by Glenn Trust
PT came from old money. The Somerhills were part of old Georgia’s landed gentry. Whether the Somerhills of the past had been plantation owners and, therefore, slave owners, or not, was a topic that was never discussed in public, or privately for that matter. It was a point of southern aristocratic honor not to dredge up unpleasant and unnecessary memories. What counted was the Somerhill legacy of today. The legacy that would carry on created by the work of Prentiss Somerhill and of his son, Prentiss Junior, PT.
Slowing the Escalade, Somerhill was appropriately awed by the huge mansion and its magnificent grounds. Nouveau riche, or not, the restaurant business had apparently been very good to his colleague in this matter.
Leaving the car in front of the house, PT followed the brick walkway to the porch. Mounting the steps slowly, taking in everything, PT began to realize that there might be a good deal more in store for him than he had even imagined or understood from the promise of power and opportunity that the man with the deep voice had given him. Taking a final look around before ringing the door chime, he thought, yes, absolutely more than he had ever imagined.
It was the example that Montgomery and Greene had intended when they had scheduled the ‘after action’ meeting at the home of their wealthy collaborator. They were to discuss loose ends and next steps, but the effect of the display of enormous wealth on PT Somerhill was fully anticipated and appreciated. In fact, had he not been suitably in awe of the opportunity before him, his suitability as a member of the team would be in question. This visit was as much a test of his worthiness to be included as it was a strategy and business meeting.
Placing his finger on the large bronze button on the wall near the door, he listened as the deep, sonorous, and seemingly never-ending, chime sounded within the house. A few seconds later, the massive door opened and he was greeted by the owner himself, no liveried servant or butler as Somerhill had half expected. Just Edward Paschal, the owner of an enormously successful chain of restaurants, dressed in tan slacks, leather loafers, and a light canary sweater, the sleeves pulled fashionably up to his elbows.
“Come in, PT. Come in.” Paschal pulled the door wide, and PT stepped into the two-story entryway. “Right on time. That’s good. The call will be coming in…” Paschal glanced at a large grandfather clock to one side of the entry. “In seventeen minutes. Fix you a drink?”
PT nodded. “Sure. What are you drinking?”
“Gin and tonic.”
“Make mine vodka tonic.”
Paschal nodded with a pleasant host’s smile. “Stolichnaya okay? Or would you prefer Grey Goose?”
“Stoli is fine,” he said following Paschal through the house to a rear garden room overlooking a backyard even more elegantly landscaped than the front.
Paschal noted his admiring gaze across the yard from the floor to ceiling windows lining the room. “Saved the best for us,” he said from the bar in a corner of the room. “Seemed a shame to put everything into the front yard, when we spend most of our time back here.”
PT nodded and took the offered drink from Paschal. “Well, I’d say you did right Edward. It is truly magnificent.”
Paschal smiled his appreciation for the compliment and sipped his gin and tonic.
“Are we alone?” PT asked, looking at his watch and noting that the call would be coming in soon.
“Completely,” Paschal replied, still gazing contentedly across his back yard. “My wife has gone shopping and is meeting our daughter for tea at the Ritz in Buckhead. Won’t be back for quite a while.”
Paschal directed PT to a seat at a round glass-topped table beside the window. A cell phone sat in the center of the table. It was a phone with a number unknown to his wife and family.
Less than two minutes later, the phone vibrated loudly against the table, sliding across the glass with the vibration. Paschal answered, leaving the phone on the table and pressing the speaker button.
“Yes.” Paschal did the speaking. It was his phone and his house. PT was acutely aware that he was a guest and that in some way he was being evaluated.
“Is everyone there?” Clarence Greene used the correct protocol question.
“Everyone,” Paschal said giving the correct reply. Had he said anything else, the call would have ended.
“Good.” There was a perceptible easing of tension on both ends of the call. “Shall we recap the past twenty-four hours, then?”
