by Glenn Trust
“Not yet, officially,” the sheriff replied, eyeing George for some sign of insubordination.
“There are some ligature marks…bruises… on her neck,” Ronnie added, again to distract the sheriff and lead George onto safer ground.
“I know what ligature marks are, Chief Deputy,” the sheriff shot back impatiently.
“Right, probably strangulation. Won’t know for sure until the autopsy is done.”
“Yeah,” George said softly, looking down at the girl’s body. “He took his time with that too. Choked her slow.”
“How in the world can you make that determination standing here?” The sheriff said with disdain.
George just looked at the girl. He was focused now. “He wanted to hurt her. Wouldn’t have wanted her to die too quick.”
Ignoring the scorn on the sheriff’s face, he stepped carefully around to the other side of the body staying in areas where the crime scene techs and GBI had already searched for evidence.
“Hey, Bob.”
Shaklee approached. “Hey, George. How you doin’ today?” They stood side by side looking down at the body.
“Ok I guess. Better’n her, for sure.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Bob Shaklee replied somberly.
Shaklee had only met George the night before at the scene of the Sims murder, but he had already developed an appreciation for the deputy’s commonsense abilities.
“Guess you’ll be checking motels around for a missing bedspread like that one.”
Bob smiled, “Yeah we’re on it. That part is simple. Any ideas?”
George looked down at the girl and asked, “What’s that? There on her head just under the hairline.”
“Yeah, we saw that. Looks like he hit her with some object. Left a mark and broke the skin.”
“Mind if I get a little closer?”
Shaklee nodded him forward. Good old boy or not, George knew his way around a crime scene.
George squatted again, this time near the girl’s head. He took a pen from his shirt pocket and carefully, gently, separated some strands of bloody hair covering a mark on the girl’s head. He studied the mark for a minute, and then took a small pad from the same frayed shirt pocket and began making notations on the pad.
Sheriff Klineman watched. He hated having George here. He resented the way the GBI treated George with a respectful familiarity, as if he were one of them.
George was a redneck, pure and simple. He was the perfect caricature of the country lawman. He was an embarrassment. The GBI were highly trained professionals, but they seemed actually to like George. He could not, for the life of him, understand why.
Therefore, Sheriff Richard Klineman resented George. He resented the GBI. He resented anything that might get in the way of his reelection. Most of all, he resented two murders in twelve hours in his county, casting doubts on his law enforcement leadership and possibly putting the election in jeopardy. Yes, he especially resented that.
Bob Shaklee and Ronnie watched George also. Ronnie stepped over next to Bob as George stood up and showed them his notepad.
“I know this isn’t professional or even legal evidence, but I don’t think she was hit with an object.” George turned the pad towards the two lawmen.
“See this here, I kind of drew out the marks from that place on her head. There’s kind of a rectangle with a sort of faint oval inside and these curved marks coming out of the oval. Wasn’t an object. The asshole beat her with his fist. That’s the imprint from a ring.”
Bob and Ronnie studied the sketch on the rumpled notepad for a minute and looked at each other. George was right. It was definitely the imprint of a ring on the hand that had beaten and then killed the young woman.
“Kind of looks like a longhorn design doesn’t it?” Ronnie looked over at Bob Shaklee. “You know, Texas Longhorn.”
“Yep, it does,” Bob said. “This is important, George.”
Ronnie smiled at George, “Good job, Mackey.”
“There’s something else,” George was focused and not interested in Ronnie’s platitudes.
“What’s that?”
“Bob, you remember at the scene last night? The knife wound?”
“Yes.” Shaklee regarded the deputy through narrowed eyes. He thought he knew where this was going and knew the sheriff’s reaction would be interesting.
“Well, that wound was designed to kill, but also to cause maximum pain.”
“I agree.” Shaklee let him speak.
“The wounds on the girl were not intended to kill.”
“Right,” Sheriff Klineman stated in firm agreement.
“But,” George paused, “the wounds on the girl were designed to cause maximum pain, like the knife wound in Mr. Sims. That’s the common denominator. Both murders were committed by the same sadistic bastard. At least that’s how I would work it for now.”
“What!” The sheriff’s exclamation gurgled and sputtered out in disbelief. “You’re saying we have a serial killer in Pickham County. My God, are you insane!” He looked at Ronnie Kupman, “And you said we needed him here. You must be insane as well. Do you know what would happen if people thought we had our own county slasher? Our own Ted Bundy right here in Pickham.”
George shrugged. “That’s how I see it. But don’t worry; I doubt he’s still in Pickham County.”
“Sheriff, I have to say that we agree with the deputy’s theory,” GBI Agent Shaklee stated quietly, but firmly. “I assure you that the serial killer aspect will not be discussed in public, but it is an important part of our working theory in the investigation.”
Klineman turned and strode briskly from the body, not being all that careful about where he stepped. “Jesus,” he muttered pushing through the brush.
“Where do we go from here?” Ronnie asked Shaklee.
