The Good, The Bad and The Murderous (Sid Chance Myseries Book 2)

by Chester D. Campbell

  The Good, The Bad and The Murderous

  By Chester D. Campbell

  Published by Night Shadows Press

  Copyright 2011 by Chester D. Campbell

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the copyright owner and Night Shadows Press, LLC.

  Also by Chester D. Campbell

  Greg McKenzie Mysteries:

  A Sporting Murder (5)

  The Marathon Murders (4)

  Deadly Illusions (3)

  Designed to Kill (2)

  Secret of the Scroll (1)

  Sid Chance Mysteries:

  The Surest Poison (1)

  Post Cold War Political Thrillers

  The Poksu Conspiracy (2)

  Beware the Jabberwock (1)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 1

  He was a young man, dark as the back side of the moon, dreadlock tentacles crawling down his shoulders, brooding eyes filled with questions. Djuan Burden hesitated just inside the small medical equipment store in Nashville’s Green Hills section. It resembled the aftermath of a spring storm, shelves bare as though swept by the wind, scattered trash on the carpet. A stack of boxes tumbled in the doorway to the back room. An acrid odor added to the confusion. Splayed on a small desk at one side lay a few papers and yellow No. 2 pencils piled as if for a pick-up-sticks game. Were they moving out? He approached the desk, where someone sat facing the other direction, his head barely visible above the back of an executive chair.

  Djuan tossed the document he’d brought onto the desk. “Sir,” he said in a deep but subdued voice, “we have a problem.”

  The man said nothing. Didn’t move.

  Djuan was about to speak in a more strident tone when he realized the smell he had first noticed was gunpowder, a once-familiar odor he had not experienced in years. He edged around the desk until a lifeless face came into view. A bullet hole in the forehead glared back at him like a vacuous third eye.

  Face flushed with panic, Burden broke into a run for the door. He darted a frantic glance toward the street as he dashed from the building, headed for the old Ford with the bruised front fender. Blinded momentarily by the afternoon sun, he groped for the door handle, crammed himself into the small sedan. The tires screeched as he swirled around, corrected, and veered toward the street. Too fast, he realized, as it attracted the attention of a tall man in a dark business suit who glared at him from the sidewalk. Though he had been driving only a short time, the skill had come naturally to him. Now his driving instinct held but one message—get the hell out of here!

  Traffic along Hillsboro Pike slowed his progress, although it hardly rivaled the impending home-bound rush hour. He ducked his head as a police car passed, traveling in the opposite direction. The specter of that cold, dark prison cell still haunted his befuddled mind.

  The following morning the phone rang on Sid Chance’s old-fashioned roll top desk, a battered piece of family history he’d inherited from his grandfather, a crusty old Nashville cop. He turned to the window, where a glowing spring morning showered sunlight over a precision rank of buttercups that marched alongside the parking lot.

  Sid checked the caller ID, lifted the phone, and said, “Morning, Jaz. What’s up?”

  “Trouble is what’s up. Are you ready to take on the Metro Nashville Police Department?”

  She’d had major problems with the media lately over a claim that she had made racial slurs about one of her company’s employees. Sid asked, “Are the cops after you, too?”

  “This isn’t about me, Sid. I’m sure you read the story where Djuan Burden got arrested for murder again.” This was not the successful business executive Jasmine LeMieux voice but that of passionate crusader Wonder Woman.

  “I did,” he said, unsure what this might be leading to. “Out of prison only six months, and he’s right back to his old tricks. Shot a store owner named Omar Valdez, as best I recall.”

  “Your memory is prodigious.”

  “Memory, the warder of the brain.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “Macbeth.”

  She sighed. “Okay, Mr. Shakespeare. This situation is dramatic enough. Burden’s granny doesn’t think he shot that man, and Marie agrees with her.”

  “Marie?”

  Sid stroked his short black beard in wonder. What brought this on? Marie Wallace was Jaz’s live-in housekeeper, a long-time family retainer who had been her nanny when she was a child. In earlier times she had served as a welcome buffer between Jaz and her autocratic mother.

  “Burden’s grandmother, Rachel Ransom, is an old friend of Marie’s,” Jaz said. “She explained the situation and asked Marie what to do.”

  “From what I read, she’d better hire the best criminal defense lawyer in town.”

  “She can’t afford it.”

  “So what’s Option Number Two?”

  “I called Arnie Bailey. Bailey, Riddle and Smith has a couple of sharp young lawyers who’re interested in trying their hand in Criminal Court. Arnie said they would take the case pro bono.”

  Sid carried the phone over to the coffee pot near the window and refilled his cup. “I’ll bet the DA won’t have a pair of neophytes sitting at the prosecution table.”

  “True. So Arnie’s boys will need some expert professional help.” Her voice had turned softer, with the persuasive touch he knew so well.

