Class Conspiracy: A Hank Lancaster Mystery

by Ace Beckett

  “Did we pick you up two, maybe three years ago?” he said.

  “No, this is the first time I’ve stayed a day or so in your lovely county. I’ve driven thorough it a couple of time.”

  The dark eyes looked suspicious, I had a hunch he always looked with suspicion on strangers.

  “You sure about it? Seems to me he looked a lot like you. There was a bank robbery over to Pasco County and the sheriff’s office put out an APB for three suspects. One was a big man, six-three or more, slight tan complexion, dressed well.”

  “That lets me out. My girlfriend always gets on my case for being…fashion challenged.” I reached my hand in my coat and brought out my license. I flipped it open.

  “That’s my real name and profession, I have never been convicted of any crime and I’ve never been arrested. I was picked up for questioning once about an altercation that busted a man shoulder and knocked a few of his teeth out. The authorities determined I was aiding a woman who was attacked by her ex-husband. No charges were filed, not against me anyway.”

  When Douglas had spoken previously his tone had sounded like a growl but now the voice eased into a neutral.

  “OK, tell me your reason for visiting our lovely community Lancaster.”

  “A short time ago a native of Bay Tree County named Stephen Bates came to me with what he admitted was a wild theory. He graduated from the local high school twenty years. He informed me that several of his fellow graduates had died in recent months. The official verdict was that all were accidental deaths. He believed they had been murdered. While I was investigation another graduate died, in an apparent suicide. I concluded from my investigation that the first two graduates, one in North Carolina and one in Georgia, had been murdered. When I returned to Florida Mr. Bates informed me a third graduate had died. Dale Keegan allegedly killed himself down in Polk County and he left a suicide note, which I think is phony. His girlfriend told me he was not depressed or suicidal.”

  “Sometimes they can hide it well.”

  “I think all three were killed. In the suicide note Bradley claimed he had been involved in an incident that cost a man his life. That part was true. He and four other people took a hunting trip in Bay Tree County about twenty years ago, just a few weeks after their graduation. On their way back at night they startled a man walking on the road, possibly blinding him with high beam lights and he fell off the steep hill and into Waterson Creek and drowned. I checked the report on him yesterday and found that your department concluded he was a homeless man with no next of kin.”

  I lifted the file and placed it on his desk. “That’s the result of my investigation. It lists the oddities in each case and I’ve transcribed the conversations I’ve had with witnesses and put in my conclusions.”

  Douglas didn’t look all that impressed.

  “Even if this is true it’s not our case. An accidental death in North Carolina or a murder in Georgia is not in the jurisdiction of the Bay Tree County’s Sheriff’s Department.”

  “No, but one of the people in that van was Chet Franklin. I visited him yesterday and asked him to take precautions. The driver of the van was John Kuster. Last anyone ever heard of him he was heading to the wide-open spaces of Wyoming. None of the people I talked to had heard from him in years. But I do think Chet Franklin, who is in your jurisdiction, is in great danger.”

  Douglas was a big man and moved slowly. He looked like a tortoise on tranquilizers as he reached for the file. He opened it and scanned a few pages. I hoped he might jump up and cry “Eureka! You’re right!’ and order deputies out to the Franklin Cattle Company immediately. Although his yawn indicated he was in no hurry.

  “You are telling me that in three different states three people were murdered but in such a way as to fool the local authorities. Three different departments were completely fooled and came to the wrong conclusion?”

  He sounded a tad skeptical. I took a deep breath.

  “I believe there is evidence of that,” I said.

  “You must think police officers are really dumb.”

  I wanted to pull him out of his chair, slam him against the wall and say ‘Pay Attention!’ Instead I merely took another deep breath.

  “No, detective, I certainly don’t. In my profession I have met many police officers and sheriff’s detectives and most of them are honorable, efficient, courageous and do great service for their communities. However, in this case I think we are dealing with a very clever killer. The conclusion is not just my opinion. The wife of one of the victims also hired a private detective named John Wyland because she didn’t think her husband’s death was accidental. Mr. Wyland doesn’t either. He is in Winter Springs now and still pursing the investigation. All the details are in the file. I hope you will read it with an open mind.”

  Douglas slowly flipped up another page. ”All these murders are because they accidently killed a homeless man twenty years ago?”

  “That’s still to be determined. That is the connection between the three people who were murdered. The motive? I’m not sure yet.”

  “But you say the man was homeless with no next of kin.”

  “Yes.”

  “So who would murder for him?”

  “That’s one part of the mystery that I don’t know yet.”

  “Twenty years ago when this happened. Was it reported?” Douglas said.

  “No, the people in the van kept quiet.”

  “Daylight incident?”

  “No, it occurred about ten at night on County Road 57. The group was coming back from a hunting trip.”

  “Couldn’t have been many witnesses that time of night.”

  I nodded.

  “Let me see that license again.”

  I handed the license to him. He flipped it back and forth. For a moment I thought he might toss it into a wastebasket but he closed it and handed it back to me.

  “Know anyone in law enforcement who would say nice things about you?”

