Cass nodded. “Which spots?”
“Little nowhere places. One in Tennessee, another in Louisiana. Maybe one in Alabama.”
“How many trips did he make?”
Celia tipped her head back. “Ten? Twelve? He seemed to go to the same place a few times, then move on to somewhere new.”
Movement in the classroom caught Cass’s eye and she saw a tiny pony-tailed figure sit up. “I think nap time is over,” she said.
Celia glanced through the window. “I’d better get back inside.”
“Celia, it would help if we could see your financial records.”
“What for?”
“Those places that Emmet visited,” Cass explained, “they may have something to do with why someone tried to kill him.”
Her eyes widened. “You think one of those women is after him?”
Cass shrugged. “She had to have a reason to kill Miss Moore and the Franklins, too. It’s a remote possibility. But we’ll take any lead we can get.”
CHAPTER 81
THE PLASTIC CONFERENCE ROOM chair squealed when Munk rocked back on two legs to stretch. He pulled the rubber caps from his thumbs, wiped the sweat on his uniform’s shirt, and reached for his cold coffee.
He sipped, studying the stack of Calvin Whitehead’s boxes in the ‘remaining to be scavenged through’ pile. Munk had made amazing time this morning; only six were left of the original seventy-six, but his hopes were falling that he would find anything of use. He’d figured out Whitehead’s filing system and worked backwards from current to oldest. Whitehead made a modest living from the gas station and paid his personal and business related bills on time. There was no sign of a loan, only the usual lines of credit associated with a gas station and small shop. Absolutely nothing was out of place. No unusual deposits or withdrawals, no unexpected payments. No notes, no address or phone book, not even a doodle, coffee cup ring, or grease smear on any of the papers. Just dust. Years of dust.
The conference room coffee pot was empty. Munk stood, preparing to make another pot. A sealed water bottle on the counter caught his eye. One of Gabrielle’s fondest wishes was that Munk would drink more water. So, in deference to his wife and his kidneys, he cracked the seal and gulped down half the contents, surprised at the water’s silky freshness. It wasn’t coffee. Or a soda or shake. But it wasn’t bad. He slipped the rubber caps on his thumbs and went back to work.
When it came to paperwork, Munk was a machine. For some reason, he had the ability to comprehend data quickly, understand patterns, and spot anomalies. Perhaps working with silent rows of numbers provided a sort of meditation that allowed him, for a short time, to block the recurring horror of his living nightmare.
Hand.
No hand.
He blinked the memory away and began his routine. Remove the lid and scan the neatly labeled folders for anything unusual. Extract the files one at a time and thumb through the contents, again scanning the details for variations from the norm. Only a small stack of papers rested on the coffee counter, each bearing a colored sticky note and Munk’s tightly scripted comments. This fact in itself allowed Munk to draw a conclusion about Whitehead: anyone who kept this much business related documentation without so much as a reference to his personal life was hiding something.
Munk lifted the top on the last box and rubbed his hands together, a smile cracking his pudgy, pock-marked face. The box was labeled ‘1979’, and Munk guessed this was the year Calvin Whitehead moved to Arcadia and opened his business. These documents were bound to be interesting.
Following his routine, he scanned the folder labels and then extracted the files, one at a time. The deeper he worked into the folders, the slower his pace became and the higher the stack of potentially interesting documents grew. The last folder was chunkier than the rest. He lifted it from the box and opened the flap, drawing a quick breath. This was it. The treasure trove.
The top documents related to Whitehead’s purchase of the house and gas station in 1979. He’d paid $155,000 in cash, which was quite a tidy sum back in the day. The opening statement from a local bank showed an initial deposit of $25,000, also in cash. The rest of the papers were charges for improvements to the house and shop. The file’s final invoice was brief, citing only that Whitehead had purchased two safes from a firm in Stanton. The bill was pricey, but provided no indication of what type or sizes of safes were purchased, or where they were installed.
