by Glenn Trust
Bill Quince nodded. “I reckon so, Sim. Reckon so.”
69. He’s Got A Visitor
Sitting around the coffee table in the office on the square, PT Somerhill and Edward Paschal sipped large takeout coffees from Styrofoam cups and munched the danish that Somerhill had brought in from the pastry shop around the corner. The morning sun cast long shadows from the buildings across the square. They were alone. PT had given his secretary the morning off.
“Interesting situation we are in.” Paschal’s statement was tentative with a tone of uncertainty. The uncertainty was merited. The elimination of James, while not a surprise, had moved their enterprise to a new level. They had all long since passed the point of no return, but they now knew without doubt what turning back would mean.
PT nodded, chewing a pastry and washing it down with black coffee. His fall from grace and into the pit of betrayal and deceit that had been required of him as a member of the team had shown him just how far he could go. It had shown the others as well, evoking a fearful respect for the man who had betrayed his own father.
At first, he had been frightened by the transformation taking place inside him. But each act of betrayal had calloused his conscience and had hardened his resolve. His realization, through Montgomery’s coaching, and his acceptance that his journey into the abyss would yield unimaginable rewards, finalized the transformation. The caterpillar emerged from the cocoon as a moth. Having reached and passed his own point of no return, he was completely committed to the project.
He looked curiously at Paschal. “Yes, interesting,” he said nodding. “Do you have concerns, Edward?”
PT’s intense gaze was disconcerting. “Concerns? No.” He placed the coffee cup on the table and crossed his legs comfortably, a sign of his own confidence. “I merely recognize that we are in an interesting position.”
“How so?” PT’s eyes never left Paschal’s.
“We are engaged in a dangerous game, a project that could ruin us or bring great rewards. I am merely pointing out that there are dangers. We would be foolish not to recognize the dangers.”
PT nodded. “True, there are hazards. Are you losing your commitment to the project…?” he paused, his eyes staring more intently into Paschal’s. “Losing your taste for the game?”
“Not at all,” Paschal said returning PT’s gaze. “I am merely recognizing that you and I are in a…let’s call it a unique position. There were three of us, here in Georgia, now there are two. It seems appropriate to recognize that fact. That’s all I am saying.”
Breaking his eyes away from Paschal, PT looked out across the square to the courthouse, nodding. “I see. Yes, I see your point. We are somewhat isolated here, away from the source of funding and power, so to speak.” He turned back to Paschal. “Do you have a proposal in mind?”
Paschal nodded. “So to speak,” he said using PT’s words with a smile. “It does seem that a mutual support agreement between us would be…prudent.”
PT nodded his agreement, listening.
The next part was dangerous, and Paschal knew it. Somerhill was an unknown element at this point. He had changed much in the last week. His reaction to Paschal’s proposal could determine whether he ended up in Stanton James’ position of being a former and deceased member of the group. That was not the desirable outcome that Paschal had in mind. But Paschal had no illusions. Somerhill was Montgomery’s man. There was no doubt.
“I think we were a bit clumsy in our earlier conversations with the others on Sunday.” He let that comment lay on the table to be considered by PT.
After a moment, Somerhill said thoughtfully, “I would agree.”
Paschal nodded, sensing that he had Somerhill’s attention. “Clumsy, but not inappropriate. Just poorly executed.”
Again, a thoughtful pause. “Yes, again I agree. What are you proposing, Edward?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Nothing? Surely you didn’t bring this up only to say…nothing.”
“Nothing overt. I simply think there should be some documentation.”
“We tried that, remember. They knew immediately what we were doing.”
“We were clumsy, PT. We should have known they would see through the attempt. We require a more subtle form of documentation.”
“Such as?”
Paschal leaned forward, making his case. “Airline tickets to Atlanta. Credit card receipts at the restaurant across the square,” he said nodding his head at the window. “Hotel registrations. These are records, I think, are they not, counselor?”
