by Glenn Trust
Bob Shaklee spoke for the first time since the briefing had started. “Good. We can agree then to work together, at least until we know where the link, if there is one, is going, or taking us.”
“Fair enough,” Barnes replied nodding. “I have to say though; I have doubts about the connection between Judge Marswell and Somerhill. They were from different ends of the political spectrum, different worlds.” Looking around the office that was very different from his workspace at Atlanta Homicide he continued, “You know, old Georgia aristocracy and inner-city civil rights attorney. Hard to imagine a real connection, list or not.”
“I know,” Price answered nodding. “Still, there it is. Both men on a list of names, involved in issues, a movement maybe, that is not very popular with most of the elected officials in the state.”
“I know. I agree. We have to follow up on this. Just seems like a strange connection.”
Like everyone else, Barnes knew that the upcoming election would be tumultuous. People like Somerhill, and apparently Marswell, had been working against most of the incumbent office holders in the state. He wasn’t quite sure why, although knowing now that Marswell, his hero, had been involved heightened his curiosity. Getting his brain around the possibility that a member of the unofficial southern aristocracy and one of his heroes of the civil rights movement had united in this new movement was going to take some time.
“You know,” Barnes said looking across the table at the two GBI agents, “if there truly is a connection between the two murders, there is no telling where this is going to lead.”
Bob Shaklee nodded. “That’s right, Detective. We will have to tread very lightly until we know who is involved. In fact, I propose that this conversation be kept among us. Until we know where this is going, it cannot go up or down the chain of command.” He paused to allow Price and Barnes to consider what he was suggesting. “Are we agreed?”
“Absolutely,” Sharon answered immediately. Her relationship with Shaklee was one of complete trust.
Barnes looked down at the file on the table, thinking. He was being asked not to be completely open with his superiors, in particular, Perry Boyd, the one person he trusted implicitly. That would be difficult. Finally, looking up at the other two he replied, “Agreed, with one caveat. I will not discuss this with anyone…for now. If at some point in the future, I feel that I need to brief my superiors, I will advise you first. That’s the best I can do.”
Shaklee nodded, a look of respect and of appreciation for Barnes’ position evident in his expression. He put his hand out.
“Agreed, Detective. I know that this must not be comfortable for you.”
“Call me Andy,” Barnes said taking Shaklee’s hand. “And hell, I’ve been uncomfortable most of my life,” he added with a grin. “So, where do we start? You guys have a plan?”
26. What Did You Get into Ray?
Bouncing along a sandy trail, the brown sides of the county pickup were brushed and scuffed by eight-foot tall sawgrass growing along the narrow road. It was more a track in the sand, separating the tall stands of sawgrass and cane.
George jerked his arm off the window frame of the truck as the serrated edges of the sawgrass scraped the truck and his elbow. Looking at his arm, he saw a thin trail of blood along the scratches the grass had made in his skin. He hit the window button, and let the glass rise halfway while he tried to rub the stinging off his arm. That shit hurt.
If he hadn’t looked up from his elbow at that moment, he would not have seen the truck. Hidden in the sawgrass and cane, the old truck was as close to invisible as it could be. It was off the left side of the trail. The cane and sawgrass were bent and broken around it as if another vehicle had been parked there alongside the truck.
George stopped and pushed the pickup door open, forcing back the overgrown cane. Walking towards the truck, he could see that the clearing in the canebrake appeared to have been deliberately made. The sand prevented him from clearly identifying the tire tracks, but the ruts and impressions of a vehicle that had moved back and forth in the cane making a clearing were clearly discernible.
Pushing his way through the cane, George approached the dilapidated old truck. It was pulled straight in. The area to the left of the truck was beaten down by the other vehicle that had clearly been there at some point. Taking a pad from his shirt pocket, George noted the pickup’s tag number.
Slowly, he circled the truck peering inside as he made the circuit. Nothing. The old truck was empty. There were assorted fast food bags and drink cans on the passenger side floor, but nothing else of note.
