Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7)

by Tom Lowe

  His grin dropped, pupils narrowing a notch. “Wasn’t a whole lot of reason to compare boot prints when your pal, Mr. Taylor, wants to move on. And we have no ID and no surveillance camera video on two guys in ski masks. It is what it is. If something comes up, we can always see if the boot imprints match. But right now, I have more important stuff to do like to testify in a rape trial in a half hour. So if ya’ll excuse me, I’ll be heading inside the courthouse.” He grinned and left, walking down a concrete path to the steps of the courthouse.

  Parker watched him walk away and said, “Terry was a couple grades behind me in high school. He has some kind of insecurity going on in his big head.”

  “I hear there may be a news conference this Friday. The company trying to buy the reform school property may be making a formal announcement. It’ll no doubt involve a lot of heavy hitters—city and county politicians, the state attorney, people from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and maybe even someone from the governor’s office.”

  “I’ve been hearing those drums beating too. Didn’t know Friday was the day. How’d you get wind of it?”

  “Some of the principals from Vista Properties are in town. I’ve noticed a few more dark suits here than when I first arrived.”

  “You always this observant?”

  “Not always. This would be a good time to let Lana Halley know about the matching boot prints. Let her know you have a fingerprint or a thumbprint from the shotgun shell and you’re searching for a match. Something else, too.”

  “What?”

  I reached into the package and lifted out the second GPS tracker, leaving the shotgun shell in the box. “Do you know what car state attorney Jeff Carson drives?”

  “Yeah, it’s a BMW. Black. Late model.”

  I handed him the tracker. “You might want to slip this on the underside of his car. I have a feeling he’s meeting with some people who would be a direct conflict of interest if it came to an investigation into former criminal activities at the reform school.”

  He studied it, his doubts coming to the surface. He looked up at me. “Who might those people be?”

  “Anyone who would leverage a property sale with that kind of black cloud hanging over it. Unless the haze was lifted by an impartial investigation, their activities are suspect…so far any request in that direction is an immediate shutdown.”

  “Man, you know what you’re asking me to do? Run a stakeout on the highest-ranking prosecutor in the Second Judicial District of Florida. If I get caught, I’d be damn lucky to get a job as a dogcatcher. I couldn’t get far enough from Jackson County, and with a wife and kids, that’s not an easy option.”

  I held out my hand. “I understand. Give it back to me and I’ll do it.”

  He blew out a long breath, staring at the black tracker with a suction cup mounted on the top. “I might be able to slap this on the underside of his car, but there’s no way I could follow him in a marked sheriff’s vehicle.”

  “You don’t have to. Just download the app and you can track him from your phone. You’ll have exclusive access to the GPS signal when you enter the tracking code after you activate it. It’s just another tool at our disposal. I may be shooting blanks and possibly wrong about Jeff Carson, but after I spotted him lunching with one of the executives with Vista Properties, he entered my radar.”

  He nodded slightly, his facial muscles relaxing. “Yeah, I can sure as hell see why. I’ll do it. Who knows, we might stumble across the crime of the century.”

  “Let’s hope, at least the last half of the century. Right now you need to find a black BMW parked in a reserved spot behind the courthouse.”

  “Got it.”

  I nodded and stepped back toward my Jeep as he started the cruiser and drove away. I would head to a senior care center. Maybe Jeff Carson’s mom would enjoy a chat.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  If there’s a visual reminder of just how short our time is on the planet, it’s played out daily on the stages of assisted living facilities across the world. It’s the slow-motion final act—the epilogue in lives that were often fully led. Some people have referred to them as ‘God’s waiting rooms.’ For certain residents, they’re places where the body has outlasted the mind. For others, the upholstery is frayed but the elderly man or woman is still sound in mind and character, yet they sit in corners like human antiques with dust on their shoulders.

  I thought about that as I parked in the visitors’ area for Cypress Grove Senior Care Center, watching an attendant in a white uniform pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair. The center was a large, one-story building with more of a hospital feel than a retirement home. The center was surrounded by old live oaks. Azaleas and petunias bloomed around the perimeter. Red and yellow impatiens blossomed on both sides of the shady walkway leading to the glass front doors.

