Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “’Fraid you’re gonna have to get another lawyer,” I told him. “Court ain’t gonna let a co-conspirator represent you.” I wasn’t sure that was the case an’ it ain’t my call to make. But I was bettin’ Wilcox didn’t know that.

  Underhill musta knew—looked like he was fixin’ to chew nails. But he didn’t say nothin’.

  Wilcox had turned whiter’n the bandage on his head. The EKG machine he was hooked up to started screamin’, the squiggles on the monitor raced across the screen. Wilcox just managed to get out, “I want another lawyer!” when a nurse come chargin’ through the door to throw me an’ Underhill out.

  • • •

  Underhill was pissed—lettin’ a suspect know what you know that he didn’t know you know is s’posed to be bad interview technique. I pretended I didn’t notice. Sometimes, when you’re dealin’ with experienced criminals, it don’t hurt to defy their expectations. We didn’t talk till we was halfway back to his station. Then he said, “Why did you do that?”

  “To shake him up.”

  “You did that. Now he’s lawyered up.”

  “He’s gonna have to have a lawyer to work out a deal anyway. Now we know for sure Glenlake’s in on the scheme, not just representin’ the players.”

  “Yeah. Well, since you seem to have taken over this show, just tell me what we’re planning to do next.”

  • • •

  Back in Underhill’s office, we studied the telephone lists, one of which was for Wilcox’s phone. He’d made plenty a calls to Glenlake, but that didn’t prove nothin’. Either man could claim attorney-client privileges an’ no doubt would. The fact that Wilcox had made long calls to all four hijackers—’specially Ace—an’ vice versa, was somethin’ but not much. So was the fact that all five of our prisoners had been caught red-handed. But all we really had on Glenlake was Wilcox’s over-reaction. Which wasn’t gonna be admissible in court.

  “You get anywhere on who owns Lower Fork?” I axed.

  “So far, just a nest of Chinese boxes. We’re not the Fed, you know.”

  Which give me a idea. “Mebbe it’s time to cut them in on this.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “ATF owes me fer runnin’ down who killed their agent last spring. An’ they’d love to shut down a outfit’s cheatin’ ’em outta their excise.”

  Underhill pushed his desk phone towards me an’ said, “Sic ’em.”

  After I’d laid out the scenario fer my “friend” at ATF, I called my lawyer an’ axed would it be conflict of interest for him to represent a guy I was gonna charge with tryna kill me. I thought Underhill, who was listenin’ in, was gonna bust a pipe.

  Lawyer told me “probably” and axed for details; I told him about Wilcox and how we had him on enough charges to send him up fer several lifetimes. But we wanted him to cut a deal an’ cooperate. So he needed a honest lawyer. Who the county would reimburse.

  “I doubt there’s enough money in Boone County to pay my fee for a case like that, Homer, but I’ll find him someone. When’s he going to be arraigned?”

  “Well, he ain’t leavin’ the hospital fer some time, so I guess soon as we can arrange fer a court to come to him.”

  When I hung up, Underhill said, “You are out of your cotton-picking mind!”

  “So I been told. We ready to lay this out fer the prosecutor?”

  • • •

  Which we did. At his office. George Usher, the Boone County prosecutor, shook his head. “We haven’t even charged these guys yet.”

  Underhill laughed. “We haven’t even questioned any of them.”

  “They lawyered up,” I protested. “An’ we don’t know who’s master-mindin’ all this.”

  “Well, your clock is ticking,” George said. “Charge them with the hijacking and attempted murder and we can go from there when you guys get your stuff together.”

  Underhill an’ I both nodded.

  As we headed for the door, George said, “Keep me posted.”

  • • •

  Stead of callin’, the ATF elected to show up in person—all three of the clowns that invaded my office last spring—in the same suits, with the same attitude. I was sittin’ back in the corner of Underhill’s office, mainlinin’ coffee when they come through the door, so they didn’t notice me right off.

  “We’re here to take charge of your prisoners,” the one in the gray suit told Underhill.

  “And your evidence,” the one in the brown suit added.

