While Jill chatted with Lady Camilla, I got on the other line and called Wes Knight at the newspaper. Happily, I got his voice mail.
“Hi, Wes,” I said. “This is Greg McKenzie. Got your message about Kelli Kane. Also saw the story this morning. Too bad about Sharkey, though it’s no great loss to the profession. I’d heard Miss Kane was in town and wondered who she was. Sorry I don’t have any more info. See you around.”
What I meant was I didn’t have any more info for him. I hoped that would hold him off for a while. I had just gotten on my computer when Jill hung up and walked over.
“That was Camilla Rottman. You were right. She’s raising money for the Schermerhorn Symphony Center and wants to drop by. I told her we were awfully busy, but we’d give her a few minutes. I’ve been thinking about making a donation in memory of my mother.”
“Sounds fine to me.” I rarely argued money with the treasurer. “When’s she coming?”
“In about half an hour. I told her we had to be at a meeting at eleven.”
I puzzled over the possibilities for finding some other place to be in half an hour but hadn’t come up with any acceptable ideas when Mrs. Rottman arrived. She walked in looking regal, attired in a stylish pink suit with matching high heels and purse. The sultry August morning hadn’t left the slightest blemish on her attractive, tanned face. A small woman with silky blonde hair, she had the look of many hours spent on the golf course or tennis courts. The gold earrings that showed when she swept her hair back could have been carved out of a bullion bar.
She grasped my hand and squeezed it warmly. “Mr. McKenzie, how nice to meet you.”
Up close, faint crinkles around the pale blue eyes told me she was somewhat older than I had first thought, though all that makeup made it difficult to tell just how much.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Rottman.” I finally managed to retrieve my hand and turned to my partner. “This is my wife, Jill.”
Jill shook her hand and showed an equally sweet smile, though I had doubts of its total sincerity. She didn’t care for people “who put on airs,” as she called it.
Mrs. Rottman took a seat and looked around at the office, which I’ll admit provided little to impress anyone. “If you don’t mind my asking, what do private investigators investigate?”
“We do work for attorneys, insurance companies, private individuals,” I said. “We’re called on to find people who’ve disappeared, track down heirs, do basic background investigations.”
“I read something in the newspaper about the murder of a private investigator. Is that something you’d get involved in?”
“That’s a job for the police, Mrs. Rottman,” Jill said. “If we encounter something involving a crime like that, we promptly turn it over to law enforcement officers. As a matter of fact, that’s what we’ll be doing in a little while when we leave here.”
Our visitor looked around, eyes widened. “That sounds exciting.”
I smiled. “Exciting is not a term we normally use. Most of what we do you’d probably call boring.”
“You’re just being modest.”
“I haven’t been accused of that lately,” I said.
“But I’ve seen detectives on TV—”
“Welcome to the real world, Mrs. Rottman. Being an investigator involves a lot of routine leg work, asking questions, digging around with the computer.”
Jill had reached her limit with the small talk. “I’m interested in donating to the symphony hall in memory of my mother. Tell me a little about how the gifts are handled.”
Mrs. Rottman spread out a copy of the plans and talked about different areas of the project, what was available for memorial contributions. When she had finished her presentation, Jill surprised her— and me—with the announcement that McKenzie Investigations would pledge $25,000 toward the new symphony hall.
After a quick elevation of her eyebrows, Mrs. Rottman resumed her carefully controlled demeanor. “That is very generous of you, Mrs. McKenzie. On behalf of the symphony, I want to thank both of you for this gift. I would like to invite you to a small party my husband and I are hosting tomorrow evening for new contributors. I hope we can count on you to join us.”
Jill glanced at me. I wasn’t one for schmoozing with the upper crust, but she deserved recognition for her civic-mindedness. “Unless something unforeseen crops up with the case we’re working on, I see no reason why we can’t make it,” I said.
Mrs. Rottman smiled broadly. “Excellent. We look forward to seeing you.”
After showing her to the door, I walked back to Jill’s desk. “That was a very generous thing for you to do, babe. I’m proud of you.”
She gave me a muted smile. “If you’d known my mother, how much she loved the symphony, you’d realize this was just a small token of what she would have done.”
Jill was only fifteen when her mother died. It was a traumatic time in her life. After that, her father became overly protective, which was the main reason he and I had never been too chummy. She showed her independence by defying him until he gave in and accepted our intent to marry. I had long ago learned, particularly when she got into the air charter business, that she would let nothing stand in the way of achieving whatever goals she set for herself.
I also knew she wanted to get to the bottom of this Marathon Motors case every bit as much as I did. She put the focus back on it when she asked, “Isn’t it about time we headed on over to the TBI Headquarters?”
Chapter 15
Housed in a modern brick building only a few years old, the TBI Headquarters occupied a secluded spot in the Inglewood suburb. Though it could be seen from Ellington Parkway, a major route between downtown Nashville and Madison on the northeastern edge of the county, Tennessee’s version of the FBI required a circuitous approach. Jill and I drove past the Tennessee Highway Patrol station, curved around a hill and turned into the large parking lot beyond an unmanned gate.
