by Glenn Trust
What now, she thought. Just wait. What if Clay changed his mind? What if he didn’t get the message? What if she was just left alone here? The tears began welling in her eyes again.
Maybe she should just go home, but then no, she thought, and then more emphatically, NO. Mama had risked everything last night, and there was no telling what Daddy would do if she came back. Actually, she knew exactly what he would do if she returned and he could get his hands on her. She felt the bruise on her arm.
Nothing to do but wait for Clay. If he didn’t come, then Canada. The Canada running away dream was still an option…a distant one now, but there.
Dabbing her eyes on her sleeve, she turned and walked back into the store. Leon was standing quietly by the magazine rack. She walked over to him and held the phone out.
“Get hold of your friend?” his deep rumbling voice asked.
“Yes…yes I did,” she answered.
“He coming for you?”
“Yes, he said he would be here in a while.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, yes. I’ll be all right. Just gonna wait here for him,” Lyn answered not looking him in the eye.
Leon didn’t know what else to do. He took the phone in his hand. For once, there was a soft look on his big, gruff face and he gave her a smile.
“Okay then. Well, we gotta be going soon. Here,” Leon took a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Lyn. “This is us, me and Bob. It’s got our phone numbers on it if you need to call. Okay?”
Lyn took the battered, card bearing Leon’s greasy thumbprint. It had big letters that said B&L Trucking and then some phone numbers.
She looked up and Leon’s smile made her feel a little better.
“Thanks. I’m grateful.”
Leon stood there for a few more seconds not knowing what else to do. Then he turned and walked to the end of the aisle where Bob waited for him. They walked out the front door and across the lot to their rigs, parked side by side in the gravel.
Lyn was alone again.
51. Vernon’s Dilemma
By Georgia standards, Pickham County was average in size. In a state with one hundred and fifty-nine counties, you were never more than twenty or thirty miles from the next county line. In some cases, the distance was much less.
Almost every county had their own sheriff and in the larger metropolitan counties, a separate police department. Throw in the various cities and state law enforcement agencies and there were a lot of cops in Georgia. Some thought too many…others too few. At this moment, there were a lot in Roydon, Georgia.
No less than eight law enforcement vehicles were gathered in the lot of the StarLite Motel, divided between Pickham County, GBI, crime scene technicians and the State Patrol.
More gravel crunched and spit from under the tires of two more vehicles, and there were now ten vehicles in the lot. George looked up and saw that it was Sheriff Klineman with Ronnie Kupman, followed by Timmy Farrin in the old radio station van. Time for Timmy’s shot at an interview, George thought.
Sharon Price had arrived earlier and was going through the motel room with the crime scene techs while George and Bob Shaklee engaged in a heart-to-heart conversation with the StarLite’s desk clerk, Vernon Taft. Mr. Taft was reluctant, at best, to remember any details about the guest who had rented the end room, and who had removed the bedspread upon his departure.
Cornered in the back of George’s truck, he looked frequently at the small crowd that was growing outside of Pete’s Place across the road. The larger the crowd grew, the more reluctant he became. George and Bob Shaklee stood in the open door on one side of the vehicle making sure the other side was clear and Taft’s view of Pete’s Place unobstructed.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know why he was nervous. Conversing with the law in Roydon was an unhealthy practice, especially in broad daylight.
“You know, Vernon,” George interjected during a break in the questioning. “You might as well tell us what we want to know, and tell us now so we can get you out of here.” He nodded at the crowd across the street. “You think they’re gonna believe you said nothing, no matter what you tell them later. Even if they do believe you, they won’t be of a mind to take any chances in the future.” He shook his head. “Maybe you talked, maybe you didn’t, but why take chances? Yep, I can hear Roy Budroe saying it now, ‘Why take chances?’” George let the words sink in for effect. “And somewhere tonight a gator out in the Okefenokee is going to have a fat supper.”
