Fatal Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series)

by Mark de Castrique

  I handed Carson his clipboard. “Did Benny or Mattie remember anyone in the groups ahead of them?”

  “We didn’t get that far. I was only trying to pin down the time of Carl’s death.”

  “Understood. Good job.” I walked around the table, picked up a black marker from an easel’s tray, and wrote WORKING HYPOTHESES as the header on the top sheet of paper. Beneath it I printed Time of Death—approximately 9:25 P.M. “Call Benny and ask if there was anyone else he saw going through the house ahead of him.” I turned to Shelton. “Let’s concentrate on learning where each volunteer was between nine-twenty and nine-thirty. Make a list on another easel.”

  “You want me to start taping pages to the wall as they fill up?” Shelton asked.

  “Sure. I don’t need to tell you we’re going to have a lot of second-guessing going on.”

  “The D.A.” Carson sucked his teeth like he’d just bit into a persimmon. “I saw him pacing in the hall.”

  “Tommy Lee’s going to keep him off our backs, but it doesn’t hurt if Jamison sees a little flipchart action.”

  Carson laughed. “Then we’ll wallpaper the damn room.”

  “What about the calls coming in?” Shelton asked.

  “Prioritize anyone who says they went through the house between nine and nine-forty-five.”

  Shelton bit his lower lip and seemed uncertain.

  “What?” I asked.

  “How do we know the killer didn’t come by earlier? Maybe someone scared him off and he went back through a second or even a third time till he got his chance.”

  I glanced at Carson. His nearly imperceptible nod showed me he had to admit the junior deputy raised a good point.

  “All right,” I said. “Keep the timeframe open. I hadn’t thought about the multiple visits. Float that possibility past the volunteers as well.”

  “I can help Shelton after I talk to Benny,” Carson said.

  “I’ve got something else for you. Something I don’t want posted on these walls.” I motioned to Shelton. “Close the doors.”

  I sat at the table. Carson took a chair beside me, and Shelton slipped into the one across from us.

  “There’s an item I’m not ready to put under Working Hypotheses, and I don’t want it spread around.”

  Shelton leaned closer, his eyes focused on my lips.

  “Okay,” Carson muttered. “What is it?”

  “We don’t know for sure that Carl Atkinson was meant to be the victim.”

  “So Archie Donovan’s not just making himself the center of attention,” Carson said. “That’s a first.”

  “Did he say something to you?” I wondered if Archie had been in already begging for protection.

  Carson pointed to the newspaper on the table. “It’s in the article. Archie was supposed to be in the casket.”

  I snatched the paper and scanned the front-page story under LOCAL MAN MURDERED. Near the bottom, a short paragraph read—“Jaycee volunteer Archie Donovan told investigators he should have been in the casket and might have been the intended victim. Donovan offered no motive or explanation as to why Carl Atkinson had taken his place.” Melissa Bigham had overheard enough of our conversation to draw accurate conclusions. She’d pursue that at the press conference for sure.

  I tossed the paper aside. “Archie did give me a motive, but it can’t leave this room.” In a few sentences I sketched the picture of Archie’s involvement with Angel and Pete Crowder’s reaction.

  Carson leaned back in his chair. “You want me to interview Pete, don’t you?”

  “That would be the simplest thing, but it might not be the best thing.”

  Carson shrugged. “How so?”

  “Pete’s got a temper. If he thinks Angel came to us or told Archie, then he might take it out on her.”

  “I don’t know why Angel’s stuck by him as long as she has,” Carson said.

  “Let’s see if you can find an alibi for Pete without having to ask him. If he couldn’t have committed the murder, then we clear him without his knowing he was a suspect. We reduce the odds that Archie was the killer’s target, and we keep Angel a little safer.”

  Carson nodded. “There are a few bars I can check out.”

  “Do it as discreetly as you can.”

  “This ain’t my first ride at the rodeo,” Carson said.

  I wasn’t sure if the rodeo had ever come to Gainesboro, but I nodded my approval. “Now let’s put some info on these flipcharts in case Tommy Lee and Jamison drop by.”

