The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  “Do you have that book?”

  “Yes, it’s in his things, in the office. I’ll find it for you.”

  “Good.” Sharon glanced at PT who was staring almost lazily out the window to the front porch, as if trying to appear uninterested in the questions Sharon asked his mother. It was a pretense. It was clear that PT was listening intently to what was being said. Turning back to Lauralee, she asked, “What did they talk about?”

  “I can’t say. I was not present in the room. Many of the meetings were held privately or when I was not in the house.” She turned to her son. “Were you there, PT, for any of these meetings? Do you remember who may have visited, or what they talked about?”

  PT Somerhill took a deep breath, as if he were carefully phrasing a question in his mind, before saying it in court. “I don’t really remember. Some people just paid their respects to Dad. Others may not have been happy…” He seemed about to add something, but his mouth closed abruptly as if he had said just enough and would say no more.

  Sharon nodded, watching the man’s every move and gesture as he spoke. “Imagine that,” she said smiling. “Someone not happy with a politician. No news there. Anything else. Anything threatening or concerning to your father, or to you?”

  Again, the look, as if trying to word his response carefully before speaking it. “No, nothing.”

  She regarded him for a few seconds. Something was definitely not right. She filed it away mentally. Might mean something, probably means nothing. The man’s father was just murdered sitting on his back porch, the porch where he had probably played with his son when they were both much younger. Now that father sat bleeding and dead in a chair on the same back porch. He had a reason, and for that matter, a right to act abnormally.

  Finishing, she said, “I appreciate everything you’ve told me and your help tonight. You should know that we will be around for a few days, probably, gathering information and might have a few more questions for you if you don’t mind.”

  “We don’t mind, Sharon. Just find my husband’s killer.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  Leaving the room, Sharon moved through the dining room where a crime scene tech was photographing the bullet impacts in the floor prior to digging the bullets out for forensic examination. She noted the broken glass from the large window scattered around the room and on the large table.

  Outside on the porch, Sheriff Grizzard stood quietly by with his deputies as the tech photographed the body of Prentiss Somerhill. As she came through the door, Grizzard’s head turned, and, seeing Sharon, a look passed across his face that made her smile inwardly. She thought it was the look he might have after stepping in something nasty and then not able to get it off his shoe. The thought that she had caused that look made her smile outwardly.

  Sharon turned her attention to Somerhill, slumped in his chair and the smile left her face. Three dark, brownish red spots covered the front of his shirt. Looking at his face, she could see thin blue lines, the veins under his pale skin. A wisp of his grey air fluttered in the evening breeze.

  What the hell had she gotten into, she thought.

  15. Justice for Timmy

  The flashlight beam bobbed up and down along the edge of the road as it approached George Mackey’s position in the roadside ditch, as near the body of Timmy Farrin as he could get. Sheriff Richard Klineman stumbled along in the uneven dirt at the bottom of the ditch in his Sunday-go-to-church shoes. It was well known that he was a bit of a city slicker and not one to slog around in the bush. Chief Deputy Ronnie Kupman walked behind, the ubiquitous cigarette clenched between two fingers of his left hand as he followed patiently. The sheriff would not have been happy with the grin on Kupman’s face as he watched Pickham County’s chief law enforcement officer stumble and sidestep obstacles in the ditch.

  “Shit.” Sheriff Klineman pulled his shoe out of a mud puddle that he had stepped into trying to avoid a tangle of brush and weeds. Kupman raised the cigarette to his lips, took a long drag, and then exhaled a long plume of smoke that wafted away in the evening breeze. Shaking his head, he waited for Klineman to shake his shoe standing one-legged looking for a place to step and move forward.

  Approaching the tree where Timmy Farrin’s life had ended, the flashlight beam rose in the sheriff’s hand and caught Mackey in the eyes forcing him to squint. The light stayed in his eyes for several seconds longer than necessary to identify the man standing guard in the dark near Timmy’s body.

  “What do you have, Mackey?”

