November's Past (Larry Macklin Mysteries Book 1)

by A. E. Howe

  Score! There were three replies. Even though they just acknowledged the receipt of the email and assured me they would make inquiries, it still made me feel better getting something back.

  I swung by the murder scene one more time, just so I could walk it without being distracted by the techs and deputies. I asked myself why the killer had chosen this spot.

  The warehouse sat on the edge of town, near the railroad tracks that really separated the haves from the have-nots. The old saying about the wrong side of the tracks was still true in a lot of smaller towns in the South and Calhoun was no different. The warehouse would certainly have been deserted at that hour and any mess that was made wouldn’t be noticed right away. Without the witness coming forward we still wouldn’t know where the murder was committed.

  Why chop off his fingers and bludgeon his face? Could it be something more than just trying to obscure his identity? The act of mutilation spoke of anger and passion. A lover? A family member?

  Pete pulled into the warehouse.

  “See anything you didn’t see before?” he asked.

  I nodded. “This was an arranged meeting. It’s not like a bar parking lot where you might just bump into someone and get into a fight. Either the victim or the shooter arranged this meeting.”

  “See, you’re getting the hang of this detective business.”

  I held up my middle finger.

  “Do you remember what was here before the warehouse?” I asked for no good reason.

  Pete thought about it for a while. “Nothing much. An old juke joint. Good place for it near the tracks. No houses around, but convenient to town.”

  “When was it torn down?”

  “Well, it fell down, mostly. It closed and opened a couple of times. The last was about 1980. Was an eyesore for years. Kids still came out here and parked. Finally the city decided to make this an industrial park, got some federal funds and put in the warehouses.”

  I looked around, trying to imagine an old frame house in the woods full of rhythm and blues music and drunken partiers. History fascinated me and even fairly recent history could captivate my imagination.

  “Think I’ll head over to the library and see what they have about it.”

  “Better off going to see Albert Griffin.”

  “The Adams County Historical Society? Good idea. He work?”

  “Retired two years ago.”

  “Leave your car here and we’ll ride over together.” This saved me having to get directions and having to introduce myself. I’d been to some of the society’s talks, but I was only halfway to their sixty-year-old minimum age requirement. Okay, they didn’t really have a minimum age, but seriously, their meetings looked like bingo night at the senior center.

  “You really think you’re going to learn anything about this crime from the historical society?”

  “Now how the hell am I going to know if I don’t go and talk to them?”

  “You’re just killing time,” Pete said accusingly.

  “Of course.”

  “Whatever. I’m in. Nothing waiting back at the big house but cases.”

  “Good man.” And off we went.

  Mr. Griffin was remarkably robust. He opened the door and ushered us into a room that looked like someone had turned the Library of Congress upside down and dumped all the books into his house. It was beautiful.

  He cleared a couple chairs by moving books and shooing cats. One big black cat sniffed me, smelled Ivy and glared at me in disapproval before sauntering off. Pete and Mr. Griffin seemed to be old friends, or at least all of their relatives seemed to know each other and intermingle freely. There was about half an hour of “how’s this person doing” and “when did you last see that person.” Finally, Pete told him why we were there and the old man looked thoughtful.

  “The Kettle. That’s what it was called originally. First time I found it mentioned was in a court document. There had been an altercation between a couple of customers that resulted in a white man getting shot. This was, ummmm, let me see, 1897 or ’98. Big brouhaha about shutting it down. A couple of weeks after the shooting there was an editorial in the paper and then letters decrying the depravity that went on there. End result was that a black man, Ezra or Ezariah or something like that, was tried for the crime. The community was very proud of the fact that they actually tried him and didn’t take him immediately to the nearest live oak tree. And The Kettle was closed down for the first time. Stayed closed through the winter and reopened quietly in the late spring.”

  “Didn’t stay closed?”

  “I imagine most of the town fathers went there to get a little liquor and what-have-you, so those doors weren’t going to remain locked. Pretty much established a pattern. Joint opened, trouble happened, town shocked to discover it existed, joint closed, then joint quietly reopend.”

  He dug through some books. “There are some pictures of it during the forties and fifties. That was the joint’s glory days. By the way, that’s what most people called it—just ‘the joint.’ Ah, here.”

  He handed me a large old photo album. It was open to a page that had about a dozen pictures taken at different times. One showed black soldiers in World War II uniforms, another was of a couple fifties-style convertibles with the tops down and overflowing with young people smiling and clowning it up for the camera. In all of the pictures was an old wooden house with a wraparound front porch, lights strung around it and old advertisements for cigarettes, chewing gum and Coke.

  “What about more recently?” I asked.

  “Honestly, it went downhill. Changed hands a lot in the sixties and seventies. Finally the world had moved beyond juke joints. Late seventies and eighties, high school kids went there to get in trouble, if you know what I mean.”

  He held up his hand and got a serious look on his face. “I’m not making light of it either. I’ve taken a number of oral histories and, honestly, some really bad stuff happened out there. I know women were raped. I think we’re lucky there weren’t any murders out there then.”

  “We don’t know there weren’t,” I said bluntly, thinking about predators like Ted Bundy or Son of Sam.

