Three Degrees of Death

by Allen Kent

  Now that the thought was out, it began to have a certain appeal. “Of course, you could. You have a better law enforcement background than anyone in the department and could probably be of more help than I could. And you have a personal reason for going. If the Haddads really will pay to have someone go, no one in town can fault us for sending you.” Plus, I reminded myself, the Webber sisters had said “travel to a far land.” They hadn’t said who.

  “Yusef may not pay for me,” Grace objected. “He wants you to go. And he’s like my father. He still thinks women should remember their place.”

  “He’ll understand why I can’t. And I can explain that you’re really better trained. If he says no, we’ll find another way to pay for it.”

  She looked nervously at a spot on the floor between us, then said hesitantly, “I’ve told you this before, Tate. But I’ve never been anywhere. Kansas City a few times. And that trip we took to Tulsa to hunt down Verl when we thought he was still involved in Nettie’s death.” When she lifted her eyes, I could see the embarrassment. “I’ve never even been on an airplane.”

  Whether this was the excuse I was looking for or a genuine moment of empathy, I pulled a chair from the desk over to her corner seat, beckoned her to sit, and dropped onto the chair facing her, taking her hand.

  “Listen, Grace. I know the whole travel thing will be a little frightening. But I’ve never known anyone who can jump into an uncertain situation as well as you can and handle it like a pro. I can explain in detail everything you’ll run into on the way and what you’ll need to do when you get there. You’ll find it’s pretty easy.”

  The wrinkles in her forehead deepened with skepticism.

  “I’ll get Marti working on an emergency passport request and will go talk to Yusef this afternoon,” I continued. “You told me once you’d love to have a chance to see some of the world. Here’s your chance—and a way to get someone over there who can help find Danny and Miriam. And that’s what we really want, isn’t it?”

  She let me keep her hand in mine, her eyes lifting to look at me more directly. “I have a passport,” she admitted. “My mother and father wanted to go back to Chiapas a few years ago. I was going to go with them. Then all the immigration trouble started making things more difficult, and they got nervous.”

  I grinned and tried to keep my voice playful. “So—you were willing to go to Mexico . . .”

  “I was nervous about that too.”

  “But you would have gone.”

  “With my parents.”

  “Had they been on an airplane?”

  “No. That’s why I was going along. The oldest daughter.”

  I couldn’t stifle a laugh and her tight lips gradually edged upward.

  “You’re right,” she said. “It is kind of silly. And in some ways, this could be a good thing for me. When I was talking to Mother, my father said, ‘All that police training, and what good is it doing us now?’ Maybe he will see it was worth it to have a cop in the family.”

  I released her hand and stood. “I think he’s more proud of you than he lets on. And this will help. I’m going to call Rosario, then head over to see Yusef. Why don’t you go back up to Fits’ place and see if your trained eye sees anything I missed? If Yusef is really good for the money, we ought to try to get you out of here tomorrow.”

  “Ohhh,” she gasped. “That soon? This scares me to death.”

  “Like you said,” I reminded her. “Two of our kids may be in trouble, and we can’t sit here and do nothing.”

  I glanced through the window of the fishbowl at Marti. She was seated back in her chair watching us with hands folded in her lap, a satisfied smile on her motherly face.

  Grace’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She hurriedly fished it out, gave the caller ID a troubled frown, and swiped the green ‘answer’ button.

  “Have you heard something new, Mother?” she asked, then listened intently, the frown folding into anxious concern.

  “Okay,” she said after a moment. “I’m right here with Sheriff Tate. He’s going to call the FBI—and he just suggested I go over to Scotland to see if I can help. We’ll find them, Mother. Did you send a reply?”

  She listened again, then said, “Well, don’t do anything until I talk to the Sheriff. I’ll get right back with you.”

  She disconnected and looked at me soberly. “Mother just got a text from Danny. It said they were okay, but that this couple had invited him and Miriam to take a little side trip down into England with them.”

  I knitted my forehead. “You’re kidding! I can’t believe that.”

  “The message said the kids knew their teachers would never approve, so they didn’t ask. They’re going off with these people until the group is ready to come back to the US. They’ll meet up again with the rest of the students in Edinburgh.”

  I backed over to the desk and perched against its front edge. “Would they have done something like that? That doesn’t sound like Danny. Or Miriam.”

  “No way,” she objected with a firm shake of her head. “Danny would never do that. And Miriam? She knows her dad would kill her. And what about clothes and money?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Kids that age can get stupid sometimes.”

  She nodded. "Especially when they’re off in an exciting place for the first time. But this is Danny and Miriam, Tate. I still don’t believe it.”

  “Do we know they didn’t sneak back to the hotel and pick up more clothes? Did Danny have a thing about Miriam?”

  “He liked her. I can see them hanging out with each other on the trip. I don’t know that Erin would know if they picked up more clothes. But taking off like that? No. Not Danny.”

  “It sounded like your mother hadn’t sent a reply to the text.”

  “Not yet. She’s too upset and wanted to talk to me first.”

  “Does Danny have a security code on his phone?”

  She nodded. “He can use either a number code or a thumbprint.”

  “Did he have much money with him?”