“Bullshit. None of this has anything to do with anyone in Roydon or anyone at Pete’s. Why should they care?” Vernon Taft’s voice cracked in a plaintiff whine that did not have the bluster of his words. This was all so unfair.
“Great point, Vernon,” George said nodding in agreement. “Go tell them that,” he added, jerking his head toward the crowd.
Taft turned his head, looking out the side window. Roy Budroe stood there chewing a cigar, staring in his direction, his big meaty fists balled at his side.
Vernon raised a shaking hand to wipe the sweat from his greasy brow. The inside of the pickup reeked of the alcohol that was boiling out of his pores with the perspiration. George would air it out later and hoped that that would be the only stench he had to air out of the truck.
Vernon was powerfully scared, caught between the proverbial rock and hard place. No doubt, he would be changing underwear later, provided he was wearing any.
Shaklee leaned forward into the truck. “One more thing you might consider, Vernon. At this point, we know that this room is connected with a major felony. Your failure to cooperate and provide a description of the person who rented the room constitutes obstruction of an investigation, and I can assure you that the GBI takes that very seriously and will not hesitate to prosecute anyone who stands in the way of the investigation. And then there is the fact that your actions make you an accessory to…” Now Shaklee paused for effect. “An accessory to murder.”
George and Bob watched the blood drain from Taft’s already pale face.
“You didn’t know that, did you Vernon?” Shaklee continued. “We’re investigating a murder and that makes you, as it stands now, an accessory to murder. And I mean the big one. Capital murder. Murder in the first degree. And maybe you haven’t forgotten that Georgia still kills murderers. Frankly, it’s one of the things I love about the state…and my job.”
Vernon finally managed to get something out. “You asshole.”
Shaklee smiled, “Been told that before, Vernon. Hell, it’s probably true.” Then looking him hard in the eye, Shaklee added, “But don’t doubt me. I will prosecute you as an accessory to murder without hesitation.”
Shaklee moved back from the door. George’s turn. Taft was almost at the breaking point; one more straw on his frail, alcoholic back, and he would crumble.
“Well, Vernon, I think Agent Shaklee has made it pretty clear where we stand. By the way, weren’t you gone for a while doing time? I don’t mean any soft time in the county jail, you did some drug time, didn’t you?” George knew full well that he had, having already had dispatch run a GCIC criminal history check on Mr. Taft. “Keep in mind that you won’t be a trustee washing cars this time. You’ll be doing hard time, maybe waiting for the needle. Think it over, Vernon. You only have one play here.”
Vernon Taft sat trembling in the back of Deputy George Mackey’s county pickup. His chin fell onto his chest and a long sigh wheezed out of his bony chest.
“I don’t know much, but what can I get if I talk? Can you get me away from here? I won’t last long in Roydon if they think I cooperated with the law on anything.” He looked out the window towards Pete’s Place.
“You tell us everything you know, and I will see that you get to someplace safe.”
“Sister in Valdosta. That’s where I want to go.”
“Okay, your sister’s place in Valdosta. You can dry out and figure out what to do from there. Of course, we will want to know exactly where you a
re in case we need anything else.” George left out the part about testifying in open court when they caught the killer.
Vernon Taft, alcoholic, former small-time drug runner, country boy gone bad turned shady old man, sagged in the seat and nodded his head. “I saw him, the man who rented the room.”
“Right. Anyone with him?
“No, he was alone…least as far as I could tell.”
“Talk, Vernon.” And Vernon did. George pulled out his notepad.
Five minutes later, Vernon Taft, recently of Roydon, Georgia, had related everything he remembered about the thin, severe man who had rented the room at the far end of the StarLite Motel. True to his word, there wasn’t much he could add to what the authorities already knew. White male, light brown hair, medium build, thin face. He paid in cash. Vernon hadn’t paid attention to any rings that he might have been wearing. In fact, the man didn’t go to his room until Vernon had gone back to the cot in the clerk’s office.
