The Farmer's Slaughter (A Harley and Davidson Mystery Book 1)

by Liliana Hart

  “The youth pastor is in prison?” Agatha asked excitedly.

  “They sent him off to the one in Palestine,” Sheena said. “The big one over in East Texas. It was in all the news.”

  “You’ve been a big help,” Agatha patted Sheena’s shoulder.

  She couldn’t wait to tell Hank. This was the first news she’d gotten on this case since she’d started it. Maybe Hank Davidson was her good luck charm.

  “Do you remember the youth pastor’s name?”

  “Jim, or James. I don’t remember a last name.”

  “That’s okay. We can look him up in the prison’s directory.”

  Sheena gripped her hand and shook her head. “You can’t go to the prison.”

  “We won’t mention your name. I promise.”

  “It’s not that,” Sheena said. “You know what they do to child molesters in prison?”

  “Shoot,” Agatha said, a sinking feeling in her gut. “They killed him, didn’t they?”

  “He didn’t even last two days.”

  Chapter Nine

  The elation and adrenaline of finding out new information wore off almost as soon as they’d gotten it. The drive back to Rusty Gun was made in silence, and Agatha turned off the alarm and kicked off her shoes by the door.

  “You want some tea?” she asked Hank.

  “Sure. I’m going to run home and get out of this suit. It smells like bull crap. Literally. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be back.” He shut the door behind him and headed down the street to his house.

  Agatha walked back into her office and dropped onto the chaise she had in front of her bookshelves. It was her favorite place to read. It was also a good place to nap. Her head was pounding. Too much excitement and too little payout.

  Agatha had zero interest in continuing the investigation that afternoon. It would be best to start fresh the next morning, when she didn’t have someone drilling spikes in her head. She had a feeling interviewing Rhonda was going to take energy.

  Her cell phone buzzed, and the screen lit up. It was Heather.

  “Hello,” Agatha said.

  “Was that Hank Davidson I just saw leaving your house? Girl, you’ve got some serious explaining to do. I don’t know what you told him to get him out of those ugly socks, but I want to hear all the details.”

  “We’re working.”

  “Lady, I just happened to be driving by when Hank came strolling out of your house. He looked worn out, so good job.”

  “Where are you?” Agatha asked, looking into her backyard. She almost yelped when Heather’s face appeared in the window.

  “Good grief, what are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to see if Hammerin’ Hank earned his reputation. Girl, you look like something the cat dragged in. You need to close these blinds if you’re just going to do it out in the open like that.”

  “I’m not used to having people standing on my back porch staring in. You’re a very creepy friend.”

  “That’s what my second husband always used to say.”

  “Hank’s helping me with a case for my book. That’s it. I’m not even going to invite you in because I have a screaming headache, and I think my eyeballs are in danger of falling out. In fact, I’m going to close my eyes now.”

  “No wonder,” Heather said. “Why don’t you rest a bit, and then you can meet me downtown for margaritas.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll meet you at seven.” Agatha hung up the phone and immediately dozed off.

  “Aggie. Hey Aggie.”

  Hank’s voice was like a bee buzzing in her ear. Agatha cracked her eyes open but squinted as the afternoon sun hit them. She could hear someone moving around in the house and the cold chill of fear gripped her. She was disoriented, and her head was still pounding.

  She rolled to her side and quietly opened the wooden box that was sitting on her bookshelf, and then she pulled out the revolver her dad had left her.

  “Aggie are you in here?” the voice said again. “It’s me, Hank.”

  She released the hammer of the Colt .357 and exhaled in relief.

  “I’m in here,” she said. She sat up, but immediately pressed a hand to her temple.

  “You okay?” Hank asked, coming to her side. “Here, let me take that.” He placed the revolver back on the bookshelf. “I was only gone about fifteen minutes. Did something happen?”

  “My head is pounding,” she said. “I think this case is getting to me more than it should. I keep thinking about that youth pastor. What kind of person does it make me that I’m glad he’s dead? After what he did to all those girls.”

  “I wish I could tell you,” he said, his voice gruff. “But I feel the same way. Some things you don’t question. Vengeance belongs to God. Sometimes He strikes quickly. I saw Heather lurking about. She said y’all were going out for margaritas later.”

  “It’s up in the air. I don’t even think I can stand up right now my head is hurting so bad.”

  “Why don’t you go back to sleep, and I’ll take the papers and reports back home with me? I need to be less irritated over the shoddy reporting and more focused on what they did put in there.”

  “Take whatever you need. Or you’re welcome to stay here and use all the equipment. However you’re most comfortable.”

  “I’ll take them back. I’m going to pick up some dinner and then settle into my favorite reading chair for the night. I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.” He picked up the files and loaded everything into the box. “Oh, and if you do go out with Heather, take it easy on the salt. It’s bad for you.”

  Agatha gave him a thumbs-up and dropped back down on the chaise. “Thanks, partner.”

