A Murder In Passing

by Mark de Castrique

  I laughed. “Not my problem. You’re the storyteller. I’m confident you’ll create a more than plausible explanation for the jury.”

  “True. But I’d welcome a supporting fact or two. Like maybe Earl Lee taught Annie Oakley how to shoot.”

  Hewitt and I set a tentative appointment for lunch the next day after my conversation with Mick Emory. Meanwhile Hewitt planned to schedule the deposition of William Lang.

  I’d driven about ten miles farther when the call came from Newland.

  “That was quick,” I said.

  “Caught my man on the scene. And he’s their top guy with gunshot wounds. Matches the autopsy about eighty percent of the time.”

  That was impressive. On-site examinations can be tricky, particularly if there are multiple entry and exit points that aren’t always clear as to which is which.

  “What’s he say?”

  “Contact wound. Back of the head. All six tells.”

  That was shorthand for a definitive evaluation based upon six markers. There would have been an abrasion of the skin as the projectile created the entry wound, unburned gunpowder tattooing the scalp, soot from burned gunpowder, seared skin from the muzzle flame, triangular tears from the hot gases injected into the wound, and finally, a muzzle contusion from the gases pushing the skin back against the barrel. I thought of the horrific damage such a contact shot would inflict, and then saw Donnie Nettles’ smiling face as he handed me my whistle and welcomed me into the club. I felt sick to my stomach. Nettles was a guy I’d like to have known better.

  “Any brass?”

  “No. The shooter picked up the spent cartridge.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t a revolver?”

  “Muzzle contusion has the u-shape.”

  That told me that the muzzle had the slide mechanism of a semiautomatic pistol.

  “Is your guy good enough to speculate on the model?”

  “He’s smart enough not to. But if he were pressed, he’d go with a nine millimeter Beretta, mainly off the muzzle contusion.”

  “And the slug?”

  Newland grunted. “That’s the odd part. From the angle of the entry, exit, and the point where it then struck an interior wall, Nettles had to be standing at the time, facing away from the shooter. When my friend’s team went to remove the slug, they discovered it had already been dug out.”

  That was odd. That also signaled there would be no prints. Someone had done a careful cleanup.

  “They got a motive?”

  “Nettles was in his pajamas. Looks like forced entry in the middle of the night. His wife was in Washington D.C. visiting their new grandson. His car was in the shop overnight. The theory is the perp thought no one was home.”

  “You said it was a gated community.”

  “Wouldn’t stop someone coming in on foot,” Newland said. “The house had been tossed, jewelry boxes empty, no wallet for the deceased, but big items like the TV and computer system weren’t taken.”

  “Nettles put up a fight?”

  “Not that they can determine. Again, they’re still on the scene.”

  “Who found him?”

  “Landscape crew noticed the back door was open and the area around the latch splintered. That was at eleven this morning.”

  “I don’t like it, Newly.”

  “Yeah, me neither. Too professional for a run-of-the-mill break-in. Most of these guys are methed up and make a run at a house with an old cargo van.” He paused. “Of course, the guardhouse eliminated that possibility. Maybe they came for jewelry and cash, something more likely to be found in these multimillion-dollar homes.”

  “You know what Nettles did for a living?”

  “No. Not my case. I just got the report from the scene.”

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “No problem. What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. It’s not my case either. It’s a matter for the Buncombe County Sheriff’s Department. But I’d appreciate a heads-up if you hear anything that sounds like it’s more than a burglary gone bad.”

  “Like what?” Newland asked.

  “Like the name Jimmy Lang surfaces for some reason.”

  “He’s your bones in the log?”

  As much as I trusted Newland, I wasn’t about to make any comment that undercut Hewitt Donaldson’s carefully orchestrated efforts to keep the skeleton unidentified. “I don’t know, Newly. He’s still a John Doe. It’s just that I don’t like surprises. I met Nettles at the scene of a crime, and less than a week later, he’s murdered.”

  “All right. I’ll keep my ear to the ground.” He laughed. “And my mouth shut.”

  I hung up and tried to shake off the feeling of despair a senseless killing always gave me. I shifted focus to the immediate task ahead. Sam Blackman, Ace Investigator was about to become Sam Blackman, Do-Gooder.

  I parked in a visitor’s space near the rehab section of the V.A. hospital. Jason Fretwell might not be in a physical therapy session, but it was a good place to begin looking for him.

  I stopped outside the open door to the therapy room. The men and women inside were stark reminders of our soldiers’ sacrifices that too many people in this country choose to ignore. I watched a young man struggle to walk on two artificial legs and a woman brush her hair using a prosthetic hand. An elderly man with an oxygen tank rolled a plastic bowling ball at a few pins, a recovering stroke victim I assumed. I thought of Mr. Carlisle, my roommate during my stay here. The World War Two veteran passed away shortly after my discharge. Mr. Carlisle particularly liked bowling with the plastic set, calling his fellow veterans contestants rather than patients. That’s what it took, a competitive spirit and the determination not to give into bitterness and frustration.

  “Couldn’t stay away from me, could you?”

