The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  “I know that. My daughter-in-law called and then I saw it on the news. Tell me what he is accused of.”

  “At this point, your son, along with Edward Pascal, Charles Montgomery and Clarence Greene, is accused of conspiracy to commit murder. There may be other charges brought.” Boyd shrugged. “In truth, there will almost certainly be other charges. You will want to see about retaining counsel for your son."

  Looking from Boyd to Barnes and back, her eyes filled with tears. “He took my husband away, the love of my life. The man, who played ball with his only son in the yard, went to all of his football games, paid for his education, took him into his law practice, loved him more than his own life. He helped kill his own father.” She paused and looked down at her hands folded in her lap as her tears fell softly onto her hands. “He can find his own attorney. I won’t be part of it.”

  “You will want to hear his side before you make that kind of determination, Mrs. Somerhill,” Boyd said. He wanted to find a way to soften the blow for the woman, but could think of nothing to say.

  Lauralee looked up. “I did, at least I tried. I went to see him before I came here.” She stared past Boyd’s shoulder as she spoke. The gray Atlanta morning outside the window seemed to suck the life out of her words. “He did it. He said nothing, wouldn’t speak to me, but he did it. I saw it in his eyes. They were dead, cold, empty.” Sobbing, she lowered her head again. “We loved him so much. We loved him…” Her words trailed off taking her broken heart with them.

  *****

  Two hours later, Barnes and Boyd sat in the den in the Marswell home. Detective Sandra Deets sat on the sofa beside May Marswell. The ordeal of the past week had brought them close together. While Andy had worked with the task force, Deets had continued the local investigation, working with the family and going through the judge’s files and records searching for some clue to his death.

  Listening in disbelief as Andy and Perry Boyd explained to them the conspiracy behind Clayton Marswell’s death, May Marswell took Deets’ hand in her own and held it tightly.

  “And the killers?” Mrs. Marswell asked.

  “We have two in custody. One is down in Pickham County. They have charges on him there. He’ll be brought back here for trial, eventually, for the murder of your husband. The other is being held at the state prison in Jackson. He also killed a man in Savannah.”

  “Savannah? Why Savannah?”

  “This was a broad conspiracy. There were a number of targets.” Boyd shook his head, trying to find a way to explain the conspiracy to a woman who had stood by her husband’s side as he fought for the rights of the Terrell Perkinses of the world.

  “Targets?” Mrs. Marswell’s eyes looked into his, troubled by the word.

  “Sorry,” Boyd said. Caught up in the investigation, focused on the hunt, it was human nature to depersonalize the victims. Calling them targets made it easier to push emotion aside and stare at the facts. But now, the hunt was over. Using a different word, he continued, “Persons, is what I meant to say, should have said. A number of people were to be killed as part of the conspiracy.” He paused before adding, “A number of people were killed.”

  “Who was killed in Savannah?” Her voice held a deeper question than wanting to know the name of the man Terrell Perkins had shot. She sought, needed, to understand the connection between that person and her husband. How could their lives have taken their course through the world, unknown to each other until they were brought together in this terrible way?

  “His name was Rubin Martz. He owned a jewelry store in Savannah.”

  “He knew Clayton?”

  “Not that we know of. They seemed only to have been connected through the ‘Term Limits’ blog.”

  “And that is why they were killed? Because Clayton and Senator Somerhill and Mr. Martz wanted to vote people out of office?” Sadness fell from the words.

  Spoken that way it seemed trivial. There had to be more. It was insufficient as an explanation, but there was nothing else to say. Sadness radiated from May Marswell, filling the room like a cloud that soaked in the light. Darkness seemed to close in around the old woman on the sofa. The incomprehensible loss of her companion seemed more than she could bear.

  “It all seems so pointless. Why would they do that to Clayton?”

  “A lot of reasons, I guess.” Perry Boyd sought the words to explain, knowing they would be insufficient in themselves. “Things would have changed, will change, in the election. That change is going to cost the losers a lot. Power, money, influence. There are many types of greed.” It was the best explanation he could come up with, but it was not enough.

