Blackman's Coffin

by Mark de Castrique

  “I appreciate what you’ve done for me,” I said. “When I need another checkup, I’d like to come back here and see you.”

  Anderson clapped me on the back. He’d never been so “touchy-feely” before. “If I’ve not been put out to pasture. But I’ll be in Asheville either way so look me up.” He lifted a clipboard off his desk. “I’ll schedule you to see Hinnant’s people at two this afternoon. After that, I’ll make sure everything’s ready for your discharge.”

  I turned to go.

  “Blackman. After I saw you yesterday, I heard you’d slipped out to look into Tikima Robertson’s murder.”

  I stopped and faced him. “Yes, sir. Tikima had visited me. Her sister thought maybe I could help somehow.”

  “Did you?”

  “Let’s just say I might have gotten the police back on track.”

  Anderson nodded. “Tikima was a good soldier. I served with her father in Vietnam. I’d like nothing more than to see her killer brought to justice.”

  ***

  I went to the library to review my statement for Peters. A fresh look on a fresh day helped me make sure the report was as clear and concise as I could make it. I planned to have Nakayla deliver it to the detective along with the journal and the Armitage files as soon as we met with Ted Mitchell at the Wolfe Memorial. I thought about going with her to the police station, but Stanley would be itching to leave and after his brief run-in with Peters yesterday, another encounter might only set a combative tone for our drive to Birmingham.

  I folded my statement and stuck it in the journal. As I rose from the table, Carol, one of the physical therapists, entered.

  “There you are.” She handed me a scrap of paper. “You had a phone call and when you weren’t in your room, the guy said he couldn’t hold.”

  I looked at a string of numbers scrawled in pencil.

  “Did he leave a name?”

  “No, just asked that you call as soon as you could.”

  I studied the digits. “They’re too many to be a phone number.”

  Carol laughed. “Shhh. It’s a 336 area code. Long distance. I gave you the access sequence so you can dial directly out of the hospital. Let the VA pick up your tab.”

  336. The area code in Winston-Salem where Stanley was meeting with the lawyers for Galaxy Movers.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Was Mr. Carlisle in the room?”

  “Yes. Look, if it’s personal, you can use my phone. I’ve got a session starting in five minutes in the gym.”

  Carol closed the door to her small office, leaving me with one of the rarest possessions you can find in a hospital—privacy. I scooted closer to her desk, lifted a pen from several stocked in a coffee mug and tore a sheet of paper from a notepad with the unpronounceable name of some pharmaceutical product stamped across the top. A glance at the pen showed me it was courtesy of another drug company. Eliminate promotional pens and pads and prescription drug prices would probably be cut in half.

  A good seven or eight rings sounded before a voice answered. “Sam?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Walt. I’ve stepped outside our conference room and can’t talk long.”

  Walt Misenheimer. My first thought was Stanley had screwed up the power of attorney. It served him right for playing loose with the notarization.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Walt’s words dropped to a whisper. “They’re offering four hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Four hundred thousand?” The amount was larger than any check I’d ever seen, but Walt said the number like he’d been handed a wad of used Kleenex.

  “Yeah. I mean that’s about what I’d expect for a first offer.”

  “What’d Stanley think?”

  “He wants to take it. I know he has your power of attorney, but I couldn’t in good conscience accept that without talking to you.”

  Stanley the banker certainly knew the value of a dollar. I was surprised he’d go against Walt’s advice.

  “I know things have gotten tight for him,” Walt continued, “and the sale of your parents’ home doesn’t close for another two months.” He paused and I heard his muffled words, “Just another minute.” Then his raspy whisper returned. “Christ, I still think he let the house go too cheap.”

  Stanley was executor of our parents’ estate. Papers had been sent for me to sign in the hospital, but I’d been too pre-occupied with getting my life back to pay much attention.

  “I’m afraid he’s making decisions he’ll regret later,” Walt said. “When he’s back on his feet.”

  “I’m not following you. I know there must have been unexpected expenses with the twins.”

  “He didn’t tell you about the bank?”

  “He told me he might be transferred because of the merger.”

  Walt sighed in my ear. “Sam, he was laid off over six months ago. I know he’s got creditors hounding him, but accepting this settlement is a big mistake. And God knows what kind of medical expenses you could be facing long term.”

  My brother was out of a job? I’d seen the pictures of his big house with the swimming pool. His wife Ashley never met a designer dress she didn’t like. Premature twins and medical bills. His half of the settlement, even after legal fees, could solve a lot of immediate problems. And if I lived with them, I’d be bringing my disability income to the happy party. Instead of feeling sympathy for Stanley, I felt manipulated. When was he going to tell me? After I didn’t see him go to work for a week?

  “What kind of money should we be talking about?” I asked.

  “Five times that,” Walt said. “Maybe even ten times. I’d say between two and four million.”

  “And Stanley knows that?”

  “Yes, but he’s afraid Galaxy will drag this thing out in court. That’s always a possibility. But Galaxy knowingly put a drug abuser behind the wheel of a moving van. That’s not right.” Walt’s voice choked. “Your parents were my friends for over forty years and I admit this is personal for me. I want the bastards to pay. But even setting aside my own feelings, I can’t advise you to take this offer. Since you’re named as a co-plaintive, I can stop Stanley if you’ll rescind your power of attorney.”