  “Do I detect Messrs. Pro and Bono headed my way?” Sid asked.

  “No. Mrs. Ransom can afford your fee, and I’ll volunteer my help.”

  Jaz’s first priority was her position as Chairman of the big travel center chain called Welcome Home Stores. She had inherited a majority interest, but she wasn’t concerned with its day-to-day operations. That allowed her time to work occasionally as an associate with Sidney Chance Investigations, something she had done since Sid’s involvement in a troublesome toxic chemical pollution case a few months back.

  “Have you talked to Bart about Djuan Burden?” he asked.

  “Bart’s no help. He arrested the boy for murder back when Djuan was twelve years old, but this shooting took place out Hillsboro Pike. That’s
West Precinct territory.”

  Bart Masterson, one of their fellow players in the Miss Demeanor and Five Felons Poker Club, was a homicide detective in the East Precinct. That took him out of play in this case, but from what Sid had read in the newspaper, this was a situation where a little help on the inside could be crucial.

  Sid took a moment to consider the role of Marie Wallace. He respected her as a strong, discerning woman. He recalled how she had seen through her grandson’s attempts to cover up a disturbing incident from his past that provided a significant clue in the pollution case. But she hadn’t faced the kind of people he’d dealt with in a nearly thirty-year career as a National Park Service ranger and a small town police chief.

  “I’m not sure Marie has it right this time,” he said.

  “Why don’t you reserve judgment until you’ve talked with Djuan’s grandmother?”

  “Look, Jaz, I’m still a rookie at this private investigator business. This sounds like a pretty iffy way to further my reputation as a PI.”

  “If he’s innocent, you’ll prove it, Sid.”

  He started to push a little harder but shook his head in resignation, acknowledging further argument at this stage would prove useless. She had worked persuasion to a fine art. “Okay. Let’s get with Mrs. Ransom and see where it stands, but I’m not promising anything. Have you had time to dig up some background on Burden?”

  “Nothing good. He’s been behind bars since he was in the sixth grade. Now he’s twenty-five. I have news reports on the trial. I’ll fax it to you.”

  A little later, Sid sat in his office near RiverGate Mall in suburban Madison, digesting the file on the child murderer. The boy’s father had deserted the family long before the night Djuan fatally shot a man more than twice his age. His young mother possessed a lengthy rap sheet, spending much of her time in and out of court on drug charges. She struggled to provide food for the table. As the oldest child, Djuan felt it his responsibility to help keep clothes on the backs of his younger siblings. He did it by taking to the streets in the projects where they lived, slinking about in the darkness, stealing and selling drugs. One night at the tender age of twelve, he sold four dime bags of pot to a young man who complained of poor quality and threatened to seize the boy’s drug supply. During the argument that followed, the youngster pulled out a pistol and shot him. A kid standing nearby saw what happened. They arrested Djuan the next day. The judge sentenced him to fifteen years in prison after a guilty plea.

  Sid found it all too familiar. During his ten years as police chief in Lewisville, a small town southwest of Nashville, he had witnessed the inevitable destruction of young lives from poverty and drugs. It affected communities of every size. He had never seen a case where the killer was so young, though. The conventional wisdom said prisons served as breeding grounds for future violence.

  Was that the real story behind Djuan Burden?

  I hated to dash her expectations, but statistics said Djuan Burden was guilty as hell.

  Chapter 2

  Not far past I-440, which served as the western demarcation line for “downtown” Nashville, Sid turned off Charlotte Avenue, looking for Rachel Ransom’s address. When he found it, the small white frame residence with a postage stamp front yard seemed to have been squeezed between a pair of tired-looking houses twice as tall, sliced into apartments. Sid parked on the narrow street behind an older model blue Ford with a dented front fender. Newly green leaves sprouted from a scattering of maple trees along the sidewalk. The piquant smell of hickory smoke from a nearby barbecue joint wafted past on a gentle morning breeze. Jaz already stood on the sidewalk by the time Sid skirted the front of his car. He usually opened the door for her, though he’d learned it sometimes impinged on her sense of independence.

  They presented quite a contrast as they walked toward the narrow but tidy front porch, a big man with ruffled black hair and beard to match, both highlighted by sprinkles of silver, and a shorter blonde woman. At six-six, Sid stood better than a head taller than Jaz. He was broad-shouldered with a modest waist for his height. She had a shapely body that remained well-toned years after she’d left the professional boxing ring. In her mid-forties, she had a winning smile that turned heads wherever she went.

  “You must be Mr. Chance and Miss LeMieux,” said the stocky woman in a long, dark blue dress who answered the door.

  They both nodded, and Sid followed Jaz in shaking the outstretched hand. Rachel Ransom had the wrinkled exterior of a woman long familiar with hard work and the sad brown eyes of one who had seen more than her share of trouble.

