Among the Dead

by J. R. Backlund

  Coughlan was a different story. He had worked as the manager of a hardware store and made it home every evening before sundown. According to his wife, he was rarely alone. He had been ambushed while taking the dog outside, which he did every night after watching his favorite show. And his wife had been upstairs, expecting him to come to bed when he was finished. The killer had to have known those details beforehand.

  Rachel picked up the pad again.

  Does the killer know the victims personally, or is he/she surveilling them to get his/her information? Is Jen Coughlan involved?

  She would pass those questions along to Braddock and Fisher. She set the notepad aside and turned on the TV, found a channel playing a marathon of Saturday Night Live reruns, and wished she had something strong to drink. After three episodes, her phone rang. It was Braddock.

  “Think of anything new?”

  “Not really,” she said. “Having trouble sleeping?”

  “Got about an hour’s worth. It’ll hold me over till tonight. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing. Watching TV.”

  “Wanna grab a drink?”

  “Desperately.” She cringed at the admission. “I mean, I’d love to get out of this room. You think it’s a good idea?”

  “I know a place outside Dillsboro about thirty minutes away. I doubt we’ll run into anyone from town.”

  “Works for me.”

  “I’ll come by and pick you up in a few. I’ll be driving my old Explorer this time.”

  “Afraid to take the sheriff’s Tahoe out to a bar?”

  “Might not be the best thing to do right now.”

  * * *

  Ernie’s Tap House was a small dive tucked away on a dead-end road. A squat white box surrounded by a dirt parking lot. Rachel and Braddock went in, picked a pair of stools at the bar, and ordered two Bud Lights, draft. The bartender, a stumpy blonde woman in a black tank top, delivered them in frosty mugs, then moved on to the end of the bar to chat with another patron.

  Braddock took a sip and said, “Whenever I feel like I need to get away from everyone, this is usually where I end up.”

  “Nice place.”

  He laughed and said, “Hey, you take what you can get around here.”

  “I’m not knocking it.”

  They finished the first round and ordered another. Halfway through it, Rachel said, “Assuming we don’t get our hands on any good video footage in the next few hours, I guess tomorrow will be my last day.”

  He looked a little sad. “So soon?”

  “Not much more I can do here. You guys just have to start working the victims until you can find whatever it was that got them killed.”

  “And what if we get another one?”

  “Well . . . you’ll have yourself a brand-new special agent to hold your hand through it, I guess.”

  “You don’t have to leave just because he’s coming. If you want to stay on . . .”

  She shook her head. “I appreciate it, Danny, but you guys don’t really need me anymore. You’ve got all your ducks in a row now. Keeping me around would just be a waste of money.”

  He was quiet for a minute, then said, “I’m really glad we got to work together again. I hate to admit it, but it’s actually been kind of . . .”

  “Fun?”

  “I was going to say humbling, but that works too.”

  “Humbling?” she asked. “What makes you say that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just watching you work. You’re really good at what you do, you know.”

  “I guess I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  “That’s true, but there’s more to it than that. You have a gift.”

  She was about to brush off the compliment when he said, “That’s why I don’t get why you quit.”

  “I told you why,” she said, suddenly feeling annoyed. “The day after I turned in my badge.”

  “I know, but I just don’t get it. It was a good shooting. You probably saved that deputy’s life.”

  Her jaw tensed. She stared at her mug and made lines in the melting frost with her fingertips.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I guess it’s none of my business.”

  20

  Fisher was getting discouraged. After a dozen stops, he had yet to find a single working camera pointed at any of the roads marked on his map. Glenda’s Kitchen and Country Store had one that captured a bit of the service road out front, but the angle didn’t give it a view of the highway beyond. He was ready to give up, to drive home and go to bed, when he spotted a tiny black globe on the corner of the Speedy Mart gas station.

  He wheeled the Crown Victoria into the lot and parked in front of the door. He ran inside, spotted a kid behind the register, and said, “Please tell me that camera outside works.”

  The kid looked wary. He opened his mouth to speak but caught sight of the gun on Fisher’s hip and stared at it.

  “Detective Fisher, sheriff’s office,” he said. “I need to know if that camera out there works or not.”

  “Uh . . . yeah, it works.” The kid tipped his head toward a monitor behind the counter.

  “Can you show me the footage from last night and early this morning?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Come on, son. Wake up. This is important.”

  “I’d better call my boss.”

  A couple minutes later, Fisher was on the phone with the owner. “What do you mean, it don’t record?”

  “I’m sorry, Detective. Damn computers took a dump after a power surge back in . . . hell, I think it was January or . . . might’ve been . . . no, couldn’t have been then. Yeah, proba—”

  “I get it,” he said. “What you’re telling me is, that camera’s pretty much worthless.”

  “Well . . . we can use it to keep an eye on folks out by the pumps and what not. We just can’t save any of the footage.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What was it you were hoping to see, anyway?”

  “The road in front of your store. From last night to this morning.”

  “You lookin’ for a particular car?”

  “Can’t really go into that, sir.”

