“He says a four-inch blade. Something like a folding knife.”
“Yeah. That’s bad. They’re so damn common.”
“No indications of alcohol or drugs in Dallas’ system.” I read the rest of the report in silence, and then laid it in front of Tommy Lee. “Sure turned this out fast.”
“Government pressure. I think the EPA is hoping Dallas could be blamed somehow for the toxic dumping.”
“Why?”
“If it was an accident that happened while disposing of the drums, then I no longer have a murder investigation and I am no longer in their hair.”
“A knife wound changes that,” I said. “What do they say now?”
“Nothing. Clamps are coming down. I talked to someone in the criminal division. They’re tracking former employees of Pisgah Paper. Another main probe is Broad Creek and Ridgemont Power. Ralph Ludden has a lot of Washington political clout and will be pulling PR strings, but basically he’ll cooperate with the investigation. I’ve made it clear the murder is the most serious offense of all, and we have jurisdiction. I demanded their full assistance and any information pertaining to Dallas Willard that they might uncover.”
“You see anything else in here that surprised you?” I asked.
“The coat.”
“What coat?” I looked again at the report. “There is no mention of a coat?”
“Exactly. Where is the long gray coat he wore in the cemetery to hide the shotgun? It wasn’t in the pickup and it wasn’t on the body. Was he killed elsewhere, say inside, and then moved to the quarry? But you know how rough that road was. How did the murderer bounce him around in the pickup without some blood seepage? We went over that truck carefully and there were no blood stains.”
“Someone not only has the shotgun but the great coat as well.”
“That’s what I think,” said Tommy Lee.
“So, where are you going to start?” I asked.
“With a return visit to our new best friend, Fred Pryor. We’ll see him bright and early in the morning. He thinks he’s got troubles with the EPA. Wait till he hears in no uncertain terms his company is the subject of a murder investigation. And I’m gonna be in his hair like a hungry cootie.”
“Really? I’ve always thought of you as more of a louse.”
“You’re confusing me with my opponent.”
“Do you think Cain’s involved in this somehow?” I asked. “He’s in charge of security.”
“Certainly a possibility. But I’ve got to be careful not to look like I’m persecuting him, especially since I’ve already arrested him once.”
“That Coleman boy who died of the snakebite. His father is part of a group that works at Broad Creek. Wonder if they would know anything?”
“Maybe,” said Tommy Lee. “They back yet?”
“I don’t know. Last Sunday night the Colemans and their preacher went straight to Kentucky from the visitation. They might drive home today. Reverend Pace said they all live close together, like a compound. You ever seen it?”
“Once. Went up there trying to straighten out why their kids weren’t in school. They’ve spread their shacks out along some acreage the power company owns. Not really an organized compound like those Branch Davidians in Waco. More of a migrant workers camp, except they had to build their own shelter. The site is not far from the power project. We can stop by on our way to rattle Pryor’s chain.”
A little before nine the next morning, Tommy Lee pulled behind an old maroon Plymouth. Reverend Pace’s car. He and Sarah Hollifield were just getting out as we parked. Gone were Sarah’s tartan skirt and black shoes. Now she wore jeans and a pair of hiking boots. Pace was making progress with his new charge.
“Got a new congregation?” joked Tommy Lee.
“Can you believe it?” asked Sarah. “That’s their church.”
We walked over to a circle of wooden benches surrounding a hand-hewn, six-foot cross erected in the center. It was an outdoor amphitheater carved in the woods where twenty or thirty worshipers could gather.
“From catacombs to cathedrals, it’s the people who make the church,” said Pace. He turned his attention back to us. “They in trouble with the law?”
“No,” said Tommy Lee. “We’re just following up some things. The Colemans back yet?”
Pace pointed to a shack barely visible through the trees. “Don’t know. Sarah and I dropped by to see.”
We walked thirty yards through the woods. Pace led the way, followed by Sarah. I stayed close behind, sticking to the narrow path which had been worn from the outdoor church to the compound of makeshift houses clustered on the ridge. Tommy Lee brought up the rear. As we stepped into the open, a voice broke the stillness.
