by Richard Neer
“I doubt anyone’s ever referred to it as a ditty before. Let me tell you what I did today.”
I did and Ginn listened without comment until I finished. He said, “So, basically you got nothing.”
“True. But Bolton was urging me to move on, nothing to see here. He made like Townes killed himself, but there was no body. So what happened, he committed suicide and then walked away?”
“Sounds like Bolton didn’t work the case too hard and ain’t much bothered it never got solved. Alex knows him, we can ask her what she thinks when she comes back with the grub. Sorry I didn’t make nothing tonight, but that Handel dude took it out of me.”
“The things we do for love.”
“Yeah, well, you didn’t elaborate much on your lunch with Ms. Kat. Funny how you wound up there.” He got up and walked to the wet bar. “Another?”
“A wee drop, since you’re up. I was in the area, so I stopped by. Curious about the food, is all.”
“Yeah, right. I’m sure it was a little afternoon delight.”
“Will you stop? She and Black aren’t married, but they’re good with each other and I wouldn’t think of it. The main thing I took out of it was that she acted really uptight about what happened in Hardeeville.”
“As well she should,” Tomey said as she struggled coming the front door, her arms full of fragrant Chinese goodies. Gentleman that he aspires to be around her, Ginn leaped up to help.
“Ah, speak of the devil,” I said. “Moses and I already set the table, I’ll fill you in while we eat.”
It took a while to sort out the various dishes in foil containers, white cardboard cartons and crinkly plastic boxes. From Ginn, she had picked up his habit of providing enough food to supply a small regiment. There would be leftovers for days.
After I told her about what I’d learned, she said, “One of the reasons I went in to work for a while was to see if there was anything I could access on the Hardeeville deal. It’s a burr under my saddle too. There’s nothing. You’d have thought that County and Local would be all over it, but other than the initial sheriff’s response, there’s nada.”
“Kat said that if certain things came to light, she and Black would be in serious trouble. Smells like a cover up, doesn’t it?”
Alex said, “FBI, CIA, Homeland and a bunch of other alphabet agencies could shut something like this down. I know the way you are, but maybe just this once you should listen to her and let this go. Do what they hired you for and leave this alone.”
Bosco had parked himself under the table. I slipped him a fortune cookie. I thought I did it invisibly, but Alex called me on it.
“What did the fortune say, Riley? You will become a fat dog if you keep eating what Moses and dad feed you?”
“He runs with us on our little trots on the beach. I should be in as good shape as this dog.” I petted him and he licked at my hand, thinking I was giving him another cookie. “What do you make of Bolton’s story? Even though he says he really likes you, he gave me nothing. Was he bent, back in the day?”
“Hard to say. I mean, he cheats on his wife, that’s out there. He hit on me more than once. Nothing I couldn’t handle, just a little suggestion I shut down right away. That was years ago, back then it was no big deal. Now it’d be considered harassment and could get him in trouble.”
“After lunch, I did some digging at the county seat. Got the names of the cops on the force back then. There was one guy who left a few days after Townes disappeared. The timing caught my eye. You know anything about a Paul Dugger?”
“I’ve heard the name. He had quite a reputation, but he was way gone before I got into law enforcment. He was head of a faction in the department called the Brandos. They had a great solve rate, but the story was, they took a lot of shortcuts to get there.”
“Shortcuts?”
“Let’s just say they didn’t treat suspects with dignity and respect. Got confessions in ways we don’t endorse these days. After he left the force, I know he was in your line of work for a while. More like a fixer though --- someone you might hire to intimidate.”
“I paid him a visit, just to see if he knew anything. He was pretty mild mannered. He’s not that big. Strong looking, but I’d guess if he was going to threaten someone nowadays, he’d use his brain more than his brawn.”
Ginn said, “Just like you, 5-0. “Cept of course, you got me for brawn and you ain’t exactly diminutive yourself.”
“Does he use big words like that around you very much, Alex?