  About twenty minutes later one of the doors opened and Tommy Lee stuck his head in. “It’s time.”

  Jamison peeked over his shoulder, trying to read the information on the sheets of paper taped to the wall. Carson had left in search of an alibi for Pete Crowder and Shelton worked the phone. “Keep at it,” I told him. “I hope I won’t be long.”

  I joined Tommy Lee and Jamison in the hall.

  The D.A. shook my hand. “Sheriff says you were first on the scene. That’s good.”

  If my finding the body was good, I failed to see the logic. The crime scene was so tainted anything other than the embedded knife would be suspect as evidence.

  “Is there something new I should know before facing the press?” Tommy Lee spoke so softly Jamison had to lean against me to hear him.

  “We’ve found the two groups we believe bracket the last time Carl was alive and the first time he didn’t sit up. Shelton’s confirming but it looks like our window for the murder has narrowed to less than ten minutes. Around nine-twenty-five.”

  “Good. Good.” Jamison’s head bobbed like a cork in a stream.

  “Any other angles pan out?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “Carson’s working a thing or two.”

  “What things?” Jamison asked.

  “Nothing concrete,” I said. “Just running down the whereabouts of the local hotheads. You know how most crimes are committed by repeat offenders.”

  “I’d like names.” Jamison poked his finger into my chest as he emphasized each word.

  I grabbed his wrist and flung his arm to the side.

  Tommy Lee stepped in front of me, facing Jamison. “Our job is to give you someone to prosecute, not a damn shopping list you can leak to the press.”

  Jamison reddened. “We’re on the same side here.”

  “Yeah. I watch all the Law and Order reruns. This is my part of the program. You’ll get your turn.” Tommy Lee backed away but kept his eye on the D.A. “Come on, Barry. It’s show time.”

  I walked beside him as we took the back corridors through the courthouse. Jamison trailed behind us keeping his thoughts to himself.

  Otis, one of the security guards, opened the double doors and we stepped into the sunlight. A brisk breeze blew across the concrete columns of the old façade. I felt the chill cut through my shirt and wished I hadn’t left my jacket in the conference room. At least Tommy Lee would be concise and to the point. He’d rather undergo a root canal than a press briefing.

  The exterior steps of the courthouse overflowed with reporters. Red recording lights popped on as cameras rolled. I stopped about six feet behind the podium, letting Tommy Lee clearly be the center of attention.

  Jamison walked closer and then returned to my side. “My God,” he whispered. “What a crowd.”

  I scanned the upturned faces and found Melissa Bigham in the front row with her pencil poised above her notepad. She caught my eye and mouthed “Archie.” No mystery as to what her first question would be.

  Gainesboro’s mayor, Sammy Whitlock, stood beside Melissa. He wore a long blue overcoat that mercifully hid what local folks called Sammy’s Daily Fashion Disaster. With one foot on the top step and the other at the base of a column, the mayor angled toward the crowd. As Tommy Lee approached the podium, Whitlock raised his hands and then pushed them down as if signaling the crowd to be silent. Of course, their voices had quieted as soon as the courthouse doors opened. Mayor Whitlock desperately wanted to appear to be pa
rt of the official investigative team and he camped beside Melissa hoping she would ask for a quote following the briefing.

  Tommy Lee leaned into the microphone. “Good morning, everyone” blared from the over-amplified PA.

  His words were still reverberating along Main Street when a single shot rang out.

  Chapter Four

  The crowd instantly divided into two groups: those who recognized a gunshot and those who didn’t. About a third of the press corps ducked while the rest craned their necks gawking for the source of the noise.

  Tommy Lee dropped below the podium and grabbed his pistol in one motion. I reacted a split second later, moving behind the protection of a concrete column. “Get down,” I yelled at Jamison.

  The D.A. lunged forward like he’d tripped over an invisible wire, pressing out the crease of his blue suit as he flattened against the granite floor.

