by WF Ranew
Red had told Jack about the fake ID papers. He’d confront John Craven with those.
“But that’s only to get his attention,” Red said. “For me to get to the bottom of the Goings family murders, which you remember, I need his help on identifying the actual killer.”
Red went on to say doubts lingered whether Craven even committed the crime.
“I know he may have reluctantly left Damville to move up here after he got out. At the insistence of one or both of his cousins,” Red said. “I am also convinced one of them murdered Mitsy Elton, for which Craven when to the mental hospital.”
Jack eased back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk. He wore brown cowboy boots shined to a near mirror gleam.
“What if this man denies everything?”
Red nodded.
“You and I have interrogated our share of lying bad guys in the past,” he said. “But this man went to great lengths to hide. Have to wonder what else he kept under wraps all these years.”
Red went back to the forged documents.
“All these were done under fraudulent means,” he said. “Not much in the way of leverage, but enough so he’ll fess up.”
Jack smiled. “You’ve softened in your PI years, Red. If you crack the case and someone else is arrested, he’ll have to testify. That’ll blow his cover.”
“I don’t want to do that, but he and I have to talk,” Red said.
“What else can I do?” Jack asked.
Red leaned forward in his chair. “One aspect of Craven’s life is his wife. I know he got married, but I can’t find anything on her. Eloise is her name, I believe.”
Jack cleared his throat. “Bad news on Eloise, I’m afraid. She died a few years ago. A real looker when I arrived in town. Sweet, sweet lady. Breast cancer got her.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Red said. “You knew her well?”
Jack nodded. “I did some work for her once. Fact, she was one of my first clients. Real estate closing. She sold some of her family property out on White Path Road to a cabin developer.”
Red sat back in his chair. One solid link to John Craven no longer existed.
“How about Craven?” he asked. “I know where to find him, but when did he become a recluse?”
Before he answered, Jack asked if Red wanted some coffee.
“Can’t say no, friend. Hot and black.”
Jack got up from his desk and went out of the office. He returned with two steaming mugs and handed one to Red. Jack sat down at his desk.
“I never got close to Craven, but understand Eloise’s passing nearly killed him. He moved to the mountain place and went hermitlike.” Jack paused before continuing. “Hardly see him around town anymore.”
Red nodded. “Too bad. And he’s living in a cabin north of here, right?”
“That’s right. Along the Ellijay River up toward Cherry Log,” Jack said. “Take a left from US 76 at the auto auction. That’s White Path Road. Just before you get to Boardtown Road, there’ll be a rocky drive off to your right, straight up Turkey Trot mountain.”
“He pretty much alone, you think?” Red asked.
“He has several neighbors, but to the one, they’re weekenders.”
Red stood and thanked Jack for his time and advice.
“I’ll let you know how things go,” Red said. “I just hope this guy will tell me something definitive to solve this case.”
“Be safe out there,” Jack said as they walked to the front of the office. “He’s not known for his guns, but you never can be certain about these mountain men.”
* * *
Red knew an older man had to have help living alone. Likely that or John Craven remained in very good health.
He followed Jack’s directions, and several miles up White Path Road came to Turkey Trot Lane, as much a deer path as anything. The road was not well-traveled.
Red stopped and slid his truck into four-wheel drive when a creek breached the way. He gunned the engine, crossed the creek, and bounded up a sharp incline. Rough going. Once over the top, he stopped to survey the area.
Off to his left was a drop-off to a larger creek flowing below. He saw one cabin on the opposite mountainside but noticed no structures up ahead, as far as he could see. The whole area was colorful, with the foliage nearly peaking. But as yet, the leaves held to branches and obstructed the view. Still, pretty.
Red studied his GPS. The map indicated several cabins a mile ahead, two or three clustered together. He switched to satellite mode, but that didn’t help as the trees obstructed the roofs.