Munk leaned back in the squealing chair, rubbing his protruding belly. The bank statements showed little activity in the first eighteen months that Calvin Whitehead lived in Arcadia, and then reflected the normal debits and credits involved in running a business. Everything, all of the improvements, were paid for in cash. Unusual. As was the purchase of two safes. The use of one in a convenience store was expected. But two? Perhaps Whitehead expected to do a roaring trade.
Munk reached for the crime scene photos and flipped through them, spotting a small safe tucked beneath the counter, out of the customer’s view. No other safe was visible in the photos from the store or Whitehead’s home.
Pushing back from the conference room table, he picked up that last invoice and walked to the coffee bar. He punched the safe company’s number into the phone and waited as it rang. Munk reasoned that the second safe must be in Whitehead’s house. And a man only needed a safe at home to protect his guns, his valuables, or his former life.
CHAPTER 82
“DETECTIVE ELLIOT? DETECTIVE?”
CASS was lost in the memory of Kado’s lips touching hers as she walked up the courthouse sidewalk. She looked over her shoulder to see Wally Pugh darting between slow moving vehicles. He drew a notebook from his trouser pocket and wiped the sheen of sweat from his face. “Good morning, Detective. I hear you’re back on duty now.”
“Hey, Wally. Sheriff Hoffner signed the paperwork yesterday.”
“From what I heard, it took John Grey’s hiring you as a temp to get the sheriff’s attention.” Wally extracted a pen from the protector in his shirt pocket.
Cass shrugged. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to ask about –” His beady black eyes darted from Cass to a spot over her shoulder. A small camera hung around his neck and he pressed the button to turn it on. “Is that Rob Conroy?”
With a stab of apprehension, Cass turned to find the ex-con leering from his perch on a bench about twenty yards away. Thankfully, this time he was fully dressed, if in filthy jeans and blue shirt. His dark brown hair was combed straight back from his face and glistened with gel. A flock of pigeons fought with three chickens over the bread scraps at his feet, and the plump ginger cat twined between Conroy’s legs, watching the birds. Cass turned back to the reporter who was sighting in on the ex-con. She stepped out of the way. “I believe it is.”
“Fat Frannie said he was out. Why is he living in that dump of an apartment? I heard his parents had beaucoup life insurance. And the house was insured. So, even though his fine was,” Wally tilted his head back and thought, “about ten thousand and he had to pay a lawyer, he should still have plenty of cash.”
Cass lifted an eyebrow. “That was way before your time.”
“I’m an investigative reporter. I investigate.”
“I have no clue about Conroy’s cash situation. My only concern is that he stays on the right side of the law.”
“Do you think he’s dealing again?”
“I’ve seen nothing to suggest that he is. Maybe you should talk to him about life after prison. I’m sure he’d have some interesting stories to tell.”
Wally’s nose twitched. “I’ve thought about it, but I’m not sure Sheriff Hoffner would want to hear what he has to say.”
“What do you mean?”
“Through the grapevine, I’ve heard Conroy might want some payback.”
Cass glanced over her shoulder. Conroy lifted a cup from The Coffee Shop in a mock salute. “For what? The bust was clean.”
“But it was Mojo, the worst sho
t on the force, who found him. And Hoffner’s made jokes about what an idiot Conroy was for shaking and baking behind a police officer’s house.”
“What else?”
Wally waggled the notebook. “You scratch my back…”
“I’m not getting near your back, Wally.”
“A little information exchange, Detective. That’s all I’m asking.”
“What kind of information?”
He stepped closer. “The Franklins. Donna Moore. I hear they’re linked. I also hear that Emmet Hedder’s missing and there might be a link with him, too.”
Cass pushed her sunglasses up on her nose. “Wally, you know I can’t comment on –”
“– an open investigation. Blah, blah, blah. Off the record, Detective. I just want an angle I can investigate. For example, is it true that the slugs match in all three cases?”