  From the vantage point atop the courthouse steps, I looked across the lawn to the intersection of Main Street and Third. People on the far corner scurried outward in all directions, leaving a void that had to be the site of the shooting.

  “Alert the department to cordon off the intersection.” Tommy Lee yelled the order to Otis crouching by the door. “And keep the press back.” He looked at me. “I’ll go right, you swing left.”

  I sprinted down the steps two at a time, trying to keep my eyes on the street without stumbling. Tommy Lee and I were making a two-man pincers movement to approach the scene from opposite angles. Other officers who had been directing traffic ran straight toward the sound. If one or more gunmen were involved, their only clear retreat would be down Main Street away from the courthouse and the crowd.

  I broke through a semicircle of onlookers surrounding the front of the Cardinal Café. The owner of the diner, Helen Todd, bent over a man slumped in her doorway and blocked my view. Inside, I saw bewildered customers standing at tables, some of the men with napkins still tucked in their belts.

  Helen backed away, lifting a glass of water from the man’s lips. Archie Donovan stared at the crowd, his eyes wide with fear.

  Tommy Lee joined me. “Has Archie been shot?”

  “No,” Helen said. She pointed to a hole at the center of a web of cracks high on the front window. The bullet had shattered the head of a red cardinal painted on the glass.

  “Can you get up?” I asked Archie.

  He nodded, although his pale face and trembling hands said otherwise. I holstered my gun and grabbed him by the elbow, helping him to his feet.

  “Do we have to stay out here?” he whispered.

  “Did you see who shot at you?”

  “No. The glass shattered above me and I jumped back. Caught my heel on the step and fell against the door.”

  “Take him inside,” Tommy Lee said. He faced the crowd. “If anyone saw the shooter or anything unusual, please talk to one of the deputies.” He signaled Reece to organize the questioning and then followed Archie and me to a back booth. Archie and I slid in opposite each other.

  Tommy Lee stood at the end. “I need to get to the press conference. I’m going to report a gun was discharged and a shot went wild. No one was hurt and we’re investigating.”

  “Those witnesses will claim someone tried to kill Archie,” I said.

  “I know. But the press is more interested in the haunted house murder. I prefer to deal with one problem at a time.” He turned to Archie. “You’re sure you didn’t see who fired the shot?”

  “I didn’t see anything,” Archie whispered.

  “Not even Pete Crowder?”

  Archie shot me a hard glance. “Barry, you promised.”

  “I had to tell my investigative team, but we’re being as discreet as we can.”

  Archie shook his head. “I didn’t see Pete, but it had to be him.”

  Tommy Lee leaned over the booth so far that Archie had to look straight up. “How many other husbands are out there?”

  Archie’s pale face flushed. “What do you think I am?”

  “What I think doesn’t matter. I want to know who thinks you need to be killed.”

  “Pete’s the only one. I swear it. And Angel came on to me.”

  “Save the excuses for your wife.” Tommy Lee eased away. “Barry, bring him to the department through the side door and take his statement. You and I’ll talk later.”

  As he left the diner, I saw the press corps following after him like a gaggle of geese, honking “Sheriff” with every step.

  ***

  I settled Archie in an interview room with a cup of coffee and went to the communications center. If Pete Crowder was out there armed and dangerous, I wanted Deputy Carson to know it.

  “Carol, see if you can raise Carson.”

  Carol Eason, our chief dispatcher, pressed her mike key and asked Carson to respond. The mountains could make radio contact tricky and cell phone coverage spotty. Our transmitter tower and relays blanketed the county as best they could, but five hundred feet one way or the other and you could be talking to yourself.

  “Carson here.” His voice crackled through the speaker.

  I took the mike. “It’s Barry. A shot was fired at Archie Donovan in front of the Cardinal Café.”

  “When?”

  “Ten. Right as we started the press briefing.”

  “Then our man’s a helluva shot. I drove by his house about five minutes ago and he was splitting wood in his side yard.”

  Pete Crowder lived ten winding miles out in the county. That he could have been in town and back home in fifteen minutes would have been a good pace for a NASCAR driver.