  Underhill wasn’t any more intimidated by their act than I’d been. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until we’re done with them. We have them on attempted murder of a police officer among other things.”

  Which trumped failure to pay likker taxes.

  “But that’ll be a lot sooner,” I chimed in, “if you got us that information I requested.”

  The three of ’em turned together like well rehearsed line dancers. They kept their faces straight—don’t think any of ’em had another expression—but I could see they was dismayed.

  “What are you doing here?” Gray Suit demanded.

  “Cooperatin’ with a brother law enforcement agency. Just like you’re plannin’ to do.”

  Gray Suit looked like he was fixin’ to bust, but all he said was, “Fine.” He turned to Brown Suit, who turned to Blue Suit. Blue Suit took a envelope out of a inside jacket pocket an’ put it on Underhill’s desk.

  Gray Suit said, “We expect copies of all your reports.” Then the three of ’em turned in unison an’ stalked out.

  Underhill waited ’till the door closed ’fore he broke out laughin’. “You all right, Vergil.”

  “Mebbe. Let’s see what they brought us ’fore we celebrate.”

  Underhill opened the envelope an’ spread the contents out on his desk. Ten sheets a paper. Each sheet was a summary of the incorporation paperwork fer a different company. Top sheet was fer Lower Fork Distillery, which seemed like it belonged to a AAAce Distribution Corporation—in a other state, which appeared to belong to… An’ like that fer all ten of the companies, the last of which was located in one of those offshore countries that don’t share info with U.S. law enforcement agencies. Underhill pointed to a paper halfway through the pile.

  “This one owns Cheap-Ass Likkers. You struck gold, Vergil. Here’s our connection.”

  “Does it connect Cheap-Ass to Glenlake?”

  “That’d be too easy.”

  I just nodded. Underhill picked up his phone an’ dialed. After a bit he said, “Did you manage to access those emails?” Guy on the other end must a said yes, ’cause Underhill said, “Thanks,” an’ hung up the phone. He turned on his computer an’ brought up a folder. Inside was a bunch of emails. “From Wilcox’s phone,” Underhill said. “We looking for anything in particular?”

  “Yeah, anythin’ with a picture attached. Or anythin’ to or from Ace or Glenlake’s phone.”

  Underhill opened one of the messages an’ said, “Bingo!” My picture was showin’ on the screen.

  I grabbed Underhill’s phone an’ dialed the county prosecutor. When he said, “County Attorney’s office. George Usher speaking,” I said, “This is Sheriff Deters.”

  “I was just going to call you. Three ATF agents were just in here to file a complaint. Where do you get off cutting me out of the loop on this hijacking conspiracy?”

  “George, I’m just tryna get to who killed Samuel Loomis.”

  “The trucker? What’s he got to do with the hijackers?”

  “He was drivin’ a stolen truck, makin’ deliveries to the bogus distillery.”

  “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

  “I did. You told me to get back to you when I had something concrete. Think I finally got it.”

  “What?” George didn’t sound quite so pissed off. Which was promisin’.

  “Loomis had the same lawyer—Austin Glenlake—on speed dial. Same as all the hijackers we nailed.

  “If he’s good, that proves nothing
more than that he has a reputation as a shark.”

  “He’s the one I arrested for tryna bribe me.”

  “And?”

  “He emailed a picture of me to the guy who runs Lower Fork.”

  “Is that all you’ve got?”

  “He had long conversations with all the guys we nailed—before they was arrested. An’ he left the message, ‘get rid of the moonlighter’ on one of their cell phones.”

  “Have you questioned this guy?”

  “Can’t. He’s lawyered up. An’ Glenlake’s his lawyer.”

  “Not if they’re co-conspirators. Have your hijacker call another attorney—or we’ll have a judge appoint a public defender, and we’ll see if we can make a deal.”

  • • •

  Ace was really unhappy when we gave him the bad news. He wanted Glenlake. When I told him he’d have to call somebody else, or talk to a public defender, he looked ready to cry. Told me he didn’t know anybody else.

