Deadly Illusions

by Chester D. Campbell

  She held out a wrinkled hand. “Please pardon me if I don’t get up. It’s become such a chore.”

  We introduced ourselves, shook hands and took chairs across from her.

  “I appreciate your agreeing to talk with us,” I said, looking around. “You have a nice apartment here.”

  “Hmph.” She frowned. “It’s not much, but I guess a relic like me hardly needs more. Ellie said you want to know something about a former student. I’ve had hundreds, probably thousands. Which one?”

  “I hope you can remember him. The name is Chad Rowe.”

  She pursed pale lips. “Him I remember. He in trouble again?”

  “You know about his robbery conviction?” Jill asked.

  “Everybody in Gallatin knows about it. Well, maybe not everybody, but everybody who was around in the eighties. I wasn’t surprised.”

  “Was he a trouble-maker in high school?” I asked.

  “Not as much as some, but he had a mean streak.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He liked to torment the girls. And I heard he would do sneaky things to the boys, too, like hiding their clothes in the locker room.”

  That sounded more like teenage pranksterism.

  “We didn’t see his name listed for anything in the annual,” Jill said. “Did he play any sports?”

  Miss Ullery leaned an elbow on the desk and rested her head against her hand. “No. Chad Rowe wasn’t a team player. He was a loner in school. I don’t remember but one boy who was friendly with him.”

  “Do you recall anything about his parents?” I asked.

  “His daddy was a dirt farmer. I think the Rowes raised a little tobacco. According to the stories I heard, his parents were quite strict. As I recall, he came to school a few times with bruises on his arms and legs. I don’t know if he was abused or not, but these days somebody would probably have called Human Services.”

  I decided to follow up on one comment that had possibilities. “Do you remember the boy’s name who was Chad’s only friend?”

  She nodded. “Roger Langley. Good boy. He lived on a farm next to the Rowes. He didn’t have much upbringing, but he rose above it. He’s a lawyer in Gallatin now. He even drops by occasionally to call on a crotchety old schoolteacher. Come to think of it, seems I heard him say he’d had some contact with Chad in recent years.”

  26

  With the sun making its way slowly behind the old Sumner County Courthouse, I wasn’t sure if Roger Langley would still be in his office. That’s where we found him, though, on the second floor of a decrepit building near the square. A tall, lean man with touches of gray contributing to a distinguished look, he invited us to take seats across from his uncluttered desk.

  After introducing ourselves and handing him a business card, I got to the reason for our visit.

  “Miss Hannah Ullery told us you were the only friend of Chad Rowe she could remember from his high school days.”

  Langley frowned and toyed with a pencil on his desk. “Bad Chad. He didn’t have many friends in those days, that’s for sure. Probably still doesn’t. Do you know where he’s located now?”

  I explained about Molly and our attempts to find her. “Anything you could fill us in on him would be helpful. What was he like back in the old days?”

  “He could be nice when he wanted to be, but that wasn’t too often,” Langley said with a smile. “Personally, I never had any problems with him, but a lot of others did. He wasn’t the type to fraternize. He could get in trouble in the most outlandish ways, too, like shooting at a neighbor’s dog.”

  Jill cut her eyes toward mine, undoubtedly recalling Molly’s story of the dog and the machete.

  “I lived on the next farm down the road from Chad,” Langley said. “It was strictly rural back then. Matter of fact, it hasn’t changed a lot since. Most of the good farmland closer in has been developed for homes. I guess our old section has too many rocks and creeks.”

  “Did Chad have brothers or sisters?” I asked.

  “No. His parents always sort of kept to themselves. They were pretty strict disciplinarians. Some of Chad’s conduct was probably acts of rebellion.”

  “Did you have much contact with him after you graduated from high school?” I asked.

  “Not much. When he came home after Vietnam, he wanted me to head off with him on some wild trip around the country. I was in law school then and wasn’t interested. He said he had a Vietnam buddy who might go with him. I’m certainly glad I turned him down. A few years after that, he got caught in a bank robbery and was sent to prison. I suppose you knew about that.”

