by BJ Bourg
“What the hell?” Retrieving her phone, she stretched out her arm and took a picture of the area. She then studied the image—it had been ripped out. “Someone doesn’t want us to know who this truck belongs to.”
Pushing against the steering wheel with her left hand, she crawled across the front seat and opened the glove box. It was empty. She pulled down the visors, checked the cracks in the seat, maneuvered her way to the narrow back area, and checked under the seats. Nothing.
After working her way out of the cab, she scrambled up the bank of the canal and lifted the back hatch of the camper shell and, taking a deep breath and holding it, slid belly-down into the bed of the truck. It was also empty.
After dropping back to the ground, she made a thorough search of the area surrounding the truck and began taking photographs, but she was unable to locate anything of evidentiary value. Everything was so dry that the person who crashed the truck had been able to walk away without leaving a trace.
Wiping sweat from her forehead, Susan called Lindsey and asked her to have a wrecker proceed to her location. A cool breeze began to blow and it felt good against her skin. She was shoving her radio into her belt clip when the rustling weeds parted for a split second and sunlight glinted off of something deep in the canal. It was off to the right of the truck, about forty feet away.
Susan walked along the canal—pushing thick clumps of weeds down with her boots as she proceeded forward—and curiosity mounted as more sunlight flickered through the foliage. When she was standing directly over the object, she took a careful step into the canal and pushed some of the heavier bushes to the side. When it came into view, she grunted. It was a black and silver bicycle—Troy’s bike.
“The same person who killed Fowler Underwood definitely killed Troy Gandy,” Susan told Clint when he answered her call.
“How do you know that?” Clint asked.
“The killer dumped Troy’s bicycle forty feet from where Fowler’s truck was crashed in the canal.”
“So, it’s not a coincidence.”
“I’m afraid not.” Susan slid the rest of the way to the bottom of the canal, but managed to stay upright. She gave Clint a detailed description of the bicycle as she visually examined it. She pushed more weeds down with her foot when she saw something silver against the ground. She sat on her heels and moved the individual blades of grass aside. “Damn, this might be the murder weapon.”
“What might be the murder weapon?” She could tell she had Clint’s full attention. “What’d you find?”
“It’s a three-foot piece of quarter-inch wire with a loop on each end.” She leaned closer. “There’re tiny pieces of flesh between the strands of wire, so it’s definitely the murder weapon. And there’s a padlock on one end of the wire. Troy used this to lock up his bicycle.”
“The key from his pocket,” Clint said. “I bet it opens the lock.”
Although Susan knew Clint couldn’t see her, she nodded, but it wasn’t in response to his comment because she hadn’t been paying attention to him. An idea had begun to form in her mind and it was growing stronger. “Troy rode up on something,” she said slowly. “He wasn’t targeted—he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I think you’re right,” Clint said. “The padlock and wire combination was a weapon of opportunity. The killer took it from his bike and used it against him.”
“We just need to figure out where he was when he was killed and what he stumbled into,” Susan said. “One thing we do know—it was somewhere between his window and Cindy Vincent’s back yard.”
CHAPTER 35
6:13 a.m., Tuesday, October 4
210 Devil’s Stretch, Birchtown, Tennessee
I pulled to the right-hand shoulder of the road and shut off my engine. The sun hadn’t risen yet and it was dark, which made it hard to read the numbers on the houses I’d driven by. If my map was correct, that was Fowler Underwood’s address up ahead to the north.
Devil’s Stretch was a narrow mountain road that zigzagged sharply through Birchtown and northward into the mountains. There were no hotels in town, so I’d been forced to stay at a hotel twenty miles away in Gatlinburg. In Louisiana, twenty miles usually meant a twenty-minute drive, but not so in the mountains. It took me nearly forty minutes to get back to Gatlinburg. I hadn’t gotten a room until a little after midnight, and I couldn’t find an open place to eat, so I headed straight for bed. After a few restless hours of sleep, I’d taken a quick shower, packed up my stuff, skipped breakfast, and headed straight for Birchtown.
