

  “I mean, why did you drive all the way to Baton Rouge instead of letting her fly home?”

  “Good question,” Cyn said, frowning.

  Leigh looked at Brad like he was an idiot. “Do you have any idea what it costs to fly from Baton Rouge to Memphis? The cotton is already ginned. Brad, have you ever known me to waste money?”

  “There’s meals and a motel room and time away from the place,” he said.

  “Motel?” Cyn said, laughing. “Mom spent the night in my room at the dorm and she made ham sandwiches for the trip.”

  Cyn’s cell phone buzzed and she took it out of her pocket and looked at the display. With well-practiced thumbs she typed a message and closed it.

  “Not wasting money is why I still own Six Oaks and not some damned conglomeration of suit-wearing, citified windbags who don’t know a cotton boll from a golf ball,” Leigh said flatly.