Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7)

by Tom Lowe

  “Murder?”

  “Details are sketchy. We have units on the scene. Detectives and forensics en route.”

  “Who did Jesse allegedly kill?”

  “He told the arresting deputies that Jeremiah Franklin was shot. Says he didn’t do it. Who the hell knows anymore? I’m headed that way.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  “You might want to keep your distance. Detective Lee is there or he soon will be. He won’t tolerate you near a crime scene, not after you calling him out that night at Shorty’s. Gotta go.”

  He disconnected. I slowed my Jeep, thinking about what I just heard. Jeremiah Franklin dead. I knew Jesse would never kill Jeremiah Franklin. And I knew, with Detective Lee investigating the killing, Jesse probably would be railroaded and found guilty for a crime he didn’t commit. I continued driving to the Bellamy Bridge area, thinking about the killing of Andy Cope, knowing that it was connected to the killing of Jeremiah Taylor. Fifty years apart, bullets propelled when pulled by the same trigger of hate and human prejudice. I didn’t know for certain who killed Andy. I didn’t know who killed Jeremiah, but I did know that now I had two murders to solve—and solving one would, no doubt, bring closure to the other.

  I spotted the flashing blue lights down Jacob Road. A battery of sheriff’s cars on both sides of the road—deputies waving motorists through the profusion of flashing lights and the staccato blasts of police radios. I saw the white ubiquitous van—the vehicle that’s sent in lieu of an ambulance. It was a nondescript coroner’s wagon.

  And then I saw death concealed.

  They rolled Jeremiah on a gurney from a trailhead leading into the woods. A white sheet draped over his body, a dark red stain near the chest area. They lowered the gurney to the ground, collapsing the legs, then lifting it up and rolling it into the stark metallic grotto of the van. A plump man with a white moustache, wearing a dark blue shirt with the word CORONER across the back, supervised the loading of the body.

  I thought about the day I met Jeremiah on his property, the old school bus his converted home. I remembered the story he told me about his migrant friend shot and killed in a motel parking lot somewhere in Michigan. ‘I sat there in the dark in that motel room. Drank all the beer. About four in the mornin’ I lifted the Bible off the nightstand and looked up what Carlos had referred to. It says all people are like grass. Their glory is like the flowers in the field. The grass dies and the flowers fall, but the word of God stands forever. I gotta remember that now more than ever.’

  A tall deputy standing in the center of the road looked at me and yelled, “Let’s move! Nothing to see people.” I drove around him, looking at the various squad cars, trying to spot Jesse sitting handcuffed in the back of one. I saw Deputy Parker talking with a man in plainclothes, someone I assumed was an investigator. I drove another one hundred feet, pulling off the road, beyond the last parked squad car. I carefully lifted the glass with Zeke Wiley’s prints on it and placed it in a small paper sack.

  And then I walked back toward Parker.

  He ended his conversation with the man, both nodding and going separate ways. I approached Parker. He looked at me, a frown on his face. He said, “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m not at the crime scene. I assume it’s back in the woods. Where’s Jesse?”

  He gestured to a sheriff’s car parked in the middle of the pack. I could see Jesse staring out the window, his face looking in the opposite direction from where they were loading the body into the van. I thought of that night at Shorty’s when he was placed in the back of the deputy’s car and driven away. I looked at Parker and asked, “What’d he say when he was arrested?”

  “I hope you’re not referring to Miranda rights.”

  “No.”

  “Says he didn’t do it. He says someone from the brush shot Jesse. He’s not sure where. He says he returned fire. One shot. And guess where he got the gun?”

  “Where?

  “From a state trooper. He stole it.”

  “Stole?”

  “The trooper had stopped him for speeding. He’s saying that Taylor jumped him, stole his gun and cuffed him to his steering wheel.”

  “Why would Jesse jump a trooper for giving him a speeding ticket? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t know. Forensics apparently lifted gunshot residue from his right hand. The pistol is the trooper’s so this is quickly looking real damn bad for Jesse.”