  “State Attorney John Barlow, I believe he’s in the fourth district. A couple of weeks ago I testified against a defendant that he was prosecuting. I wasn’t the prime witness but I helped him win his case.”

  He straightened in the chair and wheeled it closer to the desk. He put his elbows on his desk calendar.

  “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Lancaster. I will talk to Mr. Barlow and I will read this file although I think it will be a waste of time. You are suggesting that three agencies have missed three murders. Doubtful, very doubtful. I don’t see any advantage to you making up a story like this so I will assure you that I will read this file very carefully. If I find anything of interest I will call you. You won’t have to call us.”

  “Thank you, detective.”

  In times like these I often consult the all-around professional guide for my profession. It’s on the Internet entitled “How to be a Private Detective in Ten Easy Lessons.” I think a subset of the 9th lesson covered this situation. “When a man with a badge says you won’t have to call them, it means they’re not going to call you either.”

  Outside a brisk wind had picked up and dark clouds roiled the sky. Florida wasn’t a sunshine state today. I glanced at my smart phone and saw four people had tried to call me. I didn’t recognize any of the numbers but I hoped they were classmates of Stephen Bates who could impart valuable information about the case. Maybe there was some dark secret that could explain this odd case.

  My only breakfast had a piece of toast and a small blueberry muffin the hotel provided. I had spent the early morning going over the papers in the file, so on the way back to the hotel I drove into the parking lot of The Egg and I. The menu was full such multifaceted delight I felt slightly guilty ordering eggs and bacon. The waitress took my order and left a cup of coffee. As I sipped I heard snatches of conversations. “Lived a long time,” a customer said. “That’s because only the good die young,” was the reply. A third man said he had done many good things for the community. A man in a cle
rical collar sat at the table across from me. He wasn’t a Catholic priest so I assume he was an Episcopalian.

  “It shows you need God in his life,” he said. “He had riches on this earth but you can’t take any of those with you when you die. You take your good deeds and your sins if you haven’t been forgiven.” He raised his finger to emphasize his point to the man sitting across from him in the booth. “And if your sins are not forgiven, no matter how much money you had in this life, you’ll weep with bitter tears for the mistakes you made on Earth. You could have had an eternity of bliss but you settled for an eternity of anguish.”

  The other man sipped his coffee. “Clyde produced some anguish up here, it’s only fair he gets some below.”

  The line did more than the caffeine to jolt me alert. I walked over. “Sorry to bother you but I missed the morning news. Could you tell me who you’re talking about?”

  “Clyde Franklin, big cattleman in the area,” the Episcopalian said. “He died yesterday. There’s papers on the counter if you’d like to read about it.

  “Thank you,” I said as a chill ran down my spine.

  I paid a dollar and brought the paper back to my booth. Franklin’s obit made the front page. It had a good picture with the story and even at his advance age he gave an impression of strength and determination. Hard, rigid eyes, a firm mouth and a rather imperious start; He had a head full of white hair. I didn’t see much resemblance to Chet. Maybe he looked more like his other son; the black sheep son of what some said was a black sheep father.

  I assumed the newspaper had the obit on file. Papers do that. When a prominent citizen gets old obit writers spin out a prefab obit. It saves time. When the time comes all editors have to do is insert in the cause of death which, in Franklin’s cause, was complications from a stroke that caused admission to the Bay Tree County Hospital last week. Due to other medical problems, doctors gave Franklin only a short time to live.

  The story went on to list his businesses and the contributions he had made to Bay Tree County. The Community Center had a plaque with his name and likeness carved in it because of his generous contributions. The Performing Arts Theatre had a second plaque dedicated to Franklin. The obit went on to list his sons Chet and Tom, who were vice-presidents in the Franklin Cattle Company. Chet had won a few awards himself which the obit noted. Tom was mentioned just once.

  I had let Astrid sleep late. She likes to. She is not a morning person either. When I walked back to the motel she was whistling as she packed up her car. She flicked open the truck and I put her suitcase in, then lifted her overnight bag and placed it down securely.

  “You know when you might be back?” she said.

  “No I can’t say on this case. I haven’t solved it yet.”

  She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed me. “Maybe I can drive back this weekend.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Be careful. What does your day look like?”

  “A few people spotted the ad John and I ran and called me up. They said they want to help so I lined up appointments for the morning.”

  “Good, sounds like a desk job today. I like a guy with a desk job. It’s safe.”

  As Astrid opened the door the driver of the tan Sonata stared at the two. From his angle he could see the section of the parking lot where Astrid’s Ford was parked and as he pulled out and drove onto the street he noted Lancaster’s car was still in the parking lot. The man wasn’t going anywhere. Lancaster was the only fly in the ointment. The driver turned his head and spat on the ground. Lancaster could do nothing. He was suspicious but that was all, although his mere presence in Winter Springs was annoying. The driver smiled as he thought the detective probably hadn’t heard the latest news on the case. He was due for a shock. That was only fair, the driver thought. Lancaster’s presence made him feel uneasy. Only fair that the Blue Gulf detective would be uneasy too. Lancaster came too late and was too slow to figure out the plan.

  Only a few more days.

