“Just being here to support us is all we could ask,” Wilma said. She was tall and thin like her husband, with bouffant white hair. She sheltered young Tony in a comforting hug. “Your kids aren’t supposed to go before you do.”
Sam unfolded his lanky frame from the sofa. “Let’s go try some of Tara’s coffee, Greg. She just brewed a fresh pot of decaf.”
As I followed him into the small kitchen with its curved breakfast nook, I noticed the slump in his shoulders. Sam had retired as a bird colonel, first flying combat missions in Korea, last assigned to monstrous transports like the C-5. My OSI career had, thanks to my somewhat perverse nature, stalled out at the rank of lieutenant colonel.
He nodded toward a table beside the bay window. “Sit down and I’ll get your coffee.”
I sat and gazed out at the yellow leaves falling from a large maple in the fenced back yard.
After Sam had placed the mugs on the table and sat down beside me, he shook his nearly balding head. “I still can’t believe it. Tim had no reason to kill himself.” He looked across at me, his brow rumpled. “But that’s what the officer claimed.”
“You said it was a sheriff’s deputy?” That was about all I had gotten out of him on the phone.
“Yeah.”
“When did he call?”
“It was around seven-thirty. He called Tara. A Sergeant Payne, I believe.”
“What did he tell her?”
“He said they had found Tim’s body in his car at a national park. It was near The Sand Castle project.”
“The Gulf Islands National Seashore?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“The entrance is just beyond The Sand Castle. It’s about a mile from our condo.” I took a sip of coffee, not tasting it, thinking of Tim. “What time did they find him?”
“I don’t think he said. Or if he did, Tara was too shaken to remember.”
“Did he tell her anything else?”
“He said Tim’s gun was found on the floor.”
I’d had experience with a number of suicides. I had seen cases where the victim still clutched his weapon and others where the gun had fallen beside him. I might mention the use of “his” and “him” here is not male chauvinism, something I’ve been guilty of on occasion. It’s just that for some reason, most suicides by firearms are men.
“They’re sure it was Tim’s gun?” I asked.
He looked down at his coffee mug, turning it slowly with his long fingers. “I don’t know. But I do know he kept a gun in his car.”
“Really?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea what in particular precipitated it. He told me a couple of months ago that he had bought a pistol—it was similar to the one he was issued in the Navy. He said he was concerned about crime in the area.”
“What area?”
“His office. Seems I recall maybe a carjacking or a holdup around there. He never mentioned any specific threat.”
“A lot of people carry guns these days.”
Sam nodded. “I had noticed a subtle change in him the past few months, though I doubt it had anything to do with the gun. But something seemed to be bothering him. I can’t say if it was personal or professional.”
I could hear the pain in his voice, see it in the tautness of the skin across his jaw. Sam and I had been friends for three years now. Along with our wives, we belonged to the same Sunday School class at Gethsemane United Methodist Church. I wasn’t sure about Sam’s motivation, but I had wound up there following a long siege of coaxing by a wife who had developed persuasion into a fine art. Anyway, the Gannons and McKenzies had traveled to the Holy Land the previous November. That trip led to a fateful incident that nearly cost Jill and me our lives and no doubt resulted in her shoulder injury. As I sipped the coffee, I also recalled how it had prodded me back into the smoking habit I was struggling to kick.
At this point, I wasn’t sure what to believe. Most of what Sam had said certainly pointed to the likelihood that Tim Gannon had killed himself. But I didn’t want to discount Sam’s feelings. And years of training and experience had taught me one unforgettable lesson: few things are ever as simple as they first appear.
Chapter 3
I took a long swallow of coffee before going on.
“I didn’t know Tim really well,” I said. “Just what I’d seen of him a few times at your house, and when we had everybody over at our place. And, of course, the times we arranged for him to use the condo. But he seemed very intelligent and likeable and...well, a sharp young guy with a lot going for him.”
“Exactly.” Sam warmed to the subject. “His business was doing great. He had added several new people for this Sand Castle project. And he was determined to make New Horizons Architects and Engineers a major consulting firm. You know the story behind that condominium, don’t you?”
I shook my head.
“Remember that big church he designed and engineered in Franklin?”
I nodded, recalling the classic facade with its soaring columns and towering steeple. We had driven by the church, located in the next county to the south, shortly after our move to Hermitage, a suburb on the eastern edge of Metropolitan Nashville named after President Andrew Jackson’s historic mansion.
“Tim won an architectural award for that church,” Sam said, “and was written up in a national magazine. The article mentioned that he had also done a seven-story apartment building. The developer of this high-rise condo in Florida read about it and invited him to submit a design idea. They wound up choosing Tim for the job, both the design and the engineering. It was quite a coup. The total cost of the project was something over twenty million dollars.”
“Must have been a pretty big leap for Tim.”
“Definitely.” Sam got up and headed for the kitchen counter. “How about a little more coffee?”
I nodded, quietly gauging my friend, the stress of his loss.
When Sam came back with the steaming pot, I asked, “Wasn’t Tim a bit intimidated by the size of the project?”
