“Find out anything you can on him. He’s the sheriff now.”
“Will do,” Chyrel replied.
“Anything yet on the judge?” I asked, turning back onto the main road toward town.
“Judge Oliver Whitaker,” Chyrel said. “Originally from Pittsburgh, where he was a prosecutor for ten years before retiring and moving to Staunton. He ran for circuit court judge four years ago after the death of his wife and was just reelected by a landslide. He’s spotless. His wife was killed in a drive-by and the police suspect it was gang-related; still unsolved.”
“That’s a lot of unsolved murders and disappearances for such a small town. Got an address for Judge Whitaker?” I asked.
“Sending it to your phone’s GPS now.”
“Thanks, Chyrel.”
“Anything else?”
“Stuart Lane was on the first flight out of Shenandoah airport this morning, connecting in Washington. Can you find out what his arrival time will be and let Deuce know?”
“Already got it pulled up,” Chyrel responded. “He’s connecting through Dulles and Newark, arriving Miami at 3:20 this afternoon. I’ll let the guys know.”
“Thanks,” I said and ended the call as I approached the ramp for the bypass.
I pulled over onto the shoulder and opened the GPS app. I saw a flashing bullseye just north of downtown, not far from where I was. It looked like it was only a couple of miles from the courthouse and about the same distance to the diner.
I made another phone call. It went straight to voicemail, as I’d hoped it would. I left a quick message and then hit the Directions button on the GPS app.
Judges don’t usually work on Saturday, so I figured he’d be home at some point after having his breakfast.
The phone in Aiden Pritchard’s home office rang just as he was about to leave for the barber shop and meet with Lou Taliaferro afterward. He returned to his desk and picked up the receiver. “ACA Pritchard.”
“It’s Lou,” came his friend and cohort’s voice over the phone. “Can we push back our appointment an hour or two?”
Pritchard sat down and checked his date book. “Sure,” he said, scanning his calendar. “How about noon?”
“Same place?”
“Yeah,” Pritchard replied. “But I won’t have time for a round afterward.”
“Sorry,” the sheriff said. “Can’t be helped.”
“See you there at twelve, then.”
Pritchard hung up the phone, wondering why the sheriff would change the meet time. The two of them met at least daily during the week to discuss pending cases, always at the end of the day. But this meeting was about personal business.
He picked the receiver up again and called the barber shop to reschedule his haircut from ten to eleven, the time he’d originally planned to meet Lou, so he could take care of both tasks in one trip. Then he left the office, taking his coat from the rack by the front door.
“Tell Lou I said hello,” his wife said from the living room, where she was playing a board game with the kids.
“That was him on the phone,” Pritchard said, pulling his coat on. “He moved our meeting to noon, so I’m going up the hill to check on things at the old barn before I go to the barber.”
Sylvia Pritchard looked up at her husband. She knew what was going on at the old barn. At least she thought she did. He’d confessed to her that he made a little sipping whiskey for his own use and to give to friends.
“Be careful,” she told her husband, as the kids ran to him for a hug.
Pritchard picked up his daughter and tousled the boy’s hair, pulling him close to his side. “You kids be good while I’m gone and I’ll bring you back something from town.”
He placed the toddler back on the floor and his son took her hand and led her back to where they were playing.
“I’ll go on into town when I finish up at the barn,” he told his wife as he opened the door. “I should be home by three o’clock.”
The air outside was crisp and cool, though it was midmorning, and the sun was shining brightly. He got into his new Dodge pickup and started the engine, waiting a moment for it to warm up. His property extended well up into the mountains and it would take him twenty minutes to reach the old barn.
When he arrived, a white cargo van was parked just outside. Pritchard walked past it and entered the old structure. On the outside, it looked like a typical ramshackle barn, but inside, it was well lit, with concrete walls and floor. The ceiling was lower than most barns, with heavy insulation above it.
The old barn had been reconfigured for another purpose.
In the front part of the structure, separated from the rest by another concrete wall, were burlap bags of corn from the summer crop and winter rye from the previous winter. A man in a white lab coat looked up from a clipboard he was holding, surprised to see him. The man wore reading glasses and had graying hair, the only physical attribute attesting to his age. Otherwise, he could probably pass for half his fifty-five years.
“Good morning, Mister Pritchard. I wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow.”
“Hello, Walter,” Pritchard said. “I suddenly had a couple of hours free this morning, and thought I’d check in early. How are things going?”
“Very smoothly,” Walter Brown replied. “We started the extraction process last week and now have enough to begin the distillation process. Care to see?”
“Yes, I would. How much have you produced so far?”
“Nearly two liters,” Brown said, unlocking the fireproof door at the back of the room.
Pritchard followed him into the hall, where Brown closed and locked the door behind them. They passed two open doorways, through which Pritchard could see the two copper stills that made corn liquor. Exhaust fans in the ceiling moved the hot air out through underground ducts where the cooled air was released through stone chimneys that resembled old water wells.
