“I am not saying you should change the practice. It is a good practice. It makes me feel good to know that my driver and tour guide are available to help me, should I need it, in a new place I’ve never been to before. I just believe the murderer knew Duffy’s route. The murderer had to know.”
“I hear you. You’re probably right about that.” I could tell Jackson was taking his time with his note writing. His words had slowed down. He had concentrated more on his writing than what he said to me.
I stared at my list debating, on what information to share next with him. Lanta and her attraction for black men were high on my mind. Yet, my inner voice said, Not yet. Scanning my list, I decided on Duffy and his drinking habit.
“Several people have mentioned to me that Duffy drank too much. Are you aware of this? Has this ever been a problem for you?”
“No, this is not a problem. My drivers know my rules and the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration rules. My drivers are not allowed to drink at any time while on a trip, not even during their non-driving hours. The non-driving hours are when they are at the hotel for the night or having dinner, something like that. I’ll fire a driver on the spot for drinking on the job. The safety of my passengers is of the utmost importance.”
“Have you heard rumors of his drinking?”
“I have not. If he was drinking too much, I think it would show its ugly head to me in many ways. I run a drug and alcohol free workplace that includes both drug and alcohol testing. So the tests would tell me, his behavior in staff meetings would tell me, his driving record would tell me, and the unannounced tour visits I perform would tell me.”
“What do you mean unannounced tour visits?”
“I show up unannounced at tour sites. I do this for many reasons, such as to make sure passengers are having a wonderful time, to make sure the buses are cleaned according to standard, to ensure driver and tour guide are doing their best to make the tour entertaining and fun for the passengers. And I do this to make sure the hotel meets Brightness’s standard and is providing all the amenities paid for. There’s a list of things I check on while there. I do unannounced visits on all the drivers and tour guides. I was in Pigeon Forge, though I didn’t go on any of the tours. I checked in on Duffy and Lemmonee. The meetings I had with the hotel staff and the other hotels in the area prevented me from being on the actual tours.”
I felt as if Jackson had picked up a large stone and hurled it at me. Stunned, I froze while the information he just shared sped by me, then whirled back around and blasted itself into my brain.
“You were at the hotel with us. Uh, I don’t remember seeing you. Why . . . why are you just now telling me this?”
“There was nothing to tell. I do this all the time.”
“But you’ve never been on one of your unannounced visits where a murder occurred on the way home,” I said more brusquely than I’d intended.
Jackson heard the alarm in me, or perhaps he sensed in retrospect that he should have told me.
“Vett, I didn’t interact much with the passengers. I attended one of your breakfasts. I walked around a bit, but it was too many people there. The prescheduled meetings kept me busy. It, uh, it never crossed my mind that my appearance at the hotel would be important.”
“It is important. You keeping that information from me makes it seem like you have something to hide.”
“I have nothing to hide. I didn’t murder Duffy, but I do want to know who did. How did we get on this subject anyway?”
His words weren’t reassuring. “Jackson, is there anything you know about Duffy’s murder?”
“I assure you there is nothing that I know. If I did, I would tell you. I’ll do anything to help you find out who murdered him.”
I didn’t like it that Jackson hadn’t told me he was at the hotel. All sorts of images of Jackson, Duffy, and alcohol ran through my mind. Was he checking up on Duffy specifically? Did he smell alcohol on Duffy’s breath? I decided to get back on track with the information I wanted to provide him before the questions flooding my mind rendered me incoherent.
“Uh, Nancy has it in her head that you are trying to cheat her out of Duffy’s insurance money.”
“What! Is she saying I let Duffy drive knowing he drank too much? Is this where you got this information on Duffy drinking too much? Is Nancy saying I let him drive under the influence?”
Clearly, I had hit a nerve with Jackson. Perhaps, he did suspect Duffy of drinking too much.
“Nancy said neither of those things. I just thought you should know that she is concerned about Duffy’s insurance money.”
