Silent Approach

by Bobby Cole

  When he’d purchased—or, more accurately, stolen—the publishing business, the overhead had been low. The offices had been situated behind a check-cashing business downtown, and the building owner had been happy to have a tenant who just kept the place up and prevented it from deteriorating any further. All transactions had been handled over the phone, and an ad agency in Atlanta or Dallas had no idea what the insides of the Winston Walker Publishing Company looked like, nor would they ever see it. The address sounded good, and their letterhead looked impressive.

  Friends were in short supply for Winston. The only people he was around daily were those he paid or promised to pay. Some he knew he had to pay every week, and others he strung out as long as he could. He rarely paid anyone exactly what he owed—he always promised more was coming. When money was tight, Winston would bring drugs to the guys and just leave them in the break room. This pacified them for a few days and even made them more energetic on the telemarketing sales calls. Cocaine helped them stay past 5:00 p.m. and make late-afternoon phone calls to the West Coast.

  Jim Hudson had been the one solid citizen Winston had ever hired. He’d needed Jim to be his “face man” to the employees and to the world. Jim was affable, and most everyone had liked and trusted him at first, which was a good qualification for what Winston had in mind for him. And Jim had had his own issues that he was working through: he’d stolen more than $100,000 from a bank where he was the branch manager and served two years in prison, losing his wife in the process. Upon his release he’d remarried, started a family, and worked at getting his life back on track—no easy task, it had turned out, as his past made it difficult to find a job he wanted.

  For the first year he worked for Winston, he’d enjoyed managing the sales force and making sales himself. He’d found it to be a challenge. But in his quest to turn his life around, he and his wife had found religion and rarely missed a chance to go to church. Jim had decided it was up to him to reform Winston and dedicated himself to that task with great energy, purposely spoiling several good scams that Winston couldn’t in the least afford to have spoiled. Winston had screamed and threatened physical violence, but Jim had just smiled and explained why it wasn’t right. Winston had grown weary of the sermons Jim delivered daily and the way he was always trying to change him. Just that quick, Jim had gone from being an asset to being a liability, and Winston had begun preparing for life without Jim Hudson. He put a key executive insurance policy into place and condemned the man to death upon signing the document. Winston Walker Publishing could afford only $40,000 worth of insurance, but Winston figured Jim owed him at least that much.

  While Jim had been good at managing the magazine sales force, he’d never wanted any part of the Native American artifact business. Winston, though, had been involved in digging and stealing artifacts almost all his adult life. Whenever things were going bad financially, he’d always revert back to making some bucks in the artifact black market. Try as he might to stay clear of it, Jim had known Winston was still stealing a lot of artifacts. He and three others had come back one day with a van full of what had appeared to Jim to be museum-quality pieces. There was no way Winston had the money to purchase these legally, and when Jim had asked, Winston had just smiled. Jim had scoured the Internet for any news of a theft and had never seen anything except a mention of a robbery in 1980 at a museum in Moundville, Alabama. That had been a long time ago, though, which had only puzzled him more. Jim had reluctantly helped unload the boxes, which Winston had bragged were valued at more than a million dollars. They put them in a metal storage unit that cost sixty bucks a month and had a ten-dollar padlock on the door.

  Jim had asked a lot of questions, so many that he’d triggered a fit of rage during which Winston had slammed him against a wall and had told him to keep both his questions and his biblical opinions to himself. This encounter had been more intense than the ones Jim had shared with his wife as he’d encouraged her to join him in praying for Winston’s soul. He’d decided to keep it to himself, as hearing it would only disturb her. He’d considered it his own burden.

  Chapter 6

  The first few months of John Allen’s new job were a breeze. He spent most of his time meeting high-level members of the tribe and listening as each explained in their own very passionate way their desire to have as many true Choctaw artifacts as possible back in the tribe’s possession. The fact that these artifacts—arrowheads, spear points, beads, pots, and various ceremonial pieces—had been gathered by all manner of people for the last 150 years and stored in buckets and shoe boxes in garages bothered the tribal members greatly.

  The few collections that were treated with respect and with regard to their history didn’t seem to bother them as much as John Allen had figured they might. However, the looters who dug in ceremonial mounds and graves created much aggravation. These thieves were robbing the tribe of spiritual pieces, and they were doing it with amazing efficiency. John Allen learned that they studied topography maps to identify areas where Indians would have likely built villages, such as on high, level ground in close proximity to freshwater, like a creek or a river. These midnight vandals would probe every inch of the soil with long rods until they heard a familiar dink, then start digging. All this occurred under tarps so as not to be seen by anyone passing by. Each dig brought new treasures to the surface that would be sold, gone forever. There seemed to be no locations that were off-limits. The looters were brazen and would dig in burial mounds along the edge of the Natchez Trace, as well as on national parkland known to have held Native American settlements.

  Local law enforcement typically wouldn’t do much. They had their hands full with the normal, everyday robberies, drug offenses, and other crimes plaguing police and sheriff departments. Occasionally an officer with a personal interest in artifacts would pressure the locals, but usually so that he himself could loot the same areas. All these activities constituted serious crimes against the Indian Nations, and they were committed with regularity all over North America—but especially in the Deep South.

