by Glenn Trust
The bikers at the bar turned and leaned their backs against the bar watching the two GBI task force members. They did not have the same desire to avoid whatever was about to happen. On the contrary, their stony faces indicated a willingness to deal with the two intruders who had entered their turf.
One started to step towards George. Roy Budroe, behind the bar, as usual, said something inaudible and the man in leather and blue jeans stepped back and resumed his position leaning against the bar and watching the two law enforcement officers.
George stepped to the end of the bar and motioned Budroe over. Andy stood behind him watching the room.
Standing in front of George, wiping his hand on a bar towel, Budroe said, “What you want, Mackey. You got no business here. Everything’s quiet. No one called you.”
“I want information, Roy. Figured you’d be the one most likely to have it.”
Budroe’s thin lips formed themselves into a small smile that seemed lost on his fleshy face. “I don’t know much about anything. You should know that by now, Mackey.”
George nodded. “Figured you’d say that too. But you know, Roy…” He paused and looked around the room. “Some of these fellas here seem to fit the descriptions of wanted felons we been looking for.”
“Bullshit.”
“Maybe, but just to put our minds at ease about it, I suppose we could start checking IDs and running them through GCIC and NCIC and see what pops up.” He smiled. “Put your mind at ease too, Roy. I know you wouldn’t want any unsavory wanted felons frequenting your establishment here.”
“That’s bullshit too. You don’t have any right to check anything here. You got a warrant? You need a warrant. You ain’t doin’ shit here without a warrant.”
“Really? And if I start making the rounds of your customers checking IDs, you’re gonna stop me?”
Budroe made no reply, but the smile on his face broadened. George turned sideways so that he could keep an eye on Budroe and Andy and what was going on behind him.
“Nice hat.” The big biker walked up close to Andy.
“It’s a fedora,” Andy replied calmly.
“Sheeiit. Where’d you get a sissy hat like that, boy?”
“It was given to me.”
“Given to you, my ass. Given to you for what?” The biker grinned and took a small step closer.
Andy stood calmly, waiting. “For killing an asshole just like you,” he said with a smile.
The biker’s face hardened, and his bulky arm and hand reached out to snatch the hat from Andy’s head. He was not quick enough.
Andy caught the arm in midair with his hand. He was not as big as the biker, but he was all muscle and the strength of his grip caused a look of surprise mingled with pain to cross the biker’s face.
George watched quietly, his hand resting on the grip of the Glock holstered on his belt.
“You best let him go, boy.” The rest of the bikers at the bar had gathered in a semicircle around Andy and George and their companion whose hand remained suspended in the air locked in Andy’s grip. The one who spoke pulled a knife from the back pocket of his jeans and pressed the release button allowing the eight-inch blade to swing open and lock in place.
“Stop!” Big Biker Man, hand still suspended in Andy’s grip, looked down at the muzzle of the detective’s nine-millimeter pistol pushing uncomfortably into his belly. “Stop!”
“I’d do what he says,” Andy said mildly. “Unless you want his insides on the outside and spattered all over your nice denim and leather outfits.”
The group of bikers hesitated for a moment. Then considering the odds, they began to edge closer, apparently not as concerned for their big companion as for their own pride.
“Boys.” George’s voice was not loud but the tone was commanding. “You best look here.”
The eyes of every one of the bikers turned towards the deputy. They focused slowly on the Glock, now out of the holster and pointed at the biker holding the knife.
“I think you had all best turn around and go back to your seats. Sit down. Finish your beers, enjoy the afternoon and Mr. Budroe’s company. You do anything else, and you will not like the way it ends.”
“You figure to take us all out with that?” The biker with the knife was not ready to back down.
“I figure I can pull the trigger on this pistol fast enough to let loose ten rounds or so before you boys get to me, and as there’s only seven of you, might be that none of you get to me. Either way, a bunch of you are gonna be hurt or dead.” He looked knife man in the eyes. “And I promise you, sport, that you will be one of the dead.”
Big Biker, was more than ready to let the whole thing drop and get back to his beer. He looked down at Andy’s pistol still buried in his gut and said, “Tat,” he said to the one holding the knife. “The rest of you get back to the bar. Let it go.”
The group backed away. Andy let the big man’s arm drop, and he followed his companions, rubbing the circulation back into his wrist.
George turned back to Budroe, who had watched the confrontation without speaking. He knew well enough that taking sides would not have a good outcome for him, regardless of who won.
“All right, Roy, information, or I just shut you down for this little episode, run wants on all of your customers, and keep any of them that might have warrants out on them. I don’t care if it’s for spitting in public or raping a dog. They will be in the Pickham County jail, and you right alongside for harboring fugitives and obstruction of justice. Your choice.” George ended with a smile.
“What do you want to know?”
“Any strangers been around? And don’t play stupid, Roy. You know what I mean. People coming through who might have business in Pickham but not from around here.”
“There’s always strangers. You know that.”
“I warned you, Roy. Play games and you will be shut down thirty seconds from now.”
“Okay, okay,” Budroe said with a resigned sigh. “Yeah, there’s been a couple.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure they didn’t give you names, so describe them for me.”
