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

by Mark de Castrique

  Her cheeks flushed. “Don’t be judgmental. We’re the fastest growing network since Animal Planet. I’ve been given my own program to produce. It’s a great opportunity.” Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. “You don’t know how hard it’s been. Four years and this is my first real break.”

  I tried to find a connection between Weird World and the journalism career Rachel left me to pursue.

  “What happened at NBC?”

  “Budget cutbacks. I made it to an assistant producer and then the ax fell last spring. Cable’s the only place hiring.”

  “What’s the title of your new show?”

  “Mysterious Murders. The name’s the promo hook, but I plan to be straight-up in the reporting. The nature of this case fits perfectly.”

  “A man murdered in a casket in a haunted house.”

  “Exactly. I couldn’t have scripted it any better.” She stepped closer, invading that invisible barrier that defines my space. “Can we talk just a few minutes? I’d like to work out the logistics for my crew.”

  “Logistics for my crew” implied special consideration and access. I put my hand on her forearm, not as a gesture of affection but to keep her at a distance. Some of my colleagues were looking at us, sensing Rachel wasn’t just another reporter.

  “We do need to talk, but somewhere more private. Wait here a moment.” I hurried to the interview room where I’d left Archie, hoping to hustle him through the backdoor with Tommy Lee’s blessing to leave town.

  The interview room was empty.

  “Did Archie give you a statement?” Hank Shelton asked the question as he stepped in behind me.

  “No. I haven’t released him. Maybe he’s in the men’s room.”

  “He left by the rear entrance a few minutes ago. Stuck his head out first, like he expected a squadron of banditos to be waiting. Sorry. I assumed you’d finished with him.”

  “It’s fine. There wasn’t anything more he could tell us.”

  Shelton seemed relieved that he hadn’t let Archie escape. I knew Archie had ignored my instructions to stay, but he could wait. My priorities focused on getting Rachel out of the way and contacting Carson about Pete Crowder.

  “There’s one other person I need to speak with in here.” I nodded to the interview table.

  Shelton eyed me hopefully. “Want me to sit in?”

  “It’s not directly about the case. I’d like you to radio Carson and ask him to tail Pete. I want to make sure he’s not involved with someone else.”

  “You think Pete’s got an accomplice? Like he hired a hit man?”

  “That’s probably a stretch, but we need to rule it out. Tell Carson to keep his distance and let us know if Pete leaves his house.”

  Shelton’s right armed twitched as if he wanted to salute. “Got it. But Carson’s on his way to lift the prints from outside the bathroom window.”

  “Tell him it’s a change in plans. You can do the prints, can’t you?”

  “Sure.” The young deputy backed into the hall, anxious to get going. “I’ve been practicing.”

  “Okay. Cover Carson and then head to the murder scene.” I watched the eager beaver hurry away and thought that not so many years ago I could have been his twin.

  Rachel still stood along the bullpen wall by the duty roster board where I left her. She frantically double-thumbed the keypad on her cell phone, probably texting some executive at Weird World that she could deliver exclusive ectoplasmic footage of Carl Atkinson’s ghost.

  “Come on back,” I yelled without bothering to leave the hallway. “I’ve got a few minutes.”

  She flipped her phone closed and hurried to me, all smiles. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  “Second door on the right.” I followed her into the interview room and motioned for her to take a chair on the far side of the table.

  Her phone vibrated and she glanced at the screen. “I’ve got a freelance cameraman coming from Asheville. He says he can be here before noon.”

  “Fine. But there’s nothing for him to shoot.” I eased into the chair opposite her. “Sheriff Wadkins won’t hold another press conference until he’s got something to say. We’re waiting on lab reports so it could be a couple of days.”

  “I’m not interested in Sheriff Wadkins. He’s talking to everybody.”

  “That’s because he’s the one ultimately in charge of the case. I’m not authorized to speak about an ongoing investigation.”