  It was late afternoon time we’d got a judge to appoint Councilman Andrews to advise Ace on his rights. Then the four of us—Ace an’ Andrews, me an’ George Usher—set down at the conference table in the state police station to talk turkey.

  The most George would offer Ace was that he’d drop some of the pissant charges an’ ask the court for the minimum sentences if Ace pleaded guilty to the rest. In return, he’d have to tell us about Glenlake an’ testify against him when the time come.

  He sang like a mountain canary about the hijack scheme. Why not? We’d caught him in the act. Twice. I figured that’d be enough to arrest Glenlake, but we also needed enough on ’im to subpoena his papers an’ phone records. George an’ I adjourned to the hall outside the room so I could ax what else we needed.

  “Something that proves Glenlake was more than just a co-conspirator.”

  “Like solicitin’ murder?”

  “That would do it.”

  I nodded an’ went back in. George stayed outside to watch through the two-way mirror.

  When I was back settin’ across from Ace, I said, “You happen to recall a voice mail message Glenlake left you a couple or three weeks back?”

  “Remind me.”

  “Get rid of the moonlighter?”

  Ace got a little pale an’ his jaw muscles tightened.

  I waited.

  “No.”

  I shook my head an’ tried to look disappointed. “You was gonna tell the truth.”

  “I wanna talk to him,” Ace said, hitchin’ his thumb towards Andrews.

  I nodded an’ left the room. I checked the plumbin’, got myself a cup a coffee, shot the breeze with Underhill an’ Trooper Yates for a while.

  Usher come back from wherever he’d got off to. “Well?” he said.

  “My guess is he’s plannin’ to plead the fifth,” I said.

  “For?”

  “Glenlake wouldn’t kill Loomis hisself, an’ Wilcox is too smart to get involved in a premeditated murder. The other three ain’t smart enough to pull one off. That leaves Ace. Andrews won’t let him admit to the murder, but maybe we can get him to say the message was about Loomis. Then you legal types can work out what to charge him with and how to sell it to a judge.”

  George nodded. Underhill got Ace’s phone for me, an’ George an’ me went back in the conference room.

  “I’ve advised my client not to answer any further questions,” Andrews said. “He’s—”

  “I understand,” George interrupted. “…That he doesn’t want to implicate himself in any further malfeasance. But he agreed to cooperate, and we need to know what this voicemail was referring to.”

  George looked at me, an’ I turned the volume up on Ace’s phone an’ played the voice mail.

  Ace whispered in Andrews’ ear. Andrews nodded an’ told Ace, “Tell them.”

  “It was that truck driver he…” Ace jerked his head towards me, “…arrested at the truck stop. The one who fucked up hauling horses.”

  “Did he mean moonshiner?” George axed.

  “No. Loomis was working for us. He was moonlighting as a horse hauler. Glenlake was afraid he’d called attention to us by getting himself arrested.”

  “Or that he’d talk?” I said.

  Ace glanced at Andrews, who shook his head. Ace shrugged.

  “Why’d Glenlake call you?” George axed him; Ace shrugged again. “What did Glenlake mean, ‘Get rid of him’?”

  Ace looked away an’ said, “Fire him, I guess.”

  Doubtful anybody in the room believed that, but none of us called him on it. Andrews would tell him not to answer if we did.

  Andrews finally said, “That’s enough.” George nodded.

  I took Ace back to his cell, an’ George went off to get us some subpoenas.

  • • •

  After a judge signed the paperwork, Underhill an’ I figured out which of the other three hijackers was the dumbest an’ let him call his attorney. Then we sent him back to his cell an’ waited for his attorney to show up.

  • • •

  Glenlake stormed in around suppertime, madder’n a sack full a stray cats. “You’ve held my clients for nearly twenty-four hours,” he shouted, “without letting them call their attorney?”

  “Don’t get your tail in a knot, Austin,” I told him. “We’ll get ’em all a attorney. But you ain’t it. You’re under arrest, too.”

  • • •

  ’Fore I called it a night, I axed Underhill about Sonny’s truck.

