by Lia Farrell
When he knew Ben had finished speaking, Wayne said, “Rob, it’s possible you and George might be in the car for ten to twelve hours. Stay concealed. I don’t want him spooked. Keep in touch with us by radio. This man is armed and dangerous. Watch yourselves,” he added.
“Ten to twelve hours?” Deputy Fuller sounded dismayed. “What if George has to pee?”
“Just take an empty bottle. Don’t leave the damn car,” the sheriff snapped. George had abandoned his post at a suspect’s house during their previous murder case because he had to pee.
“I figure we’ve got about two hours to get a precise location on that hunting cabin. Wayne, you and I are going to be waiting for Covington when he arrives. What ideas do you two have to get the address?”
“I can call the township. Probably they have a plat map they can fax over,” Dory said.
“Good idea. Wayne?”
“He might have listed the address on a hunting license. I’ll check the DNR records. And I think they’re required to have a house number on a post, in case of fire. I’ll get the number.”
“Good. While you two do that, I’m going to make a call.” Once Wayne and Dory departed, Ben dialed Mae’s phone. He didn’t catch her on either line or her cell and was only able to leave a message. “Mae, it’s me. Listen, we’re closing in on Tom Ferris’ killer. Wayne and I are going on stakeout to catch him in the area north of the Pinhook State Park. We may be gone a day or two before he shows up. I don’t want you to worry if you haven’t heard from me.”
Dory stuck her head in his door. “In case it didn’t dawn on you, Sheriff, if Rob and George are following Covington, and I have to leave the office to meet with Randee, who’s supposed to be on duty? I’ve been telling you for months we don’t have enough help around here.” This was not the first time Dory had urged Ben to add more staff, but this time he had no argument. She was absolutely right.
“Okay. I’ll call John over at the Rosedale PD and ask him to send two floaters over for the next week. Whoever he sends, I want one on phones to release you. I’ll put the other one on patrol to cover George and Rob’s usual routes. Will that do it?”
“No, it won’t. Rob’s taking the detective exam in three weeks and if he passes, we’re going to be short a deputy. Plus, I have ambitions beyond running your office.”
Ben tried to contain his frustration. By allowing Dory to take Evangeline Bontemps to dinner and go with Wayne to the biker bar, he had given her way too many ideas.
“How am I supposed to get any experience if you have me chained to the desk?”
“Seriously, Dory, ‘chained to the desk’? You make it sound like a torture chamber. Just tell me what you want.”
“I want you to take a look at the applications I’ve been collecting for deputies. Here’s the folder.” She plopped it on his desk. “While you’re going through those, I’ll call John’s office at Mont Blanc and get a time you can talk with him to request the floaters. We’re going to need them here by five today.”
“Okay. I’m also going to call Captain Paula, give her an update and see if the deputy who took me to off-site storage might be interested in working for us.”
“Okay, what’s his name? I’ll do some background.”
“Her name is Cameron Gomez.”
“Well, well, well, good for you Bradley. We could use some more estrogen around here. I suppose she’s cute too.”
Ben nodded, grinning. “I’m taken, but she would give Wayne and Rob some hope.”
“I just hope she’s enough of a bad ass to control you guys.”
Ben sighed. Things in his office were getting more complicated by the day.
With the address for Covington’s hunting cabin, obtained from the plat map office, in hand, Sheriff Bradley and Detective Nichols drove away from the station at five o’clock, leaving Dory to brief the two floaters, Ned Thompson and Jackie Forte. Jackie would be on phones; Ned would cover the usual patrol routes. To Ben’s surprise, when he called Cameron Gomez, she was very interested in applying for the deputy position. She said she’d have to tell Captain Paula, though, who might not be too pleased. Ben left a voice message for the captain telling her their plan for the evening, relieved she was unavailable to comment on his probably foolhardy venture.
Deputy Phelps called in several times over the next two hours. He followed Covington when he left the law offices on Main Street. Henry stopped at a local biker bar and Randee met him there. An hour later, Randee rode out on her bike, heading in the direction of her house. George said he’d then followed Covington to his place. As Henry opened the door to his townhouse, Phelps said he peeled out of the parking lot ostentatiously and returned to the station.
