by Thomas Scott
“We let them take their cars home. They’re not supposed to drive them if they’re not on duty, but some of the guys do. You know how that goes…wife is at the mall, they’re out of beer or need to run to the hardware or whatnot…I don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“But Brackett wouldn’t have any reason to run lights and siren out of an abandoned industrial park two hours after his shift ended, would he?”
Powell scratched the fat under his chin. “No, I guess he wouldn’t. So you’re saying Brackett is the one setting the fires?
“We’re saying it’s a possibility, Jerry,” Virgil said.
“A pretty strong possibility,” Murton added.
Powell turned away and looked at nothing in particular. “This is a problem for me. You understand that, don’t you? If you’re wrong, I’ve just accused a veteran of this department—asshole or not—of arson and when that gets out I’ll be finished as sheriff. There’s no way I’d get reelected after that. If you’re right, Brackett’s the kind of guy that will scream bloody murder and accuse me of framing him because I’m down in the polls and about to be out of a job. My tit’s in the wringer either way.”
Virgil took a chance. “You knew it was him all along, didn’t you, Jerry?”
Powell rolled his lips together and squinted at Virgil. “How did you know that?”
“I didn’t. I only suspected it. You just confirmed it for me. That’s why you hired us, isn’t it? You’re only weeks away from the election and you didn’t want to have to investigate the guy who is running against you.”
Powell dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it out with the toe of his boot. “Nasty habit. Can’t quit ‘em though.” He was quiet for a long time before he spoke again. “Yes, that’s exactly why I hired you. I just didn’t think you’d get to it quite so quick.”
“So what are you going to do, Jerry?”
Powell pulled his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. “I’m probably going to flush my career down the toilet by taking a drive out to Brackett’s house and having a little chat with him. I’ll need impartial witnesses. You two are coming with me.”
Murton looked at Virgil. “This ought to be fun.”
Hector saw Brackett start to stir so he gave him another zap then grabbed his ankles and pulled him from the kitchen into the family room. He placed him in a recliner that sat opposite a flat screen television mounted on the opposite wall. He made a quick run through the house and checked that all the windows were closed tight, then went into the furnace room and broke the gas line loose. Then he went back into the kitchen, turned all four of the stovetop burners to their highest setting and blew the flames out one by one. After that, he turned the oven on, left the door open, walked out the front door and drove away.
Problem solved. Precedent set.
Virgil and Murton got back in the truck and followed Powell out to Brackett’s house. Brackett lived about six miles away, down an empty gravel road that had houses spaced every quarter mile or so. They were tight on Powell’s bumper and had just turned into the drive—a gravel path with weeds growing up the center—when the house blew apart.
The explosion was so strong it caused Powell to lose control of his vehicle and he drove the cruiser nose-first into an oak tree next to the drive. Virgil hit the brakes and slammed the truck’s transmission into park. He heard Murton shout something but his mind refused to register what he’d said. Virgil was too busy watching the debris and wreckage that rained down across the whole of Brackett’s property. He saw the brick chimney chase from the side of the house launch itself like a missile, then fall back and land on top of Brackett’s cruiser, crushing it flat. A refrigerator flew up through a hole where the roof should have been and landed upside down in the front yard. A flat screen television set buzzed over the cab of the truck, the noise like the sound of a helicopter’s rotor blades. An old-fashioned washtub basin landed in the tree above Powell’s car. A smoking lampshade tumbled past like a box kite with its strings cut. Murton yelled to him again and this time he grabbed Virgil’s arm and pulled him flat across the seat, below the level of the dashboard. Just as he did, a chunk of concrete smashed into the front end of the truck and crushed the hood. A heavy wooden chair hit the windshield and all four legs of the chair punched through the safety glass.
All of it happened in a span of less than five seconds. When the falling debris subsided Virgil and Murton sat up, worked their way out of the truck and looked at the devastation. Virgil thought his truck looked like something you might see parked on the back forty of a salvage yard. Along with the chair that was stuck through the windshield, the entire front end was demolished, both side windows were blown out and the front tires were flat. Steam and liquid coolant gushed from behind the grill.
Brackett’s house was gone, reduced to a pile of rubble. There was no fire, but the smell of natural gas hung in the air and small pockets of wreckage smoldered everywhere. Powell stumbled out of his cruiser, his sunglasses askew and shook himself like a dog that had just jumped from a swimming pool. He kept opening and closing his mouth. When Virgil spoke to him, he didn’t answer.
“Jerry? Hey, Jerry. You better sit down here for a minute.” Powell began to stagger toward the spot where Brackett’s house used to be. Murton caught up with him, grabbed the back of his uniform collar then gently sat him down in the grass and told him to stay put. Virgil walked over to where Powell was and sat down next to him. “You okay, Sheriff?”
Powell wiped the airbag residue from his face and tried to straighten his sunglasses, but they were bent across the bridge and one of the lenses had spider-webbed from the impact. He finally gave up and flung them in the grass. Virgil stood, retrieved the glasses and handed them back. “We’re probably looking at a crime scene here, Jerry. We shouldn’t contaminate it any more than we have to. He didn’t respond and Virgil wasn’t sure if he’d heard him or not. “Sit tight, partner. Help is on the way.”