“The boy had no fear. Some of his engineer friends thought he was over-extending himself, but he staffed up for the job. It was what he had always said he wanted to do—get into big-time construction.”
I scratched my head thoughtfully. “He was a former Navy pilot, right? Why’d a hotshot Top Gun type give that up to go into the construction field?”
Sam spread his hands. “That Navy business was something he got carried away with in college. Wilma had a brother in Knoxville who steered him toward the University of Tennessee. Tim had graduated from high school at sixteen. He was exceptionally bright. Really ambitious, too. He insisted on studying both engineering and architecture.”
“That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”
“Right. Engineers are practical application guys who get their kicks attaching Part A to Part B. Architects are concept types who like to think in the abstract. Anyway, by the time he got his degrees, a couple of his classmates had gotten him all fired up with this idea of being a naval aviator. Of course, he had lived on Air Force bases and been around airplanes most of his life. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was always a determined kid.”
“I believe he told me he was stationed at Pensacola for a while,” I said.
“Right. He ended up a flight instructor down there. That’s a demanding assignment, but not one with much glamour. I think it helped him decide to end his Navy career and get back into engineering. He worked for a consulting firm in Nashville for a few years, qualifying for his professional engineer’s license along the way. Then he apprenticed with an older architect, got his license in that field and went into practice.”
“When did he start his own business?”
“About five years ago. He’s a...” Sam hesitated, realizing he had slipped into the present tense. “He was a good organizer, a good people person. He knew how to get the best out of his employees. The business was a success from the start.”
As I looked out the w
indow, sipping on my coffee, I saw Tom, the oldest boy, kicking slowly through the clutter of brown leaves in the yard. He reminded me of his father. Tom was polite and soft-spoken, with the same dark hair and slightly bemused expression. At least that’s the way he had been. Now he walked with head down, hands jammed into his pockets. It was enough to bring tears to a hardass like me. It also reminded me of something Tim had mentioned. I turned to Sam.
“When I gave Tim the condo key a few days ago, I got the impression he was concerned about the amount of time The Sand Castle project had taken him away from his family.”
Sam nodded. “It was definitely troubling. Particularly that he didn’t have time to take the boys fishing back in the summer. That may have contributed to the change in him I had noticed. But he was completely wrapped up in that condominium project. I’ve never seen him more determined. That’s one reason I can’t believe he would have shot himself.”
“Did the cop say anything about a suicide note?”
“No.” Sam gripped his hands and rubbed them in a gesture of helplessness.
Listening to Sam, I was persuaded there were sufficient grounds for questioning whether Tim had committed suicide. I decided it might be useful to look into the matter a little deeper for Sam’s benefit as well as my own. “Would you like me to call this Sergeant Payne and see what I can find out?”
His face brightened. “Would you? You know a lot more about this sort of thing than I do.”
Sam knew my background included experience as a deputy sheriff in St. Louis County, Missouri after finishing college. My original plan to join the Air Force was put on hold when my parents died in an airliner crash on the way to my graduation. An uncle who was chief of deputies steered me into the job with the sheriff. But after enjoying four years of knocking heads with a variety of lawbreakers, I tired of the politics involved and followed my initial instincts, going into the service.
Five minutes later, using a portable phone, I had the deputy on the line. His name, I learned, was Sgt. J. W. Payne. Sam listened in on an extension that hung on the wall beside the refrigerator.
“This is Gregory McKenzie in Nashville, Tennessee,” I said. “I’m a close friend of Sam Gannon, whose son Tim was found in his car at the National Seashore this morning.”
“Did you get my message?” the sergeant asked in a deep voice that carried authority.
I frowned, confused. “What message?”
“I’ve been calling your house. Left a message on your machine.”
“What about?”
“I was told that Timothy Gannon was staying at your condo down here.”
“That’s right.”
“The Gulf Sands office gave me your number. I’d like permission to go inside your apartment and look for a suicide note.”
That answered my question. They had found nothing in Tim’s car. “I have no objection, Sergeant. The people at the condo office can let you in. I should think a superficial search is all you’d need to do.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. McKenzie. We won’t be going through your personal belongings.”
“Frankly, I don’t think you’ll find anything, Sergeant. Neither his dad nor I can believe he committed suicide. He was a young man with a great future ahead of him.”
“Are you aware of what happened here last night?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The penthouse balcony gave way at The Sand Castle. It was in the midst of a big party thrown by the developer. Two people got killed and several more were injured. What Mr. Gannon had ahead of him, if you ask me, was a bunch of hefty lawsuits. If you’d’ve seen the look on his face last night, you could believe suicide.”
As I watched, Sam’s expression went from apprehension to devastation.
Chapter 4
Sam and I had just returned to the living room to explain what we had learned from Sergeant Payne when the door chimes rang. As we watched, Tara greeted a man with a full head of sandy hair and a short, chunky build. He was dressed in blue jeans and a denim jacket. His smudged boots made him look like a hunter or a fisherman just in from the wild. But something about him, probably the prominent nose and receding chin, reminded me of a big fat weasel with horn-rim glasses. He hugged Tara, then followed her into the room. Ted, her middle son, darted toward him with the anguished cry, “Uncle Walt.”