  John Allen also learned that many of the diggers were in fact meth heads who worked for a boss who would pay them in cash or drugs. The meth gave them energy to dig all night, and the artifacts created a steady supply of cash for more drugs.

  The Choctaw Nation hired a retired SWAT team trainer to give John Allen a weeklong crash course in personal defense. He was given a Browning Hi Power 9 mm pistol and taught how to use it. It was during these training exercises that John Allen was finally told that the man he was replacing had never returned. His employers feared he’d uncovered somebody determined to protect his enterprise. Instead of being troubled by this revelation, John Allen was intrigued in a way. The recent loss of his own wife made him think about the woman and kids who’d lost their husband and father. Loss was something he understood, and now that he had no immediate family, there was no one at home who would worry about him.

  The tribal leader who’d seen the potential in John Allen recognized the growing determination, not fear, in his eyes as she told him the story. She was pleased. John Allen would be their man, and he would be given more resources and training than they’d given their last agent. They wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  The Choctaw Nation now fully recognized the evil types of criminals attracted to their artifacts, people who were denizens of a murky underworld seldom seen but the tribe now knew existed. In most southern cities, there were normal-looking men—church deacons, county clerks, lawyers, doctors, and businessmen—who were quietly snapping up artifacts. Some did it out of a reverence for regional history, but most did it for a quick, tax-free buck. These men conducted their business in the woods at night and were capable of anything. The Choctaw Nation’s representative had to be prepared. On the reservation he was a special agent of the tribe, with full authority to arrest. Outside the reservation’s limited boundaries, however, where he would spend most of his time, he wouldn’t have any jurisdiction. So he would have
to network with local law enforcement and watch his back.

  John Allen found numerous small collections and was able to purchase most of them. He overpaid, but that’s what he’d been instructed to do. There were many owners of country stores who had secret collections, and supposedly they would trade cigarettes and beer for arrowheads. They were the low-hanging fruit John Allen went after first. It was rare that he stopped at a rural store and didn’t get a lead on someone who had artifacts. But sometimes the people wouldn’t talk to him at all—they didn’t want anyone to know they had a collection. John Allen tried to understand their motivation. They all seemed to fear something, but what?

  The Choctaw tribe had decided they wanted John Allen to have the appearance of a high roller with plenty of cash. They felt this image would open doors into the darker underworld that was motivated by money, so they gave him a black Porsche 911 for a company car. At first he thought it was silly, but after driving it a few days, he appreciated the fine workmanship of the Germans. And it did open a lot of eyes wherever he stopped.

  John Allen had lightly investigated the disappearance of his predecessor. His name was Wyatt Hub, and he had a wife and two kids. The Choctaw Nation had kept the paychecks coming for his family. The local and federal authorities had all run out of leads. They had their suspicions, but nothing could be proven. They knew that Wyatt had gotten wind of a collection in the Meridian, Mississippi, area and had been trying to gain the owner’s trust. But there the trail had ended. Wyatt hadn’t known any names, or if he had, he hadn’t recorded them or told anyone.

  John Allen was aware that Wyatt could have fallen prey to someone ruthless and that his own investigation could bring him to a similar end. Each time he thought about it, he swallowed and touched the pistol concealed on his hip. But mainly, he wanted to know what had happened to Wyatt because he felt the man’s wife deserved closure. John Allen understood about missing someone.

  Chapter 7

  The Kemper County sheriff’s department didn’t see many hunting accidents. The two hunting-related incidents in the last five years had both involved hunters falling out of tree stands. Statistics show that the sport of hunting is actually safer than golfing, but when you’re around firearms, accidents can happen. And when they do, the consequences can be grave. The worst part is that they oftentimes involve family members.

  Kemper County had a few murders each year, but they were usually easily solved. They most often occurred at late-night beer joints and were crimes of passion committed in front of witnesses. These crimes almost always solved themselves once everybody started talking.

  The game warden questioned Winston in great detail. He wished the sheriff’s men hadn’t moved the body but understood they were trying to help the deceased. He wanted to know the angles of the shooters’ positions, and by the end of his questioning, he could visualize what had happened. In the excitement of the moment, Winston had swung on a bird, and Jim Hudson had ended up in the way.

  The Kemper County sheriff spent more time in the field looking at the scene than his deputies, who’d concentrated on interviewing Winston. But in the end, the sheriff unearthed nothing that could prove the shooting was anything but an unfortunate accident. Personally, he didn’t like Winston Walker—he just didn’t get a good feeling from him. But he also knew that didn’t mean the guy had committed a crime.

  The sheriff had known the hunting guide for more than twenty years and trusted what he had to say. He was a struggling soybean farmer who was just trying to make ends meet. He guided bird hunts each fall and winter to supplement his income. It was honest, hard work.