Although I’d skipped two meals, I wasn’t hungry. All of my attention was on the yellow house that squatted between Devil’s Stretch and the side of a mountain that seemed to extend way up into the Heavens. An orange Jeep with a ragtop was parked on the far right side of the gravel driveway, apparently making room for another vehicle that was absent. Could it be that the blue Nissan King Cab normally took up the space beside the Jeep?
I hadn’t seen a car all morning and there wasn’t a single light on in the house. After waiting a few more minutes, I stepped out of my Tahoe. It was sixty degrees outside and a cool wind was blowing in from the north. I shuddered as I started walking toward the house, wishing I’d brought a light jacket. With luck, Fowler, Jr. would be home and he could provide some answers.
My boots crunched in the gravel and I slowed my pace to minimize the noise. If he was inside, I didn’t want him to know I was here until I was ready for him to know it. I ambled toward the mailbox and looked both ways along Devil’s Stretch before opening the flap. The box was so full that several envelopes had been shoved forcefully inside, causing them to become crumpled.
I scanned my surroundings again before removing one of the envelopes and straightening it against the side of the box. I then pulled out my phone, shined the light on it, and read the caption out loud, “Fowler Underwood, Two-One-Zero Devil’s Stretch, Birchtown, Tennessee.” I shoved the mail back into the box and walked directly to the back door. Either no one was home or Fowler’s son was too lazy to even catch the mail.
I tried calling Susan, but the call failed. I tried a few more times after walking around a bit, but I couldn’t get service. I used the camera on my phone and took a picture of the license plate on the Jeep. I’d call later and have Susan run it just to be sure it was registered to one of the Underwoods.
I then walked to the back door and banged on it. There was no movement from inside. I banged a second time—this time harder—but it brought no response from inside. I then tried the door handle, but it was locked. I walked around to the front of the house, where a wooden picket fence was wrapped around the entire front yard.
There were no gates, so I jumped over the fence and walked across the wooden porch. I banged on the back frame and tried the knob, but no one came to the door and it was locked. I had hoped to find someone who could answer some questions.
I hurried back to my Tahoe and drove until I reached the fork in the road where Birchtown Creek Baptist Church was located. The nearest neighbor was a short drive to the right, but I saw a car in the parking lot of the church. It hadn’t been there when I’d passed earlier, so I pulled in and tried the door knob. Like all good churches, it was open and I stepped inside to find a preacher standing at the lectern. His head was down, but he looked up when my boots sounded on the hollow floor.
“Welcome to Birchtown Creek Baptist Church,” he greeted warmly in his mountain twang. “What can I do you for?”
I introduced myself and told him I was looking for anyone related to Fowler Underwood. “I need to speak with his nearest relative,” I said. “It’s a matter of great importance.”
“Well, that’s troubling news.” The preacher shifted the large-rimmed glasses on his nose. “Since you’re looking for his next of kin, I can only guess he’s either dead or in a bad way.”
I frowned. “He’s definitely not well.”
“As far as I’m aware, the only remaining relative is a son—Fow
ler, Jr.—but he’s been jailed for six months up at county. He’s awaiting trial on drug charges and also doing time for not paying his child support.” He paused and shook his head. “Junior gave his dad a fair amount of grief, that’s for certain.”
“What do you know about Fowler Underwood?”
“I know just about all of it—same as everyone around these parts. Fowler was born an only child, married young, had a daughter and a son, raised them the best he could, and then tragedy struck.” The preacher slid a thin ribbon book marker between the pages of the Bible and folded it shut. He then walked around the lectern and pointed to one of the pews.
I took a seat and he sat a few feet from me, on the same pew.
“It was eighteen years ago, right down yonder.” The preacher nodded his head farther north of where we were. “Fowler had purchased this little stretch of land and put a trailer on it for his daughter, Melissa. She hadn’t been there a month when it happened.”