“Wouldn’t be thievin’ now, would you?”
Leroy Jackson stepped around the corner of the first shack. He carried a gym satchel in one hand and his Bible in the other. Without a word of greeting, he strode to us, his face darkened with suspicion and anger.
“I truly hope you haven’t suffered any theft or vandalism, Mr. Jackson,” said Pace. He forced himself to present a smile and an attitude of concern. “We only came by to see that everything was all right with the Colemans. Figured you and them would be back from Kentucky.”
Leroy Jackson paused a moment, not sure how to react to Pace’s disarming words. “I drove all night to get back,” he said flatly. “Luke and his wife are coming in tomorrow. Now I got to go to work.”
“Power project?” asked Pace.
“Yeah. Hard, honest labor. I don’t have any rich, liberal denomination sending me a paycheck.”
Pace let the criticism pass unanswered.
“Well, we don’t want to hold you up,” said Pace. He nodded to us. “I believe you know Mr. Clayton and Sheriff Wadkins, and this is my associate, Reverend Sarah Hollifield.”
“A woman? A woman preacher? I suggest you read your Bible, Miss Reverend Sarah Hollifield. First Corinthians 14:34—‘Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home: for it is a shame for women to speak in the church.’”
Sarah’s face bloomed scarlet at the admonishment, but a fire leapt in her eyes. “‘Let your women keep silence,’ Mr. Jackson. I have good news to preach. Was it not Mary Magdalene to whom the Risen Lord first appeared and commanded she tell the others? Was it not also St. Paul who wrote we are all one in Christ, ‘there is neither male nor female.’ Yes, I do read my Bible, thank you, with my mind and my heart.”
She turned away from Leroy Jackson before he had a chance to argue further. Reverend Pace whispered an “Amen” and followed, trying not to show the pride I knew he felt for his spunky sidekick.
“Let’s go,” Tommy Lee told me. “Mr. Jackson, I’m sure we will be meeting again.”
“The Colemans have suffered enough,” he said. “Leave them alone.”
As we walked back to the patrol car, I had the feeling Leroy Jackson’s eyes never left us.
“But I understood Mr. Pryor just returned from Charlotte yesterday.” Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins made the statement sound like an accusation.
Jane Cummings simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “Mr. Ludden phoned Mr. Pryor last night. Mr. Pryor left me a message this morning that he was driving to Charlotte and would not be in the office today.”
Tommy Lee looked at me and I could tell he was disappointed. Evidently Ridgemont Power and Electric was circling the wagons, and Pryor was being indoctrinated with the company line. I hoped that would mean full cooperation.
“When is he coming back?” asked Tommy Lee.
“He said he’d call when he got there. It’s a three-hour drive. I don’t expect to hear from him before one. If the meeting only lasts this afternoon, then he’ll probably drive home tonight. He has rented a condo over in the Mica Valley resort.”
“Well, when he phones i
n, let him know I want to speak with him first thing in the morning. Would you check his calendar?”
The woman flipped the pages of the date book on the corner of her desk. “I can’t confirm his schedule until I speak with him, but it looks clear.”
I edged closer to her desk, trying to get a better view of the appointment book. “What was Mr. Pryor’s schedule last Thursday and Friday?”
She reviewed the pages. “He was in Asheville Thursday. That’s where our main office was before we came here full time. Then he was here on Friday.”
“Would you check his Friday morning appointments?” I asked.
“Nothing noted here. Perhaps it’s on the daily log. Mr. Pryor has me keep a project journal. He likes a detailed record on a day-by-day basis.” She hesitated and wondered whether she should be telling the police about her boss’ private diary.
“I suggest you get it,” said Tommy Lee. He anticipated her wavering. “The journal is just your chronological report of project activities. We’re not requesting privileged information.”
