Fatal Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series)

by Mark de Castrique

  The conversation with Edna Oakley created additional avenues to explore. She proved a link existed between Travis and Blake Junior, and it had something to do with Christmas trees. Was it coincidence that Blake Junior had died on the way to meet Travis?

  An investigator hates coincidences, but they do happen. Deer and car collisions are common and rising each year. A report issued to the Sheriff’s Department from the State Highway Patrol warned October and November are particularly dangerous because of mating season. In Blake Junior’s case, we had the elements of dusk, a known deer trail, and a driver not wearing a seatbelt.

  What I couldn’t accept as coincidence was Travis and Blake Junior meeting the day after something occurred that upset Travis so much that his mother worried about him. And then Travis didn’t tell Edna about the wreck. I needed to talk to Mr. Nolan and find out why his son was on the road when the buck crossed his path.

  Christmas tree business. I remembered Bruce Hampton telling me about the Monday night sighting of the suspicious trailer headed toward South Carolina. A snatch? And Travis had finished cutting his largest field that day. Trees that had taken fourteen years to mature. Trees Travis had seen most of his life. His final words had been “I cut my trees.” Another coincidence? I wanted to talk to Hampton’s migrant worker. The man might be able to describe the trailer to the laborers who loaded Travis’ trees. If Travis thought Carl Atkinson had been behind both a rustling of his trees and Blake Junior’s death, his rage could have culminated in the violent thrust of his Buck knife.

  Questions tumbled on top of questions. Why hadn’t Travis reported a theft? Because maybe I was pursuing a false trail and nothing had been stolen. Or maybe he didn’t trust the Sheriff’s Department. What had Edna said? Her husband believed no one would stand up to Ralph Atkinson. Maybe Tom Oakley had indoctrinated his son that the deck was stacked against them. Or maybe Travis had reported a crime and I was unaware of it. Deputy Carson could have known, but until Travis appeared at the church none of us had any reason to connect him with Carl. The murder had pushed everything else aside. Even I’d forgotten to tell Carson about Bruce Hampton’s visit Saturday morning.

  A tingle ran along the back of my neck. Carson. He’d been first on the scene of Blake Junior’s accident. He said there was no doubt as to what happened. He knew someone was surrendering at the church and he had no alibi for when that information was leaked. I didn’t want to believe Carson was at the center of some Christmas tree rustling conspiracy, but who better to provide a cover-up than the officer doing the investigating.

  All were circumstantial incidents not substantial enough to be called evidence. I certainly wouldn’t mention them to Tommy Lee. But I would make sure Carson didn’t pursue any line of inquiry alone. I had enough misgivings that I couldn’t take anything he said at face value.

  A few reporters were camped outside the courthouse when I arrived at ten minutes to seven. I didn’t see Melissa or Rachel, but they’d both had long nights. I slipped in the side entrance and went straight to Tommy Lee’s office. Phillip Jamison sat across the desk from the sheriff. He had a legal pad on his lap and an expensive fountain pen in his hand.

  “Good morning, Barry,” he said. “I guess I should say congratulations. At least we can tell the public Carl Atkinson’s killer has been identified.”

  Tommy Lee scowled at Jamison’s sarcasm. “Pull up a chair. We’re holding another press briefing at eight and going over what we’ll cover.”

  I pulled a chair from the corner and placed it next to the D.A. “And you’ll be able to announce Carl’s case is closed.”

  Jamison tapped his pen on the blank sheet of his pad. “Closed? Never have I had a case where the discovery of the perpetrator created more questions than answers. What the hell am I supposed to say?”

  “How about nothing,” Tommy Lee said. “I’m keeping you informed, not inviting you to make a god-damned speech.”

  Jamison flushed. “I’m the D.A. Unlike you, someone might want my opinion.”

  “Fine. Then say you have total confidence in the law enforcement officers of this county. If Travis Oakley’s murder was a vigilante killing, you’ll prosecute the case vigorously because no one has the right to take the law into his own hands. And that you join me in asking our good citizens to come forward with any information that might aid our investigation.”

