Cass looked up at him. “No, sir. We just need your perspective.”
Hoffner yanked his fingers through the hat humps in his hair and edged around Mitch’s extended leg to the coffee counter. He snapped a paper towel from the holder and wiped his face, seeming to struggle with pursuing Cass’s comment. “About what?” He held a hand up. “Wait, where’s Franklin?”
“Gone home to get ready for the viewing tonight,” Munk offered. “Why?”
“Is there a chance,” Hoffner said, exchanging a glance with Mitch and then checking and leaning against the counter, “that Moses Franklin is dirty?”
Munk shifted and his chair squeaked. “Why would you ask that, Sheriff?”
“The press asked.”
Mitch grimaced. “You held a press conference?”
“Of course I did.” He looked at Cass. “That’s one of my responsibilities.”
“Sheriff, you really should check with us before you go talk to the press. Just to make sure we’re all on the same page.” Mitch rubbed his eyes. “I’ve had a look at his case files and there’s nothing unusual. Anybody else?”
Munk ran a hand over his pink, peeling head and shrugged. “There wasn’t anything unusual in Mojo’s or his mom’s financial records. I’ve ridden with Mojo off and on, and there’s never been a hint that he was into something bad.”
“Me, too,” Truman added.
Hoffner released a long breath. “That’s what I thought.”
“What did the reporter say?” Cass asked.
“That he’d heard Moses wasn’t such a nice guy.”
Mitch, Cass, and Kado exchanged glances. “Tell Munk and Truman about the letters, Sheriff,” Mitch said.
And so the sheriff did. Munk and Truman shook their heads when he finished speaking. “There’s nothing off about Mojo, sir,” Truman stated. “He’s as clean as they come.”
The room was silent for a moment. “Why would the press target Mojo?” Kado asked. “Did this reporter have a copy of the letters?”
“I don’t think so,” Hoffner replied. “He only made the one comment, and that could’ve been an anonymous tip. And we have a leak in the department. Wally Pugh from over at the Forney Cater knew that the slugs matched between the Franklins, Moore, and Hedder.”
Cass mentally cringed, but then reminded herself that Wally had the information before she confirmed it for him. Hoffner couldn’t nail her as the leak.
The sheriff continued. “This reporter thought that if there’s no link between the Franklins and Moore, or Hedder and Moore, there must be a link between Mojo and Moore.”
“That makes sense,” Mitch said. “But if there is a link, we haven’t found it. Yet. But before you talk to the press again, make sure you’ve caught up with us. We’re picking up speed and you need to stay in the loop.”
Hoffner nodded, his blue eyes hooded. “What did you want my perspective on, Elliot?”
“Kado discovered that Calvin Whitehead is really Calvin Whitman from some place in Alabama.”
“Thayerville,” Kado supplied.
Hoffner sucked his teeth. “You sure about that?”
Kado’s ruddy complexion darkened. “I am. We’ve confirmed it through multiple fingerprints. Their forensics guy sent a photograph through email.” He passed a black and white picture to the sheriff. “Cass says it’s him, and he looks like a younger version of the man in the newspaper article in the store. I’ve faxed a copy of that article and his driver’s license photo to Thayerville.”
Hoffner studied the paper.
“Kado also learned,” Mitch continued, “that Whitman allegedly died in a house fire in 1978. They recovered a body from the scene and identified it as Whitman’s.”
“He faked his own death?”
“Apparently so. When he was sheriff of Thayerville.”
Hoffner’s hoary eyebrows shot up. “Why?”
“That’s what we were trying to figure out. Cass thought you might have an idea of what would make a sheriff fake his death and give up that post.”
His icy blue gaze snapped to hers and her jaw tightened. “You’ve been sheriff here for over thirty years,” Cass said evenly. “You’re the only one of us who knows what kind of pressure a man in the top job faces. Is there anything that would make you leave in the middle of the night, run away?”
“The obvious answer is a criminal who came after him. One he didn’t think he could fight off. But there are other things that could’ve gone wrong.” He blinked. “Corruption. Blackmail.”
“Good.” Mitch nodded. “What kind of corruption or blackmail would a sheriff face?”
Hoffner checked the chair next to Truman, and sat. He pulled a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and absently wiped the table in front of him. “Shake-downs, maybe, of motorists passing through his town or county. Businesses that got tired of paying protection money to the force.” He shrugged. “Maybe he was rigging some of the cases so defendants were found guilty. Or innocent.”
“He might’ve taken money?” Munk asked.
Hoffner looked down the table at the plump officer, scowling at the stains on Munk’s shirt. “Perhaps.”
“That would explain some things.”
“Like what?” Mitch asked.
Munk leaned forward and placed his forearms on the table. “Calvin Whitehead materialized in Arcadia in 1979. Nothing in his paperwork references his life before that time. But he paid cash for his house and store, and for all the improvements. Several hundred thousand dollars in total.”
Hoffner whistled.
“It’s a hefty chunk of change, especially for that time,” Munk agreed. “And I think he has a safe in his house or the store that might have some of his old life in it. He bought two safes. I talked to the business that sold them and the owner remembered the order. One of the safes is behind Whitehead’s counter, under the register. The owner didn’t know where Whitehead put the other safe. His boys delivered it but didn’t install it.”