  “Huh . . . well, I don’t know if it’ll help, but that fella across the street . . . the one that owns the liquor store . . . I hear he’s got a camera that points our way. You might have better luck over there.”

  * * *

  “I told that sumbitch, what I do in my store is my business,” the old man said.

  Fisher rubbed his eyes. “Sir—”

  “And don’t it figure that he’d call you all to come over here and harass me. I told him if he wants to go puttin’ up a camera to watch what I do over here, then I can put one up too.”

  “Sir—”

  “What’s fair is fair, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Tell him he can kiss every bit of my wrinkled ass.”

  “I just need—”

  “Sorry sumbitch oughta know that I ain’t gonna sit back and—”

  Fisher slammed a fist on the counter, making a stand of whiskey flasks rattle. He took a deep breath and said, “Sir, I couldn’t care less about whatever kind of disagreement you might be having with the owner of the Speedy Mart. I’m in the middle of a homicide investigation.” He pointed at the camera aimed out the window. “And I just need to know if I can see the video from last night through early this morning.”

  The old man cleared his throat and said, “Hell, son, all you had to do was say so.”

  Fisher followed him to a back office that also doubled as a storage room. The camera feed went to a desktop computer sitting on a tiny desk in the corner. Fisher pushed aside a mop bucket and took a seat in a folding chair. When the screen came to life, he saw the live footage on top, bars of recorded material beneath. The program appeared to save up to five days’ worth of video before overwriting the files.

  Fisher selected a starting point of 5:00 PM, just to make sure he wouldn’
t miss anything. Then he highlighted the bar up to 8:00 AM that morning and exported the footage in MPEG format. After it finished, he inserted his thumb drive and copied the file. He opened it to make sure it worked. As soon as he saw the image come to life, he closed it and took out the drive, put it in his pocket, and ran for his car.

  * * *

  Sitting at his desk, Fisher opened the file and skipped forward to an hour before the murder. After fifteen minutes, two SUVs, a minivan, and a Ford F-150 on what appeared to be stock wheels had passed by, and he decided to try the time frame after the murder instead. He figured it might make for a narrower window, since the killer would have been eager to make his getaway. He started at 11:15 PM, sat back, and fought to stay awake.

  He jumped in his chair when the phone woke him up. He looked at the time on the video—11:58 PM—cursed at himself, and answered the call. “Yeah?”

  “I think I found an ATM that might give us something.” It was Tina Pratt. “But we’ll have to wait till tomorrow to talk to the branch manager. How’s it going on your end?”

  Fisher grabbed the mouse so he could rewind. “Don’t know yet. Found a camera at DC Liquors. Watching it now.”

  “Hey, that’s something. Lucky you.”

  “Uh-huh . . .” He was sliding the red line backward across the replay bar when something caught his eye. A large, dark mass shooting across the screen. He moved the line forward, saw it shoot across in the other direction, then backed it up again and let it play. “Tina . . . ?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I gotta go.”

  21

  The jukebox was playing Clint Black. Rachel finished her third mug of Bud Light, ordered another, and decided to open up. “It wasn’t the shooting,” she said. “Not exactly. It was everything that came afterward.”

  Braddock had switched to water, since he had to drive. He was spinning ice cubes around with a straw, wearing a perplexed look. “What do you mean?”

  “I went after Lauren Bailey because she was the only suspect that made any sense at the time. Her boyfriend was found dead in her car, he was cheating on her, neighbors and friends said they fought all the time . . .”

  “But now you think she was innocent?”

  She took a large gulp. “After we closed the case, Bailey’s friend came forward with all these private messages from Bailey on her Facebook account. Dozens of secret conversations they had been having about their boyfriends. Turns out, Bailey had been cheating too. She had at least two other guys on the side, one of whom she may have been in love with. She also talked about how she couldn’t stand sleeping with her boyfriend anymore, but he was helping her pay the bills. Helping to support her son, even though it wasn’t his kid.”

  “So she was better off with him being alive.”

  “Exactly.”

  He turned in his barstool to face her. “Then who had motive?”

  She gave him a sour smile. “I wish I knew. Like I said, it was case closed as soon as she hit the floor. At least as far as the murder was concerned. Bailey’s mother is suing Wake County and the state, so the SBI started another investigation. Looking at me, the detectives, the deputy . . . reviewing all our work.”

  “Anything come of it?”

  “Not yet. They interviewed me right after I quit, but I haven’t heard anything about it since. The final report came out yesterday.”

  “And you haven’t had a chance to read it yet?”

  “Been kinda busy.”

  Braddock looked like he was about to say something when his phone rang. He checked the screen and answered it. “Hey, Shane . . . No kidding? . . . All right, we’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  Rachel downed the last half of her beer.

  “Actually,” he said, “better give us an hour.”

  * * *

  After drinking a bottle of water on the way to the office, Rachel needed to visit the restroom. She came out, put a stick of mint-flavored chewing gum in her mouth, and went to the conference room. Braddock and Fisher were watching the video on a laptop.

  “And here he comes again,” Fisher said.