  Holding tightly to May Marswell’s hand, Sandra Deets’ head shook slowly for several seconds until she looked up.

  “Not pointless. Judge Marswell died for something he believed in.”

  Mrs. Marswell nodded. The small group sat quietly in the Marswell den trying to make sense of it all. Good people died for things they believed in. Bad people would kill for things they wanted. It had always been that way. May Marswell supposed it always would be that way.

  *****

  Three Days Later

  “Present…ARMS!”

  The Georgia State Patrol Honor Guard commander’s voice barked the order crisply as the echoes of the third volley of the farewell to a fallen hero faded away in the trees. Gloved hands moved in crisp unison so that all seven rifles were held in salute to the family of Ronnie Kupman. A bugler from the Everett American Legion post, retired from the Marine Corps, played taps from a nearby rise in the cemetery’s lawn. The notes wavered across the green landscape until nothing else was heard. Even the birds seemed silent as the final note faded away. A slow, final hand salute was given.

  Law enforcement agencies from around the state were represented. Ronnie Kupman’s career of more than three decades had touched and influenced many. The Atlanta Police Department was represented by Andy Barnes, Perry Boyd, Fred Hurst and Gary Poncinelli, all in dress uniforms. Johnny Rincefield stood beside Barnes, dressed in a navy blue suit. Their arms returned slowly to their sides as the formal salute ended, and the command was given to the honor guard to order arms.

  Under Sandy Davies’ command, the flag draping the coffin was folded into a tight perfect triangle with only the blue field of stars showing. He presented it to Teresa Kupman with the customary words of gratitude and appreciation for her loss.

  Flanked by her son Paul and George Mackey, Teresa was serene, having cried her tears. She was determined that this day would be about Ronnie, not her grief. Seated beside Teresa, George could only stare vacantly at the coffin holding the body of his friend. So much had changed. So much had been lost. The pointless emptiness of it all seemed overwhelming. Once again, he had been late and terrible things had happened.

  Flag resting in her lap, Teresa reached over and placed a hand on George’s. He looked down at her hand resting on his and realized that she was offering her comfort to him. Guilt welled up inside, and he brushed away the tear that started down his cheek.

  The ceremony ended. The last words were spoken by Pastor Delbert. Family and friends moved away from the gravesite. When all was quiet and the last mourners had paid their respects, the groundskeepers would activate the lift and lower Ronnie Kupman’s coffin into the grave. The green artificial turf carpet would be removed from the adjacent mound of dirt, and the grave would be filled. Ronnie Kupman would be gone, his memory only remaining to bring comfort, or to haunt, those left behind.

  George walked Teresa to the car driven by her brother, gave her a hug, and opened the door for her. She paused, looking deeply into his troubled eyes.

  “It is not your fault, George.”

  He made no reply other than the tear falling silently across his face.

  “Ronnie would not want you to feel this, to blame yourself. You did what you could. Ronnie did what he had to.” She smiled sadly, stood on her toes, and gave George a quick kiss on the cheek. “Now, pull yourself tog
ether and get back to work, Deputy Mackey.”

  A final smile, pat on the arm, and Teresa Kupman was gone. Watching the car drive her away, the finality of the loss of Ronnie Kupman weighed down even more heavily on his already strained conscience.

  Walking between the rows of headstones and family markers, George made his way to the drive where his pickup was parked. A small group had gathered there, waiting for him.

  He took Andy Barnes’ hand in his but had no words for the feelings running so dangerously close to the surface. He could only look into Barnes’ eyes. Andy gave a nod in reply, understanding.

  Turning to Johnny Rincefield and the others, George shook their hands and accepted their words of friendship and condolences. Coming to Porter Wright, he saw the overwhelming sadness in the man’s eyes and knew that some of the guilt he felt was shared by Wright.

