by Glenn Trust
“Well, that’s good, because Sharon’s good at giving them.” George grinned at the woman sitting beside him on the concrete bench, taking the elbow she planted in his abdomen. “Just relax. We’ll keep you in the loop and use you as much as we can. Trust me we’re gonna need everyone on this. We’re kind of thin-staffed right now. This OSI thing is pretty new.”
Beery felt the good will aimed in his direction from all parties at the table, even from Sharon Price. His eyes rested on the thin man seated beside Sharon, who seemed about as fidgety as a kid at grandma’s Sunday supper.
Sharon looked to her side. “This is Mr. Johnny Rincefield.” She added chuckling, “We don’t let him talk much.”
“How ya doin’,” Rince said. He had been silent to this point, having learned in the past that when Sharon was talking it was just best to listen. “I’m air support.” He grinned.
“Air support. I’ll be damned,” Beery said. Rince’s excited exuberance was what finally put him at ease with the group. “Never had air support before.”
“Yep, neither did we, until Rince got assigned to us on the last case we worked.” Andy looked across at the little man. “Pretty handy thing to have, air support.” Turning back to Beery, he asked, “So, what’s the set up?”
Beery nodded. Time for business. “I got you a job at a little store out in the country, couple miles from the entrance to Nicks Cove. Fella named Jerome Banks, and his mother, run it.”
“Cover?”
“Told them you were an old buddy of mine from when I was in the Navy. Haven’t seen you in years but you wanted to check things out down here and needed a job.”
“Tell them anything else?”
“No.” Beery shook his head seriously. “I figured, just give them the basics and you can add whatever history you need to make it real. That way you don’t have to remember anything I might have said to them.”
Andy smiled. “You’re better at this than you think, Jake.” The others nodded.
“Okay,” Andy said. “I’ll ride back to Meacham with you. The rest will make their way in and out of the area at different times so as not to attract interest from the locals, or the people at Nicks Cove.” He looked at the team. “Right?”
Four heads nodded their agreement. After reviewing signals for communication, passing information, and how Andy could let them know he needed assistance, the group broke up. The operation was underway. The game was on. Andy was ready.
Seeing the concern in Sharon’s face while Andy loaded into Beery’s pickup, George put his arm around her shoulder. “It’ll be all right.” He pulled her close. “We’ll look out for Andy.” He reached over and turned her chin towards him, looking into her eyes. “Don’t forget why we’re here. The girls, Sharon.”
Sharon had not forgotten them. She knew that George and Andy and Rince would do whatever it took to find the girls and break up the operation. Whatever it took. She was afraid it might take quite a lot. That worried her most.
42. Gaining Some Control
“My name’s Juanita. Juanita Lopez.” Her voice was a whisper. “Who are you?”
The pale girl standing at the end of the steel trough, holding the hose made no response. Her eyes darted nervously to the guard by the open door to the shed and then back to the trough, staring at the water pouring from the end of the hose.
To Juanita’s left, a tall, dark haired girl leaned across Juanita and spoke more loudly. “Who are you? What are we doing here?”
“Shh!” Juanita’s eyes moved to the door this time, afraid that her companion might have attracted the guard’s attention. He stood smoking, watching intently as two of the girls struggled into clean clothes as modestly as possible in the open shed. “Hush!” she said to the tall, dark haired girl. The word came out in a coarse whisper. “She’ll tell us, but be quiet or they'll hear.” Her head turned to the pale girl who looked up for the first time. “You’re like us, aren’t you?” She gave a soft, sympathetic smile of understanding. “You can’t leave either, can you? We’re all…” The smile disappeared from her face. “We’re all prisoners here, you too?”
The pale girl moved her head in a barely perceptible side-to-side motion. “No. I work here?”
“Here?” Juanita knew she had to get what information she could quickly, before the wash up session ended, or the guard saw them speaking.
“Near here. Few miles. Place called Nicks Cove.”
