Squall Line (The Forgotten Coast Florida Suspense Series Book 9)

by Dawn Lee McKenna

  It was now seven-thirty, and they were awaiting Sheriff Bledsoe’s arrival. Around the table, there were several deputies who had been assigned to the team investigating Dwight’s shooting.

  Essentially, everyone was on that team, including James Lyle, who normally headed up the narcotics team. Bledsoe had scheduled a skeleton crew to handle existing cases and patrol shifts and arranged for Apalach PD to take on anything new that wasn’t a homicide or hostage situation. Meanwhile, seven other deputies were tasked solely with looking for Ryan Warner.

  The door opened, and Bledsoe walked in, carrying a green file folder that matched the ones sitting in front of each person at the table.

  “Good morning,” he said quietly, shutting the door.

  He was greeted, either verbally or non-verbally, by the people in the room, then took a seat at the head of the table.

  “Okay. We’ve all had a blow. We all had a shock yesterday,” he said. “Now it’s time to see what we have to work with so far, and what we need to do from here.”

  He opened his folder, and everyone else followed suit. “Based on the initial statements from the witnesses, here’s what we’re dealing with. According to Ryan Warner’s mother, Ginny, and one of the boys at the scene, Brian Gentry—this is the kid that didn’t run—Adrian Nichols, Stuart Newman, Drake Woods and this kid Brian have been harassing Ryan Warner all year.”

  Maggie looked at photographs of each of the boys as Bledsoe talked. Some were school pictures, some were clearly from phones or Facebook; Stuart and Adrian both had mug shots.

  Bledsoe looked up from his file. “The kid’s new, just moved here from Orlando over the summer. He’s a little geeky, dorky, whatever, a real target.” He looked back down. “Anyway, Thursday night, a video of Ryan Warner, with these boys in the background, popped up on a YouTube channel belonging to Nichols and Newman. Apparently, this little group of thugs accosted the kid in an empty classroom, and something about a mouse or a rat, and the kid wet himself a little. Enough to show on camera.”

  He looked around the table. “I’m sure it’s no surprise that a bunch of kids shared this video on Facebook and Instagram and wherever, and basically, just about everybody at school saw it. No doubt, this included Warner, because he took his father’s .22 to school yesterday morning.”

  “Any idea what his intentions were?” Wyatt asked.

  “Not for certain, no,” Bledsoe said. “I think only the kid knows. His mother swears he’s a good kid, no violence ever. Of course, we hear that a lot, but he has no record of any kind, not even fighting in school.”

  “Where’d the father keep the gun?” James asked.

  “Father’s dead,” Bledsoe answered. “T-boned coming off I-4 two years ago. The kid and his mother were in the car with him, minor injuries. The mother kept the gun loaded in her nightstand for protection, but she says the kid was scared of guns, never went near it.”

  “Well, now he did,” James said, bitterness lacing his voice.

  “Yeah. Anyway.” Bledsoe cleared his throat. “These boys get off the bus yesterday and Nichols gets real aggressive and threatening with Ryan Warner. Dwight shows up to get his little girl. To bring her here for the promotion ceremony.” He stopped to cough into his fist. “He gets there right about the time the kid pulls the gun and he tries to intervene. This snotbag Nichols thinks he’s a big man, gonna save the day, and tosses a backpack at the kid while the kid’s talking to Dwight. Gun goes off.”

  Bledsoe let out a breath and sat back in his leather chair. Maggie stared at Ryan Warner’s senior picture, resenting the fact that he reminded her of Kyle, with his dark hair and gentle good looks. She didn’t care; looks meant nothing. She looked up at Bledsoe.

  “Why do Nichols and Newman have mug shots?”

  Myles answered for his boss. “Nichols has two marks on his record. Back in Alabama, where he’s from, he got caught keying a teacher’s car. Then last summer he got in a fight with another kid at Bayfront Park. Newman was involved, too.”

  “I’m surprised we don’t know this kid Nichols,” Wyatt said.

  “He’s only been here since late 2016,” Bledsoe answered. “Dad’s a shrimper from Alabama.”