Clarence Greene and Charles Montgomery listened while Paschal and then Somerhill recapped the progress of the project. Seated in heavy leather chairs in the study of Greene’s townhome in a distant city, the two senior members of the group were clearly in charge as they sipped Blanton’s Single Barrel, ninety-three proof, bourbon and listened attentively. No names were used, nor specific actions described. All information was provided through the simple coded words they had chosen to describe various aspects of the project.
When the briefing had concluded, Montgomery spoke. “So how are we doing, PT?”
Yes, PT thought, I am definitely being assessed. “We are doing fine. So am I, for the record.”
“For the record…very good counselor, very good. Spoken like a lawyer.” Charles Montgomery’s deep voice could be heard chuckling over the phone’s speaker. “Are we…are you still committed to our enterprise here.”
The question was much more direct than PT had anticipated. He was conscious of Edward Paschal’s eyes, intent and assessing, watching his response. Yep, he was definitely being assessed, and Paschal had been recruited to be the eyes in the room. No doubt, there would be a follow up call after PT had departed the mansion.
Was he committed? For the briefest of moments he considered what would happen if he had expressed any doubts about the project and his participation. But the moment was so brief that no one could have detected the pause before his answer to the direct question.
“I am absolutely committed. I think you all know that.” Looking directly into the attentive eyes of Edward Paschal he added, ‘I think my contribution…my sacrifice speaks for itself.”
There, assess that, he thought. He had given a father, been complicit in his murder, to further the cause. That was how he described it to himself. ‘The cause’. It made him feel better about what he had done, and was going to do. Looking across the palatial backyard gardens from the Paschal mansion, he felt better still. Yes, there would be opportunities. His father had shut him out of those opportunities. It had been unfair and PT had smarted at being deprived of his taste of the power and influence his father had held for so long. His father’s work after resigning from the state senate had changed all of that for him. But now, greater opportunities would present themselves. He would make his own way without his father’s support, and without his father.
“Yes, PT, you have made a significant sacrifice. We do not doubt your resolve…” Montgomery paused before continuing. “Just trying to offer some moral support. We are all going through extraordinary times here. Making our own choices and sacrifices. Assessing opportunities.”
“That is correct.” Paschal spoke for the first time since he had concluded his portion of the briefing. “A father and a hero that helped bring equality to millions. I’d say the sacrifices balance.” The look in Paschal’s eyes challenged any thought that PT’s sacrifice had been greater than the one offered by himself and Greene.
Sipping his Stoli and tonic thoughtfully, PT made no reply. This moment was necessary, the point of drama in the courtroom when all the cards are out, all the evidence is seen and everyone is committed.
There was silence from the two seated in the leather chairs sipping bourbon. They sensed the drama and import of the moment, and what was taking place in Paschal’s garden room at the mansion. With this conversation, the group was completely tied to one another. If there had been doubts before, there were none remaining.
Taking his eyes from Paschal’s gaze, PT spoke towards the phone. “There is one issue we should discuss.”
“Go on,” Gree
ne said calmly.
“The GBI is investigating the project. The agent assigned to the case was going through computer files today.” He paused, sipped his drink and continued, when he sensed that he had their complete attention and anticipation. PT Somerhill truly was a great courtroom attorney with impeccable dramatic timing. “She found a list. A list of names, of contacts. It is a list that would correspond closely with a list we are familiar with.”
“I see,” Greene responded. “Who is the GBI agent?”
“Sharon Price.”
“Yes, well, I think we should let you know that we have proposed a task force to investigate what is happening. A group that can pull all of the evidence together. An investigative group that will report directly to someone in the Governor’s office.” He paused as if considering his idea. “You would agree with that decision?”
The question was rhetorical, not directed at Paschal or PT, and they knew it. They waited patiently for Montgomery to speak next. He did so after an appropriately dignified and dramatic pause.
