by Glenn Trust
An hour and a half later, he sat in first class at thirty-five thousand feet, sipping bourbon from a plastic airline cup, his eyes closed and seat reclined. Peaceful on the outside, he reviewed the possible problem scenarios in his mind and kept returning to the one most likely complication that might have occurred. The weak link. If Thompson’s mentor was the problem, Puckett had some very definite thoughts regarding solutions to that particular problem. He would have to clear it with the Counselor, but did not anticipate any issue there. He would be as threatened by the man’s weakness as the others and would want to ensure that the threat was eliminated. It would just have to be done carefully, leaving no trail. That was Puckett’s particular specialty. Tomorrow he and Big Bud would review the problem and devise the solution.
Folding his arms across his chest, Puckett allowed his mind to relax. He was dozing contentedly when the flight attendant reached down and removed his empty glass from the seat tray.
13. Work to Do
“Son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I said.”
Perry Boyd, Captain, Atlanta Homicide Division looked over at his detective and said it again. “Son of a bitch. Gonna be hell to pay when this hits the news tonight, Andy.”
“Yeah.” Detective Andrew Barnes was all too aware of the impact of the media and press on a high profile murder investigation. Murders were always sensitive and emotional cases for all involved. It was a fact that the level of emotional response and sensitivity tended to rise in direct proportion to the case’s media exposure. “Nothing to be done about it though, Captain. Judge Marswell was well known. Hell, he was a hero to me and a lot of others.”
Boyd regarded Detective Barnes, realizing that this would be a particularly hard case for him. He would have to monitor the media impact and run interference if necessary for his detective. It was certain that there would be pressure to solve the case quickly. Quickly meant things could be overlooked, forgotten, lost, or just not thought of. They would have to proceed carefully on this one in order to avoid the pitfalls. He knew that Barnes was aware of them also, but his job was to facilitate the investigation and support the lead detective, and Perry Boyd was good at his job.
“We all respected him, Andy. Didn’t matter what neighborhood you grew up in. Clayton Marswell was tough, but fair, and a good man. He should not have ended like this.”
“No, he shouldn’t have.”
Barnes regarded the body of the judge still slumped over in the car. Light generators lit the scene brightly in the fading evening twilight. The blood dried on Marswell’s brown face looked like a deep black scar running from just above his left ear and down to his chin. A dark stain ran down his shirt to his lap where the blood had collected and pooled and remained sticky and wet. The facial muscles had contorted from the impact of the high-powered handgun round forcing his lips open and mouth to twist into a macabre grin. No, Clayton Marswell, who had placed himself in peril and risked so much for the disenfranchised, black and white, should not be slumped over dead behind an abandoned warehouse, his brain tissue and blood spattered through the car and on the ground outside, an obscene, disfiguring bullet hole in his head.
Captain Boyd spoke. “Show me what you have, Detective. Let’s get to work.”
“Right.” And with that, Detective Andrew Barnes began walking Boyd through the crime scene, pausing at each investigative point and piece of evidence. Peering closely at the locations around and in the car that had been dusted by the crime scene techs, Boyd asked questions and made an occasional comment. Barnes showed him the impact point on the building wall where the bullet that had crashed through the judge’s brain had stopped and rebounded and then been recovered by the techs. They ended the briefing tour of the scene by the passenger window of the judge’s dismantled vehicle.
Captain Boyd took latex gloves from his pocket and stretched them over his hands. Gently, he examined the entrance and exit wounds, lifting the judge’s head just slightly to examine the shattered skull and gaping hole at the exit wound.
“.357?” He tossed the question back at Barnes who stood behind.
“That’s what I’m thinking. Pretty sure anyway.”
“I agree.” Boyd gently lowered the judge’s head back and turned to Barnes. “Someone make the notification to the family?”