  Rachel laced her ringless fingers together and leaned across the table. “That’s not what a reporter from the Asheville paper told me.” She looked up at the ceiling as if conjuring the exact words from the yellowed tiles. “‘Deputy Clayton and that Melissa Bigham of the Gainesboro Vista are as tight as a fat tick on a hound dog.’” She gave me a hard stare. “I didn’t bother to ask who was the tick.”

  “Melissa Bigham was at the scene last night and I gave her a statement. If you’d been there, I’d have given a statement to you. But, of course, you don’t live here.” I said the words with a harsh edge, surprised that a vestige of anger still haunted me.

  Rachel’s jaw tensed and she spoke through clenched teeth. “No, I don’t live here. But we shared more than a town, Barry. At least I’d like to think so.”

  I didn’t say anything because Rachel was right. We had shared more than a town. And now I was happy. In the grand scheme of things, my hurt feelings were over a broken marriage that I wouldn’t want to reconcile if I could. And Rachel was going through a rough time, not of her making.

  She took a deep breath. “So, what will you help me with?”

  “This isn’t breaking news, is it?”

  “No. But I need footage as things occur so I can reconstruct the story later.”

  I nodded. Although I wasn’t much of a TV watcher, I’d seen enough “Datelines” and “Unsolved Mysteries” to understand the way it would be packaged. “Weird World” would probably set a new low for cheesiness.

  I scooted my chair closer to the table and met her gaze head on. “Here’s what I can’t do. I can’t give you access to locations or information that aren’t available to the press in general. You’ll have to compete like everyone else. But, when the case is solved, and with the sheriff’s permission, I’ll sit down and give you the investigative thread, how we broke the case, who you should talk to for collaboration, an inside look at this house of horror murder that will be a television exclusive, at least for my participation.”

  “When do you think you can break the case?”

  I shrugged. “To know that, I’d have to know who the murderer was and be building a case against him. Maybe we’ll get a break on the lab reports. But this could drag on.”

  “This Melissa Bigham wrote that someone named Archie Donovan might have been the intended target, and then he shows up where a gun was fired this morning. Is he the real focus of your case?”

  “No. Like the sheriff said at the press briefing, a lot of people were in both places.”

  “When it’s over, will you talk on-camera?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll help you with information and walk you through the investigative chain of events. Hugh Jackman’s a natural to play my part. I’d hate to deny him the role.”

  Rachel laughed. “I was thinking more like Steve Martin as Inspector Clouseau.” She stood. “But I’ll take what I can get. This is important to me, Barry. I appreciate anything you can do.”

  I rose from the chair and offered my hand. Her grip felt warm and firm. “The best thing I can do is find Carl Atkinson’s killer. Then we’ll both win.”

  After Rachel left, I checked with Carol in radio communications to make sure she notified me as soon as Deputy Carson began tailing Pete from his house. Then I shut the doors to the conference room, insulating myself from the noise of the bullpen and the colleagues who wanted to spin their pet theories of the murder.

  Reece, bless his officious little heart, had compiled a preliminary statement from the interviews at
The Cardinal Café. I read the three pages quickly, noting that no one saw the shooter. Everyone had been watching the spectacle of news crews and TV trucks clustered around the courthouse.

  Those on the scene agreed the single gunshot came farther up the block, although the exact side of the street remained in dispute. From the angle that the bullet struck the plate-glass window and bored into the café ceiling, I felt the gunman must have been in the alley across the street behind a row of law offices fronting Main Street. He could have fired while hiding in the shadows and fled down the alley immediately after pulling the trigger. The echo of the shot would have covered his footsteps.

  One basic fact gnawed at me. Someone with a rudimentary knowledge of firearms wouldn’t have chosen a pistol at that distance. Either the gunman was naïve or had no intention of killing Archie. Another thought crossed my mind. If someone were trying to scare Archie, then why would he have mistakenly stabbed Carl Atkinson last night in what was clearly meant to be a fatal wound, but then taken a wild shot this morning that had little chance of hitting its target?

  The phone rang. I hoped Carol the dispatcher was calling to say Pete was on the move and I could lift the prints.