He paused and shook his head slowly as he removed his glasses and wiped them carefully with a handkerchief he had pulled from his shirt pocket. When he was done, he shoved them back on his face and continued. “Her husband, Larry Cooper, was a little pecker-head from town. Fowler was convinced the only reason Melissa married Cooper was because he’d gotten her pregnant. But, while Fowler didn’t like the boy, he was determined to see his girl happy, so he bought them a little place to raise his grandchild.”
The preacher paused again and I nearly groaned out loud. I wanted to reach down his throat and drag the information out, but, instead, I sat patiently and let him tell it in his own time.
“There’s a lot of speculation surrounding what happened that night and who done it, but one thing they know for sure—Larry Cooper was gunned down and Melissa and her baby boy was gone. They never seen hide nor hair of that girl or her child again.” The preacher shook his head. “It ’bout killed poor Fowler when he walked in that trailer and found Larry dead and his girl missing.”
That got my attention and I felt bad for the man. “Fowler’s the one who discovered the crime?”
The preacher nodded. “And like I said, it ’bout killed him. Eventually, it did kill his wife, Lord bless her soul, but not before she put up a good fight trying to find Melissa.”
“What agency handled the case?”
“I don’t know if you can call it handled, it’s more like mishandled. Fowler was outspoken about the investigation and criticized Sheriff Burns of Blackshaw County to everyone who would listen. He believed Burns was either involved in a cover-up or he was simply incompetent. He tried calling in the state police to make Burns drop the warrant on his daughter, but they refused to get involved, saying they wouldn’t interfere with a local matter. They said the only way they’d step in was if the sheriff requested their assistance, and he certainly wasn’t going to do that.”
“Is Sheriff Burns still in power today?” I asked.
The preacher shook his head. “He’s long gone—booted out of office. Fowler raised so much hell and caused so much trouble for him that he couldn’t take it anymore. One day, he just up and punched Fowler on a busy sidewalk in the middle of town. Knocked him right out. When Fowler hit the ground, Burns began stomping him until a few of the townspeople dragged him away. He resigned the next day.”
“Why’d Fowler criticize the sheriff and the investigation?”
“Because Burns immediately named Melissa as a suspect in Larry’s murder and he swore out a warrant for her. Fowler insisted his daughter was in danger and he continues to believe that until today…” The preacher allowed his voice to trail off as he glanced up at me. “Well, he continues to believe that to this day if, indeed, he’s still with us today. Your presence here makes me doubt that he is.”
I frowned, shook my head. “Fowler was murdered in our parish two Fridays ago.”
The preacher recoiled in horror. “Murdered? Who would want to kill old Fowler? He’s never said a bad word to no one except Sheriff Burns, and most folks around these parts felt it was justified.”
“That’s why I’m here, to try and find out who killed him.” After providing the details of the case that had already been made public, I asked about Fowler. “You said he raised hell and caused trouble for Burns. What exactly did he do?”
“For starters, when the sheriff circulated wanted posters around town naming Melissa as the suspect in Larry’s murder, Fowler went behind him and tore them all down. Burns arrested him for tampering with evidence, but the DA refused to accept the charges. He later began showing up at town hall meetings and demanding that Burns tender his resignation. After Burns attacked him, he finally let it go.” The preacher scowled. “He missed his daughter and grandbaby so much that he hired some forensic artists from up at the college to make some age progression portraits of Melissa and her baby so he could see what they looked like today. He’d heard about the technology on the news. People who had lost kids at an early age would have the pictures done so they would know what their kids looked like as adults, and he did the same thing.”
“Did those portraits end up on a flyer?”
The preacher nodded. “Last year, on the anniversary of Melissa’s disappearance, one of Fowler’s sisters-in-law—Melissa’s nanny—made up about a thousand flyers with those pictures and put them up all around the eastern part of the state. They were making one last-ditch effort to bring Melissa home before Fowler grew old and passed away. I know he never gave up on Melissa and he missed her and his grandbaby more than anything in the world.”
