Son of a Gun (A David and Martin Yerxa Thriller - Book 2)

by Ed Markham

  “Yeah, exactly,” Matt said.

  “And where were you going?”

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line, and David heard Mr. Crawford say, “Go on, Matt. Answer him.”

  “You promise you won’t get mad?” Matt asked. David could tell the boy was talking to his father.

  There was another pause, and then Mr. Crawford’s voice again: “This is very important, Matt. You need to tell the FBI agent everything you know.”

  There was another long silence. Finally Matt said, “We were headed toward the Flat Rocks.” His voice sounded a little breathless now, as though he were admitting something he would rather have kept a secret.

  “What are the Flat Rocks?” David asked.

  “It’s this place in the woods where kids hang out. It’s a bunch of big rocks. Like, boulders.”

  “What time was it when you saw the man?”

  Matt was quiet for a minute. “It was about one-thirty I think. In the afternoon.”

  “Did you see anyone else after you saw the man carrying Carson? Maybe some other kids at the Flat Rocks?”

  “No. It was just us.”

  David sat down in one of the chairs near the desk’s lone table. He leaned forward on his elbows, addressing the conference phone. “Matt, do you remember this guy pretty well? I mean, if you saw him again, do you think you’d recognize him?”

  “Yeah I think so. Definitely.”

  “Okay,” David said. “Thanks for all your help, Matt. I may need to ask you a few more questions later, but we’re all set for now. You’ve been very brave to come forward, and everyone at the FBI appreciates your help on this.”

  “Oh yeah, no problem,” Matt said, his voice brightening. “I hope you find Carson.”

  “We will,” David said. “Would you mind jumping off the phone? I need to speak with your dad in private for a minute.”

  “Sure,” Matt said.

  David listened as the boy hung up whatever phone he’d been speaking on.

  “I’m here,” Ryan Crawford said.

  David glanced over his shoulder at the door to the break room. Beyond the door was a narrow hallway that led to the holding area where James Ganther and Harvey Horn were confined in their cells.

  “Mr. Crawford, we have a man in custody who we believe may be the person your son saw two days ago. It may not be necessary, but would you and your wife be comfortable with Matt taking a look at a lineup?”

  Chapter 34

  DAVID DROVE WHILE Martin read aloud from the Bureau’s files on Ganther’s wife and son.

  They’d left the Jonestown Police Department around 11:30 in the morning, shortly after concluding their call with Matt Crawford and his father. The boy’s parents had agreed to let their son look at a lineup, and agents at the FBI’s Philadelphia office were arranging things while David and his father made their way back to the city.

  David had made the call to transfer Horn and the still-sedated James Ganther to the government’s holding facility in Philadelphia. Federal Law forbade interrogation of a suspected criminal or witness within four hours of recovering from sedation, and David hadn’t seen much point in spending that time in rural Jonestown, even though he hadn’t yet heard back about the search of Horn’s cabins and ancillary properties.

  The two prisoners were making the trip in heavily armored transport vehicles, which David could see through the windshield of his Lincoln, along with the wide tree-covered hills of Central Pennsylvania.

  “Gloria Ganther,” Martin read out loud. “Sixty-three years old. Lives in Cartwright, which is about ninety miles west of Philly. She’s a retired factory worker. Auto parts manufacturing. Divorced Ganther in 1978, just a few months before the birth of their only son. Never remarried. No other children. She spent ten years raising Ian in Conshohocken, PA, where she’d lived with James, but moved with her son to Cartwright in eighty-nine.”

  Martin read silently for a few seconds. “There isn’t much else here. She was ticketed for a DUI in 1997, but no other problems with the law. Retired at sixty-two, at which point she started collecting partial social security.”

  Martin flashed his palms at the roof of the car. “That’s it.”

  “How about Ganther’s son Ian?”

  David watched his father slowly manipulate the laptop’s track pad, opening the file on Ian Ganther. It was strange to see him working on a computer. The two just didn’t fit together; Martin always looked as though he were wrestling with the device, rather than operating it.