“You work at Nicks Cove? What do you do?”
The tall girl leaned in again. “She’s a working girl. Don’t you get it? She sells it for money. A whore.”
Bandy looked up, her face paler than usual.
“No offense intended,” the tall girl said softly. “Just trying to explain the situation.” Splashing water on her arms and body she added, “Nothing to be ashamed of, honey. We’ve all sold it, one way, or another.”
Looking at the pale girl, Juanita nodded her understanding. “So you work, but you can’t leave either.” Juanita wiped her face with a washcloth, covering her mouth as she spoke. “What’s your name? You can tell us that can’t you?”
“Bandy. They call me Bandy.” Dropping her head again to stare at the water, she said, “I guess that’s right. I can’t leave either. Ain’t none of us going anywhere soon.” She looked into Juanita’s eyes for the first time. “Except ya’ll I reckon. You’ll be leaving.”
“When?”
Bandy shook her head. “Don’t know. Soon I think. Maybe a few days. They don’t tell us much.” Turning the nozzle on the hose, she said, “Now ya’ll stay quiet. It’s not good if they catch us talkin’.”
“What’s going on?” Sonya walked down the line of girls handing a towel to each, stopping at the end of the trough by Bandy.
“N-nothin, Sonya. They was just askin’ about what was happenin’. I didn’t say nothin’.”
“What I tell you about using names. No names. Remember?” She looked at Juanita and the tall girl. “You do as you’re told. No questions. No talkin’ to us.” She glanced at the guard by the door. He had turned his eyes their way, watching closely. Turning from the trough, Sonya called back sharply at the girls. “Now you hurry it up. We ain’t got all day.”
Juanita walked towards her cot, drying her face with a towel, the tall, dark haired girl walking with her. Cheap clothing had been laid out. Both wanted badly to get out of the clothes they had been wearing since their abduction.
“I’m Monica,” the tall girl said softly. Keeping her eyes focused ahead.
“I’m Juanita.”
Tall Monica laughed softly. “So I heard. Took guts to speak up.” She looked around. “Most of these girls are still in shock. Understandable I guess.”
“I think they were drugged more than I was. I was…” She thought of Bobby and his attempt to protect her behind the restaurant, then shook the memory away and said, “I was sort of an accident, I think. Robbery, they didn’t mean to take me but when things went bad, they had to find some way to get rid of me.”
“Yeah,” Monica said softly. “Could have been worse. They could have gotten rid of you permanently.”
Not sure if that would have been worse or not, Juanita sat on her cot and pulled off the sandals they had given her to wear. At the door, the guard eyed the two girls, waiting for them to undress. She thought about crawling under the sheet spread over the cot while she changed clothes.
Standing beside her own cot, Monica saw Juanita’s discomfort. “Well, time to shake things up a bit, I’d say. Get them thinking.”
Pulling the sweatshirt over her head, Monica stood bare-chested facing the guard, her round full breasts swaying with her movement. The guard was mesmerized.
“See. Time for us to get some control over the situation.”
“How is that going to give us control.”
Looking down at her, Monica smiled a sorority girl smile. “You are young, aren’t you?” Then turning back to the man at the door, she slid the sweat pants off and stood there,
long-legged and nude. The guard was breathless, afraid to move, not wanting to take his eyes from Monica, as if he feared that blinking would cause the vision before him to vanish.
The look on his face made Juanita think that they could all have just walked out the door past him, as long as Monica stood displaying her long smooth body. She thought it, but she knew better than to try it. Monica’s curves were one thing. The shotgun under his arm was something else.
43. Misjudging the Sheriff
“Okay. So now what?” Sitting ramrod straight at the mahogany desk, the man in the white starched shirt and navy blue pin striped suit closed the thick file folder and slid it to the middle of the large desktop with his fingertips. “You expect me to do, what?”