  “Timmy Farrin. Apparently hit by a vehicle and killed, or at least the impact with this oak killed him. He might have been alive before that.”

  “You called me out on a hit and run?”

  Ronnie Kupman stepped forward, sensing trouble and feeling the need to protect his deputy, who seemed always to find the wrong thing to say to the sheriff.

  “Well, I realize it’s just a measly…” He stopped at the look of warning in Kupman’s eyes...oh, what the hell. “Not so sure it was a hit and run,” George said, leaving off the title of ‘Sheriff’, deliberately. It had the desired effect as Klineman’s face reddened to the extent that it was perceptible even in the dim glow cast off by the lights of the other vehicles at the scene. Perfect, George thought, but managed to suppress the smile that tried to fight its way onto his face.

  Klineman’s eyes narrowed and Ronnie Kupman took another step closer, protectively towards George. “What then, Deputy. Spit it out.”

  “I think he might have been killed …”

  “Of course he was killed, Mackey. That’s his blood on the tree right, and his body in the ditch. We can see he was killed. So why call me out on a routine hit and run?” Klineman’s voice rose slightly in pitch. “On Sunday evening,” he added to emphasize the unnecessary intrusion into his personal time.

  “I think he was killed…” George considered the next word, knowing the reaction he would get from the sheriff, then shrugged, saying to himself once more, what the hell. “Deliberately killed.”

  “Deliberately killed?” Klineman repeated the words as if trying them out and speaking them for the first time in his life. Then his face contorted and completely reddened. “Murdered. You are saying that Farrin was murdered.”

  “I’m saying that I think he may have been killed on purpose, and yes, that would be murder.”

  Kupman stepped up beside his troublesome, but usually correct deputy, at least when it came to matters like this. “Say it plainly, George. You believe this was a murder?”

  Klineman stood red-faced glaring at his deputy and then swiveling his head to glare at his chief deputy. Typical, he thought, one redneck protecting another. If he could have demoted Kupman on the spot, he would have. His constant protection of George Mackey was more than annoying. It was deliberately insubordinate, at least in Klineman’s eyes.

  George looked at Kupman and explained, completely ignoring his sheriff. “Okay, here it is.” He took a breath considering his explanation, which he knew had to be reasoned and logical, even for Ronnie Kupman who was his friend and supporter and who had saved his job at least once in the last year.

  “First, examining the body…uh, Timmy…” George swallowed hard. Timmy had been a friend and good kid. “The impact appears to have broken his legs. Not a lethal injury, but no doubt it hurt like hell.”

  “Right,” Klineman interrupted. “Vehicle impact. Vehicle gone from the scene. Hit and run.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “Go on, George,” Kupman intervened despite the sheriff’s look of displeasure. The sheriff’s looks of displeasure were a common occurrence for Kupman. He accepted them as a badge of honor.

  “It hurt like hell,” George continued, “but I don’t think Timmy had time to feel much before his head hit the tree.” He glanced over at the spot on the live oak where Timmy’s short life had ended. “It was a hard impact. The vehicle that hit him was really moving. Don’t know how fast, but fast.”

  “Mackey, ev
erything you are saying points to a simple hit and run. Why are you trying to make this into more than what it is?”

  “Like the murders last year, Sheriff?” Kupman had had about enough. George was a good deputy and had a damned good knack for seeing things others missed. The GBI had discovered that about him last year when a serial killer had made a stop in Pickham County.

  Before Klineman could say anything to his defender, Mackey continued. “Because, Sheriff,” he said using the man’s title to calm him down. George was not always totally without political sense. “I found where the vehicle left the pavement and drove along the shoulder about two hundred yards up the road from the impact. It was moving fast and accelerating. I’ve seen Timmy jogging before. He always stepped onto the shoulder if a car was coming. You can see where the vehicle leaves the road. The tracks in the dirt are deeper at the beginning point and then shallower as it comes along the shoulder, picking up speed. The driver left the road, aimed the vehicle at Timmy and punched the gas instead of slowing or pulling back onto the road.”