Three stylized antennas stood in line, reaching skyward like church spires, as if to lead visitors toward the front entrance. The building had three-story wings on either side, with an atrium in the center. We walked past the glass-walled entrance and stopped at a large window fronted by a counter. A uniformed officer sat at a computer behind it.
I spoke through the small opening above a curved slot in the counter. “Greg and Jill McKenzie to see Agent Wayne Fought.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Yes.”
“Could I see your identification, please?”
I dropped our PI licenses into the slot.
“Answer the phone on the counter when it rings,” he said.
We retrieved our licenses, scooped up the visitor badges and moved over to the phone to wait.
“Do you suppose he’s tied up in a meeting?” Jill asked after a few minutes.
“I imagine he’s checking with the lab boys on the evidence they brought in yesterday.”
When the phone finally rang, I answered it.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Agent Fought said. “I’ll be right down.”
A couple of minutes later, he appeared in the corridor beyond a bullet-proof glass wall to the right of the officer’s station. He opened the door and beckoned to us.
“Come on in. Do you have any weapons?”
We both shook our heads. “I never carry unless I’m expecting trouble,” I said with a hint of a smile. “This looks like a pretty secure place.”
“You said you’d been here before. You know the drill.”
I did. All the employees wore badges hung around their necks. Every office had a small box beside the door with a series of lights. Flashing the badge in front of the box triggered the door to unlock, if the badge permitted entry to that area.
Fought turned to Jill as we entered. “Would you prefer to take the elevator or the stairs?”
“We’ll walk,” she said. “Greg needs the exercise.”
That brought a grin as he directed us to the open metal sta
irway, which took us to the second floor. Here the center atrium was open to the curved roof. Banquet type tables lined the area, which was used for large meetings or social functions. He led us to a door on the left that led into the Criminal Intelligence Division, which included special agents like Fought who investigated political crimes and assisted local law enforcement agencies.
After walking down a gray-walled corridor carpeted in blue, we entered a room with a large conference table. The agent ushered us to chairs at one end and set a recorder in front of us. He explained that he would normally take separate statements, but since we were professional investigators and had been together the whole time in question, it would be simpler and just as effective to let us collaborate. He went through the usual routine of giving the date, time, location, who was present.
He began with a general statement, then asked, “How did you become involved in a search for Pierce Bradley?”
We described the Marathon Motors papers and how Bradley had contacted Arthur Liggett, promising to bring them to him at the nursing home. When I came to the part about the cell phone found on Carey Lane, Fought leaned forward.
“Do you still have it?”
I reached in my pocket, pulled the phone out and laid it on the table in front of him. “It was handled by several people before I got it,” I said, playing down any forensic value. “My theory is that he may have been conscious enough to throw it out when they were driving him away from his house. He hoped somebody would find it and start looking for him.”
That’s what happened, though it did him little good since he was already submerged in the lake at that point.
Fought put the recorder on pause. “I’ll ask the medical examiner if that’s possible. We wondered about the empty cell phone scabbard hooked to his belt.”
“Have you gotten a report on the cause of death?” Jill asked.
“Only a preliminary one. Blunt object trauma could be the cause, although they’re looking into the possibility of drowning.” He took the recorder off pause. “What happened when you went to Bradley’s house looking for him?”
I described our fruitless visit on Tuesday night, then told him about my call to Bradley’s sister Wednesday morning and our return to Walnut Grove that afternoon. After repeating the information I had given him verbally beside the lake, I followed up with our questioning of Bradley’s neighbor, Jackie Varner.
“When was this?” he asked, brow furrowed.
“While we were killing time yesterday, waiting on your crime scene investigators.”
“And she thought the visitors drove a small sports car with a rakish sweep to the front end?”
“That’s right. I can’t say how reliable that observation was, but at least it’s a place to start.”
He paused a moment before saying, “Is that your complete statement?”
I looked around at Jill, who nodded. “Yes,” I said.
He switched off the recorder and leaned back in his chair. “Thanks for coming in. I’ll let you know if we need anything else from you.”
“There’s one other point I didn’t want to mention on the tape, because it’s pure speculation at the moment,” I said. “Our client was tailed yesterday by a man we think had an interest in the missing papers in Bradley’s possession. That adds to our belief that this murder may have had something to do with our case.”
“Mr. McKenzie, I spoke at length with Sheriff Driscoll yesterday about Pierce Bradley’s background. We have several areas of interest to look into.”
I didn’t like the dismissive way he moved his hands. “The sheriff gave us similar information,” I said, “specifically Mrs. Cook and two men he’d had altercations with.”
“Yes, and the circumstances of the crime—nighttime, a secluded location likely known only to someone familiar with the area—tell me the person we’re looking for is a local.”
I couldn’t argue that point, but the circumstances also indicated an accomplice had been involved. An accomplice who could be local, or from anywhere.
“Have you had a chance to question any of them yet?”
