A Murder In Passing

by Mark de Castrique

  Two beams from flashlights crisscrossed the area around me.

  “Mr. Lang. I told your son I thought Jimmy might have hidden the Ulmann photograph at the site where someone killed him. There’s only one reason William knew to come here.”

  “Are you accusing me of killing my uncle?” William shouted. “You haven’t the nerve to say that to my face.”

  I reached inside my jacket and unsnapped the flap of my shoulder holster. Then I stepped from the shelter of the tree, hands empty and away from my sides. I walked into the clearing and stopped about four yards in front of the two men.

  John Lang had gotten to his feet. He held his cane in one hand and the papers and flashlight in the other. The diamond engagement ring and framed photograph lay on the ground between father and son.

  “Willie was in Vietnam.” John Lang’s words were half-question, half-plea for confirmation.

  “That’s right,” William Lang snarled. “I was over ten thousand miles away. I was a hell of a shot, but not that good.”

  “You were more than a hell of a shot. You were lethal. A sniper known as the Ghost.”

  “So? That’s no secret.”

  “And that was the problem,” I said. “Jason Fretwell learned you were the same Willie P. Lang he heard about in sniper school.”

  “Is that the kid who was shot at your apartment?” John Lang asked. His face paled because he already knew the answer.

  “Yes. The same kid who tried to reach Mick Emory because Emory first mentioned Willie P. Lang. Then Jason called Fort Benning, and finally, in a huge mistake, he called William. He wanted to impress me with his detective skills and bring me the whole package. The Ghost, the missed mission, the possibility that you killed your uncle. He had the right target, but he pulled the trigger too early. What did he say, Willie P? That he was a sniper school veteran who happened to be in Asheville? That he wanted to know about the missed mission?”

  “That’s a god-damned lie,” William growled. “I never talked to him.”

  “Well, then, would you like to explain why there’s a record of a ten-minute call yesterday morning made by Jason Fretwell from my apartment to Lang Paper Manufacturing? I don’t think he spoke with your father.”

  Old man Lang shook his head slowly. “What missed mission?”

  “The one that would have put your son in the record books with the most sniper kills in Vietnam. The mission he would have been on if he’d returned to his unit on time.”

  “They deployed early,” William said.

  I stepped closer, spreading my empty hands with exaggerated appeal. “Come on, Willie. Staff Sergeant Gilchrist’s father knows better than that. He took your place.” I looked to John. “Lucille packed Willie a lunch for the bus ride to Fort Bragg after the funeral for your wife. I figure Willie got off the bus at the next stop, probably Saluda, and returned. And a man trained in concealment would have no trouble living off the land until the time was right. Until Jimmy came to bring the items to the spot he and Lucille first met.”

  I looked back at William. “Your uncle told you his plan, didn’t he? How he was going to ask Lucille to marry him?”

  William’s voice thickened with anger. “My uncle was a fool. He would have been the laughing stock of the county and our family would have been out of business. But I didn’t kill him.”

  I shrugged. “Okay. Then help me clear up a few things. You gave Deputy Overcash unsolicited testimony that your uncle said he was concerned Lucille Montgomery would become angry when he refused to marry her. I think your words were something to the effect that she would react violently like all black women do.”

  “I told you I was upset when I read about the discovery of the skeleton. At that time, I thought it might be my uncle and I over-emphasized what was only a potential problem with Lucille.”

  “But the rifle involved in the murder had been in Lucille’s possession.” I made a show of scratching my head. “You see that bothers me because it’s a fact. Just like the DNA proves the skeleton belonged to a man with African ancestry.”

  I took another step closer. We were less than five feet apart. “And I’ve been by Marsha’s house where an anonymous caller said he saw her burying the murder weapon. Here’s what I think happened. The informant wasn’t a man walking his dog. You went to the house to retrieve the rifle because you’d read about the discovery of the body in the Sunday paper. You wanted it to disappear so there would be no link to the remains. In 1967, the rifle had been used to frame Lucille, but the body was never discovered. But now, the case is so cold why risk the link? Except while you waited for Marsha to leave for church, you saw her burying the Remington and decided the original plan could still work. So, you tipped the Sheriff’s Department anonymously and then later called with the concern the remains could be your uncle. A ballistics test matched gun to bullet and Deputy Overcash thought two independent leads were converging while they were actually orchestrated by you.”