“Two of them. One tall and thin. Taller than you. Brown hair. The other about the same height, but heavyset. Not fat but thick, know what I mean?”
George nodded and smiled. “I know what you mean. Where were they headed?”
“How the hell would I know? You know good and well people come in here ain’t talkin about what they’re doin’ or where they’re goin’.” Budroe’s voice had the whining sound of a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, looking for understanding from his stern grandmother.
“How long ago did they leave?”
“About an hour or so. Not too long.”
George nodded. “Okay, Roy. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He looked at Andy who nodded, and they started to the door. Passing the bikers at the bar, he said over his shoulder, “Best stay in here, boys. Drink your beers. Pickham County can be a dangerous place. I see any of you outside in the next hour, and I’ll jerk a knot in your neck so hard it’ll leave your boots behind while I drag your ass down to the county jail.” He stopped at the door and regarded the group evenly. Big Biker Man said something low to the group and they slowly turned towards the bar, studying the beers that Budroe placed in front of them.
“Puckett and the big, heavy one must be the one they called Big Bud,” Andy said as they walked to the pickup.
“Yeah, and we know where they’re headed even if Roy doesn’t.”
“Yep,” Andy agreed. “Cabin out in the swamp country, and if they don’t know where it is, my bet is it won’t take these guys long to figure it out. They’ve been ahead of us every step of the way so far.”
“Yeah,” George replied thoughtfully, thinking of Sharon Price standing watch over the Wright family. He looked over at Andy and added with an appreciative nod, “You handled yourself good in there.”
“We got tough bars in Atlanta too. Guess I was a little overdressed for thi
s one,” he said smiling and reaching up to adjust the fedora on his head.
Day Five - Conclusion
*****
Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Lord Acton – Letter to Bishop Mandell Creighton, 1857
The essence of government is power; and power, lodged, as it must be in human hands, will ever be liable to abuse
*****
James Madison - Speech in the Virginia constitutional convention, Richmond, Virginia, December 2, 1829
80. “I’m in.”
“You’re not gonna believe this.”
“Hang on, Ponce,” Perry Boyd said to Detective Poncinelli. He punched the speaker button on the phone on the conference room table. “Say that again.”
“You’re not gonna believe this.” Gary Poncinelli sat in his unmarked car looking down the street and across the square to the entrance to PT Somerhill’s office, a pair of binoculars in one hand, his notepad on his lap.
“Try us,” Bob Shaklee said, shrugging at Boyd. At this point, they were willing to believe almost anything.
“Car just pulled up in front of Somerhill’s office.”
“Yeah? You get a make and model, tag number?” Perry Boyd said as patiently as he could, waiting for his detective to spit out what was on his mind.
“No, too far away to read the tag number. Probably a rental anyway.”
“Why do you say that? Get to the point, Ponce.” It had been a long day, and Boyd was feeling a little too fatigued to banter about cars and tag numbers.
“I am, Cap. I am.” He was quiet for a moment while he lifted the binoculars and scanned the front of the building, trying to see if anything was visible through a window. It wasn’t. Boyd was about to speak and hurry him up with his report when Detective Poncinelli continued. “Two men got out of the car. Well dressed, one white male, one black male.”
“Right,” Boyd said. “And?”
“And, unless I’m totally fucking blind, they were Senator Charles Montgomery and Representative Clarence Greene.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. Not even a little bit.”
Shaklee and Boyd exchanged glances that said, what the fuck?
“All right, Ponce, you hang tight. We’ll get back to you soon.”
“Not going anywhere, Cap.”
As the call disconnected, Perry Boyd looked at Lieutenant Hurst, also seated across the conference room table. “Freddy, find out where Montgomery and Greene and Rodney Puckett grew up.”
“Where they grew up?”
“Yeah. Perkins said that Puckett and the ‘Counselor’ knew each other from when they were young. We need a connection.”
“Shit, Perry. How the hell am I supposed to find a connection?”
Boyd shrugged and smiled. “I don’t know, Freddy. That’s why you’re the ace homicide detective. Figure it out.”
“You don’t make things easy, you know.”
“Really? Didn’t know making things easy was part of the job description, but here’s some more good news for you. We need something in the next hour.”
Freddy Hurst shook his head and walked to the end of the table where an extra laptop had been set up. There would not be time for footwork on this one. This would be a pure test of his ability to dig up information, any information linking at least one of the congressional representatives at PT’s office to the one name they had, Rodney Puckett. Seating himself at the laptop, he lowered his head and focused on his keystrokes. A few minutes later, the printer they had set up in the room began spitting out pages.
Shaklee and Boyd watched, but said nothing. Lieutenant Hurst was in his zone.
“We’re going to need another warrant,” Bob Shaklee said to Boyd, with just the faintest hopeful smile on his face, that maybe they had the break they needed.