  “I don’t think so. A little for souvenirs. No credit card.”

  “Did your mother read you the text? Did it mention Erin or Donna by name?”

  “She read it to me, and it just said ‘We didn’t dare tell our teacher.’”

  “Yeah. This doesn’t sound right. We need to call the Scottish police, see if they can track where the text was sent from—and let them know you’re coming over.”

  “And we need to think of some way to answer the text that can help us know if Danny really sent it—or maybe was forced to send it,” she suggested.

  “Any ideas?”

  “I think I need to reply,” she said. “Then if we get another, it might come to me instead of Mom. I’ll tell Danny Erin is waiting at the hotel, is worried to death, and they need to get back to the group. Maybe that Mom—no, his brother is really sick, and we may need to bring him home early.”

  Danny didn’t have a brother.

  “Go see your mother and decide on a message,” I suggested. “You send it, then start packing. I’ll call the Inverness police and Agent Rosario, then go talk to Yusef. You thought he was mad before! He’ll bust a gasket when he hears this.”

  7

  I reached Special Agent Warren Rosario at the number he had given me on his card.

  “Well, Sheriff Tate!” he answered brightly. “How in the world are you? You’re not having new problems with our Syrian friends, are you?”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” I told him, then explained that Miriam, who had gone abroad as part of the travel-study group, was missing, and about the suspicious text from Danny.

  He immediately quieted. “You’re thinking she may have been abducted over there?” he asked soberly. “As a way to get at the family without having to send someone into the US again?”

  “The thought crossed my mind. Do you remember Grace?”

  He chuckled. “Of course. You don’t easily forget a woman like Grace.”


  “Well, the kid who’s missing with Miriam, the one who supposedly sent the text, is Grace’s brother. We’re planning to send her over there, but we can use all the help we can get.”

  “I hear you,” he said. “What can I do?”

  “I called the Scottish police and asked them to try to trace the text—told them to expect Grace in a few days. I was wondering if you could check your Syrian sources to see if anyone has disappeared from the Idlib area recently. Someone who might have entered the UK.”

  “I’ll run a check. You say the kids have just been missing a day?”

  “More than that, by now. We really don’t know for sure. They left the group early this morning, Scottish time, and haven’t shown up. No word from them but the text. So it’s getting to be more like eighteen hours.”

  “I’ll see what I can find. But if one of our people of interest in northern Syria had dropped out of sight, I probably would have been notified, Tate.”

  “Maybe they’re hiring out their dirty work,” I suggested. “For just that reason.”

  “That’s possible,” he agreed. “I’ll see what I can learn. And tell Yusef we’ll do everything we can to help.”

  “I will,” I assured him. “He’ll appreciate knowing you’ve been brought into the loop.”

  The Haddad brothers were metalworkers in the old country. As soon as the First Christian Church congregation brought the families to Crayton, all three men were hired on as welders at Kilgore Homes. Roy Moser tells me they’re the best he has, men who work to see how much they can get done in a day and never complain about being moved around the plant as the workload changes.

  Yusef’s ambush of the high school principal had happened during his lunch break, and I figured he may have to put in another half hour at the end of his shift to make up the time. He probably wouldn’t be available until 5:00 or 5:30. I asked Marti to begin to check on reservations to Glasgow or Edinburgh, then decided to see if I could get a little legal counsel while I waited for the men’s shift to end.

  Able Pendergraft is the age my father would have been had he lived. Mid-fifties. He’s an Atticus Finch kind of country lawyer—at least the way Gregory Peck portrayed Atticus Finch. Always in a suit and tie. Serious, thoughtful face with just enough gray in his hair to make him look wise. Slow, steady delivery when he speaks that adds to the sense of wisdom. His office is across the square, facing the front doors of the courthouse. I was lucky enough to catch him without a client.

  “I heard you might need some legal help,” he said with a subdued grin as I walked in. “Take a seat. What can I do for you?”

  I sniffed. “Word travels fast. I just heard about this myself—and only because Mara Joseph called.”

  Able nodded and peered at me over glasses that rested on the end of his nose. “As you know, I represent the county, and it’s been named in the lawsuit. An old friend in the courthouse in Springfield gave me a call. I’d just as soon not say who.”

  “Well, you know more than I do,” I confessed. “What do you think?”

  He leaned back and balled his fists together in front of his chest, the swivel in his desk chair squealing like an injured rabbit as he rocked backward. “Well, this is in federal court. And if you’re here asking for my legal advice, I’ll begin by suggesting you find a lawyer with more federal court experience.”

  “Federal? What’s it doing in federal court?”

  “Whoever Verl got for a lawyer thinks that’s his best chance. Missouri has some pretty strict limitations of what isn’t protected by sovereign immunity. It would be hard to make this case fit into those exclusions.”

  It was at times like this I realized I didn’t have as much legal experience as a good sheriff ought to have. I knew what sovereign immunity was—that you couldn’t sue the state—but I had no idea what the exceptions were.

  “Generally, this state only waives immunity in cases where someone is injured by a state vehicle or by negligent maintenance of state facilities,” Able explained. “He could have sued in state court, but it would have been risky.”

