When Blood Cries: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 6)

by M. Glenn Graves

  The teenager shifted his weight and moved back a few steps when she approached him. He had been content to have her desk as a barrier between them. Now there was nothing between them but air and the naked truth. His uneasiness increased despite his height advantage.

  “Male or female?”

  “Female, I think. Pretty sure it was a female.”

  “How do you know she was dead?”

  “Bullet hole in the side of the head. Body was face down in the creek and she weren’t swimming,” he added as if that proved the fact more than the bullet hole in the head.

  “Were you alone when you found the body?”

  “Yeah. I was on my way to the paved road to meet the bus. I told the bus driver, but she just laughed at me and brought me on to school.”

  It crossed my mind that you can’t trust bus drivers with stories like that. Students are always telling tales to either get something or get out of something. Who are you supposed believe? If I were a bus driver, I’d probably handcuff all the little cuties and release them once we got to where they were going. School or home, no exceptions.

  “Who sent you down here?”

  “Mr. Sykes … you know, the Principal.”

  “Okay, so Mr. Sykes thinks you are telling the truth,” she said to him.

  “I am tellin’ the truth, Sheriff. Why cum I wud lie about such as this? I wuz walkin’ along and studin’ the water like I gen’rally do, lookin’ for a good fishin’ hole, and there she wuz … dead and all. Besides, there’s the body there right now and all. Won’t that prove sump’in?”

  “You were looking for a place to fish in the wintertime?” I said as I approached the boy.

  He turned to stare at me. It was a harsh look. I don’t think he liked my question.

  “A body can search out a good place to get ready for spring. Don’t you city folk know nothin’?”

  “You touch the body?” Starnes said.

  “Are you kiddin’ me?” he drew back from her and actually moved a short distance as if the carcass was between them.

  “No, son, I am not kidding. Did you touch the body?”

  “I did not. It was floatin’ around the edge of the creek and I wud’a had to jump down the bank and get all muddy. Water’s too cold this time of year to get in it.”

  Starnes looked down at his boots. The mud that had not fallen off after he had traipsed into the office was clumped in mounds around both of his boots. I knew what Starnes was thinking. I had the same thought.

  “Show me where,” she said as she gestured to the door.

  The three of us left together.

  When we crossed the Low Water Bridge, the unofficial name for that structure, on the French Broad River, turned and headed towards the Break Rock Fork where the French Broad is fed by several streams, a feeling of horror came over me. Déjà vu of sorts.

  We passed the spot where Abel Gosnell’s white truck had left the road and landed in mid-stream. We passed the spot of the infamous campfire. Finally, we passed the fallen oak tree still lying in the water with its bleak branches reaching in vain for the sky as if innocent of being the final resting spot for the remains of Abel’s body. We drove another mile or more down that dirt road.

  “This is the road I live on, Sheriff,” the young man said as if that mattered to Starnes.

  The teenager’s name was Seymour Walker and he lived just off the Break Rock Fork Road along with his father and two younger sisters. The mother had left them about five years back he had told us. The father was working, doing his best to raise the children. At least he had somehow gotten the idea of responsibility into the head of Seymour who had tried to do the right thing in this incident. Good people are found everywhere.

  “This is it,” Seymour said abruptly and Starnes hit the brakes.

  When we exited the truck, I wished that Sam was along for our little escapade. He comes in handy when there is evidence to be found.

  The body was floating exactly where Seymour had told us it was. He had accurately described the lay of the land and water. We told him to stay by the truck while we looked around.

  There was still snow in spots along the road and on the banks of the stream despite the barrage of rain that had pelted McAdams County recently. Cold temperatures will do that sometime. After Starnes had taken photos of the area and the floating carcass, we searched for any evidence on the embankment. We did find some tracks along the edge of the water.

  Starnes called the office and told Deputy Bevel to get the Medical Examiner out to us ASAP. The three of us stood by Starnes little truck and talked.

  “You help take care of your sisters?” Starnes asked Seymour.

  “Yeah.”

  “How old are they?” she said.

  “Seven and nine.”

  “They give you a hard time?”

  He turned and gave her that hard stare I had received earlier in the sheriff’s office.

  “No.”

  “I’ll bet your dad is glad to have you help him.”

  “I guess.”

  Seymour was not a mountain of detail about the subject of caring for his younger siblings.

  We passed most of the time in silence. I was sure that Starnes had things she wanted to ask me as well as Seymour. She held off for the moment. Time passed slowly as we waited on the M.E.

  I assisted the M.E. in getting to the body floating face down in the creek. The body had somehow found its way on top of some rocks which held it fast at the spot. Despite the flow of the river, it wasn’t going anywhere unless there was a flood.

  I didn’t volunteer for the task of moving that carcass from the water to the land. I happened to be the one who had decided to wear boots earlier that morning. My luck.

  The water was more than ankle deep and the M.E. was not prepared for such a luxury. After a few minutes of enjoying that wading-in-winter-water exercise, the M.E. decided to move the dead weight to land. I was thrilled except for the task of actually lifting the body.