“What kind was it?” Hoffner asked.
“A floor safe. The owner remembered because they only sold one that year. It was two feet long, two deep, and two wide.”
“You can get a lot of stuff in something that big,” Kado commented.
Munk nodded. “But it would be easy to hide. I’ll look for it this afternoon.”
“Truman, would you go with him?” Kado asked. “You can take a picture of that newspaper article behind the counter.”
The young officer nodded. “No problem.”
Mitch shifted in his wheelchair. “We need to talk to Thayerville’s current sheriff, to find out what he knows about Whitman’s time as sheriff.” He turned to Hoffner. “Will you do that, or do you want me to?”
“I’ll do it,” Hoffner growled. “One thing I can’t stand is a dirty cop.”
“Before you call, let Munk fill you in on the lynching. It took place during Whitman’s tenure as Sheriff.”
Hoffner started. “One of the reporters asked why we weren’t calling Calvin Whitehead’s death a lynching.”
“Interesting,” Mitch said. “I always think of a lynching as a mob thing.”
“He was strung up,” Truman said. “The technicalities of his death make it look like a lynching.”
“If he was dirty, Whitman’s time as sheriff might have caught up with him.” Munk scratched absently at a crusty spot on his uniform shirt. “And whatever he was into must’ve been bad. ’Cause this is some hellacious payback.”
CHAPTER 88
HOFFNER WIPED THE PHONE’S handset with his handkerchief, then dialed, and asked to speak with the head man. He’d been over the information his team had gathered this morning, and found the whole affair stunning. That a sheriff from another jurisdiction chose to obtain a false identity and start a new life in his own county was unbelievable.
“Yes, Sheriff Hoffner, was it?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Sheriff Studebaker. My forensics man has talked to yours and
shown me your evidence that my Calvin Whitman was your Calvin Whitehead.”
“You concur?”
“I suppose I must.”
“Why the hesitation, Sheriff?” Hoffner heard a chair squeak through the phone, followed by the sound of a door closing.
Studebaker’s voice was muted when he spoke. “I was the deputy. It was me who identified Whitman after the house fire.”
The silence on the line grew uncomfortable. Hoffner drew Kado’s file nearer and scanned the neatly written notes. “From what I understand, you didn’t have much to go on.”
“No, I didn’t. The corpse wore a ring of Sheriff Whitman’s.”
“Which could easily be moved from one man’s hand to another man’s.”
“Yes, and it was damaged in the fire. Then there was the hair.”
“How did any of the man’s hair survive a fire that rendered his face and body unidentifiable?”
“I don’t know. But Whitman had a fine head of hair. It was thick, very black, and he kept it slicked back. The body in the fire had similar hair. Despite the smoke and the smell of seared flesh, it even retained the scent of Whitman’s pomade.”
“Why didn’t you request a dental comparison?” Hoffner asked.
“I was certain the dead body belonged to Sheriff Whitman. We all were. Our coroner agreed.”
“Were there any men reported missing who were the same build as Sheriff Whitman, with the same type of hair?”
Studebaker’s answer was slow in coming. “We did receive a missing person’s report on a man with physical characteristics similar to Whitman’s. But that was almost six weeks after Whitman’s death. He was dead and buried by that time. The rubble from the house cleared.”
“It didn’t cross your mind that Whitman might have scampered and left this man in his place?”
“One of my men did suggest it, Sheriff Hoffner.”
“And?”
“It was simply a joke. There was nothing unusual in the fire.”
“Nothing at all unusual, even around the time of the fire?”
The line was silent as papers turned in the background. “I’d forgotten this. We had two reports of an unfamiliar pickup in the vicinity the night of Whitman’s blaze. Once the fire was ruled accidental, the report was inconsequential. No crimes were committed in the area, so the matter of the pickup simply fell away.”
“You had no suspicions that Whitman might’ve faked his death and used that unfamiliar pickup to leave Thayerville?”
“None.” Studebaker breathed into the phone and then blurted, “Frankly, I was glad to see him go.”
Hoffner leaned back in his chair. Now we’re getting somewhere, he thought. “Why is that, Sheriff Studebaker?”
A snort came through the phone line. “No, I didn’t want the sheriff’s job that badly. Now that I’ve been in it for nearly thirty years, I would much have preferred to remain a deputy. You’ve been on the job for a long time, too, haven’t you? You’ll know the kind of hassles it brings.”
Hoffner agreed that there were times when sheriffing was challenging, but he couldn’t imagine not wanting, absolutely having to have, the top job. “You misunderstand me, Sheriff Studebaker. I simply wondered what it was about Whitman that made you glad to see him go.”
“He was, well, let’s just say that he was difficult to work for.”
“Whitman was on the take, and you weren’t comfortable with that, were you?”
“What makes you think that?”
“He came to Arcadia with several hundred thousand dollars in cash.”
Studebaker burst out laughing. “Several hundred thousand?”
“Or more. My men are out at his house now, trying to find a concealed safe. I think we’ll find cash inside, and perhaps information about his time as sheriff of Thayerville.”