  “Can you speak with him? Ask him what happened before he gets orally pummeled by Lee and others.”

  Parker looked around, eyes anxious. “I can give it a try.” He walked quickly to the sheriff’s car, opening the front door, leaning in to speak with Jesse. After less than thirty seconds, Parker stood, closed the door and walked back to me. “He said emphatically that he didn’t do it…but he knows who did and said he’ll only tell that to you. He said get me Sean O’Brien. So that ball’s in your court. I’m the unlucky deputy who has to tell Mrs. Franklin that her son, Jeremiah, isn’t coming home. It never gets easier.”

  I looked back toward the squad car, a deputy now standing next to it and talking with Detective Lee. The deputy nodded, got into the car, and drove away, Jesse turning his head, looking out the rearview mirror. I lifted my hand in an awkward wave.

  Deputy Parker said, “He’s going to need a damn good lawyer.”

  “It’s all about the physical evidence. I have a glass for you.”

  “Glass?”

  I handed him the paper sack. “I was visiting the Cypress Grove senior center and happened to meet a fellow named Zeke Wiley. He was working at the reform school when Andy Cope was killed. Wiley drank from the glass. Good prints. Even visible with the eye. Maybe you can have your lab take a look. If one of the prints matches the one the FBI lifted from the shell, we have more of that physical evidence.”

  He nodded. “That’ll be great for the Andy Cope case, but we’ll need something a little more current for Jesse Taylor.”

  “They’re the same case, just a half-century apart. All we have to do is connect the dots.”

  I turned and walked back to my car, feeling the heaviness, the weight of two murders on my shoulders. The white van with Jeremiah’s body drove by me, the driver in dark glasses, brawny hands gripping the wheel. I looked at the Bellamy Bridge sign on the side of the road, knowing that the old bridge was more than a modern crime scene. It was the bridge over trouble waters in the area. I thought about the press conference in three days. I had less than three days to find enough evidence to stop the sale of the property.

  And that meant I’d have to find something physical connecting decades and people, somehow exonerating Jesse while convicting someone else. I had about two hours before dark. I was sure the crime scene would be processed in less time than that. They already had “their man.” Maybe it would give me time to return. Time to look for something Detective Lee may have missed…or tried to hide.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  It was a call I didn’t want to make. I sat in a McDonald’s parking lot, a cup of black coffee in one hand. I punched in Caroline Harper’s number. When she answered, I told her what happened to Jeremiah and Jesse. There was a long pause. When she spoke, her voice was strained, drenched with sorrow. “I don’t know Mrs. Franklin well, just in passing. I want to visit with her. I’m not sure what I can say. There are no words, really. Maybe I can just be there to offer support. What can we do for Jesse?”

  “He needs an attorney immediately. They’ve booked him in the county jail on first-degree murder charges. Can you have your lawyer go there as soon as possible?”

  “I’ll call him when we get off the phone.”

  I heard her exhale. “Sean, no one would ever fault you if you decide to walk away from all of this. All I was hoping to do is somehow get a court order to hunt for my brother’s grave. God forbid did I ever think others would die in the process. I’m at a loss. I don’t want you to—”

  “Hey, wait a second. I di
dn’t sign on for the first half only. I’m here for whatever it takes to start digging out there. Sometimes it takes a few charges to get over the castle wall. If I can’t climb the wall or penetrate the gate, I’ll figure a way to build my own Trojan horse.”

  “Thank you, Sean.” I heard a sniffle in her voice as she disconnected.

  My next call was to Lana Halley, and I told her what had happened. She said, “And you’re convinced that Taylor didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “Yes.”

  “What if he got into a heated argument with Jeremiah Franklin. What if Taylor, who has had a drug and alcohol problem, ostensibly from PTSD, just flipped and shot Franklin?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “But you can’t be sure of that.”

  “They met because Jeremiah was going to tell Jesse who killed Andy Cope.”

  “And did he tell him?”

  “I don’t know. Jesse wants to speak with me. I’ll know soon. I wanted you to have a heads up because you now know the history of all this and Carson’s role as the state property is about to change hands.”