One thing though, the man didn’t know that as he backed and then pulled his car over to his room, Vernon had stood in the darkened office and watched, mostly because he was annoyed at the man’s threatening attitude. Vernon was able to note that the car he drove was a 1992 Chevrolet with faded burgundy paint that showed gray primer through on the hood and roof.
Vernon knew this because he had owned the same make and model back in the nineties when they were new. He had run drugs up and down the interstate in his Chevy. Yes, it was a Chevy, old, but it ran good. Was that enough to get him protection from Roy Budroe?
The information only corroborated what they already knew, but George assured Vernon that he would be enroute to the Pickham County jail that very evening, and would stay there in protective custody until they could arrange transport for him to his sister’s place in Valdosta. For the first time since the arrival of Bob Shaklee and George Mackey at the StarLite Motel, Vernon relaxed. In fact, he all but collapsed in the back of George’s pickup. Peeking out of the side window, he could see that the crowd milling around outside of Pete’s Place had grown.
“Hey, deputy,” he called through the cracked window. “Got a smoke?”
“Sorry, Vernon. I got a chew. You can have some if you want, but you can’t spit in the truck.”
At that moment, Ronnie Kupman stepped forward and pulled a smoke from his pack of Marlboros, opened the door, and handed it to Vernon, pulling out a lighter at the same time. Vernon leaned forward, sucked the flame into the cigarette, and then sank contentedly back into the seat.
“Damn, Ronnie. He’s gonna smoke my truck up now,” George commented on Ronnie’s act of compassion.
Kupman looked unsympathetically at the tobacco juice streaks down the side of George’s truck. Changing the subject, he said, “You’ve had a busy day George.”
“Yeah, we had some luck.”
“Luck maybe, but good police work.”
Sheriff Klineman, who had watched the interview with Vernon Taft, and who had been restrained from interfering by Ronnie Kupman, walked up and spoke to Bob Shaklee, completely ignoring his deputy.
“Great work, Agent Shaklee. Seems our murderer is not from Pickham County or Georgia after all. What else do we know that can pin him down?”
“Well, by ‘pin him down’, do you mean apprehend the murderer, or make sure that he is not in any way associated with Pickham County?”
The sheriff reddened, something that was becoming a common occurrence. “I don’t appreciate your tone or the implication that I may not have the best interests of the public at heart. I am deeply concerned about ensuring the safety of the public here in Pickham County. To think otherwise would be a slander to my office and, frankly, to me personally. Is that your intent?” It appeared that Sheriff Klineman was a bit testy and had had a long day as well.
“Not at all Sheriff. May I suggest that we go back to your office and review the cases? We have made progress, but there is work to do, and we need some rest. We’ve been working this since the Sims murder last night and everyone is tired.”
“Agreed,” Klineman replied and then turned to George. “Deputy Mackey, you are relieved. We have covered your shift tonight. Take tomorrow off.”
“Excuse me Sheriff,” Shaklee interjected. “Deputy Mackey has been instrumental in furthering the investigation today. It would be appropriate to have him assist in the debrief to you and Chief Deputy Kupman.”
“Not necessary, not necessary at all, Shaklee. Deputy Mackey has been a big help, and we appreciate that, but we trust that you will be able to brief us fully on the investigation.” He turned to George. “Mackey, you are relieved.”
George shrugged and turned away, then seeing a nervous Vernon Taft in the back of his pickup said, “Sheriff, mind if I take Vernon here to the jail on the way home? We need to make arrangements to transport him to his sister’s place in Valdosta.”
Klineman turned, deeply annoyed. “Why would we do that deputy?
“Because we promised him we would,” Shaklee interjected. “And because if we don’t, you may well be working another murder here in Roydon.” He jerked his head towards the crowd across the street.
Klineman turned, eyeing the crowd in the lot at Pete’s Place. He would definitely have to clean that place up at some point, he thought. “Fine then. Mackey, transport your witness to the jail and place him in protective custody. After that, you are relieved. We will arrange transport tomorrow.”