He clutched into low gear the truck and proceeded up the road. Ahead he saw a pull-off, likely necessitated for vehicles to pass by on the narrow road, although he couldn’t imagine two cars coming along in opposite directions.
He parked the truck and got out. After lacing up his hiking boots, retrieving a handgun just in case, and locking the truck, he walked up the road.
In two hundred yards, he came to a trail. It led straight up the mountain. Looking up, he made out a cabin. He set off on the path.
* * *
Red stopped to rest and drink some water on a large boulder. As he sat there, he heard movement not far away.
The bullet splintered a nearby pine tree.
Red rolled under a rhododendron.
Another two shots followed in quick succession; a third punctuated the air a minute later.
Good cover, but it wouldn’t protect him from someone shooting directly into the bush. He moved to the downside of the boulder.
Soon, someone descended the trail toward Red. He waited. A slender, older man in khakis and a red woolen shirt carried a rifle as he slowly walked downhill.
Red positioned himself quietly.
The man stepped carefully around the boulder. Red leaped out and grabbed from behind in a bear hug. He felt someone of skin and bones who had little muscular tension.
“Oh no, oh no,” the man screamed as he broke Red’s hold and stumbled to the ground. “You hurt me. Hell, think you broke my arm.”
Red grabbed the rifle and looked down at the pathetic man. He was certain he stared at Cleet Wrightman.
He leaned over to help him up. “You all right?” Red extended his hand, and the man took it. With care, Red lifted the man to his feet. The old fellow brushed himself off, but he seemed unhurt.
“Now, why the hell did you shoot at me?”
The man looked up with glistening eyes. He smiled at Red.
“You gave me a scare, big fella,” the man said. “As for the shooting, that’s the ways of this here part of Georgia.”
Red pointed to a smaller rock by the boulder. “Here, sit down,” he said. “I think you may be the man I’m looking for.”
The man eased himself down. He took a bandana from his hip pocket and dabbed his face.
“Who the hell are you, mister?” he asked.
“Is your name John Craven?”
“Yeah, well, guess it is,” the man said.
“But that isn’t your real name is it. By that, I mean, it’s not the name on your birth certificate.”
The man turned his head away and faced down the trail. Red doubted he’d make a run for it, but just in case, he moved to the other side of the path to look at Craven straight on.
“What does it matter now?” the man asked. “I mean, lost my wife, up here all alone. What does anything matter from all those years ago?”
Red gave him a moment.
A yellow poplar leaf drifted down. It floated zig-zag until it landed on Craven’s right boot.
“Hell, yeah, you must already know, mister. Else, why would you be asking?” John Craven shook his head.
Red cocked his left foot on the side of the big rock and leaned in, resting his left forearm on his leg.
“Cleet, my name is Red Farlow,” he said. “I’m a private investigator. My client lost his family to murder many years ago. Down in Valdosta. I need some answers.”
“Who’s that?�
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“Randy Goings is my client’s name,” Red said. “Perhaps you read about your counselor and his family getting murdered?”
Cleet’s head sank. He put his hands over his face.
“Doctor Goings, my friend, Doctor Goings,” he murmured. “He’s dead?”
“Yes, Cleet. It’s difficult for me to imagine how you wouldn’t have known about that. Even going on the run, you stayed in Damville long enough after his murder. You must have heard about it?”
Cleet shook his head. He didn’t speak. A tear rolled down his right cheek, followed by a deluge with head-rocking sobs.
“Oh, Lord. Doctor Goings,” he finally. “Only friend I ever had in this world. Only one.”
Red sat down and put an arm around Cleet’s shoulders. Suddenly, it all came back to Red.
How could this man kill anybody? A tormented child because of his mental illness and who spent years in an institution. Here he was, mourning the death of someone he cared about deeply, upon learning so many years later the man was dead.
“Cleet, buddy,” Red said. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk this thing out. I believe you can help me. And, I want to help you.”