  “Born February, 1979,” Martin read. “Now thirty-five years old.” He paused and added, “Jesus. Baby face.”

  He twisted the laptop so David could have a look. The photograph showed Ian Ganther smiling broadly, his arms wrapped around a pleasant but plain looking young woman.

  “That’s his deceased wife,” Martin said. “Jessica.”

  He turned away from the computer then, and David knew his father was thinking of his own departed wife.

  Like James Ganther, Ian looked much younger than his years. He had blue eyes and soft, hairless cheeks, though his hairline receded steeply from his brow. He looked very much like his father and uncle, though his blue eyes made him more closely resemble the latter.

  Martin twisted the laptop back and began reading the file. “Some discipline problems as a boy, but looks like he settled down by the end of middle school.” He slowly scrolled down, adding, “Can’t be easy for a kid with a dad in prison and a mother working long hours.” He went on, “Graduated from public high school in Cartwright in 1996. Average student. Studied chemistry and mathematics at Drexel. Moved to Bethlehem in 2000 and worked in R&D for a plastics company. Married that same year to Jessica Andrews, a dental hygienist. They had one son, Christopher, born the year they were married.”

  Martin was quiet for a minute as he read. “Things take a bad turn here. Jessica Ganther died in an automobile accident in June, 2011. She had a BAC of .22 according to the medical examiner’s report. A year later their son, Christopher Ganther, disappears.”

  “Disappears,” David repeated.

  Martin nodded. “This says Ian Ganther reported his son missing in February of 2012. They lived near a public park, and Christopher was allowed to walk to the park by himself to play. When he didn’t return home one evening, Ian called the police. The boy never turned up.”

  “Any suspects?” David asked. “James Ganther was released in 2007. I’m assuming he made their list?”

  Martin nodded. “Police took a long look at Ian as well as his father. They also checked out Phil Ganther—apparently Christopher was close with his uncle—but found nothing suspicious. There’s not much else here. No leads or witnesses. The boy just vanished.”

  David watched the cars passing by on the highway. “So Ian Ganther lost his wife in 2011, and his only son in 2012?”

  “Yes.”

  He thought for a moment. “Any mention in there if Ian was on poor terms with his wife at the time of her death?”

  His father clumsily clicked through the file, searching for interviews related to Jessica Ganther’s car accident. “Just the opposite, according to what I see here. Friends and coworkers who were questioned said the two were extremely close—that Ian doted on her and that they had a very affectionate, happy marriage.”

  “What’s Ian doing these days?”

  Martin ran his finger down the laptop’s screen. “Left his job at the plastics company last year. No reason given. Started working at an athletic apparel shop in Bethlehem. That’s all we have on him right now.”

  “Athletic apparel,” David repeated. He was about to say more when his eyes drifted to a green sign on the side of the highway. Along with the names of two other exits, he read CARTWRIGHT 4.

  “We’re going to drive right by Gloria Ganther’s home,” he said, pointing at the sign.

  He checked the clock in his car’s dashboard. They had at least two hours before the lineup would be ready, and more than that be
fore they’d be able to interrogate James Ganther.

  Three and a half miles down the road, David flipped up his turn signal and veered off the highway toward Cartwright.

  Chapter 35

  AFTER EXITING THE highway, David and Martin found themselves driving on the cracked macadam of Cartwright, Pennsylvania.

  David looked out of his window as they passed a small school. He saw children in worn coats and oversized boots, running and shouting near a playground filled with decades-old wood-and-metal play structures.

  About a quarter mile from the small strip of storefronts and bars that comprised downtown Cartwright, Gloria Ganther’s house presented itself as one artless rectangle among a long row of artless rectangles, all gray and packed-together like the squares of a chain-link fence.

  David and Martin parked behind a twenty-year-old Oldsmobile with a crooked antenna and a trunk that didn’t appear to close properly. The air outside Gloria Ganther’s single-story home smelled like dead leaves and gasoline.