Virgil reached inside Powell’s cruiser, grabbed the microphone, identified himself and gave the dispatcher their location and a brief description of the situation, then told her to get the fire department and any available deputies headed their way. When he turned back and looked at Powell, he was standing, his hands on his knees. Murton jogged over from the other side of Brackett’s cruiser. He kept looking up at the branches of the same tree that Powell had hit with his squad car. He grabbed Powell’s arm and led him a few yards away, closer to what was left of Virgil’s truck.
“Let’s sit down over here. You took a pretty good wallop, Jerry.”
“What the hell just happened?”
Virgil had seen this type of reaction before. So had Murton. During their time in Iraq they’d both been near IEDs when they exploded. “Brackett’s house just blew up. Probably a gas explosion.” Virgil noticed Murton staring at him. “What?”
As usual, Murton’s remarks were nothing short of factual. “Brackett’s legs are stuck up in that tree above Powell’s cruiser. What’s left of his torso is laying about a hundred feet past the back porch.” The three of them looked up in the tree. Then, as if his point might have been missed, he added, “Congratulations, Jerry. You’re about to be reelected.”
22
Powell refused medical treatment and took charge of the crime scene while Virgil and Murton helped where they could, though there wasn’t much for them to do. They helped the crime scene technicians identify bits of debris that might be classified as evidence, but everyone knew that any forensic value associated with Brackett’s belongings was going to be slim at best. The majority of the pieces scattered around the property would either have to be picked up with a backhoe or a pair of tweezers.
Brackett’s body parts were photographed, bagged and taken away. His squad car was completely destroyed. Both Powell’s cruiser and Virgil’s truck had to be towed from the scene as well. The crime scene technicians would have a long day. When it was clear there was nothing left for them, Powell told them they co
uld leave. Before they did though, he said, “If Brackett had a computer here at the house no one has found it. Not even pieces of it. I don’t think he had one. Nobody has found a cell phone yet either.”
“Have one of your people pull his cell records from the phone company. His house too, if he had a landline,” Virgil said.
“I’ve already got someone on that. There’s no chance this was a suicide, was it?”
“Probably not, Jerry. There are easier ways to go. Ever try to stay in a room with the smell of natural gas? It’s all but impossible.”
“Besides,” Murton added, “show me a cop suicide and I’ll show you someone who either ate their gun or went to town on pills. You know that, Jerry. We all do.” Virgil felt like Murton made a point of looking away from him as he spoke about the pills. “Besides, why would he take himself off the board? You said yourself he was beating you. He had a real shot at being the next sheriff. It doesn’t add up.”
“Accident then?”
“Probably not,” Virgil said. “At least according to the firemen. Look, Jerry, you don’t really believe that anyone is going to try to hang this on you, do you?”
“Brackett and I were on opposite ends of the spectrum. He had the support of the people. We’re plenty short on jobs around here and this private prison system the state is moving toward is something that I have opposed since the get-go. It was also something that Brackett was leveraging in a big way.”
“How so?”
“Jobs, how else? Jobs to build the prison, jobs to run the prison, jobs to maintain the prison. Brackett was backed by Pate’s construction company and the harder I pushed against the idea of a private prison in my county the harder they pushed back. Have you seen any of their TV ads? They turned Brackett’s entire campaign into one big job fair for the county. And not only that, they managed to make it look like I was the one pulling the tent pegs out of the ground while everyone was underneath the big-top handing out their resumes.”
Murton clapped Powell on the back. “Relax, Jerry. Everything is copacetic. If nothing else, you’re going to win by default.”
Powell shook his head. “That’s just not good enough, Wheeler, and you damn well ought to know it. If I don’t have the trust of the people I serve, how in the hell am I supposed to be an effective leader?”
“I think Murton is right, Jerry. You might be overthinking it. Everything will work out.” Powell stared at Virgil for a moment then shook his head and walked away. After he was gone Murton looked at Virgil. “What?” Virgil said.
“Nothing. All’s well that ends well, that’s all.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Jerry’s going to get reelected. A dirty cop is dead. We’ve invested about four hours tops into our first case and we’re walking away with ten grand. What’s the downside?”
“The downside is this: Pate is playing us like a couple of rag dolls. Brackett might have won the election but he was going to be Pate’s puppet no matter what. That means Pate controls the county, the prison, and all the revenue it’s going to generate. While all that is happening, he and Pearson have put together a plan that essentially allows Pate to walk away with every single dime of any unclaimed lottery winnings. Pate not only set himself up in the county, he had his hand in the state’s cookie jar.”
“Except none of that is illegal, is it?”
“No, it’s not. But Pearson has tied himself to Pate, and Pate’s company controls the lottery, which is where Nicholas Pope was employed. If we want to find out who killed Pope, we need to go where the answers are. I want you to get together with Nichole Pope and find out everything you can about her brother’s job, his background, the works. Nobody gets butchered like that without cause. We’ve got to figure out what he was up to.”
“Didn’t I hire you?”
“Yeah,” Virgil said. “I’m teaching you about murder investigation. It was your idea, remember? Let’s call it on-the-job training.”