Studebaker sighed, a contented sound. The acknowledgment that his former boss was crooked seemed to relax him. “It was a dark time for the department. Sheriff Whitman was on the take. You name it, he was into it. We were a dry county back then, but for the right price, you could serve any type of liquor you wanted. Officers would go and pick it up for you. We even provided prostitution, in discreet locations, of course.”
“Surely the premiums for booze and whores weren’t that high, were they?”
“No. He owned the judges as well. If you wanted a particular verdict in your trial, or the trial of a friend or neighbor, it was yours for the right price. That’s where the real money was.”
“Hundreds of thousands worth?” Hoffner asked, his mind reeling.
“Over Whitman’s twenty years as sheriff, and considering his take coming up through the ranks, I suppose so.”
Hoffner made a few notes as he considered this. “How did you manage to steer clear of it all?”
“I didn’t need the cash.”
“Pardon?”
“My family comes from old money, Sheriff Hoffner. And my father was in the state legislature. Whitman wanted me on the force, seemed to think the Studebaker name lent credibility to the department.”
“You took Whitman’s place after his death?”
“I was appointed by the county commissioners to finish out Whitman’s term, and have been voted in ever since.”
Hoffner sucked his teeth. “It’s come to my attention that there was a lynching in Thayerville.”
“Which one are you referring to?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We’ve had several lynchings in Thayerville over the years. I assume you’re referring to one of those that took place during Sheriff Whitman’s tenure, correct?”
Hoffner cleared his throat. “How many were there?”
“Five during his term, most of them early on. Can you identify anything about the lynching that you’re interested in?”
“It occurred in 1967. Three men were murdered –”
Studebaker cut him off with a slow recitation. “Charlie Franklin, Bob Hedder, and Ben Silverman. I remember it well.”
“Sheriff Whitman was in charge then?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Were you on the force at that time?”
“Fresh from college and at the bottom of the totem pole, assigned to traffic duty.” His voice was reflective. “Back in the days when people liked to see an officer directing traffic. I worked the major intersection in town, Main and First, and knew those men.”
“What triggered the lynching?” Hoffner asked.
“I never knew. Not the real reason. None of the men was a problem. Or their families. The rumor that went through the station house and made the paper was that the three had leered at a white woman, frightening her. And there was something about an illegal gathering. Although how three men could constitute an illegal gathering is still beyond me.”
“The newspaper article I saw had a photograph of five men in white sheets.”
“Yes, the Klan was responsible.”
“Was anyone ever arrested for these deaths?”
Studebaker breathed heavily. “No, Sheriff Hoffner, I regret to tell you that no one was held accountable for murdering those three men.”
“Do you know who was involved?”
“Yes. Very clearly. A lynching always drew a crowd. I know the article you’re referring to. Although the photograph only shows those five Klansmen, many of our good citizens stood around and watched those men be beaten, hanged, and burned to death. It happened in early May. The temperature was in the mid-seventies that day, and it was cooling down when the men were killed. But lynching is hot work and the five Klansmen took their hoods off after the bodies were up and burning. They put the hoods back on to pose for the photographer.”
“People saw them?”
“Yes, they did.”
“But no one was arrested.”
“That’s correct.”
Hoffner straightened the papers on his desk as a vision of that night in 1967 materialized in his mind. The faces of four of the men responsible for m
urdering Franklin, Silverman, and Hedder were blurred, but the face of the fifth man, that was very clear. “Sheriff Calvin Whitman was among them, correct?”
“Yes, he was.”
“That’s why no one was arrested when the lynching occurred.”
“It is.”
“Why don’t you do something about it now?”
“Arrest the remaining four? Don’t imagine that I haven’t thought about it over the years, Sheriff. But I’m not sure how to go about it anymore.”
“Why is that?”
“I know where two of those five men are. Whitman is probably in a cooler in your morgue, and one of the men died in Thayerville. But the other three? They left long ago. I wouldn’t know where to begin to find them.”
Hoffner grunted. It was time to come to Cass’s question. “Why did Calvin Whitman fake his death in 1979?”
“I have no idea.”
“Was he in danger of losing his office?”
“Not at all. His elections weren’t even contested.”
“It couldn’t have been money problems. Why die? Did he have family?”
“A son. Whitman’s wife died in childbirth.”
“The boy wasn’t in the house when it burned?”
“We were scared to death we’d find his body. Turns out he was spending the night with a friend.”
“That was clever of Whitman.”
“In hindsight, it was.”
“Where’s the boy now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what happened to him after his father died?”
“He was taken in by one of Whitman’s friends.”
“Not a relative?”
“There were no relatives. Whitman and his wife had no siblings and the boy’s grandparents were long dead.”
Hoffner chewed on this. “So the son had no idea that his father was alive?”
“I have no reason to think that he did.”
“Who received Whitman’s insurance benefits, Sheriff Studebaker? Life, home, pension, that kind of thing.”
“The woman who tended to the boy after his mother died received a little money. A few hundred dollars, I think. The rest was put in a trust for the boy’s benefit, with some money available for his care every year, and the balance available to him on his sixteenth birthday.”
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