  Starnes made us wait another fifteen minutes, give or take, while she studied the terrain where the M.E. wanted to place the body. Starnes wanted to make sure we weren’t destroying any trace evidence which might aid the investigation into this latest murder.

  After Starnes finished her mulling over the area in her usual methodical and time –consuming manner, Seymour helped the three of us move the body up the creek bank and to the flat service the M.E. had designated. A tarp had been laid out and we placed the body on it.

  I had some reservations about Seymour helping us move the body. Actually my reservations were the same for Seymour as they were for me. Touching a dead body was not on my daily to-do list. However, the sheer weight of the body was enough for me to change my mind. I studied Seymour and was satisfied that handling the corpse was not adversely affecting him. Not yet. You never know about those things. The squeamish ones often surprise you.

  Once we regained our breath from the climb with the corpse, we turned the victim over so that her face was looking up at us. Not the most pleasant scene you could imagine. I waited to see if Seymour would turn green and faint. To his credit he did neither.

  “Damn,” Seymour said after we had turned the body.

  “You know her?” Starnes asked.

  “No. It’s the smell. You mind if I stand over by the truck upwind?”

  “Isn’t that …,” Starnes said to me.

  “It is in fact,” I said. “And she does indeed have a hole in the side of her head.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  We were told that it would be at least a week or two before we could expect a report from the Medical Examiner on the cause of death or any other pertinent data gleaned from the corpse of Betty Jo Gentry of Erwin, Tennessee. In the meantime, we figured from the evidence at hand that she either drowned and was then shot, or was shot and died from the gunshot wound. My money was not on the drowning theory. It was another case of death by gunshot to the head, and then the ever-popular disposal of the
body into one of the many waterways of McAdams County. The MO was clear to me, but not so much to Starnes. She was trained in forensics and would not conclude anything until the official report came back. I was satisfied with my observations as well as the manner in which Abel Gosnell was murdered and disposed.

  Starnes Carver did agree with me that the location of Betty Jo Gentry’s body was significant and probably related to the finding of the body of Abel Gosnell a mile upstream. We just didn’t know how significant nor did we know it was related.

  In the meantime, I was plotting a way that I could upset the status quo of my prime focus, Lucinda Bradshaw. It was my considered opinion that Lucinda’s conniving guilt reached all the way to her eyelids. All I needed to do was to find that ever-so-elusive proof. Details.

  Of one thing I was certain. Cain Gosnell may have been convicted of killing his brother, Abel. However, I was certain that he had not killed Betty Jo Gentry. My detective skills abound.

  Meanwhile, back at the sentencing of Cain Gosnell, the judge decided that Mr. Gosnell should receive the death penalty for his heinous crime. Everyone in the courtroom that day said a vocal amen except for me. Starnes had not as yet disclosed her opinion about it. I hadn’t asked either. Aside from my aversion to the death penalty, I still had that nagging suspicion that Cain’s guilt was dubious at best. It was likely that I was alone in that opinion.

  A week into our wait for the Medical Examiner’s official report from the autopsy, Starnes received an emergency call from Eventide saying that her father had lapsed into a coma. He had been taken to Mission Hospital in Asheville. I convinced Starnes to let me drive her there. Sam happened to be with us at Starnes’ office that day, so he made the trip to Asheville with us.

  I dropped Starnes off at the entrance to the emergency doors and then spent more time than I liked searching for a parking spot. I could have walked from Starnes’ office in downtown Madison by the time I found a place and entered the emergency room.

  They directed me to the ICU. When I reached that section of the hospital, Starnes was leaning on the wall next to the automatic doors which opened into that specialized care division.

  “You been in yet?” I said.

  “Yeah, but they’re working on him at the moment. Told me to wait in the room down the hall.”

  “So let’s go wait in the room down the hall,” I said.

  “It’s crowded.”

  “Normally is.”

  “Too crowded for me. I’ll stand here. You can go down there.”

  “I’ll stand with you,” I said.

  It seemed like an eternity standing there by those doors, waiting for someone to come out and either permit us entry into the exclusive world of medical care, offer some word of what on earth was happening, or give us some idea of Spud’s condition. If I felt the stoppage of time, then I know that Starnes was feeling it doubly so. Now and then we stared at each other without speaking. It was bordering on the surreal. Some of life’s hard moments seem to be that way, at least that’s been my experience.

  The automatic doors opened and two nurses hurried out. Starnes readjusted her position along the wall opposite me. I looked at my watch. We had been waiting for twenty-three minutes. Seemed like days.

  “You okay?” I said.

  “No. I need to be in there.”

  “He’s in a coma.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “What good could you do him?”

  Starnes looked at me as if I had cursed her mother’s grave.

  “I need to be in there,” she repeated.

  “I understand,” I said as if I really go it.

