When Blood Cries

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Collection of your keepsakes?” I said to her as I sat down in front of the fire.

  “No,” she said without explanation.

  The fire felt really good. I had no doubt that it was severely cold outside in the snow. I was elated to be inside in front of a fire. I waited to see if Starnes would identify her collection of things.

  “Oh,” she said as she retrieved a small frame from the cigar box.

  I sat silently, still enjoying the warmth. This was the best part of Christmas for me so far.

  “This belonged to my mother,” she said.

  She stretched out her arm in my direction with the frame in hand without making a move to leave the couch and actually hand the item to me. I got up from the couch and took her offering.

  It was a small, framed saying that read – Remember that I will always love you.

  “Nice,” I said without knowing what else to say.

  “Mother gave that to Daddy.”

  “Oh.”

  “This is his box of junk. He kept it all these years.”

  “You know the occasion of her gift to him?”

  “When the rascal came crawling home after his affair.”

  “Wow,” I said without much emotion. “Special lady, your mother.”

  Starnes did not reply. I noticed that she was too busy wiping her eyes to respond. I stood, handed her the framed quotation, and left. Sometimes even folks like me know when to exit a room.

  We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for our later-in-the-day Christmas meal. It sounds like we were impoverished; but, the truth is that we were both craving the childhood delight. Yeah, we had milk to wash down the sandwiches. Her spirits seem to rise a little during and after the peanut butter and jelly delight.

  Except for some juvenile pranks, a few break-ins, and a drug bust near the Tennessee border over by the small town of Hot Springs, everything was quiet in the county during the holidays. I waited a few days to talk with Starnes about the information Rogers had discovered.

  “A new wrinkle,” she said.

  “Yeah, at least that.”

  “We have no probable cause to obtain her Luger,” Starnes said.

  “We might have one.”

  “How so?”

  “What do you want to bet that when she moved from North Carolina to Tennessee, she did not register the gun nor did she inform the Tennessee authorities that she had a concealed weapon permit?” I said.

  “Remind me never to go afoul of the law with you sniffing around the vicinity.”

  “I try.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The trial began in January and lasted for two weeks. When the jury was finally out trying to reach a verdict, Starnes received a call from Cain saying he wanted to talk with me as soon as possible.

  I stopped by the jail to see what Cain wanted to discuss with me.

  “You think I’m guilty.” It sounded more like a question than a statement but he had no inflection at the end of his sentence.

  “I have questions.”

  “I hated my brother.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “Can’t say I’m really sorry he’s dead.”

  I had nothing to say to that. I let it ride. He called me because he wanted to talk. I was willing to listen, just in case he said something that might answer the questions I had.

  “He ruint my life, you know.”

  “He betrayed you,” I said, “but then, he’s not responsible for the way you reacted to his betrayal.”

  “You a shrink or some such trash as that?”

  “No. Outside observer.”

  “Offering free advice.”

  “Didn’t offer any advice. Simple honesty.”

  “You don’t think he’s the reason I’m in here?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “If you didn’t kill your brother, then you’re a helluva fall guy.”

  “Like a patsy or something?”

  “Or something.”

  I met Starnes at the greasy spoon in Madison. She started lunch without me. It was a short walk from the jail to the café.

  “That looks sinfully fattening,” I said as I sat down in the booth.

  “Wrong in so many ways.”

  “But good.”

  “Way beyond that. Why does this kind of food taste so good?”

  “I used to have a philosophy about that.”

  She took a large bite of her cheeseburger and chewed. I think she was waiting on me to hand over my philosophy. She raised her eyebrows and rolled her eye in my direction.

  “If it tastes good, then it’s bad for you. If it tastes bad, then it is good for you.”

  She stared at me with a blank expression.

  “Stupid philosophy,” she said.

  “Yeah. I did say it was a used-to-have philosophy.”

  “Cain Gosnell answer any of your questions?”

  “No.”

  “You reach any conclusions?”

  “No.”

  “Wasted trip, huh?” Starnes took another bite and chewed as if she enjoyed the mechanics.

  “No, but he didn’t give me much to go on.”

  “He gave you nothing to chase down, and yet you say it was not wasted. Explain yourself,” she said.

  “My intuition still holds. Nothing has changed regarding that.”

  “You ask him anything?”

  “It was his nickel. He wanted to talk, so I let him talk.”

  “So what do you think?” Starnes said after she downed some sweet tea.

  “I think I still have some questions about Abel Gosnell’s death.”

  “Which means you’re not satisfied that we have his killer.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s what it means.”

  It was difficult to say which way the jury would find, but the circumstantial evidence against him was solid. Prints on the car, prints on some cans at the camp fire, prints on the gun, and then the slugs were a sixty percent match to Cain’s gun. The coroner testified that Abel had been tortured, cut, and bound before he was shot in the head. He died from massive head trauma. The short version is that his brains were blown out one side of the skull. He was likely shot some where other than inside the truck, placed in the truck, and then the truck was forced over the embankment and landed in the creek bed.