Slowly, Cleet Wrightman got to his feet by steadying himself on the rock and Red’s big frame.
He pointed the way up the trail to his cabin.
* * *
Red only asked Cleet one question. From the answer, the whole story came into place, or at least significant parts of it.
“I didn’t kill Mitsy Elton,” the man said as he and Red sat in the living room of his log home atop Turkey Trot mountain. The view to the northwest opened before them in a splendid array of nature’s color. Red looked at the stacked ridges of mountains going up into Tennessee and the Cherokee National Forest.
“I hiked up there a great deal after Eloise died,” Cleet said. “Had to get it out of me, so I covered probably two hundred miles of those mountain trails, switchbacks, and even straight up and down rocky paths.”
Red sipped the bitter, high-test coffee Cleet had set in front of him.
“You said on the way up you once hitchhiked halfway across Georgia,” Red said. “Is that when you left Central State?”
Cleet smiled, but the expression quickly faded.
“Yeah, I walked, ran, thumbed, and hitched my way down to Damville,” he said. “Thought I was free. But the dark cloud of my past never lifted.”
“Then you became a new man, so to speak,” Red commented.
“I never wanted to do that,” he said. “Wallace and Gordon talked me into it. I say Wallace did, but really it was all Gordon’s thinking and pushing his older brother to get me out of town.”
“Why did Gordon want you gone?”
“Why, Red, the answer is simple enough,” Cleet said. “He viciously killed Mitsy Elton. He’d been forcing himself on her for some time, under the pretense of saving her for Jesus. That day, I guess he broke.”
Red couldn’t hide his shock at the statement.
“Are you telling me your cousin the preacher killed her? Not you?”
Cleet looked at Red. “Yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”
“But, Cleet, how can you be sure?”
“I saw it happen. I watched,” Cleet said. He sat up on the edge of his chair. His hands trembled. His voice unsteady. “I banged on the parlor window for him to stop. I tried to get in the house to help Mitsy, but the doors were locked. He just went on raping that girl. Hacked her to death.”
Cleet broke into tears.
Chapter Twenty-Four
They called it the Damville Senior Living Home. To Red, the place emitted the institutional odor of a low-end nursing home for poor people. He walked in with Cleet Wrightman and immediately caught the drift of soiled adult diapers and the ever-present smell of urine and bad food cooking.
Red had called the Walmore County sheriff before he and Cleet traveled to south Georgia. He confirmed that Wallace Adan had recently moved into the Damville rest home.
They stood at the reception desk and waited several minutes before a young receptionist came to help them.
“Yes, ma’am. We’re here to see Mr. Wallace Adan,” Red said.
She nodded her head and picked up the phone receiver. “Mr. Wallace has two visitors up here,” she said. She listened a moment and put the received down.
“Nurse Radney will be up here in a moment,” she told the two men. “She’ll take you to see Mr. Wallace.”
* * *
Red felt in his jacket pocket for the mini tape recorder with which he’d capture their conversation with Wallace.
The investigator didn’t know what to expect of their visit. In a way, he felt out of place since the two relatives hadn’t seen each other in nearly five decades. Nor had they communicated during that time, according to Cleet. He and Cleet assumed Wallace might be dead, but Red tracked him down.
Nurse Radney appeared out of a dimly lit hallway and, in a cool, efficient manner, escorted Red and Cleet down several corridors, through two buildings, and onto an outdoor walk that led to eight or ten cottages. These housed the home’s independent living community.
“Mr. Adan is number five,” she said and pointed to a cottage at the end of the row and next to a pond. “Visit as long as you wish. Mealtimes for visitors are at one and five.”
Cleet knocked on the door.
Several minutes passed.
Again, he tapped on the metal frame.
Nothing.
Red heard men talking.
“I think maybe we ought to walk around the place,” Red said.
It was a chilly day, and Red doubted that an elderly man would be out. Still, the sun shone brightly in the gentle breeze. They walked around the building, skirting the pond.