  He paused to let this sink in. A vehicle accelerating leaves deeper impressions at the point of beginning acceleration, or darker tire marks on pavement. Like kids laying drags on a side street. The darker skid marks are at the point of acceleration and then fade, as the vehicle gets up to speed. This was basic traffic investigation from the academy and every cop knew it, even Sheriff Klineman.

  “You know this for a fact, George,” Kupman asked.

  “Yep. Took pictures of it and measured the depth of the tire impressions.”

  “Good job.”

  Klineman rolled his eyes at the unnecessary compliment. “All right, Mackey,” he interjected to break up the love fest between his chief deputy and his pain-in-the-ass deputy. “You have a possible homicide by vehicle here. Let’s not make too much of this. In the end, it is still a hit and run.”

  At that, Ronnie Kupman had to turn and look incredulously into the face of the sheriff. “Are you listening to what George just said? The evidence suggests that someone deliberately left the road and ran down Timmy Farrin. That would be murder, Sheriff.”

  “Chief Deputy, I am listening to everything, and you might take care with your tone.”

  Kupman stared stone-faced back at the man he was bound to support. He was also the man that disgusted him more than probably anyone else in the county.

  Once again, George interjected, partly to break the tension and partly to finish his analysis.

  “One other thing. I found the point of impact. You can tell by blood in the dirt and the way the tire marks swerve slightly. The vehicle was going fast enough that it passed the tree.”

  “So what is that supposed to mean?” Klineman asked, his annoyance growing

  “Means that he was going fast and passed the tree,” George replied, the do-not-give-a-shit flippancy plain in his tone. Before Klineman could say anything else, he continued, “Where the vehicle stopped, I saw footprints where the driver got out and started to go towards the body. He stopped and then went back to the truck.”

  “So?” Klineman asked with a tone of resignation that said, let’s just get this over with.

  “So, he was checking. Wanted to make sure that Timmy was dead.”

  “Mackey, as usual, your theories go so far beyond what the evidence could possibly suggest that you lose all credibility.” Klineman had had enough. “He gets out of his vehicle and that means he is a cold blooded murderer who targeted young Timmy Farrin. Now why would he do that?”

  Ronnie Kupman had listened to this last exchange without comment. He spoke up now.

  “That’s a good question, Sheriff. That’s the question we should be asking right now.” He looked at George. “That’s what we need to find out, George. Why would someone want to kill Timmy. You work on that.”

  It was an order from the chief deputy. That was good enough for George.

  The sheriff was not quite as on board with the concept, however. “I am still the sheriff of Pickham County.” It was a warning.

  “Sheriff,” Kupman turned and responded calmly, “I have told a deputy with this department to follow up on his initial investigation. That is perfectly within my responsibilities. If you think otherwise, feel free to countermand my instructions to Deputy Mackey. In the meantime, I will go explain the situation to Timmy’s employer.”

  Kupman began walking up the ditch bank towards a large sedan that had just pulled up across the road. The driver, a tall, lean balding man was instantly recognizable. Porter Wright, owner of the Everett Gazette and the new cable television station that Timmy had been in training for, stepped from the vehicle and walked slowly across the road to the deputies. His face was contorted in the sort of pain a father might feel. In fact, Timmy had been like a son to him.

  Kupman was on the pavement as Wright walked up. The sheriff of Pickham County scrambled on all fours up the bank. Kupman was breaking the news to Wright as the sheriff pulled himself to the top of the bank and stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees. Wright was listening intently to Kupman’s account of Timmy’s death. The chief deputy made sure that all of the evidence that George had uncovered and analyzed was completely understood. There was no doubt that the death of Timmy Farrin and the ongoing investigation by the Pickham County Sheriff’s Office would be front page in tomorrow’s Gazette. The voters would know that their sheriff would get to the bottom of this case. Klineman would have no choice but to go along.