“Why did you make a production of leaving Covington’s apartment?” Ben asked.
“I wanted him to think we were done for the night.”
“Good thinking, George,” Ben said, wondering if there might be more to Deputy Phelps than he had thought.
By sundown the sheriff and his detective were already past the entrance to Pinhook State Park, heading up to White’s Creek. They were a good hour or so ahead of Covington. Around eight, Deputy Fuller called to say that Henry had left his place, switched cars, and was headed north on Old Hickory. Rob said following Henry’s camo-covered Ford truck was going to be a piece of cake.
“I’ve gotta hand it to you, Sheriff,” Wayne said. “You called this one right down the line.”
“Yeah. So far, so good. Now if he does what I expect, he’ll get to the cabin and take the gun out, intending to hide or bury it. When he walks out of the cabin with the gun, we’ll jump him.”
“Can’t we break into the cabin?” Wayne said with a grin. The detective loved pushing the envelope.
“No. We don’t have a warrant. I’m hoping a window will be open. If he comes in and meets two armed lawmen, he’ll hand over the gun. If that doesn’t work, we’ll watch from the undergrowth until we can get inside. The cover is pretty dense up there.”
The sheriff asked the dispatcher on the police radio to give him the weather report for Pinhook Mountain. A few minutes later he had his forecast. A line of thunderstorms was moving in.
“Well, my luck is officially over.” He felt a tinge of foreboding.
Wayne Nichols nodded. He had heard the forecast too. Soon after that, the radio buzzed with static. It was hard to hear Deputy Fuller’s voice.
“Say again,” the sheriff said, with a sinking feeling.
“Suspect not alone. Accompanied. Repeat, suspect is accompanied.”
Sheriff Bradley and his detective looked at each other. Wayne Nichols pulled out his gun and twirled the bullet chamber.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Detective Wayne Nichols
Sheriff Bradley was driving, but even with the coordinates and a fire post number, he got turned around a dozen times on the fire roads. The rain started. They were both swearing at the vehicle; its tires continually slipped in the clay. The gears clashed as they clawed their way up the mountain. The sheriff was ready to park and look for Covington’s place on foot when they finally spotted a little log cabin, almost completely hidden in the brush.
The car came to a stop, and Detective Nichols rolled down his window. The scent of old tar permeated the moist air. The cabin’s timbers had been oiled with creosote.
They lost another half hour covering their car with branches and making their way through the rough underbrush that led to the cabin. Every door and window was locked tight. The sheriff’s plan to have a lone Covington confront two armed representatives of the law was falling apart.
The whole forest smelled like rain-washed pine. Every now and then lightning hit someplace higher up on Pinhook Mountain, followed by thunder so close it startled them. It was totally dark when the lights of Covington’s car finally came bumping up the washboard road, its headlights striking through the trees. He turned off the car and ran cursing into the cabin. Someone followed him—impossible to tell who it w
as or even if it was male or female. The lights came on inside, and it was like watching a drive-in movie from the bushes.
They saw two men. One was definitely Covington; Detective Nichols didn’t recognize the second. When they pulled off their overcoats, he saw holsters. Both men were packing. Covington sat down on a decrepit brown couch and the other man went to the small, round-shouldered fridge and pulled out two beers. The rain turned cold during the hour that Wayne and Ben watched them. Ben texted his deputies, telling them to move their location closer.
Finally, Covington stood up. He walked toward the rear of the cabin, moved aside a dirty sheet that served as a bedroom door and disappeared into a back room. When he came out, he said something to his companion and started putting his wet coat back on.
Ben pushed aside the underbrush separating him from Wayne and said, “He’s going to come outside now. I’ll follow him. You stay here and keep an eye on number two in the house.”
Wayne nodded. The screen door squeaked open and then slammed shut. Covington pulled out a flashlight, which jumped around with his long stride. He crashed through the underbrush. When lightning hit close by, Wayne could see both the sheriff and Covington. He turned back to see what was happening in the cabin.