At the end of the hall, Brown unlocked another fire door and opened it. Pritchard followed him inside to find another man at work. He also wore a lab coat, a hair net on his head and protective goggles covering his eyes.
“Hi, Mister Pritchard,” the younger assistant said.
“Hello, Frank,” Pritchard said. “What’s with the goggles?”
“My eyes are a bit sensitive,” Frank replied. “The fumes from the distillate make them water something fierce.”
Pritchard looked to the senior botanist for an explanation.
“Not to worry,” Brown said. “The fumes aren’t harmful, though it does tend to irritate the eyes of some people.”
Pritchard went over to the equipment, where a single jar sat beneath a dripping faucet. The liquid coming out was clear, producing a drop perhaps once every four or five seconds.
“Slow process, huh?”
Brown looked at his employer and smiled. “Yes, it’s very exacting. The fungi grow only on the rye seeds and are only visible through a microscope. It’s from those microscopic spores that we extract the ingredient and it takes nearly two kilograms of your winter rye seed to make each of those drops.”
Pritchard stared intently at the scientist; the concern evident in his eyes. “It takes four pounds of rye to make just one drop of this stuff? What’s that monetarily?”
“Each drop represents about ten dollars.”
Pritchard whistled low. “That’s not bad. About $120 a minute.”
“Yes,” Brown said. “Last year’s rye has a high amount of ergot fungi. What we have on hand now should produce somewhere between eighteen and twenty gallons of lysergic acid.”
“That’s good,” Pritchard said. “I have a buyer.”
The old chemist looked at Pritchard over his reading glasses. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you to be careful. From just your rye alone, you can get somewhere north of one million dollars.�
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“From just my winter rye?”
“Yes, sir,” Brown replied.
“And to think we all just plowed it under in the spring. It was good ground cover in winter and wasn’t worth much on the open market.”
The chemist grinned broadly. “I’ve checked samples of Mister Wright’s and Mister Long’s crops. They have similar amounts of the fungi per kilogram of rye, but Mister Wright’s farm produced about twice what yours and Mister Long’s did last winter.”
“Four million dollars?”
“Probably closer to five,” Brown said. “Of course, these are just preliminary estimates.”
“And you already ordered more seed?”
“Yes, sir. It should be delivered to all three of your farms well before planting. You’re very fortunate to have these fungi growing naturally here.”
“Walter,” Pritchard said, “I’m giving both of you a raise.”
Both men smiled. “That might be a bit premature,” Brown said. “It will take several months to remove the fungi from all the rye and even longer to produce the finished product from it. I doubt you’ll see a profit until late spring or early summer.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Pritchard said. “Your work is well worth it. How is the whiskey distillation going?”
“Turning a daily profit of over two thousand dollars.”
“Good, good,” Pritchard said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m happy to hear that. I’ll leave you gentlemen to your work, then.”
Brown led the way back through the hall and unlocked the outer door. Once he closed it, he turned toward Pritchard. “There is one thing, sir.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m almost reluctant to mention it due to the vast difference between the products, but the alcohol volume going out isn’t consolidating with the revenue coming back.”
“What do you mean?”
Brown looked down at his clipboard for a moment. “You hired me to produce these two things, and you’re already paying us quite well. So, I feel obligated to bring something to your attention.”
“What is it, Walter?”
“Either all the liquor isn’t being sold, or your delivery people are skimming the till.”
“How much?”
“It varies,” Brown said. “Anywhere from one hundred to three hundred dollars per shipment. Like I said, it’s nothing compared to the income potential of the back room, and there could very well be a valid reason. These roads are rough—maybe some jars were broken. Perhaps they’re lowering the price to sell more. I just thought you should know that the numbers aren’t matching up.”
“Thanks, Walter,” Pritchard said.
Pritchard turned and went to the outer door, then stopped. “Does Frank know about the discrepancy?”
“No, sir. Only you and I.”
Pritchard turned without a word and left the old barn.
It only took me fifteen minutes to get to the judge’s house. He lived in an upscale neighborhood of mostly two-story homes. The yards were well-manicured with trimmed shrubs and old growth trees. There was a newer model Buick sedan in the judge’s driveway. The car was parked in front of a two-car garage and I remembered having seen it at the diner, also.
I planned to play this conversation by ear with the judge. He was evidently clean and would probably want to know of any corruption in the legal system in his county. I also knew that if there was any doubt about the sheriff, he wouldn’t want local law enforcement doing an investigation. I reached into my pack and pulled out three wallets. The first held my false, but very realistic, CIA shield and ID. The second one was the one I was looking for, and I stuck it in my shirt pocket, then returned the other two before getting out of the truck.
The front door of the house opened before I reached it. “Can I help you?” the same white-haired man I’d seen in the diner asked.
“Yes, Judge Whitaker, I hope you can. My name is Jesse McDermitt.”
“I saw you at the diner, son. What can I do for you?”
He’d seen me pull up and remembered my face, though I was no longer wearing the Caterpillar cap. He was obviously a sharp man and I didn’t think there was much that got past him.