  William moistened his lips. He looked at his father. “This is absurd. Let’s go, Daddy.”

  John Lang raised his hand. “Let him say his piece.”

  I nodded to the old man. “Thank you.”

  William scowled, appeared to consider leaving on his own, and then glanced at the photograph and ring on the oilskin.

  “You didn’t know that these were here,” I said. “You picked your location at the edge of the clearing and shot him as he returned to his truck. The distance should have been a piece of cake for the Ghost, and this way you didn’t have to look him in the eye. But accuracy with an open sight can’t compete with a scope. You scored a fatal wound, but Jimmy had the stamina to run for cover. You either couldn’t find him in the log or dared not stay in the vicinity in case others heard the shot.”

  William Lang forced a laugh. “What did I do? Wait for nearly a week for my uncle to show up?”

  “Maybe. I knew snipers in Iraq who could wait days at a time in order to get the shot. And there’s the problem with Jimmy’s pickup. It was never found, which is why your father and others thought Jimmy simply left. But you and I know better. You drove that truck to Fort Bragg. My guess is you probably got it into the target pool. The 105 howitzers need something to shoot at. The surviving scraps of metal would be about the size of your thumbnail.”

  “Ridiculous,” William Lang said.

  “I’ll find out soon enough. One thing the army does well is keep records. I’ll make the inquiries tomorrow so this cloud can be lifted from your innocent head.”

  “You’re damn right I’m innocent.”

  I looked at John Lang. “But you, sir, might want to ask your son why he had his daughter bid for him at a silent charity auction last night at the same time young Fretwell was shot by a sniper. Why he told her he might be late, but to make sure his name was on several bid lists for pieces she deemed worthy. The daughter with whom he’s not on speaking terms. The Asheville Police are looking into that matter because no one can confirm William’s presence at the event before eight thirty. Enough time to change from camo to tuxedo.”

  John Lang stared at his son and said nothing.

  “But for me,” I said, “the heart of the solution to the crime is you standing here. I told you on the phone I thought the missing photograph might be where Jimmy was killed. Given the DNA report, you no longer have any reason to think the skeleton was your uncle’s. It’s an African-American. Or would you be more comfortable if I said it’s just an African-American? No, you’re here because of one reason. DNA or not, you know that skeleton was your uncle because you killed him, just like you killed Donnie Nettles.”

  “Nettles?” John Lang exclaimed. “He was Willie’s friend.”

  “Yes. His pal Donnie Nettles left Fort Bragg for Vietnam on July 17, 1967. Three days after Jimmy was killed. And who was on the transport with him? His hometown friend Willie Lang. Nettles told me Wi
llie said his uncle disappeared while he was in Vietnam. Nettles had no reason not to believe him. But when we told him the specific date was July 14th, Nettles knew Willie was still stateside because every soldier remembers the date he’s shipped out for combat. What did Nettles do? See you at the American Legion Post? Tell you we knew the specific day Jimmy disappeared and the funny thing was you were still in North Carolina? You couldn’t have him spreading that around. So, you showed up at his house late at night, he let his old friend in, and made the mistake of turning his back.”

  “You’ve got no proof,” William said.

  “I’ve got all the proof I need. You’re here. A descendant of the Kingdom of the Happy Land. With the army records and a DNA match to the skeleton, you’re toast. Because I’m going to burn you for Jimmy Lang, I’m going to burn you for Donnie Nettles, and by God I’m going to burn you for Jason Fretwell whether he lives or dies.”

  The flashlight wobbled in John Lang’s hand. I took my eye off William long enough to see it fall to the ground.