The second man was opening doors and drawers. He flipped up the cushions on the couch and put them back again. He looked under chairs and in the kitchen cupboards. As the man moved into the bedrooms, Wayne made his way around to the back of the house, trying to see into the high windows. Suddenly the suspect opened a window. The sash lurched up and Wayne flattened himself against the exterior wall. A branch snapped under his weight and the man swore and came out on the back porch, breathing heavily. He was holding a gun, braced in a shooter’s position. When he stepped off the porch into the wet underbrush, Wayne crept closer, panther quiet. When the man turned back to go into the cabin, Wayne rushed forward, stuck his gun into his ribs and said, “Drop your weapon. Put your hands in the air, slowly.”
The man did, and Wayne grabbed both his arms, snapping them into handcuffs. He pushed him back into the cabin.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“You’re making a big mistake,” the man said.
“I don’t think so.” Wayne hit the man in the side of the head with his gun and made a satisfied sound as his captive grunted and fell to the floor. He unlocked the cuffs and attached the man’s right wrist to the small leg of the old refrigerator before running back out into the storm. Hearing the sounds of men fighting, he raced in the direction of the noise. Then he heard a shot.
In a flash of lightning he could see two men grappling on a footbridge. It was Ben and Covington. They were high above the river. Covington was holding a gun in the air and Ben was trying to get it from him. Covington’s back was against the railing of the bridge. Wayne ran toward them; he was breathing hard. Covington saw him coming and pointed the gun in his direction. The detective saw the sudden flash of a silver pistol and felt a searing white heat. He fell to the ground, struggling to breathe. The shot had knocked the wind out of him. A piercing pain ran up his leg; he felt along it carefully. When he pulled his hand away, it was sticky with blood. There was a coppery smell.
Through the brush he could see the two men. They were still fighting, but the scene slowed way down. Ben lurched in the air, grabbing for the pistol just as Covington threw it. It made a slow motion high arc. There was a long terrible moment before Wayne Nichols heard the splash from far below. Sheriff Ben Bradley howled in rage. Covington wrenched himself from Ben’s grip and crashed away through the wet brush.
Wayne managed to yell out, “I got the other guy. He’s in cuffs in the cabin,” before the sheriff disappeared, roaring down the mountain after Covington.
Detective Nichols dialed the deputies. “George, get up here. I’ve been hit.”
Moments later, Wayne heard George lumbering through the brush. He yelled, guiding George to the place where he’d been downed. He was lying in the wet leaves when George’s flashlight hit his face.
“Go to the cabin and get the guy that’s handcuffed to the refrigerator. Put him in the back of your patrol car. I think I can make it to your vehicle.”
His leg hurt like hell, and he left a blood trail behind him, but he got to the car and pulled himself into the front passenger seat. When George appeared, he said, “Where’s the suspect?”
“I didn’t see him. Sorry, Detective, he got away.”
“Damn it, George, how did that happen?”
“He must have removed the leg of the old fridge you cuffed him to. Cabin was empty when I got there.”
“Better get me to the ER,” Wayne said, gloomily. He glanced at his watch; it was almost one-thirty in the morning.
Chapter Thirty
Sheriff Ben Bradley
The next morning Ben drove into the office in a fog. He had gotten what seemed like only minutes of sleep since the Pinhook fiasco. Scenes from the night before kept roiling around in his brain. He had managed to wrestle Covington to the ground and get the cuffs on him before Deputy Fuller appeared with a huge police flashlight.
“Hey, boss,” Deputy Fuller said as he yanked Covington to his feet. “Detective Nichols was hit, did you know?”
“No. Is it bad?”
“He says it’s just a scratch, but I guess he’s bleeding pretty heavily.”
The sheriff shook his head, sick with rage. His fists were tight, fingernails biting into his palms. His supposedly foolproof plan had crashed and burned. They reached the police car and Deputy Fuller pushed Covington’s head down, forcing him into the backseat and cuffing him to the bar. Wayne was in the front passenger seat of the deputy’s car with George Phelps at the wheel.