So where was the driver? This was not the kind of place that a truck would be parked while the driver took a stroll. There was no water or fishing near, and nothing to hunt here.
As he walked to the front of the truck, George realized he was looking at the vehicle that had killed Timmy Farrin. The right front portion of the grill and hood had been dented. There was blood on the rusted chrome bumper.
Taking the microphone of the portable radio off his shirt epaulette, he held it up and read the truck’s tag number to the radio dispatcher, asking for 10-28 and 10-29, registration and wants.
Less than a minute later, the radio squelched with static and the dispatcher’s tinny voice said, “Pickham 101, vehicle is a 1977 Dodge pickup, registered to a Ray Cross. Has a Pickham County address.”
“10-4 Dispatch. Any wants or stolen reports?”
“Negative, Pickham 101. No wants, not reported stolen.”
“10-4 Dispatch. Be advised I have the possible vehicle involved…” George paused considering what he was about to say and decided that it was not the time to stir up the sheriff. “Involved in a hit and run fatality on Sunday. Also, I’ll need a wrecker.” He took a full minute giving directions to the remote location where he had found the pickup.
At the conclusion of his transmission, Ronnie Kupman’s voice came over the air. “Pickham Unit 2. I’m clear and enroute to 101’s location.”
“10-4, Pickham Unit 2, enroute to Pickham 101,” the dispatcher dutifully reported to everyone listening and for the machine tape-recording all of the radio traffic.
Good ole Ronnie, George thought. He would make it here before the sheriff got his ass out of his chair. When he was done, he walked back towards his truck to retrieve his camera. He would photograph the vehicle and scene, documenting everything before the tow truck arrived, as if it were a hit and run. If he was right, and it turned out to be a murder, then his evidence collection would be of even greater importance.
Walking around the truck and taking digital photos from every possible angle and perspective, his mind worked on the puzzle. Okay, so where was Ray. The truck had been parked here after hitting and killing Timmy. If George’s theory was correct, and Timmy had been deliberately killed, why would Ray Cross want to do such a thing? That was the puzzle. And why would he leave his truck here? There would have to be someone else involved…someone who would have picked Ray up. Or, the thought occurred to George…someone had left him here.
George felt suddenly uneasy and could not help a quick glance around the clearing in the sawgrass and cane. Finishing with the photographs and documentation of the scene, he walked back to his pickup and put the camera in the open briefcase on the passenger seat. It would be a while before the tow truck and Ronnie Kupman were able to make their way to him.
Walking slowly along the trail from his truck, George scanned the sides of the track. He had walked about a hundred yards when he saw it. Actually, he smelled it first.
The scent was unmistakable. Actually, scent is not a word sufficiently descriptive. Dead bodies stink. Those who have ever smelled a dead body know that it is not an exaggeration to say that it is a stench that you do not forget and one that does not wash out of your clothes very easily.
The stench hit George hard, like a slap in the face. Turning his head towards the source of the smell, he saw where the brush was beaten down. The sound of the blue bottle fli
es swarming led him directly to the body of Ray Cross. At least, George was fairly certain that it was Ray lying on his stomach in the beat down grass, with flies laying maggot eggs in the bloody mess of his head and other orifices of his body.
Approaching closer, George could see a wound in the back of the man’s head from a bullet. Some animal had been gnawing around the wound and had pulled the scalp partially off the head exposing the skull, although the bone looked pink and not white because of the oozing matter boiling out of the body in the hot sun.
Lifting the radio microphone from his shoulder once again, George spoke. “Pickham 101 to Dispatch.”
“Go ahead, Pickham 101.” The dispatcher, as always, sounded calm and professional. George was about to liven up her day, and he knew it.
“10-43, 10-79.” Then, to make sure the sheriff would understand, he spoke in the clear. “Dispatch, I have an apparent murder at the location. Notify the coroner.”