“Looks that way,” Boyd returned. He didn’t smile. There was work to do before that. He had pulled out another blank warrant affidavit form and started neatly filling in the generic information, waiting for some results from Hurst’s search that might constitute sufficient probable cause to enter PT’s office and take the persons present into custody. If Boyd wanted Judge Virgil Turnfeld to sign off on the arrest of two members of the Georgia congressional delegation, he would have to provide some pretty convincing evidence and enough detail to make the warrant legitimate before the judge would sign it, no matter what Perry Boyd had done to bring his son’s killers to justice.
Shaklee opened the case file in front of him and leafed through the papers until he found a card. Picking up the conference room phone, he dialed the number on the card and waited. After a few seconds, he spoke.
“Sheriff Grizzard, Bob Shaklee here. We need your help.”
Grizzard’s gruff voice rumbled, “What can we do for you, Agent Shaklee?”
“We are going to need some local support from your department in a couple of hours. Entry with a warrant and arrest.”
There was a pause as Grizzard considered what he had just heard. Then he said, “This on the case?”
There was only one case right now. “Yes, the case.”
“I’ll call you back from my cell phone.”
Waiting for the call, Bob Shaklee considered Hinchfield County Sheriff, Harvey Grizzard’s, involvement in the investigation. Grizzard was old school and not happy about the ‘Vote Them Out’ movement sponsored by the ‘Term Limits’ group. But he was honorable. Happy or not, he would do the right thing. The fact that he suggested that he call Shaklee back from his cell phone indicated that he was also aware that the investigation could go in unexpected directions and had his own doubts about who could be trusted.
All of that aside, PT Somerhill’s office was on the square in Fairington, the seat of Hinchfield County. They needed Sheriff Grizzard as an ally. The political fallout from an arrest at the office of a prominent local attorney, and son of a murdered state senator, would be huge. Add to that the possible involvement of a United States senator and a member of the House of Representatives, and things would go completely radioactive. A number of careers were on the line here. Bob had made his decision. He would protect the others on the task force as best he could, but they had made their decision as well. Sheriff Grizzard deserved to understand completely what was going on and what he would be getting into.
The only remaining question was, could Grizzard be trusted. He was stiff, uncompromising, old school, a pain in the ass, and completely professional, as he had demonstrated to Shaklee and Price at the Somerhill investigation. The citizens of Hinchfield County could have done a lot worse in picking a sheriff. He was the antithesis of Pickham County’s Richard Klineman. In Bob’s mind, that made him just the type of person to include.
His cell phone vibrated, and he answered. “Shaklee.”
“Shaklee, Grizzard here. What the hell are you doing in my county? You want my help, speak up.”
Shaklee smiled. Blunt and to the point, it was the type of greeting he had expected. His trust in Harvey Grizzard went up another notch. The sheriff was completely silent as Bob gave him the summary of events and the task force investigation. He reviewed the personal career risks that anyone involved would be taking, as well as the physical risks. The conspirators had proven themselves to be proficient killers. When he was done, Grizzard made one statement.
“I’m in.”
81. “Glad I could be your first…”
Standing several feet back in the undergrowth beneath the cypress and pines, Sim Lee scanned the open area in front of the small wood frame cabin. No signs of life were visible. No people, no dogs, no kids, nothing. He waited patiently, watching.
After several minutes, he made out Bill Quince just coming to the edge of the trees and brush on the far side of the cabin. He caught Lee’s eye and raised the Winchester as a signal that he was ready. Lee nodded and began moving, slowly.
Staying just inside the tree line, he skirted the cabin’s yard checking the back and front. A
n older Super Duty Ford pickup was parked in the rear beside the white SUV they had seen at the house in Everett the previous day. Quince watched his movements from the other side of the yard, ready with the Winchester should it be needed.
It was evident that the Wrights were holed up in the cabin and had no intention of exposing themselves, unless necessary. No problem. Come nightfall their movements outside would not be seen. He and Quince had discussed their method of attack before moving out. The plan was to burn them out. It was unfortunate for the kids and wife, but they would not allow any witnesses to survive. They knew that once the flames started consuming the wooden cabin around them, Porter Wright and his family would be forced to come out. When that happened, Wright would die along with anyone else who happened to be with him.
Lee settled back against a pine and squatted. Looking across the yard, he saw Quince do the same, the Winchester across his knees. They had a couple of hours to kill before dark.
“You watching?” Porter Wright stood in the shadows away from the window looking out across the yard. His fingers tightened and closed on the Remington 870 twelve-gauge shotgun that he held at port arms against his chest.
“I see him,” Sharon responded in a calm whisper, standing back from a window on the other side of the front door. “He knows we’re in here, but he can’t see us.”
“He knows? You really think so?”
“He knows, Porter. He didn’t find us by accident, and he’s being too careful to be just some random hunter or lost hiker. Besides, look at his clothes, city clothes. He’s not dressed like someone planning to be walking around in the brush.”
Wright nodded. “Guess you’re right. So, now what? Wait him out?”
“No. We can’t.”
“Why not? We have food, water…ammo. Just stay away from the windows and wait long enough, he’ll leave.”
“He’s waiting for dark, Porter.” She looked Wright in the eyes across the room. “When night comes, the game changes. He may not be alone, but even if he is, in the dark, outside, he will be in control.”