The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  Black male, older, graying hair. Clothes were casual but nice, pricey. The kind of clothes someone driving a BMW on Sunday afternoon would wear.

  The victim’s head was slumped down on his chest turned away from Barnes. He could see the entrance wound on the left side of the head. His experience told him it was probably made by a .38 or .357 round, which were actually the same caliber with different powder loads. He would know from the exit wound when he lifted the head. The .357 magnum would leave a much more devastating exit wound. Considering the shattered window glass and exit wound blood, he was thinking .357.

  Gently, he lifted the victim’s head, holding the chin and back of the head with his latex covered fingers. Tilting the head, he examined the exit wound. Yep, .357 all the way. A ragged hole, the size of a silver dollar gaped obscenely in the side of the man’s head. So much of the brain matter and tissue had been blown out and into the window glass that the wound looked hollow, as if you could see inside the man’s skull.

  Still holding the chin and back of the head, Barnes rotated the head slightly to the right to get a better look at the face. Shit. It was the only thought that came to mind and it fit.

  Distorted from the impact of the .357 round, the face was still distinguishable. Barnes had stood before Clayton Marswell on a number of occasions, had withstood the judge’s scrutiny as he testified. Judge Marswell’s reputation as impartial often irritated law enforcement. They had to go the extra mile to make sure their case was ironclad and airtight. No one would be railroaded in Judge Marswell’s court. And yet, he was deeply respected, if not always loved, by prosecutors and law enforcement. For a man like Barnes, there was the additional deep awareness that Judge Marswell, and others like him, had helped create the world where a young black man could become an Atlanta police officer and then rise through the ranks and earn entry into the elite Atlanta Homicide Division.

  Barnes noted a wallet on the floorboard of the car lying against the man’s left foot. He gently lowered the head onto Marswell’s chest. Leaning in the window, he picked it up with the tips of his fingers. He opened the bi-fold alligator wallet not wanting to see what he knew he would see. All valuables and credit cards had been removed, but the picture on the driver’s license showed an elderly black man smiling politely as directed and waiting for the camera flash. There were no judicial robes, but it was clearly Clayton Marswell, Fulton County Superior Court Judge.

  Backing slowly away from the car, retracing his steps, the wallet still in his hand, Detective Andy Barnes walked towards his car to retrieve his cell phone. He did not want this going out over the airwaves yet.

  Officer Torrance approached with his clipboard held out.

  “Detective, I have the registration on the car. You’re not going to believe…” The young officer stopped speaking as the detective brushed by, completely oblivious to anything he was saying.

  Reaching the Crown Vic, Barnes peeled the latex gloves from his hands and reached in for his cell phone. Leaning against the car, he pushed the fedora to the back of his head and took a deep breath. He started punching numbers with his thumb. Shit, he thought one last time and then put the phone to his ear.

  8. Breaking Glass

  He walked into the clearing and squatted down. Scanning the ground for a moment, he grunted and then reached out with a gloved hand and picked up three brass shell casings from the pine straw. Holding the open ends up to his nose, he sniffed and nodded to himself.

  The woods outside the clearing were thick. He had to push his way through the brush and blackberry thickets back towards the house. Coming to the edge of the tree line, he paused and looked at the house. The old wood siding, painted bright white, gave off a cherry red color in the glow of the setting spring sun. It was actually quite picturesque and brought a smile to his face.

  Dropping to one knee, he unslung the Winchester, Model 70, .30-06 bolt-action rifle from his shoulder in the smooth practiced motion of an experienced hunter. Crouched beside a maple thirty feet back in the woods in camouflage clothing, he would be invisible to anyone watching from the house. Leveling the rifle, he brought the crosshairs of the scope to bear on his target. Then releasing his breath slowly, he squeezed the trigger. The report of the shot was resoundingly loud, but quickly absorbed by the trees and foliage. Pulling the rifle’s bolt back smoothly, he reacquired his target, squeezed the trigger, and then repeated the action one final time.

  Before the roar of the final round faded away, he had picked up the shell casings from the rounds he had just fired. Standing, he dropped the three shells he had picked up in the clearing and made his way through the woods. After slogging through the brush for a half mile, he plopped into the seat of an old pickup that was parked under some trees. Ten minutes later, he had steered the truck through the dense undergrowth to a dirt trail. The trail led to a county road. Twenty minutes later, Big Bud Thompson was southbound on I-75 heading into, and then through, Atlanta.

  The crash of breaking glass was the first thing she heard. A second later the distant report of a rifle shot filtered through the open window into the upstairs bedroom. Waking completely, Lauralee Somerhill quickly slid her feet off the bed and onto the floor. Walking into the hallway, she called downstairs.

  “Prentiss.” She plodded in her bare feet down the stairs. “Prentiss, are you there? Are you all right? What did you break?”

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she walked into the dining room. The window to the back porch was shattered. Shards of glass covered the old dining table and lodged in the faux fruit centerpiece. She could see her husband in his chair outside the window on the porch.

  “Prentiss!” She went to the window. Something was wrong. His head slumped strangely on his chest. It looked different from when he slept in his chair. It was different.

  Running into the kitchen and out the door onto the porch, she came up beside his chair.