  He gave me a thoughtful look. “I know your dad. He was in one of my classes when I taught at the high school. You remind me of him.”

  “I know when I’m being insulted,” I laughed.

  “No, really. He impressed me a great deal.”

  “We’ve wasted enough of your time.” I stood up and Pete climbed up out of an old wingback chair. As Mr. Griffin escorted us back through the stacks of books and folders, I saw that black cat eyeing me with a look of good riddance on his face.

  We each had four new cases on our desks. I sat down and called the victim on each, introduced myself and assured them that I would get back to them soon. An auto theft resolved itself. Turned out the wife had loaned it to a relative that the husband didn’t approve of so the wife didn’t tell the husband, etc., etc. I didn’t need all the family history. I was happy to stamp “closed” on the folder and spend ten minutes closing it out on the computer.

  After that I went through my emails. Damned if there wasn’t a positive response from a hospital in Pensacola. I picked up the phone and called the contact on the email. It being Friday afternoon, I wasn’t surprised to get voicemail. I banged out a reply to the email asking them to call or give me the best time to contact them.

  Matt came in with two other deputies, looking particularly smug. He stopped at my desk and slapped a flyer on it. It announced that Calhoun’s chief of police was running for sheriff.

  “Guess your dad’s going to have a little competition next year.”

  That explained the smug look. Matt and the chief had been high school bros. Little did Matt know that I’d celebrate Dad losing the election. Hell, I might even vote for the other guy. I had my reasons for being a deputy, and they were complicated, but if Dad lost it would make it easier for me to quit and do something I really wanted to do. But unless the sun started ris
ing in the west, the chief didn’t stand a chance against Dad. But then I remembered Eddie and the potential for a scandal. While I might be fine with Dad losing in a straight-up contest, the thought of him being blindsided by a late-in-the-game scandal didn’t sit well.

  I picked up the flyer. “Will that make you first deputy if your bromance buddy becomes sheriff?” As one of the other deputies snickered at my joke, I saw blood in Matt’s eyes.

  Chapter Nine

  I told Ivy all about Mr. Griffin’s black cat and Matt over dinner. She seemed unimpressed with my daily challenges. Another Friday night at home. I almost wished I was on call so I had an excuse for not having a date.

  Thinking of Cara, I asked Ivy, “How would you like to go to the vet?” and received only a cold stare. I started to think this was going to be a rough weekend.

  My phone rang about nine o’clock.

  “This is Brenda Hart from Pensacola Memorial Hospital. I got your email. I hope this isn’t too late to call.”

  “No, not at all. Though I’m a little surprised. I didn’t think I’d hear back from anyone until Monday.”

  “Ha! I can’t remember the last time I went more than a couple of hours without checking my work email.”

  “Checking and getting back are two different things.”

  “True,” she said, giving a little laugh. “I wanted to get back as soon as possible since it involved a murder. And, honestly, if it is Mark Kemper, well, he was always such a nice guy…” She trailed off.

  “You said the picture I sent you looks like this guy Mark Kemper?” I eased Ivy off my lap and got a pen and paper to make notes.

  “Yes. The resemblance is pretty good.”

  “And who is Mark Kemper?”

  “He sells, well, just about anything to us. He represents a wholesale medical supply company out of Texas. Mark comes by every month, or sometimes more often, and shows us the latest and greatest while finding out what we need. As I said, he’s really a nice guy who seems to live and breathe medical equipment. He can rattle off the specs on almost anything he sells.”

  “Do you have a number for him? Or some other way of reaching him?”

  “I’ve already tried the phone number I have for him. I did that before sending you the email. I didn’t want to bother you if I could just pick up the phone and call him and know he wasn’t your victim.”

  “But he didn’t answer.”

  “No, and I called Texas Health Supply and they couldn’t reach him either.”

  “Did he live in Texas?”

  She was quiet for a minute. “I don’t think so. As much as he talked, he didn’t talk much about himself. He was a very good salesman, always on topic. I’ve got the company’s phone number.”

  “Please,” I said and wrote the number down as she recited it. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?”

  “No, I really can’t.”

  “I appreciate you calling. If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

  “I will… And would you let me know if the… body is Mark. He was really well liked by a lot of our staff. We’d want to do something for his family.” She added quickly, “I hope it isn’t him.”

  “I’ll let you know one way or the other.”

  I tried calling Kemper’s company as soon as I hung up. It was after their business hours, so my options were to leave a message or call back. I elected to call back.

  “Time for Google,” I told Ivy, who was busy cleaning her paws. Searching for Mark Kemper gave me a zillion hits. I added medical supplies to the search field and clicked on images. My eyes were immediately drawn to Brenda Hart’s Mark Kemper. He certainly did look a lot like Dahlia’s picture. Strange… How did the “Kiss My Ass” tattoo fit with the description of Mark Kemper that Brenda gave me? Super nice guy gets a message like that inked on his butt? Mark Kemper, if you are my corpse, I’m interested in learning more about you, I thought

  More Googling found his Facebook page, which told me Mark was gay. The relationship field was blank. There were several Kempers on his list of friends. After a moment or two of soul searching, I messaged three adult Kempers. I told all of them who I was and asked if they had recently had contact with Mark or knew where he had been during the last week. I added that we were concerned for his wellbeing and that they could contact me via Facebook or through the Adams County Sheriff’s Office. My cell number was on my office voicemail.