  On the passenger seat next to me was a wrapped bouquet of roses I’d bought on the drive over to the center. I picked up the roses and walked to the entrance. Sprinklers on the east side of the manicured lawn were spraying water across the dark green St. Augustine grass, some partially hitting the left corner of the sidewalk.

  Inside, there was the slight odor of bleach and human waste—urine trapped in the equivalent of diapers. A dozen or so residents were in the lobby, which resembled a large living room with a slate rock fireplace, framed oil paintings, two sofas, a dozen overstuffed chairs, potted plants, tables and chairs. Some of the elderly were in wheelchairs, others clinging to shiny metal walkers, shuffling across the tile floor.

  I approached the receptionist, a twenty-something woman wearing glasses, blonde hair in a ponytail, chipped red fingernail polish. She looked up from her computer screen, the reflection of a game of solitaire off her glasses from the screen. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. And I hope she’ll like these. These are her favorite.”

  “They’re beautiful. I love red roses. Who are you here to see?”

  “Julie Carson.”

  “Miss Carson is probably done with her lunch. Let me get someone to show you to the dining room.” She lifted her phone and punched four numbers. “James, Julie Carson has a guest. Would you please escort him to the dining room? Yes, thanks.” She looked up at me. “James will be up in a sec to take you to her.”

  “Thank you.” I stepped away as she lowered her eyes back to the screen, her fingers returning to the electronic card game. I watched the residents in the lobby, some sitting at tables playing board games, others parked in comfortable chairs reading, napping, and some staring through the large bay windows at squirrels frolicking across the lawn.

  A hefty black man in a white uniform came through the double doors leading from the lobby to the other areas of the facility. He had a large shaved head, shiny scalp under the florescent lights, double chin and thick arms. His eyes were wide and playful. “Hi, I’m James Shepard. You here to see Miss Carson?”

  “Yes, how is she today?”

  “She’s always good. Some days are better than others. She might recognize you today, and then she might not. You never really know. One fella who works here says human memory is like a radio signal. Sometimes you hear it clear enough to dance to the music. Other times it’s fading and then nothing but static.”

  “Maybe Aunt Julie is tuned in today.”

  He grinned. “C’mon back, we’ll see.”

  I followed James through the double doors, down a hallway, the smell of meatloaf and mashed potatoes coming from around the bend. We entered the dining room. There were at least thirty tables with four chairs to each one. Red-checkered plastic tablecloths. The dining room was half filled with residents, most slowly eating, some very animated and chatting. Some quiet, faces empty. Wait staff carried plates of food to the elderly, bussed tables, and generally seemed to be engaged with the people they served.

  James stopped and pointed to a table near an exit door. “Looks like she’s done eating.” One woman sat alone in a wheelchair. She was slender, dressed in
pajamas and a dark blue robe, silver hair brushed and down the center of her back. I looked at her plate as a male attendant with dirty blond hair parted down the center of his head spoke with her. He nodded, smiled, and bussed the table. The meatloaf hadn’t been eaten, maybe two bites gone from the mashed potatoes. Green peas seemed untouched. A glass of iced tea was full. James said, “She looks tired. You might not want to stay too long.”

  “Is there somewhere a little less noisy that I can visit with her?”

  “Sure, we have a living center right through the exit doors. We have patios and gardens. Indoors or out?”

  “Whatever’s closest will be fine.”

  “That’d be the living center. You want me to wheel her in there for you?”

  “Sure. You know the ropes.”

  “That I do.” He smiled and walked to the table. “Miss Carson, you got a visitor, ma’am.”

  She glanced at him. No expression on her face. I could tell at one time she had probably been a lovely woman. Nice cheekbones, slender nose, long neck. Wide eyes. James touched her gently on the shoulder. “We gonna go for a little ride so you and your guest can visit with one another.”