  “Sean, this whole thing is so beyond legal ethics. I’m now trying to have a grand jury investigate my boss, and I’ll no doubt be assigned Jesse’s case because I had his first case when he hit town.”

  “It’s beyond legal boundaries because Jeff Carson decided to take it in that direction. You’re within your jurisdiction to find the facts, find the evidence, wherever or to whomever it points. And that includes Carson.”

  “Then you find something with teeth in it that I can take to a grand jury. I’m certainly not going to get it any other way.”

  “You may not be able to get a court order to excavate the reform school property for graves, but if you can get a judge to sign an order to acquire fingerprints from Hack Johnson, I think you’ll have all you need to interest a grand jury. Why? Because now you have a preponderance of circumstantial evidence that gives you probable cause. Similar to how a police officer can search your car without a warrant. While you’re at it, you can DNA test him and prove or disprove if he fathered Jeff Carson.”

  There was a long pause. “It can be done. If they get pissed, let them sue. Give me a few hours.”

  “I’m here. Deputy Parker will have to facilitate the order. I’m sure he can find backup he can trust.”

  “Good, Sean. You can sit tight.”

  “Somebody will need to backup the backup.”

  She disconnected and I drove to the county jail.

  Jesse’s attorney, Daniel Grady, had just met with him when I arrived. I spoke with Grady in a corner of the public waiting area, a half dozen people sitting in hard plastic chairs, all there to speak with family members awaiting bail. Grady looked at me through tired eyes and said, “Jesse has a compelling case. Unfortunately, compelling doesn’t win juries. Evidence and motive do.”

  “I know you can’t discuss the details, but do you believe he’s innocent?”

  “Yes, I do. My problem is the state has a dead body, the victim’s blood apparently on Jesse’s hands, gunshot residue, and a gun.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s the gun that fired the shot.”

  “That’s true.” He looked down at his laced-up brown wingtips and then his eyes met mine. “I need to be going, to prep for an arraignment hearing. Bond may be difficult. He wants to speak with you, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “This is where I need your help.”

  “Me?”

  “You need an investigator, and I’m the closest thing you’ve got. As your investigator, I need to speak with our client.”

  He smiled. “I’ll see what I can arrange.” He walked away, heading for the jailer’s area. My phone vibrated. It was Dave Collins. “Sean, your second appearance in the local newspaper is quite different from the first. The reporter, a Cory Wilson, writes that you are convinced there are bodies of children buried on the old reform school property and how you believe any and all sales of said property should be indefinitely postponed until excavations can prove otherwise. He further indicates that you are aggressively pursuing evidence to substantiate that. The article quotes state officials saying those allegations are unfounded and a gross misrepresentation of the reform school’s history. Did you actually do an interview with him?”

  “Yes. Did he use a picture of me?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Good. Now those who are moving this thing at warp speed have a speed bump—me.”

  “There’s no gallantry found in the antics of the sacrificial lambs. They only get slaughtered.”

  “Maybe I can avoid the swords.” I told Dave about Jeremiah Franklin’s death, Jesse’s arrest, and the possibility of family connections I’d found between Jeff Carson and the Johnson clan. When I finished I heard ice clink in Dave’s drink.

  He cleared his throat and said, “I once knew of a young man who discovered he was conceived from a brutal rape of his mother. He hunted down the man, his biological father, and killed him. There’s probably an allusion to Greek mythology found somewhere in there. In the case of Jeff Carson, either he doesn’t know that Hack Johnson raped his mother, Julie, or he knows and doesn’t care. He’s manipulated it to his advantage. He becomes a state attorney with an entourage, a posse to carry out, shall we say, deeds in which he prefers not to be associated. In the meantime, he keeps the proverbial blinders on lady justice. But that, of course, is purely speculation. What do you do next?”

  “Talk with Jesse. If Jeremiah told him who killed Andy Cope before the fatal shot was fired, we have an ID.”

  “But you no longer have an eyewitness, Sean. And that will take a lot of wind out of the prosecutor’s sails.”