PT nodded and smiled for the first time since the conversation began. Putting his lawyer hat on, he said, “Yes, in fact they are. They are documentation of movement, travel, and location, but we would need more.”
“Yes, we would.” Paschal took a deep breath, knowing the next part would be a harder sale. “We need documentation of meetings, what is said, who is present.”
“Of course, that’s the point, and we are back to square one. They are not the type of people to be trapped by us in that way. They are too careful about what they say and how they say it. On top of that, they have the money to prevent any recording of conversations, no matter how sophisticated the equipment is. They tolerated our clumsiness once. I don’t think they would accept a second attempt without there being some serious consequences.” Now he stopped, considering the missing Stanton James. “I see no way…no safe way to obtain any record that could provide us with the…uh…assurance we require.” He shook his head.
Reaching into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, Paschal brought out an expensive fountain pen, the type with an old-fashioned screw-on cap and a small lever to suck ink into the barrel. He laid the pen on the table.
Somerhill watched, not speaking. He considered the meaning of Paschal’s gesture, understanding it immediately, thinking it through. “A written record?”
“Paschal nodded. “A written record. Our own notes of every conversation. Each kept separately of course, but copies kept by the other. You have what I record. I have what you record.” He looked at PT knowing this was the closer, the moment of truth, and the most dangerous part of the pitch. “We protect each other with what we have.”
PT looked out the window again considering Paschal’s proposal. It was the least dangerous way to provide some assurance for themselves as the project moved forward. Of course, if he turned Paschal in, the team in Georgia would be reduced to one, PT Somerhill, he was sure of that. But by doing so, he would leave himself completely unprotected and vulnerable. It took him a full minute to consider the proposal and its implications. In the end, the risk of doing nothing outweighed the risk of doing something.
“I accept,” he said to Edward Paschal, whose generally calm face lost the trace of tension that had been etched across it. “You’re right, though. For this to work, we need to get them to come here. Fly to Atlanta, rent a car, stay in a hotel, buy a meal. There will need to be corroboration for our notes to give them credibility. The paper trail for our meeting will be critical.”
For the next several minutes, they discussed how they would present their concerns to the two leaders of the project. They had to express reasonable concern and not present themselves as overly fearful. Neither wanted a visit from Rodney Puckett and Big Bud Thompson.
Fifteen minutes later, the cell phone on the table vibrated at exactly the appointed time for the call. It was a brief call. As always, Montgomery and Greene said little and listened intently to their report, speaking to clarify only when necessary.
As they had agreed, PT made the explanation of their concerns and where the project was going. They knew that he was considered the most solid member of the group. He had sacrificed his own father for god’s sake. Edward Paschal was not the only one who thought him one cold son of a bitch. Montgomery and Greene had discussed that same issue.
“Please explain your concerns,” Greene said, his voice calm and curious.
“There are several,” PT said,
preparing to lay out his case in a lawyerly fashion. “First, the elimination of the two in this area has raised the level of media involvement and investigative effort in ways we had not anticipated.” They all understood that the two in this area referred to Somerhill and Marswell. There were no others scheduled in that part of the state. They had cut the head off the dragon early hoping to silence the movement quickly. The project had moved to other areas.
Hearing no comment or questions, PT continued. “Second, the investigative task force is asking the right questions which are the wrong questions for us. Agent Price picked up quickly on the list of names, and the Atlanta homicide detective, Barnes, figured out the order and link to the…blog.” He made a point of not mentioning ‘Term Limits’.”
Again, there was no comment. “Third,” he continued. “The issue of…our former colleague…”
“Yes?” Montgomery’s deep voice came over the phone.
“Well, we have concerns about…about our position.”
“What are those concerns? Do you have second thoughts about the way the issue was handled?” Montgomery’s voice was quiet, thoughtful, and somehow ominous.