The man bent down to hug young Ted, then turned to Tara. “I was out on the lake when you called. I came as soon as I got your message.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking a deep breath. “You know Tim’s mom and dad. This is their close friends Greg and Jill McKenzie.” She looked across at me. “Mr. McKenzie, meet Walt Sturdivant, Tim’s right-hand man at New Horizons.”
He hurried over to shake my hand, then nodded at Jill. When he spoke, he rushed the words like a man short on patience. “Nice to meet both of you. I’m still in shock. What happened?”
“Greg just talked with a sergeant from the sheriff’s office in Pensacola,” Sam said. “I’ll let him fill you in.”
I hated to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m no good at sugarcoating a tasteless dish. When I had finished with what Sergeant Payne told me, Sturdivant’s eyes widened.
“The penthouse balcony? No way.” He pulled a gnarled pipe from his pocket and pointed its dark wood stem for emphasis. “That building was designed to withstand a major hurricane. I’m a mechanical, not a structural, engineer. But I went over every feature of that building with Tim. The balcony was a cantilever design, loaded with heavy rebars. Unless the contractor screwed up, nothing like that could have happened.”
“Could the contractor have goofed?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s possible. I was down there a few times. Never when they were pouring concrete. If there was a problem, though, the inspector should have caught it. He’s required to be there for every pour. Even takes backup photographs.”
“The sergeant talked like Tim felt he was responsible for those people dying,” Sam said.
Sturdivant shook his head, stuck the pipe between his teeth and spoke around it. “He shouldn’t have.”
Sam dropped down onto the sofa, his face drawn. “Well, even if he had...if he had somehow felt responsibility for what happened, he wouldn’t have shot himself. He would have faced the consequences like a man.”
Sam looked around at Wilma. “Remember when he was in the Navy and they accused him of causing a serious auto accident on base? He didn’t try to run or make excuses. He accepted the consequences and made the best of it.”
During the next hour, the phone was seldom idle. Tara talked with our minister, arranging the funeral for early Monday morning—the deputy had said Tim’s body should be released by the Medical Examiner later today. Sam phoned a few friends and relatives and Sturdivant contacted employees of New Horizons Architects & Engineers. It was around ten when Sergeant Payne called back and asked for me.
“We didn’t find anything of interest in your condo, Mr. McKenzie,” he said. “I was careful not to disturb any of your things. There was a laptop computer on the bedroom desk, but I didn’t know if it was yours or his.”
Actually, it was Tim’s, but I let it go. “So we were right—no suicide note.”
He reminded me of something I already knew. “That doesn’t rule out suicide. Most of them don’t leave notes. We checked on the gun, incidentally. It was a Colt .38 Special, registered to Timothy Gannon in Nashville.”
“I believe he had a permit to carry it, Sergeant. Florida has reciprocity with Tennessee.” I knew. I had checked before bringing my 9mm Beretta down the first time. It was a chopped version of the weapon I had used on active duty. I didn’t find it necessary to carry all the time, but I usually kept it close by.
“Weapons are not allowed in parks, state or federal,” Payne said.
Touché.
“Did you check it for fingerprints?”
“His were the only ones.”
“What about the round?”
&nb
sp; “It was a .38, same as the gun. We found it in the back seat. It had struck the door post and wound up on the floor.”
“Have you heard from the ME’s office?”
“No, sir. But they’re working on the autopsy now.”
“Who found the body, Sergeant?”
“A couple of fishermen. They had just brought their boat in.”
“What time?”
“Around six a.m.”
“Did they open the car door?”
“No. It was locked. They saw him through the window and called star-five-five on their cell phone.”
“The emergency number for the Park Service,” I said. I recalled the sign on the National Seashore road at the entrance to Johnson Beach.
“Yes, sir. The parks dispatcher notified the law enforcement ranger. After he checked it out, he called me.”
“I presume the ranger took measures to protect the scene?”
There was a pause before he asked, “Are you a police officer, Mr. McKenzie?”
“No, Sergeant. I’m a retired special agent in charge with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. I also worked as an investigator with the DA’s office in Nashville.”
“Well, sir, I can assure you that everybody’s been very thorough with this case. And I fully expect the Medical Examiner to rule it a suicide.”
Despite Sam’s strong feelings and my tentative doubts, fueled by Sturdivant’s description of the balcony design, I had no real basis to question the deputy’s rigid opinion. But I didn’t like his know-it-all attitude. “Thank you, Sergeant,” I said. “When will his car and personal effects be available to pick up?”
“As soon as the body’s released by the ME. The vehicle is in our impound yard.”
Tim drove a plain-Jane three-year-old Chevy Blazer. Sam had told me Tim was spending most of his money on a new building and staff. He wasn’t much on perks like expensive meals and fancy cars.
“Did you find our condo key in the vehicle?” I asked. “It was on a Gulf Sands key chain.”
Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4 Page 25