I handed him the wallet from my shirt pocket, and he opened it, checking my credentials with a critical eye. This one wasn’t a phony.
“Private investigator?”
“My company has been secured to investigate something that happened here recently,” I said, taking my wallet back. “Does the name Sandra Sneed ring a bell?”
“Why don’t you come inside, son. Care for a coffee?”
“Thanks, Judge.” I followed him inside. “Don’t mind if I do.”
The interior of the house was immaculate. A woman’s touch was obvious everywhere I looked. The decorations complimented the furniture nicely, though it was all a good decade out of date.
“We can talk in the kitchen,” the judge said, leading me toward the back of the house. “The woman you mentioned is a material witness in a murder investigation. The Commonwealth Attorney would like to speak with her.”
“That’s the reason I’m here, Judge.”
“Just call me Ollie,” he said, getting two big porcelain mugs from a cupboard and filling them from a pot that was half full. “Nobody calls me judge when I’m not wearing the robe.”
“Please just call me Jesse, then,” I said, accepting the offered mug.
“My late wife would have had a fit over my not offering you a saucer,” he said. “But to me that’s just one more thing to wash and you don’t strike me as a man who dwells much on social niceties.”
“The mug’s fine,” I said with a genuine smile. I liked the man.
He waved a hand toward a small dinette against the wall, which had a tray with condiments on it. “Have a seat. There’s sugar there, and I have regular milk, if you need it.”
“Black is fine,” I said, moving toward the table.
We both sat down, and I tasted the coffee. It wasn’t off the shelf, that I could tell. “Good coffee,” I commented.
“Thank you. There are some things in life that a man shouldn’t count pennies on. A good cup of joe is one of them.”
I studied the man closer. I knew he was seventy-two, but he didn’t look it. Too young for the Second World War or Korea. “Joe” was a term soldiers used. Vietnam maybe.
“So, Sandra Sneed sent you?” Judge Whitaker asked. “Where is she?”
Not a man to beat around the bush. I liked that.
“She didn’t really send me,” I replied. “She’s down in Miami and she would have pitched a fit if she knew I was here. We used to be married.”
“Ah, the plot thickens. But why did she disappear in the middle of the sheriff’s investigation?”
I didn’t know any other way to say it and wasn’t prone to beating around the bush either. “Your sheriff and assistant state attorney are dirty.”
“Commonwealth,” he corrected me, unflustered by the accusation. “There are only four states in these United States of America that refer to themselves as commonwealths—Kentucky, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and Virginia. The distinction is only in the name and really the four commonwealths are just like any other state, and there aren’t any differences in their relationship to each other or to the nation.”
His explanation seemed like a delaying tactic while he pondered my accusation. “I didn’t know that,” I said.
“It took me a while to get used to it.”
I wasn’t ready to tell him everything yet. “Sheriff Taliaferro and Assistant Commonwealth Attorney Pritchard weren’t directly involved in the murder,” I allowed. “But they are trying to sweep it under the rug.”
“And you have some proof of this?”
Judges were only interested in evidentiary proof, not supposition. I to
ok my phone from my pants pocket and pulled up the video recording I’d taken the night before.
“This isn’t admissible,” I said. “I’m only here to see you as a courtesy to your office. My investigation will proceed regardless of the outcome of our meeting.”
Judge Whitaker watched the short video clip, where Pritchard instructed the other two men to send Stuart Lane to Miami to finish what they’d started.
When it ended, he played it back again, then pushed the phone across the table. “Not admissible,” he agreed. “And wholly conjecture.”
I nodded. “Yes, it is. This meeting took place last night. What would be your conclusion on what you just heard?”
He held my gaze firmly with eyes that were bright and clear, conveying an abundance of wisdom gained through many years. “I would conclude that ACA Pritchard wants Stuart Lane to go to Miami.”
“Were you aware that the sheriff’s office has a video of the murder that took place on the Appalachian Trail?”
His eyes never wavered, and he didn’t blink. If he played a friendly game of poker with his neighbors now and then, they probably left with empty pockets.
“I know of no such evidence,” the judge replied.
“I believe you, sir. I don’t think that—”
“Ollie,” he reminded me.
I nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact. “I believe the video evidence of the murder was kept from you, Ollie.”
“Do you have that evidence in your possession?”
Flipping through the files on my phone, I pulled up the video that Chyrel had pulled from my ex-wife’s phone without her knowledge. I slid the phone back across to the judge.
Ollie watched the video of Kamren Steele being executed three times, showing no reaction at all. I imagined that during his time as a criminal attorney in Pittsburgh, he’d seen a lot.
Finally, he pushed the phone back to me. “The shooter is Stuart Lane. I know the man well. The other man never faces the camera, but I believe it to be Jeb Long. If this video had been presented to Sheriff Taliaferro, an arrest would have been made.”
“And if it was presented to the sheriff and no arrest was forthcoming?”
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