by Gerri Hill
Murphy took a step back. “I’ll go help Tim,” she said and turned without waiting for a reply.
Well, so much for processing the scene. The chief apparently didn’t deem it necessary. She paused to glance up into the evening sky, absently noting that the puffy white clouds floating by were tinged with a bit of color from the approaching sunset. It was still breezy, the wind making the late summer evening seem a little cooler than it actually was. She took a deep breath, reminding herself that it was her choice to come here, her choice to leave the city…her choice to want to move to a small, backwoods town where crime was minimal and murder was rare.
Yep. Murder was rare in Sawmill Springs.
Yeah…tell that to Guy Woodard.
Chapter Seven
The chief had pulled Murphy off patrol and called in Jeff on his night off to take over for her. She had been as shocked as anyone when he’d said she was to take the lead on the investigation. It made sense, of course. She was a homicide detective. Who else was he going to put on lead? His daughter? Other than her, Kayla was obviously the most qualified, but she’d only been on the job a few hours. She could imagine the uproar that would cause. She sighed. It didn’t really matter, did it? It wasn’t like there were any leads to go over or evidence to ponder. She leaned back in the chair, staring at the monitor. She’d chosen one of the two desks that faced each other. There were four workstations that were shared between the eight officers. This was the one she normally used when she needed a desk. It also faced the doors to the breakroom and the main office.
She reached for her cup of coffee and took a sip, pleased that it was still warm. She flipped through the notes once again, reading the same thing over and over. Dottie Reynolds from the Tan and Curl beauty salon said that Guy Woodard had been facing east, toward Rooters Drug. Harry Larson swore that Guy had been looking north, up toward downtown where the bank was. And Kirby himself said that Guy had been turned to the south, facing the station and the pumps. That seemed to be the most plausible scenario. If you’re pumping gas, you’re most likely watching the gallons and dollars spin by.
Trouble was, he’d landed on his back, away from the pump and nozzle. He wasn’t shot directly from the back. If he had been, he would have most likely landed on his face. Her theory was he’d been shot more from the side and as he fell, his shoulder had hit the pump, pushing him onto his back.
This meant the shot had to have come from the downtown area on a rooftop. However, by the time they’d interviewed the few witnesses, it was already dark. All of the stores had closed, too, so they’d have to wait until morning to search the roofs.
That brought her to the next line of questioning. Who had a beef with Guy Woodard? Depending on who you spoke with, he was either a saint or the devil himself. Guy Woodard’s name and the bank had been synonymous for the last thirty years, according to Chief Dixon. No doubt he’d made his share of enemies. And if it wasn’t an enemy who killed him, then who? Family? Was there a disagreement? Was someone jealous of his position? Obviously they would need to go to the bank to get some answers.
The office door opened and she expected it to be Yolanda, who worked dispatch during the late night hours. She was surprised to see Chief Dixon come in instead.
“Murphy? What the hell are you still doing here?”
She shrugged. “Working.”
He glanced at her monitor. “Going over the notes for a hundred times is not going to make evidence materialize. You should go home and get some sleep. Gonna be a long day tomorrow,” he said as he walked into the breakroom.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was one thirty-seven a.m. and she had nothing. He was right. She should get some sleep and start over in the morning…in daylight. He came back out with a cup of coffee in his hands.
“You’re sending me home, but you’re planning on staying a while?”
He pulled out a chair and sat down at the desk facing hers. “Couldn’t sleep. Known Guy Woodard my whole life.”
She nodded. “He was sixty-two. Older than you.”
“I’m fifty-six, so no, we weren’t close in school or anything. He’s been at the bank since he got out of college. His daddy was president before him.”
“I imagine he’s made enemies over the years.”
“Sure. Can’t think of anyone in this town who would be angry enough to kill him though,” he said as he sipped his coffee.
“We need to consider that it could have been random. Maybe he wasn’t a target.”
“I think that’d be worse, Murphy. A sniper in our little town targeting people at random?” He shook his head. “Don’t see that happening.”
“Probably not.”
He leaned on his desk, his cup cradled between his hands. “You’ve met my daughter.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“The guys, they all feel threatened by her, don’t they?”
Murphy shrugged.
“Oh, hell, you don’t have to say it. I can see it for myself. Hell, Pete told me what their reaction was.”
“Can’t blame them.”
“No? What about you?”
“Do I feel threatened?” She wondered at his line of questioning. She also wondered why he was in here talking to her. She’d been here over six weeks, and this was the first time they’d actually had a sit-down conversation.
“I learned from your lieutenant that you and the FBI weren’t exactly on good terms.”
Murphy lifted an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that your daughter had resigned from the FBI.”
Earl smiled. “So she did.”
“But to answer your question, no, I don’t feel threatened. I haven’t been here long enough to worry about the pecking order, as you called it.”
He nodded. “I ain’t one to show favoritism. Of course, I’ve never had my daughter working for me before either.”
“I thought she used to do dispatch,” she said, remembering her conversation with Tim.
