by Glenn Trust
“If he doesn’t trust you, then…well things change. New plan. Delays. You know, stuff like that. Not good.” He looked over at Thompson for the first time. “They won’t be pleased.”
“Look. He trusts me. I been knowin’ him since he was a kid climbing his daddy’s pecan trees. Just let it rest now. He trusts me. We’ll make it work.”
Puckett smiled. “I know. I know. I worry too much sometimes. Details. I’m a detail man. The Counselor says that’s what makes me good at this.” He reached over and gave Thompson a friendly tap on his beefy arm. “Annoys him too sometimes, kinda like you.” Giving a quick chuckle, he lifted the beer bottle again.
Tall Man best keep his hands to himself, was the only detail that went through Big Bud’s mind, still annoyed.
They sat for another hour as the full dark came on. Two more beers were opened. Crickets began to hum and chirp in the dark. A whippoorwill called at the edge of the tree line and somewhere deep in the woods an owl hooted. It was peaceful. Puckett was relaxed, enjoying the moment. Big Bud was impatient for the call, still annoyed by the doubt he had sensed in Puckett’s questions.
At nine fifteen, exactly, the cell phone hummed and vibrated. Puckett took it from his shirt pocket.
“Yes.”
Thompson could hear a muffled voice on the phone. Puckett nodded and punched the speaker button.
“Okay. We’re both here,” he said.
“You spoke to him?” It was the deep voice, Montgomery.
“Yes.”
“Tell us.”
Puckett then reviewed his conversation with Stanton James earlier in the day. He described James’ nervousness and obvious fear. When he got to the dialogue between James and Puckett, Greene interrupted.
“He actually said, ‘we could all go to prison’?” Greene sounded more upset by this than any of the other indicators of James’ unreliability.
“He did,” Puckett replied without elaboration. Let Greene draw his own conclusions. He looked over at Thompson who nodded. They had already made their decision. They were only waiting for the two on the phone to give the go ahead. They were sure it would come.
“All right,” Greene said. “Go on.”
Puckett finished his description of the interview with no further interruptions. When he was done, there was a pause. They knew from the dead silence on the phone that the other two had muted it while they discussed the matter. It was a short discussion. Montgomery spoke next.
“You have a plan?”
“Yes.”
“An accident?”
“Yes. “ Puckett did not elaborate. He knew that the men on the call would not want to know. Bud listened attentively, his head turned towards Puckett in the dark.
“Then go ahead.”
Bud nodded and raised the beer to his lips for the first time since the call had begun. This was his chance. He would earn his stripes on this one and become a full-fledged member of the team. Puckett had assured him that they would give permission to move forward, but until he heard it from the Counselor himself, he had had fears that they would put it off. Big Bud did not want to put it off. He wanted to get one of them big-ass boats, and a cabin near a lake, and a condo in Buckhead, and all the other stuff that Puckett had managed to accumulate through his association with the two men on the phone. That meant that Stanton James, the boy he had watched climb in his daddy’s pecan trees, had to go. He would go, now that they had the authorization.
“Right,” the Counselor said, and the phone went dead.
Puckett looked over at Thompson in the dark. He knew the thoughts that were running through his head, and his desire to become one of the team. Well, after tomorrow, he thought, he will have earned it. He lifted the beer one more time.
“Drink up. Busy day tomorrow.”
36. Imagine That
“Where’s George?”
“He’s working the Farrin case.” Ronnie Kupman returned Sheriff Klineman’s stare calmly, a relaxed pleasant smile on his face.
“Case? What case? It was a hit and run.”
“Yes, it was, Sheriff. George found the vehicle, remember?”
“So what is there to work on?”
“Seriously?” Kupman uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair. “You seriously ask what George is working on? Timmy Farrin was run down, in cold blood, and you are asking what George is working on?”
“What I am asking you, Chief Deputy, is why you have allowed George Mackey the freedom to pursue his personal theories in this case, at the expense of other deputies who are forced to cover his workload for him. The fact that the vehicle was recovered does not prove that this is anything more than an accidental hit and run.”
