4 The Marathon Murders

by Chester D. Campbell

  I had never been to this particular nursing home. We found it in a fashionable neighborhood of large post World War II houses built on sizeable lots with brawny oaks and maples and lawns as smooth as golf course greens. Though I couldn’t say if it was a conscious effort to stash away the ranks of the infirm, the facility lay hidden behind a woodsy façade. We would have missed it except for the modest Safe Harbor sign at the driveway entrance.

  A nurse wearing a colorful smock directed us down a tiled corridor infused with a pervasive antiseptic odor. We passed a huddled woman in a wheelchair, a few wisps of gray hair clinging to her bowed head. She talked to herself in low, unintelligible tones. It left me with a hollow feeling inside, a feeling I should do something to help her but without the vaguest idea of what I could do. It was similar to what I felt when encountering a homeless guy on the street. I usually gave them a buck and hoped it would be spent in some useful manner, if not a wise one.

  We found Arthur Liggett’s name beside the door to a room not a lot more spacious than a broom closet. It housed a bed, a lounge chair, and a three-drawer wooden chest. A few aluminum stack chairs had been squeezed in for our benefit.

  A large man with thinning white hair, Liggett had a full face and a silvery mustache in need of trimming. I suspected his granddaughter would get around to that shortly. Hooded eyes gave him a lethargic look. Small oxygen tubes fed into his nose, a circumstance that struck me as demeaning, though necessary. Neither age nor physical impairment had lessened his desire to maintain the formality of years in management, however. He wore a white shirt with red tie beneath the blue sweater donned to combat the robust air-conditioning system. My approach to retirement had taken the opposite tack. After a lifetime of being forced to dress up in coats and ties, I took pains to avoid them except when an absolute necessity, and never during a mid-August heat wave.

  After introductions, I shook Mr. Liggett’s large, gnarled hand and took a chair beside the battleship gray wall. “What in the world are you doing here, Mr. Liggett?” I asked. “You look like you’re ready to run a marathon.”

  He leaned his head against the lounge chair and gazed out through thick oval lenses, the bare hint of a smile tilting a corner of his mouth. “You can’t see the gruesome part . . . under this blanket covering my legs. I never did run too fast, though. Maybe it won’t matter.”

  He spoke in a low, breathy voice, the words coming slowly.

  “As long as I’ve known him, he’s never been a complainer,” Kelli said.

  I wondered about that “as long as I’ve known him” but let it pass.

  “You were a hospital administrator?” I asked.

  “Yes. You’d think I’d seen enough of this sort of environment, that I’d figure out how to avoid it in any way possible.”

  “How long were you in the hospital business?”

  He took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling, then back at me. “Practically all my life. I served in the Army Medical Corps during the war. Went to work in a hospital after my discharge. I only needed a year to finish college. They were generous enough to let me do that while I was working.”

  Kelli leaned forward. “He was manager of one of the city’s largest hospitals when he retired at seventy-plus.”

  “You’ve spent a long time in the trenches,” Jill said. “Time for you to get a rest.”

  “Hmph. Only rest I’m likely to get’s in the grave. Kelli says you’re detectives. I hope you can find out what’s going on.”

  “Tell us how this came about,” I said.

  “A few days ago I got a call.” He glanced at the phone on the bedside table. “Fellow said—what was his name?”

  “Pierce Bradley,” Kelli prompted.

  “Yes, Pierce Bradley called. Said he was a foreman with a contractor rehabbing the old Marathon Motors buildings on Clinton Street. It’s just beyond downtown, near the Inner Loop. I knew the place, of course. That’s where my grandfather worked years ago. Werthan Bag Company used the buildings in its operations for a while, but they’d been vacant a long time.”

  “Somebody new had bought them?” I asked.

  “Yes. A fellow making office space for photographers and artists and musicians. Don’t remember his name. Anyway, this—Bradley, was it?—said one of his workers had found a sheaf of papers behind some wood paneling. It was addressed to the Davidson County District Attorney General.”