“What’s the anniversary date of their disappearance?”
“The Fourth of July.”
I was suddenly angry at Kegan Davis. The little punk had made a conscious decision to prank call a victim’s family and lie about knowing where they were. Not only was it a cruel joke to a grieving father, but, thanks to his harassing phone call, poor Fowler Underwood was now dead, and so was Troy Gandy.
“Do you know the baby’s name?” I asked.
The preacher’s brow furrowed. “If I remember correctly, it was Drake…Drake Cooper. I baptized him when he was just a couple of months old.”
I jotted down the information and sat thoughtful, wondering where to go from here. “Does Junior know anything?”
“No, he was twelve at the time so he didn’t know much, but it did have an impact on his life. Fowler and his wife were so tore up over losing Melissa that they neglected him a bit.” The preacher removed his glasses again and rubbed his face. “That’s most likely why he turned out the way he did.”
“Where can I find Sheriff Burns?” I was beginning to wonder if he had made the trip to Louisiana and killed Fowler.
“Why do you want to talk to him?” the preacher asked.
“He investigated the case, so he knows more about it than anyone else.”
“If you say so. He lives five miles south of Birchtown, down a dirt road off to the right.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t drive down that road without being invited. Word is he’s gotten a little crazy in his old age and he’s prone to shooting at trespassers.”
“Thanks.” I stood to leave. “I’ll take my chances.”
CHAPTER 36
The dirt road was right where the preacher said it would be, but he’d failed to mention how overgrown the road was. Old hickory trees grew unfettered, their low-lying branches scraping the top of my SUV as I drove along the bumpy road. I winced at the sounds the branches made overhead, wondering if I’d need a new paintjob after I was done.
My headlights popped on automatically as I crept into the deep mountain shadows. The road switched right and angled steeply upward, forcing me to drop it into low gear. After negotiating several more switchbacks, the ground leveled off and I saw a structure up ahead. Remembering what the preacher had said, I pulled my Tahoe to a stop, shut off the engine, and stepped out.
“Sheriff Burns!” I yelled loudly, slowly approaching what I could now see was a rustic log cabin. I kept my hands out to m
y sides to show I was not going to reach for a gun. I wasn’t wearing a holster, but my Beretta 9mm pistol was tucked into the waistband under my shirt. “Sheriff Burns, I’m Clint Wolf from Louisiana—”
I shut up and stopped dead when I heard the unmistakable sound of a pump-action shotgun being racked. It echoed sharply through the quiet mountain air.
“What the hell do you want, Clint Wolf from Louisiana, and who told you where to find me?” His voice sounded hoarse and raspy, like a heavy smoker and drinker.
“I’m a fellow law enforcement officer,” I said calmly. “Here to talk about a case you worked years ago. I need your help.”
“Bullshit! You’re some kind of fed, aren’t you? Well, if it’s my guns you want, come and get ’em!”
I laughed out loud.
“What the hell is so funny?”
“What’s funny is you thinking I’m after your guns,” I said. “If anyone came after your guns, I’d be standing shoulder to shoulder with you.”
Suddenly, Sheriff Burns materialized from behind a tree as smoothly as I’ve often seen fog moving through the swamps back home. Bushy brows hovered over black eyes and the bottom portion of his face was covered in a thick black and white mop of a beard.
“Turn your back to me and pull out your credentials—slowly! And if you go for that pistol you’ve got hidden under your shirt, I’ll cut you in half!”
Burns was probably sixty, but he looked strong as a mule and mean as a rattler. His loose-fitting, long-sleeved khaki shirt was tucked into his rugged khaki pants and there was a pistol snapped into a leather holster on his right side. His pants were held up with a belt that boasted an American flag buckle with the shadow of a bear in the foreground—must be popular around here—and there was no doubt in my mind he would use the shotgun in his hands if he felt it necessary.