  Twenty more minutes passed by as rapidly as if we were watching paint dry. It was excruciating. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. Sometimes words get in the way of honest feelings. They mask instead of explain. They protect instead of divulge. They stymie instead of expose. I said nothing in lieu of saying something stupid or trivial.

  The automatic doors opened and a nurse came out. She stopped in front of Starnes. We were both surprised and relieved to finally have someone acknowledge us.

  “There is no change in Mr. Carver. He is still unresponsive. We’ve attached some IVs and at the moment he is breathing on his own. The doctor has made a preliminary exam and will be back every half hour to check him. In the meantime, we are monitoring his condition minute by minute.”

  “Can I see him?” Starnes asked.

  “He is non-responsive.”

  “I realize that, but I want to be with him.”

  “What relationship are you to Mr. Carver?”

  “I’m his daughter,” she said.

  “Okay, you can go back.”

  “What about her?” Starnes said as she pointed at me. I was still leaning against the wall opposite the two of them.

  “She family?”

  “Might as well be,” Starnes said and almost smiled.

  “I suppose it’s okay,” the nurse said reluctantly as if I might have some deadly contagion to spread to Spud.

  The nurse led the way and we followed. I felt like the ugly step-sister; but then, I generally feel that way in my work. When we arrived at the sliding door to Spud Carver’s room, the nurse turned to Starnes.

  “Don’t let the tubes and monitors frighten you. We’re doing everything we can to sustain him. There’s a nurse in the central section,” she nodded to her left to indicate the control area of the ICU where the nurses and doctors monitored each patient around the clock, “who will be constantly monitoring his condition.”

  “Thank you,” Starnes said and entered his room.

  I followed her and stood off in a corner trying not to be in her way or pass on my deadly impurity.

  Starnes went to his bedside and took his hand. He appeared to be in a deep sleep. Starnes pulled up a chair and sat down on the front edge of it. She held his left hand with both of her hands.

  More paint-drying time passed. I had the feeling we were waiting on a funeral to happen. I’ve had better moments. A flash back occurred. I was a little girl in Clancyville looking out my upstairs window onto the gravel driveway below. My father was lying in the driveway with blood pouring out from the gunshot wounds he had just received. It was not the first time I had felt terror in my young life, but it was the most dramatic experience of terror I had ever known up to that point. There’s something about being helpless when you see someone you love in a desperate state. It sickens you to your core.

  When I returned to the present scene, I wondered if Starnes Carver was having such a moment. I watched her closely as she sat there holding his hand. She was intensely focused upon him.

  “I didn’t get to say anything to him,” Starnes said after more than an hour of sitting in that position.

  I had a found a wheelchair, unfolded it with some difficulty, and sat down for the duration.

  “You can talk to him now. I can leave.”

  “He won’t hear me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Nor do you know that he will hear me,” she said emphatically.

  “It’s worth the effort.”

  “I wanted to tell him that I forgive him.”

  “He might like to hear that.”

  “I doubt if he would remember why he needs to be forgiven,” she said.

  “Somewhere inside him there might be that recognition that he needs a word of kindness from someone he loves dearly.”

  “You certainly assume a great deal,” Starnes said.

  “It comes from my thorough knowledge of human nature.”

  “Sure.”

  “And my vast experience with people of all sorts who have needs,” I added.

  “And maybe your own need of forgiveness.”

  “There’s that.”

  “I doubt if my father, even at his more lucid moments, ever felt any need of forgiveness for anything he has ever done.”

  “You might be surprised at what he felt the need of,” I sa
id.

  “It would have to be a surprise. You didn’t know him.”

  “True. But if he loved you, then I can make some inferences from that position.”

  “Not even sure about that one,” she said.

  “Well, there’s the other side.”

  “The other side?”

  “Yes, your love for him, and your need to forgive him.”

  “You think that’s important now?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too heavy a weight to carry the rest of your life.”

  “Sounds deep.”

  “It probably is. Let me go walk around a little and you talk to him. Tell him exactly what you feel, think, and … well, you can figure the rest of it out. But, the truth is, you need to say it whether he needs to hear it or not.”

  “You charge for your sessions?”

  “The first few are on the house.”

  “You have experience in this area?” Starnes asked me as I was sliding open the door to leave.

  “Yeah,” I said and left.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Starnes was sitting on the floor in the hallway next to her father’s door when I returned forty minutes later. The room was full of nurses and maybe a doctor or two. Some of them were coming out of the room as I approached. Starnes looked up at me and shook her head.

  “He’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I knew it was coming, just didn’t think it would be this fast. Mama died in October. Four months ago. Four! Doesn’t seem like any time has passed.”

  More people emerged from the room until I could see only one remaining hospital person standing over Spud Carver’s body. She was disconnecting tubes and shutting off monitors. I noticed she took great care when she removed the IVs. She finally walked toward us and stopped in the doorway next to me.

  “You can go in now,” she said.

  I helped Starnes get up. She didn’t need help, but I thought it was the thing to do. She entered the room and moved to the side of his bed. She took his left hand in both of hers as I had seen her do earlier. It was different this time though.