  “Prentiss! Oh God, no. No!”

  Lauralee Somerhill, wife of Prentiss Somerhill for fifty years, slumped to the gray painted porch boards and laid her face against her husband’s lifeless hand, still resting peacefully on the arm of his chair. Sobbing, she looked up and saw the three bright red holes in the front of his shirt. The blood was slowly turning to a brownish color as it dried in the late afternoon sun.

  She knew she should rise and call the police. She knew it, but she also knew he was gone and this moment was the last she would ever have with him alone before whatever was to come started.

  Five minutes later, she dried her tears, raised herself gracefully from the porch, gave his hand a final pat, and then walked steadily into the kitchen to the phone. Dialing 911, she waited for the emergency operator to pick up. It took five rings. Just as the operator answered, she glanced at the sink and saw the plate from his tuna sandwich waiting to be washed. She wiped a tear from her eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke.

  “This is Lauralee Somerhill. My husband, Senator Prentiss Somerhill, has been killed.”

  It took ten minutes for the first county deputy to arrive. Within an hour, there were fifteen law enforcement vehicles in the drive. It took the Georgia Bureau of Investigation two hours to arrive. They had further to come.

  9. Standing Guard

  The white circle of light from the spotlight moved slowly along the roadside ditch. Pickham County Deputy George Mackey allowed the truck to roll slowly along the shoulder with only the idling engine propelling it. The bright headlights and spotlight together lit the dirt, brush, and ditch with a garish white light that sucked the color out of everything, replacing it with a lifeless gray.

  Betty Farrin had stopped by her son Timmy’s trailer to pick him up for Sunday evening services at the Crossroads Baptist Church. It was a tradition. Timmy was no great believer, but since the passing of his father five years earlier, he had made a point of accompanying his mother to church on Sunday evenings. It brought her some comfort, and he actually enjoyed the association with friends and locals he had known most
of his life, even if the sermons, full of southern hellfire and brimstone, did little for his soul.

  The trailer that he called home was nestled in a clearing a hundred yards off the same county road that he jogged along. It was tidy and clean and surrounded by pines. Timmy was a bachelor with no immediate love interests, and the trailer and privacy in his clearing suited him. His career in broadcasting and the blog he had founded and managed for his boss and editor, Porter Wright, consumed his thoughts and time. Girls would come later. Right now, he was focused on his mission, moving to a larger broadcast market. Savannah, maybe, or even Atlanta one day.

  When Betty Farrin arrived at the trailer that Sunday, she could tell immediately that her son was not home. Normally, the front door was open and she could call through the screen door to him. The door was closed and locked.

  Retrieving the key from under a flowerpot on the small wooden porch Timmy had proudly constructed by himself, she entered quietly through the door. Everything was in order. The dishes were washed, the bed was made, and his books were stacked neatly on their shelves. Outside, the Everett Gazette van that he was allowed to drive sat under a pine tree. She could see through the trailer’s window that pine needles had been collecting on the van’s roof since Timmy had parked it after work on Friday.

  His mother knew that he had likely spent Saturday working on his blog, whatever that was. Timmy had tried to explain the idea of an electronic forum for the exchange of ideas and publishing thought and opinion, but she had a hard time with the concept. Reporters should write in newspapers or magazines or be on the radio or television. This whole computer internet electronic communication was beyond her, and she had told her son that very thing on a number of occasions. He always reassured her that he was not abandoning his dream of broadcast journalism, but the ability to discuss seriously issues and spark changes in public thinking was challenging and honed his writing skills. She always shrugged and asked when she would see him on the cable television. Soon, he assured her, soon.

  Betty Farrin was not the panicky sort, but the absence of her son on this Sunday afternoon concerned her. Sunday evening services had become their tradition. Timmy would not miss them without saying something to her.

  After thirty minutes, she felt that it was time to take some sort of action. Picking up the phone on the counter in the trailer’s small kitchen, she dialed the non-emergency number of the Pickham County Sheriff’s Department. The desk deputy on duty answered and patiently listened to Mrs. Farrin’s concerns about her son, made a few notes, and told her a deputy would meet her there shortly.

  Ten minutes later, George Mackey wheeled the county pickup down the drive to the trailer. Mrs. Farrin recognized him as he stepped out of the truck. Most people in the area knew George Mackey, or knew of him. His involvement in the county’s most infamous double murder case the previous year had won him a good bit of notoriety. George would have preferred that everyone just forgot the murders and his involvement in the investigation, but that was not likely to happen soon. Even small rural counties needed their heroes, and fate had chosen George as the favorite son and hero for the people of Pickham County, Georgia.

  “Hello, George. Nice to see you.”

  Mackey nodded and smiled. “Nice to see you too, Mrs. Farrin.” As the mother of the most well-known broadcast journalist, albeit the only broadcast journalist, in Pickham County, Betty Farrin was also a recognizable personage in the area. “So, Timmy’s not around?”

  “No, George. I can’t seem to find him. Not like him to miss Sunday evening services, and his van is still here.”

  Mackey scanned the clearing turning his head to look around. The setting sun cast an orange glow through the pines and into Timmy’s clearing in the woods. Everything was orderly and neat, as Timmy would have left it.