“Yes, yes we do trust that you will agree. We have a contact on the Governor’s staff, someone who will keep us apprised of the…uh, progress of things, of the investigation. Knowing the progress, we will act accordingly.”
There was nothing more to say. They agreed on a time to speak again and disconnected. Five minutes later, PT Somerhill was driving the Escalade down the long circular drive of the Paschal estate.
Edward Paschal watched him depart, thinking of the ‘sacrifice’ that PT Somerhill had spoken about and his rationalization about the ‘cause’ and the ‘project’. Just words, he thought. PT Somerhill had agreed to the sacrifice of his own father. Despite Paschal’s earlier bluster about the sacrifice of a hero of the civil rights movement, he knew he could never have done that, sacrifice his own father. There were limits, even for him. Patricide was one that he could not have crossed. But PT Somerhill had.
One cold son of a bitch, was all Paschal could think of the Escalade’s driver as it disappeared from view.
24. Find the Asshole
At five-twenty in the morning, the brown county pickup drove quietly over the gravel driveway at Felton Tobin’s place and out to the road. Unable to sleep, George had dressed and quietly started the truck, not wanting to wake Fel, the man who owned the barn apartment that George Mackey called home. Fel generally did not make an appearance on the porch before seven. As he turned on the road, he saw Tobin standing on the front porch peering into early morning dusk to determine who was leaving his driveway, as if it would be anyone but George. So much for not waking old Fel.
Twenty minutes later, George was standing on the pavement looking down into the ditch at the oak tree where Timmy’s head had been shattered and his life had abruptly ended. The tire impressions of the vehicle that had killed him were still visible, as were the footprints of the man that had exited the vehicle to look at Timmy’s mangled body.
The early morning light was still dim. The sun was up, but not over the trees yet, and the shadows were dark. George pulled the aluminum three-cell flashlight from his back pocket and squatted by the prints. Shining the light into and around the prints, he searched for something, anything; some clue that might lead to the identity of the person who had ended Timmy’s life and left him for possum bait in the ditch. There was nothing.
He walked along the shoulder of the road staying on the pavement, not wanting to disturb anything that might be evidence later. The flashlight beam followed the tire tracks of the vehicle to the point where the earth on the shoulder was dug up. It was the point where the vehicle had not slowed to avoid Timmy, but had accelerated to catch him and run him down. Standing there looking into the deep impressions made by the spinning tires, George knew that Timmy’s death had been deliberate, which was another way of saying that he was murdered. Why? Who? Questions he could not answer…yet.
Walking back to his truck, he drove towards Everett to meet Ronnie Kupman. He had to let him know that he wanted to spend some time following up on the Farrin case, and that he would not be able to respond to calls. Much as he might want to, he couldn’t just tell the sheriff to fuck off, although the idea was tempting. He needed Ronnie Kupman’s authorization.
George drove slowly, scanning the shoulder of the road, looking for anything they might have missed. There was no hurry. Ronnie would not be in the office until seven.
Cruising towards Everett, George noted five dirt roads, two of which were not much more than tire tracks leading off into the saw grass and canebrakes off the main road. Making note of each, George picked up speed and arrived at the Pickham County Sheriff’s Office at six forty-five. Chief Deputy Ronnie Kupman was just pulling into his reserved spot alongside the building. Sheriff Klineman would not be in for another hour. Perfect.
“What’s up, George?” Kupman said, glancing up as George pulled up, his window rolled down.
“Need to talk for a minute, Ronnie.”
Kupman’s brow furrowed for only a second. When George wanted to speak, it was usually about some hot water he had gotten into with the sheriff. He could only wonder, now what? “Sure, George. C’mon in. I’ll get the coffee goin’.”
George parked in the small lot, while Kupman went inside and made coffee. Ten minutes later they were seated in Kupman’s office with the door closed. In the privacy it afforded, Ronnie spoke plainly.
“So what is it now, George?” There was just the slightest hint of annoyance in his voice, but it was not lost on Deputy Mackey.