“I’ll get a technician to get some good photographs of the ring imprint during the autopsy so we can use it as evidence when we find the bastard.” He looked around the scene. “Be a couple of more hours here at least, then we’ll start digging into it. I suggest we meet up with you and the sheriff say about six o’clock at his office.
“Sounds like a plan. If you don’t mind, George and I are going to go down the road here and talk to Tom Ridley and his wife.”
“That’s fine. See you at six.”
Ronnie and George started away.
“One other thing,” Bob said.
The two stopped and turned.
“The person who did this may be looking for more victims. These cases go in different ways. Sometimes there are no more victims for years. Sometimes there are a lot in spurts. Don’t know which this is gonna be, but we should hurry and see if we can catch up with him while there is some trail. If you have any ideas, don’t sit on them waiting for us to give the okay. We need to move quickly. If you need to interview someone, just do it.”
George’s eyes narrowed, “He tortured and killed this little girl and dumped her body like a bag of trash on a dirt road in my county. We’ll be hurrying, Bob.”
George spun and worked his way quickly back out to the dirt road.
Bob said nothing. He understood.
It was the second time that day that Shaklee had heard someone call Pickham ‘their county’, and he noted the look of displeasure on Klineman’s face. The sheriff had overheard the remark.
Shaklee chuckled to himself as he turned to the crime scene tech. Poor George, there’d be hell to pay for that later. Right now, Klineman needed George. So did he, for that matter.
So did she, he thought, looking at the girl sprawled before him, but whatever they did for her now would be too late.
The girl on the ground stared open-eyed into the dusty weeds in agreement.
38. Ride This
She wandered around the truck stop store with no idea where to begin. Drivers, mostly men, were coming and going. A chubby clerk at the cash register was busily ringing up roller-heated hot dogs and sodas for customers, while pointing out the restr
ooms for others.
The few non-truckers seemed to be families on vacation or older couples. They all stood out, like her, she thought. It was a busy place.
It occurred to her to try speaking to one of the families or older couples. They were probably safer. But would they understand her need to get away, or just try to talk her into going home or even call the police to take her home?
They were regular people, family people, people with normal lives, whatever that was. She had no clue. Their normalness made it harder for her to try to speak to them. She was not part of their world. Trying to step into their world seemed as alien and impossible as stepping onto the surface of the moon.
Lyn moved over to the magazine rack in the store. She picked one up and stared blindly at the cover. Staring into the magazine, not seeing the page, she felt completely alone.
The brothers who had given her the ride to the truck stop had been told by Kathy to find her a safe ride. That was easier said than done, she now understood. They said they would check back on her after work. Probably just their conscience, guilty at leaving a girl alone here, but she was beginning to think that maybe she would just wait for them to come back.
She considered Clay’s offer for her to go home with them. How could she do that? He seemed nice and normal, like the families wandering around the truck stop. Her life would be alien to him.
A young boy from one of the family groups came running down the aisle, chased by his older sister. The girl grabbed his arm as they brushed past Lyn.
“Mama said get over there, so get,” she hissed at her brother through clenched teeth, dragging the struggling child to his mother.
She was lonely, surrounded by these strangers, the normal people doing normal things. How could she go up to one of them and ask for a ride north to Canada. Impossible.
More than that, it was ridiculous. Canada. They would laugh at it. The brothers had started to laugh at the idea earlier, until they realized she was serious. Her seriousness had surprised them and amused them, she knew.
But Clay had made his offer anyway, and now, her running away dream, the one she and Sam had sheltered under all those hard years, was beginning to seem less achievable than it had earlier. Worse, it seemed childish. In the cold light of day, she was frightened and unsure.
The deep voice beside her was startling.
“Well, hello again young lady.” He spoke in his most grandfatherly tone. His deep voice and drawl made the words soft.
Lyn started and turned her head towards the voice. The large truck driver from the diner the night before, Kathy had called him Henry, was thumbing through a magazine a few feet away.
He smiled at her and put the magazine down.
“I thought I saw you in the cafe earlier. Did you eat?”
She nodded. Her throat was tight.
“Well good. I was a little worried about you last night when you went off with them two boys. They treat you all right?”
She nodded again, “Yes, they were fine. We had breakfast.”
“Good, good. That’s real fine.” Henry looked out the window. “Looks like they got my rig fueled up and ready. Just wanted to make sure you was okay.” He smiled and put the magazine back on the rack.
“Thanks, I’m fine,” she said softly.
“Okay then, I’ll be heading out,” Henry said turning away, and then stopped and asked over his shoulder, “You looking for a ride? I’m headed north if you want to come along for a spell. I’m going as far north as Richmond, then headed back west.”
“Oh, well…I, well I just…” Lyn was intimidated by the large man, but he seemed harmless now, just friendly. It was confusing.
Henry smiled again and in his deep syrupy voice said, “It’s all right. I understand. Look, I’m going to go pay for my fuel and check out the rig. Take about ten minutes. Then I’m gonna crank her up and head out up I-95. If you’re going that way, you’re welcome. Just come on out to the truck.” Henry pointed out the window and added, “It’s that big red Freightliner there at the pumps.”