  “A newspaper story about it led us to Gallatin. Have you heard anything from him since then?”

  Langley leaned back, locking fingers behind his head. “A few years ago, mustn’t have been too long after he got out of prison, he called me from somewhere with a weird legal question. He wanted to know if he committed a crime at the request of a government agency, could he be prosecuted.”

  “Did he say what kind of crime or what agency?” Jill asked, no doubt recalling the letter Perry Vanatta told about receiving from Louisville.

  “No. I told him if he didn’t want to wind up back in Leavenworth, or some other federal facility, he had better leave it alone. The kind of government agency that would make such a request would deny any knowledge of him if he were caught.”

  “I’d have to agree with you there,” I said. “Have you heard anything from him since then?”

  “No, but I’ve been trying to locate him for the past year or two. That’s why I asked if you knew where he lived. His parents died and he’s the sole heir to the family farm. It’s been vacant for so long the old farmhouse is probably falling down. If he doesn’t claim the place before long, the county will take it for back taxes.”

  After getting the address of the farm, we thanked Langley for his time and headed for the Jeep.

  “Are you thinking what I am,” Jill asked, “that Chad and Molly could be holed up in that old farmhouse?”

  “It’s a good possibility.” I held the door open for her. “Let’s go have a look.”

  ———

  The house sat a couple of hundred feet off a forlorn country road that curved downhill just past the farm. Its tin roof shone faintly beneath an early evening moon. Pairs of tall, narrow windows looked out like some strange animal eyes as we drove by. No lights could be seen anywhere about the place. A rutted dirt drive angled back on the far side of the house, beyond the crumpled remains of a metal gate.

  “It looks deserted,” Jill said. “Do we dare pull in?”

  “Let’s ease around the curve, and I’ll walk through the woods to check in back,” I said.

  When we were out of sight, I pulled off the side of the road and parked.

  “Get out your .38 and hold it in your hand,” I said. “If anyone comes around, make them keep their distance. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Should anything happen, call me on the cell phone.”

  We carried the phones to keep in communication when we were separated. I put mine on vibrate before getting out. I closed the door softly, then hiked toward the house. The terrain angled uphill and, as Langley had pointed out, was quite rocky. I took care to avoid any hidden obstacles, dodging clumps of oak, a few maple trees and an occasional cedar. The wooded area seemed dark enough that I doubted I could be spotted from the house, should anyone be inside. But when I reached the point where I could see behind the place, I found no vehicles. No lights were visible in back or in front.

  I hurried back to the Jeep, turned it around and pulled up to the driveway. Then I drove to the rear of the house, where we would be out of sight of the road. We got out and looked around.

  “Somebody was here recently,” I said. “Look at the tire tracks.”

  Whoever it was had followed the same route I took, parking in back.

  “Are we going inside?” Jill asked.

  “If we can get in.”

  I got out my f
lashlight and shined it around the yard in back. The tall grass lay like twisted yellow wires. Aside from a few rusted farm implements, I saw nothing but a dirt-coated shovel leaning against the house and a pile of small chunks of coal nearby. I walked over to the door, noted the shiny new lock, and tried the knob. It turned and rusty hinges screeched as I pushed the door open. Directing the flashlight inside, I swept the room with its narrow beam. The house had definitely deteriorated, though it did not appear as dilapidated as Langley had suggested.

  “Looks like the place has been in use,” Jill said, pointing to the kitchen table, where a couple of paper plates lay beside a half-empty box of plastic forks.

  “Yeah. Things are generally a mess, though. Doesn’t look like they bothered with too much clean-up.”

  A large green garbage bag sat in one corner. A vintage electric range stood along one wall. Shelves lining another held dated utensils. An old coal-fired Warm Morning heater sat to one side, vented through the roof with a blackened pipe. We moved into the living room, which was sparely furnished. Frayed throws covered an old sofa and two chairs. One of the two bedrooms appeared to have been occupied recently, but there was no clothing around. The bathroom had been cleaned.