“I need to be released from regular duty for the day, Ronnie.”
“What do you mean? A sick day? Vacation? What, George. Just say it. I don’t have the patience today to play games.”
George nodded, unoffended. Ronnie Kupman had always been his supporter. Hell, he had saved his job a couple of times. He was entitled to be annoyed.
“Timmy Farrin. It was no accidental hit and run. Not unintentional manslaughter or vehicular homicide.” He paused monetarily at the deep breath and definite look of annoyance that formed on the chief deputy’s face. “He was murdered Ronnie. I know it.” Looking at Kupman’s face he added, “You know it.”
The annoyance evaporated from Kupman’s face. That look was replaced by one of concerned curiosity. The memory of the manner in which the hunt for the serial killer, Leyland Torkman, had ended settled briefly on Kupman’s face. George had killed the sadistic prick. Kupman had supported George’s actions over the protests of the sheriff and that had been that. Or was it, Kupman wondered.
“Speak, George. Say your piece, please.”
It took Deputy Mackey five minutes to review the evidence once more and his feelings, instincts really, about the case. When he got to the part about Timmy’s body mangled, his head exploded against the tree, Ronnie put his coffee mug on his desk and leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, listening to the rest.
George finished his briefing, and Kupman leaned forward placing his elbows on the desk and looked George squarely in the eye.
“You will keep this confidential, George. You understand that, right?”
“Yep, I get it. But you understand I need the day off to work on this, and I cannot have Klineman asking a lot of questions, right? He doesn’t want to hear about anything that could rock his boat and his reelection.”
Kupman nodded. “I know. I will cover you as long as I can. It may take more than a day, George, but work fast. At some point, he may give me a direct order to stop you. I won’t have any choice.”
“I know. Thanks, Boss.” George smiled for the first time during their conversation. “It’s the right thing to do, Ronnie.”
Kupman nodded. “Okay, I’ll cover for you. I’ll think of something in case the sheriff is looking for you.”
“That’s not very likely,” George quipped.
“Not likely, normally, maybe. But he gets wind of this, and he will be all over your ass and mine, and you know it.”
“Yeah. Guess so. Anyway, I appreciate i
t, Ronnie. We have to follow up.”
George rose and started towards Kupman’s closed office door when Ronnie spoke. “George.” It was spoken as a command to stop. George did so and turned. Kupman did not continue until George was looking him directly in the eyes. “George, you find the asshole that killed Timmy Farrin.”
There was nothing to say. George nodded and walked out. Nothing like knowing what the boss’ expectations were, he thought. Nice clear instructions. Find the asshole. Okay.
Now, if he just had a clue how to do that, maybe he wouldn’t feel like such an asshole himself.
Deputy George Mackey walked to his pickup in the lot, cranked it, and drove quickly away from the sheriff’s office. He didn’t want to see, or be seen by, the sheriff today. He had work to do.
25. Uncomfortable Most of My Life
Seated at a small conference table in Bob Shaklee’s office, Andy Barnes listened attentively as Sharon Price reviewed the Somerhill case. The open file before him contained the investigative report and various notes that had been compiled thus far. As Sharon began explaining about the list of names and the possible connection between Marswell and Somerhill, Andy took the list from the folder and studied it.
Waiting until Price had concluded, Barnes spoke for the first time since the briefing began. “So, your contention is that Marswell and Somerhill were murdered by the same person or people?”
“Well, at this point I am only saying that the circumstances are highly coincidental and bear further examination and consideration. Would you agree?” Sharon appreciated the fact that Barnes was proceeding cautiously and deliberately in considering all that she had thrown at him in the last several minutes. He had a reputation in Atlanta as a good investigator. Andy Barnes would not be jumping to any conclusions.
Laying the list neatly back on the papers in the file folder, Andy looked at her and replied, “Yes, I would agree. We should at least do some preliminary follow-up. Might be something to it…might be nothing.”
