by Ron Fisher
“Can you tell me their names?” I asked.
Bagwell pulled a paper out of a shirt pocket and read from it. “A Randall Wayne Alexander, Age 32, and Mark Lee Wilson, age 27. White males, both born in Pickens County.”
I grabbed a pen and wrote down their names. I didn’t know them, and told him so. Neither did Eloise.
“I don’t suppose they’ve confessed, have they?” I asked.
“They owned up to the theft of the camera right away,” Bagwell said, “probably because we caught them red-handed with it. But they claim they didn’t kill anybody and don’t know anything about that. But what else would you expect? They said they found the car deserted by the side of the road, the doors unlocked, and the camera bag laying on the floor in back. Said they just snatched it and took off—in and out. They didn’t see anybody else around, dead or alive. Now they’re lawyered up and aren’t saying anything. I expect as things progress they’ll probably try to cut a deal of some kind. This is one that could carry the death penalty.”
“What if they’re telling the truth?” I said, the urge to be contrary overpowering the good sense to keep my mouth shut. “What if it was two separate crimes?”
My words seemed to take Bagwell by surprise. But I couldn’t figure out whether it was because I raised an issue he’d yet to think of, or because he thought I was brazenly questioning his professional abilities.
“We’ve got the guys who killed your granddad, Mr. Bragg,” he said, his tone suggesting that I had indeed insulted him. “All the evidence proves it. But if you know something of substance that I don’t, please tell me. Just because I’ve got these guys in jail, it doesn’t mean I’ve quit working. That’s my promise to the people of Pickens County, and my promise to you and Eloise, personally.”
I thought about unloading my theories on him: Cecil Hood’s death and how that could have impacted not only my grandfather’s murder, but Melissa Raines’ as well. But I still didn’t have any proof, and his capture of the two suspects would now make my conjectures even less likely. So, I kept my mouth shut.
Eloise sat quietly, listening to everything that was said; several times she looked like she had a question, but she remained silent. Either that, or the questions were for me alone, and she was waiting for Bagwell to leave before asking them.
“I almost forgot,” Bagwell said, looking at her. “We’ll need to keep Garnet’s camera as evidence, maybe even until the trial’s over, but I thought you might like a copy of the pictures that are on it.”
He took a USB flash drive out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her.
“They’re all of mountains and waterfalls and such, like these,” he said, looking around the walls at the examples of Grandfather’s landscape photography. “I figured you would like to have them.”
Eloise took the thumb drive from him and thanked him for delivering the news about the arrests in person. We stood in the doorway and watched him drive away.
“That thing about there being two crimes,” she said. “Do you really believe that?”
“Part of me does,” I said. “And part of me just wants to give him a hard time.”
“You were being a little hard on him, John David. He’s a proud man.”
“I know he is. That’s what I’m counting on. He’s a guy who needs to be right, and regardless of what he says, I don’t think he’s comfortable with what he’s got here. So I’m going to keep pushing until he broadens his horizons a bit.
“Broad enough to see that everything that’s happened is connected somehow?” she asked.
I didn’t answer, but she knew that’s exactly what I meant. Bagwell had his two suspects. I had Melissa Raines’ death, a white Dodge Ram pickup, Bailey McDaniel, Bobby Paige, and a lot of loose ends. And I wasn’t quitting until I tied them up.
After Bagwell left, I plugged the thumb drive he brought over into Grandfather’s computer and examined it. On it was a file entitled “Bragg photos,” and inside was a row of JPEGs numbered 1 through 12. I opened them all, one by one, and they appeared to be what Bagwell said they were, photos of the Carolina countryside.
I scanned through them, admiring Grandfather’s talent both for composition, and his ability to capture a fresh view of what were mostly prominent and frequently photographed local landmarks. The first few were of Chimney Rock over in North Carolina—I recognized the familiar rock spire. Several more were of Caesar’s Head, just inside the state line in Greenville County, a mountain promontory that someone in the colonial era thought bore a striking likeness to Julius Caesar. How they would know that, I haven’t a clue. Then there was one each of Table Rock Mountain and Whitewater Falls—also scenic landmarks in the area.
The last one was no less artfully composed, but wasn’t of a well-known landmark. This one showed a typical scenic stretch of a mountain highway, found almost anywhere in the general area, the road angling away into the distance and disappearing around a wooded curve. It was the long afternoon shadows from a row of tall pines along the road that made this photograph special. They fell across the highway at even intervals like railroad ties, creating a design of diminishing horizontal stripes, which made an artful composition. In the foreground on the left-hand side of the road was a rusty sign that read, “Jesus is coming.” I suddenly realized it was just like the sign across from Grady Morton’s garage and that this could be the last picture Grandfather ever took.
In my opinion, the only flaw in the shot was the vehicle parked along the shoulder in the distance. It didn’t fit the timelessness of the photo. But I suppose it could easily be retouched out, which may have been Grandfather’s plan, if he decided this one was a “keeper.” Then I looked closer. It was a white pickup truck, and it bore the crossbar grille of a Dodge Ram. A single occupant sat behind the wheel. I zoomed in even closer. The face was just a silhouette with no features other than a vague distinction that it was probably a man and not a woman. I studied the photograph in more detail. There were no houses, no mailboxes, no driveways, or anything else along that barren stretch of highway to suggest why anyone would park there. Was my tail also tailing grandfather?