  I turned to see Sheila Reilly smiling down at me. The woman must have been six three or six four, at least half a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than me. When she told you to do something, you did it. No drill sergeant commanded more obedience.

  “Yeah. Most of the bruises you gave me have healed so I came back for more.”

  She glanced at my left leg. “I saw you walk from your car. Impressive.”

  “Are you in the market for a poster boy? I’ll have my agent call you.”

  Sheila’s smile faded. She looked beyond me to the veterans struggling to regain their health and, for some, their very identity. I turned and scanned the room. The ages ranged from two octogenarians who could have served in Korea or even the Second World War to three young men who couldn’t have been out of their teens or a few weeks out of Afghanistan.

  War rolls like a wave across the generations, leaving shattered lives in its trough while lifting up others as examples of heroism and devotion. I was no such hero and I regretted my remark.

  “No, not a poster boy,” Sheila said, as if reading my mind. “But a man who didn’t quit. And that’s all we can ask of these men and women. Don’t quit. Don’t give up on life.”

  “I know. Giving up on life dishonors those who served beside you and died. It took me a while to realize that.”

  We stood quietly for a few moments, watching the patients go through their therapy.

  Then she said, “If you’re looking for Jason Fretwell, I just finished with him about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Is he back in his room?”

  “No, he was headed outside. He likes the fresh air.”

  “Thanks. I think I know the spot.”

  “Don’t be a stranger, Sam.”

  I looked up at this woman’s strong face, a face that had pushed me beyond my endurance more than once. “I won’t.” I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her. It was a bear hug except the bear was the huggee.

  She gave a responding squeeze that collapsed my lungs like a cheap a
ccordion. “Take care.”

  She released me and I staggered backwards. “Take care? Another hug like that and you’ll be taking care of me on one of the wards.”

  I found Jason on the grounds where I thought he’d be. He sat alone on a bench by a bed of blue and pink pansies that would soon fade as spring crossed into summer. He was staring at his prosthesis, slowly opening and closing the fingers. It was a marvel with microprocessors and miniature motors that responded to the muscle actions of his lower arm. I could tell from his expression that Jason would push the device to the limit. The world that had seemed so closed to him was opening again.

  “Hey, hotshot. Learning to count on your new fingers?”

  He grinned and raised the back of his prosthetic hand toward me. “No, I’m trying to get the middle one to stand by itself. Just for you.” He scooted down the bench, inviting me to join him.

  I sat and stretched my legs. Easing the weight off my stump always felt good. “You’re getting pretty proficient with that thing. You’ll be dealing cards before long.”

  “Not unless I’m capable of pulling aces out of my sleeve.”

  “So, when are they cutting you loose?”

  “Doc Anderson says Friday. I’ve been here longer than the government would like, but he was insistent I stay an inpatient until I mastered the basics.”

  “He was like that with me too. One of the good guys.”

  Jason nodded. “Doc Anderson’s why I came back.”

  I knew Jason was a farm boy from Indiana. I hadn’t thought about why he was in Asheville for his care. The government isn’t the most logical when it comes to assigning the wounded to bed space.

  “Was he your doc the first time?”

  “Yeah. When I’d healed enough, they discharged me and I went back to my folks near Fort Wayne. Then when it came time to be fitted for a prosthesis, I pushed to return to Asheville. Anderson pulled some strings and said I was a candidate for the microprocessor hand. And here I am.”

  “Where will you be after Friday?”

  “Back in Indiana.” He shook his head. “Moving in with my parents, I guess. Starting over.”

  I turned on the bench and looked directly at him. “What would you think about staying in Asheville?”

  “And do what? Make a cardboard sign and stand on the corner of Broadway and Patton Avenue?”

  “No. I mean get a job. A friend of mine owns a private security company. He’d like to talk to you.”

  “So, I’d be a damn mall cop?”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’d be. Maybe you’d clean out his toilets.”

  Jason flinched. My anger at the emergence of his dark mood surprised both of us.

  “Okay,” he said softly. “I deserved that.”

  “Look, I’m not trying to push anything on you.”

  “I know. Sure, I’ll talk to him.”

  “I’ll set it up for tomorrow. His name’s Nathan Armitage. He was a big help to me when I was in your position, and he helped Nakayla and me start our detective agency.”

  Jason’s face brightened. “Hey, what about you guys?” He lifted his prosthesis. “Need an extra hand?” He looked at the gap between my khakis and left shoe where the metal of my prosthesis gleamed in the sunlight. “Or extra legwork?”

  “I’m afraid Nakayla and I don’t have enough work to keep us busy. But we’re not in competition with Nathan, so if the need arises, you could probably freelance for us.”

  He beamed. “That’d be great.”

  “Well, we’ve got to get you a full-time job first. Nathan might not work out. But if you’re serious about staying in Asheville, we’ll find something. You’re welcome to stay at my apartment till you get on your feet.”

  His brown eyes filled with tears. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Don’t get misty on me. You have to take out the trash.”

  “And clean the toilet,” he managed to say.

  I slapped him on the thigh. “You got it.”

  ***

  Nakayla was on the phone when I returned to the office. From her side of the conversation, I deduced she was talking to someone about the Ulmann photograph. I closed my door and went to work lining up the next day’s agenda.

