Risky Undertaking

by Mark de Castrique

  “Well, under the circumstances I hate to trouble him. It’s been a tough time. I figure he’s been through enough. From your description it doesn’t sound like he’s our culprit.”

  “That’s decent of you,” Abbott said. “I saw the picture in the paper of him tusslin’ with those Indians. The man deserves a little slack.”

  “Then let’s keep this conversation between us. I wouldn’t want him thinking you reported him.”

  “I didn’t,” he said with alarm.

  “That’s right. But people can get the wrong idea. Thanks for your help, Mr. Abbott.” I disconnected, confident the guard wouldn’t say anything unless we needed his testimony to press charges.

  “Sounds like Luther lied to us,” Wakefield said. “You want to go back and confront him?”

  “No. Let’s see what the ME has to say first. Did you note the name of the firm where Luther’s son works?”

  “Yes. Wilder and Hamilton.”

  “I want to check out when Darren Cransford came into work today. Do you think you can find a way to do that without raising suspicions?”

  Wakefield thought a moment. “I could ask if he was there and say I was a friend who wanted to make sure he made it back to DC safely.”

  “Why wouldn’t you have his cell number?”

  “Good point. How about I’m offering condolences from the department?”

  “Two days late?”

  “Well, damn it, Barry. It’s your idea. Why don’t you call and say you’re following up from the funeral home as part of your customer service?”

  “What time is it?”

  He looked at the clock on the dashboard. “Ten thirty. Why?”

  “I want to remember when you had a good idea in case it never happens again.”

  Wakefield laughed. “Barry, working with you makes all my ideas sound good.”

  ***

  When I returned to Eurleen’s grave, the lab techs had finished and were packing up their equipment and envelopes of soil samples. Panther’s body had been removed. ME Howard Tuppler and Tommy Lee stood about ten yards down the slope in close conversation. The sheriff waved for me to join them.

  “Everything OK?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Fill me in later. Howard’s got some preliminary findings you need to know.”

  The medical examiner caressed his goatee as he organized his thoughts.

  “Just the highlights, Howard,” Tommy Lee said. “The details can come in the written report.”

  Tuppler shrugged. “All right. Then here are the Cliff’s Notes. Jimmy Panther was killed by a single bullet just behind the left ear. Probably a twenty-two, maybe a twenty-five. I expect the autopsy will find the slug as there is no exit wound. Bad part about a shot to the head with those lighter calibers is the bullet probably ricocheted inside the skull like a damn pinball machine.”

  My mind jumped forward. “With no exit wound, can you determine where he was shot?”

  He nodded. “We’re fairly certain he was killed at the grave. Blood on the ground was consistent with the wound and the flow pattern across his clothing. Traces of gunpowder and particle residue should have adhered to the dirt. I expect the lab tests will confirm their presence. I estimate the time of death between midnight and two this morning.”

  “Any sign of a struggle?” I asked.

  Tuppler gave a quick glance at Tommy Lee and I knew I’d hit upon a key question.

  “Yes and no,” the medical examiner said. “There were no overt signs of a beating. No visible scratches or extensive bruising. But there were abrasions around both wrists.”

  “He was bound?”

  “Yes. And he struggled to free himself. My guess is someone used PlastiCuffs and didn’t care how tightly they were applied.”

  PlastiCuffs were lighter and cheaper than metal handcuffs, but could be easily overtightened if an arresting officer wasn’t careful. They were disposable and eliminated the need for cleaning whereas metal cuffs could spread disease if not properly sanitized between uses. PlastiCuffs were not part of our standard gear at the Sheriff’s Department, but I’d used them in Charlotte when we were dealing with mass demonstrations that could result in multiple arrests.

  I turned back to the grave. “Did you find PlastiCuffs beside the body?”

  “No,” Tuppler said. “They must have been cut off and taken by the killer.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I do,” Tommy Lee said. “Panther was captured by his killer or killers somewhere else and brought to this site for his execution.”

  “OK,” I agreed. “But that still doesn’t explain why the cuffs are missing.”

  “It does if we’re meant to think Panther drove here himself and was discovered at the grave. We should start pursuing that hypothesis until evidence or the good doctor here proves differently.”

  “You’ll get top priority.” With that promise, Tuppler left to join his techs.

  “Let’s walk a little farther,” Tommy Lee said. “Bring me up to speed on Luther.”

  I recounted our visit and Luther’s reactions that appeared to be both genuine shock at Panther’s death and deceit as to his own activities.

  “The guard’s testimony doesn’t help,” Tommy Lee said. “And we don’t know when Luther left his house.”

  “You think he lured Panther to the cemetery?”

  Tommy Lee stopped walking. “I’ll be damned if I know what to think. If Panther drove himself to Heaven’s Gate Gardens and Luther ambushed him, why the PlastiCuffs? On the other hand, if Luther abducted him, someone else had to drive Panther’s truck because Luther needed his car to return home.” Tommy Lee sat on a marble bench close to the wooded edge of the cemetery. “I’ve been on my feet for nearly two hours. My knees aren’t what they used to be.”

  “I hear after the mind, knees are the second thing to go.”