  Hank took a sip of his tea and set it on the table next to his Lay-Z-Boy recliner. He’d caved to the tempting smells at Bucky’s Brisket Basket once again. That was two nights in a row. The evidence of his treachery sat next to his cup, a graveyard of bones and sauce. It had been delicious.

  He licked his fingers one more time before he started handling the papers. He’d forgotten to ask who the fourth deputy was in this area. The sheriff’s office had a couple of satellite offices because of the size of the county and because the land they had to cover was too spread for just one office to handle. The sheriff and four deputies ran things from the office in Rusty Gun. There were four more deputies who worked out of the satellite office in Boot Lick.

  Coil had introduced him to deputies Karl Johnson and Maria Rodriguez. And he’d met Deputy Joe Springer at the post office one morning. Coil had mentioned the fourth deputy briefly, as he’d been out recently with appendicitis, but Hank couldn’t remember his name.

  He grabbed his laptop and searched the Bell County sheriff’s office Facebook page. The social media posts gave a lot more information than a static website, so it didn’t take long to find who he was looking for—Deputy Tyler Gunn.

  Hank knew Coil was sheriff eight years ago when Nicole was killed, and he knew that Maria was his most senior deputy with almost twenty years. So, since neither Karl nor Tyler were there when Nicole’s murder occurred, they were off the hook for the cruddy reporting. George Mayfield, the retired deputy with Alzheimer’s, was also off the hook, as he wasn’t the lead officer.

  “Man, Coil, I know you’re better than this,” he said, disappointed in his friend for allowing that kind of work to be turned in.

  He settled back and pulled out the report that had upset him so much earlier that morning. It was a few pages shy of being a sticky note. The initial deputy on scene documented the names of the two young boys who found Nicole’s body as they sought out a fishing hole. Hank jotted the boys’ names down as contacts to speak with later. They’d both been ten at the time, so they’d be adults now.

  The report only described where the body was and not where the body might’ve come from. Was she killed in the water or relocated there? If relocated, then the killer had to have touched her to move her. The report said the deputy notified Sheriff Coil and Lieutenan
t Tom Earls, who was the senior deputy at that time. Hank had heard a while back that Earls had passed away from cancer.

  Hank thumped the report back into the box and fished for Earls’ report. Hank smiled as he lifted the report. He recognized the thickness of it. That meant lots of information, and the potential for lots of answers.

  “Now we’re talking old-school reporting.” Hank sighed as he dug into the facts.

  An hour passed before he realized he needed a break. He’d become so engrossed in the details that he’d lost track of time. He laughed at the changes in his body now that he’d eclipsed the half century mark. He was still in great shape, but things changed, and he wouldn’t be in great shape if he kept chowing down on rib baskets.

  He shuffled throughout his house and made sure all the outside lights were on and the blinds were closed. A chill of awareness snaked up his spine, and he was itching to get back to the report. He knew he was missing something.

  Hank skipped on refilling his tea and hurried back to the chair, and he checked his cell phone to make sure he hadn’t missed a call from Aggie. There were no missed calls. No one ever called since he’d retired. He sighed. He did miss the constant demands of the job. Phone calls, emails, or text messages had blown up his phone day and night. His cell phone service carrier must have thought he was nuts, but the truth was, when you’re at the tip of the spear for catching killers, you’re also in high demand.

  “What are you missing?” he asked. He tossed his reading glasses onto the table next to the empty plate.

  It was his second pass through, and that old viper of uncertainty had his gut in knots. Lieutenant Earls’ reporting was meticulous, with the exception of a few spelling and grammar errors.

  Hank set the document down on the foot of the elevated recliner and lay back to allow the facts of the case to run through his mind. Being tense never helped him. A relaxed Hank was an intuitive Hank, so he tried to find comfort in the quiet. His mind was on overdrive as the old adrenaline of the hunt had been reignited by the day’s investigation, but he knew it was introspection that solved cases.

  Experienced detectives didn’t get off on car chases and gun fights. That was best left to the young SWAT jocks. No, the old bulls get their kicks by following the details and picking apart facts like a buzzard over roadkill. He decided to take a nap to rest his mind. It was only around eight thirty, so it wasn’t like he was burning the midnight oil.

  “Siri, set alarm for twenty minutes.”

  Hammerin’ Hank, your alarm has been set for twenty minutes.

  He grinned. It was the little things in life that brought pleasure.

  Chapter Ten

  Hank waited for the beep and found himself more irritated every time he heard it.

  “Aggie, it’s Hank,” he said. “Call me back. No, never mind the call, just get here quick.” It was the third message he’d left in as many minutes. Agatha’s headache must’ve gone away, because when he went back over to check on her the Jeep was gone, and the house was locked up tight.

  Big revelations in old cases didn’t come often. It was usually the result of slow, methodical reexaminations. This was like a smack in the face. There was no time to wait.

  Hank paced in front of his window and peeked through his blinds every time he saw headlights on the street. Impatience swarmed inside him and he fought the urge to get in his car and track her down. She was ten minutes away at the Taco and Waffle Restaurant. But she should’ve answered. A good partner was always on call and ready.