  “What do you mean if the murder was a vigilante killing?” Jamison asked. “Everybody knows Ralph Atkinson had the boy gunned down in cold blood.”

  “It might be more complicated than that,” I said.

  Jamison looked at me like I was a fool. “Of course it’s more complicated. Ralph’s a conniving old fox and he’ll have layers between him and whoever pulled the trigger.”

  “I mean Travis might have been robbed. There’s a possibility his trees were stolen last Monday and he thought the Atkinsons were behind it.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them,” Jamison said.

  “And over the weekend he might have learned he was wrong. That could be why he decided to come in.”

  “So? How does that change anything?”

  “It means Travis wasn’t murdered for revenge. He was murdered for what he knew. Somebody wanted him silenced.”

  Jamison pointed the nib of his pen at my chest. “You got any evidence?”

  “Not yet. But there are leads to check out. That’s why I’ll skip the press briefing.”

  “And that’s why I won’t be mentioning this theory,” Tommy Lee warned Jamison. “We’re too early in the game.”

  “I still say it’s Ralph,” Jamison argued. He thought a second. “But if you’re right, it could be something bigger than a shooting.”

  Tommy Lee smiled. “Yes. I can see the headline: D.A. busts interstate ring of Christmas tree thieves. Hell, you could be taking on organized crime.”

  Jamison capped his pen. “I’ll take on whomever needs taking on.” He stood. “I guess we’re done here.”

  Tommy Lee and I stayed in our seats.

  “I’ll be in my office,” Jamison added, and walked out the door.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I jumped the gun on the Christmas tree angle.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You gave Jamison a new fantasy to star in: going mano a mano against the mob. It’ll keep him busy till the briefing.” Tommy Lee stood and paced behind his desk. “But he’s right about Ralph being a suspect.”

  “I know. But don’t you think it’s a little too neat? And why would Ralph call Brock?”

  “A public execution. No way he could pull the trigger himself so he hopes to watch it on TV.”

  I shook my head. “Let’s see if the call to Brock traces to Ralph. Then I’ll be more inclined to go along with Jamison.”

  Tommy Lee stopped pacing. “For God’s sake, don’t go along with Jamison. I just meant Ralph could be involved somehow and it might be in a way we don’t anticipate.”

  “Okay. I need to talk to him anyway about a possible connection between Carl and Travis.”

  “And Blake Junior. When are you going to the Nolans?”

  “As soon as I leave.” I stood. “Then I’ll see Bruce Hampton about that trailer of trees.”

  “Are you taking Carson with you?”

  “I hadn’t planned to.”

  Tommy Lee frowned with disapproval. “He’s been working the thefts, and Hampton came here to give him the information.”

  “This is tied to the murder.”

  “And Carson’s on your team. What are you going to have him do instead?”

  I hadn’t thought far enough ahead to assign duties to either Carson or Shelton.

  “Well?” Tommy Lee prompted.

  “This morning we expect to get the lab report on the Buck knife, and the bullet we dug out of the church wall needs to be prepped for ballistics. I want Carson here to set things in motion.”

  Tommy Lee’s frown deepened. “I can tell you that Travis’ Buck knife is going to come back with Carl’
s blood type, particles of pocket lint, and sap and wood slivers that we already know are from his Fraser firs. There’s nothing to do but file the report. Shelton can handle the slug for ballistics. Send Carson out to see Hampton and you take Nolan and Ralph.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Tommy Lee’s good eye narrowed. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s my investigation and unless you’re firing me, I’m going to run it the way I want.”

  For a few seconds we stared at each other. Then Tommy Lee threw up his hands with exasperation.

  “All right, suit yourself, dumbass. But you’re making a mistake, and Carson will become suspicious.”

  “Suspicious of what?”

