Buck Vs. the Bulldog Ants

by David Kersey

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

  “Sheriff Sims, you don’t know me but I think I can help out with your investigation of the Crawford woman.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, today’s paper said there was a white car witnessed at the crime scene, right?”

  “What else?”

  “I pass by there, I mean Lila’s, every day when I’m in town. I have a place close by. I can tell you for certain that there was a white car there, and it was an Oldsmobile Alero. I’m certain of it. I know my cars, that’s my business. Does that help?”

  “It most certainly does, and thank you. Mind giving me your name?”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide. It’s Ronald Katzenberger. I would have called it in sooner but I’ve been up in Auburn, Indiana at the big annual auction. I left town on Monday right after the murder and didn’t know about it until now. Believe me, I saw the Alero there that Sunday.”

  “Thanks again, we’ll take your tip into consideration.”

  Sims hung up but wasted no time. “Listen up, we got our first real break. Bolton, run a check on Oldsmobile Aleros registered in the state of Florida. Jamison, contact Palm Beach and tell them the white car is an Alero. Rinaldi, run a picture of an Alero over to the Suites desk clerk, and if he isn’t there, find him and find Cousins to show it to him too. I’ll contact Highway Patrol and give them a heads up. Sarah, put out an alert in the closest five state area that we’re looking for a white, Oldsmobile Alero. Make sure they know it’s a serial killer investigation or else they won’t pay attention.” Sims pounded his pencil on the desk, thought it out more then picked up the phone.

  “Hey Chief, I just hung up with Palm Beach County. They have as a prime suspect a man named David Jones, who is still at large. I hung on while they checked their file. Thing is, Jones had an F150 pickup registered to him, and it was found abandoned on I-75. They checked, there has been no record of an Alero in his past.”

  “Ok, thanks Jamison, but I want you to call the Clewiston Police Chief and have him ask around about a white Olds Alero during the time of the Miller murder. I am betting we turn up something there. Look, the victim was in a boat, right? Have them check marinas or fish camps. How else could the perp get on the water, he had to have either a rental or his own boat. He couldn’t have rode out there with her or how would he have gotten back? Tell them to step on it.”

  “Sarah, call this guy Katzenberger and see if he remembers a boat hitch on the Alero. Also check the stolen vehicle list for the last three months, see if there’s an Alero on it”

  Ten minutes later Jamison walked into Sims’s office. “Sheriff, the Clewiston chief already covered the marinas and fish camps. When I told him about the Alero, he called back right away. During his own investigation he was told by a woman that checks in guests at Uncle Joe’s Fish Camp there was a guest there who was strange, wore a hippie type wig, and was fake fishing they thought because he never bought bait or tackle. Thought he might be a pervert or hiding out because of the wig. When the Chief called her about an Alero, she said it was a match. The pervert guy drove a white Alero.”

  “Got a name?”

  “He registered as Bill Brownley.”

  “Ok, good, now we’re getting somewhere. Call Palm Beach, give them that name and explain the circumstances.”

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  Greg Minnick, now Edward Evans, was not a happy man for a couple of reasons. First, his prednisone was running low, three pills left and no refill. The docetaxel was already long gone, no refill, and the triptorelin, the one that would make him into a girl by sapping his testosterone, was gone and he didn’t want that one anyway. His doctor in Port Charlotte, Florida would not call in a scrip for him. The option was to live without or find a doctor in Little Rock, and that would take too much time to get an appointment and get a scrip filled.

  Second, he had no leads on how or where to find Joan Robertson. FedEx came up empty. He had paid a young dock worker twenty bucks to find out for him. No Robertson or Joan any other last name worked there. Central High School did not have a current address. Her 2003 yearbook he found in the library was useless, even though he found the numbers of two locals from that class who didn’t know how to find her. The one J. Robertson in the phone book turned out to be Julie Robertson. And of course, there was no Joan Robertson in the phone book.

  On the third day he finally caught a break. On a lark he scanned the enrollment at the University of Arkansas-Little Rock. And there she was, maybe. Joan Robertson, MacArthur Hall, Business Administration, Class of 2015. It just might be her. She had a fairly common name, but so far this town of over 700,000 people had rendered nada. He would find out. His Days Inn was seven miles to the east. He would move in as close as he could get.

  To say the area of the campus sucked would be giving it a supreme compliment. Boarded up businesses, one after another. No lodging close to a university is unusual, but this neighborhood bespoke of crime and curfew. Not even ragheads would operate a motel here, Minnick thought while casing the campus. His own experience at the University of Cincinnati was similar in its urban blight, but certainly not this bad. He had to get close another way.

  He passed a Goodwill store when it hit him. He circled around, entered the Goodwill, and found exactly what he was looking for. An Arkansas sweatshirt, some old sneakers that fit, and three old textbooks. Out the door with small change left from a twenty. Edward Evans the student. After a quick change in his car, he walked around the campus and eventually found the Bus Ad building. He sat at one of the benches in front of the main entrance and waited. A rather stupid shot in the dark but he was not going to give up. He was getting close. He could feel it.