  The version of what happened next was offered by the D.A. who called a bevy of witnesses to encourage the jury to get an idea of the events after the dead body was in the creek. The storyline went this way: when the truck crashed into the water, the driver’s side door opened and Abel’s body landed in the water. Whoever had secured him in the vehicle had forgotten to fasten his seatbelt. Hard to remember everything when you murder someone. The body then floated down the branch towards the French Broad. Because of the summer storms, the already dead body was caught up in the branches of a fallen oak tree because the river was up at least three feet. It remained in the oak branches until it was discovered by the authorities. In this case, the authority was Sam, the brilliant canine detective. The D.A. chose not to mention Sam as the one who discovered the body. It was as close as Sam had ever come to being named in a criminal law suit. He took the news lying down.

  The third day of jury deliberations had ended without a verdict. Starnes and I were sitting on her front porch watching the rain. Yeah, it was cold and miserable. We had on our heavy coats. I was blowing breath out of my mouth and watching the vapor rise. Sam was in the yard sniffing around some bushes. Starnes was in a rocker but sitting very still. Too cold to move even in a rocker.

  “You having fun?” Starnes said.

  “Out here in the cold?”

  “Just watching you play around with your cold breath,” she said.

  “I used to do this as a child.”

  “Somewhere it says you’re supposed to put away childish things.”

  “That would be only after you become a man, I think the quote says.”

  “Ain’t
gonna happen, right?”

  “On so many levels.”

  “That handgun violation for Luci going anywhere?” she said.

  “The wheels of progress grind slowly.”

  “But your vigilance knows no limitation.”

  “Nor my hard-headedness.”

  It took me longer than I had expected to convince some law enforcement personnel in Johnson City to allow me talk with the sheriff of Unicoi County in regards to the gun violation. I had tried to go straight to the sheriff in early January, but he was on vacation for a few days, then he had a fugitive to transport to Texas, and the folks in his office were positively no help. I went to Johnson City.

  Even after I had convinced Johnson City to assist me, it took a couple of weeks to clear their schedule enough to meet with me in the Unicoi County Sheriff’s Department. Paperwork in a bureaucracy is stifling. No wonder the Federal Government has to have the National Parks Service plant trees on a constant basis. The paperwork is excruciatingly bountiful.

  It was late January when the paperwork was finished, the Sheriff of Unicoi County was obliged to go with Starnes Carver and me to the home of Lucinda Bradshaw and confiscate the German Luger she possessed. The fact that it was registered in North Carolina under the name of Abel Gosnell contributed to the delay in carrying out this simple gun check. The fact that Abel was dead did not help matters any.

  While this little drama was being played out in Tennessee, the jury brought back a verdict of guilty for Cain Gosnell. I doubt if the verdict surprised anyone, except maybe Cain who must have believed all along that he would be acquitted. It seemed to me that his attorney had failed to inform him of the reality of courtroom decisions. The sentencing was scheduled for February 17.

  I stopped by the jail while Starnes finished her work for the day. While waiting on her, I meandered into the lockup section to see if I could talk with Cain. Not that we were friends or anything of the sort, but I still had a nagging thing going on inside me that told me something was not settled. Or right. Or copasetic.

  “What do you want?” Cain said when he saw me at the window.

  “Just wondering if you had anything to tell me now that your fate was sealed.”

  “I didn’t kill him. I slaughtered those sheep, but I didn’t kill my brother.”

  “You know who did?”

  “No.”

  “You have no idea who hated enough to kill him.”

  “Besides me?”

  “Yeah, besides you.”

  “Well, I guess Lucinda hated him enough, but she wouldn’t have the …” he paused and decided not to say what he was thinking. “She couldn’t pull it off. But she did hate him.”

  “Where’d she get the gun that was used to kill your brother?”

  The question seemed to surprise him. I think I just overturned one of those rocks that you look under and find something unexpected.

  “Didn’t know she had a gun,” he said.

  “She has a 9mm German Luger.”

  He was thinking and not talking to me.

  “Wouldn’t say exactly that she owned it. She had one in her possession. It appears to be one strikingly similar to yours.”

  “I guess she got it for protection. I couldn’t say how or where she got it.”

  “9mm German Luger is not a standard handgun in this country, at least not one like those two going back to World War I.”

  “You know this for a fact?” he asked.

  He seemed to be hiding something, but I had no idea what that could be. I watch him for several moments as he wrestled mentally with something.

  “We need to get the gun from her and have it checked, you know, authenticated. But, I have it on good authority that she does possess a 9mm German Luger. Too much of a coincidence for that to be the same caliber and model of the handgun you own. She could’ve used your gun, right?”

  “Hell, I don’t let anybody use my gun.”