  “Forget it. I should’ve known better than to partner with a wannabe cop who doesn’t have enough to do in her life and too much money.”

  His doorbell rang and he picked up his pistol before heading to the door. He cracked it open and his left foot remained as a backstop behind the door. He kept his pistol down at his side.

  “It’s about time,” he said, letting her in. He closed and locked the door behind her quickly.

  Agatha looked a heck of a lot better than she had the last time he’d seen her. Tacos and margaritas had that effect on most folks.

  “You feeling better?” he asked.

  “Sleep helped. And the Tylenol. I just needed to clear my head for the evening.”

  “You been drinking?”

  “I had half a margarita. I didn’t want to chance it. When I saw you calling, I was anxious to get back, so I left Heather to her margaritas and a potential future husband. What was so important? You didn’t even give me a chance to answer before you called and left another message. You know that’s not how phone tag is supposed to work, right? You’ve got to give a person the chance to tag back.”

  “I think I found something,” he said. “Come in the living room.”

  He went to his recliner and grabbed the papers off the footrest. He was in his sock feet and slid a couple of feet as he headed toward the dining room, but he kept his balance.

  “Enough with the suspense,” she said. “What is it?”

  He tossed the file onto the table and watched as Agatha opened it. She ran a thumb between the first and second pages and he waited quietly as she examined it. But she sat down in frustration.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “Look closer,” he said.

  “I’ve been looking at these files for weeks. I’ve practically memorized the pages. I’m not seeing anything new.”

  “Let me see if I can help.”

  “Just so we’re clear,” she said. “Your condescending tone makes me want to punch you in the face.”

  His lips twitched. “Duly noted.”

  Hank pulled out two more files from the Bell County sheriff’s office. He pointed to the bottom right corner of each stack of papers.

  “Every deputy or crime scene attendant has to fill out a report. These forms are identical,” he said, showing her the different reports. “They all have the sheriff’s office logo at the top. They all have signatures on the bottom from whoever wrote the report. But what do you see on this document?” he asked.

  “Page one of six,” she said, reading where his finger was pointed.

  “Right,” he said, flipping to the next page. “And this one?”

  “Page one of fourteen. I’m assuming you have a point to make?”

  “My point is every official document from the sheriff’s office is the same. Logo heading, signature at the bottom…and numerical page numbers.” Hank opened up Lieutenant Earls’ file and spread the pages before her. “Now look at these.”

  Agatha gasped. “There’s no numbering.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said. “A fresh perspective always helps me.”

  “I will shoot you in the foot.”

  “What did I say?” He grinned.

  “I’m just in that mood.”

  “You’re feisty,” he said. “I like that quality in you, Aggie.”

  “If you keep calling me Aggie, I’ll shoot you in the face.”

  He barked out a laugh. “To be fair, it’s one of those things that’s easy to overlook. It doesn’t matter how many times you see it.”

  “You saw it,” she said.

  “I’ve been trained to look for the things that are easy to miss. You’d agree that the sheriff’s office isn’t exactly flush with cash, right?” Hank asked.

  “They’ve been trying to get a tax passed for the last couple of years for weapons and body armor. They do what they can with what they’ve got. Sheriff Coil has been wanting to hire more deputies for years, but there isn’t the money for it,” she said.

  “You know a lot for an eccentric writer who spends most of her time in her house.”

  “I like to stay informed on the issues. That’s why it’s important we vote. It’s important our voice is heard.”

  “All right, Susan B. Anthony. Here’s the million-dollar question. Why would an agency that has no extra money waste printer ink making a copy of the original file, then make a copy of the copy before giving it to you? Those copy machine printer cartridges ar
e expensive.”

  “I guess I’m not following how a wasteful print and copy practice is going to solve a murder.”

  “At first, I thought redacted or scratched-out names might have shown through on the first copy, but there is nothing redacted or filtered. Then I realized that a first run was printed so the page numbers could be cut off from the bottom of the report.

  “They couldn’t give you sliced pages with missing information, or you’d become suspicious, so after they cut the page numbers off the copy, they copied them again.”

  Agatha flipped to the last page, “But why the last page? Even without the numbering, it still has the deputy’s and Sheriff Coil’s signatures on it.

  “Something was removed and replaced.” Hank waved the paper over his head, “But the question is what. How did you get these files?”

  She dug around in the box and handed him a form. “I submitted a Freedom of Information request to Sheriff Coil,” she said. “Actually, Sheriff Coil offered to give me the originals, but in my line of work I’ve learned to cover myself legally and civilly. I’d already had the request prepared and signed, so I handed it to him to keep it all above board. He said he’d have his secretary copy the whole file and to come back the next day and get it.”

  Hank took the receipt from her. “Your request for information was made March eighth, but your receipt for taking the copies wasn’t until March eleventh. Did you come back the next day like he said?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t ready. Coil’s secretary said their copier was older than the Alamo and that she’d get the file to me as quick as she could get the thing up and running again. She even dropped it by the house for me so I wouldn’t have to make another trip.”