Henry turned around and walked away.
Lyn watched him, her head spinning. Two minutes ago, she was ready to take Clay Purcell up on his offer to go home with him and his brother. She had almost given up on Canada. Now, out of the blue, she had a ride to Richmond. It was a sign, maybe.
Richmond was north, she knew that. It was Virginia, and Virginia was closer to Canada than Georgia, although how much closer, she wasn’t precisely sure. But from there another ride north would get her closer, maybe all the way. So why not go all the way, or at least try?
The uncertainty began to subside and her innate sense of determination began to take over again. She was poor, not well educated, but she was determined and that counted for something.
Lyn stood there for a few minutes looking out the store window and across the large lot. She could see Henry standing by the red truck. He was talking to the fuel attendant and seemed totally unaware of her. He had made no threatening statement. He had not tried to hurt her or intimidate her and he could have. He was big. No, he just walked away and said she could come if she wanted.
Again she thought, it was a sign…maybe…a chance. Maybe she should take it. Maybe she had to take it or never know.
She realized that she couldn’t be overly picky. She was not going to get offers from church ladies. Leaving the store, she walked across the parking lot to the red truck and Henry.
The busy clerk at the cash register was not too busy to have noticed the pretty girl and the fat man at the magazine rack. He saw her walk to the truck and shook his head. Runaways, you saw them all the time at truck stops; usually young girls, alone and scared. They would fall for any line from these truckers.
The clerk didn’t get it. Why, he would be happy to give the pretty little brunette a ride. Watching her slim form cross the lot, he felt the twitch in his balls and the start of a boner. Of course, no one would notice under his three hundred and twenty pounds.
“That’ll be seven ninety-five,” Todd the clerk said to the old couple with two hot dogs and two sodas at the counter.
Outside, Henry showed Lyn how to climb up into the tall Freightliner. The clerk watched over the heads of the old couple. He pushed his groin against the counter as he rang up the next customer. Little girl if you want a ride, he thought, ride this.
39. Confession
George Mackey and Chief Deputy Kupman walked away from the body of the girl, carefully retracing their steps through the grass back to the dirt road. George was quiet. Ronnie assumed he was thinking about the ring mark he had found on the girl’s head where her murderer had apparently struck her. It was a good observation, the kind of thing that George was good at seeing…things that might be invisible to others.
Looking back, Ronnie saw that Sheriff Klineman was talking with Bob Shaklee, moving his hands animatedly. No doubt, he would be trying to put some spin on George’s theory that the same person had committed both murders that had taken place in the county within the last twelve hours.
Bad enough to have two murders, but to have a serial killer going around killing old black men and young girls just weeks before his reelection campaign was scheduled to start was potentially devastating, at least for the sheriff. His reelection chances would be a toss-up at best. Klineman’s actual concern for the devastation to the murder victims and their families was a matter of conjecture.
Knowing Klineman, Kupman realized he might just as easily be trying to find a way to spin it so that he could take credit for the potentially case breaking piece of evidence, the ring mark on the girl’s head.
Something like, ‘Yeah, I taught George everything he knows about law enforcement,’ or ‘Yeah, George is like a son to me. He discusses every case in detail with me to verify his theories’ or at the very least, ‘I always make sure my deputies have the very latest training in investigative procedures’…so on and so on.
Kupman shook his head. A smirk born of distaste for the sh
eriff plastered itself across his face.
They walked past the still waiting hearse drivers. Timmy Farrin from the local radio station had a portable tape recorder out and appeared to be interviewing the taller undertaker, for want of anyone better to question. The Savannah stations must be getting close. Timmy was taking whoever and whatever he could get to fill the airwaves emanating from Everett. Not often a local story here got noticed by the big stations. Timmy had to make the most of it. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t have the weight, meaning a sufficiently large audience, for the sheriff to grant him any special access to the scene or to interview the GBI or the sheriff himself.
Thanks to cable and satellite dishes, most people in the county got their news straight from the Savannah or Jacksonville stations. The AM station that Timmy worked for was mostly daytime religious programming for the folks out at the Pine Grove Retirement Home, with interludes of country music. Nighttime programming was mostly Braves baseball during the season, or local high school football and basketball call-in shows other times. The sheriff would make damn sure that the Savannah stations got the story first, and they in turn would make sure that he was prominently interviewed, in full uniform, stars on his collar and all, explaining how all the resources of his department were being allocated to finding the killers of the girl and Harold Sims.
It was going to be quite a spin job…making sure that all understood clearly that they were unrelated cases…oh yes, and that there was absolutely no Klan connection with Mr. Sims’ death…oh yes, and that the killer, who was almost certainly not from Pickham County, would be caught and brought to justice swiftly. Oh, and did he mention that his vast resources were being completely dedicated to the two separate and distinct cases.
Quite the spin job, indeed, but Chief Deputy Ronnie Kupman had faith in his sheriff. Of course, Timmy would get his interview, after the sheriff had been seen by all the voters in the county on the evening news broadcasts from the major metropolitan areas.