“Yeah. Couple of Major Felony detectives were on duty. They went over and notified the judge’s wife and had the two daughters come over to stay with their mama. Everyone’s pretty upset.” Of course they were upset, Barnes thought, you dumbass. Their husband and father was just murdered for his tires, car parts, and the contents of his wallet. Damn right, they’re upset.
Seeing the chagrin on Barnes’ face, Boyd commented, “It’s okay, Andy. We’re all stressed, including you. Let’s just get to work, solve this thing, and get the sonsabitches who did it. Right?”
“Yeah, right.” Barnes greeted his boss’ statement with a look of profound determination. Boyd knew the look. It was the, ‘we will get the motherfuckers that did this!’ look.
The area was lit up suddenly, even more brightly, by the white spotlights of a television station helicopter. Squinting up into the glare, they could see a cameraman leaning out of the chopper’s cabin door trying to zoom in on the scene. No doubt, they were trying to capture the judge slumped over in the seat on tape.
Boyd looked around at the perimeter of the area, encircled by yellow tape with the words ‘Crime Scene – Do Not Cross’ stenciled repeatedly along its length. Uniformed patrol officers were protecting the scene from intrusion. At one end of the scene, just beyond the tape he could see two white vans, marked with the station letters of two of the local network television outlets. No doubt, others were enroute to the location. He turned back to Barnes.
“All right then, Detective, you are lead on this case. You have the resources of the department at your disposal.” He paused for a moment and looked Barnes in the eye. “I mean all of them, Andy. You need anything, I mean anything, and you tell me. Okay?”
Barnes nodded solemnly at his boss.
“Good. Now you go follow up with the family interviews and see what you come up with. Let’s get them some justice for this,” he said looking at the judge’s body. Turning, he walked away squaring his own fedora on his head. A minute later, he had the hearse attendants and crime scene techs moving to the body of the judge. They would drape the area and remove it and transport it to the medical examiners morgue, where no doubt the M.E. would determine that the cause of death was massive trauma from a gunshot wound to the cranium passing through and through the brain, left to right.
His fedora already settled on his head and tilted at the slightly fashionable angle worn by the younger homicide detectives, Barnes walked deliberately back to his vehicle. He had work to do.
14. Something on His Shoe
By the time the plain, blue Ford pulled down the long gravel drive to the Somerhill home, the afternoon had ended. County emergency vehicles lined the long driveway to the house. The brightly lit interior of the parlor made it look as if some social gathering were taking place inside. Walkway lights leading to the front porch leant an air of warmth to the scene.
Sharon Price guided the state car to the front of the line of emergency vehicles and pulled as far as possible to the right. Through the window of the front room, she could see people standing in a small group. An older woman leaned on the arm of a man who appeared to be in his mid-forties. Two other men in sheriff’s deputy uniforms stood near them along with a man in a business suit.
Climbing the broad steps to the front porch, Price noted the crime scene tape extending from both sides of the porch and into the yard. It disappeared into the dark as it made a circle around to the rear of the house. She knew that the body of Prentiss Somerhill was still on the back porch in his chair. She would get to that.
A deputy and two paramedics stood on the front porch out of the way. As Price gained the top step, the deputy stepped
forward to examine her Georgia Bureau of Investigation identification. He glanced at it only briefly as a formality. They had been expecting Price.
Somerhill was a well-known and influential retired state senator, and his stature and prominence in state politics made the involvement of the GBI only natural. The local sheriff of Hinchfield County, Harvey Grizzard, had dutifully, and personally, notified the GBI.
There had been no love lost between him and the old senator. Somerhill was not in good graces with most of the elected officials in the state because of the movement he was backing. And Grizzard, law enforcement officer or not, was an elected official who was feeling the impact of that movement. His relationship with Somerhill was strained, if not outright antagonistic at times. Astute politician that he was, Grizzard knew instinctively that his complete and unequivocal cooperation with the GBI, and the support of his department, were essential to avoiding a backlash of criticism from Somerhill’s supporters. And he had many supporters.