“And Ray Cross accidentally shot himself in the back of the head, I guess.”
Klineman’ face, as usual reddened perceptibly. “You…,” the sheriff’s voice was rising in pitch and decibels, “you and Mackey use one set of facts to create a theory that unnecessarily broadens the scope of the case and turns a simple hit and run into a murder conspiracy.”
“Sheriff, I said nothing about a conspiracy. We have two dead bodies. Timmy Farrin’s and the man who owned the truck that killed him. Do you understand? Both dead? Seems like there is a connection, don’t you think?”
“They may be completely unrelated. Cross might have accidentally run down Farrin and then…” Klineman paused to come up with something plausible to say to his chief deputy. “He might have been looking for a place to hide the pickup, come across someone who killed him.”
“Right, Sheriff. Who? Why?”
“I don’t know.” Klineman’s voice rose again. “Drug dealers, car thieves, someone. I’m just suggesting that, as usual, Mackey, with your cooperation, is creating turmoil and raising unnecessary issues at a delicate time.”
And there it was, the real reason for Klineman’s displeasure. In a difficult election year, Deputy George Mackey was creating turmoil, at least for the sheriff’s reelection campaign that would now have to spin the story and demonstrate how the good sheriff of Pickham County was dedicated to law enforcement and finding the killer of young Timothy Farrin, local radio personality and beloved by all. No longer could the case be spun as a tragic accident. It was being investigated as a possible murder. Not good for the sitting sheriff of peaceful, law-abiding Pickham County.
“Well, Sheriff, George is running down leads on Ray Cross. Who knew him, where he was last seen, you know, pieces of information that might be useful in determining who killed him.”
“And if I order you to have Mackey focus on other aspects of the case?”
“I wouldn’t do that. Such an order might accidentally get out. I don’t know what Porter Wright would say about it, or write about it, in the Gazette now that Timmy is not around to write it. I’m pretty sure it would not be good for your election campaign.”
Klineman took a deep breath, wondering what it would be like to have a chief deputy who could be relied upon to support his sheriff. Other sheriffs had loyal staff. What was wrong with Pickham County, he wondered?
Kupman had been appointed chief deputy to avoid protest amongst the other deputies after Klineman, an outsider, had won a close election against a well-respected man who had served the county faithfully for twenty years. Klineman had the support of, and money from, certain local people of influence who had been offended over the years by the former sheriff’s unwillingness to cooperate with them in various affairs. Klineman was more than willing to cooperate, and their money put him over the top in the election, barely. But he had been forced to take Kupman as his chief deputy to keep the peace. He wondered on days like today if it had been worth it.
Klineman sat quietly, stewing and contemplating Kupman’s not so veiled threat, while the chief deputy regarded him calmly. That was another thing Klineman hated about him. He was always calm, never intimidated by the sheriff’s position or rank or title. Kupman was always just Kupman.
The phone on his desk toned and Klineman punched the
button.
“Yes?”
“Call for you, Sheriff.” Cheryl’s voice was pleasant and soothing after the confrontation with Kupman.
“Who?”
“Agent Robert Shaklee, GBI, Sheriff. Line one.” Cheryl could hear the sheriff’s sigh through the speaker and wished she could be a fly on the wall to hear the conversation between Klineman and the GBI agent. Shaklee was known around the office as the man who had put the sheriff in his place during the ‘Predator’ case.
Without acknowledging Cheryl, he disconnected, punching the button to line one where Shaklee waited patiently.
“Sheriff Klineman,” he said lifting the receiver to his ear.
“Sheriff, Bob Shaklee here.”
“Yes, Agent Shaklee. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I wanted to let you know that a task force has been organized to investigate the murders of Prentiss Somerhill and Clayton Marswell. I’ve been ordered to head that task force.”
