by Mel Odom
19
>> Intensive Care Unit
>> Presbyterian Hospital
>> Charlotte, North Carolina
>> 1233 Hours
Maggie stood at the observation window overlooking the private intensive care room Will had arranged. She had her arms crossed and looked worried.
The two Marine guards stationed out in the hallway carried assault rifles and holstered pistols. Their orders were to inspect the sleeve IDs that had the pictures of all personnel allowed to enter the area. As Will approached, they immediately formed a human wall.
Their BDUs were crisp and clean, and they were alert.
When they recognized Will, they stepped back to allow him passage. They stood at attention.
“Afternoon, Commander,” one of them said.
Both saluted.
“At ease,” Will said.
The Marines sat back down in folding chairs that creaked under their weight. Neither of them was a small man. They kept their assault rifles across their knees.
Maggie glanced up at Will and smiled. Some of the fatigue dropped away and she looked a little more hopeful.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Urlacher’s on board,” Will said.
“Did he have a problem with that?”
“I didn’t give him a lot of choice.”
“No. I suppose you didn’t.”
Will stood beside Maggie and gazed through the window. On the other side of the glass, Shel looked like death warmed over. It hurt Will to see the big Marine looking like that. Shel had always seemed like a force of nature, as unstoppable as the morning sun.
“How’s he doing?” Will asked.
“In and out,” Maggie said. “He lost a lot of blood, and it’s going to take him a while to build his strength back up. But the real danger is past.”
“That’s good.” Will glanced down the hall. “Did you get a chance to talk to the doctor?”
Maggie nodded. “She’s a good woman. She knows her stuff. According to her, the surgery couldn’t have been any better.”
“Good to hear. Did she say anything about when we could move him back to Lejeune?”
Maggie studied his face. “What happened?”
“I ran into Victor Gant out in the parking lot.”
Worry creased Maggie’s face. “I thought the FBI was going to lock him down.”
“They didn’t. Evidently Victor is cutting some kind of deal with them.”
“Must be a pretty big deal.”
Will shrugged. “Not our concern.”
Maggie blew out an angry breath. “No, but Victor Gant is.”
“I know.” Will glanced back into the hospital room. “I’m going to work on that a little.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you about it if I turn out to be as bright as I think I am. In the meantime, why don’t you give the director a call and ask him to request a few more Marine volunteers to cover security here at the hospital.”
“All right. I could go with you.”
Will shook his head. “Stay with Shel. When he wakes up, when he needs something, I want him to know we’re here.”
“Remy’s here too.”
“I’m going to need Remy with me. I’ve got a few places to go.”
“Where angels fear to tread?”
Will smiled at her. “Those places too.”
>> Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner
>> 618 North College Street
>> Charlotte, North Carolina
>> 1352 Hours
Will parked his Taurus behind the redbrick building that housed the county medical examiner’s office and got out in the heat. The severe lines of the building were only partially blunted by the trees and landscaping.
Remy got out the other side and flared his Tar Heels basketball jersey so it covered the pistol at his hip. Gold chains shone around his neck.
“You want to go over what it is we’re doing here?” Remy asked.
“When Bobby Lee was brought in, he was carrying drugs,” Will said as they headed toward the glass door. “Heroin. I thought maybe we’d pick it up and have a look at it.”
“Okay.”
Will opened the door and allowed Remy to enter. “Then we see if we can’t get some leverage.”
“Where are you going to get the leverage?”
Will held up two fingers. “Bobby Lee had two things we can work with regarding our investigation.”
“And what investigation is that exactly?”
“When Bobby Lee attacked our Marine in Jacksonville, he had two buddies.”
“I read the reports.”
Will led the way down the cool hallways and followed the posted signage to the medical examiner’s office. “We’re investigating the identities of the two men who were with Bobby Lee.”
Remy smiled. “You’re hoping that at least one of those men belongs to the Purple Royals.”
“I wouldn’t say hoping.”
“But you wouldn’t be surprised.”
“No,” Will said. “I wouldn’t.”
“If they are, Victor Gant isn’t going to like you putting pressure on him.”
“At the hospital today, he came on our turf and fired a warning shot,” Will said. “We’re going to return the favor.”
“The drugs—” Remy stopped himself. “The heroin Bobby Lee was carrying is part of your leverage.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We’re going to have it couriered to the labs at Camp Lejeune and analyzed under a spectroscope. The tests should be able to identify the trace elements of metals in the heroin. Those are based on geographically related patterns.”
“Gant isn’t growing his heroin empire here.”
“No, he isn’t. But it’s being grown somewhere.”
“If someone could trace the heroin back to its native soil, you’d think it would’ve been done before now.”
“It would’ve been. That’s not what we’re going to do. The mixture of those trace elements—from one crime scene to the next—is as distinguishable as a fingerprint.”
“A lot of guys could have been caught holding a stash Gant or the Purple Royals sold them.”