“Where’s the other suspect?” Ben asked Rob.
“Ran away before George got to him,” the young deputy answered.
The sheriff sat down heavily in the driver’s seat, totally spent. He had risked everything on this crazy notion that he and Wayne would be waiting snug and dry when Covington arrived at his hunting camp. The two of them, with guns drawn, would easily make him relinquish the murder weapon. The presence of the other man and the crashing storm had destroyed their advantage. Now the gun would never be recovered. It was deep in the clay, somewhere at the bottom of the Pinhook River.
Sheriff Ben Bradley and Deputy Fuller arrested Henry at two in the morning, read him his rights and put him in a cell. Then they’d gone wearily home.
“Call my lawyer,” was the only thing Covington said, through gritted teeth.
As soon as the ADA’s office opened the next morning, Sheriff Ben Bradley called the Prosecutor. He got lucky and was put right through to Terry Arnold.
“We arrested Henry Covington for the murder of Thomas John Ferris around two this morning.”
“Okay. Why call me, Sheriff Ben? You know the drill. I’ll wait for your report.”
“You’ll have the report in an hour, but this case has garnered a lot of publicity already and I wanted to run over the evidence with you to be sure you would try it. It’s not cut and dried.”
“Fine, make it short.”
“First off, Covington had opportunity. He was in the house at the time of the Ferris murder. We’ve got CCTV tape that shows him there. Two other women were in the house. They’ve both been eliminated as suspects.” He thought for a moment about Mrs. Anderson, wanting to spare her from testifying if possible, but then added, “We have an eye witness who saw him leaving the house immediately after the murder.”
“Go on.”
“Second, we have motive. We believe Covington killed Ferris to conceal a murder he committed fifteen years ago. That case was misclassified as a suicide of a fraternity brother of Henry Covington’s named Ryan Gentry. At that time, Covington threatened Tom Ferris—who was Gentry’s roommate—and told him to leave town. Probably thought Ferris could identify him as Ryan’s killer.
“Third, there’s means. The bullet that killed Ferris was a Winchester one fif
ty-eight grain semi-wad cutter hollow point. We retrieved it from the body. Covington tried to dispose of the gun that killed Ferris, injuring my detective in a shoot-out last night up in the Pinhook.”
“Where’s the gun now?”
“The bottom of the Pinhook River,” the sheriff admitted. “It was the murder weapon, though, I got a good look at it. It was a Beretta Tomcat thirty thirty-two. I looked up the caliber this morning, and it was thirty-two ACP. That’s the kind that uses one fifty-eight grain semi-wad cutter hollow points. And why would Covington have been so hell bent on throwing it in the river if it wasn’t the murder weapon?” Ben exhaled slowly, hoping to God the DA’s office would think they had enough evidence to indict.
“Can’t you just get him to confess? That would make my job a lot easier.”
Ben felt his whole body begin to relax. The ADA sounded like he was on board.
“Not without violating every rule of the Geneva Convention. And while I’m tempted, Captain Paula from Nashville would have my ass.”
“Get your report to me and I’ll talk to the district attorney. If he agrees to try the case, the perp will need to come before the Judge. I’ll request remand. His defense attorney will ask that he be released on the basis that you don’t have the murder weapon, blah, blah, blah. Since it’s a capital crime, we’ll need to assemble a grand jury. Man, it’s just not my day.” His weary voice trailed off and there was a click.
At the end of a long afternoon of tying up loose ends, the sheriff got a call from Hadley Johns in the lab. When they finished talking, euphoria raced through him like a shot of hard liquor. Their first check of the shutter dogs for fingerprints at the Booth Showhouse had turned up pieces so fragmentary and minimal, the system gave them nothing. Johns had forwarded the data to the state lab, where they had new equipment that could take partial fingerprints and stitch them together like a piece quilt. The result was a match to Henry Covington. The gun was at the bottom of the river, but the fingerprints were conclusive. They had the bastard in the house at the time of the Ferris murder, and now tiny Mrs. Anderson wouldn’t have to be torn to shreds by a defense attorney.