  At 1:55 a crowd of kids piled out of the front entrance. He checked the newspaper picture he had stuck inside some physics nonsense text. Brunette, a little older looking than most, but not by much, wasn’t sure of height, but weight would say 130 or so. One feature that might help was her hooked nose. One of those that protruded out from between the eyes, then fell like the sheer wall of a cliff. Not many are that unfortunate, but Dick Tracy, the comic character, had the same type. Joan had the Tracy nose. The crowd thinned and his optimism shrank. And then, there she was. Brunette, blue jeans, beige sweater, 5’6” or so, and the telltale nose. Unmistakably Joan Robertson. Payday. She turned to her left out of the entrance door. He followed, fifty feet behind. Left again at the end of the same building, then right onto a wide sidewalk taking her south. She continued south to an intersection that bisected the campus. Turned right. A parking lot. He watched her get into a yellow Ford Focus, and then away she went, and he was left standing alone and feeling rather foolish. But for one, he had found the elusive Miss Robertson, and two, he knew where to find her again, and he would be better prepared next time. Back to the Days Inn to plan, he was not going to be found in this area after dark, no way. He might get stabbed. Who would do such a heinous thing?

  ++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++

  “You have a safe trip, honey, and call me if you have trouble. I hope to see you tonight, but listen, if you get tired, don’t press your luck, you hear? Stop in a rest stop or motel. I want you back here in one piece, you and Bblackie. Here’s fifty dollars, you might need it.”

  “Thank you Miss Marlene. I loved being here an’ I will be careful. I’ll be loaded up real high with stuff, what should I do with it?”

  “We’ll figure that out when you get here. You be careful. Call me for any reason, and give me a hug.”

  Marlene watched Tillie pull away and felt slightly despondent, like saying goodbye to a child going off to college for the first time. Apprehensive but the assurance of a higher good down the road. She shook off the melancholy and began her busy schedule. As she was walking toward the facility, her cell rang.

  “Mom, its Charles.”

  “Charles! Oh my God son, how are you doing? Anything wrong?”

>   A lengthy pause. “Mom, Oscar’s dead.” Marlene could tell her son was crying.

  “Oh, sweetie, how did it happen? And are you wounded?”

  Another lengthy pause. “Shot through the heart.” The crying turned to sobbing. “I’m ok,” he squeezed out of his sobs.

  Marlene knew the excruciating pain he was going through. Losing a canine in combat, or for any reason at all, was just as devastating as losing a child. She gave him time to collect himself. “I am so sorry Charles, I know how much it hurts.” Charles and Oscar had been together for over three years, had jumped out of airplanes together, had survived fire fights, and saved countless lives by finding IEDs in the sands and streets of Iraq and Afghanistan. “What are you going to do, son?”

  “I’m being reassigned. I’m coming home, mom, can you put me up for a while?”

  “Of course you can come here. Oh honey, I’m so sorry, I know how much you loved Oscar. When can you come? I want to see you so badly. And I hurt for you so much. Is there anything I can do?”

  “I’ll be landing commercial in Atlanta on Saturday. I have to check in at Jackson first. So I can rent a car and be there by Tuesday. Is that ok?”

  Yes, certainly it’s ok. Oh, honey, I love you, can I help, and do you need money or anything?”

  “Mom?” Another long pause. “Mom, I may quit.”

  Marlene knew all too well what he was going through. The thought of quitting is a constant in the army especially after a traumatic experience. “Son, we’ll talk about it. If you want to retire, I understand. You need some mending time, Charles.”

  “I have to hang up, Mom. I’ll call you when I touch down in Atlanta. And mom?” She heard him choking up. “I love you. Goodbye.”

  Marlene sat on the steps and wept. She grieved for him. Only dog handlers understand the emptiness and devastation of saying goodbye to their best friend. She called John to tell him the awful, yet in another way, good news. She would have her son back, if only for a while, a joyous thought that mixed in with the anguish. John understood and tried to console her. Charles would be welcome for as long as it took.

  She found Jim at the new guesthouse making inspections. “Jim, is there any way to speed up this house being ready?”

  “Good morning, Marlene. How much time are we talking about here? We’re on schedule for the third week in April.”

  “I’ll pay the overtime out of my own pocket. How much time could we save? And another thing, Jim, can we start on the old farmhouse right away, do you have another crew?”

  “Ok, look, the final inspection of the training facility is in two days. I can ask the inspector for a temporary occupation permit for the guest house, but he’ll insist on a few things that we can get done in a week or so. It all depends on if he agrees to that. Otherwise, I can save you about a week if you’re willing to pay time and a half. And before I comment on the old farmhouse, I need to make an inspection for structural and mechanical issues. That old wiring in there will need updated. It could be a start over on the electrical, so I wouldn’t count on speed there. The asbestos will have to go. It for sure would fail the radon test. It’ll take some time I’m thinking. On the other hand, there’s nothing to stop you from using it as it sits, it will just be a little rustic and smell like an old house. You don’t need a permit to use it since it’s grandfathered in and never been condemned.”

  She explained to Jim about her son. “Let’s try for the temporary permit. Grease him if you have to. I need it, Jim. I have too many people showing up here at the same time.”

  “In two days you will have full use of the facility. There’s nothing to prohibit you from making temporary living quarters in there. Just a thought, but there’s heat and air, a shower, just need a cot and you’re good to go. And hey, it would be a hell of a lot better than barracks.”

  Marlene knew that neither Tillie nor Charles would see a problem with that, they were soldiers, but it wasn’t optimal. “Pay your guys overtime, Jim. Do you need me to sign something?”

  Jim laughed. “Consider it done, and stuck out his hand.”