  George pulled the pickup’s door open. He wanted to leave the cemetery, the pain, and the ghost of Ronnie Kupman behind.

  “George, before you go, we’d like to have a word with you.” Porter Wright’s voice was soft. He looked around the small group, the faces nodding at him supportively. “It’s important, George,” he said more firmly. “If you will just give us a minute.”

  “What is it, Porter?” Melancholy and fatigue fell from George’s words.

  “We wouldn’t trouble you, George,” Wright continued, his normally strong broadcaster’s voice, subdued. “We couldn’t trouble you, but there isn’t much time, only another week or so.”

  “What is it, Porter? A week or so for what?” George was tired and more ready than ever to leave. He had someplace to be.

  “For filing, George. The elections are in November. Candidates running for office must file by next week.”

  “What has that got to do with me?”

  “We want you to run, George.”

  “Run?”

  “Run.” Wright looked around the group that had gathered, and the heads nodded once more. “Run, George, run for sheriff. We want to put you up against Klineman.”

  At the understanding of Wright’s words, George’s shoulders sagged perceptibly. Instead of receiving the news as an honor, it seemed to be just one more burden for his troubled conscience to deal with. His head shook slowly as he looked at the faces gathered around.

  “I’m not qualified to run for sheriff, Porter. I’m just a deputy. It’s all I know how to do. Even if I could win, I would not make a very good sheriff.”

  “We think you would, George.” Wright’s voice was stronger as he made his case. “You are the right person, George. The county needs you. Whatever you don’t know administratively, we can help you. The county needs a leader, a professional. That’s you. We were going to propose Ronnie Kupman. Now that he’s gone, George, it has to be you.”

  Again, he shook his head, seeing the surrounding eyes bore into him expectantly. “Not me, Porter. I am grateful.” He looked around the circle of supporters. He knew that being part of that group would not win them any points with Sheriff Klineman. In fact, some of their days as deputies in Pickham County might well be numbered if the sheriff discovered their support for another candidate, civil service protections be damned. He knew Klineman, and if Klineman wanted somebody gone, he would find a way to get rid of that somebody. They had taken a risk to stand there in the cemetery while Porter Wright made his proposal to George. George owed them an explanation.

  “I honestly appreciate what you are saying, Porter.” He looked around the group. “All of you.” He wondered what he could say to explain. Finally, it came to him. “Look, I’m not being humble. I just know that I am not qualified. You ask me to be a deputy, and I say, yes. I’ll be a damn good deputy, or at least try to be. You ask me to go through a door in the middle of the night with you, I’ll be there. You need me to watch your back, I’ve got it. I know what I’m good at…and I know what I’m not good at. I would not make a good, sheriff.”

  “George…” Wright went no further. George cut him off with a sharp shake of his head before continuing his explanation.

  “If you are still not convinced, there’s another reason.” The faces surrounding him leaned in expectantly. “Ronnie Kupman was my friend. Ronnie Kupman would not have wanted me to run for sheriff.” The group was quiet, considering his words and thinking about the man they had lost so recently. “No, Ronnie would not have wanted me to run for sheriff. You know it, and I know it. He was a good enough friend to let me know my limitations. He was right. I will not run for sheriff, boys.”

  The group stood quietly, considering his words, each knowing in their hearts that George was right. Ronnie would not have simply supported his friend in a run for sheriff. He would have worked for the most qualified candidate. George knew who that was. It was time to let them know.

  “We talked about it a few times, over beer, me mostly bitching about Klineman, talking about how we needed change. Ronnie agreeing and making sure I knew that change didn’t mean me as sheriff. But there was someone he thought could do the job.” George turned, scanning the faces. “You,” he said, looking Sandy Davies in the eye. “You’re the one Ronnie would have supported for sheriff. I’ll support you.”

  “No…” The shock was evident in Sandy’s eyes. “No, George. I’m even less qualified than you think you are, George. I’m too young. Don’t have the experience.”