  A blur of motion and suddenly William held a nine-millimeter Beretta in his hand. Not a compact but a full-sized weapon. He aimed it at my head. I’d made a gross miscalculation.

  The muzzle flashed a split-second after the cane slashed down on William’s wrist. The punch in my chest felt like a cannonball fired at point-blank range. I tumbled backwards, choosing to go for my Kimber rather than break my fall.

  William shoved his father to the ground. Somewhere behind me I heard thrashing in the woods.

  John Lang’s flashlight had landed against the base of the chimney, shooting its beam up the length of the stone monolith. William stood alone, silhouetted against the gray rocks.

  He raised the pistol again.

  I fired two shots.

  Only the chimney remained standing.

  The world went black.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “Sam. Oh, God, Sam.”

  I heard Nakayla screaming my name before my eyes could focus. I must have lost consciousness for a few seconds, maybe because the Beretta’s slug knocked the air from my lungs, maybe because I forgot to breathe.

  Then I saw the outline of her face, the most beautiful sight imaginable. I laid the Kimber beside me and wrapped my arms around her neck, pulling her close.

  “Tell Nathan his Kevlar vest worked. Barely.”

  She laughed and cried at the same time.

  “Do we need to get him to a hospital?”

  I recognized Detective Newland’s voice.

  “No,” I said. “It was only a nine-millimeter slug. A mere gnat bite.”

  “He okay?” Deputy Overcash joined the little party. Newland had worked the stakeout with the Henderson County Sheriff’s Department, he for Jason Fretwell’s shooting and Overcash for Jimmy Lang’s murder. I’d told them to position themselves at the far side of the pasture where they wouldn’t be seen.

  “Yeah,” Newland said. “He’s laying down on the job. As usual.”

  “What about William?” I asked.

  “Dead.”

  Overcash edged closer to Newland. “You want me to take the old man in, or do you want him?”

  “You can have first crack. I have a feeling he knows more about his brother’s death than the attack on Fretwell.”

  Nakayla helped me to my feet. “I don’t know,” I said. “Did you hear everything?”

  “For the most part,” Newland said. “What we couldn’t make out, we can enhance in the audio lab. It helped when you stepped closer, but that was a damn risk. That gnat bite could have been more severe.”

  “I believe John Lang was genuinely shocked by what William said. He came here because the DNA report confirmed his fears and my phone call prompted him to think about the chimney. I’ll be surprised if you discover any reason to charge him.” I looked at the old man hunched beside his son’s body, his face buried in his hands.

  “He saved my life. William got the drop on me and went for a head shot. The confidence of an expert marksman. John knocked off his aim with his cane.”

  Overcash shook his head. “All because Jimmy Lang wanted to marry a black woman.” His face flushed as he looked at Nakayla and realized what he said.

  “No,” Nakayla replied. “It was more complicated than that. Marriage would not only cost the company business but also divide up its value. Lucille would have become an heir and Marsha would have been recognized as a legitimate child. Out-of-wedlock, she had little rights, but in North Carolina, marriage between the father and mother immediately legitimized their previous offspring in common. And Jimmy himself was just passing for white.”

  “That was going to be Jimmy Lang’s final plea to Lucille,” I added. “He withdrew money, he made a will leaving his estate to Lucille and Marsha, and he wanted to either come clean with his identity or leave town with them and start over elsewhere. I guess he thought the legendary treasure in the chimney would be both romantic and persuasive. The photograph was a symbol of their shared past, the ring for his proposal, and the handwritten will and money as the promise for their future.”

  “And you don’t think William knew about his ancestry?” Newland asked.

  “No. I think Jimmy Lang told his nephew he was going to marry Lucille and he would bring her here for the proposal. The place had meaning for Lucille. That was no secret. And Jimmy knew his nephew was going back to war. I doubt he would say, oh, by the way, you’re black. Though he might have been tempted given what I witnessed of William’s racist attitudes. We’ll never know the truth about that final conversation between uncle and nephew. It certainly left William angry enough to commit murder.”

  “The irony never ends, does it?” Newland said. “Marsha and Lucille were employees, now they’re part owners of the company.”