  “It will, but if we have a name, we have a reason to get a court order to print and run DNA tests on Hack Johnson. And if it matches the print on the shotgun shell…it’s a whole new chapter.”

  “That’s a lot of supposition. However, I must admit, you’re damn closer to burning down that haystack.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  Within days, history was repeating itself. Jesse Taylor back in police custody, back at almost the same visitor’s window where I’d first met him. An indifferent deputy stood on one side of the small room, giving Jesse little, if any, privacy. He picked up the receiver, looked through glass smeared with fingerprints and said, “O’Brien, you gotta get me out of this shithole.”

  “And the way I’m going to do that is to take evidence to a grand jury that will turn this completely around. What have you told investigators?”

  “Told them exactly what happened. The same detective, Lee, doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. All he’s saying is they have a murder victim, gunshot residue on my hand, Jeremiah’s blood on my clothes. I told him that’s what happens when you fire back at a shooter and you try to save a bleeding man’s life—you get blood on your clothes.” Jesse told me everything that led up to his trip to meet Jeremiah.

  I nodded. “Did you see the shooter?”

  “No. I think he was just across the river. He fired three times. I returned fire. One shot. Don’t know if I hit him. Man, I was just tryin’ to keep Jeremiah alive. Jeremiah and I were standing there at the entrance to the old bridge. He was about to tell me who killed Andy. They cut him down right at that moment. I had to carry Jeremiah behind cover to keep us both from being shot. Although I didn’t see the triggerman, I think I know who ordered it.”

  “Who?”

  “The same sick son-of-a-bitch that killed Andy…Hack Johnson. With Jeremiah’s last breath, he told me it was Hack Johnson who pulled the trigger that night. I always thought it might have been him. And now I know. O’Brien, somehow you gotta get to him. I don’t know who you can trust in this county. Somebody’s got to drag that old man and half his sorry-ass kin outta those swamps to face the music.”

  “They say you stole the pistol from a trooper.”

  “Bullshit! He’d pulled me over, but rather than give a speeding ticket, he was about to march me into the woods and put
a bullet through my head. Somehow he knew I was gonna be on that road. He knew I was heading out to meet with Jeremiah. Unless he was just a twisted psychopath in a cop’s uniform, somebody hired him. I wrestled the gun from him and handcuffed the asshole to his steering wheel. When he first pulled me over, I hit the audio record button on my phone. I got it all. Least I think I did.” He whispered. “I hid it on the left side of the Bellamy Bridge, right under the very first half-rotted plank. If you can get it, the recording will prove I was about to be shot.”

  “They’re getting desperate. The shooter near the bridge could have presumably hit you and Jeremiah, but yet they wanted to try taking you out first. I don’t have a lot of daylight left, but tell me exactly where you two were standing, the direction Jeremiah was facing before he was hit. Try to remember details.”

  When I arrived back at the Bellamy Bridge area, it seemed deserted. No squad cars. No sense of chaos and emergency that was here three hours earlier. I looked at my phone. Sunset was in less than thirty minutes. The small parking lot was hard-packed dirt and gravel bordered by thick woods. I called Lana Halley and said, “I talked with Jesse Taylor. He said that Jeremiah Franklin told him that the man who shot and killed Andy Cope was Hack Johnson. And Jeremiah told him that right before he died. Who’d want him dead, Lana? And why? The Johnson family is inextricably woven into the old quilt of this community. Who’s hiding under that quilt…and how can you prosecute them?”

  She said nothing for a few seconds. “Maybe it’s Jeff. We’ll get Hack Johnson’s prints, and we’ll test his DNA. Where are you?”

  “Bellamy Bridge. Looking for evidence.”

  “Be careful, Sean. Call me. Bye…”

  I locked my Jeep, slid my Glock behind my belt in the small of my back, under my loose-hanging shirt, and started walking down the Bellamy Bridge trail. The setting sun was already casting dark shadows across the trail, cicadas beginning night chants in the murky recesses of the forest.