I ejected the thumb drive, stuck it in my pocket, and called Kelly to fill her in on everything that had happened. She listened to the news of Bagwell’s arrests, my “two-crime” theory, and my description of Grandfather’s last photograph. She didn’t question any of my conclusions—which made me fonder of her than ever—and agreed with my plan to push ahead with what we were doing.
I hung up and called Bucky Streeter again, but he still wasn’t answering his cell phone. I started to call him at work, but decided I’d just go see him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The headquarters of McDaniel Mills was housed in an unassuming red brick building adjacent to one of his remaining textile plants, located just north of Easley. McDaniel Industries was a major employer in the county for almost a century and there was a time when this mill, and all the other cotton mills in the area, ran around the clock, three shifts a day, seven days a week. Those days were gone. The McDaniels’ wealth now came from numerous other sources, which if I were right, included real estate development.
I parked in a visitor’s space out front and went into the mill offices. A receptionist pointed me down a hall to Bucky’s office where a young woman, not at all unattractive, sat behind a desk by his door, and looked up at me as I approached.
“Is Bucky in?” I asked, with a nod toward the closed door.
“Did you have an appointment with him?” she said, frowning as she glanced at an open appointment book on her desk. “I thought I called everyone.”
“I don’t have an appointment.” I said. “I’m an old friend from out of town and thought I’d stop by to say hello.”
“I’m sorry, he’s out sick today.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“I don’t think so. Some kind of stomach bug going around.”
That was the cliché excuse I used when I wanted to pl
ay hooky, but, if that’s what Bucky was doing, her face didn’t show it. I told her to tell him I stopped by, and made for the exit. As I left, I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see her disappearing into a small room down the hall. A moment later I heard the sound of a copier go to work. A large well-appointed office stood open and vacant on my right. A small brass nameplate by the door read, Bailey McDaniel. The copier was still whirring and clicking, and I quickly stepped inside. I really didn’t expect to find anything helpful, but I did. One of the many photographs that decorated a wall caught my attention. Two men stood on the steps of a building somewhere smiling into the lens. One of them was Bailey McDaniel. The other was Barry Beal.
I didn’t know why or when the photograph was taken, or if Beal and McDaniel were in business together. But at least, I could tie them together. Another step forward.
Outside, I noticed a large fenced-in area beyond the mill offices that appeared to be a storage compound for construction material, equipment, and trucks. I walked over and peered through the fence. Three identical white Dodge Ram pickups sat nose-in against the back fence. A man came out of a trailer office and bounded down the wooden steps into the lot. He wore a hard hat and carried a clipboard. Under the hat, I recognized the face of Bobby Paige’s sidekick from the bar, Nick.
I walked down the fence-line toward a large rolling gate, finding it open. A guard shack sat to one side, but no one was manning it. I entered the lot and headed for Nick. He saw me coming and began to back-peddle until I had him against a wall of stacked lumber, a handful of his shirtfront in my fist. He’d dropped his clipboard and was holding his hands up, palms out.
“Whoa, whoa,” he said. “Wait a damn minute. I ain’t done nothin’ to you. That was all Bobby’s thing.”
“Where is he?” I said, and turned him loose.
“I don’t know. He didn’t show up for work today. Didn’t even call in.”
I wondered if Paige had the “stomach bug” too. Nick looked over my shoulder and I turned to see an elderly man in a guard uniform approaching.
“What’s going on here Nick?” he asked. “Who’s this feller?”
“We were just horsing around, Claude. He’s a friend of mine.”
The guard looked at me and then at Nick.
“You know he ain’t supposed to be in here if he ain’t signed in,” he said. “You gonna get us both in trouble.”
“Sorry about breaking the rules,” I offered. “But the gate was wide open and there was no one in the guard house. I thought it was okay to come on in.”
I let the fact that he was not at his post sink in, and then gave him my best smile. “I just need a couple of minutes with old Nicky here, then I’ll be gone. It would be like I was never here.”
The man studied me for a moment. “Next time, you check in with me,” he said, and walked away.
I waited for him to get halfway to the guard shack before I turned back to Nick. “Those trucks over there, who drives them?”
“What the fuck you want to know that for?”
“Answer the question,” I said, and took a quick step toward him.
He flinched like he thought I was going to hit him.
“All of us in building and maintenance do,” he said. “That’s what they’re for.”
“Do you have to sign them out?” I asked.
“We’re supposed to, but nobody ever does. We just take one when we need it. Bobby’s the boss. He always knows who’s got them.”
“How many trucks are there?”
“Five. Tommy’s out in one now, and Mr. McDaniel’s yard Mexican has the other one. It pretty much stays at the big man’s house.”
“Does Paige use the company trucks to do any special work for Mr. McDaniel? Not here at the mill, but personal stuff?”