“Well, thanks for letting me know that. People saying Duffy drinks too much concern me. I have never seen him take a drink on duty. I do watch for signs in my drivers, and Duffy isn’t a habitual drinker. I know the signs. There is sadness in habitual drinkers. They drink alone, have alcoholic breath, repeatedly justify their alcohol consumption, have mood swings, have aggressive behavior, and have tremors or shakes. I could name other signs of habitual drinkers. Duffy had none of these signs.”
“Do you know how long alcohol stays in one’s system?”
“Sure I do. In the hair, alcohol is present for up to ninety days. In blood or oral fluid, it is present twelve to twenty-four hours. And in urine, it can stay in the body from six to eighty hours. Forensic people most often use blood, hair, and urine tests. The testing company I use tests by breath and saliva. Why do you ask?”
“I didn’t see any mention of alcohol consumption in Duffy’s autopsy report . . .”
Jackson interrupted me with, “Because there wasn’t any.”
Before I could reply, I heard his telephone ringing.
“Vett, that’s my other line. I have been waiting for this call all morning. Can you hold for a moment?”
“Sure.” Jackson’s agitation at suggestions that Duffy drank too much had raised a red flag. Why was he so agitated? He said he had never seen Duffy take a drink on duty and never heard rumors that he did. Did he know something and wasn’t telling me?
Jackson clicked back to my line and said, “Vett, this call is going to take longer than I thought. Thank you for the report. Call me at any time with anything you need. If I don’t hear from you in-between time, then I will talk to you on Friday. Have a good rest of the week. Bye, Vett.”
“Bye, Jackson.”
I wasn’t finished with my report. I had several other items I wanted to tell him. I mainly wanted to make him aware that Marjorie didn’t live at the address Brightness had on file and get his opinion on that. And I wanted to ask him about Sheriff Hobbs’ refusal to provide police reports to me until after speaking with him. I decided to add them to the list for Friday’s update.
Jackson being at the hotel during our Pigeon Forge tour surprised me to the point that I was unsure how to take it. The reason he gave for not telling me doesn’t make sense. I am working for him. He should have told me. Now I am thinking he had something to do with Duffy’s murder, especially after hearing his spiel on why he shows up unannounced on tours and his reaction to people saying Duffy drank too much.
In my mind, I now had two suspects, possibly three for the murder of Duffy Radley—Marjorie, Jackson, and possibly Rebbie.
I quickly dressed, then drove to my restaurant. After putting my bag in my office, I walked into the kitchen to let Aunt Clove know I had arrived.
“Good,” she said, “I have lunch all ready for us.” My aunt was five feet three inches tall, with a small body frame, caramel-colored skin, salt and pepper hair, and small facial features; she was a younger version of my mother. She was going to be seventy years old this year. She was spry and had the energy, vigor, and high spirits of someone half her age.
“I’ll meet you in my office. I need to use the restroom first.” As I walked away into the hallway, my inner voice said Carolyn Broadbent and Gwen
Sonnack.
“Yes,” I shouted, “Aunt Clove reminds me of them. I am going to contact them.”
CHAPTER 14
Today is Thursday, and I awoke with Duffy’s viewing on my mind. I knew this was my inner voice telling me I needed to attend. I didn’t delight in having to drive to Attribute again, but since my inner voice had spoken, I knew something was waiting for me there.
Yesterday, I had told Aunt Clove I would arrive at the restaurant around noon. Now I was rethinking that. I felt the need to take off the entire day to focus on my vision board of Duffy’s murder and to have enough time to drive to Attribute. And since I was driving through Envyton County, perhaps Carolyn or Gwen would have time to talk to me.
After completing my morning ritual, walking on the treadmill for thirty minutes, and eating breakfast, I called Aunt Clove. She didn’t pick-up, so I left her a message outlining my plans. Next, I called Gam. He picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, Baby. What’s up?”