  Turning back to Mrs. Farrin he said, “Timmy takes his run every afternoon, Sundays too, right?”

  “Yes, Sundays too. He’s working hard to get in shape. You know, with the new television station and all. He says his image is as important as his writing on the air.”

  George smiled. “I expect that’s true. I imagine you have to look good for the cameras.” Taking one last look around the clearing, he turned back to Mrs. Farrin, an uncomfortable tingling crawling slowly up his back. “I’m going to go check along the road.”

  “You think something has happened to Timmy? George?”

  “I expect he’s all right. Might have met someone along the way. Stopped to help someone. Maybe tripped and hurt himself.” He smiled reassuringly at Mrs. Farrin, not feeling nearly as confident as he was trying to sound. He turned towards the pickup, calling over his shoulder. “You stay here. Timmy might show up. If he does, call the sheriff’s office, and they will let me know.”

  Betty Farrin nodded, the apprehension for her son etched across her face. The sun was now below the horizon. The headlights on the truck shining into her eyes as George turned and headed down the drive and out to the road caused her to squint, highlighting the concern in her eyes. George gave her a quick wave and steered the pickup quickly between the pines.

  Thirty minutes later, George reached the limit of Timmy’s route along the county road. There were no signs of Timmy. With some small relief, he turned the truck and started back along the opposite shoulder of the road. Any number of things could have happened to Timmy. Stepped on a snake and fell down the bank. Tripped and broke an ankle and fell down the bank. Struck by a passing vehicle and fell down the bank. This third possibility seemed the least likely to George. Traffic on this road was light, and Timmy would have been clearly visible in the afternoon sun to anyone driving by.

  Moving slowly along the shoulder of the road, George scanned the roadside ditch at the bottom of the bank, his eyes following the spotlight’s circle of light. As the truck rolled slowly to a point within a mile of the turnoff to Timmy’s clearing, George relaxed a bit. Nothing. That was good. So, he wondered, what might Timmy have gotten into that caused him to be late for Sunday services?

  Without any conscious thought, George’s foot hit the brake and slowed the pickup to a complete stop, his eyes focused on a ragged bundle in the ditch twenty or thirty yards ahead. A white jogging shoe was clearly visible in the midst of the ragged bundle.

  Letting out a long slow sigh, and taking his flashlight from the passenger seat, Mackey exited the pickup and made his way carefully down the bank and into the ditch. His eyes scanned the ground for anything that might be considered evidence, and for anything unpleasant that he might step on.

  Walking along the ditch, he could see in the light of the truck’s spotlight that the bundle was crumpled against a live oak tree. Spanish moss hanging from the branches waved and trembled in the light evening breeze.

  “Shit.” The single word was audible and summed up everything George had feared as he made his way along the roadside ditch from Timmy Farrin’s place and back.

  The body was crumpled like a balled up piece of paper tossed into a garbage can. The legs were bent and twisted up and away from the torso in completely unnatural positions. About four feet up from the ground, a brownish spot with bits of white in it was visible on the tree’s massive trunk.

  George moved the flashlight beam along and around the mangled body, illuminating gory details that were not visible in the spotlight glare from behind him. Shards of white bone and pinkish red tissue were visible through tears in the clothing. When the beam finally found and came to rest on the face, or what was left of the face, Mackey stared long and hard to be certain.

  The top of the head had exploded against the tree. The face was contorted and swollen from the impact. Some animal had been at work on the eyes. Even with all of the devastation to the young man’s body, George knew that Timmy Farrin, Pickham County’s star broadcaster, lay dead in a roadside ditch.

  A rustling in the grass beside the tree caught his attention, and he moved the flashlight beam. Two bright yellow-orange eyes stared back at him from the grass. Aft
er a few seconds, the possum turned and moved slowly back into the deep brush and woods.

  Taking the portable radio from his belt, George made the necessary call for emergency response and asked the other deputy on duty to go stand by with Mrs. Farrin. She absolutely did not need to come to the accident scene. No, absolutely not.

  Standing as close to the body as he could without disturbing the scene, George positioned himself so that he could fend off any other creeping, crawling, or scurrying visitors to the body of Timmy Farrin. It was evident that the mangled remains had already been the source of nourishment for the various creatures living in the brush and woods along the side of the road. They could not be blamed for seeking an easy source of protein. Still, it was the least that he could do for what was left of young Timmy.

  George was still standing guard twenty minutes later, when the county fire engine, followed by an ambulance, arrived at the scene. Neither would be necessary, but it was standard procedure.

  10. Done

  The cell phone vibrated and rattled suddenly on the glass top of the patio table. Startled, his hand jerked and the three fingers of scotch in the glass sloshed leaving wet drops on his shirt and trousers. Since leaving the office on the square and making it home, somewhat safely, Stanton James, the shakiest member of the conspiracy, had been downing the amber whiskey as if there would never be another bottle on earth.

  Grabbing the phone, he punched the green talk button and spoke.

  “Yes?”

  “Done.” The voice on the other end of the line was calm, professional and even. His southern drawl almost drew the one word out into two syllables.