by David Achord
I nodded in understanding and I saw him look at his watch.
“In the meantime, I’ve got to go to some kind of school function my wife volunteered me for. I’ll call my sister-in-law and let her know you’re here with my blessing. Do me a favor and lock the gate back when you’re through.”
“You got it,” I said.
We shook hands and Walter sped off. I fetched a cigar and got it going before standing there, looking things over. There were four buildings. One was the main building and three prefab metal buildings behind it. I assumed the building in front, which was the largest, was the main showroom and the others were for storage or side businesses, but it was hard to tell. There was a large parking lot in front, easily capable of handling fifty or more cars and it was surrounded by land that’d recently been plowed up and ready for planting. If I had a farming background, I could have probably guessed which crop, but it was irrelevant to the case.
According to Detective Walter Brannigan, Jason and his two friends, Benny Newton and Charlie Thomas rode down here together from Nashville. They attended the fight together, and then Jason’s two friends hooked up with the two girls. They were probably drunk and high by the time the party started, so they weren’t concerned when they lost contact with Jason. After all, he was an aspiring martial artist and could take care of himself. I wondered if Jason’s recently coming out had anything to do with their lack of sticking together.
I used my phone, opened the case PDF, and read Benny and Charlie’s statements. They both said everyone was having a good time and there were absolutely no problems. I could only guess how wild the rave party was. I’d never been to one, but I’ve heard stories.
I smoked and scanned the rest of the file. Joseph had filed the report two days later. I saw where Detective Brannigan had contacted Jason’s employer, a man who ran a martial arts gym in south Nashville. He had confirmed Jason had not shown up for work nor had he heard from him.
I finished reading, put my phone away, and went to my trunk. I had what I called a detective’s kit consisting of a Pelican case packed with various goodies. I pulled out a small flashlight and a digital camera. After taking a couple of panorama pictures, I went to the first building. It was unlocked, and I had no problem going inside. Walter was right, there was nothing but debris on the floor and a few overflowing trashcans. Same with the other two buildings. Nevertheless, I explored every nook and cranny and took pictures of it all.
Eventually, my investigation of the buildings, such that it was, was complete. I suppose I could have gone to the extreme of spraying each building with something like Luminol, but it would have taken a couple of gallons and a lot of time. No, that wasn’t a viable option. Not yet, anyway.
I walked around outside and took more photographs, but frankly, there was nothing here. Not even a note posted on the wall telling me where I could find Jason. I continued taking pictures as I walked around, but eventually, I ran out of things to photograph.
It was a nice day and my work had produced a few beads of sweat on my forehead. I looked around as I smoked, wondering if there was nothing here or I simply wasn’t seeing it. I wandered around some more and found myself standing by one of the smaller buildings and gazed at the back of the property. I noted old railroad tracks and a spur line that led directly to the northeast corner of the lot. Three rusty boxcars splattered with nonsensical graffiti sat silently on the spur line some fifty yards away.
I stared at them for several minutes as I smoked my cigar down to the stub. My thoughts drifted as I wondered what kind of stories they could’ve told, all the places they’d been, what they had seen. It seemed odd in a way. Those boxcars could not have been cheap to manufacture, yet here they were, abandoned.
I stood there in the sunshine, staring at nothing in particular, and decided to light a fresh cigar. I started to go back to my car to get one when I stopped and looked back over my shoulder to the boxcars. Something happened. An epiphany, a firing of a neuron, something, I don’t know, but I forgot all about the cigar.
“No way,” I muttered to myself and began walking toward them.
The doors were over five feet above the ground and they were closed. I had seen a step ladder back in one of the buildings, which was several yards away. Cussing to myself at my silly notions, I walked back and retrieved the ladder. It was old and rickety. Hell, it was in such bad shape I wasn’t sure it’d even hold my weight. And, it was grimy. I tried to hold it away from my custom-tailored suit as I walked back to the boxcars.
I took my jacket off, gently laid it in the weeds, and started with the first car. The doors weren’t locked, but they were rusty and needed a little muscle to get them to slide open. The bright sunlight affected my vision, causing me to use my flashlight.
The first two were mostly empty, only some trash. When I opened the third boxcar, I caught a slight whiff of something unpleasant.
Decomposition.
Chapter 6
The third boxcar was more of the same, a scattering of trash, some crinkled water bottles, and a stack of wood pallets on one end. I would not have even searched inside, if not for the distinctive odor.
I took a photo before stepping inside and waiting for my eyes to adjust. The pallets, a stack of eight of them, were positioned at an angle to the walls of the boxcar, effectively hiding a triangular space between the pallets and the corner. I took another photograph, then walked over and squatted down. The smell was stronger now.
“Here goes nothing,” I muttered, got a handhold on the bottom pallet, and pulled.
The stack made an unpleasant grating noise as I pulled. When I had enough room to get a good look at that hidden space, I stopped and stood. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but I had to stretch my back a little before bracing myself for what I knew I was going to discover. Peering around the pallets, I saw a crumpled tarpaulin lying there, covering something.