  Suddenly Carol’s office shrank to the size of a closet. I felt claustrophobic as Walt’s words closed in on me. I needed to walk because I think better when I walk. Except now I had to think even about walking. I stood up shakily, stretching the phone cord to its limit. “Do I have to send you something in writing?”

  “No. I recognize your voice. And I originally placed the call.”

  “Stanley’s going to be furious with you.”

  Walt chuckled. “Not half as much as with you. So, what do you want me to do?”

  “I’m revoking Stanley’s power of attorney and I’m settling for nothing less than five million dollars.”

  “Good for you.” Walt paused. “This can get messy, especially where Stanley’s concerned. Try not to have things escalate to where you’re suing each other. Nobody wins those legal fights.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to be very objective and dispassionate. Because you’re right. I have to worry about my future.”

  ***

  The two o’clock meeting with Hinnant Prosthetics lasted nearly an hour. Kale Hinnant watched me walk and then had me remove the leg, socks, and liner. He checked for redness or irritation and told me to keep everything as dry and clean as I could. Even a wrinkle in a sock rubbing against my stump could create a problem. Then he had me try the second leg. There was a different feeling that was hard to describe. Sort of like the suspension in a car that’s been adjusted to handle rougher roads.

  “Walk some trails with it,” Hinnant said. “Get accustomed to the way the foot responds on different terrain and at different gaits.”

  “What about shoes?”

  “Excellent question. Are you planning on wearing any cleats?”

  “Not unless I get invited to try out for the Carolina Panthers.”

&nbs
p; Hinnant laughed. “Believe me, they could use the help.” He picked up the prosthesis and examined the foot. “If you’re not wearing anything other than a standard athletic or walking shoe, then this dynamic setup should be fine. But if the Panthers call—”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” I shook his hand and carried my extra leg and supplies to my room.

  Stanley stood outside my door. He made no move to greet me, but his face grew redder with each step I took. I stopped directly in front of him, my arms filled so that I couldn’t make a point of not shaking his hand.

  Through clenched teeth, he said, “We need to talk.”

  “No, we needed to talk. But you didn’t tell me a god-damned thing. Just had me sign the paper to give away what should have been a fair and just settlement.”

  “Five million dollars?” His voice yipped like a frantic dog’s. “You think they’ll shell out that kind of dough? We’re talking years to collect a tenth of that.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the money!” A part of my brain tried to reel back my emotions, but I thought, so much for being objective and dispassionate. “You lied to me, Stanley. That’s what hurts.”

  Stanley’s red face drained pale. He glanced up and down the hall. A nurse came out of a patient room to see what was wrong. I waved her away.

  “I didn’t lie,” Stanley protested.

  “A lie of omission is still a lie. Those sons of bitches killed our parents and you’re letting them off easy because you’ve got your ass in a financial sling, and you weren’t man enough to tell me.”

  “I thought you had enough problems of your own and God knows it’s all about you.” His lower lip quivered and suddenly he was on the verge of tears. “Killed our parents? Where were you when Mom and Dad needed you? You who defied Dad and skipped college. You who left me to take all the crap—‘work hard at the bank, Stanley, join the Rotary, Stanley, you and Ashley come to lunch at the club on Sunday, Stanley.’ God, I was never so happy as when I got transferred to Birmingham where I could breathe on my own.”

  I stepped closer to him. “Don’t lay your spineless life on me. If you ran to Birmingham because you couldn’t stand up to Dad, that’s not my fault. A little more courage and maybe you wouldn’t have gotten fired. Ever think about that. A little more backbone and maybe your wife wouldn’t spend you into the ground.” I knew as I spoke I was hitting below the belt but there was too much anger boiling out for me to stop.

  Stanley’s face went calm and he stared at me for a few seconds without saying anything. Then a cold smile creased his lips. The transformation caught me off guard, as if he knew he held a trump card and I’d overplayed my hand.

  “And you haven’t run away, little brother? Joining the army wasn’t running away? Well, what has your running gotten you?” He looked at the leg in my arms and then down to the metal pylon visible beneath my shorts. “I only lost my job.”

  Stanley spun around and walked off. I watched him go, my anger turning to fear, not that I’d lost a brother or that I now had no place to go. I was afraid that Stanley had spoken the truth.

  Chapter Eleven

  As Nakayla walked through the cafeteria toward me, several patients turned their heads from their hospital trays, stopped chewing, and eyed her appreciatively. She wore a light green pantsuit with a cream silk scarf loosely knotted around her neck. She moved gracefully, and I felt a tingle of desire that warned me more than my leg was healing.

  I got up from the small corner table I’d commandeered and offered my hand.

  Nakayla slid her slender fingers around mine and squeezed. “Are you all right?” Her eyes studied my face while her grip tightened.

  “No. Not really. Let’s get something to eat and I’ll tell you.”

  I’d called her at work after Stanley left because she was the only person I could confide in. I’d asked if she would meet me for dinner, the hospital cafeteria being the one and only choice.