“She was in high school. Thought she was tough shit,” he said with a laugh. “Ain’t the same as being an officer though.” He put his coffee cup down. “Got me a dilemma here. We haven’t had a murder in this town in seven years. And that didn’t require any investigation. Bubba Wright shot Lawrence Tapper over on the east side of town. Seems old Lawrence was tapping Bubba’s wife, if you know what I mean. Damn shame all the way around.” Earl shook his head. “Ex-wife, to be fair, but they were both drunk as Cooter Brown. Had a dozen witnesses to boot.”
She nodded. Tim had already told her the story.
“So my problem is, do I put my two most qualified officers on this case or do I worry about upsetting the apple cart and getting everyone’s tighty-whities in a pinch?”
“You think Kayla and I should work this investigation together?”
He nodded. “It goes against my better judgment for a number of reasons. However, it makes the most sense.”
“She’s been on the job a few hours,” she said, repeating her thoughts of earlier. “That’ll cause a stir.”
“Oh, I know. But you need somebody partnering with you. My other choice would be Timmy. He’s the most experienced and you and him have been together for six weeks. But if I do that, then Tim’s gonna want to take the lead, not you. Besides, Tim’s a good old boy. He’s not going to be suspicious of anyone in town. You and Kayla? You won’t have any prejudices.”
Of course it made sense. She wasn’t really crazy about the idea though. Besides Kayla being FBI—whom she loathed—there was the whole fumbling schoolboy-head cheerleader scenario she’d fallen into earlier.
“What do you think, Murphy?”
“I think you’re right on all accounts,” she said, despite her personal misgivings.
He stood up and nodded at her. “I’ll talk to Kayla first. Get her take.” He turned to go, then stopped. “And get your ass to bed. I’ll need you fresh tomorrow. We’ll start early.”
* * *
Kayla was surprised to see
a patrol car pull up beside them. She was even more surprised to see her father behind the wheel. He rolled his window down and she did the same. However, he looked past her to Tim.
“Timmy…you finish the shift alone. I need to talk to Kayla.”
“Ah…sure, Chief.” Tim looked at her with raised eyebrows and shrugged. He pulled away as soon as she got out.
“What’s up?”
“Get in.”
He didn’t say anything as he turned around and headed in the direction of the station. She sat there quietly, knowing he would talk in his own good time. It was a tactic that she found more annoying than endearing, but he’d been that way her whole life.
When they pulled into the station, he killed the engine but didn’t get out. She stayed quiet, waiting on him to talk.
“How do you feel about…well, about working this case with Murphy?”
“Wow. You’re really trying to get the whole squad pissed off, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying to solve a goddamn murder. You and Murphy are the most qualified. Who else should I put on it?”
“You’re right. I suppose we are the most qualified. Especially in a case like this where there is little to no evidence.”
“Little? We got nothing, Kayla. Let’s be honest here. We got nothing but a body. And I need something. Guy Woodard was one of the most prominent men in town. He gets shot and killed in broad daylight and I don’t find the killer…I’ll be run out of town,” he said.
“I doubt you’ll be run out of town. I’m sure the news of what happened has already spread by now.”
“You know it has.”
“Okay. So what’s the plan?”
“Go home. Get a few hours’ sleep. We’ll start first thing in the morning.”
“What about Murphy?”
“Yeah, I already talked to her. Sent her home too. We’ll go over a plan of action in the morning.”
She got out, and then leaned in through the open window. “You know the guys aren’t going to be happy about this.”
“Can’t worry about that.”
She watched her father drive away. Guy Woodard. She shook her head slowly. She remembered sitting across from him at his desk at the bank when she was eighteen, applying for a car loan. And she remembered him sitting in the front of the church when she and Kevin had gotten married. Everyone in town knew Guy Woodard. That’s not to say that everyone loved him. He was too powerful for that. Still, she couldn’t imagine someone in Sawmill Springs being the killer.
She stared up into the night sky with a sigh. And here she thought she was leaving the FBI for a slower, more peaceful career in her old hometown. Nothing like starting out with a murder investigation after one of the town’s most prominent citizens is gunned down.
And nothing like alienating the rest of the squad by being assigned to the case. She wondered if Murphy was feeling the apprehension too. She was just starting her seventh week. How did she feel about being thrust into the lead? She’d questioned Tim—as subtly as she could—but he’d remained noncommittal on Murphy, simply saying that she was a detective in her former life and she probably knew what she was doing. It wasn’t really a ringing endorsement, but she didn’t get the impression that Tim felt slighted. Maybe that was only because Murphy was the first on the scene.
What would his reaction be when he found out that she, too, had been assigned to the case?
Chapter Eight
“No offense to you, Kayla,” Sergeant Wilson said before looking back at her father. “But Earl, I think this is a bad decision.” He pointed at Murphy. “Half the town doesn’t even know who she is yet. And Kayla? She’s been on the job less than twenty-four hours. How’s that gonna look, Earl, you putting your daughter on a case like this?”
“She’s not my daughter right now, Pete. She’s a former FBI agent. Aren’t we trying to solve the goddamn murder? Hell, we’d be fumbling around in the dark with our pants down. Who’s got experience with this kind of stuff? Do you? I sure as hell don’t.” He pointed over at them. “One’s FBI, the other’s a homicide detective from Houston. I say we lucked out having them here.” Her father leaned back in his chair. “Is that what you’re really worried about, Pete, or is it the guys?”