“I don’t see what the fuck . . .”
I cut him off. “Nick? Don’t go pissing me off again.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Yeah, he’s always doing something. Building a sunroom on Mr. McDaniel’s house, or adding on to his stables, stuff like that. He never drives his own truck, he don’t want to scratch it up.”
“Is Bobby working with him on something over in Eastatoe Valley?”
Nick gave me a blank look.
“Eastatoe Valley? I don’t know what that would be. I think he’s been working weekends on his lake house lately, building a deck or something, but that wouldn’t be in Eastatoe Valley. It would be . . . well, on the lake.”
Nick seemed clueless, and I believed it. He, and probably Tommy, were just Bobby Paige’s tag-a-longs, their biggest crime, irrevocable dumbness. But at least, I knew that both Bobby Paige and Bailey McDaniel had access to a white Dodge Ram pickup.
“Where does Paige live?” I asked.
Nick began shaking his head right away. “Nothing you can do to me would be worse than what he’ll do to me if I tell you that.”
“I won’t tell him. And then you won’t get hurt by either one of us,” I said. He gave me Paige’s address and I wrote it down. On the way out I gave the guard, now at his post in the guardhouse, a snappy salute. He gave me back a pained look.
Before Bobby Paige, I wanted to scope out Bailey McDaniel’s house. I knew where it was, as did everybody in Pickens County, and it wasn’t far from the mill. The hilltop mansion was just a little smaller than Versailles, and was a local attraction.
I found it easily and parked on the country road out front. I didn’t spot a white pickup through the bars of the tall wrought iron fence that protected the well-tended grounds, but with a four car attached garage, it didn’t mean there wasn’t one there. I couldn’t think of a way to take a closer look without getting arrested.
A Hispanic man pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with flats of impatiens came around the corner of the house and headed down the drive toward me. He was dressed in a gray work shirt, jeans with soiled knees, and a lacquered-straw cowboy hat. I got out of the Jeep and walked over to a spot across the fence from several bags of potting soil, and waited for him.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Might I have a word with you?”
He looked at me suspiciously. “Si?” he said, and added something in Spanish I didn’t understand.
“I’m looking for someone to do some landscape work,” I said. “Would you be interested, or do you only work for Mr. McDaniel?”
“Si. I work for Señor McDaniel.”
“Yes, but do you work for other people too? Do you hire out?”
I could see by his expression that we were having a language problem, but it probably didn’t matter, since I didn’t know where to go with this anyway.
“But you’d need a truck,” I continued, rambling on. “Do you have a truck you can use?”
I made a motion with my hands on an imaginary steering wheel. A small spark of comprehension glowed in his eyes.
“Si, truck,” he said, and gave me a nervous smile. He obviously thought I was several beans short of a burrito.
I was trying to think of some clever way to find out if McDaniel ever drove the company truck himself, when the gate on the driveway made a buzzing sound and began to open. Behind me, a Black Mercedes S-Class turned into the drive and stopped short of the gate. Both the passenger and driver-side windows slid down, and the driver leaned across the seat and looked out at his gardener. I recognized Bailey McDaniel III from newspaper photographs. He looked young for someone with a married daughter. An easy life sometimes did that to people.
“Hector,” he said, “I don’t see how you can get those flowers planted before our dinner guests arrive by standing around talking.”
Hector didn’t seem to have any problem understanding that, I noticed, and began unloading the flats from the wheelbarrow.
McDaniel then turned to me, letting his eyes linger on me for a moment.
“What is your business here, sir?” he said, with the same emotionless tone he’d used with Hector.
I walked over to the window.
“My name
is John David Bragg, Mr. McDaniel. One of your company pickup trucks is checked out to your yard man over there, and I’m trying to find out who, in addition to him, has access to it.”
He seemed to look at me anew. “You’re Garnet Bragg’s grandson.”
“Yes I am.”
“You have my condolences. He was a credit to the community.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there some problem with the truck? he asked.
“Not with the truck. Just with whoever was driving it.”
He studied me for a moment then said, “Whatever this is about, Mr. Bragg, I can’t help you with it. If it involves an accident, then I suggest you call your insurance company. They can contact someone in our general office.”
“Mr. McDaniel, do you own a company called Red Hills Developments?”
He sat for a moment looking at me, then slid back across the seat, rolled the window up, and drove through the gate. It closed behind him with the same buzzing sound that opened it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
With my phone, I looked up Bucky’s home address on Google Maps. He lived in the same neighborhood as Kelly, near the Pickens County Country Club. When I arrived there, I found a large brick colonial, even more impressive than the house Kelly was leasing. Not bad for a guy whose dad spent his life hanging onto the end of a worn-out hoe.
I parked in the circular drive, walked up to the door, and rang the bell. A petite brunette with a deep-water tan opened the door and stared at me. She was wearing shorts, a wild patterned sleeveless top, sandals, and sunglasses atop her head; she looked like she was about to go to the beach.
“Yes?” she said, giving me a look that said if I was selling something, don’t even bother.
“Is Bucky here?” I asked.