  “You talk to him?” I asked.

  “No. Just checking the home first.”

  Carson’s approach made sense. If Pete Crowder had murdered Carl, his location the next morning could be an indication of his mental state. Was he fearful and hiding out? Hung over and remorseful? Chopping wood is a normal Saturday morning chore. Of course, it also involves wielding an ax with enough force to split a skull.

  “Should I come in?” Carson asked.

  “No. Carry on with the original plan. We’ll talk later.”

  “Copy that.”

  I handed Carol her mike.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “Not a single 10-4.”

  “I’m learning.” When I’d started working part-time, I’d had to break myself of the old codes from Charlotte. 10-4 wasn’t one of them, but each law enforcement service had some unique shorthand. Part of the recent efforts to coordinate local, state, and federal response teams had focused on eliminating jargon and using common language. If you asked for location you said location, not 10-20. It’s the same number of syllables. Only Deputy Reece Hutchins laced his radio speak with movie cop talk. Otherwise he wouldn’t be Reece.

  Both Carson and I had been careful not to mention Pete Crowder by name. Everyone from bored grandmothers to ten-year-old boys playing cops and robbers monitors police frequencies. If Carson’s rundown of Pete’s usual haunts didn’t provide an alibi for the time of Carl’s murder, then I’d question Pete in person. Preferably without the ax.

  “Carson’s got a visitor,” Carol added. “He might have forgotten about an appointment.”

  “Who?”

  “Bruce Hampton. He says he has some information about Christmas tree thefts.”

  I looked to the main entrance. A thin man of about forty, dressed in jeans and a blue flannel work shirt, leaned against the wall just inside the door. I recognized him as a labor broker, arranging for the migrant workers who came to Laurel County to harvest beans in August, then apples in September and October, and finally Christmas trees from the ever-increasing acreage planted on the mountain slopes.

  I met him when one of his workers had been killed in a farming accident the previous summer and I had to make arrangements for the body to be transported to Mexico.

  He caught my eye and smiled.

  “I’ll talk to him,” I told Carol.

  “Crazy morning.” Hampton extend
ed his hand as I approached.

  “Yeah, sure is. Deputy Carson got called out. Can I pass anything along to him?”

  “He asked me to check with my guys. You know, if they saw anything suspicious.”

  I stepped to the side a couple paces to put us in a quieter corner. “You’re talking trees?”

  “Yes. Deputy Carson thought since I’ve got workers all over the county they might have seen something.” He threw up his hands. “I’m glad to help because if the growers lose their trees, then they won’t be needing my men.”

  “Okay.” I pulled a small notepad from my chest pocket. “Sorry I don’t have time to take you back to an interview room, but, like you said, it’s crazy right now.”

  “I wish I had more to tell you. One of my men was making a run between migrant camps last Monday and came up behind a trailer load of fresh-cut trees. He thought it was odd because it was so late. After midnight.”

  “Why the delay in reporting it?”

  Hampton shrugged. “Carson just asked me yesterday morning. I didn’t talk with my workers till I paid them at the end of the day.”

  “Where was this trailer?”

  “Out near the county line headed south on the old Greenville highway.”

  “That road winds like a snake.”

  Hampton nodded. “Yeah, and it’s lightly traveled. Most people take I-26.”

  “Lightly patrolled too,” I added. “Did your man get a plate number?”

  “No. He didn’t think that much about it till I brought it up. We think maybe it was a snatch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That the trailer had been loaded by the edge of a field and was going to be picked up the next morning. Somebody comes along with a truck that has enough pulling power, cuts the hitch lock, and hauls the trees down to South Carolina. One man could snatch the trailer in less than five minutes. Hell, my boys could’ve been the ones that loaded the damn thing.”

  I jotted down a few notes about the time and location. “Anything else?”

  “I’m afraid that’s it.”

  “Well, tell your men to keep their eyes open and get us plate numbers on any suspicious vehicles. Carson might want to talk to your witness if this incident matches anything he’s working on.”