  “But what’s federal about this? I’m local. Joseph is a state employee.”

  “It’s called Section 1983 and applies to cases in which someone claims they have been deprived of a constitutional right. In this case, the Fourth Amendment.” Able’s slow, deliberate voice made it sound like that should explain everything. “They claim you violated the Greaves’ constitutional right to life and their protection against illegal search.”

  “We didn’t search anything. Didn’t even go into that metal barn they call a house.”

  “But the property was posted, as I understand it. You went down into the holler without permission. At least that’s what the complaint claims.”

  “Verl gave me permission. I stopped on the road and shouted down to him that I could either come talk to him by myself or bring a whole army of state troopers.”

  Able stared at me solemnly. “That’s what the court will have to decide. But as I say, you may want to find someone who’s been before the federal bench more than I have.”

  “I don’t want another lawyer. You’re the best I know.”

  He chuckled. “I’m the only lawyer you know. And I draw up wills and represent petty thieves and people wanting to raise hell with Missouri Water over eminent domain claims. But this is a pretty serious charge, Tate. The wrongful death of a citizen through unnecessary use of force.”

  “Well, first of all, I didn’t shoot LJ. And second, Officer Joseph had every reason to. She was cleared by the patrol’s internal investigation board.”

  “That doesn’t matter. The plaintiff can still file a Section 1983 complaint in federal court and win.”

  “Well, what do you think our chances are?”

  He unclasped his hands and scratched thoughtfully at the edge of his hairline. “Well, there isn’t much detail in the complaint. And I wouldn’t expect there to be. It basically states that you and Officer Joseph went onto the Greaves’ posted property without permission and with no warrant, refused a request to leave, and that in an altercation with the men, Officer Joseph shot LJ who died as a result of the wound.

  I nodded. “A brief, but accurate description.”

  “You’re clearly in better shape than she is since she fired the shot,” he continued. “And the federal court requires a higher degree of clear and convincing evidence than the state does. So that’s in your favor.”

  “What about qualified immunity. Isn’t that supposed to protect law enforcement officers who are carrying out their duties?”

  Able’s scratch turned into a long pull of his fingers through his thick hair. “Qualified immunity has taken a real beating in courts in recent years. There’s so much concern about excessive force and police brutality. Neither of you happened to be wearing a body cam, were you?”

  “I’m afraid we aren’t at the body cam stage in the department yet, Able. They’re on our list, but we don’t have them yet. And Joseph is primarily an investigator. Not a patrol officer. She didn’t have one on.”

  “So it’s going to be largely a matter of your word against Verl’s about what went down.”

  “Not exactly,” I argued, and told Able about a visit I’d made to the Greaves’ place since the shooting—one at which I had suggested LJ needed better follow-up medical attention, but had been brushed off by Verl.

  “Hmm,” he grunted. “That will definitely help.

  “Will you represent me?”

  He stood, and I stood with him. “I’ll say it again, Tate. This isn’t my corner of the law. But I’ve got to be there anyway. So I’ll take you on if you like. The county self-insures up to a million dollars. I assume you have personal liability insurance. At some point, we may just have to decide to make Verl a settlement offer that will be cheaper than trying the case.” He extended a hand. I grabbed it across the desk.

  “I hope not,” I said. “Joseph was just defending the two of us. LJ was in the wrong.”

>   Able wagged his head dismissively. “That’s not going to be the issue,” he muttered. “If this looks too expensive to your insurance carrier or to the state, they might insist we pay Verl off. Justice isn’t the driver anymore.”

  “And we can’t insist on a trial?”

  “Depends on who you want to pay for it,” he said.

  8

  I was waiting in front of Yusef’s apartment when he pulled into the parking lot. He came directly over to the open window of the Explorer.

  “Have you learned anything, Sheriff?” Either the Syrians hadn’t been in town long enough, or Yusef was too culturally formal to just call me Tate.

  “We’re doing all we can to find out what happened to the two kids,” I assured him. “And I have a little more information for you.”

  “You need to go over there—to help them find Miriam. You know I can’t go.”

  “That’s why I’m here to see you. Can I come in for a few minutes?”

  He stepped away from the door and waved me out. “Of course. Lilia will want to know what you have learned.”

  Yusef and his family occupy one of the lower apartments of an old, rundown four-plex the First Christian Church had purchased for a song and turned over to the Haddad families to renovate. It sat on the edge of an area FEMA declared a flood plain after two years of record rains cleared out the low rental housing that used to crowd both sides of Beaver Creek on the east side of town. The apartments were too far up the slope to be covered by demolition funding, and too beat up to attract tenants. In just shy of a month, the Haddads turned them into some of the best-looking housing in that part of town and now rent out the fourth unit to make a little extra cash.

  Yusef ushered me into a living room that swept me back to my interpreting days in Bahrain and Iraq. Tribal rugs covering a hardwood floor, brass bowls and trays on a low coffee table in front of a donated sofa, and the smell of lamb simmering with onion, nuts, and spices in the kitchen beyond.

  “You must stay for supper,” Yusef said, indicating a seat on the couch as his wife hurried in to greet me with a nervous bow. For her sake, he extended the invitation in Arabic.