She smirked. “His command of the language never fails to impress.”
Ginn said, “King told me Bolton got a bunch of terms as sheriff before he ran for Congress.”
“Funny how that wound up. The guy who beat him for Congress had lots of baggage. That mistress in South America was embarrassing, but a few years later, the voters couldn’t care less about peccadilloes like that.”
Moses went back to eating, more interested in food than conversation. After lunch at Kat’s place, I had very little appetite.
Tomey said, “You know Riley, I think you’re taking your eye off the ball. You got distracted by Hardeeville, now you’re digging up dirt on retired cops. I doubt either has anything to do with finding out what happened to Townes and how his music is surfacing now. If I was you, I’d check out that band and see how they came by those songs.”
“That’s exactly what Bolton said. All you guys think alike. But that band’s on tour now on the West Coast. They’re based in The Outer Banks and they’ll be back before Christmas. I figure catching them at home makes more sense. Black’s setting up a meeting with the widow Townes. And I want to check out the scene of the accident, where the van crashed.”
“You really expect to find evidence there after forty years, stuff the cops missed at the time?”
“No, just want to get a feel for the place. I’ve driven through there a lot over the years but never walked around in those woods. Sometimes, you pick up vibes from the surroundings.”
Ginn said, “Sounds spooky, 5-0. I better go with you, ‘case there’s evil spirits you can’t ward off on your own.”
Tomey spit up a considerable amount of egg foo yung, laughing. I didn’t think it was funny, but when you’re in love…..
11
Walking through the woods in Okatie made me nostalgic. It wasn’t all that long ago when Rick Stone and I trekked through a similar wooded area a few miles south of here, looking for a killer’s hideout. Although I’ve known Ginn for a fraction of the time I’d spent with Stone, I trust him implicitly.
But unlike Stone, he wasn’t all that comfortable in the woods. He said, “You think there’re snakes here, 5-0? If there is, you on your own.”
“Finally, I find your Achilles heel. I thought you were afraid of nothing, big man.”
“Ain’t afraid. Just that if some big old copperhead takes a chunk outta my heel, who’s gonna save your bacon when the time comes?”
“No guarantees, but I hear snakes go dormant in the winter. Sleep just like bears.”
“Just in case you be misinformed, I brought a friend,” he said, pulling his jacket open to reveal a holstered Glock.
“Overkill. That piece could stop a bear. I think this is the spot.”
I had no idea if this was the exact place where Colton Townes had run off the road on that cold December night. In the ensuing years, nature had taken its course. Small scrub pines then might be taller than the telephone poles now. The county mowed the grassy shoulders during the summer, but fifteen feet off the pavement belongs to God. And he wasn’t exactly tending his garden these days.
Ginn said, “You told me it was right near the billboard for the kid who was killed by a drunk. “Damn, it’s loud here, for being in the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s the Interstate. Can’t be much more than a mile away and if the wind’s blowing in the right direction, sounds like we’re right on top of it.”
“Hey, lookee here. Someone put up a
cross.”
It is a sad but common custom to put up a makeshift cross or some kind of memorial with flowers or wreaths to mark the spot of a highway fatality.
“Could be for Caleb. That happened about three years ago. Guy that blew one and a half times the limit crossed the center line and ran into him head on. Got fifteen years. Had a previous conviction for assaulting a cop so he won’t be out anytime soon.”
“I ain’t no forensics expert, but this cross looks older than three years. Hey look, says Colt on it. Gotta be for Townes.”
It was hard to read. Whether it was black paint or some kind of permanent marker, we could barely make out the inscription on the cedar cross. It was not museum quality work, but care had been taken. The four by four cedar fence post was dado-ed into the classic cross, secured with stainless steel screws. The inscription was skillfully done, though worn by the years. Forty years of freeze-frost cycles had not uprooted it, although it did have a slight tilt. Vines and grass had grown up around it, making it hard to spot from the road, even though it was barely thirty feet from the pavement.