  Porter Wright would see that justice was done for Timmy Farrin. He glanced over at Sheriff Klineman, red-faced and out of breath. Wright was a little surprised that the sheriff was taking the case so seriously, and had actually shown up at the scene, in the dark. He had always thought of Klineman as a bit of a city slicker.

  16. Hallowed Ground

  Green lawns and tidy flowerbeds lined the walkway to the front door of the stately red brick home. Decorative lighting softly illuminated banks of pink and white azaleas blooming on either side of the front porch lit from below. It was a pretty setting in a pretty neighborhood; the kind of neighborhood that Andy Barnes could never afford on his detective’s salary. It was the kind of neighborhood that, a generation earlier, Clayton Marswell and his family could never have occupied, no matter how much money they had.

  The neighborhood, near Piedmont Park, had always been exclusive, meaning you had to have money, old or new, to live there. Living there and being white was a given, unquestioned. Lawyers, doctors, engineers, and other professionals occupied the old, landscaped homes. Black professionals would have lived somewhere else. It didn’t really matter where, just not there.

  Men and women like Clayton Marswell had changed that. Atlanta was not the city it had been in the fifties and sixties, or even the seventies and eighties.

  Stepping onto the front porch, Detective Barnes rang the door chime. Two rocking chairs sat to the side of the front door. Barnes could imagine Judge Marswell sitting there on a warm afternoon sipping iced tea. It was a pleasant image, until the memory of Marswell’s swollen face, contorted by the impact of the .357 round, pushed its way into his mind.

  A few seconds after ringing the chime, the door opened. One of the plain-clothes major felony detectives, Bob Grier, greeted him. Barnes removed the fedora from his head and stepped through the threshold.

  “Hey, Andy.” Grier greeted him familiarly. They had gone through the academy together. “Sandra’s in with the family. Thought I’d wait here for you.”

  Barnes nodded. Sandra Deets was good. If there were any information that the family could provide regarding the murder of Marswell, Sandra would get it from them.

  He followed Grier down the paneled entry hallway and into a den towards the back of the house. Walking through the door, they both moved to the side and stood quietly by the wall watching and listening. Barnes’ eyes moved around the room with interest. Bookshelves filled to capacity lined one wall. Family pictures were hung in every available space. A chest in a corner was open and
children’s toys spilled out onto the surrounding carpet. Probably for the grandchildren when they visited. They would not be coming tonight.

  Turning his attention to the other occupants, Barnes saw that the family was gathered on the sofa, the two daughters sitting on either side of their mother, cheeks tearstained. Two men, likely their husbands, stood quietly behind the sofa. May Marswell sat with her hands in her lap, the fingers of one hand picking nervously at the nails of the other. Silver hair framed her soft brown face.

  Knees almost touching May Marswell’s, Deets had pulled a side chair across the room and sat directly in front of the family’s matriarch. Leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, she listened attentively to Mrs. Marswell’s answers to her questions.”

  The older woman shook her head slowly, considering the questions Deets had asked. “No. No, I can’t think of any reason why anyone would hurt Clayton.” The intensity of the sobbing from her daughters increased. Mrs. Marswell reached up and put an arm around each, pulling them to her breast. “Girls, there will be time for crying. Now we have work to do. You think about what the detective asks. Anything you can think of, say it.”

  Sandra Deets nodded. “That’s right. Anything at all might be helpful.” The girls looked up and the sobbing subsided slightly. “Did Judge Marswell receive any threats? He handled a lot of high profile cases, some were not very nice people. Anyone ever make a threat? In a letter maybe, or a phone call?”

  May Marswell looked down and considered the question and slowly shook her head. “No, not that I know of. Clayton didn’t talk much about work. We knew he tried bad cases with many bad people, but he never brought it home.” She paused and smiled softly, as if remembering her husband, who had been in this house, probably in this room just a few hours ago. “He said home was for family. He always tried to keep his work away.”

  “Did anyone ever visit, maybe? Someone that might have come by and made a threat?”