“About the way it was handled, no.” PT’s courtroom voice and control were in full use now. “We completely agree with the necessity and manner. Our concerns lie in our own…” He paused allowing the emphasis and drama to build. What happened next was important to their plan, and it had to come from Montgomery and Greene. “…in our own position in the group.”
“Your own position?”
“Yes. Where we stand, with you. What is expected of us. What the rewards will be.”
“I see. You feel that you may be on shaky ground…as your colleague was?”
“We feel that we don’t know. That is our concern.” He paused again for effect. “We want to make sure that we are doing all that is required of us.” The implication that they did not want a visit from Rodney Puckett because of some failure on their part was clear. PT and Paschal knew that whatever else their collaborators were, they were men who understood the use of power and the respect it brought. Implying that they were fearful of the consequences of not pleasing Montgomery and Greene was intended to convey their respect of the power they wielded while subtly massaging the egos of the two senior members of the group.
“One moment.” The phone went dead as Montgomery and Greene muted it, discussing how to respond to the two in the office on the square.
What was said next would be critical. In order to remain above suspicion, the solution to their concerns had to come from the two on the other end of the muted phone. It had to be their idea. It could not come from Somerhill or Paschal.
When the phone was unmuted and the conversation continued, Greene spoke. “Perhaps it is time that we come for a visit, a strategy session, and address your concerns.” He could not see the look of relief on the faces of the two in the office. “We will meet you there tomorrow.”
The call ended abruptly. PT Somerhill and Edward Paschal sat quietly considering what they had done. Picking up the expensive fountain pen from the table, Paschal looked at Somerhill wondering what was going on behind the cold eyes that gazed out over the courthouse square.
Gary Poncinelli finished his leisurely stroll around the courthouse square and returned to his unmarked Ford parked along the curb on a side street that looked into and across the square to the building housing PT Somerhill’s law office. Taking a notepad from the car’s dashboard, he noted the tag number of the black Mercedes parked outside the Somerhill offices. The car had pulled in just minutes after Ponce had set up in his surveillance position. The well-dressed driver had gone into Somerhill’s office. That was forty-five minutes ago.
Taking the cell phone from his belt, he called Perry Boyd’s phone.
“Boyd.” The Captain was busy, no time for small talk.
“He’s got a visitor.”
“Really? Who?”
“Don’t recognize him. Male, black, driving a late model Mercedes. Been in there about forty-five minutes.”
“Tag?” Detective Poncinelli read the tag number to Boyd. “Standby, I’ll run a 10-28.”
He waited while the captain got online in Shaklee’s office and ran the tag’s registration. A minute later Boyd was back. “Things are getting interesting, Ponce.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Tag comes back to Edward Paschal. He and PT Somerhill made a visit to Judge Marswell a couple of weeks before the murder.”
“No shit. Paschal is a pretty high roller.”
“No shit. This is big, Gary. Stay put and let me know who else might come or leave the office. Seems that the Law Offices of Somerhill, and Son might be the center of events. Call me with anything.”
“Right.” Ponce pulled the car charger adapter out of the glove box and plugged his phone in to juice it up. He had a feeling that he was not done reporting in for the day.
70. The Coincidences Kept Piling Up
The GBI crime scene techs had arrived two hours after Ronnie Kupman had arrived at the scene. Much of the preliminary evidence gathering had been done by Sandy Davies and other deputies under the guidance of Andy Barnes, but there was still work to do.
When everything had been tagged and gathered, the final piece of evidence, the body of Martha Crandall, was removed. The attendants from Morton’s Funeral Parlor placed the remains in a black vinyl bag, lifted it onto a gurney, and rolled it out to the waiting hearse.
Ron Crandall watched, tears streaming down his face. One of his sons stood with him, arm around his father. The young man’s chin quivered, and his hand clenched and unclenched the shirt covering his father’s thin shoulder.
Ronnie watched them as the body rolled by on the gurney. He wanted to say something, struggled to find something to say. But there was nothing. They could find the bastards that killed Martha Crandall with a ball peen hammer. That was all they could do.