  “The worker gave the papers to Bradley?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did Bradley show them to anybody else?”

  “I don’t think so. Said they were obviously quite old. The building had been vacant for years. Derelicts had trashed the place. Bradley said he started to throw the papers away but decided to take a look first. He’s not a financial type of fellow. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. But he talked to the building’s owner and learned of Marathon’s bankruptcy. He knew there had been a lot of controversy. Then he saw my grandfather’s name, that he was the assistant treasurer.”

  “How did Bradley connect it with you?” I asked.

  “I think he started with the Chamber of Commerce. They suggested he contact somebody else. After a few calls, he came up with my name.”

  “I imagine you’re pretty well known in the Nashville business community,” Jill said.

  He allowed a full smile for the first time. It had a touch of shyness to it. “You could probably say that.”

  I looked up from the notes I was jotting in my lap. “That part about the District Attorney sounds like your grandfather thought something criminal was involved. Did Mr. Bradley give you any clue as to what the records contained?”

  Liggett took another deep breath before replying. “I don’t think he really had any idea. He didn’t know anything about Sydney Liggett’s disappearance.”

  “Tell us about that.”

  Liggett shifted in his chair, a beefy hand smoothing his tie. “It’s one of those things you’d rather forget, but can’t. The first I knew about it was when I was in the first or second grade. This uppity boy got mad at me one day and said, ‘Your granddaddy was a thief.’ I thought he was just inventing an insult until I got home and told my mother. She sat me down and told me not to believe such things. My grandfather had been accused of taking money from the company, but the family was convinced he didn’t do it.”

  “That was a terrible way to learn about it,” Jill said.

  “It was. My mother told me Grandpa Liggett had disappeared. They found nothing but bones when they discovered his body several years later. The legal system ruled him guilty, but his wife and son, my dad, always believed in his innocence.” Albert Liggett rubbed his eyes. “I’d like to be able to prove that, and these papers sound like they just might do it.”

  Jill leaned over and whispered in my ear. “He’s getting tired.”

  I agreed. I stuck my little notebook in my pocket and stood. “We certainly enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Liggett. This little chat should help get us off to a good start. You take it easy now and get well. I’m sure we’ll see you again soon.”

  “Just find that fellow and get me those papers,” Liggett said, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.

  Kelli and Jarvis followed us into the corridor. “What do you think, Greg?” Jarvis asked.

  “I think we’d better go camp on Mr. Bradley’s doorstep. I hope he’s just gone fishing. It would certainly make things a lot simpler.”

  We had just returned to the car when my cell phone rang.

  “Hello,” I answered.

  “Who’s this?”

  I don’t take well to that sort of question on the telephone. “Who wants to know?”

  The voice was a young man’s, with a good ol’ boy twang. “Well, I found this here cell phone with a message on it to call you. I figured you’d know whose phone it was.”

  I checked the number on the caller ID. It looked familiar. I opened my note pad. “It belongs to Mr. Pierce Bradley. Where did you find it?”


  “On Carey Lane, just off Highway 25.”

  “What’s that near?”

  “Near?”

  I shook my head. “Is there a town somewhere around?”

  “Walnut Grove,” he said, “but it ain’t zackly what I’d call a town.”

  Chapter 3

  We hit busy Vietnam Veterans Parkway shortly after seven o’clock, by-passing the upscale suburban town of Hendersonville as the sun dropped behind us into a smorgasbord of clouds, shooting out rays that exploded into a kaleidoscope of color. I hoped the light show was a good omen, but I didn’t count on it after that phone call. Merging onto 31E, we passed the mushrooming, high-ticket subdivisions of neighboring Sumner County, turned onto Highway 25 and cruised through the less hectic historic center of Gallatin. It was hardly fifteen miles across rolling farmland to the rural community of Walnut Grove.

  On the way Jill checked with a phone company source and learned that Pierce Bradley lived on Carey Lane, where the cell phone had been found, just inside Trousdale County.