It was not the first body I’d seen up close and personal, but when I lifted the tarp, I was hit with a wave of rancid odor. I fought off the nausea and took several pictures before lowering the tarp and backing out of the car. I tried to be careful, but almost busted my ass as I climbed down the ladder. And, wouldn’t you know it, I snagged my pants leg on one solitary exposed screw.
Landing on the ground, I inspected the new tear. It was small, but these were expensive slacks and it irritated me to no end. I brushed myself off before straightening, and when I did, the first thing I saw was a muscular black man in a deputy’s uniform staring intently at me. He saw my Springfield Armory 45 holstered on my hip at about the same time I thought of it and his hand dropped to his duty weapon. I hastily raised my hands to shoulder level.
“I have a carry permit,” I said.
“Alright, we’ll get to that in a moment. Who are you and what are you doing?”
I identified myself and explained. He had me interlace my fingers behind my head, disarmed me, which I didn’t like, and then had me show him my identification.
“And you say there’s a dead body in there?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, there is,” I replied. “Help yourself if you want to have a look, but I have to warn you, it doesn’t smell too good in there.”
The deputy, his nametag said Pickney, scowled as he eyed the open door.
“I can smell it from here,” he said.
“Here, this is even better.” I held up the camera and showed him the pictures I’d taken. He stared at them with interest before holding up a hand.
“Wait a minute, is this the boy who was reported missing a while back?” he asked.
“I believe it is. I’m going to give Detective Brannigan a call,” I said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll have the dispatcher get ahold of him.”
Even though he’d checked my bona fides, he took no chances and checked my jacket before handing it to me. He radioed the dispatcher and we walked back to our cars. His patrol car was parked behind mine, and he gently insisted on securing my handgun in the t
runk of my car. Technically, I could have balked at this, but he’d been professional and there was no need to complain. At least, not yet.
“What caused you to drive in here and check me out? Did somebody see me and call it in?” I asked.
“No, but I’ve been keeping an eye on this business ever since that damn party,” he said. “We had a DUI fatality at about four in the morning. The person who caused the wreck had been at that party and they ran head-on into an old buddy of mine who was on his way to work.”
Deputy Pickney’s cell phone rang as another deputy drove into the parking lot. From the conversation, I could tell he was speaking with Detective Brannigan. After a moment, he hung up.
“That was Brannigan, he’s on his way. Him and probably the rest of the department, including the sheriff.”
I nodded in agreement. This was no doubt going to be a big dog and pony show, especially if anyone from the media shows up.
“Walter said you used to be a homicide detective in Nashville.”
“Yeah, I used to be. I’m going to get a cigar. Do you want one?” I asked.
He declined with a shake of his head. That was fine with me; the only cigars I had retailed for ten dollars a stick and I wasn’t the kind of guy who gave money away. I clipped and lit one and then leaned against my car watching the circus begin.
When Detective Brannigan parked, he got out of his car, walked directly toward me, and got right to the point.
“Is it Belew?” he asked.
“I couldn’t get a facial recognition without moving the body, not to mention the decomposition, but the corpse was wearing a number thirty-five Preds Jersey. Just like Jason was wearing.”
Walter gave a small, rueful shake of his head. “Yeah, alright. Why don’t you show me what you found?”
We walked back to the boxcars and I pointed out the third car. “He’s in there.”
I handed him my Streamlight and stood by while Walter used the ladder and entered the boxcar. A moment later, he reappeared and hastily stepped down from the ladder like I had.
“No sign of the girl, I’m assuming.”
I shook my head.
“Did you alter anything?” he asked.
“Yeah. The doors were closed and the pallets were stacked in a way to hide the body. I lifted the tarp only to confirm there was a body under there and placed it back the way I found it. You’ll find my prints on the doors and my DNA on the bottom pallet. Sorry about that.”
He nodded in understanding and then made a comment. “His pants were off.”
He was right. A pair of jeans and underwear were lying off to the side of the corpse. Detective Brannigan was thinking the same thing I was—Belew may have been sexually assaulted. He stared at the ground, working his jaw.
“He was here the whole time,” he said. “Right under our noses.”
I didn’t respond. There wasn’t anything to say that would make him feel any better.
“I guess right about now you’re thinking we’re a bunch of country bumpkins who don’t know how to investigate a case.”
“No, not at all,” I said. He fixed me with a disbelieving stare for a moment.
“Alright, the TBI are on their way. They’re going to process the scene and they’ll want to interview you. While I’m standing around here waiting, I’d normally go ahead and take a statement from you, but we may as well wait until they get here and then you can tell us all at once,” Walter said.
“Yeah, I appreciate that.”
“So, what are you going to say?” he asked. I glanced at him as I smoked my cigar. I sensed he had something in mind.
“I’m open to suggestions,” I replied.
Deputy Pickney had walked up and was listening in silence. The two men exchanged glances.
“I’m not suggesting you say anything that isn’t true,” Walter said. “But I know how the sheriff is going to react. When he gets me alone, the first thing he’s going to say is some city slicker from Nashville came down here and did what we couldn’t do and how inept it’s going to make the department look.”