“So what are you going to do?” Murton said.
“I’m going to go over to the lottery office and interview the rest of the programmers. One of them has to know something.”
“We need a ride,” Murton said.
The ride came from Becky and she dropped Virgil at his house first so he could get Sandy’s car. Once inside he spent the better part of a half-hour looking for her car keys. The longer he looked the more frustrated he became until he finally gave up. He went out to the backyard and without purpose began to walk down toward the pond and his father’s willow tree. Virgil looked for him under the branches, but he wasn’t there, nor did he really expect him to be. He pulled his phone from his pocket and called Sandy. The governor answered. “Hi Jonesy. How are you?”
“Why are you answering Sandy’s phone, Governor?”
“I’m well, thank you for asking. I don’t think Sandy is though. If I were you, I’d get her an appointment with the doctor when we get back.”
“Where is she now?”
“Still in the bathroom. She took one bite of the hors d'oeuvres and made a beeline for the can. It seems I’m in charge of her purse and her phone.”
Virgil sat down in one of the lawn chairs near the edge of the pond. “How bad is she?”
“Hmm, not too bad. I wouldn’t say it’s anything to worry about, but she’s been a little green around the gills ever since we got here. Can’t seem to keep anything down. Maybe she got some bad shrimp at that bar of yours.”
“I doubt it, Governor. Listen, have her call me right away when she gets back to, to…” Virgil suddenly realized he didn’t know exactly where Sandy and the governor were.
“To our table?”
“Yes. Your table.” He said it through his teeth.
“What’s the matter, Jonesy? You sound a little irritated.”
He took a deep breath. “I am irritated. I cannot seem to find my girlfriend’s car keys, which, at the moment I need quite desperately. I was hoping to ask her where they are.”
The governor made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Better be careful there. Fiancée is the word you should be getting used to.”
“Governor, maybe it’s just my imagination, but you seem to be enjoying yourself lately at my expense.”
“My goodness, you’re awfully sensitive for a cop.”
“See? That is exactly what I’m talking about. I believe you meant to say former cop, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes. Once a cop, always a cop, though. Isn’t that what they say? Anyway, have you looked in the ignition? I’m telling you, with God as my witness I couldn’t get my wife to take the keys out of the ignition if I paid her. Did you know the insurance company won’t pay on an auto theft claim if they discover you left the keys in the car? I suppose I could get them to pay if I made a claim, given the fact that I appoint the insurance commissioner for the state, but for the average Joe—”
“Goodbye, Governor,” Virgil said, then hung up. When he got to the garage and opened the driver-side door of Sandy’s car, he saw the keys hanging in the ignition.
Proving he was the better man, Virgil called the governor back to let him know he was correct; the keys were in fact in the ignition. Proving he knew he was correct, the governor refused to answer. Sandy’s phone went straight to voice mail. Virgil could actually picture McConnell sitting there, a little smile across his lips. Virgil left Sandy a message and told her he loved her and asked her to call him back when she could.
When he arrived at the lottery office the front door was locked and the windows were dark. Well what did you expect on a Saturday afternoon, Jonesy? When he walked around to the back of the building though he found two young men standing next to a steel door that was propped open with a wastebasket. Both were smoking cigarettes. “You guys work for the lottery?”
“Who’s asking?” one of the men said. They were both young, skinny, and had hair that grew past their shoulders. Both wore T-shirts emblazoned with the names of rock bands Virgil was unfamiliar with, the
ir jeans had holes in the knees and their sneakers were covered with grime. The only discernible difference between the two was the color of their hair. One had light brown, the other black. They were either programmers or janitorial staff. Virgil hoped they were programmers.
“I am. It’s a yes or no question.”
Black hair looked at brown hair and spoke from the corner of his mouth. “Cop.”
Virgil didn’t correct him. “I need to ask you guys a few questions about Nicholas Pope. You knew him?”
Brown looked him right in the eyes. “Knew him? Are you kidding? He was my idol. That dude could fly. He taught me everything I know.”
“Fly? He was a pilot?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, no. His fingers, man. He could fly on the keys faster than anyone. He was amazing.”
“Is that important? With what you do? The speed?”
He laughed. “Not here…not so much. But as any coder will tell you, sometimes…hell most times, you gotta go fast. You gotta stay ahead of the traps. If you don’t have the speed, you’ll get backtracked and boxed in so fast the cops’ll be at your door before you can log out and shut down.”
Black cleared his throat. “Uh, don’t you have to, like, have a warrant or something before we talk to you?”
“What’s your name?” Virgil said.
“Mike. Mike Snowhill.”
“Okay, Mike, Mike Snowhill. You’re mostly right. You don’t have to talk to me. But if you don’t I have to ask myself, why not? Why wouldn’t you? The only logical reason I could come up with is you’ve got something to hide.”
“Hey man, I’ve got nothing to hide. We’ve got legit jobs here.”
“Uh huh. And how about after hours? Got anything going on the side, Mike, Mike Snowhill?”
Brown looked at Snowhill, then at Virgil. “My name is Bobby Epps. Maybe we better go inside.”