“Yes, so what can I do for you? How does your task force,” Klineman said the words with evident distaste, “affect us down here in Pickham County?”
“Doesn’t really. We have some questions we would like followed up on in Everett.”
“Fine, if you will send me your questions I will have someone follow up on them.”
“Actually, Sheriff, we would prefer it if you would assign one of your deputies to the task force, working under my direction.”
“Out of the question.” Klineman, who had initially been annoyed by the call, was becoming agitated in the extreme. Kupman, not hearing both sides of the conversation, watched with interest, the perpetual wry smile on his face.
“I thought that might be your response, so I am to let you know that the task force has been created by the governor. Elizabeth Crestline…” He paused and asked, “You know who she is, Sheriff?”
Klineman knew very well, having spoken to her not three hours earlier. His back straightened as he sat up, and Kupman’s smile broadened just a bit. “Yes, I am familiar with Ms. Crestline. What has that got to do with Pickham County?” He asked the question, suspecting what was coming.
“Well, it means that I am authorized by the governor to use any resources required to further the investigation. Any resources, Sheriff, including yours.” When there was no response from the sheriff, who could only sit with the phone clenched tightly in his hand, wishing the day would come to an end, Shaklee continued. “If you choose not to cooperate, I am to forward that information to the governor’s office and they will be in touch. Actually, I think Ms. Crestline will probably call you personally. They are taking a very deep interest in the investigation and the task force.”
“Of course, I will cooperate.” Klineman’s voice was subdued, a beaten man. Even Kupman watching felt a momentary twinge of pity for the man, but it was only momentary. “What do you want?”
“George Mackey.” Shaklee said it simply and directly, knowing the effect it would have on the sheriff.
“Mackey? Again? What is it you think Mackey can do for you down here?” Klineman’s voice was rising again.
“I am not at liberty to discuss that with you, Sheriff.”
Kupman thought for a moment that the vein throbbing over Klineman’s right temple was going to burst. “You want my deputy, and you won’t even tell me why or what his duties will be?”
“He will be assigned to the task force. You can bill the state for any wages you pay him while working with us. His duties will be whatever we assign him to do.” Shaklee’s tone was matter-of-fact. It was a done deal as far as he was concerned. They would have Mackey, no sense prolonging the argument or the sheriff’s pain.
“I am letting you know that we will be contacting George and letting him know,” Shaklee said, his voice calm and reasonable, trying to soften the blow for the sheriff’s ego. “I thought you might want to let him know ahead.”
Sheriff Klineman nodded without speaking, resigned indignation pouring from him. With a great effort to control his voice, he said simply, “Fine. We’ll let him know. Anything else?”
“No, Sheriff, that about covers it. Thanks for your cooperation. We’ll keep you informed as the progress of the case allows.” Shaklee disconnected.
Kupman watched the sheriff sit for a full minute, the phone in his hand, staring at his desk before he spoke. “Problem, Sheriff?”
Klineman raised his eyes and became more annoyed seeing the calm smile. “Go visit Mackey when he gets off. I don’t want him around here. He’s being assigned to a task force headed by Shaklee.”
Kupman leaned forward, interested. “Really? What kind of task force?”
“Murder investigation, up north. Nothing to do with Pickham. Why they want him, I have no idea. They think George can ask some questions for them down here.”
“Huh. Imagine that. They want George on a task force. That’s quite a compliment.” Ronnie smiled, and added, “Compliment to George and to the department, don’t you think, Sheriff?”
“Get out Kupman.”
37. A Good Employer
The whining of the big four by four pickup’s off-road tires droned Sim Lee to sleep. Reclining the seat as far as he could, he stretched out while his literal partner in crime drove south on two lane state highways towards Everett.
The seat of Pickham County was not easily accessible. While it sat along the I-95 corridor, the local airport handled only private general aviation aircraft. Flying to Everett, unless you owned a small plane, meant flying to Jacksonville, Florida, renting a car, and then driving north across the Georgia state line. It was a pain in the ass, especially for a couple of country boys who preferred to keep their feet on the ground, or at least no higher than the floor boards of the jacked up pickup they were in.