I said, “This may not had been put here right after the accident. Could’ve been years later, but whoever did it assumed that Townes died on the spot or somewhere close by. Can you make out the date?”
“Looks like December ninth, 1980. That when it happened?”
“Yeah. Let’s canvass the area. There were no remains in the van, so we have to assume that Townes didn’t die on the spot. Bolton told me they did find blood that was his type, but they didn’t do DNA then.”
“You thinking he crashed, came to and walked away? Dazed and confused.”
Stone would have jumped all over that line. “That’s what I’m thinking. Depending on how dazed, would he have walked back to the road and hitched a ride? I’m thinking in his confusion, he might’ve walked deeper into the woods.”
“Problem is, if there was some kind of clearing forty years ago, it’s probably overgrown by now. I mean, we can follow this little path, but it might not be the same one.”
“Let’s see where it leads.”
The ‘path’ was not a maintained trail or anything of the sort. It was a narrow winding journey between big trees, some of which were not there forty years ago. I wanted to get a feel for the area, what it was like to be stranded there. It was cold and we were wearing brightly colored down jackets, in case there were hunters about. Checking the map before we lit out that morning, it didn’t seem that anyone owned this property. It might be state or county land.
Ginn said, “We trespassing, 5-0? Some old redneck farmer missing teeth gonna pull a shotgun on us?”
“Don’t see any ‘private property’ signs. Hey there’s water up here. A little creek, then a pond. Fresh water, looks like.”
“Uh oh, fresh water means gators. They don’t dig the salty stuff.”
“That’s true and I’m not about to go stirring up the water to see if we can roust a couple. They should be sleeping with the fishes now. You hate snakes, I feel the same way about gators. I give them a wide berth, even on the golf course.”
“Feels like we’re on Oprah, fessing up our fears to each other. Don’t tell Tomey, she thinks I’m Superman.”
“I thought Superfly was more your speed.”
“Black Panther if you wanna stay current, 5-0. Now what?”
“Let’s get in the car and see how far the Interstate is. In case he went in that direction.”
We got back to the MDX, which Ginn had grudgingly permitted himself to be seen in. We were going into wild areas and he didn’t want to risk Molly getting scratched. I figured the four wheel drive might come in handy, but so far we didn’t need it.
“One mile, sixth tenths to the highway, Mo,” I said when we got to the cloverleaf. “Normal pace, might take a half hour to get there on foot. A man limping from a crash would take longer.”
“Since we speculating, ‘cause that’s all we got to go on now, let’s figure traffic be sparse on this Coosaw Scenic drive at night. So if he hitched a ride, it’d be on I-95. Northbound side.”
“You’d think.”
“We done? Getting near lunchtime.”
“Yeah, I think so. We can head back toward Bluffton on the interstate. Exit 8, in Hardeeville. Not far from the Brand X compound.”
“Don’t go there, 5-0. Alex told you to leave that one alone. One case at a time.”
I didn’t want to get into that can of worms, so I changed the subject. “So, you and Alex have plans for Christmas?”
“Separate. She going to her family, somewhere near Augusta. I got no plans.”
“You’re not going with her?”
“We talked about it. Her dad’s a Baptist minister. Might frown on her bringing a black man a bunch of years her senior home for the holidays. She was willing to take the chance but I’m looking for peace on earth, good will toward men. Don’t need no drama. How ‘bout you?”
“I have a little tradition. I went up to the mountains years ago to get a fresh cut Fraser fir at a place called Mary’s Tree Farm. Now I’m friends with the lady who runs it. I go up Christmas Eve and stay over, come back the day after Christmas.”
“So wait. You go get a tree Christmas Eve and bring it home the day after. That don’t make sense, even for you.”
“Right. I gave up getting the tree after the first year. Now I just go to see her.”
“A little holiday nookie? Once a year?”
“No, not that.”