“I know.” Will turned to Remy and smiled. “All I need to do is find one biker who knows the guys Bobby Lee hung with in his father’s gang.”
Remy smiled and nodded. “I like it. Not exactly gonna make us popular with the FBI.”
“I’m not in a popularity contest. I’m trying to make sure my Marine is safe while he recovers.”
The young woman at the desk looked up from her computer monitor. “Hi.”
“We’re here to see Dr. Greer.” Will held his NCIS ID open for her.
Remy did the same.
The woman lifted the phone and called the doctor.
>> 1406 Hours
The morgue was cold, but Will was too intent to really notice.
Remy seemed a little uncomfortable. The Tar Heels jersey was too lightweight to blunt much of the cold. He stood with his arms folded.
“Which of you is Commander Coburn?” Dr. Allen Greer asked.
“I am,” Will said. “This is Special Agent Gautreau.”
“Okay.” Greer gazed at Will for a moment, then shifted his attention back to the corpse on the table. The medical examiner didn’t seem overly disposed to a friendly personality. He was heavyset and wore thick sideburns that had gone gray with age. He leaned over the open chest cavity of a middle-aged man. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re holding the body of Bobby Lee Gant for us,” Will said.
“You’re here to take custody of the body?”
“No.”
Greer looked at him again. “I was assured that body would be gone before morning.”
“It will be.”
“Then why are you here interrupting my work?”
“I came for Bobby Lee’s personal effects that were on the body.”
“I see.”
Greer pulled off his bloody gloves and threw them into a biohazardous materials container. “I heard about the shooting yesterday. It happened in front of several witnesses.”
“Yes.”
“I was told there’d be no problems clearing the man responsible.”
“There won’t be.”
Greer walked over to a wall of small vaults and checked a notebook. Then he searched the vaults till he found the one he wanted. He reached inside and brought out a large plastic Baggie containing the last things Bobby Lee had had with him that day.
“That’s good,” Greer said. “If you ask me, more force should be shown to those motorcycle outlaws. But they’re making good money in the area, which means they can hire the lawyers necessary to keep them in business and out of jail.”
“Maybe we can change that a little,” Will said.
“Just sign the chain of custody book and the contents of that bag are yours.”
>> Office of the Chief of Police
>> Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department
>> 601 East Trade Street
>> Charlotte, North Carolina
>> 1437 Hours
Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Chief Ben Tarlton was a young, energetic, and simple man. In his late thirties, he was one of the youngest police chiefs the city had ever seen.
He was a no-nonsense man with an open and honest face that he kept meticulously shaved. His brown hair was cropped short, and his hazel eyes were sincere. His uniform was neatly pressed with creases that looked sharp enough to slice cheese.
His office was compact, filled with law enforcement manuals as well as pictures of his family. Most of the photographs revolved around Little League sports.
One of the plaques on the wall was a toastmaster award, and others were for coaching and Bible study. There were also pictures of Tarlton in a Marine uniform.
“Commander Coburn, sir,” Tarlton greeted as he stood up behind his desk and offered his hand.
“Chief Tarlton,” Will responded. He introduced Remy, and they shook hands as well. “I appreciate you seeing us on such short notice.”
“Not at all. It’s my pleasure. How is your agent?”
“He’s fine,” Will said. “Thank you.”
“He’s a lucky man.”
“He’s a good man,” Will said. “God seems to take care of those.” Even as he said it, though, Will felt a pang as he thought of Frank Billings.
“More times than not, I’d agree with that assessment.” Tarlton gestured to the chairs in front of the modest metal desk. “Please. Have a seat.”
Will and Remy did.
“So what brings you here?” Tarlton asked.
“We thought we’d share information,” Will said.
Tarlton leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You’ll forgive me my cynicism, but it’s been my experience that federal agencies aren’t in the habit of sharing information with local law enforcement agencies unless they want someone to blame or just to throw their weight around.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Will replied.
Tarlton waited, but he rolled his wrist over and glanced at his watch.
“We ran the pistol that Bobby Lee Gant used on those people last night,” Will said. “We didn’t pull any federal hits. No wants, no warrants.”
“You get a clean gun every now and again,” Tarlton said.
“I know. But generally only weapons that have been used in the commission of a murder or a drug deal get logged through channels.”
“Not every weapon hits the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives’ regional crime gun center,” Tarlton agreed.
“But,” Will said, “one of the things I’ve learned while working at the NCIS is that local PDs often have records of their own.”
Tarlton maintained a level gaze. “Some do.”
“I know you by reputation,” Will said. “You do an honest job here.”
“Flattery?” Tarlton smiled a little then.
“I didn’t figure you were susceptible to something like that.”
“I’m not.”
“I’d like to know if the serial number of the pistol Bobby Lee Gant used last night is in your database.”