  An Internet check revealed Double G Pawn opened at ten. A call to Nathan Armitage led to a breakfast meeting with Jason Fretwell. We planned to meet at the Sunny Point Café in West Asheville, a favorite morning haunt for Nathan, so that the two men could have an informal conversation before taking the next step of an official job interview with Nathan’s Director of Human Resources.

  I told Nathan that Jason would be staying at my apartment for the immediate future and looking for other opportunities in case nothing worked out with Armitage Security Services. I didn’t want Nathan to feel pressure to give the young vet a job.

  A quick call to Sheila Reilly elicited her promise to make sure Jason knew I would pick him up at eight. Nakayla must have seen the light go out on my line because as soon as I hung up, she opened my door.

  “Got a few minutes to bring me up to speed?”

  We sat in the middle room, Nakayla on the leather sofa with her bare feet tucked under her and me in the armchair across from her. Holmes and Watson. I was pretty sure I was Watson.

  She smiled. “So, how’d you do?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

  Her smile vanished. “What?”

  “Someone shot and killed Donnie Nettles last night.”

  Nakayla’s right hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God. Not Donnie?”

  “Yes.” I shared the information Newland had given me.

  “Do they have any leads?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. I wonder if it was someone who knew he’d be alone. Maybe someone at the garage where he left his car.”

  “Maybe. Or someone who thought he’d gone to D.C. with his wife.” She shook her head. “Such a nice man. It had to be someone who didn’t know him. Everybody liked Donnie.”

  “Newland’s going to keep me posted.”

  “I wish there was something we could do. Donnie really went out of his way to make me feel part of the club. And when Tikima died, he was the first person who called.”

  “I understand how you feel,” I said. “But we’re already locking horns with the Henderson County Sheriff’s Department. At this point, we need to let the Buncombe County investigation proceed on its own. We can’t be everywhere.”

  She nodded. There was nothing more to say.

  I moved on to my meeting with William Lang, remembering how stunned he’d been by Nettles’ death. Nakayla listened without interrupting.

  When I finished, she asked, “I wonder who owns controlling interest in Lang Paper?”

  “Why?”

  “It will determine how much clout John has over his son.” She thought a moment. “The interesting thing about this case is all the testimony revolves around dead people. Julia Peterkin calls John Jacob Niles a leech, Lucille says she refused to marry Jimmy Lang while William claims just the opposite, and John Lang characterizes Earl Lee Emory as desperate enough to inflame racial prejudice against Jimmy for his relationship with Lucille. Each conflict involves a person no longer among the living and thereby beyond interrogation.”

  “What are you suggesting? We buy a Ouija board?”

  “No. But when we started this agency you said there were three key aspects of detective work.”

  “Right. Physical evidence, testimony uncovered through Q and A, and deductive reasoning.”

  Nakayla raised her index finger. “Number one—physical evidence. We have an unidentified skeleton, a rifle slug, and a matching rifle tied to Lucille Montgomery. We have a letter from Julia Peterkin to Lucille’s grandmother Loretta referencing a ph
otograph and her distain for John Jacob Niles. And that’s it as I see it.”

  She raised a second finger. “Number two—testimony. We have Lucille and Marsha saying the photograph in question disappeared the same day as Jimmy Lang. No one refutes that, but the theft wasn’t reported for forty-five years. We have John Lang and Lucille claiming Lucille wouldn’t marry Jimmy. We have William Lang saying the opposite, that Jimmy told him he wouldn’t marry Lucille. We do have consensus that business competitor Earl Lee Emory was a son of a bitch. Finally, everyone agrees that John and William Lang bore no hard feelings against Lucille and Marsha.”

  “Earl Lee and Mick had nothing to gain by killing Jimmy,” I interjected. “Keeping him alive kept his relationship with Lucille a sore point in the contract bid.”

  “Right,” Nakayla said. “But who can count on a hothead to think rationally. As for opportunity, everyone except John Jacob Niles and William Lang was in the area. Niles could have been, but that’s a real stretch, and William was in Vietnam.”

  “As you pointed out, with so many dead people in the mix, what are we likely to learn that’s new?”

  Nakayla smiled and held up a third finger. “Which brings me to deductive reasoning. What conclusions can be drawn from this mishmash?”

  “That a confused jury is more likely to either be hung or find for acquittal?”

  Nakayla pursed her lips. “A possible consequence, true. But not a deduction we can use. Not a conclusion that you and I can build from.” She swung her feet to the floor and leaned forward. “The corroborating testimony is this: Lucille, John, and William Lang agree on the character of Earl Lee Emory. Lucille strikes me as someone who doesn’t speak ill of others without strong motivation.”

  “I agree.”

  “So, I think your investigation into the confrontation that ensued over the garbage contract is a top priority.”

  “I’m seeing Mick Emory tomorrow as soon as the pawnshop opens.”

  “Good. I’ll do a background check on both men.” Nakayla stood, slowly paced back and forth along the length of the sofa, and then stopped in front of me. “Now the other deduction we can make is that the Doris Ulmann photograph existed.”