  “That’s a legal task for Hewitt Donaldson to tackle. He’ll want those papers as soon as they can be released.”

  We all looked at the oilskin illuminated by the back spill of John Lang’s flashlight. A ring, a photograph, a will, and money. A denied past and an unfulfilled future.

  ***

  Hewitt, Nakayla, and I spent Sunday afternoon in a meeting with District Attorney Noel Chesterson. He was all smiles, assuring us he would hold a press conference to personally attest that the fatal shooting of William P. Lang had been an act of self-defense. I restrained myself from ripping open my shirt to show him the grapefruit-size bruise in the center of my chest, evidence enough that Lang tried to kill me.

  But, the meeting wasn’t about me. Hewitt pressed Chesterson for a quick closure of the investigation, citing all that Lucille Montgomery had gone through and that she deserved to take possession of what Jimmy Lang clearly intended her to have so many years ago. Chesterson promised his full cooperation as soon as his office received the final report from the M.E. and the Sheriff’s Department. In the meantime, a very happy Deputy Overcash provided us with photo-copies and photographs.

  Monday morning, Hewitt, Nakayla, and I called on Lucille Montgomery. Marsha admitted us into the apartment. Her mother wasn’t in her customary spot in the rocking chair. She sat at one end of the sofa, and, from the depression in the cushion next to her, I deduced Marsha had been sitting beside her. The elderly woman was obviously going through a tough time, and I wondered if Hewitt Donaldson’s insistence that we see her had been a mistake.

  He gave a slight bow before speaking. “Miss Montgomery, do you mind if I sit next to you?”

  “You are welcome to sit anywhere you like, sir.”

  Hewitt sat and rested a large manila envelope on his lap. “I’m sorry that we’ve confirmed Jimmy Lang was the victim Sam discovered.”

  She nodded and stared straight ahead. “And that he was killed by the hand of his own nephew.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s also a grievous burden for everyone to bear.”

  Lucille t
urned her head to look at Hewitt. “How is John faring?”

  “I’m afraid not well. He had no idea what his son had done.”

  “I lost my Jimmy, but I didn’t lose who he was.”

  “No, ma’am. One thing we do know, Jimmy Lang was true to his word.” Hewitt lifted the envelope and unfastened the clasp. “He was committed to you, Miss Montgomery.” He pulled the sheets of paper free. “You and Marsha. Here’s what Sam found in the old chimney, the chimney from the Ulmann photograph. This is the treasure Jimmy planned to give you.”

  He handed her an eight-by-ten picture of the modest diamond ring. To Deputy Overcash’s credit, he’d removed it from an evidence sleeve and placed it on a pale blue cloth.

  Lucille smiled, though her lower lip trembled. “I wonder where he got that?”

  Marsha stepped closer and Lucille handed her the photo. Hewitt passed Lucille three pages clipped together, photo-copies of Jimmy’s handwritten will. “We’ll go over this later, but Jimmy wrote that you and Marsha were to be the heirs of his estate. He also acknowledged Marsha as his daughter. That wouldn’t have been an issue if you married, but he wanted to insure Marsha’s wellbeing in case you still refused him.”

  Lucille briefly glanced at the document before rubbing her fingers over the text. It was the familiarity of the handwriting that attracted her attention, not the meaning of the words.

  “What does Mother do with that now? There’s no estate.”

  “I believe you have a clear claim to half of Lang Paper Manufacturing.”

  “But John built that company,” Lucille said.

  “He’s in no shape to run it. There’s no reason it too should be sacrificed.”

  Mother and daughter looked at each other.

  “Jennifer,” Marsha said. “We need Jennifer to come back.”

  I smiled. A new family was being created before my eyes.

  “The missing Ulmann photograph was also in the chimney,” Hewitt said. “It’s safely under lock and key with the sheriff. And then there’s the money,” he added. “The ten thousand dollars Jimmy withdrew. The sheriff will give it and everything else to you as soon as the case is closed.”