by Cole, Bobby
A frustrated Jake Crosby had met with law enforcement officials to discuss the possibility of the stalker being connected to what had happened in West Alabama about eighteen months earlier. Departments collaborated and files were studied, but nothing had been decided yet.
During the night of the Dummy Line incident, an Alabama deputy sheriff had encountered a suspicious male at Johnny Lee Grover’s trailer—one Ethan “Moon Pie” Daniels, who had disappeared after evading the deputy’s attempt to follow him. Moon Pie had flown under the radar for most of his adult life, but he had basically dropped off the grid since that awful spring evening in Alabama. Since his involvement in that night’s crimes could not be established, law enforcement from both Alabama and Mississippi were content to let Moon Pie and the matter quietly fade away.
Another Dummy Line suspect was Tommy Tidwell, commonly known as Tiny. He too was thought to have been in the area of the crimes and was a known associate of the gang. He was located several months after the killings, but the police could never get him to talk about that night. Since Jake could not positively identify him in a lineup, the local district attorney had been forced to close the case, knowing that three very bad guys had been killed that night and two more may have been involved.
Tiny had a solid alibi for the recent events in West Point, and he didn’t match the physical appearance of the suspect’s outline that had been captured in the game camera photographs. Tiny weighed 365 pounds without bulky cold-weather clothing. Additionally, for the last year, he had worked the day shift at a fish hatchery in Montgomery, Alabama, and nights as a maintenance man at an Indian casino. He hadn’t missed any work in over a year. The law enforcement officers were left wondering when he had time to sleep. His live-in girlfriend mildly complained of the same, but somebody had to work to pay the bills, and it obviously wasn’t going to be her.
CHAPTER 6
“WHOA. HANG ON. Okay—let me get this straight,” Samantha said, holding up a hand and then flipping to a clean sheet of paper.
She leaned forward, staring at the two old men, and then asked, “The two of you robbed the Kroger. We’re talking about that giant grocery store?”
“That’s the store. But we didn’t exactly rob it. We sorta embezzled the weekend deposit,” Walter said with a sly grin. “And we had two more people helping. It was an inside job, and we didn’t use guns—just brains.”
“We doubt they’ve even figured it out yet,” added Bernard Jefferson with a sense of confidence.
“And you want me to help you start a legitimate foundation with this stolen money to help older people who don’t have any money.” She stared back at them and noticed a distinct twinkle in Bernard’s eyes.
“That’s a bit of oversimplification. We want to start a foundation to help older people who worked all their lives and don’t have anything to show for it…like us—to do one final, life-changing act for their families. Help them get a break, a leg up, so to speak,” Walter explained calmly.
Sam, in obvious disbelief, took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
Walter allowed his comments to sink in for a moment and then continued, “For instance, we have a guy in our group with a grandson who’s going to medical school and having to work two jobs just to pay the bills. He doesn’t even have time to study. Imagine not being able to study properly at medical school because you’re worried about paying the rent, buying gas and books…and eating. He’s a great kid who’s trying really hard. Imagine what twenty-five thousand dollars would mean to him. Imagine his granddad being able to give it to him. The kid could study properly, be competitive with the other students, and perform at his best. People like him deserve some help.”
“You’re serious.”
“You betcha! You see, we help him, and in return, he pledges to help someone else when he can,” Walter added with an unvarnished Minnesotan accent and a broad smile.
“So that’s how it perpetuates,” Sam remarked.
“Absolutely. But we can’t help everybody. We know that. We want to be selective. We need requirements and a means to help us decide who really qualifies and to spot the freeloaders. Whether it’s school tuition, helping start a business, paying for a surgery, whatever…there’s a lot of need out there, and there are a lot of people like us who want to help but can’t. We need a lawyer to set up the foundation and then to monitor, administrate, and help it continue,” Walter explained and then glanced over at Bernard, who was excited to add, “That’s why we hired you.”
“You haven’t hired me yet,” she shot back.
Sam’s mind was racing. She could count her clients on one hand and still have a couple of extra fingers. That did not translate into a healthy practice. Now these crazy old men waltz in, lay down an envelope full of much-needed cash, and then casually admit to stealing the money to help those in need. Her ethical compass was spinning wildly.
“I haven’t seen anything in the news about the robbery,” she said with certainty. Sam watched the local news each night while thinking about exercising.
“It wasn’t robbery, and we’re good guys.”
“How much money are we talking about here?”
“One hundred and sixteen thousand dollars. There’s five grand in that envelope to retain your services,” Walter replied as he gestured toward her desk.
“We saw your commercial on TV,” Bernard contributed confidently.
“Actually, I did a pretty thorough background check on you,” Walter said with a smile.
“On me?”
“Walter Googled you,” Bernard interjected enthusiastically.
Before Walter could clarify, Bernard added, “We know about the panthers.”
Sam looked at him with a furrowed brow.
“It’s important to have the right person help us,” Walter explained.
“Well, gentlemen, I’m not sure I’m buying your story, and even if I did, that’s not enough money to start a foundation like what you’ve described. You could start it, I suppose, but you just couldn’t help many people.”