Former Pickham County Sheriff Richard Klineman wasn’t sure who intimidated him more, Roy Budroe or Colton G. Swain, Attorney General for the State of Georgia. The Attorney General might well laugh him out of his office and have him escorted out of the building. The consequences for disappointing Budroe would be much more severe. It was an easy decision.
“Well…” Klineman cleared his throat. “If you read the file, it is clear that…”
“I read the file,” Swain said interrupting. “The only thing that is clear is that the GBI exonerated Mackey in the shooting of a killer. Their investigation revealed nothing that would lead a reasonable person to conclude that the shooting was a wrongful killing. This is corroborated by Sheriff Siler in Rye County.”
“Yes, but if you read the forensics…”
“You are wasting my time, Sheriff.” He used the title with just the slightest of sneers. Richard Klineman had been demolished in the last election for sheriff in Pickham County by one of his deputies' He was a one-term sheriff caught up in the election murder scandal that the press had dubbed the 'Term Limits Conspiracy'. He was a loser. “You don’t honestly expect me to seek prosecution of an honored law enforcement officer for killing a known serial killer. Even if I believed that he should be prosecuted, it’s a no-win case, no upside.” Swain stood, straightening his suit coat and said, “I believe our interview is over, Sheriff. There really isn’t anything else to discuss.”
Klineman remained seated across from the big desk, the image of Roy Budroe’s burly face floating before him. He spoke quickly. “There is more than the prosecution of Mackey, although that should be done.” He took a deep breath, knowing that it would be only seconds before Swain demanded that he leave, or be forcibly removed from the building. “I thought you might see that this unresolved investigation, might be beneficial in the next election…mutually beneficial.”
Swain betrayed no emotion, other than one raised eyebrow and sat down, suit coat still buttoned.
What a pompous prick. Who the fuck wears a suit coat at a desk, Klineman thought relaxing just the slightest. He was not being thrown out, just yet.
“Explain yourself, Sheriff.”
“One of the duties of the Attorney General is to prosecute violations of the public trust by public officials.”
“I am well aware of my duties. Get to the point, Sheriff.”
“I know you haven’t had time to look at all of the forensic evidence, but there are some interesting facts that could not be covered up.”
“For example?”
“The suspect was killed by Mackey. The bullets that killed him came from Mackey’s pistol. Forensics has clearly proven that.”
“You mean the killer was shot by Mackey, right? And that is exactly what Mackey says, so where’s the cover up?” Swain’s manicured and clear-coated fingers sat interlocked on the desktop, his back straight, but he was listening.
“He was on the ground, wounded. Mackey shot him from five feet away, almost point blank.”
Swain nodded, interested.
“The shotgun he had was by his side, his left side. The suspect was right handed. He could not have made a move for the gun unless he turned, twisted to pick it up and bring it to bear on Mackey. He could not have done that with a shattered knee.” Klineman watched Swain’s eyes seeing the interest build.
“So you’re saying…”
“Mackey executed him.” Klineman interrupted this time. It had the desired effect.
“Mackey executed the suspect...even if he was an alleged killer.” Swain reached out and pulled the file back across the desk with his manicured fingers. “Yes, I see your point. For the inquiry to end there, the GBI would have to be complicit.”
“Correct. But there’s more.” Klineman smiled for the first time, waiting for Swain to ask him to continue.
“Go ahead.” There was the slight trace of annoyance in the Attorney General’s voice. He knew that Klineman was playing him along. He did not like being played, but clearly, the former sheriff of Pickham County was growing in confidence as he spoke. There was something here. He could still have Klineman tossed from the building, but first let’s hear what he had to say. He added with smiling courtesy, “Please, Sheriff. Continue. I am listening.”
This was it. Make the case now or be sitting on the curb outside in the next five minutes.
“The GBI agent in charge of the case was Robert Shaklee.”
Swain’s eyes narrowed, understanding crossing his face. “Shaklee. The agent that…”
“The agent that Governor Jesse Bell just appointed to head his new Office of Special Investigations.” Leaning back in the leather chair, Klineman crossed his legs and waited. All the cards were played. He was all in, and the look on Swain’s face told him he had a winning hand.
