Tales from Stool 17; Dark Days of Judgment: The Nigel Logan Stories (3)

by Kirk Jockell

  Tales from Stool 17

  The Nigel Logan Stories #3

  Dark Days of Justice

  By Kirk S. Jockell

  Copyright 2017 Kirk Jockell

  The Tales from Stool 17 series is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

  KirkJockell.com

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Episode 1: Call Me Lamar

  Episode 2: The Storm

  Episode 3: Bowery Station

  Episode 4: El Diablo Rojo

  Episode 5: Leave No Trace

  Episode 6: Tom and the Pygmy

  Episode 7: Sissy Marks

  Episode 8: In Virginia

  Episode 9: Judgement Day

  Episode 10: The Stool

  Episode 11: Happy New Year

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Port St. Joe and The Forgotten Coast are real. Also real is the Leave No Trace ordinance that has been enacted to protect it. The basic idea behind it: Don’t bring a bunch of shit to the beach and leave it out there all night. Leave it like you found it, every day. Returning for a third round of punishment is my good friend and guitar-toting troubadour, Brian Bowen. He can be caught playing at numerous locations all around the region, including Bowery Station in Apalachicola. Bowery Station, otherwise known as BS, is owned and operated by Matt and Lisa Gardi. BS is always full of fabulous folks, great music, cold beer, and yes … plenty of BS. And, of course, what would The Forgotten Coast be without tuning into Oyster Radio, WOYS 100.5 on your FM dial or via the TuneIn radio app on your smart device? While all the above are real, they are used fictitiously throughout these stories.

  During my journey writing Stool 17, I couldn’t have done it without the support of so many people. The kind words and encouragement I have received along the way have been so instrumental in moving and pushing me to complete this series. Hearing the words When’s the next book coming out or Hurry the hell up, dammit is always music to my ears. Words cannot express the appreciation I have for each of you. Thanks to you all!

  Special thanks go out to my editor, Jan Lee. She has been invaluable, not to mention incredibly patient, in helping me construct these books. She has helped me stay on the straight and narrow, and, more importantly, she has been a significant influence in helping me find my voice. Thank you, Jan.

  To Joy Jockell, my bride, partner, and first reader, I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Your markups of all my shitty first drafts are always humbling and a pleasure. Your love and encouragement has been nothing short of amazing. I can’t thank you enough. Love you, forever and a day.

  This book is dedicated to author Randy Wayne White.

  Randy Wayne White is one of my favorite authors, and I’m a huge fan of the Doc Ford series. I’m not ashamed to admit my groupie status and have attended a few book signings. I have never once heard him speak that he didn’t encourage his attendees to write their own book. He would say, and I’ll paraphrase here: Your enthusiasm and interest in being here today means you are not just an active reader, you are also a writer. You just don’t realize it yet. Each of you should write your own book.

  It only took hearing those words like three times, but I give them full credit for sparking the creation of Tales from Stool 17. RWW, if it weren’t for you, all this crazy shit would still be bouncing around in my head. More importantly, if you hadn’t motivated me to write, I may have never felt the humbling pride that comes with hearing, from a perfect stranger, the words, I loved your book. When does the next one come out? Thank you, good sir.

  Loving life on the Forgotten Coast,

  Cruising the beach or out on a boat.

  Yeah … I’m digging living in Gulf County, FLA.

  St. Joe Beach, Cape San Blas, Money Bayou, and Indian Pass,

  Ain’t life great, on Highway 98.

  Brian Bowen, Ode to Port St. Joe

  Prologue

  It was an early Monday, and still dark outside when he came into the office. The detective bullpen was for the most part empty, just a few folks scattered here and there and the smell of fresh coffee. Most folks wouldn’t start rolling in until sometime after the donuts arrived. He liked the quiet and wanted to take advantage of it before the room got too loud. It was set to be a big day. One that’s been a long time coming and Detective Larry Anderson wanted to go over everything one last time. Not that he needed to. He’s been through it a million times.

  He poured a cup of black coffee and took it to his desk. He took a seat and leaned back in his chair. He put his feet up, crossing his ankles like he always does. He pressed his thumbs and fingertips together and rested his chin on his index fingers to think.

  He thought about it a lot. He couldn’t help himself. It was by design. Reminders were kept all around his cubical. A copy of the file was always close at hand, either somewhere on his desk or in a drawer, usually right up front so he couldn’t miss it. The biggest reminder, though, was the large white case board that stood in front of the windows just a few feet away from his desk.

  In the bureau, resources are tight. There are multiple, ongoing investigations at any one time, some more significant than others. Some warranted the use of a case board, others didn’t. Anderson’s case was old and on life support. After some time, his boss ordered him to pull the plug and clear the board. Anderson protested and lost. He took a picture of the board with his phone and placed everything in a box. Before noon of that day, the board was already being used for an auto theft investigation. Anderson left that day in a huff. The next morning Anderson was recreating his case board when his lieutenant showed up to work. “Anderson! Goddammit … What did I tell you about that board?”