I understood immediately. Walter had shown me courtesy and professionalism. What I said in my statement could cast him in a dim light. For that matter, it might cast his entire department in a dim light. I took a drag off of my cigar.
“I’m not so sure he should say that,” I said.
“Oh? Why’s that?” Walter asked.
“Because, the way I remember it, I was looking around when Deputy Pickney drove up.” I then made a thoughtful frown. “In fact, when the two of us discussed the details of the case, I believe he was the one who suggested we look in the boxcars.” I looked at Pickney, who looked at Walter, who gave a subtle nod.
“I appreciate it, Thomas,” Walter said.
I committed a small taboo in the world of auto restoration buffs, and that is I leaned against my car while I watched the dog and pony show begin. There was no danger of me scuffing the paint, but enthusiasts would pull their hair out if someone leaned up against a car in which they had painstakingly refinished.
The sheriff was the first to arrive on the scene, soon followed by other deputies and the TBI. Everyone insisted on having a look inside the boxcar. All except Pickney, who was sitting in his patrol car diligently completing a report. He occasionally looked around, and by the look on his face, I guessed he was probably wondering what he’d got himself into.
The TBI mobile forensics lab drove into the parking lot an hour later. Within seconds, two techs scurried around like worker ants setting up the lab and even stringing lights to the boxcar. They knew they were going to be there for many hours. Walter walked up with another man following him.
“Thomas, this is Sheriff Cooperman,” he said.
The sheriff extended his hand. “Walter speaks highly of you,” he said, clasping my hand firmly. He was a nondescript man in his late forties with square shoulders and an affable smile. We talked for a minute before he excused himself and walked over to a television news crew who had arrived on the scene. I understood. The sheriff was an elected position after all and he needed good publicity whenever he could get it.
Eventually, they got around to taking a formal statement from me. I gave them the facts, downplaying my role and complimenting Deputy Pickney’s keen eye and professionalism. When they’d asked me every conceivable question they could think of, they decided they were done with me and let me go.
I motioned to Walter and had him follow me away from the group.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to go pay a visit to Jason’s brother,” I said.
“I should be the one to make the notification,” he countered.
We discussed it and decided to do it together. The sheriff gave his okay and soon we were on I-24 heading to Nashville. I called ahead to the Davidson Hills Country Club and confirmed Joseph was still working. When we arrived, the two of us walked in together. The hostess got the manager and we informed him of the purpose of our visit. He gave me the once over, noting my dirty slacks and sweat-stained shirt, but said nothing and led us to his office. He left, and a moment later brought Joseph in. When he saw us, the blood drained from his face.
“You found him, didn’t you,” he said.
The two of us nodded grimly. We sat him down and calmly explained everything while he sobbed.
“Now, keep in mind, he has not yet been positively identified,” I said.
“I know it’s him,” he said with tears flowing freely down his face.
I looked at Walter, who cleared his throat.
“It’s a strong possibility, but we will not know for certain until the autopsy,” he said.
The manager, who had been sitting quietly and listening, raised his hand.
“Yes, sir?” I asked.
“What happens now?” he asked.
I waited for Walter to respond, but when he hesitated, I spoke up.
“The autopsy will be performed within the next couple of days. They will confirm his iden
tity and attempt to determine the cause of death.”
Joseph looked at me like a lost puppy dog. “Do you think he was murdered?”
I thought for a moment, and I knew Walter was looking at me, perhaps tacitly telling me to hold off. Nevertheless, I answered honestly.
“Yes, I do.”
He nodded somberly and wiped away some more tears. We talked some more and then I told him we had to leave. Walter walked with me to the parking lot.
“How does it work with you? Is the TBI going to take over the case?” I asked.
“It’ll be a joint investigation. It sounds good in theory. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t,” he answered.
“Well, good luck with it.”
“Are you done with your investigation?” he asked.
I sighed. “I am, I suppose, but I’d be lying if I said I was done sticking my nose into it.”
Walter grunted. “Well, let’s not be adversarial. I’ll call you if anything comes up and I expect you to do the same.”
“Certainly,” I said. We shook hands before departing company.
I got home at almost midnight. Anna and Marti were sitting on the couch watching TV. Tommy Boy was curled up contentedly between them.
“Hi, girls,” I said.
Anna looked me up and down. “You’re a mess. Did you get into a fight or something?”
“No, no fighting,” I replied and walked into the kitchen. I poured myself a healthy dose of Balvenie Caribbean Cask single malt and sat in my easy chair, whereupon I gave them the ten-minute version. They listened in stunned silence.
“That is so sad,” Anna said when I’d finished. “What happens now?”
“The cops have a murder investigation on their hands,” I said.
“But what are you going to do next?” she pressed.
I shrugged and sipped my Scotch. “Technically, I’ve fulfilled the terms of the contract. Besides, the man can’t afford me.”
“You think he was murdered though.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“It seems like you could help him,” she said.
I shrugged and didn’t answer. Standing, I motioned her to follow me to my bedroom.