  “It’s you, Sandy.” George nodded as if to end the argument.

  Sandy was not convinced. “No, George, I can’t…”

  “He’s right,” Porter Wright said slowly, his face thoughtful. Yes, Sandy was young, but not all that young. In his late thirties, he would not be the youngest sheriff ever elected. Wright knew that the sheriff that had hired Ronnie Kupman had been in his thirties when first elected. He had served four terms, promoting Kupman to chief deputy along the way. Sandy was articulate, had a degree in police science from UGA, military experience, twelve years with the department, and was generally well liked for his good-natured handling of the most difficult situations. “George is right,” Porter continued. “It makes sense, and I can see how Ronnie would have supported him for sheriff.”

  Davies was quiet. This was a turn of events he had not expected. Looking around the circle, he saw the smiles on the faces that had only moments ago been willing to throw everything behind George Mackey for sheriff. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, how to run…I just don’t know.”

  “Well, I do,” Wright said with a smile. “We will get the candidacy papers filed tomorrow. I can promise you the full editorial support of the Everett Gazette and radio station. That may not mean much in Savannah or Atlanta,” Wright put his hand on Sandy’s shoulder, “But in Pickham County, that goes a long ways. By the time the truth of the ‘Term Limits’ conspiracy gets out, a lot of questions are going to be asked about why the GBI did not trust our sheriff enough to include him in the task force investigation.”

  “It’s you,” George said, taking Sandy’s hand and shaking it warmly. “You are the one Ronnie wanted. This is how we honor his memory…his legacy.”

  The group moved away. Porter Wright began organizing things with Sandy while others offered assistance or congratulated Sandy. Sandy looked over his shoulder at George, concerned and confused. George simply nodded, as if to say once more, “It’s you.”

  “You’re a good man, Deputy George Mackey.” Andy Barnes and Johnny Rincefield had watched the exchange with interest.

  George shrugged. “I’m not so sure about me, but I do know a good man when I see one, Detective Andy Barnes.” The two had been through more together in one day than many friends would experience in a lifetime. “You be safe, Detective.”

  Turning, George got into the pickup. He had some place to be.

  *****

  Sheriff Richard Klineman had sat quietly and without comment in the dignitaries’ seats, two rows behind the family and friends of Ronnie Kupman. Teresa had treated him courteously and with respect as the elected sheriff of Pickham County
, but true to her word, he had been given no opportunity to speak. As she had wanted, the funeral had been a moment to honor a fallen hero, her husband, Ronnie Kupman.

  Sitting alone in his county SUV after the funeral, the sheriff had watched the group gathered around George Mackey’s pickup. With interest, he watched the dynamics of the group change as George spoke to them. He noted that after Mackey’s words, Sandy Davies became the center of attention. He would have given anything to hear the entire exchange.

  He would have to learn of it later from the one member of the group that would report back to him. It was not the same as hearing it himself, but it would have to do. Klineman’s contacts and sources of information were few these days. He began considering ways to protect, reward and encourage this particular contact. He could not afford to lose his services now. There was an election coming.

  *****

  The big man sat over her, dozing in his chair. Having come directly from the funeral, George was still dressed in his uniform.

  With what little strength she possessed, Sharon turned her hand and squeezed the fingers of George’s hand covering her own. It was feeble, but it was enough. His eyes opened. Relief, mingled with concern, evident on his furrowed brow.

  “Where you been, Mackey?” Her whisper was weak, barely audible.

  “Just away. Only for a day.” He would tell her about the funeral later when she was stronger.

  “Ronnie.” She said the name simply, knowing where George had gone. “He saved my life…twice.” Using what little energy she could gather she squeezed his hand as firmly as she could. “Don’t do that.” He faintly felt her fingers squeeze his just a bit harder.

  “What?”

  “Don’t go away again. I missed you, Mackey.”

  George nodded, unashamed of the tears that fell freely from his eyes. “I missed you too.”

  End

  Black Water Murder