  “My board, Lieutenant. Bought it myself. The other ones are over there,” Anderson said pointing to the three well-used case boards on the other side of the room. “I’ll keep this one over here, out of everyone’s way.” That was over two years ago.

  His board displayed the relevant key points of the case file, but in a format easier to understand. Reader’s Digest versions of all the notes were written within little black boxes scattered about the board. Depending on their relevance and importance, some boxes were connected by colored lines. Green lines meant a direct, indisputable connection. Red lines meant a highly-suspected connection. Blue and yellow lines indicated stages of the investigation still being developed: yellow for plausible theories, blue for hunches. But it was the green lines that had his attention.

  He reached over and grabbed his coffee and took a sip. Then he slung his feet off the desk and got out of the chair. He stood there drinking more coffee before walking over to the board. Among all the boxes and connective lines were four photos arranged in the shape of a diamond. These four pictures served as the board’s center-piece. He let his eyes follow the pictures and the lines that connected them.

  At the bottom of the diamond was a picture of collected evidence, a Beretta 92 FS, a 9mm semi-automatic pistol. Up and to the right was a picture of Terrance “T-Daddy” Lundsford. Ballistics proved the connection between the gun and Lundsford. It was the weapon used to take his life. A green line connected the two.

  Across the board and to the left of Lundsford was the third picture. It was of a beautiful young lady, a high school portrait. The girl was Grace Matthews. A green line connected Ms. Matthews and Lundsford. He was t
o stand trial for her beating and rape, but it never came about. The mishandling of cornerstone DNA evidence, along with other circumstances, gave the Virginia Beach District Attorney cause to drop the charges. Lundsford walked.

  The father of Ms. Matthews is a Navy Captain. At the time of the beating and rape and the later murder of Lundsford, he served as the commanding officer and close friend of the man at the top of the board. Another green line connected Ms. Matthews to the last picture at the top of the diamond, Nigel Logan.

  Anderson stared at Logan’s picture and sipped his coffee. He actually liked the photo. It was an official navy portrait. He was in uniform, no smile, no frown, all business. His head was framed by the stars and stripes of the American flag. It was a very patriotic image.

  A red line connected the images of Logan and Lundsford, and a vertical green line connected Logan with the pistol. The Beretta was registered to Logan. It was his weapon. The same weapon Logan had reported stolen only two weeks before Lundsford’s untimely death. As Anderson looked at the gun, a familiar thought raced through his mind: Stolen ... how convenient.

  He looked at the picture of Logan and said, “It’s a different game now, Logan. A different game. We have a whole new set of players.”

  It was true, new players had come onto the field. One in particular, Virginia Beach District Attorney, Patrick James. With a stellar record as a prosecutor, he had served under his predecessor, Blair Westhoven. Upon learning of his advanced prostate cancer, Westhoven decided enough was enough. It was a diagnosis fit for retirement. After filling the seat for over thirteen years, he wanted to spend more time with family and fight the disease in private, outside the public eye. Who could blame him? A special election was held and James won in a landslide.

  He never spoke of it publicly, but, as Westhoven surrendered his office, he had but one professional regret. The botched rape and battery case against Terrance Lundsford. It was the only real scar on his record. His team had screwed up. The victim, Grace Matthews, never saw the system deliver the justice she was due. Instead, she watched the system crumble and fail her. To Westhoven, that was unacceptable. He had lost other cases, but those were fought and argued in the courtroom. It’s different when you know a son of a bitch is guilty and he gets primetime news coverage as he walks free. Yeah, if he could have a mulligan, that would be the one. Instead, Grace Matthews got her justice at the hands of a vigilante.

  The vigilante, Nigel Logan; he thought about that failure from time to time, but to a much lesser degree. It had bothered him a great deal at first. The idea that the Grand Jury wouldn’t hand down an indictment still boggled his mind. He had gotten indictments on less. In all his years of practicing law, he’d never seen a Grand Jury so willing to look the other way. While he didn’t like their decision, he knew it had nothing to do with him or the members of his team. His team did good work. They did their job.

  It took a while, but he came to terms with it. If the Grand Jury could look the other way, so could he. He was able to reconcile the matter in his mind, because he knew Lundsford raped and beat that poor girl. He had seen the DNA results, and the evidence was ironclad. Lundsford had to be punished.

  With every fiber of his being, Westhoven also knew Logan killed Lundsford. He was sure of it and confident he could have proven his case. He would have gotten his guilty verdict, no doubt. But that didn’t happen. Logan walked.

  In a way, Westhoven felt he was done a favor. As wrong and unlawful as it was, Logan dished out a punishment to Lundsford that he couldn’t deliver himself. Not that Lundsford’s crimes would have warranted a death sentence … but … It is what it is. Like so many other people, Westhoven wasn’t losing any sleep because Lundsford had departed the land of the living.

  There was something else Westhoven felt comfortable with. Logan may be capable of violence, but he wasn’t a threat to peaceful society. He had studied Logan’s naval record. He interviewed many of his peers and the officers that he served under. In the end, he determined Nigel Logan to be, at the center of his being, a good man.