For a short time, Tarlton just stared at Will. The hesitation, Will knew, wasn’t anything meant personally. But the chief had some departmental pride to salvage.
“You and the FBI,” Tarlton said, “came into my city without so much as a by-your-leave—”
“That’s incorrect, sir,” Remy interrupted. “Shel and I checked in the minute we were inside city limits. The commander insists on that. We let your office know about the pick-up order we had on Bobby Lee Gant. We played by the rules and kept the house respect.”
“The FBI then,” Tarlton said.
“Yes,” Will agreed.
“And between the two of you, one of my citizens was killed.”
“We didn’t have control of that situation,” Will said.
“I’m fully aware of that.”
Will felt a little exasperated. He knew Tarlton was distancing himself from the situation on purpose. Straining relationships with the FBI wasn’t a good thing to do. Maybe Tarlton didn’t depend on them, but they obviously helped him out every now and again.
“You were a Marine,” Remy said, nodding to the picture of Tarlton on the wall behind him.
“Yes, I was. I made my way up to captain; then I pulled the pin and took the position here. I grew up here. It was a good fit, and it came at a good time.”
“Shel,” Remy said, “my friend Shel, is a Marine too.”
Tarlton sat silent.
“Most of the NCIS agents you hear about,” Remy said, “are drafted out of civilian law enforcement agencies. Commander Coburn’s team isn’t. All of us are Navy except Shel. And we take a lot of pride in our Marine.”
Tarlton looked at Remy and grinned. “Leave it to a sailor to lay it on so thick.”
Remy smiled back. “I’m not a sailor. I’m a Navy SEAL.”
“Oh, a poor man’s Marine.”
“But trained to take over when a Marine fails out.”
Both of them laughed at that. Will was still trying to sort out all the posturing that had just gone on.
Tarlton turned to Will. “You said you had a serial number on that weapon. Let’s have a look at it.”
20
>> Otis’s Salvage Yard
>> 5000 Wilkinson Boulevard
>> Charlotte, North Carolina
>> 1507 Hours
“You’ve got to watch yourself while you’re dealing with Gerald,” Tarlton said as he put the police car’s transmission in park. “He’s what you might call a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”
“I’ll follow your lead,” Will said.
“That’ll probably make us all a lot happier.” Tarlton got out, then reached back in for his baseball cap and pulled it on.
Will and Remy got out on the passenger side.
The salvage yard was large and gave the sense of a long history. A ten-foot-tall white fence with peeling paint and graffiti lined the yard. A hand-lettered sign made from a four-by-eight-foot slab of plywood hung on the fence and advertised “Otis’s Salvege Yard.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told him he misspelled salvage?” Remy asked.
“Sure.” Tarlton stepped around to the rear of the police car and took out a pump shotgun. “I’ve told him myself. He says he misspelled it on purpose because people remember something that’s wrong a lot longer than they remember something that’s right.” He closed the trunk. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s right. But I don’t think that’s why the sign’s misspelled. Gerald’s just not that bright.”
Will nodded at the shotgun. “Is there anything we should know?”
“Don’t stand in front of me when this thing goes off.” Tarlton grinned. “This is probably a little overkill, but Gerald’s got a couple uncles who ran their wife through a wood chipper almost forty years ago. They got ou
t of prison year before last.”
“‘Their’ wife?” Remy echoed.
“Yep. She married one of them. Then divorced him and married the other. She cheated on both of them. So one night they got drunk and decided they’d had enough. None of the Otises have got enough brightness between them to power a lightbulb, but they know how to scrap cars just fine.”
Will reached under his jacket and released the safety catch on his shoulder holster.
“The shotgun’s not really for Otis or his uncles,” Tarlton said. “It’s for the guard pigs.”
“He has guard pigs?” Remy asked.
“Yeah. Arkansas razorbacks. When the uncles ran the salvage yard, they went hunting in Arkansas and brought back a half-dozen young pigs. Started raising them up to be guard pigs.”
“Meaner than a junkyard pig?” Remy asked.
Tarlton smiled. “Sounds catchy, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds insane is what it sounds. But I knew a guy down in New Orleans who kept a guard alligator in his gris-gris shop. It actually caught a burglar one night.”
“Interesting. But if the Otis junkyard pigs ever caught anybody, there wouldn’t be anything left of him come morning.”
>> 1511 Hours
Sobered by Tarlton’s nonchalant explanation of one of the strangest things he’d ever heard of, Will trailed the police chief to the salvage yard’s main building.
The building had evidently started life as a small home, probably a two- or three-bedroom. Then a few extra rooms had been added on. Somewhere in there, the salvage yard had been tacked onto it, and the fence ran in two directions. The house was covered with the same peeling white paint and graffiti as the fence.
Tall oak trees butted up against the house and the junkyard wall. Although houses were on either side of the salvage yard and a large street ran in front of it, the business looked like it should be located out in the middle of a rural wasteland.