“I’ve decided to go to Duffy’s viewing tonight. It’s from 6:00- 8:00 pm. I probably won’t stay the whole time, but it will be late when I get home.”
“Why don’t you spend the night instead of getting on the road late at night by yourself?”
“I’d rather come on home. I’m so excited about our trip to Serenity. I’d rather be home when tomorrow arrives, and I have to finish packing tomorrow morning. Anything you need for me to do for you?”
“No, Baby, there is nothing I need. I’ll throw some things in my overnight bag tomorrow. You be careful on the road. Call me before you leave.”
“I will. I love you, Gam.”
“I love you, too.”
It was now 9:10 am. I was hoping Carolyn and Gwen would be awake and would not mind a call from me so early in the morning. I walked into my office and headed straight to my desk. I opened the passenger list folder and scanned it. I called Carolyn’s number first because the list was in alphabetical order, Broadbent before Sonnack.
“Hello.”
“May I speak to Carolyn Broadbent?”
“This is she.”
“Carolyn, this is Vett Brayborn. I was on the Tennessee trip with you.”
“Hi, Vett. Yes, I remember you. How are you today?”
“I am fine and hope you are too.”
“I am fine. How may I help you today?”
“Jackson Stevens of Brightness Tours has hired me to find out who murdered Duffy. I am talking with several people that were on the Tennessee trip. I was calling to see if you would have time to talk to me today around 3:00 pm.”
“Vett, I don’t know anything about the murder. I was on the bus just as you were when we found out Duffy had been murdered. We’ve all already talked with the police.”
“I know we have. However, I would like to talk to you about the whole incident. Perhaps something will come to your mind as we talk.”
“As I said, I don’t know anything, but I’m willing to talk to you if it’ll help.”
“Thank you. Would 3:00 pm be okay?”
“Umm, 3:30 would be better for me. Is this okay with you?”
“Yes, it is. Would you mind giving me directions to your house?” After Carolyn finished with the directions, I decided to call Gwen. I wouldn’t have time to meet with her today, but perhaps we could make other arrangements. I dialed her number, and the phone went to voice mail. I hung up, intending to telephone her again later.
I walked over to the large whiteboard Gam had installed last year on the wall to the left of the one piece of family heirloom I owned—my grandmother’s marble top sideboard. I had already written Duffy’s name, date of death, and the words murdered at Jefferson Springtop rest area on the board. I grabbed the crime scene photo folder from my desk, took out the photo, and posted it on the board. The photo was a close-up of Duffy lying on the floor with plastic covering his body, the left side of his upper body covered in blood. Since it was a close-up, the items surrounding his body weren’t shown, except for what looked like the bottom portion of a dark mop bucket on wheels. Staring at the photo, I walked backward four steps.
“Hmmm, the gun was not left at the scene. The murderer was smart enough to take it with him,” I surmised out loud.
The autopsy report listed the weapon that murdered Duffy as a .22 caliber handgun. This was not surprising since I knew handguns are far more commonly used in murder cases than other firearms. I knew too that the murderer was organized. My work in prior cases taught me to distinguish between offenders who are organized, disorganized, or a combination of the two. Another thing that came to mind as I stood there staring at the photo is this: the autopsy found a subtle trace of nitrous oxide, which possibly meant it had been used to render Duffy unconscious. This could be the reason Duffy looked like he had fallen asleep.
“I wonder if this means the murderer was trained in the use of nitrous oxide,” I said out loud. I knew that nitrous oxide could be fatal if too much is ingested.
“Or perhaps, the murderer didn’t know how much was too much and didn’t care. He was more interested in rendering Duffy unconscious,” I continued out loud with my hypothesis.
I walked back to the photo and ran my hand across it. Then it hit me.
“Why would the murderer want to render Duffy unconscious?” I immediately surmised that the murderer, if a man and I am assuming the murderer was, could have quickly pulled Duffy into the maintenance room, put the nitrous oxide on his face, shot him seven times, and been done with the matter. This approach sounds easy to me. The murderer then could have covertly left the maintenance room without being seen. Because of the bad weather and crowd of people, no one would have noticed him, which is the case anyway. All this sounds so easy. In reality, I knew it wasn’t.