Leaving the Crandall home, Kupman drove to the airport looking for Rince. The wiry pilot was seated in a lawn chair under the Cessna’s wing reading a magazine. He stood as Ronnie walked out of the small office and across the tarmac.
“Chief Deputy,” Rince nodded in greeting. Seeing the look on Ronnie’s face he added, “Tough day, I guess.”
“Yeah, pretty tough,” Ronnie nodded in agreement. “Need you to do something.”
“What’s that?” Rince was all ears, his slight body almost giving off electric sparks at the thought of an assignment, something to do for the task force.
“Well, you’re assigned to the task force, right?”
“Yep.” Rince nodded enthusiastically.
“Would Shaklee have any problem with you doing a little scouting out to the southwest. I’d like to make sure Price and the Wright’s made it out to their cabin. No phone communication out there, and the county radio repeaters won’t carry there. From the plane, you could check on things and radio back.”
Rince smiled broadly. “Piece of cake. Pretty sure Shaklee won’t mind, but I’ll check to make sure.”
They walked into the office and got on the landline where Rince made the call to Bob, dialing the number from memory, a feat that impressed Ronnie. Rince spoke briefly to Shaklee, who was clearly busy, and then passed the phone to Kupman to finish the explanation.
“Sounds like a good plan, Ronnie,” Shaklee said. “You take charge of assignments for Rince, and if we need him, we’ll contact you. No reason to keep him sitting around the airport.”
“Good,” Ronnie said. “For now, I’ll have him scout around and keep an eye on Sharon and the Wrights from the air and act as a radio relay for communications. That’ll put my mind at ease some until we find out what’s going on.”
“Good enough. Stay in touch,” Shaklee said ending the conversation.
Kupman turned to Rince and nodded. Fifteen minutes later, the pilot was airborne and winging over the backcountry and swamps to the southwest.
Rince stayed low, flying at about a thous
and feet, scanning the route that Ronnie had drawn out for him, comparing it to the maps he had borrowed from the flight office in Everett. The landscape below was intermixed open sawgrass marshes and cypress and pine forests with the swamp’s black water visible between breaks in the green tree canopy.
It only took half an hour of flying time for him to find the area where the cabin was supposed to be located and another fifteen minutes of crisscrossing the area to spot the small clearing with the wood frame cabin in the center. A pickup and a white SUV were parked by the front door. Swooping low, Rince saw Sharon Price watching from a semi-concealed position at the side of the SUV. Her handgun was drawn.
Making a low pass at only four hundred feet, Rince dipped the wings of the Cessna back and forth in the standard waggle. Immediately recognizing the Cessna, Sharon stepped from the side of the SUV and waved at Rince as he passed over.
Rince made a sweeping turn to the northeast, gaining altitude as the plane arced up and away. He was having a good time, feeling useful. This was the most interesting assignment he had had since flying drug interdiction assignments for the state patrol ten years earlier.
Pointing the nose towards Everett, he pulled out the portable radio Kupman had given him and called Ronnie on the tactical command channel he had been told to use. Kupman answered immediately.
“Go ahead, Alpha two seven niner. What do you have, Rince?”
“Looks good. All clear. Saw our package. All in order.”
Ronnie gave a sigh of relief. The feeling that they were losing control of things weighed heavily. Martha Crandall should not have died. Her death had to be connected to the Wrights. Believing anything else was too much of a stretch. “Good. Stay in the area as long as fuel permits and keep an eye on things. Let me know if there is any unusual activity or movement in, around, or towards the cabin.”
“Roger, Pickham 2, Alpha two seven niner, out.”
On the ground, Sharon heard the plane circulating overhead. Certain that Rince had been sent by Kupman or Shaklee or both to keep an eye on things, the plane brought some sense of comfort and security. The Wrights were inside dealing with issues. Porter Wright had been surprised and not happy to see his family join him in, what he believed was, a dangerous situation.