His source was good. Cass nodded once.
“Any leads?”
“Not yet. We’re looking at their business and private lives to see if we can find a connection.”
Wally scribbled. “Good. I won’t use your name.”
“Your turn. Hoffner and Conroy.”
“Conroy was an up and comer in the drug underworld before Franklin busted him.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Apparently Hoffner’s mockery followed him to prison, and he had a hard time living it down. Mojo and Hoffner knocked his street cred back. Word is, he wants his old life back and has plans for payback.”
“Word from who? What kind of plans?”
“That’s the best I can do. I’ll keep an eye on him, though. I think there’s a story just dying to get out.”
“Watch yourself. Forney County’s not much of a drug hotspot but things can turn nasty fast.”
Wally slipped the pen into his protected pocket. “Be seeing you.”
Cass watched him ease across the street, and then she headed for the courthouse. Rob Conroy’s face was tilted back to bake in the late morning sun. He whistled as she drew near.
“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked.
“Nope. Just enjoying the weather on this beautiful summer morning.” He waved with The Coffee Shop cup. “How’s your day going?”
“Fine, thanks. Be sure to throw that cup away.”
“Yes, ma’am. Have a nice day, now.”
Cass walked up the courthouse steps and barely noticed the podium at the top; her skin was crawling as his gaze lingered on her body. Pushing through the front doors, she stopped and took a deep breath.
“You okay, honey?” Elaine asked from her alcove.
Cass nodded at the young couple holding hands on one of the wooden benches, then crossed the foyer to Elaine’s alcove. “Rob Conroy is sitting out front. Have you ever known him to do that?”
Elaine stifled a snort. “The only time he’s come near the courthouse it’s been kicking and screaming in the back of a patrol car. What does he want?”
“I’ve heard he’s not happy with Mojo or Sheriff Hoffner.”
Elaine’s eyebrows shot up. “You think he’s looking for trouble?”
“I don’t know. I just think it’s weird that he’s out there. Keep an eye on him and let one of us know if he moves, okay?”
She nodded, curls bouncing with the motion. “No problem.”
CHAPTER 83
THE PHONE SLIPPED AS he wrote, and Kado hunched his shoulder to bring the handset up against his ear. “Would you repeat that?”
The forensics man from Thayerville, Alabama, sighed. “Calvin Whitman. Born September 13, 1935. Died December 27, 1978. White male. Six feet two inches tall, two hundred and ten pounds. I still think something’s wrong with those fingerprints.”
“I can fax copies to you. I’ll even overnight an original to Alabama,” Kado said, finishing his notes. “But I’m absolutely certain that your dead Calvin Whitman has been living in Arcadia for over thirty years.”
“It doesn’t seem possible.”
“Why?”
“I’m looking at his file. His house burned the night of December 27. The fire started from faulty Christmas tree lights. The house went up fast. His bedroom was on the second floor but they found Whitman in the remains of his bed in the living room. Looks like the middle of the house collapsed and most of the second story dropped to the first floor.”
“How did they confirm that it was Calvin Whitman?”
“Let’s see.” Kado heard a sneeze. “Sorry, I had to dig this file out of storage. You’re lucky we still have it. This was part of a group scheduled to be shredded last year. I don’t know why they missed it.” The sound of shuffling paper came through the phone. “Here we go. Seems they found a ring that belonged to Whitman on the right hand, and some of the hair was still on his head. From the photo in the file, he had very thick black hair.”
“Was an autopsy performed?”
“Yes. Cause of death was smoke inhalation.”
“Dental comparison?”
“Umm,” more paper shuffling, “no.”
“Isn’t that odd?”
“Maybe. No fingerprints, either, probably due to the fire damage to the body. A deputy confirmed that it was Whitman. Nobody questioned his identification. Say, Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have a photo of this Calvin Whitehead? He must have been an old man, right?”