“Why did the murderer need nitrous oxide in the first place,” I shouted out. A big strong man could have pulled Duffy into the maintenance room and immediately shot him seven times without the use of nitrous oxide. So why use it?
I had swayed myself on the murderer being a man because I just couldn’t believe a woman would have the strength to pull 180 pounds Duffy into the maintenance room without a fight and then commit the murder. A fight would mean the possibility of people taking notice, or people hearing a scuffle, or Duffy wrestling himself away from his attacker.
A silencer is another reason I’ve persuaded myself the murderer is a man. I don’t know any woman, except for me, that owns a gun, let alone know how to select a silencer that renders the shot soundless and know how to use a silencer. Wouldn’t there be a record of anyone purchasing a gun or a silencer? I know my grouping of women I surround myself with is a tiny sampling and not scientific, but they are enough to sway me. And I am not naïve enough to think that a woman can’t learn how to do these things if she chooses to. Women can do anything they set their minds to accomplish. I just think a silencer would be far down the list of a chosen weapon.
“A silencer had to be used. No one on the bus heard the seven shots,” I shouted out. My mind focused in on the silencer. I don’t know anything about silencers, but I know who probably does—Joe, Holt Junior, and of course, Gam. Below the Need Info column, I wrote on the board need info on silencers.
My eyes monetarily moved from Duffy’s photo and landed on the framed picture on the sideboard of Dimma, her husband Simon, Gam, and I. It was the four of us at Gam and my wedding. I smiled, not at the memory of the wedding but of Dimma trying to talk me into buying a laptop and me trying to talk her into buying a gun. Her business, operating a real estate company, requires that she meets alone with so many people she doesn’t know in homes, for the most part, that are empty. I believe a gun would be good protection for her, but she refused to buy one. I began giggling at the antics we had both implored to get the other to succumb. My little short orations on gun safety had caused Dimma to finally say, “Vett, give it a break. I’m not
buying a gun.” We then both burst out laughing. Remembering more of our antics, I giggled some more. When all giggled out, I swallowed, then returned my focus to Duffy’s photo.
I again ran my hand across the photo and scrutinized the area around the body. No information came to me. I waited fifteen minutes. I then gave up waiting for something around the body to garnish my attention.
Below the heading of Suspects, I wrote the names of Jackson, Marjorie, and Rebbie. Next to Marjorie and Rebbie’s names, I wrote, engaged in disparaging talk about Duffy and Sybil. Though I listed Marjorie and Rebbie as suspects, their behavior on the bus puzzled me. If they had committed the murder or been involved, wouldn’t they have kept a low profile? Actually, Marjorie began the disparaging talk on the bus and didn’t seem to care who heard her. Was this her way of throwing the blame onto Sybil? I thought of Adam in the Bible, “And the man said, The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.” Below the Need Info column, I scribbled, I must find a way to contact Marjorie and Rebbie.
Next, I examined the clear plastic that covered Duffy’s body. The plastic looked like the kind sold at any hardware store. The police report stated no fingerprints were on the plastic outside of the fingerprints that belonged to two troopers.
“Mmmm, no fingerprints except for those of the two troopers. Yes, this supports my theory that the murderer was organized.”
I realized that murderers more than not wore gloves—another item that supports my organized theory and the murder being homicide in the first degree.
The wounds now garnished my attention. Why shoot seven times? Was this the number of shots needed to make Duffy fall? The bullet holes locations were not clearly seen through the plastic because blood was all over his body’s left side. I hurriedly walked back to my desk and pulled the preliminary autopsy report from its folder. The marks and wounds section showed the exact location of the bullet holes. One was in the center of the chest and the others were around the center bullet.
Sequestered with the Murderers Page 11