Fought eyed me like a biology teacher contemplating a frog. “I’m not sure how far I should go with you, McKenzie.” With the formalities over, he had dropped the “Mr.” tag.
“We’re quite willing to share anything we have,” I said, leaving off the implicit question of why can’t you do the same?
“Sheriff Driscoll filled me in on your background. I know several guys at Metro. I talked to the lead investigator in that Fed Chairman murder case. He gave you a glowing recommendation, said I could trust you.”
He referred to Phil Adamson. After our talk yesterday afternoon, I hadn’t been so sure he would still feel that way.
“On the other hand,” Fought continued, “another source said you were really bad news. I should avoid you like a night shift on New Year’s Eve.”
“You must have talked to Detective Tremaine or one of his buddies. I made some remarks about him a couple of years ago I shouldn’t have. They were made in private but showed up on page one of the morning newspaper. It was a miscommunication that got blown all out of proportion.”
“Tell you what. You bring me some solid evidence tying Bradley’s murder to your Marathon auto case, I’ll put our full resources on the trail of your missing papers.”
“Fair enough,” I said, though at the moment it sounded like an invitation to climb Mount Everest and bring back a snowball. “You haven’t told us who you’ve talked to so far.”
He gave a sigh of resignation. “I went with Sheriff Driscoll to Patricia Cook’s house last night to inform her of her brother’s death. She appeared genuinely shocked, broke into tears. I agreed I’d try to hold off any further questions until after the funeral.”
“When will that be?” Jill asked.
“Not until the ME turns the body loose.”
I leaned an elbow on the table and thought about the murder scene. “Have you come up with anything from the Jeep?”
He considered that for a moment, then made a decision in our favor. “They’re working on it now in Forensics. Come on. We’ll go down and take a look.”
The right side of the building housed TBI’s extensive crime lab. We walked down to the ground floor where three vehicle bays equipped with suction devices provided the techs with a place to thoroughly examine anything on wheels. A tractor-trailer cab sat in the largest bay. We found two guys going over Bradley’s Jeep with their version of a fine-toothed comb. Evidence bags sat around for placing trace evidence they collected.
“What have you got, Larry?” Fought asked a burly man with a large black mustache.
“Not a lot that will likely do us any good. Two days underwater doesn’t leave much to go on. Any exposed fingerprints are gone. We found a few papers in what passes for a glove box that weren’t soaked through. Apparently these old military vehicles weren’t equipped with glove boxes, but somebody had fashioned one that closed pretty tightly. We’ll send them up to the fingerprint folks.”
“The water probably washed away any fibers, too,” Fought said.
“There’s plenty of mud and silt. And a couple of small items that were wedged in beside the seat. A matchbook, for one. Also, we found a piece of stainless steel tubing on the floor behind the front seat. I’ll send it upstairs to see what they can make of it.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll check back later.”
Agent Fought escorted us back to the main entrance. On the way, I asked about the two Trousdale County men who had been involved in fights with Pierce Bradley.
“They’re on my list to question. The sheriff provided names and addresses.”
He didn’t volunteer anything further, and I didn’t ask. I knew I could get it from the sheriff.
I shook his hand as we reached the front door. “I hope you turn up something soon. We’ll get back to you the minute we track down any kind of link.”
He smiled and nodded to Jill. “Nice meeting both
of you.”
Out in the parking lot, she looked around, shading her eyes from the sun. “He seemed like a nice enough man, after he finally came around. Don’t forget to thank Phil Adamson for that.”
“Yeah. I wish I had something to give Phil in return.”
“Like what?”
“Like what Harold Sharkey was after when he knocked on Kelli’s door.”
I wished even harder when we got back to the office and found a message to call our favorite homicide detective.
Chapter 16
“Hi, Phil,” I said when he answered. “Thanks for giving me good marks with TBI Agent Fought.”
"You meet with him?”
“Just got back. He was willing to give us a little slack thanks to you. But he wants a solid tie-in with my case before he’ll really cooperate.”
“Can’t blame him there. One of the other boys in Homicide told me he’d worked with Fought on a case. Said he was a no-nonsense investigator. A lot of talent. I think he has a criminal justice degree and worked for a few years with the Knoxville PD.”
“He seemed pretty competent to us. But Agent Fought wasn’t the reason for your call, was it?”
“No. I thought I’d warn you not to get too excited when you hear your friend’s been called into the DA’s office.”
“Warren Jarvis?” That didn’t sound good. “What’s up?”
“I did some checking on the colonel, and the military seems to think very highly of him. However, the assistant DA handling the case wants to talk to him. He’s one of these cocky young lawyers, thinks he can dig stuff out of people they won’t give to cops. I told him we hadn’t come up with any idea of what Sharkey was doing there.”
I decided it was time to level with Phil. I owed him that. “I had a message on the answering machine from yesterday afternoon about one-thirty. Harold Sharkey called to ask in effect what I was doing at Arthur Liggett’s house. Apparently he came by while my Jeep was parked out front. The idiot talked like he expected me to tell him.”
4 The Marathon Murders Page 8