  “Not even your wife?”

  “Nobody uses my gun but me.”

  I got up from the chair and started to leave.

  “Hey, you believe me, don’t ya?” he said loudly.

  “I’m still working on things. I’m not convinced you acted alone.”

  “I didn’t act at all, I told ya. Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Must be your winning personality that is so hard to swallow. Then there’s the jury’s verdict. Several things are against you.”

  I met Starnes at the front of the building and we left for home.

  “You hassling my prisoners?”

  “One of them.”

  “I bet I can guess.”

  “Yeah. Can’t shake this one.”

  “Just because you don’t think he killed his brother … you could be very wrong, you know. In fact, twelve jurors say clearly that you are wrong.”

  “It took them eight days.”

  “Shouldn’t have taken that long,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know. You think juries know the difference between circumstantial evidence and hard evidence?”

  “My opinion … no. But in the end it proved to be enough to satisfy them.”

  “Yeah, but was it a just verdict?”

  “Makes a body wonder. Still, it’s the way our system works. Blind justice.”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to be blind.”

  “You still gonna chase down Luci’s gun violation?” Starnes said.

  “As long as the law enforcement of Unicoi County permits my doggedness.”

  “What good does taking her gun from her do us?”

  “Nothing, unless the Sheriff of Unicoi County lets us have the gun to check.”

  “He’s not likely to relinquish that firearm to you or to me. She broke the law in Tennessee, not North Carolina.”

  “We could ask sweetly.”

  “I could ask sweetly. Sweet is not in your wheelhouse.”

  “Yeah, you do sweet so well.”

  “She actually broke the law in North Carolina, too. She failed to register the handgun here. If it was a gift, then she should’ve had it re-registered in her name.”

  “Do you have any idea how many unregistered handguns exist in the mountains of western North Carolina, to say nothing of east Tennessee?” Starnes said.

  Her point was solid, so I chose not to answer.

  “Couldn’t you tell the Tennessee sheriff that the gun is suspected of being used in a crime in this state and you wish to have it examined by the North Carolina authorities?” I said.

  “And which crime would that be? The crime you want it for is solved. The case is over. We’re just waiting on the judge to impose sentencing. You want me to make up some crime and violate several statutes in the process?”

  “Would you?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Should I call the sheriff in Tennessee and tell him that I couldn’t get you to lie so he might as well give the gun back?”

  “You could do that, but I don’t think you need to. He’ll give it back anyway. He’s probably wondering why on earth you went to all that trouble just so Lucinda would have to pay a fine and get her hands slapped.”

  “Yeah, it was a long shot.”

  “And it didn’t work out.”

  “That too.”

  Just before we sat down to supper, Starnes Carver received a telephone call from the sheriff over in Unicoi County telling her that everything had checked out and that Lucinda Bradshaw had legally registered her firearm in the state of Tennessee. It seems that since the original owner was deceased, it was merely a formality for her to register the gun in her name. There was a technicality on the concealed weapon permit, so she was no longer able to carry the gun with her. He also told Starnes that he had returned the gun to Lucinda Bradshaw.

  For some reason I did not feel any safer knowing that she could not hide the gun on her person when she went shopping at the mall in Johnson City.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  On the third of February I was sitting in
Starnes’ office waiting on the world to end. Nothing else was happening, so I was wondering how much longer we all had. Starnes was busy with the wonders of red tape and fussing under her breath. It was raining outside. It had been raining for several days. Started in late January and had decided not to quit. A low pressure system had developed, moved in over the mountains, and then camped there as if to say that life was going to be wet for a while. My one consolation was that the precipitation was not white.

  It was, however, cold with the temperatures floating around thirty-five degrees unless the wind decided to blow. Then it felt much colder. Why anyone would want to live in the mountains in the dead of winter is beyond me.

  The door opened and a teenage boy entered. He looked to be about thirteen or fourteen and tall for his age. His dirty blond hair had that wild look to it which was the current style among some of the high school crowd. He was wearing an old letter jacket that looked as if it had belonged to his grandfather back in the 60’s. His boots that were caked with red mud. Some of the mud fell off when he approached Starnes’ desk. The mud was wet.

  She looked up when he stopped at the edge of her work station.

  “Why aren’t you in school today?” she said.

  “Am…was…I just cum down here to tell ya sum’thin’.” He stammered a bit from being nervous.

  “Go ahead and tell me, then you go back to school.”

  “I found a body this morning.”

  “What kind of body?” she said.

  “A dead one.”

  Starnes stopped shuffling the papers, put down her pen and stood up. She walked around to the front of the desk and leaned on it while she studied her young subject. He was an inch or so taller than Starnes. I don’t think that fact fazed her.

  The teenager shifted his weight and moved back a few steps when she approached him. He had been content to have her desk as a barrier between them. Now there was nothing between them but air and the naked truth. His uneasiness increased despite his height advantage.