  “Don’t act stupid. You think Carson could have leaked the surrender details to Ralph and you’re concerned because he also turned in the official report on Blake Junior’s accident, although how he could have managed to slam a dead deer into the pickup is beyond me.” Tommy Lee sighed. “Look, I appreciate your examining this case from all possible angles, but Howard Carson didn’t betray us. He’s too good a deputy. I think Travis said something to the wrong person. But if I’m mistaken, Carson is too smart a deputy to be fooled. When you start treating him differently, then I guarantee he’ll be suspicious.”

  “Okay. I see your point. I’ll take him with me to Hampton’s interview.”

  “Good.” He waved me away. “Now get the hell out of here. I’ve got to practice looking wise while I say absolutely nothing in the press briefing.”

  “Don’t forget to call the phone company for that blocked number.”

  Tommy Lee looked up at the ceiling. “Lord, how did I ever solve a case before you sent me Barry Clayton?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Carson and Shelton were scheduled in at eight. I left instructions for them to collaborate on the report of what happened the previous night. Shelton could cover the interrogation of Rachel, and Carson would write the narrative of the physical evidence. I’d fill in what occurred prior to and immediately after the shooting.

  I also left Carson a message that we’d be going out later on a new lead. I didn’t tell him who or why.

  I signed out a patrol car and circled the block to take Sixth Avenue out to the northwest section of the county where the Nolans had their farm. I saw more reporters gathering on the courthouse steps. Rachel and Melissa Bigham were conferring with each other. Rachel glanced at the car and must have said something to Melissa because she turned and they both watched me drive by. Less than thirty seconds later, my cell phone rang. Melissa’s number popped in the ID window.

  “Am I witnessing a truce between print and TV journalists?” I asked.

  “No. Just civil behavior between two reasonable adults who want to know where you’re going.”

  “Tying up a loose end.”

  Melissa repeated my words to Rachel. After a pause she said, “Rachel wants to know what loose end is more important than the department’s press briefing?”

  “The loose end of who shot Travis Oakley.”

  “If that’s a loose end, then I’d hate to see your main case.”

  “It’s a little on the speculative side.”

  “How speculative?”

  “Let’s just say if you and Rachel have any theories, I’m all ears.”

  Melissa’s voice turned serious. “You’re onto something, aren’t you?”

  “All information about the investigation comes from Tommy Lee.” A beep signaled another caller. I pulled the phone away enough to see Susan’s ID. “Gotta go. Bigger name on the other line.”

  “Yeah. Later.” Melissa hung up first.

  I switched the call. “Good morning,” I said in my sweetest tone.

  “Barry, why didn’t you phone?” Susan’s words were short and clipped.

  “Honey, I didn’t get free till two in the morning.” My words sounded defensive, and I only said honey when I knew I’d screwed up. “I should have called, but you’ve usually got early surgeries on Tuesday.”

  “I have voicemail. It works twenty-four hours a day.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “And the worse thing is I had to hear about it from your ex-wife. On Good Morning, America no less. Rachel must be floating on air.”

  “Not really. Travis Oakley was shot right in front of her.”

  Susan’s breath caught in her throat. “Oh, my God. Where were you?”

  “Right beside him. The bullet barely missed Reverend Pace.”

  The connection went silent a few seconds.

  “Barry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, but I was worried. It sounds like with good reason.”

  “I should have called.”

  “Can I do anything? I’ll run up to the cabin at lunch if you need me to let Democrat out.”

  “That’s not necessary, but maybe after work. I’m not sure when the day’s going to end.”

  “Would you like it to end with me?”

  Her question caused me to swerve onto the shoulder. “Geez, Susan, driving while talking on a cell is dangerous enough without shocking me.”

  She laughed. “Shocking you?”

  “Yeah. A doctor making a house call?”

  “It’s not a house call when I stay all night. That’s a full workup. A stamina exam.”

  “Well, if it’s a medical necessity, I’m not going to argue with a doctor.”

  “Good. And your doctor wants you home in bed as soon as possible.” She gave a soft kiss through the phone and hung up.