  The hunting lodge was a refurbished antebellum Greek Revival mansion. The leather-skinned guide sat on its front porch with his head in his hands, looking more shook up than the shooter. He’d told the sheriff he dreaded having to explain the events to the owner, who was away on a trip to New Orleans. A man had died today while he was in charge. This could have a big impact on the lodge and also his personal income. The guide had a son in college, and the tuition was probably draining him. There might be a lawsuit even though both hunters had signed releases. Several times he told the sheriff he blamed himself for leaving them unsupervised. The moment he’d left and wasn’t there to personally make certain each man was in position, the tragedy had occurred. The sheriff found the timing interesting and mentally filed it away.

  The body was taken by ambulance to a local funeral home that also doubled as the county morgue. An autopsy would be performed. Though the cause of death was obvious, the sheriff wanted to know whether the man had been drinking or using drugs. He’d insisted Winston take a Breathalyzer test, which he’d passed.

  Now it was the sheriff’s duty to properly and professionally get word of what had happened to the next of kin. Since Jim Hudson had lived several counties away in Meridian, he would notify the sheriff there, and someone would deliver the news in person. That was much better than explaining a tragedy over the phone.

  Three months after Jim Hudson’s death, his widow, Jill, still wasn’t satisfied with any answers she’d received. None of it made sense, and she didn’t trust Winston Walker at all. She knew that Jim and Winston had been at odds and that their publishing business had been losing serious money. Jim had confided in her about some of the scams Winston had wanted to run on unsuspecting advertisers, and she knew Jim had pushed back hard, objecting to the cons. She was certain her husband had been murdered, and she set out to prove it.

  Jill Hudson made an appointment with the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Jackson, Mississippi. The two special agents she met with listened as she poured her heart out, and when she’d finished telling her story, they looked at each other with interest. They were familiar with Winston Walker and, after consulting privately, decided to tell her what they knew. It seems they’d received numerous complaints alleging interstate fraud by Walker and his publishing company. They’d been considering opening an investigation, and now, fueled by the idea that he may have murdered one of his employees, they would definitely proceed.

  Chapter 8

  On a Saturday morning in September, approximately eight months prior to the previous events, John Allen drove down State Route 25 to Jackson, Mississippi, to attend an old-fashioned gun show. Similar gun shows occurred all over the country on weekends at small convention centers, American Legion halls, and Shriner temples. Such events offered someone like John Allen a wealth of opportunities to connect with red-blooded local males who had an interest in firearms, knives, and maybe arrowheads.

  It was a beautiful fall morning, and the air was crisp. The roadsides were covered in the last remnants of the summer’s wildflowers, drying in the sun before the Mississippi Department of Transportation mowed them down. The leaves on the trees were just starting to turn, and John Allen passed carloads of football fans headed to Starkville and Oxford to watch their favorite college teams play.

  As expected, the gun-show venue’s parking lot was crowded with four-wheel-drive vehicles ranging from expensive Land Rovers to worn-out, jacked-up Ford or Chevy pickups. John Allen’s Porsche certainly stood out as he slid into a narrow spot near the front door.

  Inside, the show’s attendees were more diverse than their automobile choices. There were two guys in hospital scrubs who looked like doctors who’d slipped out between hospital rounds. They were buying ammunition as if they knew an invasion was imminent. John Allen watched a man a little older than he was with his son, who appeared to be about seven or eight years old. They were looking at a 0.22 rifle, and the father took great care to show his son how to hold the gun. It didn’t fit him, but that didn’t seem to bother either of them. The young boy listened intently as his father explained everything. The scene stabbed at John Allen’s heart, bringing to mind his own unborn son.

  On the third aisle next to a guy selling beef jerky was a small booth with a sign saying WE BUY ARROWHEADS AND ARTIFACTS. Sitting on a folding table were two wooden-framed glass boxes holding about forty
neatly arranged arrowheads and spearheads. John Allen studied the artifacts as the ratty-looking young man in the booth studied his phone.

  “Where were these found?” John Allen asked.

  “They all came from East Mississippi,” the young guy said, his eyes rolling up at John Allen.

  “It’s a great collection. Did you find them all?” He noticed the guy’s stick-on name tag read “Billy.”

  “Some friends of mine did,” Billy replied, finally looking all the way up at him.

  “These for sale? That’s a nice Kirk point.”

  “Like the sign says, we buy artifacts,” Billy said with some disdain, as if he’d answered that question a million times already.

  “Everything’s for sale sooner or later,” John Allen said, holding Billy’s eye. “I just prefer sooner than later.”

  Billy stood up and gave John Allen the once-over. “Who are you?”

  “I’m nobody. Just a guy who loves Indian rocks.”

  “You the law? These are surface finds. It’s not illegal to buy and sell these, you know.”

  “Relax, dude, I’m not the law,” John Allen assured him with a laugh. He wasn’t lying; technically, he wasn’t the police. He didn’t want Billy, but he figured the young man was attached to a bigger organization.

  “We play by the rules.”

  “I’m sure you do,” John Allen said as he admired some really old Clovis-style points. “These heads in this case, they’re probably worth about twelve hundred bucks if someone paid you full retail, but I’m willing to offer you fifteen hundred cash. Right now.”