George turned towards his truck without a word of acknowledgement.
“Meet me at my office as soon as you are done here, Shaklee,” Klineman said, turning towards Timmy Farrin who was waiting patiently by his van, recorder in hand.
“What a prick.”
A look of mild surprise on his face, Ronnie Kupman turned towards Bob Shaklee. He nodded in understanding. “Yep.”
Then he turned and followed his sheriff.
For his part, Shaklee wished he could recall the three words he had just spoken. Klineman’s self-centered arrogance had managed to crack his professional veneer.
George Mackey neither heard, nor saw any of this. He simply pulled his truck from the lot of the StarLite Motel heading back to I-95 and the jail in Everett. In the back seat, Vernon Taft laid down trying to make himself invisible to the crowd in front of Pete’s Place. He felt as though they had x-ray vision, watching him through the sides of the truck.
52. Regrouping
Big Leon ambled across the lot to his rig and climbed up. Lylee Torkman watched from the side of the truck wash building at the other end of the fuel pumps. He leaned against the brick wall, puffing one of his generic cigarettes.
Even at a distance, it was clear that the big man was concerned for the girl. Well, he should be, Lylee thought. A momentary surge of adrenalin gave him a visceral thrill. He had watched as the girl used the cell phone that the big truck driver had handed to her.
Lylee stayed away from the truck stop’s main building. He had already carelessly exposed himself too much on this runaround and had no intention of meeting the police officer that the truckers had summoned. It was time to regroup, to shake off the two careless mistakes he had made that day, and make sure there were no others.
He thought carefully, formulating his plan. The intervention of the two truckers had saved the girl, for the time being. But their meddling in his confrontation with Henry only made his appetite for the girl grow into a raging, undeniable need. He would have her.
When the officer left without the girl, another plan began coming together. The two truckers would leave, sooner or later, and the girl would be alone. He would be ready.
Lyn had watched quietly from inside the store as Leon and Bob walked to their rigs. The tractors rumbled to life and belched exhaust from their stacks and then slowly moved out of the lot, Bob first, then Leon.
Loneliness settled heavily on her narrow shoulders. Standing just inside the front door of the truck stop store, she looked out through the dirt specked glass. Her presence there was li
ke one of the specks on the glass, invisible unless you focused on it. She was invisible.
There was bustling activity all around, but she was unseen and unnoticed. It seemed that the rest of the world looked through her and around her. She was a ghost…a flickering image to those others.
The call to Clay made her feel even lonelier. Would he get the message? Would he show up at the truck stop? She shook her head to clear the despair. Nothing was working out. Canada. What a stupid idea.
She turned and walked back towards the cafe to wait. There was nothing else to do. Taking a seat on a swiveling stool at the end of the counter, away from everyone else, she waited for the girl behind the counter to notice her, but she didn’t. She was invisible.
But someone did see her. In fact, Lylee Torkman saw almost nothing else.
Making his way along the edge of the parking lot, Lylee found his car. He had left it in the gravel between two rows of parked trucks.
He started the car and rolled slowly up and down the rows, thinking and making his way closer to the main truck stop building. Coming to the end of the lines of trucks in the gravel lot, he drove past the back of the building.
The car rolled slowly, almost idling, past the garbage dumpster and rear loading door. Coming to the other side of the building, he turned left and was able to park in a spot along the building’s side wall, just adjacent to the rear of the building.
There were no vehicles parked on that side of the building. Trucks parked out in the lot. Cars were all parked directly in front. This side of the building was a quiet, out-of-the-way spot. All of the activity was near the building’s entrance. At the same time, it was not so secluded that someone might hesitate to walk to the car, but there…where the sidewall joined the rear…no one would be paying attention.
Lylee sat there for a few minutes. There was no traffic. Leaning forward to look up through the windshield, he scanned for cameras. He could see none. Finally, he stepped out of the Chevy.