  “Do you think it was Molly and Chad?” Jill asked. She rubbed her hands in a nervous gesture.

  “I’d say it’s a bit far out for the homeless.” I rechecked the rooms, examining the new locks on the outside doors. “From what we saw in Antioch, Chad is adept at handling locks. This is probably his handiwork. Since there were two plates on the table and the bed appears to have been occupied on both sides, that points to Molly being with him.”

  “And alive,” Jill said.

  “Right. And considering he left the back door unlocked, I’d guess he isn’t planning to return.”

  “What about the garbage bag over there? He disposed of the trash when they left Antioch.”

  I glanced about the room. “I suspect he didn’t count on anybody coming around this place, at least not anytime soon.”

  Jill shook her head, eyes downcast. “And he’s given us the slip again.”

  27

  After a full day of working two different cases, Jill decided we deserved something special. She headed for the kitchen as soon as we got home and started working on one of her culinary delights, pork tenderloin baked in a mixture of wine and sauces. I had just sat down with a yellow pad to make notes on the day’s activities when the phone rang.

  “Mr. McKenzie, this is Lakeesha Echols.”

  “Hello, Lakeesha. What do you have for us?”

  “I just heard something that might help Larry,” she said.

  “Great. What is it?”

  “A bunch of Mexicans live in the house next to me. They work over at Opryworld. Only one of ’em speaks much English. He told me when they heard about Larry getting arrested in this murder thing, they found out one of the guys had seen this black hat, black coat guy they showed on TV.”

  “You mean he saw the man at the hotel the day of the murder?”

  “Yeah. Saw him in the parking lot. He hadn’t said anything before ’cause he didn’t understand what it was all about. He’s seen Larry around here, and he says it definitely wasn’t Larry.”

  “Do you have the Mexican boy’s name?”

  “It’s Pedro Rodriguez.” She gave me the address where he lived.

  “Thanks loads, Lakeesha. You’re a jewel.”

  Jill came into the living room with her spatula in hand. “What was that about?”

  “Hopefully we have a big break in the Larry Inman case.” I told her what I had just learned.

  “Are you going to call Detective Tremaine?”

  “I have a better idea. This gives us a good opportunity to score some points with Wes Knight.”

  She broke out in a wide grin. “Mmm, mmm. You are one sneaky sneak.”

  I got Wes at the newspaper. “I have a little tip I think you’ll like,” I said. “But I don’t want to be identified with it.”

  “No problem. What’ve you got?”

  “You mentioned this deliveryman, Larry Inman, they’re holding in the Bernstein case.”

  “Yeah. Your old buddy Tremaine is touting him as the killer.”

  “Well, guess what,” I said, “there’s a Mexican employee at the hotel who saw the shooter in the parking lot that day. He lives near Inman and knows him. He says Inman was definitely not the guy.”

  “No shit! Why hasn’t he come forward before now?”

  “The guy doesn’t speak English. He didn’t understand what was going on.” I gave him the name and address.

  “Thanks, Greg. Anytime you need anything, let me know.”

  When Wes hung up, I dialed Bert Quincy and told him what I had done.

  “You don’t think you should have called the police?” Quincy asked.

  “I think this will do the job better. When it’s plastered across the newspaper, Larry stands a better chance of having his reputation cleared than if it were handled by the police.”

  I knew from experience how Tremaine would doggedly hang onto any lead he had, rejecting the possibility that he might be wrong.

  “Yeah, I see your point,” Quincy said. “Do you think they’ll let him go soon?”

  “I would hope so, but don’t hold your breath. Strange things can happen in the justice system. Have you had any contact with the FBI?”

  “A couple of agents came by the store and talked to me.”

  “Were they only interested in Larry, or did they have some questions for you?”

  “They talked mostly about Larry, but I got the impression they might be digging for something deeper. What’s going on?”