  The multi-hued sunset was fading to black by the time we pulled into a convenience store/service station at a four-way stop where two main highways crossed. Bright lights welcomed us to the small oasis in a darkening world of cow pastures and cornfields. The farmhand who found Bradley’s cell phone said he would leave it at the market.

  I parked beside two vintage cars and a pair of dusty pickups. We walked inside to find two young boys ogling a candy display like a couple of small barn owls eyeing a pack of field mice. Nearby, two bearded guys chatted with a lanky younger man who stood behind a counter laden with overpriced knick-knacks. A youthful customer with a crew cut and baggy jeans that appeared in danger of sliding off his backside strolled up and plunked a six pack beside the cash register.

  The clerk cast a curious gaze at Jill and me. I speculated that he was gauging the possibility of our being clandestine inspectors from the Beer Board. He turned to the boy and said, “You sure you’re old enough to buy that beer?”

  The boy frowned and pulled a card from his pocket. “This says I’m twenty-one.”

  The clerk looked at the card and grinned. “You make this one yourself or buy it somewhere?”

  The boy grabbed the pack and stomped toward the beer display. “To hell with you! Damned if I’ll trade here anymore.”

  “Watch your language, sonny. There’s a lady in the store.” The clerk gave a tentative shake of his bushy head and turned to us. “What can I get for you?”

  “Am I old enough for a six pack?”

  “I’d have to check your ID.”

  I grinned. “I’m Greg McKenzie. A fellow was supposed to leave a cell phone here for me.”

  He reached under the counter and pulled out a small flip-top phone. Instead of handing it over, though, he gripped it in his hand. “The guy said this belongs to Pierce Bradley. What’s your interest in it?”

  “I’m headed for Pierce’s. I intend to give it to him.”

  “Where’re you from?”

  “Nashville.” I took out a business card and handed it to him. “He has some information for us. I know he lives on Carey Lane, but I’m not sure exactly where his house is. Could you help us out?”

  “How come he didn’t tell you?”

  I’m a pro at bluffing my way around. I gave him a disarming smile. “We called his home but he doesn’t answer. On a night like this, he’s probably outside in the hammock.”

  One of the bearded men laughed. He had the look of a life spent outdoors—gray hair, tanned, muscular arms, a weathered face. I could picture him out in the field astride a chugging John Deere.

  “Pierce ain’t got no hammock,” he said. “Anyways, the skeeters would eat him alive laying out there tonight. More’n likely he’s somewhere with his coon dog.”

  “Is that Reba’s boy?” asked the other man. He was slightly stooped, with a corncob pipe sticking out of his blue work shirt pocket.

  “Yeah. Don’t live too far from my place.” He nodded to his friend, then turned back to me. “Carey’s the next road toward Hartsville. Take a right. Go down about a mile, maybe a little more, till you see a fancy brick entrance gate on the left. A school bus’ll be parked in the driveway of the next house. The one after that is Pierce Bradley’s. It’s a nice looking double-wide.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I held out my hand to the clerk, who grudgingly parted with the cell phone.

  Jill and I got back into my black Jeep Grand Cherokee and headed for Carey Lane.

  “How did that man happen to find Bradley’s phone?” Jill asked.

  I’d neglected to tell her. “He pulled up to a stop sign at Carey Lane and noticed a buzzard pecking at something by the side of the road. When the sun reflected off a shiny object, he took a closer look and saw it was a cell phone.”

  “How do you think it got there?”

  “Excellent question, babe. I don’t have the slightest idea, and I can’t think of a logical explanation for how it could have happened.”

  “Makes me wonder if he’s all right.”

  The headlights caught Bradley’s name on a mailbox right where the old farmer said we would find it. I turned into the driveway past the one with the school bus and pulled up to the house. Clouds had obscured the moon, leaving no clear view of the place. As best we could see, he had a well-kept yard and a few blooming plants around the front steps. There were no lights visible inside and no sign of the vintage Jeep.