  “Smartass. At least I had a mind once. And I’ve still got enough sense to know we should back away from Luther for the moment. Check any friends close enough to have been accomplices. Hell, even the mayor, although I can’t see Sammy Whitlock having the stomach for murder. Then we need to focus on the movements of Jimmy Panther.”

  “Have you contacted the Cherokee Police Department?”

  “Yes. I gave them enough details so they could notify next of kin.” Tommy Lee stood. “Let’s get back to the department, get things working there, and then we’ll head for the reservation.” He scanned the headstones dotting the grassy hillside. “Our answers are with the living, not the dead.”

  As soon as we walked into the Sheriff’s Department, Deputy Reece Hutchins came running across the bullpen to intercept Tommy Lee. “The mayor’s been by twice looking for you.”

  “Did you tell him I was at a crime scene?”

  “Yes. He knew about Panther. Luther called him.”

  “Figures.” Tommy Lee stepped around Reece. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  The sheriff flipped on his Mr. Coffee without bothering to check if either grounds or water were ready. Marge, our chief dispatcher, always prepped the machine when she beat Tommy Lee into the department. He plopped behind his desk and the old metal swivel chair squealed in protest as he leaned back. Reece and I sat in two chairs across from him.

  Tommy Lee laced his fingers behind his head. “So, Sammy came running in here right after Luther called him?”

  “No,” Reece said. “Not the first time. He came in waving an envelope.”

  The chair squealed louder as Tommy Lee rocked forward. “What envelope?”

  “One that came to his office last Friday. He was out because of Eurleen’s death.”

  “All the owners,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” Reece asked.

  “What was in th
e envelope?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “A broken feather and a note to stay away from Bell Ridge.” Reece looked at me. “Owners? Did Luther and Archie get envelopes?”

  “Yes,” I said. “None signed and no return address.”

  “Does the mayor still have his?” Tommy Lee asked Reece.

  “No, I logged it into the evidence room.”

  Tommy Lee turned to me. “What about Luther’s?”

  “I’ve got it as well as Archie’s.”

  “Good,” Tommy Lee said. “Give them to Reece.”

  “You want me to log them in?” Reece asked.

  “Yes. Then I want you to take them to the FBI field office in Asheville.”

  Reece’s eyes expanded to the size of baseballs. “The FBI?”

  “Yeah. They’re going to be involved sooner or later. We have a dead Cherokee who might have been abducted from the reservation. If it’s kidnapping and murder, we’re looking at crimes across lines of sovereignty beyond simple state boundaries. I want to be preemptive in establishing our lead role. We have the murder, but the FBI has the best lab resources in the world. I’ll call Special Agent Lindsay Boyce to let her know you’re coming.”

  Reece nodded vigorously. An assignment with the FBI ranked at the top of his bucket list. I saw not only the wisdom of letting Reece be a glorified errand boy, but also the advantage of contacting Lindsay Boyce. She was Tommy Lee’s niece and she idolized her uncle. She’d watch his back if the feds tried to throw their weight around.

  “How about Luther’s children?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “I’m checking on Darren. Wakefield’s tracking Sandra.”

  “I’ve heard Luther brag on both of them,” Reece said. “You’d think the boy was the kingpin of Washington DC and his sister’s some big executive in an Atlanta dental equipment company.”

  Tommy Lee waved us away. “Let’s get to work, gentlemen.”

  Reece hesitated. “Will you call the mayor?”

  “Yes,” Tommy Lee said. “Why’d he come back the second time?”

  “Because Luther called him.” Reece looked at me and I saw a rare expression of sympathy. “He said Luther complained that Barry had harassed him about his whereabouts last night.”

  Tommy Lee smiled. “If Luther thinks Barry harassed him, he’ll love it when I knock on his door.”

  I swung by Deputy Wakefield’s desk on my way to my own. “Any luck with Luther’s daughter?”

  He looked up from his computer screen. “Yeah. Sandra works for a company called G. A. Bridges in Atlanta. I called their headquarters and they said she was in a sales meeting. It started at eight and goes through lunch. That matches what Luther said, so I didn’t leave a message.” He glanced back at the monitor. “Now I’m checking with neighboring sheriff and police departments in case Luther was involved in any traffic stops.”

  “Good. I’ll put on my best funeral director voice for my call to Darren’s firm.”

  Wilder and Hamilton’s website listed key staff and contact numbers. Darren Cransford’s name wasn’t one of them, but Luther had said he was a junior member. I called the general number.

  “Wilder and Hamilton.” The woman’s voice was pleasant and, more importantly, she was alive. Not the recorded start of a list of impenetrable menu options to navigate before speaking with a human being.

  “Good morning. I’d like to speak with Darren Cransford, please.”

  For a few seconds, the line went silent. “Did Mr. Cransford handle your account?”

  The “did” leaped out of the sentence. I rethought my play.

  “Yes. Has Darren been transferred elsewhere?”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Cransford is no longer with the firm. If you’ll give me the name of your company, I’ll connect you with someone who can help you.”

  I hung up.