  “Doesn’t look like there’s anybody home,” Martin said, peering from one front window to the next. The curtains of each were drawn, and no lights glowed behind them.

  David said nothing as he looked down the sidewalk at the other houses, then back at Gloria Ganther’s.

  They moved up the front walkway and David rapped a few times on the metal screen door. He waited, listening for signs of life, and heard movement somewhere behind the cheap wooden door and plastic siding. The front door creaked and tightened in its frame, and David knew someone was leaning against it, staring at them through the peephole. He stared back and held up his FBI identification.

  After a few seconds the door swung open, releasing a stagnant aroma of potpourri, cigarettes, and something earthy like potatoes.

  The woman standing in the doorway was large—not tall, but bulky in her jeans and cream-colored sweatshirt. Her shape was the inverse of an hourglass; widest in the middle. She had short-cropped dark hair that had turned gray at the crown of her head, and her features were doughy and mirthless.

  “Help you?” she said in a voice worn ragged by years of smoking. Her mouth tightened into a lipless line.

  “Gloria Ganther?” David asked.

  She nodded once. “Help you?” she repeated.

  He introduced himself and his father. “We’d like to speak with you about your former husband, James Ganther.”

  Gloria Ganther’s features sagged downward and she coughed a few times, eyeing David’s clothes. “You don’t look like FBI agents,” she said. It didn’t come out as an accusation, just an observation. She added, “I don’t like to talk about that man.”

  “I can understand that,” David said. “We should only take up a few minutes of your time.”

  She smacked her thin lips a few times and eventually nodded, but she did not invite David and Martin inside. Instead she leaned against her doorframe and crossed her arms over her shapeless bosom as though settling in for an unpleasant ordeal.

  “When was the last time you spoke with James?” David asked.

  “Haven’t spoken to Jimmy since he went to prison.”

  “Not since 1978?” David asked. “Not even once?”

  Gloria coughed again into her fist. “No. Saw him once since then, but I didn’t speak to him.”

  “When was that?”

  “I have a son. Ian. His wife died a few years back in a car accident, and that old son of a bitch showed up at her funeral like she’d mattered to him. Said he wanted to pay his respects.” Gloria shook her head and made a face like she was going to spit. “He came over to us looking all mopey and hangdog and says he’s sorry for Ian’s loss. Even tried to hug my boy. But Ian’s no fool. He pushed Jimmy away and then turned his back on him. So did I. Sent him on his way without a word.” She shook her head and stared past David at nothing. “Man thinks he can be gone for thirty years and then pop back up and be a part of our life? No sale.”

  “Was that the only time James tried to reconnect with you or Ian?”

  “Hell no,” Gloria said, her eyes widening. “Called me all the time when he got out of prison. I just hung up on him. Didn’t say one word to him apart from the ‘hello’ when I answered the phone. He got the message, but I know he tried the same with my son. Ian told me all about it. Said Jimmy even stopped by his house one time and said he wanted to apologize. Said he knew he was a bad man and a bad father, but he was sorry about that and wished it weren’t so. But Ian’s too smart for that load of junk. He told Jimmy to go be sorry on his own and to leave him the hell alone.”

  “Do you know when that was, approximately?” David asked.

  Gloria coughed. “I don’t recall exactly. Maybe ’08 or ’09? Whenever it was they let him out. I know it was sometime before Chrissy disappeared.”

  “Chrissy is your grandson?”

  “Was my grandson. He’s gone. Been gone two years now.”

  David felt his father shift at his side. “What can you tell us about Chrissy’s disappearance?”

  “Not much.” She adjusted herself in the doorway, and David could tell she was uncomfortable standing. “Boy goes to the park one day to play. Never comes home.”

  “Was that very difficult for your son?”

  “What kind of question is that?” Gloria said, her eyes bulging at David. “My boy loses his wife first, and then his only son a few months later. What the hell do you think?”