  Had he been given the opportunity to try Logan, he wouldn’t have passed it up. He would have been trying the crime, not the man. Had he been awarded a guilty verdict, he would have taken it, but Logan’s sentence wouldn’t have made the world any safer. If anything, perhaps a tad more dangerous. Westhoven’s pragmatism told him Like it or not, it was guys like Logan that helped keep the world in check. He would never admit it, but, with Lundsford dead, he was able to sleep at night. Justice had been delivered and served for Grace Matthews. And for that reason, he was able to let it go.

  For Detective Larry Anderson, there was no letting go. Which is why he maintained his own personal case board in the bureau and worked the case in his spare time. He was determined, and, with Westhoven out of the picture and Patrick James sitting as the new DA, he felt good about his chances to get another shot at Logan. He would soon find out. He and his lieutenant had a meeting scheduled for later that morning. It was time to discuss knocking some dust off that old file.

  Nine hundred miles away, Red and Nigel were sitting on the tailgate of Nigel’s truck. It was going to be a perfect morning. The sun was creeping toward the horizon, ready to start another gorgeous day. The colors of dawn cast an orange glow about the beach and water. Slight wave action brought an occasional rogue breaker crashing down on the sand. They sat in silence while watching for mullet out on the horn of Cape San Blas, their cast nets at the ready in the bed of the truck.

  Red broke the quiet and got Nigel’s attention, “I want to ask you something.”

  They looked at each other and Red said, “You know … I don’t mean to pry, but…”

  “But … you’re going to anyway?”

  “Yes ... how long’s it been since you last spoke to Candice?”

  Nigel looked back toward the water and spoke to the surf. “Three weeks.”

  “That’s quite a long time.”

  Nigel looked at his friend and said, “A fucking eternity.”

  “Why don’t you call her? She may be scared.”

  “I want to. I’m giving her time and space. She knows where to find me. And besides, she has no reason to be scared of me. She knows that.”

  “But what if she is? You know, scared. Maybe not of you, but of the whole situation.”

  Nigel said nothing.

  “What if you are both scared to call the other and never do? Think about that for a minute.”

  “Listen. That’s how we left things, okay? If she was still interested, she could call me. If she didn’t, I would understand.”

  Red said, “You mean … that’s how you left things.”

  Nigel said nothing and Red changed the subject.

  “It’s almost time,” said Red. He dug into the cooler and dug out a couple of bottles of Coors Light. He handed one to Nigel and used the other to point to the horizon. “Wait now.”

  It seemed to boil at that spot where the water meets the sky. It grew more and more intense. As the top edge of the sun broke the plane of the horizon, Red and Nigel twisted the tops off their beers. They tossed the caps into the bed of the truck and clanked the bottles together. Together they said, “To a new day!” They drank deep and long until the cold and the carbonation forced them to come up for air. “Ahhhh! That was good,” said Nigel.

  Red nodded his head in agreement and pointed his bottle toward the water. He was catching his breath when he said, “Swirls. There!” They both watched, and sure enough, there was activity just about fifteen or twenty feet beyond the gentle breakers. Then a lazy mullet broke the surface and flopped on its side. “Mullet! Let’s go!”

  They both jumped off the tailgate and started gathering up their nets.

  Nigel said, “You want to make a little wager?”

  “Like what?”

  “Let’s say that whoever catches the most gets out of cleaning?”

  “Sounds like a fool’s bet. You better get your knife ready.”

&nb
sp; Under his breath, Nigel mumbled, “Yeah, right.”

  Red was about to head out toward the water when he stopped and said, “Hey, Nigel. Listen. What I was talking about earlier. I just want to say…”

  Nigel interrupted, “Don’t worry about it, Red. You don’t have to apologize. Everything will work out.”

  “Oh,” Red said, “I wasn’t going to apologize. I was just going to say, ‘Don’t be a stupid asshole,’ that’s all.” And he tore off toward the water. “Come on!”

  Instead of staying seated behind his desk when Detective Larry Anderson and his lieutenant entered his office, Patrick James got out of his chair, walked around to the front of his desk, and stood. After handshakes and good mornings, DA James opened his palms and directed the two detectives to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please ... please, take a seat.”

  They did, and the DA leaned back on the front of his desk crossing his ankles and his arms across his chest. “So,” he started, “give me the pleasure of one guess to figure out what this is all about.”

  Detective Anderson looked at his boss and asked, “Did you tell him?”

  “Nope,” his boss said with a half-grin. “This is all on you, Detective Anderson.”

  “Detective, excuse my flippant comments. I know you want to discuss something serious; otherwise you wouldn’t be here. It is the Terrance Lundsford case, correct?”

  Anderson looked again at his boss who shrugged his shoulders at the detective’s stare. I don’t know. Don’t look at me.

  “Listen, Detective Anderson. It is no secret that you have taken this case personally. It is important to you. You feel all your good work has had no closure. That it all slipped away without being taken seriously.”

  The DA paused, held his gaze on the detective and continued, “Wouldn’t you say that is a fair assessment?”