Sims and Quince had decided to drive to Everett to fulfill their next assignment. That raised some issues, but they were experienced men. Care would be taken to ensure that their very identifiable truck was not tied to any of their activities in Pickham County. In the backcountry of Georgia, a big four by four would not draw nearly as much attention as riding the streets of the Atlanta suburbs. Still, they had assured the ever diligent and detail oriented Pickett that they would be careful about letting the truck be seen in the area of anything they did to fulfill their assignment. This was not their first project. Both men had proven themselves time and again while in Puckett’s employ.
Quince slowed the truck. The change in the pitch of the tire noise interrupted Lee’s snores.
“What’s the matter?” he asked lifting his head and squinting into the lights of oncoming cars.
“Nothing. Coming into Valdosta. Where we said we would spend the night.”
“Right.” Lee pulled the seat lever and the backrest raised upright. “See anything?”
“Cheap or expensive?” Quince looked over at his partner with what passed for a grin on his beefy face.
“Puckett’s paying, so not too cheap.”
Quince nodded and steered the truck into the bustling south Georgia city. They found a chain motel that would be moderately priced on the outskirts of town. Decent place to stay and the price would not raise any objections from Puckett. The neon sign of the bar across the street clinched the deal.
Quince pulled into the lot and parked. Ten minutes later the two were in rooms, cleaning up to go across to the bar for a nightcap, or two, but not overdo it. They had a long day ahead in the morning, and Puckett had emphasized that they should get in and out of Everett as quickly as possible and then move to their next assignment in Brunswick. If all went well, this would be a very profitable trip.
Bill Quince was looking forward to a little deep sea fishing once they finished in Brunswick. Charters were available all along the Georgia coast.
Simon Lee was ready to take in a little nightlife down in Florida. Ladies and partying were much more his style than bobbing around on a boat in the hot sun trying to pull some slimy fish out of the Atlantic.
The two w
ould pursue their separate pleasures and then hook up for the next assignment. Puckett was a good employer. He always had work for them.
38. Lightning and Tall Clouds
A sultry breeze, thick and pungent with the musty, musky scent of green living things blew in from the dark and across the porch of the old house. Dim light shone through the screen door casting a faint glow over the two men seated side by side in old kitchen chairs on the porch, separated by a beat up ice chest containing an assortment of canned beers, all domestic, and all chillingly iced. Sitting quietly they soaked in the breeze and the fragrant air.
Across the yard, the interior of the tall cumulonimbus clouds reaching thirty thousand feet into the night sky would glow yellow-orange from time to time with flashes of lightning. The clouds lit up from inside like a filament lighting an incandescent bulb. It was spectacular and beautiful. They watched the show on nights like this, not speaking, just drinking it in, along with their beers. An occasional ‘oooh’ or ‘ahhh’ would emanate from one of them as if they were watching a Fourth of July fireworks display.
After one particularly dazzling display, when a huge, towering cloud was lit by the lightning and then repeatedly again from the inside for more than thirty seconds, the younger man lifted his can of beer in salute.
“Good one,” he said. George Mackey might have been a hard-bitten country boy turned sheriff’s deputy, but he was not immune to the wonders of nature. They surrounded him in the backcountry of south Georgia.
“Yep.” The one word reply from Fel Tobin was a lot. Considering the quantity of beer they had consumed since the sun had winked out below the horizon, some would have wondered that he could speak at all. Fel was in his seventies. Many would have thought that he would not be able to hold his beer like a younger man, or at least that his bladder couldn’t keep up. George knew better.
Downing the last of the beer in the can, George was always careful not to waste any, he tossed it towards the wooden crate that served as a receptacle for the used and empty aluminum cans. It arced gracefully across the porch, landing with a satisfying metallic clank amidst fifty or so other cans. They would have to empty the crate soon.