“Oh, we’re gonna get a lot more money. I have a plan for that,” Walter explained.
Sam blinked. She had to ask, “How? More Krogers?”
“No, ma’am. I can’t tell you. I don’t feel comfortable explaining crimes we’re considering.”
“But you told me about the Kroger felony.”
With steely resolve, Walter stated, “What we’ve done is done…and you’re our lawyer, so you can’t betray us.”
“I’m not your lawyer, yet.”
“I told you because you need to know that we’re being totally honest.”
“Nobody’s gonna get hurt,” Bernard promised.
“Look, gentlemen, y’all seem sweet, and I’ve enjoyed talking with y’all. The foundation concept is worthwhile, but your funding methods don’t make sense. Doing something bad to do something good? If everything you’ve said is true, this creates an ethical, if not legal, dilemma for me.” Sam leaned back and stared at the cash on her desk. Five thousand dollars sure could go a long way around here, she thought.
“We aren’t asking you to break the law. Just execute our wishes. We’ll pay your hourly rate and allow you to be the administrator—for a fee, of course. It’s our legacy, and we are very serious about it,” Walter explained as he leaned in for emphasis.
Walter let a long moment pass and then sat back to study her office. From the looks of things, it appeared she needed the retainer. Need was everywhere. Everybody needs something.
Sam glanced down at her watch and then at the two old men smiling at her. She could hear her receptionist explaining to a confused walk-in that the therapist was gone. Sam sighed and wondered just how much of their story was true. At least they could pay.
“Okay, here’s my proposal: we go to lunch, you buy, and I bill you for a minimum of one hour and pro rata every fifteen minutes beyond the first hour, including travel time. You tell me everything, and I’ll decide if I’
m going to be your attorney.”
“Deal,” the old men said in stereo.
Walter smiled; after a few more heartfelt stories about helping others, he would have the lawyer he wanted. He would bide his time before explaining to her what he really wanted the foundation to accomplish.
CHAPTER 7
EVERYONE WORRIED ABOUT Katy. She had been only nine years old when she and Jake endured an unimaginable night of terror. Jake and Morgan took her to the best counselors in Mississippi. She talked, they listened, and everybody felt like Katy was improving. Initially, the counselors all said she simply didn’t know how to process the information. They also spoke about her compartmentalizing the issues. Talking seemed to help Katy. To Jake, it seemed all the counselors did was listen and ask, “How did that make you feel?” But, since he was worried about his tiny daughter, he participated, and he would have sold a kidney to get her the best help. Their insurance soon quit picking up the tab, forcing him to sell a few old guns to help Morgan balance the budget at home.
Katy was remarkable in her ability to process all that had occurred. The professionals—the counselors and educators—ultimately attributed her resiliency to her knowledge of the fact that she was loved and also that her father would do whatever was necessary to protect her. The community helped by reaching out to the Crosbys, particularly Katy. Local churches and Sunday-school classes regularly placed the family on their prayer lists.
Jake and Morgan were extremely concerned about the long-term effects of what Katy had seen and heard. No one—especially a nine-year-old—should ever be that close to such evil. It wasn’t until three weeks after that harrowing night that Katy had started to fear being alone, and she would cry when her dad left the house. She had a few really bad nightmares, and once Jake had to pick her up from an overnight party at 2:00 a.m. Morgan and Jake grieved for the pain of their only child. Morgan never openly blamed Jake, but when Katy got really upset, he knew she was thinking it.
Morgan had spent countless hours searching the Internet, looking for the best therapists and treatments for Katy.
Jake vowed to do whatever the experts suggested. He worried about Katy, about Morgan, about everything…all the time. He was concerned about his marriage, and he was apprehensive about how he was going to pay for it all, since his income was falling along with the economy. Working as a stockbroker in a small town during a recession was proving to be brutal. Jake and Morgan both prayed. They didn’t know what else could be done.
On top of everything, this peeper had come along and threatened to erode every inch of their collective healing progress.
CHAPTER 8
EIGHTEEN MONTHS EARLIER, in the predawn darkness of a spring Alabama morning, Ethan “Moon Pie” Daniels had to make a critical decision: abandon his drug-running buddy, Reese Davis, or stick around to face the real risk of being busted for several serious crimes.
A deeply suspicious sheriff’s deputy had attempted to interrogate Moon Pie while he was awaiting instructions on what to do with a woman he had kidnapped earlier, following the shooting death of his criminal gang’s leader. Subsequently, that same deputy had unsuccessfully attempted to tail Moon Pie’s vehicle. And when Moon Pie couldn’t contact Reese on the push-to-talk radiophone at their prearranged rendezvous point, his blood pressure had escalated. Then, at the instant his high beams illuminated Jake and Katy and the rescue party, looking like survivors of a suicide bombing, being escorted from the swamp by a uniformed deputy, his flight reflex kicked into overdrive.
Moon Pie had tried to contact Reese numerous times as he quickly drove away from the group that was congregating in the middle of that rural roadway. Each unanswered call intensified his bad feelings. Realizing that he had to run, he began implementing his preplanned disappearance into the Ozark Mountains of southern Missouri. He took quick inventory of his readily available assets, cash, weapons, and illegal drugs that he could convert to cash later.