George smiled slightly at the dispatcher’s momentary loss of poise. There was a longer than normal break before she came back on the air, her voice sounded hurried and rising in pitch. “10-4, Pickham 101. We are notifying the coroner.”
As she finished speaking, Ronnie Kupman’s calm, deep voice came over the air. “Pickham 2, clear. I’ll be on the scene in ten.”
It was a full two minutes before Sheriff Klineman was heard over the radio. He seemed out of breath. “Unit 1 to Pickham 101, did you advise 10-43?”
“10-4 Unit 1. 10-43. Murder at this location.” George said it matter-of-factly, knowing how the sheriff would respond.
“Location! What location? Mackey if this is one of your stunts…”
Ronnie Kupman interrupted over the radio and gave the sheriff directions to George’s location, advising Klineman that he would be on the scene with Pickham 101 in five minutes.
George listened calmly to the exchange. Ronnie was trying to smooth things over for him, as always. For his part, George didn’t give a shit what the sheriff thought. His eyes were focused on the exposed wound on Ray Cross’ skull.
What did you get into, Ray? Who left you here stinking in the sun for the crows and flies?
27. Nothing More Required
The setting sun cast an orange glow through the pines, the reddish orb and long trunks of the trees reflecting off the water. It was like watching two sunsets at once. It was beautiful.
The two men sat quietly, sipping beer and watching the night come on. Anchored in a cove out of the main channel, the cabin cruiser bobbed gently. The beauty of the scene was not lost on them. They did ugly things for not-very-nice people, but they were both men of the country. Open air, sunsets, fish on a line, were things that they could appreciate. It was a side of them that their victims would have struggled to comprehend, if any of their victims had the chance.
A Georgia Division of Natural Resources boat came patrolling slowly and softly into the still water of the cove.
“How you boys doin’?” The green uniformed DNR officer slowed expertly, floating his much smaller boat a few feet away from the cabin cruiser.
“Doin’ good, Officer.” Rodney Puckett lifted his beer in greeting to the DNR officer. “Offer you a beer?”
The officer smiled appreciatively. “No thanks. Wish I could, but not on duty. Everything okay here?”
“Just fine. Watching the sun go down. Couldn’t be finer.”
The DNR officer turned his head towards the west and nodded. “Yeah, it’s a good one tonight.” Noting that the cruiser was anchored and the aroma of steaks on the grill was wafting across the water from the rear deck he asked, “Staying the night on the lake?”
“Yep. Get an early start fishing in the morning. Know any good spots?”
“Heard they pulled some lunkers out down by Hartwell Dam today. You might cruise down there in the morning.”
“Thanks, Officer. We’ll just do that.” Puckett sipped his beer while Thompson leaned back lazily in his chair. Both were at ease. It was not an act. It took more than a lone DNR officer in an aluminum boat to cause them any concern.
“Well, reckon I’ll head on out. Supper waitin’ to home. You boys be safe.”
“Yep. Thanks for checking on us, Officer.”
The DNR man raised his hand in goodbye and steered his small boat away from the cruiser, allowing the idling engine to move it slowly back into the main lake channel. He was courteous and professional, not creating any wake that might disturb the two men sitting peacefully on the deck of the big boat.
“Seemed like a nice ole boy,” Big Bud said raising the brown glass of the beer bottle to his lips. “Real nice.”
“Yep,” Puckett added in agreement.
The sun drifted below the horizon, and, in the gathering darkness, lights could be seen at various points across the lake. A bass boat with its green and red marker lights on passed the cove, night fishers headed out to a favorite spot.
The cell phone on the table between the two men vibrated.
“Johnson.” Puckett gave the answering signal that the caller could speak freely.
“Problem?”
“One. The one we discussed.”
“Tell me.”
Puckett explained in a very few words that the third member of the group that had been in the office on the square was a possible threat to everyone in the group. Thompson sat quietly, listening attentively and sipping his beer, while the future of Stanton James, State Senator, and his sponsor into the group was discussed. Big Bud noted that James’ future did not seem promising at that moment.