With that official assurance, she retrieved a loose-leaf notebook from the top of the credenza behind her desk. She opened it and found the days in question. “Here’s last Friday.” Several paragraphs were typed on clean white paper that had been hole-punched and reinforced so as not to tear out of the three-ring binder. She turned back a page. “And this is Thursday. Yes, Mr. Pryor spent the day in Asheville.”
Thursday’s report was handwritten on a sheet of lined yellow legal paper. “I forgot to re-type this one,” Jane said. “Power was out that morning.”
“Thursday?” I asked. “It was also out Friday when we first came by looking for Dallas Willard.”
“That’s the morning I mean,” explained Jane. “I always type up the daily report on the following morning. But someone had backed into the utility pole Thursday night and knocked out the electricity to this trailer. Mr. Pryor was quite upset about it.”
“Did he find out who did it?” asked Tommy Lee.
“That’s part of why he got so angry. No one stepped forward and admitted it. Security’s pretty tight. Someone had to have a gate pass-key to get on-site. And then it took longer than it should have that day to rehook the power. Some of the men were late to work.”
“Do you mind?” I asked. I picked up the notebook before she could object and flipped a few pages. Stopping at one of the entries, I said, “On Saturday, Pryor met with Bob Cain. Does your boss work Saturdays?”
“Sometimes. He always has me log it. I think he wants the corporate office to see how dedicated he is.”
“We saw Cain’s car here the day before.” Tommy Lee grabbed the journal. “Three to three-thirty, Saturday. No topic or reason listed. Do you know why Cain returned?”
“They meet frequently. Mr. Cain handles our security.”
“Was it Cain who left someone free to knock over your power line?”
“Maybe that’s why Pryor saw him last Saturday,” suggested Jane.
“Maybe,” said Tommy Lee.
As we stepped out of the trailer, he whispered, “I hope Pryor saw Cain last Saturday and tore him a new asshole.”
“Really?” I asked. “Can an asshole tear an asshole on an asshole?”
“Good question. I don’t know. But there’s its shadow.”
I followed Tommy Lee’s gaze to the edge of the parking lot. Odell Taylor stood beside a yellow bulldozer, staring at us.
Chapter 15
When we returned to Broad Creek the next morning, a second trailer had been parked about twenty yards from Pryor’s. A gray sedan with black-on-white federal plates was parked in front.
“I heard CEO Ralph Ludden has given permission for an EPA investigator to have an office on-site,” said Tommy Lee. “Let’s pay our respects to the Feds first. I want them to understand their information is my information.”
We were surprised to find Miss Jane Cummings seated at a desk just inside the door. She had a stack of files and notebooks in front of her.
“New job?” asked Tommy Lee.
She shook her head. “I’m assigned to assist in the collection of any and all relevant materials,” she said and rolled her eyes. Then she lowered her voice. “Mr. Pryor ordered me to grin and bear it. He said our guest will soon see there’s nothing wrong.” She glanced through the office door at the far end of the trailer where a young government agent was already going through a pile of books.
The man looked up from his work and immediately reacted to Tommy Lee’s uniformed presence.
“Sheriff Wadkins,” he stated and hurried out to greet us.
Tommy Lee saw Jane Cummings look at her watch, then grab her purse. “I need to speak with you,” he said. “Don’t leave for lunch yet.”
“Kyle Murphy,” said the agent, and he firmly shook our hands. “Phillip Camas told me to expect you. I’m in charge of the investigation in so far as the power company may be involved. Miss Cummings has provided the project journals, and Mr. Pryor is lending assistance during crew interviews and site analysis. If there is any way I can aid your murder case, just let me know.”
“Thanks,” said Tommy Lee. “Has the Pisgah Paper Mill connection led anywhere?”
“Not yet. We’re not surprised. It’s a defunct company, and no former manager wants to admit he improperly or illegally disposed of those cylinders.”
“That’s what I figured. Well, I can’t think of anything I need right now. Don’t let me keep you from your paperwork. I just have a few questions for Miss Cummings.” He turned to the woman who sat fidgeting with her purse. “We can talk on the way to your car, can’t we?”