  “Barry, can you please talk to your uncle?” Tommy Lee’s assistant Marge sounded a little exasperated. She’d probably been trying to protect my privacy.

  I glanced at my watch. Eleven-forty. Blake Junior’s funeral was scheduled for two at Eagle Creek Methodist Church. Uncle Wayne and Fletcher would be transporting the body in about thirty minutes. I’d hoped to help them.

  “Yeah, put him through.”

  “Barry?” Uncle Wayne’s voice sounded reedy and strained, like a clarinet in the hands of a middle-schooler.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. It got a little crazy this morning.”

  “Fletcher and I have everything under control. Blake Senior’s the problem. He just left madder than a wet hen. But don’t worry. I sent Fletcher up in the attic.”

  A knock came from the door and Carol stuck her head in.

  “Hold on a second.” I covered the mouthpiece, bewildered as to why Uncle Wayne would call to tell me Fletcher was in the attic. “What?”

  “Carson radioed that Pete left the house.”

  “Thanks. Tell him to report whenever Pete arrives at a new location. I want to know where he is at all times.”

  She nodded and closed the door behind her.

  “Uncle Wayne, why’s Fletcher in our attic?”

  “To find your trumpet. I figured you’d want to get here and practice.”

  “Practice what?”

  “Taps, of course. Blake Senior liked to have blown a gasket when he learned the military might have one of them toy bugles at his son’s graveside.” He paused and I heard a garbled voice calling from the background. “That’s great,” Uncle Wayne said. “Fletcher also found your Boy Scout uniform. Think it’ll still fit?”

  Maybe my ex-wife was on to something. Maybe I really did live in “Weird World.”

  ***

  The United States Armed Forces has a problem. With an estimated one thousand veterans of the Second World War dying every day, there aren’t enough military buglers to play Taps at every funeral service where the deceased is due those honors. So, the honor guard usually arrives with a bugle containing an electronic playback device.

  The sound doesn’t match the quality of the real instrument, and I’ve seen some soldiers simply hold the mouthpiece to their lips without making any effort to create the illusion of playing. They might as well show up at the grave with a boom box.

  Blake Junior had served in the First Gulf War. His father had landed at Normandy. Having a child predecease you is bad enough, but when your family’s steeped in military tradition and that tradition is seen as being shortchanged in an hour of need? Well, no wonder my uncle grasped at a straw. I don’t know what he told the distraught father, but the last time I played the trumpet was high school band, nearly half my lifetime ago.

  With that debacle waiting for me at the funeral, I drove to Pete’s house. The police scanner under the dash monitored the department’s frequencies, and Carson had radioed that Pete had stopped at the Circle K about four miles away. Probably a beer run. I wouldn’t have much time.

  A fingerprint kit rode on the seat beside me. A quick dust-and-lift would be simple enough, the only complication being the location of the ax. If Pete left it by his woodpile, then the tricky part would be staying out of sight from the road. I also didn’t know if Angel was home. Facing her could be awkward. My greatest fear was that Pete had locked the ax in a tool shed. Even I drew the line at breaking and entering.

  Pete’s house sat back in the woods about fifty feet off Foster Bluff Road. The small brick ranch had a carport at the end of a gravel driveway and I spotted Angel’s Ford Escort parked inside. The crunch of my tires on the loose blue stones posed too much of a risk for me to turn in. A glance in the rearview mirror showed a white SUV cresting the hill behind me. Pulling off on the shoulder would generate stares from its occupants and my deputy uniform would only increase their curiosity.

  I kept driving a few hundred feet until I turned onto a dirt road running along the edge of Pete’s property. The SUV continued straight and I eased the jeep to a stop with the right wheels resting in a shallow ditch. Through the trees I saw the back corner of the house. The curtained windows probably shielded a bedroom and bathroom, which meant my approach stood a greater chance of going undetected.