  She looked up at me and said nothing. James glanced at me, grinning. “Maybe the radio signal will be a little clearer when ya’ll have time to chat.” He unlocked her wheelchair, removed a white napkin from her lap and dropped it on the table. I picked it up as he rolled her from the dining room through the open door and into a large room that had more tables, wide-screen TV mounted on a far wall, and more board games stacked on one table. A female attendant on one side of the room read from a book to a half-dozen residents, most were attentive. One woman was fast asleep, her mouth open.

  I followed James as he strode by a few residents, some reading magazines or playing checkers. Two residents were engaged in a game of backgammon.

  One man sat alone. He was staring at flickering images on the television, the sound muted. James looked at him and said, “Mr. Wiley. You don’t forget to tell me when you got to go pee, okay. No accidents today.” The old man had a pinched, unshaven face, narrow eyes behind wire-frame glasses, brown age spots the size of dimes on his hands, fingernails longer than they should have been. I could tell he wasn’t getting the care most of the residents seemed to be getting. He didn’t acknowledge James.

  When we passed his table, I said, “That gentlemen looks like he could use some company, too.”

  James shook his head. “He’s what you’d call a loner. Always keeps to himself. Takes a couple of us to give him a bath, and that’s when he gets too ripe to be in the same room.”

  “Where’s his family?”

  “He’s got a daughter. She comes by for a few minutes at Christmas.”

  “You don’t hear the last name…Wiley very much. What’s his first name?”

  “You don’t hear that much either. It’s Zeke…Zeke Wiley.”

  I looked back at the table, back at the man and remembered what reporter Cory Wilson had said, ‘The other one is Zeke Wiley. He maintains a P. O. box. No physical address in the property tax rolls.’

  I stared at the old man, ignoring my phone vibrating. The man was employed at the reform school when Andy Cope was killed. Could Zeke Wiley have been there that night…and was he possibly the man who pulled the trigger?

  SIXTY-SIX

  James parked Julie Carson next to one of the tables. He locked her wheelchair in place, looked at me and said, “Ya’ll have a nice visit.” He smiled and left.

  “Thank you.” I sat across the table from the old woman and set the roses in front of her. She lowered her head, eyes moving from the stems to the dozen red blooms. She slowly reached out, extending one finger bent from arthritis, the tip of her trembling finger touching the petals of a rose. A smiled worked at a corner of her mouth. She looked up at me, her damp eyes curious—confused.

  “The roses are for you, Julie. I hope you like them. I’ll ask James to put them in a special place in your room.”

  She said nothing, staring at me, waiting for something to form in her memory. “My name’s Sean O’Brien. I’m a friend of Jeff.”

  She turned her head slightly. Her son’s name made a distant penetration. She looked back down at the roses. Someone unmuted the sound on the TV across the room, Jeopardy coming from the speakers. I leaned in a little closer to her.

  “Jeff sends his love. He stays so busy with his job in the state attorney’s office. You must be very proud of him.”

  She lifted her eyes up to me. “Ja…Jeffery.” Her voice sounded distant, as if it came from the bottom of a deep well.

  “Jeff Carson, your son. He sends his love.”

  “He’s a good boy…Jeffery.” Her voice was a little stronger, a tenor of recognition in the rasping delivery.

  “Yes, Ma’am. You raised him well. It’s hard to raise a boy alone.”

  She stared at me, her head barely nodding. I opened the white napkin and spread it out on the table. I took out my pen and drew a cartoon face, the face of Minnie Mouse. Julie looked at it a few seconds and smiled, her eyes a littler brighter. She raised her eyes up at me, her head tilting a bit.

  Then I turned the napkin over and drew on the opposite side. She watched my hands move, the bold dark ink strokes appearing across the fabric. Each time I made a stroke, I glanced at her before continuing the sketch.