It had taken Agent Price two hours to get to the scene. Having relocated to the Atlanta area recently, she was still learning the area. Her apartment in Gwinnett County on the east side of the city was convenient to the interstate system that circled and ran through the city, but the Somerhills lived a good distance out to the north.
The sheriff, and his deputies, had protected the crime scene, conducted a preliminary investigation, and gathered the basic - who, what, why, where, when and how - information for the report. What evidence there was had been secured. In this case, the evidence at the house consisted of the body of Prentiss Somerhill in his chair on the back porch and the three bullets that had passed through Somerhill and his chair and then through the window behind him, impacting in the dining room floor.
There was a second crime scene. The rounds that had killed Somerhill had been fired from the tree line across the open pasture behind the Somerhill residence. She had been briefed on the way to the house that the sheriff had a team of deputies and firefighters combing the woods behind the house. As darkness had come on, they had stopped the search in order to secure the area until daylight returned. The plan was that in the morning they would resume the search for the shell casings or any other evidence that might have been left behind. While necessary, Price felt certain that the search for clues in the woods was unlikely to turn up any significant evidence. This was a professional hit, at least it seemed so to her. A pro would have recovered the shell casings and left no trail. If it was accidental, there might be some evidence. To Price, accidental seemed very unlikely. Three rounds through the chest, fired at deliberate intervals, indicated a shooter who knew exactly what he was doing. Still, her job was to investigate and it was too early to eliminate any possibility, she reminded herself.
Price pushed the brass thumb release on the heavy oak front door and pushed. Large as it was, it swung smoothly on oiled hinges. Stepping into the entry hall, she noted the wide wooden floor planks, aged but highly polished and well maintained. What appeared to be an antique sofa and side table lined the wall. The house bespoke an air of southern gentility from a different era.
The Somerhills were an old family. Once, they might have been considered a member of the Georgia aristocracy. Today they were considered successful and affluent, if not filthy rich. Involved in the community and state affairs, and politically influential, they were well known. Prentiss Somerhill was listened to when he spoke, if not always agreed with. She knew that Somerhill and his son had a successful law practice, largely handled now by the son. Somerhill had resigned from his seat in the state senate for ‘reasons of principle’, as they had been called in the press, and then had pretty much retired from his practice as well, leaving it in his son’s hands.
Entering the softly lit parlor to the right of the entrance hall, she walked over to Mrs. Somerhill, who stood holding tightly onto the arm of the man that Price supposed was her son, Prentiss Somerhill, Jr. Extending her arm, she took Lauralee Somerhill’s hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze as she introduced herself.
“I’m Sharon Price, Mrs. Somerhill. I’m with the GBI, and I’ll be working this case.” She looked into the eyes of the older woman and saw the pain glistening wetly. “We are going to try to find the people responsible for the…for this.”
The pain in Lauralee Somerhill’s eyes was pushed aside briefly and was replaced by a look of fiery resolve. “Yes, we will Agent Price. You will, I am confident and expect nothing less.” She looked directly into Price’s eyes as if to transmit her will and the intensity of her resolve directly into the heart and soul of the investigator. “And call ‘this’ what it is, please. It was a murder. My husband was murdered. Nothing else describes it, and I won’t have his death trivialized by any mischaracterization of what happened. Prentiss was shot down and murdered while he napped in his chair. Now you find out who did that to my husband.”
“Yes, ma’am. We will solve this murder, Mrs. Somerhill.” Price tried to subdue the momentary look of chagrin that twitched across her face at having made the promise that no law enforcement officer makes. There are never any guarantees in investigations. Many questions always remain unanswered and many cases go unsolved. Recovering, she returned the woman’s gaze steadily. She was aware that the man in the suit had shifted uncomfortably both times the word ‘murder’ was used in the exchange. She had also picked up a slightly perceptible sigh of…what? Annoyance…exasperation…disagreement?
“Lauralee. Please call me Lauralee.”