Moon Pie had feared this day would come, and he had a plan. He had always assumed, however, that he would be fleeing a drug task force, not a felony kidnapping charge, and Lord knew what else he’d be implicated in by his association with his redneck, drug-dealing buddies. He had only a few hours to get fuel and additional supplies with credit cards before law enforcement would be using them to track him, and since that nosy Alabama deputy had his tag number, he knew he had to get the hell out of Dodge. He set the cruise control at a safe sixty-five mph and headed north on Highway 45. Mindful that an APB would be out for him and his vehicle, when he spied a broken-down car on the side of the road, he considered it providential and stole its tag.
His time hiding out in Missouri had been frustrating. The local competition for selling drugs was intense. The Ozarks were ground zero for meth production, and he found the customer base to be even car-struck-dog crazier than he expected. He lasted only a month before giving up and moving to the Cotton Belt railroad town of Jonesboro, Arkansas, with a brilliant idea for a colossal scam. Jonesboro was only about eighty square miles, but it drew hunters from all over the state, as well as southern Missouri, western Tennessee, and northwest Mississippi.
He quietly assumed a new identity, paying for quality forged documents, and placed a cheap option on a vacant Kmart building. After a few months of advertising a new state-of-the-art indoor rifle and pistol range, he soon had over five hundred future members who paid him a thousand-dollar membership fee. He bailed on the real-estate option and radio-station ad debts, leaving Arkansas in the middle of the night with a pile of cash.
Moon Pie had changed his hair color, put on a few pounds, and grown a goatee when he moved back to Mississippi. He settled in Columbus, where he promptly opened a cash-for-gold business called the Gold Mine—his front to launder cash from dealing drugs. He ran drugs on the Tombigbee Waterway, a 250-mile river system channelized in the 1970s by the United States Army Corp of Engineers to connect the Ohio Valley with the Gulf of Mexico. Columbus was close enough to his old base of operations in Tupelo to easily recruit some trusted criminal support, yet far enough away for him to feel somewhat comfortable with his new look and identity. The old river town was a perfect place to set up shop. It also allowed him to be near his old stomping grounds, where he could participate in his favorite pastime—poaching whitetail deer.
CHAPTER 9
WALTER AND HIS crew celebrated their success with fine food, wine, and a few cocktails at Café Ritz in downtown West Point. On their limited budgets prior to the robbery, they had rarely dined at a place like the Ritz, although it was only two doors down from their hotel home.
Walter made a point of explaining that this would not be a frequent event but that once a month they would have a foundation meeting, which would involve breaking bread. The foundation would cover the expenses, of course. “Might as well be fine food,” he added with a sly grin. That news excited everyone.
“I think we have our attorney,” Walter advised as he sampled a crab cake appetizer. “Should know tomorrow.”
“What’s our next step?” Bernard asked, shifting his weight and wishing he’d brought his hemorrhoid cushion.
Walter looked around the dining area to make certain no one could hear them and then answered, “Basically, we’ll have a little over a hundred grand after we pay the retainer to Sam.”
Everybody smiled, and Walter rubbed his forehead. “It’s a really good start, but we need more to help more folks if we want it to be self-perpetuating one day.”
After a moment’s pause to look at one of several old movie posters decorating the wall above Walter, Sebastian asked, “How much do you think we need?” He then took a loud sip of red wine.
“About six hundred and fifty thousand more,” Walter said emphatically.
Everybody grunted at once. That was a hell of a lot of money. More than any of them had ever seen…or could collectively imagine.
“That’s more than you originally thought. Almost twice as much,” Sebastian said with some concern.
“I know. But after talking with Sam, it’s clear to me that being well funded is the key to the foundation’s success. We need three-quarters of a million dollars,” Walter said in a low voice. “And we can’t do it robbing Krogers. It won’t work again. I have something in mind, though.” Walter had initially believed it would take them at least two years to raise the additional seed money. Now, he had a new plan—one that could net them about half the entire amount in one fell swoop.
Not fully understanding what was in his future, Bernard was relieved. The stress of the responsibilities to pull off the initial heist still had lingering effects. It was way more pressure than the average senior citizen needed.
The group had discussed splitting the hundred grand among themselves and helping their own families, but they had unanimously decided to pursue Walter’s original vision to create the foundation first. They all wanted to be a part of something bigger than themselves. They wanted to learn more, but they were nervous about what might be required of them.
Sebastian knew that kind of money wouldn’t come without a price, and he wondered whether an old chain-saw salesman, a gunsmith, and a skating-rink manager could actually pay the tab. He watched Walter and thought about all his charismatic talk of money and the foundation. Then it occurred to him that it was odd for someone with his persuasive skills to be so broke. He hadn’t considered this before. Something didn’t make sense, but he didn’t want to derail the group’s discussion. I’ll just do some research on my own, he thought.
They were all enjoying the most exciting thing that had ever happened to them; most importantly, they had a goal, a purpose in life. They had called this their project. Now they were going to be able to help people. They considered themselves good guys, and the idea made their eyes twinkle.