“I see. Is your partner there?” It was the deep voice of Montgomery asking.
“Yes.”
“Put him on, please.”
Puckett extended the phone to Big Bud. It looked tiny in his beefy hand pressed delicately against his ear.
“This is your assessment as well?”
Thompson wasn’t accustomed to people using words like ‘assessment’ but he understood.
“Yes it is.”
“Any regrets or conscience? He brought you into the group. Can you do what we will require?”
“No regrets. I will do whatever you need.”
“Hand the phone back, please.”
Puckett placed the phone to his ear. The caller spoke briefly.
“Speak to him first. Take no action until then. Call us back.” The phone disconnected.
Nothing more was required. The boat rocked softly as the evening breeze picked up almost imperceptibly and night settled in over the lake. The occasional splash of a bass rising to the surface and taking an insect could be heard clearly across the black water. Fishing would be good tomorrow.
28. The Abyss
He parked the Escalade on the pavers of the drive outside the garage of his large Cape Cod-style home. It was a very nice home in a very nice, upscale neighborhood. It was the home of a successful attorney. Walking to the porch, he looked over his neat and tidy yard, the painted front porch, the stained glass in the door. It was a very nice home. It was not the Paschal estate, however. That type of lavishness was far beyond the means of even a successful country lawyer.
Walking into the house, PT found Lisa and the girls seated on the floor in the den. A photograph album was open in Lisa’s lap, and the girls huddled close looking at the pictures. He walked by, stepping over scattered photos, and seated himself heavily in the large recliner that was ‘his chair’.
“How is everything?” Lisa looked up, concern in her face.
“Fine, just fine.” PT leaned back and closed his eyes. The slow drive up to the front of the Paschal mansion past the dogwoods, magnolias, and azaleas replayed through is mind. The walk through the house, the garden room, the back yard, the landscaping, the fine furniture, the opulence and wealth all played against his closed eyelids as if projected on a screen in a dark theatre.
There was a tug on his knee. “Daddy?”
Opening his eyes, PT looked at his youngest daughter. “What is it, Annette?”
“It’s a picture of Papa for you.” Her hand, holding the picture, was still outstretched.
“Take it back to your mother, Annette.” He closed his eyes again.
“But it’s Papa…” Then thinking about it for a moment the child added, “He’s your daddy. You should want to see a picture of your daddy. Don’t you?”
“Annette, take it back to your mother.” The words separate, distinct, and spoken in obvious annoyance.
“You don’t have to take that tone with her, PT. What’s bothering you?”
He opened his eyes and looked at his wife as if to say, “Are you kidding? What’s bothering me?”
Seeing the look, Lisa felt immediately sorry for the words she had spoken. Of course he was upset, and with good reason. His father had been murdered barely twenty-four hours earlier. “Sorry, hon,” she said. “I know you’re on edge. We all are. The girls are just trying to understand.”
He looked at her almost quizzically, his head turned slightly to the side. Closing his eyes again, he rested his head back on the chair.
On edge, he thought. He supposed that was one way to put it. On edge, sold his soul, bargain with the devil, there were probably a good many other ways to put it. Opening his eyes enough to peer through slitted eyelids, he saw the girls still huddled with their mother. He also saw the carpet, worn down where everyone walked and the girls played, and the dark spots from hands on the wall near the door where everyone went in and out, and the narrow room and low ceilings. After the Paschal estate, it seemed…small, cheap, successful attorney or not.
Closing his eyes again, the images of the Paschal estate floated back into view. Montgomery’s deep sonorous voice and words played repeatedly in his mind. More opportunity. More power. Unimagined wealth. He smiled, thinking of a line from ‘Star Wars’. I don’t know, he thought, I can imagine quite a lot. He did not see the quizzical look on Lisa’s face as she caught a glimpse of the smile.