  Twenty minutes later my phone rang.

  “Is this Larry Macklin?” a breathless voice asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m Mary Kemper. Mark is my son. Is he all right? Has there been an accident?” The fear in her voice was palpable over the phone.

  “Mrs. Kemper, we don’t know much at this point. We don’t even know if your son is the person we need to find.” I was trying not to alarm her in case it wasn’t the body of her son in the morgue. “If you can answer a couple questions, that might help us to clear this whole thing up.” I was trying to use my best “calm the person down” voice. “Can you do that?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you know where your son is?”

  “No, no, that’s why I called when my sister-in-law said she’d received a message from you. I haven’t heard from him in days and he never goes that long without calling me. Please, if you know where he is…”

  I was having to think hard to come up with the right questions without letting her know the potential heartbreak she was facing. “Do you know if your son was in New Orleans a couple years ago?”

  “What does that have to do with where he is now?” she pleaded.

  “Please, if you could answer the questions, that would really help.”

  “Yes, he went to New Orleans. He travels a lot for business, but goes to New Orleans a lot when he’s off too.” She got real quiet than added, “His partner used to live there.”

  There was no way to shield her from the question I needed to ask, but I wanted to have some insurance if the answer was yes. “Mrs. Kemper, is anyone else with you?”

  “My husband is… is in the other room. He and Mark don’t get along. So I came in this room to call. Why?”

  “Does your son have a tattoo?”

  “Oh, my God, yes, he has a tattoo. What? Tell me, is he okay?”

  I had no choice but to plow ahead. I was sorry I had started this tonight. “Is it on his… rear end?”

  “Oh, God, yes. It says…” She was starting to cry now. “Kiss my ass.” She laughed and began to cry. I could hear a man’s voice in the background, asking what was wrong.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Kemper. We have a body in our morgue that matches your son’s description.”

  Crying and wailing came from the other end of the phone. Mr. Kemper picked up the phone and I explained everything to him. His voice was cold and emotionless… or maybe he was just as devastated as his wife. It’s hard to judge a person’s reaction over the phone. He told me that they lived in Texas, but would make arrangements to come to Tallahassee to identify their son’s body.

  And then he said something that took me by surprise. He said they didn’t need directions. They had lived in Adams County for almost twenty years. Then he hung up, leaving me to ponder the connection that brought Mark Kemper home to Adams County to be shot.

  I spent another hour tracking down the hotel where Mark had stayed, finally finding it in Tallahassee. We’d called the hotel earlier in our search for a guest that hadn’t checked out, but since he’d used his credit card and left his check-out date open, the hotel was still happily charging his card. They didn’t care if anyone was coming or going from the room or not. I told them not to let anyone else go in or out of the room, then I called the Tallahassee police and asked if one of their officers could go by and put crime scene tape across the door. I’d go over there with some of our techs in the morning.

  The next day I drove to Tallahassee and met Shantel and Marcus, who frequently tried to schedule
their shifts together. Kemper’s room was neat and orderly. Unfortunately, it was clear that the maids had cleaned the room since the last time he’d been there. The two things I’d hoped to find, a laptop or his phone, were not there. He’d probably had his phone with him, but I had thought there was some chance that a laptop might have been left behind. Maybe if we found his car. But the killer had had access to the car, so that would probably be a dead end… No pun intended.

  We went over everything else in the room, but found nothing unusual or that would give us any new leads. Marcus and Shantel did the full fiber-and-hair-collection routine on the off chance that the perpetrator had come to Mark’s room at some point. It wouldn’t help us find the killer, but the evidence might help to convict him.

  On my way home I drove by the arson site to have a look at it in daylight. It was still a mess and didn’t look like anyone had done anything with it.

  On Sunday I got a call from Eddie which, needless to say, surprised me. He said he’d been trying to find information on the arson or the murder. One of his cousins did say a friend of a friend had been talking about arson and how to do it. He swore he’d try to learn more. I almost believed him.

  Monday was rainy and cold. The Halloween decorations had almost all disappeared and Thanksgiving was only two weeks away. As I worked on my back log of cases, Mr. Kemper called and said they would be at my office by noon. I told him to meet me at the hospital in Tallahassee instead. I felt like every word I spoke drove home his new reality of a world without a son.

  According to my weather app, the front was stalled on top of us so we’d have rain for the next day or two. When I drove into the hospital parking lot, I saw the Kempers standing by what I assumed was their rental car. The sky mirrored the grief on the Kempers’ faces. They both appeared to be in their seventies and in good health, but it was obvious that the ordeal had Mrs. Kemper near to an emotional collapse.

  “Both of you don’t have to go in,” I told them, trying hard to dissuade Mrs. Kemper from the ordeal. “His face was badly damaged. We’re going to keep that covered unless you feel that you need to see it in order to make an identification.” I was grateful for small favors that we had found his folks before forensics removed his head in order to do a facial reconstruction.