  “I know him,” Myles said. “PD was busy that day; I’m the one took him in for the fight. Had to. He had a wrench, split the other kid’s lip with it.”

  “Nice,” Wyatt said. “So why has this little citizen been allowed to bully Warner all year?”

  James spoke up. “The mother says she’s been to the principal’s office about it three times, but Beth Freeman said her hands were tied. No witnesses to any of the bullying involving Ryan Warner. She can’t take disciplinary action unless another student or adult is a witness.”

  “Well, that’s crap,” Wyatt said. “When I was a kid, you could get suspended for smelling like cigarette smoke. You didn’t even have to get caught smoking.”

  “Welcome to today,” James said.

  “Okay, let’s talk about the tasks at hand for today,” Bledsoe said, flipping some pages in his file. “Obviously, we need to locate Warner, and we’ve got every officer on duty searching. As far as the people at this table, we need to interview or re-interview key people, and I want to switch up, get second perspectives on every statement, so everybody’s trading witnesses. Myles and Hammond, I want you to do the second interview with the bus driver, this guy Frank Walters that lives on School Road, and Adrian Nichols and his parents. James and Quincy, talk to the principal, this list of contacts from Orlando that Myles got from Ryan’s mother, and the other two kids in this little gang.”

  “What about Ryan’s cell phone?” Maggie asked. “I assume he has one. Have we tried to ping it?”

  Quincy spoke up. “It’s off. Like, the battery’s out. The last location we have is for the woods out past Grainger, something like seven minutes after he ran. He pinged off the tower back there.”

  That was the street toward the back of Ryan and Dwight’s neighborhood.

  “Probably how he thought to turn it off,” Myles said. “He saw the tower.”

  Bledsoe turned a page, took a sip of water from the glass in front of him, and went on. “PJ and Yarrow, you’re in charge of re-canvassing the neighborhood around School Road. Let’s see if anyone saw Ryan after the shooting that we didn’t talk to yesterday. Or anyone who’s seen him since then without knowing it was important.”

  “Got it,” Greg Yarrow said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

  Bledsoe looked over at Wyatt. “You’re here because we don’t have her,” he said, nodding at Maggie. “You—”

  “What do you mean we don’t have me? I’m sitting right here,” Maggie said.

  “You’re sitting here as a courtesy, because Dwight is your partner,” Bledsoe said shortly. “I don’t want you anywhere near this.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? Because Dwight is your partner. You’re understandably upset.”

  “We’re all upset,” James interjected.

  “Yeah, but we weren’t all there while Dwight was bleeding on the ground,” Bledsoe answered, not unkindly.

  Maggie felt her blood rushing to her head, felt the heat flooding her face. She opened her mouth, determined to keep her tone non-confrontational, but Wyatt stuck up his palms before she could speak.

  “With all due respect,” he said, “She’s going to work the case whether she has permission or not.”

  “I don’t like threats, Wyatt—”

  “It’s not a threat. It’s the voice of experience,” Wyatt responded calmly. “She’d do it if I was still sitting in that chair. She has done it.”

  “That doesn’t make it a good idea.”

  “Look, you’re in charge. But we need all hands on deck here, don’t you think?”

  Bledsoe sighed, looked from Maggie to Wyatt. “All right, look. You work t
ogether today, okay? We’ll play it by ear from there.”

  “Thank you,” Maggie said.

  “You guys have Ryan’s mother, the two ladies that live across the street from the scene, and the kid’s science teacher. Names are on your notes, Wyatt.”

  “That won’t take very long,” Maggie said.

  “No. but I’m hoping we have Ryan Warner in custody by the time all of you get done with your interviews,” Bledsoe answered. “Tasks for this afternoon, the rest of the day, that’ll depend on whether we have him or not.”

  There was a quick rap on the door and Deputy Mike Wear opened it with a jerk without waiting for an answer. “We got a problem,” he said to Bledsoe.

  “What?”

  “Dwight’s shooting,” Mike answered. “It’s on Facebook.”

  “What the hell?” James barked, getting up.

  “What?” Bledsoe yelled, standing. “Where? Let me see it!”