  I stretched on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed the print kit, and opened the door. Carson’s voice crackled from the scanner. “Leaving Circle K and heading north on 25.” He wasn’t saying Pete’s name in his transmissions, but I knew our suspect was on the move. Highway 25 intersected Foster Bluff Road about three miles closer to town. If Pete were coming home, he’d arrive in about five minutes. Not enough time for me to get the prints and clean up the ax handle. If the wood was worn and porous, finding a readable print could be difficult, like dusting a stone or concrete block.

  I waited by the passenger’s door, unwilling to venture out of earshot until Carson radioed an update. A screen door slammed at the rear of the house. The side facing me blocked the carport, but I heard the Escort’s engine rev to life. Angel must be leaving.

  “Turning onto Foster Bluff,” Carson reported. “Heading east.”

  The opposite direction. Pete Crowder must be driving into Gainesboro, which would buy me at least twenty minutes. Tires spun and gravel ricocheted off a trashcan. Wherever Angel was going, she couldn’t get there fast enough. Fine with me. I couldn’t get to that ax fast enough.

  The woodpile consisted of several cords of split oak stacked under a shingled roof about six feet above the ground. The shelter must have been at least thirty feet long and eight feet deep. When filled, Pete and Angel would have enough wood to last through the winter.

  Between the split cords and the carport, whole logs lay scattered around a section of a tree trunk. The diameter had been cut clean on both ends with a chainsaw. Lying flat, the surface made a perfect chopping block. Pete had left his ax embedded in the center.

  My luck for this illegal operation continued to hold. The ax was fairly new with red paint still covering the head and varnish not yet worn from the handle. Prints should be easily available provided Pete’s repeated gripping hadn’t smudged them too severely.

  With a gloved hand, I pushed up the end of the handle, leveraging the blade free of the wood. I could see Foster Bluff Road through a gap in the trees and figured Carson had used that line of sight when he spotted Pete. Taking the ax, I retreated farther behind the house, closer to the sparsely traveled dirt road where I would be more concealed and where the residue of the fingerprint dust was more likely to be covered soon by falling leaves.

  Keeping a close watch on the driveway, I opened a jar of dark powder and liberally brushed the fine particles over one side of the ax. Fortunately, a gentle breeze blew from behind me, sending airborne d
ust away in small clouds. I didn’t want to show up at Blake Junior’s funeral looking like a chimney sweep.

  The human finger leaves traces of oil and moisture on everything it touches. Some surfaces provide a better medium for preserving a replica of the unique pattern of whirls and swirls, particularly glass, polished metal, or other non-porous materials. The varnish on the wooden handle that protected it from water and insects also insured that Pete’s fingerprints wouldn’t be absorbed into unidentifiable blurs.

  When a sufficient layer of dust had been applied, I carefully brushed the excess away. The trick is to remove unattached particles without rubbing so hard as to wipe the print clean. As I suspected, the lower section proved to be a jumble of overlapping smudges. A few stood out as recognizable images, but higher up, about six inches below the ax head, I found a perfect set. Pete must have gripped the handle at the center of gravity when he carried it to the woodpile.

  I sat on a stump and laid the ax across my lap, dusted side up. Then I pressed clear cellophane tape down on the prints, lifted them, and adhered the tape to a stiff white card. Four fingers and an opposing thumb appeared as discernable as if I’d inked them at the department. I repacked the kit including the print sheet, wiped the ax clean with my handkerchief, and quickly returned to the woodpile. With a snap of my wrists, I drove the blade into the chopping block. Unless Pete wandered back into the woods and noticed the black dust, he’d have no clue I’d ever been there.

  Enjoying the satisfaction of a small victory, I headed for the jeep. That was when I noticed a white SUV parked behind me.

  I was surprised to see Rachel standing in the ditch.

  I was alarmed to see a videographer beside her, camera on his shoulder, and the red record light blinking furiously.

  Chapter Six

  “What are you doing?” I kept my eyes on Rachel and spoke calmly. The print kit was tucked under my arm away from the camera, and, fortunately, I’d dropped the gloves inside the bag. I didn’t know how much they could have seen through the trees, but I didn’t want them thinking I’d been up to something out of the ordinary.