“Why? She old and ugly?”
“No. She’s young and beautiful.”
“Hey man, Jaime’s out of the picture. I don’t get it. And come to think of it, when you were with Jaime, she was okay with you going up to the mountains and shacking up with someone ‘young and beautiful’? That don’t sound like the Jaime I knew. She was jealous you even looked at another chick, especially Charlene. Something ain’t right.”
“Oh, it’s very right, Moses. The lady’s name is Mary Duncan. She very well could be my daughter.”
Moses Ginn is virtually impossible to read. Affection, astonishment, danger, compassion --- all look the same on his obsidian features. The same goes for his manner. Whether he is in an angry or tender mood, his demeanor is the same.
I thought I’d get a rise out of him with this new admission, but all he said was, “Do tell. Never mentioned no daughter in the past.”
“I’m not a hundred per cent sure she is my daughter. Her mother was someone I was involved with, right out of Georgetown. We broke up after a pretty intense few months. The timeline syncs up.”
“The girl know this?”
“No. She runs that Christmas tree farm and we met by total coincidence. Stopped me dead in my tracks when I first saw her. Looks just like her mother.”
“All right 5-0, you got a fed pal who’d do the DNA on the taxpayers’ dime. Why ain’t you done that?”
“This woman’s made it on her own without me in her life. She thinks her real father is dead. Her mom passed a few years back. If I were to suddenly tell her I’m her dad, it could change her life. I’m not sure for the better.”
“Don’t you want to know?”
“If I know for sure that I’m her father, how can I not tell her? If I’m not, what’s the point? Look, we have a nice relationship. We’re friends. I see her at Christmas. We talk on the phone a few times a year. I stop by her place if I’m headed that way. She’s a great kid. Not really a kid, mid thirties.”
He shook his head. “Don’t wanna sound morbid or nothing, but you got some serious bread. What happens if I ain’t around one day and some thug gets the better of you?”
“I’d rather not think about that.”
“Hey man, John Garfield said it in that flick, Nobody lives forever. Even I got a will and I plan on outlasting you by at least twenty years.”
“I’d lay odds on that but how would I collect if I’m right?”
12
On the way to Bluffton, I tricked Ginn into
ordering an Impossible Whopper at Burger King (No relation). After he finished, I asked him how he liked it.
He said, “Mighty fine burger.”
When I told him it contained no meat, I got the same reaction as when I announced that I might have a daughter.
None.
As we neared town, I asked, “You ever been to this place we’re going now?”
“Never heard of it. Old Dan’s Records?”
“Specializes in collectible vinyl. Named after a Gordon Lightfoot tune.”
“The Canadian cat who sang about that shipwreck? Not my bag. Maybe they got some Marvin Gaye.”
The record den was in a storefront on a side street in Old Town Bluffton, which is becoming more gentrified by the day. Century old buildings are repurposed into bistros, boutiques, fine restaurants and coffee shops. There is an outdoor food festival every Thursday during the warmer weather, and the small town is a haven for transplanted Northerners. Once considered a lower case stepchild to Hilton Head, the village has an authentic Americana flair, a vintage charm of its own without the Island price tag. But they’re catching up.
A weathered wood sign stood above showcase windows that are laden with old Victrolas, turntables, mighty tube amplifiers and classic album covers from the dawn of the recording era to the present. Inside, the place has a musty but not unpleasant fragrance, like an old bookstore.
There was a heavyset bald man behind the counter, dressed in a cream colored caftan that tented over his massive belly. He sported a long white beard, tattoos covering both arms.
His voice was raspy, the product of too many cigarettes, further evidenced by uneven yellow teeth. “Welcome to Old Dan’s,” he said. “I’m Bennie, the Bearded Buddha. What can I do you for?”
I said, “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
“Who is? I come from New York. Lived in the Village before the cold and filth got to me. Rents and taxes much cheaper here so I rented a truck, piled in all my stock and set my compass south.”