  “Beside the windshield and bullet holes,” Underhill told me, “the tractor isn’t too badly damaged—just some dents and scrapes from the door and chain link fence you took out—that’s on you, by the way. If the county won’t pay.”

  We was settin’ in his office with our feet up, windin’ down.

  I said, “Wasn’t there a reward put up by the liquor distributors?”

  “Yeah, but law enforcement doesn’t qualify to collect.”

  “Mebbe we could nominate Sonny.”

  “It’s not enough we overlooked several felonies?”

  “We can’t charge him with those, ’less we want the Feds after us for conspiracy.”

  “What!”

  “We cut him loose without chargin’ him when we shoulda threw the book at him. ’Sides, if Sonny can’t collect the reward, the distributors get to keep it. An’ they make enough off the poor jokers they sell booze to.”

  Underhill held up his hands. “If you want to nominate Sonny for the reward, that’s on you. I’m not getting involved.”

  • • •

  Roustin’ Sonny from his bed close to midnight did half the job of convincin’ him to talk.

  “If you don’t have a real good reason why you lied when you said you didn’t recognize the hijackers, I’m gonna run you in for conspiracy to commit a dozen felonies.”

  Sonny got whiter’n the wife-beater he was wearin’. “They said they’d kill me, Sheriff. Even if the law arrested them, they’d get outta jail an’ come after me. An’ my wife, too.”

  “Ah hunh. First thing in the mornin’, I expect you over to the State Police station to give Sergeant Underhill your revised statement.”

  • • •

  It was after midnight when I tapped on Nina’s window. Lights was all out in the house. I didn’t want to wake her if she was sound asleep, an’ I sure didn’t want to wake Grampa Ross.

  Wasn’t but a minute ’fore Nina threw open the window an’ leaned out.

  “Evenin’, Miss Ross,” I said.

  “Homer, you been drinkin’?”

  “No, but I’m high on you.”

  “Horse feathers!” I didn’t try to change her opinion. She added, “Thought you was workin’ nights.”

  “Not any more. We nailed the hijackers, so I’m back workin’ days.”

  “’Bout time.”

  “Skip’s spendin’ the night at Penny’s.”

  “You come all the way over here to tell me that?”

  “Naw. I come to t
ell you this’s been the longest week of my life.”

  “S’pose you think I oughta let you spend the night.”

  “I don’t think you oughta, but that’s never stopped you before.”

  She nodded. “Well, don’t just stand there, go ’round to the back door so I can let you in.”

  We barely got into Nina’s room ’fore she was tearin’ off my uniform. She pushed me onto the bed an’ pulled off my boots, then started tuggin’ off my britches. Last thing I remember was her sayin’, “Homer, don’t you dare fall asleep…”

  who killed Harlan

  “Homer, who killed Harlan?” Rye axed me next mornin’. We was havin’ coffee in my office while I filled him in on all the arrests an’ developments.

  “Gotta been Murphy.”

  “Who the hell’s Murphy?”

  “He’s the one figured out that if anything can go wrong it will. At the worst time possible.”

  “Why—?”

  “To complicate my life. Harlan’d be hale an’ whole if I hadn’t had two other dead bodies an’ a rash of truck hijackin’s to deal with.”

  “You’re pullin’ my leg. Don’t do that, Homer. You’re s’posed to be showin’ me the ropes, not confusin’ me with foolishness.”

  I grinned. “Rye, if you was simple, I’d buy that, but you ain’t.”

  “We talked to everyone Harlan knowed, Homer. Who’s that leave?”

  “The invisible man.”

  “Huhn?”

  “Too bad you don’t read more, Rye. You’re missin’ out on a lotta neat tricks.”

  “Like how someone can make hisself invisible?”

  Which give me a idea. I got the missin’ mail outta the file cabinet—still in the evidence bag Nina’d insisted I put it in when she give it to me. Didn’t take me long to dump the bag out on my desk an’ dust it all fer prints—found a few dandies. I lifted ’em with tape an’ ’tached each one on a numbered evidence card, then handed the cards to Rye. “Run these by the state cop shop fer me, will you?”