  When I drew the last lines, she looked away, her eyes reflecting dread. “It’s okay, Julie. He’s not here. He won’t hurt you. Think back Julie…when you worked for the Florida School for Boys…he worked there too. Nothing was your fault.” I reached across the table and held her hand. She looked at me, the presence of terror draining from her eyes. “You don’t have to say anything, Julie. Just nod your head. Hack Johnson hurt you didn’t he, Julie. He attacked and hurt you.”

  Nothing. Staring. Eyes wider. Her nostrils flaring slightly.

  “It’s okay. He’s been gone from your life many, many years. But one good thing did come from a very bad thing. You had a son from that attack. Jeffery is Hack Johnson’s son isn’t he?”

  She stared at me a few seconds, nodded and closed her eyes, a single tear spilling from one eye. I looked down at the napkin, the Southern Cross drawn across it. I picked up the napkin, folded it and put it in my pocket. I stood and stepped next to Julie. Then I placed my hands on her frail shoulders, bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “You were a good mother.”

  I turned and went across the room to find Zeke Wiley.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  The closer Jesse Taylor came to the Bellamy Bridge, the more he thought about Jeremiah’s mother. He thought about the boot print in her yard when Jeremiah cut down the noose from the tree. He could suddenly see every tread on the print with the pyramid on the heel. He could hear the old woman’s words reverberating around the inside his skull. ‘In my dreams, I see Elijah bein’ buried alive. The dark soil movin’ ‘cause his heart was still beatin’ fast, just under the black earth, his little hands clawin’ like an animal. I heard him whimper, tryin’ to cry out to me…mama.’

  Jesse’s thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of something slamming against the undercarriage of his car. He was off the pavement, driving along the shoulder of the road, fallen tree limbs, loose rocks, and dirt hitting underneath his car. The sound jolted him back onto the highway asphalt. “Shit!” His heart hammered. Sweat popping on his brow. Hands shaking.

  He looked at his watch. The stop by the convenience store for water cost him more time than he had to spare. He accelerated, heading on a mission to the Bellamy Bridge, the bottle of Vicodin opened on the seat next to him, white pills spilled onto the fabric.

  Walking to where Zeke Wiley sat, I stopped to read a text on my phone. It was from Caroline Harper. Sean, I left you a voice message. Jesse’s on his way to meet Jeremiah Franklin at a place called Bellamy Bridge. I’m worried for them. Jeremiah’s going to tell Jesse who killed Andy. Please go there.

  Zeke Wiley didn’t move his
head when he cut his eyes up at me. He’d finished his lunch, most of the food on the plate gone. Pewter whiskers around his small mouth and chin were glossy with grease from fried chicken. He lifted a glass of water to his lips, sipping. Then he gingerly set the glass down, aligning it to the same water-ring left on his tray.

  I smiled and said, “Everything in its place, right? Details matter, don’t you agree? Are you done eating?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll take that out of your way.” I lifted his tray and set it on a vacant table next to us, and then I sat down across from him. “How are you, Zeke?”

  He stared, trying to place me. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m okay. Do I know you, sir? Are you the new doctor?” His voice was croaky.

  “No. And you don’t know me.”

  He stared at me, his tea-colored eyes slowly blinking behind the glasses.

  “But I know you, Zeke.”

  “You do? How in the hell would that be?”

  “I’ll show you.” I looked into his eyes, lifting the photo from my shirt pocket, keeping the image toward me until my hand got within two feet of his face. Then I turned the picture toward him. “I know you were there that night when Andy Cope was killed.”

  The blinking behind his glasses became more rapid. He tried to swallow, a clicking sound in the back of his throat. His lower jaw quivered, lips pursing, air coming from his mouth. I could see the carotid artery flutter under his sagging turkey neck skin.

  “After all these years, you do remember Andy. Do you ever think about him, Zeke? Do you ever think what he might be doing today had he lived? Maybe he’d have been an engineer. Maybe a scientist—someone who cleans up the oceans. Maybe a doctor—someone who finds a cure for cancer. But we’ll never know what Andy could have been because he was never given the chance. Why’d you kill him? Was it because he was running away? Were you trying to stop a prisoner from escaping? Why’d you do it, Zeke?”