It was Kado’s turn to shuffle through paperwork. He located the crime scene photos and found only one photograph of Calvin Whitman. It was hanging on the wall behind the cash register and Kado needed a magnifying glass to see it clearly in the crime scene photo. In the picture, Whitman was frowning at the camera as he held a pair of scissors, ready to snip a ribbon stretched across the little store’s doors. Half a dozen locals looked on, smiling broadly. “There must be a driver’s license photo on file, and that’ll be within seven years. We’ve got one early photo of him in a newspaper. Do you want a copy?”
“Of both, please.”
“Do you have one for me?”
“Yeah, I’ll send it when we’re done.” He sighed heavily again. “If you’re right, you know what this means for us?”
“Yup, you’ve got an open case.”
“A very old, very cold murder case.”
“And the very dead Calvin Whitman or Whitehead is your prime suspect.”
“Man, I’m gonna land in a white-hot shit storm.”
“Sorry about that,” Kado said, with genuine feeling. “When you send Whitman’s photograph, would you include his arrest record?”
“What arrest record?”
“Well, why is he in your system?”
“For exclusion purposes, of course.”
Kado felt dread tighten his gut. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t mention it earlier?”
“Mention what?” Kado asked as the dread uncoiled along his spine.
“Calvin Whitman was Thayerville’s sheriff when he died. Had been, for close to twenty years. Everybody loved him. This, his still being alive, means that he’s a criminal. That’s why I’m gonna land in a shit storm.”
CHAPTER 84
THE COURTHOUSE DOORS CLOSED with a wheeze behind Sheriff Bill Hoffner, and he waited before the podium on the shady portico as Mayor David Rusted took up his position at Hoffner’s shoulder. Flashbacks to his last encounter with the press seared the sheriff’s brain, and he shoved his trembling hands into his pockets. He hardly needed a podium, given that only a few stations were represented, along with a couple of newspaper reporters and that weasel of a man who reported for the Forney Cater and KOIL. But the physical barrier provided a sort of comfort. Talking to the press was an awkward do-si-do; they tried to pry information from him, while he attempted to figure out how much they already knew and limit the additional facts he provided.
Leadership lessons from the past few days fluttered through Hoffner’s mind: listen with intent; walk in the other guy’s shoes; make eye contact; a little gratitude, of the
genuine variety, goes a long way; say you’re sorry and mean it. Kindergarten stuff, he thought, and then shrugged mentally. Maybe the leadership crap would’ve gotten interesting later in the week.
“Afternoon, gentleman,” he said, angling his cream colored cowboy hat lower over his face. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get to you, and I appreciate your patience. I’m the sheriff of Forney County, Bill Hoffner. This gentleman,” he motioned to the large figure standing beside him, “is Arcadia’s mayor, David Rusted.”
One of the reporters, a narrow man wearing a shirt bearing an Alma newspaper logo raised a notebook. “Jim Long, Sheriff, from the Alma News. I understand that you’ve had four suspicious deaths in the county in the last forty-eight hours, is that correct?”
“Yes, Jim,” Hoffner said. “The Forney Cater has carried the stories for the past two mornings. Three residents were killed in their homes, and a fourth at his place of business.”
“That fourth man, is that Calvin Whitehead?”
“It is.”
“He was lynched, correct?”
Hoffner felt Mayor Rusted stiffen beside him, and he fought hard not to step back from the podium. A greasy layer of sweat formed on his forehead. Although it should have been crystal clear that the mechanics of Whitehead’s death were commonly used in lynchings, no one on the force had yet used the word. “We haven’t categorized his murder as a lynching at this time, Jim.”
Another reporter, a hefty man with a dab of beard on his chin and sweat rings under the arms of his blue shirt, raised his hand and Hoffner pointed to him. “Yes?”
“Is it accurate that Calvin Whitehead was hanged, then set on fire?”
“I’m afraid that’s the case.”
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