  Then the driver could relax and devise ways of spending the six-figure sum that would soon be coming his way.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Before I had left the room I had turned on the television. The nearest city with a television station was Live Oak, which like many places in Florida was a small, scenic town that has become a fair sized city during the past twenty years. I sipped coffee as I listened to the male and female broadcaster relating the high lights of the state and national news. When the anchors turned to regional news the picture they flashed on the screen immediately got my attention. One news anchor said Reporter John Tunnel would report a story about Bay Tree Businessman Chet Franklin.

  The late Chet Franklin.

  “A shocking murder occurred last night in Bay Tree County as Chet Franklin, son of legendary Florida cattleman and businessman Clyde Franklin was shot and killed while on the road to his house. The gunman fired two bullets into Franklin’s chest. Police said the death was almost instantaneous,” Tunnel said, looking earnestly into the camera. “Chet Franklin was one of the vice presidents of the Franklin Cattle Company and was a well-known civic leader in the Bay Tree County and Winter Springs civic and political community. Sadly, his father had passed away recently after suffering from several serious medical problems.

  “The Bay Tree Sheriff’s Department said they have no suspects in the case. Based on evidence which include several tire marks, investigators are speculating that Franklin pulled his car to the road to help what appeared to be a stranded motorist, but when he stopped his car and got out the motorist shot and killed him.”

  The screen switched to the tall, black-haired anchor.

  “John, is there anything else you can tell us about this murder?”

  Tunnel raised the microphone to his lips, “There’s not much I can add at this time except a source told me that authorities did find a piece of paper tucked into the deceased’s shirt. It is believed to have been put there deliberately by the murderer but police have not officially reported what type of message was on the paper. A source revealed to me the paper merely had a list of names on it.”

  “Thank you, Robert. We will check back with you during the day. And that does it for this morning’s report from W---“

  I flicked off the television. The hotel phone rang about two minutes later. It was Wyland.

  “Have you heard the news?” he said.

  “Yes. This case has been full of surprises.”

  “It’s been full of murders.”

  “Yes. Any new theories?” I said.

  “No. I keep getting blindsided in this case.”

  “I know what you mean, there’s only one more person on that list and no one knows where he is.”

  “We’ve come a long way and all we have is dead end.”

  “Not totally,” I said. “An idea came to me this morning. I’ve got a hunch and if a expert computer hacker friend of mine is available, I’d going to get him to do a little job for me.”

  “What type of job?”

  “I’ll tell you that later. It might be a wild goose chase.”

  My first appointment was at ten and he was punctual. A redheaded man with a pale complexion smiled when I opened the door. He wore a green turtleneck and a blue winter jacket. Don’t get much call for a blue winter jacket in Florida but a cold wave had invaded the county and the wind was blowing. Besides, people in Florida start putting on jackets when the temperature drops below forty.

  “Hello. I’m Hank Lancaster,” I said.

  “I’m Kevin Oorndorf.”

  “Come in and take a seat.”

  He settled in a chair and set in the other chair in the room.

  “I assumed you read the ad and know what I’m doing here?”

  “Yes, I was a friend of Chet’s Mr. Lancaster and I want to do everything possible to help you solve the case. Chet and I were golf buddies. We both had full time jobs but usually we managed to play at the local country club at least one a week and at times twice a we
ek. Two men Buster Tyrell and Mike Powers are also avid golfers and for seventeen years our foursome has played golf on Christmas Eve. It didn’t start out as a tradition but it became one. We were hoping to play a round every year for fifty years but we didn’t quite make it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I don’t know where to start in telling you about Chet so why don’t you start asking questions and I will tell you what I know.”

  “Did Chet ever tell you about an incident twenty years ago when he and some friends accidently ran a man off a road, killing him.”

  “No, not a word. That’s surprising.”

  “To be honest Chet may have been asleep in the van when it happened.”

  Oordorf shook his head. “He never mentioned that to me.”

  “Let’s move to the present. Was anything worrying him lately?” I asked.

  Oordorf snorted. “The same thing that was been worrying him for twenty or thirty years, his brother Tom. Chet was a good son and darn good human being and he clearly got al the good DNA. Tom was constantly in trouble and if hadn’t been rich he would probably be in prison.”

  “I understand he did time some years ago, during his senior year?”

  “Big scandal at the school. He was found guilty but the judge allowed him to complete his final year in high school, I think it was two weeks. The verdict came down about mid-May and so Tom was able to cross the stage in his cap and gown. Then he was sent off. He’s been bitter about it ever since.”

  “Did you know Tom well too?”

  “No, I was a good friend of Chet’s so I would run into Tom too. We said a few words to each other but that was that. You, know it’s the funniest thing. Chet was genuinely a nice guy and when he talked there was almost a lilt of laughter in his voice, had a jolly personality. Playing a golf round with him could lift your spirits. You might be down on the first tee but by the time you got to the eighteenth you were smiling with Chet. Tom was totally different; He never had a cheery tone. Whenever he spoke his tone sounded like a sneer. If he didn’t think he was better than you he knew he was richer than you, therefore you meant nothing to him. The constant demeaning, I supposed, could get to you and is probably the reason that six months ago his third wife divorced him.”