“Yes, ma’am…Lauralee. And you call me Sharon.” With that, their hands parted and Lauralee gave a small smile of appreciation to Sharon.
Turning, Price put her hand out to the man at Mrs. Somerhill’s side.
“You must be Prentiss Somerhill, Jr.” She said meeting the man’s hand with a firm handshake.
“I am, Agent Price, but call me PT. Prentiss was my father.” A look of pain and sorrow crossed the man’s face at the mention of his father.
“Right. PT it is. And the commitment is the same as to your mother. We will do everything we can to find the persons responsible and solve this murder.”
“Thank you, Agent Price.”
Price turned to the man in the suit standing a few feet away, flanked by the two uniformed deputies. Sharon smiled and extended her hand. Play nice. No reason to piss off the locals.
“Sheriff Grizzard, I presume. Sharon Price, GBI. Thanks for giving us the call.”
Harvey Grizzard extended his hand, gave a brief shake, and let his arm drop to his side. He made no reply to Price’s expression of thanks and simply said, “Now that you’re here, we’ll be outside. I’m sure you have some questions you would like to ask the Somerhills.”
Icy, Sharon thought. Ignoring the voice inside that whispered “Play nice, Sharon”, she decided to set the record straight up front whose investigation this was. “Sheriff, I wonder if you would go meet the crime scene technicians that should be arriving in a few minutes. You can show them the back porch and the scene.” She winced at her own use of the word ‘scene’. It was their home. Lauralee and Prentiss had lived there all of their married lives and had raised their son in this house. It seemed disrespectful to call it a ‘scene’. But that’s what it was. It was a crime scene and there was no way around it. “I’ll join you in a few minutes. I do want to ask Mrs. Somerhill a few questions.”
As she finished speaking, PT stepped forward and took his mother by the arm leading her to a large sofa across the room. She sat and put her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. Small sobs escaped between her tightly closed fingers. Sharon felt like an ass.
Sheriff Grizzard, somewhat red-faced and stinging from the instructions given to him by Price, simply nodded and led his deputies to the front porch. Watching his hulking form, covered by an ill-fitting suit jacket, retreat through the parlor doors, Sharon knew they would have to resolve a few things between the sheriff and the GBI in order to move the investigation forward. But that would be for later. Right
now, there was work to do.
Crossing the room to the sofa, Sharon sat down by Mrs. Somerhill and took her hand.
“Lauralee, I need to ask you some questions.”
The woman nodded and dabbed at her wet eyes. “Go ahead. What can I tell you?”
“Tell me everything that happened today. Everything, right up to when you found the senator.”
It took Lauralee thirty minutes to go through the day. Lunch on the porch. The discussion about the state of affairs. Her husband’s annoyance at the political ‘business as usual’ stories in the papers. The sandwich plate left on the porch. The gunshots in the woods. The nap. The breaking glass.
When she was done Sharon asked, “Is there anyone that your husband was worried about?”
“Worried?” The older woman took her face out of her hands and looked at Price.
“Worried. Someone who was very upset with him?”
Lauralee gave a wry smile and said, “Everyone. At least everyone in public office.”
Sharon nodded. “I understand. But was there anyone who made an overt threat.”
“No one like that. No threats that I know of.” Looking at her son, she asked for confirmation. “PT, anyone you know of who might have threatened your father?”
Shaking his head, he thought for a moment and then said, “No. No one that I know of.”
Price pushed a little farther before letting it drop. “Anyone who called, came by…anyone?”
Lauralee turned her head to look at Sharon. Her face had a slightly puzzled look. “There are…were…always visitors coming by regularly. He kept an appointment book.”
“Do you have that book?”
“Yes, it’s in his things, in the office. I’ll find it for you.”
“Good.” Sharon glanced at PT who was staring almost lazily out the window to the front porch, as if trying to appear uninterested in the questions Sharon asked his mother. It was a pretense. It was clear that PT was listening intently to what was being said. Turning back to Lauralee, she asked, “What did they talk about?”