  When I told him what I had heard about the Bureau’s interest in his possible complicity, he was flabbergasted.

  “That’s unbelievable. Where did they—”

  “Don’t let it worry you, Bert,” I said. “Hopefully this new angle we turned up will get the wolves off both you and Larry.”

  “I certainly hope so. And thanks for the job you’ve done, Greg. Send me a bill for your services.”

  “I appreciate the compliment, but let’s wait until we’re sure this thing is over.”

  If it turned out like I hoped, I would almost hate to send Quincy a bill. He had given me the opportunity to redeem myself for what appeared to be a bad miscalculation. Of course, Larry wouldn’t be cleared unless the cops accepted the Mexican’s assertion that the man he saw definitely was not the deliveryman they were holding. Still, I had begun to feel a bit smug about it. That is, until I turned back to my note pad and started recording our efforts on behalf of Molly Saint. That’s when I realized we were essentially back to square one. It was Tuesday night, and we had no more idea where Damon/Chad had taken her than when we’d first determined she was missing six days ago.

  28

  Pedro Rodriguez’ solemn face with its down-turned black mustache stared at me from the front page of Wednesday morning’s newspaper. According to Wes Knight’s story, Rodriguez saw the killer getting into a car in the employee parking lot. The hotel banquet setup worker was walking between two cars one row over from the man in black. Interviewed with the help of his English-speaking housemate, he said he got a good profile look at the man’s face from no more than ten feet away. In contrast to Larry Inman, whose nose was broad and flat, the man he saw had a long, narrower nose.

  Rodriguez didn’t know much about cars, American or otherwise, but said the one the man entered was dark green and looked new. Knight wrote that he had notified Metro’s Homicide Division about the young Mexican’s sighting. After he had obtained everything he wanted, I’m sure.

  “Here’s the story,” Jill said. I looked around where she stood beside the TV that rested on a wall bracket in the breakfast room.

  A newsman was talking in front of the house next to Lakeesha Echol’s. The camera cut to a dark-skinned young man with a thin mustache.

  “Pedro, he very tired,” said the
Mexican. “Police question him all night. Get no sleep. He have to go work this morning, then police say they talk more. He no want be bothered, please.”

  The reporter appeared back on camera. “The police have issued no statement regarding this development, but a police spokesman promised something later this morning. That’s all for now from

  Hillandale Street.” The anchor went on to another story, and Jill turned down the volume. She looked across at me, lips pursed. “Obviously they haven’t said anything yet about releasing Larry.”

  “No. I think I’ll call Phil and see what he can tell us.”

  I thought I’d have to leave a message, but, surprisingly, he answered the phone.

  “Phil, it’s Greg,” I said.

  His voice sounded weary. “I’ve been going for most of the last twenty-four hours,” he said. “If you’re looking for any more help, buddy, I’m fresh out.”

  “I won’t bother you for long. But my client wants to know when his man will be turned loose, considering what’s happened overnight.”

  “That newspaper guy said he got an anonymous tip. You haven’t been making any anonymous phone calls, have you?”

  I laughed. “Come on, Phil. You know I’d be happy to provide Detective Tremaine with any help I could.”

  “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

  “Actually, we were out in that neighborhood yesterday and talked with a girl who lived next door to Larry. We didn’t know about the Mexicans then. I just saw on TV that you interrogated the guy until this morning. Did you come up with any better description of the car?”

  “Not much. We’re gathering pictures from dealers and plan to bring him back in later today. See if he can identify what he saw. I don’t like going through interpreters, but it’s the best we could do.”

  I held out my cup for Jill to pour a little more coffee. “Well, I sure hope you can come up with enough to give you a decent lead.”

  “Don’t we all. It’s a good thing you called now. I’m ready to get a little shut-eye and I plan to turn off this damned phone.”

  “Don’t blame you. But you didn’t answer my question about Larry Inman. Is Tremaine causing a problem?”