Outside the new trailer, we walked ahead of the woman until we reached her vehicle. Tommy Lee leaned against the driver’s door, making it clear she would have to get through him and his questions. “Did Mr. Murphy ask you anything unusual?” He folded his arms across his chest as if he could stand there all day.
“Guess not. Lot of questions about Mr. Pryor. Did his habits change recently? Does he drink on the job? Is he seeing people at the office not tied to the project?”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I haven’t noticed anything. I just try to do what Mr. Pryor wants. He’s not one of the easiest people I’ve ever worked for.”
“He is a tight-ass, isn’t he?”
Jane Cummings didn’t smile. “Getting tighter by the hour.”
I got the distinct feeling the lure of being in a Charlotte skyscraper with Pryor was losing its charm. He struck me as one of those men who lash out under pressure. Jane Cummings would be an easy target.
“He ever have any arguments with the men? I’ve known construction guys to be a hotheaded lot.”
“Not really. The subcontractors are specialists. Ridgemont bids and buys the best. Odell Taylor handles the general laborers. He and Mr. Pryor seem to get along fine.”
“What about Bob Cain? What does he do?”
“I don’t know. He has meetings with Pryor and reviews our security arrangements. He doesn’t come to the site that often.” Jane looked at her watch for the third time. “Can we talk later? I’m meeting a girlfriend for lunch.”
Tommy Lee ignored the plea and pressed forward to the main point of his inquiry. “We were here last Friday when the power was off. Someone knocked out the electricity.”
“Yes. Right over there.” She pointed to the far end of the gravel parking lot where the fifteen-foot pole supported the cable feeding the trailer.
“Put in a new one?” asked Tommy Lee.
“No. It didn’t actually fall down. Just got bumped enough to snap the wire. The guys straightened it and restrung the power line.”
“The guys. These the men who came in late?”
“Yes.”
“Remember who they were?”
“Odell and some of the Kentucky crowd. Faron Thomas and Junior Crawford.”
“Luke Coleman?”
“Don’t remember. Think he was sick last F
riday.”
“Pryor must have blown his stack when they were late. He sure seemed hot when we talked to him.”
“That’s kind of funny. He was angry when he first got here, but when Odell and the men finally showed up, he joked about it. Didn’t even dock their hours.”
Tommy Lee didn’t ask any further questions. He stepped aside and opened the door. “Thanks for your time, Miss Cummings. I’ll be back in touch.”
As her car drove away, we walked the length of the parking lot to the utility pole. One section, about three feet off the ground, still showed splintered damage. A streak of blue paint marked the spot where a fender or tail-gate had wedged against the treated timber.
“Pryor drives a blue car,” I said. “Could he have done it himself?”
“Maybe,” said Tommy Lee. “He could have been too arrogant to admit to us or Jane Cummings that he did something stupid like that. Easier to blame it on the crew.” He looked at Pryor’s empty parking spot. “I see he skipped on us. Probably saw us go into Kyle Murphy’s trailer and now will claim he had a meeting and couldn’t hang around.”
I followed Tommy Lee back into the EPA investigator’s office. Kyle Murphy looked up from his papers.
“I’m heading out,” said Tommy Lee.
“Was she any help?” asked Murphy.
“Not particularly. Mentioned a few possibilities. I guess you’re already checking into Bob Cain?”
Murphy’s face went blank as he struggled to place the name.
“Cain,” repeated Tommy Lee. “The outsider who consulted on security. Miss Cummings didn’t know why he kept coming by for special weekend meetings.” The sheriff let the words “special weekend” roll off with an ominous inflection. “It’s awkward for me to investigate. Cain is challenging me in next month’s election.”
“Oh, yes. He’s on our list. Appreciate your sensitivity. We’ll keep you out of it, but we’re going to have to make him a priority.”
“Whatever you think best,” said Tommy Lee. “We’ll stay in touch.”
He chuckled to himself as we stepped outside.
“Whatever you think best,” I repeated. “You’re wicked. By tomorrow morning, Cain will be a bug under a huge federal microscope.”
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