In the back on the patio, three men sat talking. Two smoked cigars and all had tall glasses of something, tea or bourbon.
The men stared as soon as they saw Red and Cleet.
Red detected no recognition until the bigger of the three men exclaimed his surprise.
“Well, I’ll be goddamned and shot to hell and back,” Wallace Adan said. “It’s my cousin Cleet…no, I mean. John? Who the hell are you these days?”
Cleet smiled nervously and approached the group only tentatively with slow steps.
Red let him introduce himself, whatever name he might use.
“Yeah, Wallace, it’s me all right,” Cleet said as he stood next to his cousin’s chair. “How you getting along?”
“Son of a gun,” Wallace said. “Oh, damn, you can see what I’m doing. Sitting here gabbing and just living the life.”
Cleet looked around. The community consisted of elderly men and women, most living alone but interacting with others there.
“Pretty good setup here, Wallace,” Cleet said.
“Why the hell didn’t you write me these last, what, forty-something years. More like fifty, probably.”
“Not much for putting my chicken scratch down on paper,” Cleet said.
Red stepped up to the group. Wallace looked at him curiously, possibly trying to place the face from decades in the past. Despite the uncertainty, Wallace extended a hand, and Red shook it.
“Mr. Adan, my name is Red Farlow,” he said. “We met back in the early seventies.”
A look of what appeared to be shock rolled across the older man’s face.
“Oh, you again. Thought we’d been shed of the law from way back then,” Wallace said. “At least for a little while.”
Red didn’t recall Wallace being so talkative. When he last spoke to the man while looking for Cleet, the cousin said very little.
Red looked down at the man he suspected might have killed Jamison Elton or played a role in his death. Or even perhaps Mitsy’s violent end. Then, his search for finding the killer focused on another—Wallace’s brother. Wonder what happened to him? Have to ask.
Red wondered when the two other men might get the hint of a long-lost family member visiting Wallace and lea
ve. Finally, they did.
“Mr. Adan, wonder if we might speak with you in private,” Red said.
“Well, yeah, I’ll reckon,” the older man said and slowly stood up.
* * *
Wallace took an easy chair in front of his television in the three-room apartment. Cleet sat on a small sofa, and Red settled into a squeaky, antique chair by the front window overlooking the pond.
Red had considered what the meeting might be like. While he was unsure on the trip down, he’d formulated some idea of how to broach the subject of murders so many years back.
“Mr. Adan, we’re here for a couple of reasons, all going into the past,” the private investigator said. “As far as this relates to you, we want to tap your memory of events around the murder of Jamison Elton. And anything you know about Mitsy Elton’s death might help clear Cleet’s name. Of course, he was pardoned and released from Central State. But I’d like to set the record straight on several murders.”
Wallace stammered on some words and fell silent. He looked around the room as if trying to remember or figuring a way to deflect the question.
“I know it’s been a long time,” Red said. “But you seem to have a sound mind. What do you remember?”
Finally, Wallace spoke.
“You two need to understand something,” Wallace began. “I’ve done some bad stuff. But I ain’t going to prison over it.”
“That would depend on others to decide,” Red said as softly as he could.
Wallace chuckled.
“No, no. You don’t understand, Red,” he said. “I ain’t going to be around much longer. Congestive heart failure. It’s killing me quick.”
A stunned silence sat there in the room as real as a fourth person.
“Go ahead. Ask away,” Wallace said.
Red laid out his main areas of questioning, which were the murders of the Goings family and Jamison Elton.
Wallace nodded and told his story.
“I’d just put Cleet here on the bus when Jamison banged on my front door that afternoon,” Wallace said. “He had a shotgun and was sweating liquor. I tried to calm him down. When he leaned his gun by the front door, I let him in to try and have a civil conversation. Not that it’d do any good. He wanted to kill Cleet. I wasn’t about to let him know where my cousin had got off to.”