  Mike stepped over to the table, phone in hand. “My kid Jason sent it to me. I’ve got it pulled up. We’ve also had six phone calls about it in the last five minutes.”

  Everyone but Maggie gathered around Mike. Maggie walked quickly out of the room and leaned up against the wall as the door swung shut.

  Less than a minute later, Wyatt opened the door. Maggie heard raised voices behind him. His deeply-tanned face had a sickly tone.

  “It’s over, come back in,” he said shortly, and held the door for her. She went back into the conference room.

  “What do we need to do to get that crap off the internet?” Bledsoe was barking.

  Myles spoke up. He was visibly shaken. “Fastest way is to get the kids to take it down. But I think we need to get with the FBI in case they refuse.”

  “I don’t care if we have to blow up the internet,” Wyatt said, his jaw tight. “We need to get it down before Amy or his family sees it, if they haven’t already.”

  “Refuse? No, hell no they won’t refuse!” Bledsoe said. “Myles, you and Hammond split up, one to Newman’s and one to Nichols’. Get it down.” He pointed at Mike. “Go call the DA, find out what we can charge these punks with. Obstruction, something.”

  As Myles, Hammond and Mike started out of the room, Bledsoe looked at everyone remaining.

  “Sometimes I’m glad I don’t have kids. Go.”

  As Maggie and Wyatt walked down the hall toward the front door, they passed one deputy or staffer after another who looked like they’d been pole-axed.

  “Okay, we’re working together, but we split up. It’ll be faster,” Wyatt said once they were out the door. He held up his copy of the file folder. “I’ll take these DeMott, DeWitt, DeWhatever ladies on School Road. You take the mother. You’ll be good with her. Then we meet up.”

  Maggie was working hard to keep up with his pace. They were parked next to each other, and they both stopped when they reached her Jeep. Wyatt opened the door for her, but he was looking at the hood. He hadn’t met her eye since he’d watched the video.

  Maggie looked up at him. “Was it bad?” It was a stupid question, but she knew he knew what she meant, even if she couldn’t phrase it right.

  He didn’t look at her right away. She saw his jaw tighten, saw his temple throb. He draped an arm on the top of her door, sighed, and finally looked at her. He hadn’t looked that sad since her ex-husband had been blown up right in front of them.

  “You don’t need to see it,” he said. “Nobody does.”

  Ryan and his mother, Ginny, lived in a small but neat cottage just a few blocks up from School Road. Maggie took the long way to get there, not yet ready to pass the bus stop.

  She had called ahead, and a small voice on the other end had told her that she’d taken the day off and would be waiting for Maggie. Maggie pulled into the gravel driveway and parked behind a dark green, ten-year-old Saturn sedan.

  The front yard was small but had been recently mowed. Maggie wondered if Ryan Warner had done it. Next to the front steps, on either side of a path that was missing several pavers, were two hibiscus bushes, one coral and the other red. There was one tree in the front yard, a small Palmetto, and there were bunches of impatiens in various colors planted beneath it.

  The house needed new gutters and downspouts, it could stand to be painted, and the front steps were listing just slightly to starboard, but someone was trying to make the place a home.

  Maggie was halfway up the walk, her hiking boots thumping dully on the stone pavers, when the front door opened.

  Ginny Warner looked to be a few years younger than Maggie. It was hard to tell for sure, with the woman’s blond hair shoved messily into a ponytail, her face devoid of makeup, and dark smears of sleeplessness beneath her eyes.

  “Mrs. Warner?” Maggie asked, as she reached the top step.

  The woman nodded, then lowered her eyes and stepped back. She opened the door a bit wider, and Maggie walked past her into a short entryway. To the left, an archway opened into a small living room. To the right, a matching arch led to a dining room. Maggie could see notebooks and papers spread around the solid oak table, a coffee mug in the middle of them.

  Maggie looked at Ginny Warner as the woman shut the door quietly. “I’m Maggie Hamilton,” she said to be polite. “Where would you like to talk?”

  Mrs. Warner looked around, like she was unfamiliar with the house, then held a hand out toward the dining room. “I’m in here,” she said.