  The euphoria of Susan’s enticing prescription lasted for a mile. My cell rang again and I answered without looking at the number.

  “Is it safe?” the falsetto voice warbled.

  “Archie, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Somebody could be monitoring,” he said in his normal tone, an annoying whine.

  “You watch too many movies. Yes, it’s safe. Carl Atkinson’s killer was shot last night. It’s all over the news.”

  “You shot him?” he asked with undisguised awe.

  “No. We’re trying to find who did. Travis Oakley was the victim.”

  “Tom Oakley’s boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he probably didn’t have a dime’s worth of life insurance. Tom never would see me. Now he’s in jail and a lot of companies won’t issue a policy on a prisoner. Jail’s too dangerous.”

  “Archie, I don’t have time for this.”

  “Well, Barry, you should make the time. I could see you later this week. Are mornings or afternoons better for you?”

  “It’s safe to come home, Archie. Goodbye.”

  I used speed-dial to call Fletcher. He was on his way to the funeral home and I told him to contact Reverend Pace about arrangements for Travis. I also suggested he and Uncle Wayne get help from Moore’s Funeral Home in nearby Brevard. We often assisted each other when multiple deaths created extra manpower needs. If both Carl and Travis were to be buried during the week, we could use some backup, because I certainly wasn’t available.

  The Nolans lived in a valley formed by gentle ridges that shaped a bowl rather than a gorge. Unlike the pricey developments that perched million-dollar homes high on the edge of spectacular views, the Nolans sensibly settled in the shelter of the base, near a running stream but elevated enough for protection against flash floods.

  The day was crisp and clear. As the road wound down the western ridge, I looked across the valley floor to two homes on the opposite side. One was a white ranch commonly built in the 1950s. Farther up the slope and to the left stood a log cabin, but the shiny tin roof and uniform cut of the logs identified it as a prefabrication kit built after the ranch. Between the two residences rose an isolated stone chimney, a marker of perhaps the first Nolan house that either burned or was demolished to the foundation. All three structures appeared as islands in a sea of Fraser firs. Except for a patch of brown grass in front of each house, the Nolans used every square foot of ground f
or tree farming.

  I figured Blake Senior and Loretta lived in the ranch, and Blake Junior built the log home for his wife and daughters. I didn’t want to bother the widow if I didn’t have to, and I hoped the old man could give me all the information I needed.

  A few minutes after eight, I pulled up the crushed bluestone driveway. I hadn’t called ahead, because Mr. Nolan would want to know why I was coming, and even if he didn’t object, he’d start rehearsing answers. That was just human nature, which was why I preferred to surprise my interviewees. And, I didn’t expect to wake him. Like my uncle Wayne, Nolan was at the age where he couldn’t sleep late anymore and would be puttering around the house.

  No lights shone from the windows. I was afraid I’d miscalculated and everyone was still in bed. I got out of the car, gave the door a hard, noisy slam, and walked to the front porch.

  A hand swept aside one of the window drapes and Mr. Nolan peered out. His face broke into a grin and then the drape dropped in place.

  He pulled the door open wide. “Barry! Barry! Come in.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Nolan.” I wiped my feet on the welcome mat and stepped into the living room.

  “Good to see you. Let’s go back to the kitchen.” He lowered his voice. “Loretta’s not up yet. She’s having a tough time.” His eyes moistened. “To be honest we all are.”

  I nodded and glanced around the living room. A scrapbook lay open on a coffee table. Framed photographs cluttered the end tables. On the mantel, a triangular-shaped box of glass and wood held the flag the Army had presented Blake Junior’s wife at the funeral.

  Mr. Nolan followed my gaze. “I ordered that display case for Nancy and my granddaughters. Express shipment came in yesterday. Looks nice, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Very nice.” The last of the keepsakes, I thought. The culmination of all the school pictures, merit badges, newspaper clippings, and hunting trophies. I was glad I played Taps for the grieving man. Now he could begin constructing a memory that would give him comfort. As a D-Day vet, he deserved it.