  We each took a pre-packaged tossed salad and a cup of coffee. My food sat untouched as I told her about my parents, my argument with Stanley, and that I wouldn’t be going to Birmingham. She didn’t interrupt, but a few minutes into my story, she set down her fork and gave me her undivided attention.

  I finished saying, “So, I guess I’ll go back to Winston-Salem to be close to the case. At least I’ll have my honorable discharge and my disability income, and I’ve saved some money over the years. There wasn’t much to buy in Iraq. I’ll probably stay here for a few days till I can arrange transportation. I know this is the height of tourist season, but can you recommend a motel?”

  For a few seconds, Nakayla said nothing. She looked away, and then locked her piercing eyes on mine. “The first thing you’re going to do is make peace with your brother.”

  “What? I’m not going to beg him to take me in?”

  “I’m not asking you to. I think going to Birmingham would be a mistake.” Her eyes moistened. “But I thank God Tikima and I were close. We’d had our share of arguments—some real catfights—because we were both strong-headed and I was the rebellious little sister. But I couldn’t bear it if my last words with her had been spoken in anger.”

  “I’m not apologizing for what I did.”

  “Then why are you upset? I could see it in your face halfway across the cafeteria.”

  “He tried to trick me.”

  “And you stopped him. If this were a business deal, you’d be happy.”

  I slapped the table, sloshing coffee out of both cups. “It’s not a business deal, it’s my parents’ deaths we’re talking about.”

  “Right. Your family. Like your brother. I’m not saying you didn’t do the right thing, but did you say the right thing? If Stanley were killed in a car wreck driving home tonight, would you have any regrets about the words you spoke?”

  Nakayla’s question cut to the heart of the matter. I thought about how I’d called Stanley spineless and painted his wife Ashley as a selfish socialite wannabe. What did I know about their life together, a life that now included twin girls and no income? And although Nakayla was projecting onto me her own fears, the woman had just lost her sister, and that raw wound, as real as the one that cost me my leg, must have hurt so much that she didn’t want anyone else to go through it.

  “I did say some things I regret,” I confessed. “They had nothing to do with the legal case.”

  “Then I think you need to make peace over that. I’m not suggesting you back down on what you think is the right course of action for your lawsuit.”

  “Some time will have to pass.”

  “No. Time will only complicate matters. If you say where you were wrong you’re also clarifying where you think you’re right.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t trust myself.”

  “Then write a letter. Do it tonight. We’ll mail it in the morning. You can call in a few days.”

  “And if he won’t talk to me?”

  Nakayla smiled. “Then he’ll have to live with the consequences, not you.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  She licked her lips, suddenly nervous. “I have a proposition for you. You can stay at Tikima’s.”

  For a second, my mind flashed on the apartment as a potential crime scene—the disguised journal and files on the table and the break-in while mourners attended Tikima’s funeral. To be living there, sleeping in the bed of a murdered woman, hadn’t been in my realm of possibilities.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Are you comfortable with all of her personal belongings in it?”

  “You’re welcome to anything that fits you.” Nakayla’s bittersweet smile wasn’t without warmth. “We Robertsons are very practical. The rent’s paid through the end of the month, you’re helping to find Tikima’s killer, and you need a place to stay.”

  The only objection I could raise would be my discomfort at being in the home of a homicide victim, but I sensed that response would be hurtful to Nakayla, depersonalizing her sister into some kind of m
acabre specter.

  I shrugged. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  Nakayla seemed relieved. “Good. I’ll straighten up tonight. What time can you leave in the morning?”

  “As soon as the administration office opens. Probably no later than eight-thirty.”

  “I’ll be here.” She stood.

  I got up and steadied myself against the table. “I’d like to run by Wal-Mart and pick up something other than a Hawaiian shirt.”

  “We’ll do that second.”

  “What’s first?”

  “We mail your letter to your brother.”

  ***

  The Thomas Wolfe Memorial Visitor Center was a light blue building on Market Street between Woodfin and Walnut. The shop in the lobby offered all of Wolfe’s novels, a variety of Wolfe biographies including Ted Mitchell’s, and a collection of pictorial books of historic Asheville, most of them concentrating on the late 1800s and early 1900s. A reception desk with a cash register was on the left wall. The woman behind it greeted us pleasantly. Her nameplate read Susan.

  I let Nakayla do the talking while I stood beside her, confident in my new golf shirt and beltless slacks only thirty minutes off the Wal-Mart rack.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Mitchell,” Nakayla said.

  Susan looked confused. “You have an appointment with Ted Mitchell?”

  “No. But I was told he’d be here this morning so we took a chance.”

  Ted Mitchell hadn’t returned Nakayla’s voicemail, and we suspected he’d been out of town and might be driving straight to work.

  “Ted’s leading the first tour. He won’t be free till after eleven.”

  “Has the tour started?” Nakayla asked.

  “No. I’ll be calling everyone to the rear doors in about ten minutes.”

  Everyone at the moment seemed to be a retired couple browsing the books and two young men listening to recordings of Wolfe family members on old-fashioned telephones across the lobby.