  The coon dog barked from his pen in back. Otherwise, the place appeared deserted. I rang the doorbell to make sure.

  “Looks like we scored a zero,” Jill said.

  I had spent nights on stakeouts in places a lot more lonely and deserted than this, but it had been a long time since one left me with the uneasiness I felt here.

  Jill locked her arm in mine as we paused on the small stoop, then turned back toward the driveway. As if to remind us we had invaded alien territory, a sudden gust assaulted us with a disgusting whiff of manure from a nearby pasture. Cicadas buzzed and tree frogs serenaded us with their rattling croaks. The sounds magnified the eerie mood that pervaded this forlorn place and the moonless night that closed in like the walls of a cave. Jill obviously sensed something, too. She shuddered against my arm.

  “I have a bad feeling about this, Greg.”

  I tugged her toward the car, unwilling to voice my own sentiments. “Not much we can do around here in the dark. Let’s call it a night and see what we can turn up tomorrow in the daylight.”

  Chapter 4

  We heard the phone ringing as we entered McKenzie Investigations Wednesday morning at eight, refreshed by our two-mile walk before the sun rose high enough to bake us like a couple of breakfast croissants. Jill skittered across to her desk and answered it.

  “Good morning, Kelli,” she said, motioning for me to pick up my extension.

  “Did you find Mr. Bradley?” Kelli asked.

  “I’m sorry, we didn’t,” Jill said. “Greg is on the line with us. We found Bradley’s place out in the country, but his coon dog was the only one at home.”

  “Damn,” she said softly. “Where do you suppose he is?”

  “Considering the circumstances,” I said, “I’m not too sure we’re going to find him.”

  “Why would he run?”

  I glanced at Jill with my try-again look. “I don’t know if he’s done a disappearing act, but it looks like he could be in trouble.” I hesitated, then put it out there. “Somebody else may be after him besides us.”

  There was disbelief in her voice. “Over a ninety-year-old murder?”

  “I’m talking about the papers.” I told her about Bradley’s cell phone being found in Trousdale County. “There could always be some other explanation, but maybe somebody else wants those papers as much as your grandfather.”

  “Who else would even know about it?” Kelli asked.

  She hit on a question that was already bugging me. “That’s something I intend to find out. You
r grandfather said he thought Bradley began making inquiries at the Chamber of Commerce. That sounds like a good place to start. Has he said anything else about what might be the significance of those papers?”

  “Just that they might show how Sydney Liggett was framed. Grandpa’s father was only about fifteen when the murder took place, if that’s what it was. They found Sydney’s remains in his car in an abandoned barn a year before Grandpa was born. And since all the bad publicity was so painful, it was rarely mentioned as he grew older. He told me his father would never say a word about it.”

  “That probably means there aren’t any old family records around that might enlighten us,” Jill said.

  Kelli sighed. “I doubt it. But while Warren is down at Arnold today, I plan to dig around the house here and see if I might turn up anything.”

  “We plan to look into a couple of things here,” I said. “Then we’ll head back to Trousdale County and see how the situation looks in the daylight. Good luck on your digging foray around there. Check with you later.”

  Jill switched on the computer to download our email, and I glanced at my calendar. We had a few minor tasks in the works but nothing pressing. I took out Pierce Bradley’s cell phone and checked the numbers in his contact list. He either had a new phone or few close acquaintances. I recognized the number for Allied Construction. Marathon was listed and someone named Pat. That was about it.

  I turned to Jill. “Find anything interesting in the mailbox?”

  “Somebody wants to refinance our non-existent loans, several people propose to sell us a bunch of pills we don’t need, and there’s the usual suggestion of how to enlarge your manhood. Since I have no complaints in that department, I guess we can delete it, too.”

  “Thanks for that vote of confidence,” I said with a Groucho Marx flutter of my brows.

  “You mentioned the Chamber of Commerce to Kelli. Shall we head downtown?”