  A second later, Braddock said, “I’ll be damned. Rachel, come take a look.”

  She walked around the table and stood next to him.

  Fisher clicked on a video clip. “Okay. This is at eleven-oh-three PM.”

  The image, playing in black and white, seemed to be from a sensitive low-light camera capable of capturing high-resolution video at night. Within a few seconds, a dark-colored pickup moved across the screen. Fisher selected a new clip and said, “Now this is from eleven fifty-four.”

  The pickup crossed again going the other direction, this time moving noticeably faster. Fisher stopped the playback, rewound slowly until the truck was in the center, and froze it. He pointed at the oversized wheels and said, “Those look custom to me.”

  “Me too,” Braddock said. “What do you think, Rachel? This our guy?”

  “Definitely fits the time frame,” she said. “Where was this taken?”

  Fisher reached behind the laptop, grabbed his paper map, and held it up. He pointed at a spot with his pen and said, “Right here.” Then he touched another spot. “And this is where you guys found the tracks.”

  “Damn.” She patted his shoulder. “Good job, Shane.”

  “All right,” Braddock said. “Let’s put out a BOLO for a . . .” He squinted at the screen. “You know what make and model that is?”

  Fisher said, “Best I can tell, it’s either a GMC Sierra or a Chevy Silverado. The body style looks like the ones they produced from 2003 to 2006.”

  “Okay. Tell everyone to be on the lookout for one of those. Navy blue or black . . . maybe dark green.”

  “Roger that,” he said.

  “And call the DMV”—he glanced at his watch—“as soon as they open up tomorrow. Get them to generate a list of all the trucks registered in this area that fit that description.”

  “That’s gonna be one helluva list, Chief.”

  “I’m sure it will, but if our guy’s local, he’ll be on it.”

  “All right. Let me get with Melvin before he leaves for the day.” He stood up, closed the screen, and said, “We got you now, you piece o’ shit.”

  * * *

  Rachel followed Braddock to his office. He dropped into his chair and said, “Say we can identify this asshole by tomorrow, you still gonna take off?”

  “Maybe not,” she said. “I’d love to be here when you put him in handcuffs.”

  “That’ll be a good feeling.”

  “Usually is. As long as you’re sure you got the right guy.”

  “We’ll have a better chance of making sure we do if you stay around to help.”

  She smiled. “I’m paid up at the Lodge through tomorrow night, so I guess that leaves you till Saturday morning to find him.”

  22

  Gifford grabbed two handfuls of his brother’s shirt and slammed him against the wall.

  “I’m tired of your bullshit, Kevin,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Get off me.” Kevin tried to look defiant, but his voice trembled. “I told you, I ain’t got no fuckin’ money.”

  “All that shit you been sellin’, and you ain’t got no money, huh?”

  “I’m tellin’ you, man, I’m tapped out.”

  Gifford let go, looked around his brother’s filthy trailer, and said, “So where’d it all go? I know you been sellin’. Don’t even try to lie.”

  Kevin mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “I said I invested it.”

  Gifford raised a fist. “Lyin’ mother—”

  Kevin crumpled to the floor, put his hands up in a plea for mercy. “Come on, man. I swear I ain’t lyin’.”

  “What the fuck do you mean, you invested it?”

  “In the business. Me and the boys are lookin’ to expand our production. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”


  “No, I’m serious. This is for real.”

  “Oh, it’s for real, huh? How real is it gonna be when Bert takes his ass to the cops and tells ’em about your business? ’Cause that’s what he’ll do if you don’t pay him his money, dumbass. It’s five hundred bucks. He ain’t just gonna let you keep it.”

  Kevin looked surprised. “But Momma only gave me three hundred.”

  Gifford thought about that for a second and laughed. “Well don’t that figure.” He took a deep breath, nudged an empty beer can with the toe of his boot, and said, “Do you ever clean this freakin’ pigsty?”

  “Whatever, man. It ain’t like you got room to talk.” Kevin stood up, but he kept his head down and put his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t mean to put you in a bad spot or nothin’.”

  Gifford went to the door and opened it, stood at the threshold, and said, “I’ll cover you one last time, little brother. But this is it. I’m done. After this, you’re on your own.”

  “I’ll get you back, man. I pro—”

  He slammed the door on his way out, climbed into his truck, and started it. Then he noticed the screen on the burner glowing. He picked it up and read the message: “Stay home. Keep ur truck out of sight. Call u later.”

  The phone buzzed, and he jumped. “Jesus . . . Hello?”

  “Where the hell have you been? Why haven’t you been answering?”

  “You said I had the day off. You told me you were gonna call tomo—”

  “Okay, okay. Fine. Where are you now?”

  “I’m at my brother’s.”

  “You have your truck with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you keep it there? Keep it out of sight?”

  “I . . . I guess. Why, what’s—”

  “The sheriff’s office has video of it.”

  Gifford’s face grew warm as fear began to consume him. “Shit. How the hell—”

  “Just listen. They don’t know it’s yours yet.”

  “Yet? What do you . . . ? How long before they do?”