  Chapter Six

  There is no easy way to get to Cherokee, North Carolina. The roads leading in and out of the reservation, or Qualla Boundary as it’s officially known, frequently become clogged with tourist traffic. The Boundary borders multiple counties and is gateway to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the most visited in the entire fifty-eight-park system. I read that more than nine million people visit the Smoky Mountains each year, over twice the number that view the runner-up, a little national park called the Grand Canyon.

  But on a Monday in late September, the roads were clear as Tommy Lee drove the patrol car into the town of Cherokee. The approach was itself a journey back in time. The ramshackle buildings lining the street sported signs hawking tee shirts, moccasins, inflatable rafts and tubes for the river, Indian trinkets, and local gemstones. Mom-and-pop motels were scattered among the national chains.

  “I haven’t been here since I was a kid and it looks the same,” I said. “Like Myrtle Beach without the ocean.”

  Tommy Lee braked for a stoplight and a herd of Harleys crossed the intersection in front of us.

  “But with the same bikers,” I added.

  “There’s a difference or two,” Tommy Lee said. “I’m confident that as a trained detective you’ll notice them.”

  He turned right and within a few blocks I saw twin towers rising above the mishmash of shops and gas stations. Behind them lay a complex of glass, stone, and brick that appeared to cover acres. Beside an entrance road, the sign HARRAH’S CHEROKEE CASINO & HOTEL rose several stories above the ground. Cars and buses lined up turning into the parking lot.

  “Man,” I said, “this is a far cry from tribal bingo.”

  “Las Vegas comes to the Smokies.”

  Tommy Lee turned right again and I leaned forward to catch a closer glimpse of the posh casino. “You ever been inside?”

  “No. I have enough trouble holding onto what little money I do have.”

  “Do they have live games or just video?”

  “They’ve got the works: blackjack, craps, roulette, poker. But I doubt if you’ll find James Bond in a tuxedo at the baccarat table. Here Double O Seven going undercover would mean shorts and flip-flops.”

  We left the casino behind and drove into the center of town. On the right, I saw Oconaluftee Islands Park, a strip of land in the Oconaluftee River reachable by a wooden footbridge from the bank. Families with children too young to attend school were wading in the shallow current. A few picnickers enjoyed late lunches at scattered tables. I imagined that in the summer the park would be swarming with tourists both in and out of the water.

  About a hundred yards farther, a large oval sign read “Museum of the Cherokee Indian.” Behind it a well-designed building conveyed a sense of respect for the culture exhibited within its walls.

  “Impressive,” I said. “I don’t remember this being here when I was a kid.”

  “It wasn’t,” Tommy Lee said. “The heritage of the tribe has benefited from the influx of casino money. And increased tourism means increased opportunities to tell the real Cherokee story, not just sell rubber tomahawks and cheap jewelry.” He turned left and then made a U-turn in the museum’s parking lot. “I got talking and missed the road to the police station.”

  A mammoth carving of an Indian head bordered the entrance to the museum. Imagine a tall totem pole but with only one image, a long rugged face with a single feather pointing from a headband to the sky. Tears were permanently sculpted in the corner of the eyes, never to roll any farther down the high cheekbones.

  “That’s quite a statue,” I said.

  “Sequoyah,” Tommy Lee said.

  “The tree?”

  He laughed. “Tree and subject. The carving was made on a single redwood log that was a gift from the Georgia-Pacific Company. That’s Sequoia the wood. Sequoyah the man was the Cherokee who invented the alphabet for their language so they could match the writing advantage of the European settlers.”

  “Why not just learn English?�
�

  “Because the Cherokee are a proud people and losing their language would have killed their culture. Sequoyah is a heroic figure, a genius really, and they claim he’s the only individual in known history to single-handedly create a written language.”

  “I see the word Indian everywhere. I thought that was politically incorrect.”

  Tommy Lee turned onto the main road and backtracked a block. “There’s pushback on the label Native American. A feeling that once again they’re being lumped into a category created by others and diluting their unique identity.”

  “So, if I try to be politically correct I’ll offend them?”

  “Barry, I’m confident you’ll find a way to be offensive no matter what you say.”

  If the casino revenues were pouring money into the tribe, the flow was bypassing the facilities of the police department. The small single-story building sat on a ridge above the river and town. The metal front door could have used a fresh coat of paint, but impressing visitors wasn’t its purpose. Restricting access seemed to be the primary function.

  A sign instructed us to press the intercom button to announce our intentions. One didn’t just walk into the station.

  “May I help you?” A woman’s voice vibrated through a tinny speaker.

  “Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins and Deputy Barry Clayton to see Detective Sergeant Hector Romero.”

  “Romero?” I whispered.

  “Marriage on and off the reservation has created the same variety of surnames you’ll find in any American community. I’ve worked with Hector before. He’s a good man.”

  The door buzzed and Tommy Lee yanked it open.

  We entered a short hall that resembled an airlock. On the left, a woman sat behind a glass partition that looked more like a movie ticket booth than a receptionist’s office. A clipboard with a sign-in sheet lay on a ledge. A coiled tether insured no one abducted the attached ballpoint pen.

  “Write your name and the time, please,” the woman said. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”