Opening the file, Swain turned through the pages, stopping here and there to scan a statement or forensic report. Klineman waited silently.
Colton G. Swain had run against Bell in the last election, and he had been a sure winner, until Bell’s Special Taskforce, headed by Shaklee resolved the ‘Term Limits’ case. Bell had benefited from vast press coverage and the resultant positive poll numbers. It was a bitter pill to swallow, certain victory snatched from him at the eleventh hour. He had every intention of running against Bell again in the next election. He needed ammunition.
“A senior GBI agent covers up the murder of a man who should have stood trial for the most heinous of crimes. The people should have had justice. Our system of government demands it.” Swain spoke softly as he worked his way through the file, framing the statement he would make to the press and the arguments he would use in his opening and closing statements in court. “Evil as he was, the suspect was deprived of due process when his life was taken in a cold-blooded execution by an officer charged with the public trust. How can the public be truly safe when the officers who are supposed to protect it can cover up their crimes, even murder? How can our system survive? Can they act as judge, jury and executioner? What if it had been your son or daughter, injured on the ground facing George Mackey’s pistol? Would they have survived? Every parent must ask themselves that question. A governor who condones such a thing does not deserve to be governor.” He looked up and saw Klineman smiling and nodding appreciatively. “What?” he said, wondering if Klineman might be mocking him.
“It’s even better.”
“How so?” Swain was willing to listen to whatever Klineman had to offer at this point. He was beginning to see a way to beat the unbeatable Jesse Bell at his own game.
“My sources in Pickham County advise that Mackey is joining Shaklee at the OSI, as soon as he wraps up some matters for the new sheriff.”
“I see.” Swain nodded thoughtfully. Klineman was not as big an oaf as he thought. “So you give me the ammunition to take out Bell in the next election and in the process you eliminate the sheriff in Pickham County and get your old office back.”
Klineman nodded and smiled broadly this time. “Something like that. With Mackey prosecuted for murder, I can take Sandy Davies to task for even appointing him as Chief Deputy. Call it the ‘good old boy’ system at work.”
“I may have misjudged you, Sheriff,” Swain said nodding his appreciation and saying the t
itle with more respect than he had earlier.
Attorney General Swain took no calls for the remainder of the day. Staff had no idea why he was huddled in his office with a lowly former sheriff who had been resoundingly beaten by a newcomer. It was not like the Attorney General to waste his time unless there was some possible gain, and no one could fathom what was to be gained by spending the afternoon alone with a nobody like Dick Klineman.
44. Nothing More to Say
His finger reached out and tapped the speaker button on the vibrating cell phone that lay on the glass table between them. They had been expecting the call.
“You have news, for us Francisco?” Leaning back in the cushioned sun chair on the balcony of his suite, Eduardo Rivera sipped his gin and tonic. Ramon Guzman clipped the end of a fresh cigar, lit it and listened with interest.
“Yes.” Seated in the camper trailer, in the clearing across from the shed, Paco and Emilio huddled over the satellite phone that they had purchased in Tampa. “An update. Things are progressing well, as expected.”
“Good. Tell us everything.”
“The operation is actually well developed. The North Americans are coarse, but they are familiar with the requirements of an enterprise such as this.” The sound of paper shuffling was heard as Paco looked through the notes they had made in preparation for the call to el jefe. “They have developed a network of suppliers. We believe, sufficient to meet our needs.”
“Excellent. So you are saying that acquiring inventory will not be a problem as our exports increase.”
“No problem. And the system of suppliers continues to expand at a rate that should offset the needs of future growth in the operation.”
“And security?”
Emilio leaned towards the phone. “It is basic, but adequate. The warehouse is in an area that is unlikely to be disturbed and is easily defended with routes of escape through the swamp and countryside. There are several major highways nearby, interstates.”