  As Maggie followed her into the room, she glanced at several pictures hanging on the wall on either side of the arch. In one, a pre-adolescent Ryan posed with his parents beneath a Christmas tree. Mrs. Warner looked twenty years younger, and Ryan looked happy. He hadn’t looked happy in his senior picture.

  Ginny Warner pulled out the chair at the end of the table, in front of the papers and books, and Maggie sat to her right. She could just see into a kitchen with freshly painted gray walls. She could hear the refrigerator humming. The only other sound was the ticking of the clock over the bricked-up fireplace.

  The other woman coughed quietly and wrapped her hands around her mug. “I was just…uh, trying to find…I was looking through his notebooks and stuff, trying to find some hint or sign that he was going to…do what he did.”

  “May I call you Ginny?” Maggie asked, pulling her notepad and pen from her purse. The woman nodded. “Ginny, did your son say anything to you Thursday night about this video that was uploaded, or about the incident in the classroom?”

  Ginny looked at her, then quickly looked away. Her eyes were pointed at the front window, but the curtains were pulled tightly closed. Maggie wondered if people had been walking or driving by, trying to see what a possible killer’s house looked like.

  “Maybe he would have,” Ginny finally answered. She looked back at Maggie. “If I had been home.” She lifted the mug but put it back down without drinking. “I work two jobs. I’ve had to, since my husband died. We lost our house in Orlando, even though I was making decent money.”

  Maggie nodded. “So, you were working Thursday night?”

  “Yes. I work at the BP four nights a week. More if I can get the hours.”

  “What time did you go in?”

  “I went straight from my day job,” Ginny answered. “During the week, I work days at Century-21.”

  “Are you a real estate agent?”

  “No. Maybe one of these days, if I can take the class. Right now I’m the administrative assistant.”

  “Okay.” Maggie made a note, then looked up again. “What time did you get home Thursday?”

  “Just after twelve.”

  “So, did you see Ryan at all Thursday?”

  “Just in the morning, before he went to school,” Ginny answered. “We were talking about what he needed to take with him when he leaves for UCF. He has a full scholarship.”

  Her face suddenly seemed to fold in
on itself, and she put a hand over her mouth, though she didn’t make a sound. Maggie waited.

  After a moment, Ginny lowered her hand and swallowed hard before continuing. “He worked so hard for that scholarship.”

  Maggie and Ryan’s mother both knew he wouldn’t be getting a chance to use it. Even if the shooting was an accident, he had committed a felony by taking the gun to school. At best, if Dwight survived, he would be charged with especially aggravated assault on a law enforcement officer. If Dwight didn’t survive, she doubted any local DA or judge would let him plead involuntary manslaughter. She didn’t even know if that option existed.

  “What about yesterday morning, Ginny? Did you see Ryan then?”

  “No. Mornings after I work at the second job, I sleep in until eight. His bus is at seven.”

  “Okay. Did he text you or call you during the morning? Before the shooting?”

  Ginny shook her head. “No. He isn’t supposed to call me at work unless it’s an emergency or my lunch hour. They don’t like us to get personal calls.”

  Maggie nodded. “So you haven’t seen your son since Thursday morning?”

  Maggie’s tone was gentle, but she saw the defensiveness immediately.

  “I have to work these hours,” Ryan’s mother said, her voice raised and breaking. “I didn’t want Ryan to get a job; he has to focus on his schoolwork.”

  “Ma’am, I was a single mother for several years. I understand what it takes to try to keep everything together,” Maggie said. “I’ve had many days where I didn’t see my kids awake.”

  Ginny swallowed, rubbing nervously at her coffee mug. “How old are your kids?”

  “My son’s turning thirteen. My daughter is seventeen.”

  She saw the other woman’s eyes flicker. “Does she go to Franklin?”

  “Yes. She’s a senior, too.”

  “What’s her name?” Ginny asked, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be asking you that. I just wondered if Ryan knew her.”

  “He did,” Maggie said simply. “She was his peer-to-peer mentor the first week of school.” Ginny shook her head slightly, confused. “It’s something they do for new students. The mentor shows them where their classes are, introduces them around, answers questions. That kind of thing.”