  “We’re sorry about what happened to your grandson,” Sid said as an icebreaker. “Was he living with you?”

  Mrs. Ransom ushered them inside. “Yes, he came here when he got out of prison. He’s a good boy at heart.” A tone of sadness tinged her voice. “I hate to admit it, but my daughter was mostly responsible for the trouble he got himself into.”

  Sid noted the colorful throws with tasseled ends that covered a sofa and two chairs in the small but neat living room. “You have a nice place here,” he said.

  “Thank you. It’s not much, but it’s mine.”

  Mrs. Ransom made her way hesitantly to a silent TV and switched off the picture. Almost certain the midnight black of her hair was something other than natural, Sid looked to the worry lines that creased her face to help judge her age at somewhere in the seventies. Photos of a few smiling teens and a couple, no doubt the Ransoms at an earlier age, sat atop the television set.

  After they were seated, Sid leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Why did you say your daughter was responsible for what happened to Djuan?”

  “We didn’t raise that girl to be the way she turned out, God rest her soul.” The elderly woman struggled to keep her composure. “Darlene got really rebellious as a teenager, married right out of high school. The boy told her he was goin’ to be a pro football player. Well, the only thing he knew about pro football was how to gamble on it.”

  “You were living in Nashville then?”

  “When she got married?”

  Sid nodded.

  “We were. Her dad and me moved to California not long after that. George worked in construction, and there was plenty going on out there. If I’d been around during those years, I might’ve been able to change things. That no-good husband of hers ran out on Darlene as soon as the twins were born.”

  “So you weren’t here when Djuan got into trouble,” Jaz said.

  “No. George got hurt and we moved back to Nashville about the time of Djuan’s trial. I didn’t know the boy had been running wild at night, hanging out with a gang of young hoodlums.”

  “Before I decide whether I can be of help to you, Mrs. Ransom, I’d like some background on Djuan. We need to go over everything you can tell us about what happened at that store.”

  “I’ll be happy to tell you whatever I know.”

  Jaz ran a slender hand through her hair. “Why are you so sure your grandson didn’t commit this murder?”

  Mrs. Ransom’s eyes narrowed; her voice softened. “He told me he didn’t do it, and I believe him. He vowed to change his life when he got out of prison.”

  Sid took a deep breath. He’d hoped to hear something a little more convincing. He cut his eyes toward Jaz, and she pursued the subject a little further.

  “There must be more to it than that,” Jaz said, keeping her voice low-key. “Marie said you were quite certain of his innocence.”

  “He went to that place in Green Hills because of me,” Mrs. Ransom said. “Since he hasn’t been able to find a job, the boy’s tried to help me all he could. I have problems with blood pressure and diabetes, and I get lots of papers from Medicare. I never paid attention to any of that stuff. Long as they pay their share of my bills, I’m fine. But when Djuan picked up one that just came, he said something didn’t look right.”

  “Did they claim you owed money?” Sid asked when she paused.

  “Nothing like that. Ma
tter of fact, it looked like they paid too much. It showed I had gotten stuff like one of these wheel chairs that runs around on a battery.”

  “A power chair?” Jaz asked.

  “I guess that’s what they call it. They said I had one that cost several thousand dollars. I never heard of such. I can walk as good as Marie Wallace. Djuan said Medicare paid a lot of money to this place out on Hillsboro Pike, but the paper showed I still owed hundreds of dollars on it.”

  “And that’s why he went out to the store?”

  “Yes’m. He took that paper out there to find out what was going on.”

  “The newspaper story said the police found a document with his fingerprints on it.”

  “That was it. He told me he dropped it on the desk before he realized there was something wrong with the man.”

  “Did Djuan come back here as soon as he left the store?” Sid asked.

  She nodded. “I’ve never seen the boy so scared. He was all bent out of shape.”

  “What did he say?”

  “At first he wouldn’t tell me anything. Just said it was nothing. He was tired and wanted to go to his room. But when I kept after him, he finally gave up and told me what had happened.”

  Jaz nodded. “The newspaper said he claimed he’d found the man dead at his desk.”

  Rachel Ransom’s brows knitted; her voice turned brittle. “He didn’t just claim he’d found a dead man. He found one.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jaz gave a contrite twist to her face. “That was the newspaper’s choice of words. I didn’t intend to sound like he wasn’t being truthful.”

  Sid leaned back on the sofa. “What, exactly, did Djuan say happened when he got there?”

  She bowed her head, the agony of her thoughts hanging like a shadow across her face. She spoke slowly. “He walked in and saw they was moving stuff out of that place. After he dropped the Medicare paper on the desk, he went around to where he could see the man’s face and realized the fellow had been shot.”