  “I think it would have been extremely hard on him,” David said. “Did you or your son ever suspect your ex-husband of any involvement?”

  “What?” Gloria said.

  Now Martin spoke to her for the first time. “Mrs. Ganther, you probably don’t recognize me, but we met a long time ago. I was the guy responsible for your husband’s arrest back in ’78.”

  As he said this, Gloria’s eyes narrowed and she began to nod, slowly at first and then more confidently. “Yeah I thought there was something about you looked familiar,” she said. “Your hair’s gone white. It was dark back then.”

  “Believe me, that’s not the only thing that’s different,” Martin said, smiling. He got them back on topic: “Back then we had an idea that Jimmy might be involved in the kidnapping and murder of four children—all young boys. We didn’t have enough to charge him, but he refused to take a polygraph test about those murders even though we offered him a break on the drug charges if he agreed to cooperate. I asked you this back in ’78, and I’ll ask again now: Did you ever suspect him of involvement in anything like that?”

  David had read the case files on Ganther, and he knew how Gloria had answered that question in 1978. She’d told Martin and the other investigators the same thing David had heard from Phil Ganther earlier on the phone: that her husband was a sick man when he returned from Vietnam. But no, she didn’t believe he would hurt a child.

  Now Gloria paused. Her mouth closed and she stared at her fingers, rubbing them against one another until her dry skin turned red. “Hell, I don’t know,” she said finally. “Jimmy was a messed up person. A sick person. I’m sure you know he served in Vietnam? Well, he was never right again after he come back. We were married at eighteen, right before he went over there. We tried to make it work for a while when he got back. For years we tried. Jimmy went to all kinds of doctors and hospitals trying to get his head right. But it didn’t do him much good. When I got pregnant with Ian, that’s when I knew I had to get away from him. Can’t have a sick man like that around a child.” She paused, and rubbed the forefinger of her reddened hand against her lips. “I told myself back then that he couldn’t have done a thing like that. Hurt a child. But I don’t know. Now I’m not so sure. I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind when Chrissy disappeared.”

  She looked at David, and he looked right back at. He tried to hold her stare, but she turned her gaze away from him.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “the police said they looked into it—into Chrissy’s disappearance. They said Jimmy wasn’t involved. I d
on’t know if I believe that, but there isn’t much I can do about it.”

  She went back to staring at her red fingers, and David looked at his father.

  “Mrs. Ganther,” Martin said, “when was the last time you spoke to your son?”

  “Oh, it’s been a while. A couple weeks I guess. He doesn’t call me as much as I’d like. But like I said, my boy’s had some difficulties in his life. I worry about him.”

  They spoke for a few more minutes, and then David and Martin thanked her and returned to the car. Before climbing inside, David used his phone to take a photograph of Gloria Ganther’s sad house and the others lined up alongside it.

  “There’s more there,” Martin said as they pulled away from the curb and headed back toward the highway.

  David nodded. “She held something back. Or made something up.” He was quiet for a time. “I could tell she felt unsteady, especially when we started talking about her son and grandson.”

  Martin stared out of his window at the colorless landscape. “Look at this place,” he said. “Just look at it.”

  Chapter 36

  “GANTHER WOKE UP around a quarter to one, about halfway between Jonestown and Philly.”

  Omar Ghafari was reading from the transport logs on James Ganther and Harvey Horn.

  David and Martin stood across from him in a large office on the fourth floor of Philadelphia’s federal holding facility. They’d arrived twenty minutes earlier. Omar had beaten them there by a few hours, having hitched a ride up from Quantico on one of the FBI’s helicopters.

  “What was his disposition when he came to?” David asked.

  “Meek,” Omar said. “Moaned a little bit in the beginning and asked the transport guys what was going on. They told him they weren’t at liberty to say, and he shut up. The driver says he seemed pretty out of it.”

  David nodded and checked his watch. It was just after three. “We’ve got another ninety minutes before we can speak with him. How about Horn?”

  “Quiet as a mouse,” Omar said.