“There’ll be some grumblings, I’m sure.”
“Well, I don’t give a goddamn,” he said. “I don’t care if I hurt some feelings or bruise some egos. Guy Woodard, president of the goddamn bank, was shot dead in the middle of town.” He pounded his fist on his desk. “That’s all I’m worried about.”
Kayla glanced over at Murphy, who was standing beside her. Her face was expressionless, and she wondered what she was thinking. Murphy turned then and met her gaze. She had really dark, really intense brown eyes. Hard to read, yes, but there was a flicker of something there…something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“Now, if you have no more objections, let’s get to it.” He motioned for them to sit, then looked pointedly at Pete Wilson. “You want to stay or…”
“I’ve got some paperwork to do.”
“Fine. I’ll let you know if we need your help with anything.”
Kayla watched him leave, and he quietly closed the door behind him. She turned to her father.
“Of everyone here, Pete was the one who I thought would welcome me the most,” she said. “He’s been less than friendly.”
Her father glanced over at Murphy. “He’s looking out for the guys, that’s all. What’s your take on it?”
“Are you asking me to tell you what the vibe is in the locker room?”
“If you want to call the little closet we have a locker room, sure.”
Kayla could tell Murphy was hesitant to speak out as she looked between the two of them. The fastest way to lose trust was to tell tales to the upper brass.
“The guys are probably more nervous than anything,” Murphy finally said. “Nervous about screwing up something, you know, in front of a big shot FBI agent.” She tempered her words with a smile, and Kayla couldn’t help but return it. “I don’t think that they’re going to feel like they were passed over with this case. Like everyone else, they know my background, they know Kayla’s.” She shrugged. “To be honest with you, Chief, I’m not sure they would even know where to start.”
He nodded. “Good enough. So…where do we start?”
The question was directed at Murphy, not her, so Kayla kept quiet, even though she had a few suggestions herself. Murphy stood up, pacing slowly behind the desk. Apparently, she thought better while moving so Kayla adjusted her chair so that she could see her.
“We need to see if there are any surveillance cameras. Kirby has one at the pumps, but he says it’s not working.”
“Hasn’t been for years.”
“I would assume the drugstore has one at the drive-thru window,” Murphy continued.
“I believe they do.”
“We need to get to the bank and interview them there.” Murphy stopped pacing, looking at the chief. “I think they might be more receptive to questions from you than either me or Kayla.”
Her father nodded. “I was planning on swinging by there as soon as we’re done here. That snotty-nosed VP can’t stand me. It’ll be fun to grill him.”
“Who is it?” Kayla asked.
“Ronnie Polach. The bastard wouldn’t sign off on a new car loan for your mom a couple of years ago. I had to go over his head to Guy.”
“I don’t know the politics around here,” Murphy said, “but did he stand to move up if Mr. Woodard was no longer president?”
“The bank’s hierarchy is a mystery to most of us,” he said. “They made Herbert Miller chairman of the board, for God’s sake—a ninety-year-old man who can barely still drive.”
“If this VP won’t cooperate, make him a person of interest,” Murphy said. “That ought to pickle his ass.”
Her father laughed heartily. “Damn, Murphy, hadn’t heard that saying since my daddy died.”
Murphy smi
led. “One of my grandmother’s favorite expressions.”
Her father sobered up. “Okay. What else?”
“We’ll need to canvas the rooftops. I’d like to go back to Kirby’s and try to determine the trajectory of the bullet.” She shrugged. “Of course, we’ll have to do without lasers and such, seeing as how we don’t have a fancy crime scene unit or a forensic team at our beck and call,” Murphy said, repeating her father’s words from last night. She looked over at Kayla. “Something else we need to think about. Guy Woodard was pumping gas. If he was indeed a target and it wasn’t random, how would our killer know he’d be there at that exact time?”
“A pattern,” she said. “He probably took the same route to the bank each day. Probably took his lunch break at the exact same time every day. So maybe Monday was his normal day to get gas.”
“Check with Kirby on that,” her father said as he leaned back in his chair and sighed. “So we really don’t have anything, do we?”
Murphy shook her head. “No sir. Not a thing. Not yet.”
“All right. I’ll go to the bank and see what I can stir up.” He stood. “If you need help with anything—like crawling around on the rooftops—let Sergeant Wilson know. He can get one of the guys up there to help.”
“If we’re going to get the guys to help with anything, it probably shouldn’t be grunt work,” Kayla said, but Murphy contradicted her.
“They wouldn’t consider it grunt work. None of them have ever been involved in a murder investigation. Just to be a part of something as mundane as combing the rooftops for shell casings would at least make them feel included.”
“I suppose you’re right. You have a better feel for them than I do, obviously.”
“There’s one more thing,” her father said. “Kayla, you know how gossip runs in this town. I’d like to keep everything we’re doing between the three of us. Let’s use our cell phones for communication, not your radio.”