by Glenn Trust
13. Get To It Dick
“Call for you on line one, Sheriff.” Sandy Davies took note that Cheryl Pearson’s voice was conspiratorially low in volume.
“What?”
“It’s from the Attorney General, Colton Swain.” Cheryl Pearson had been an assistant to three different sheriffs. She was not unaccustomed to taking calls from state officials and dignitaries.
“So, what’s the matter, Cheryl?”
“He sounds really pissed.”
“That a fact?” Davies nodded. He was a little pissed himself. “Thank you.” He punched the button to line one.
“This is Sheriff Davies.”
“You want to tell me what the fuck happened?”
“First of all, who are you?”
“You know good and goddamned well who this is!” Swain took a deep breath. “This is the Attorney General for the State of Georgia.”
“What can I do for you Mr. Swain?”
“You can tell me what the fuck happened! I gave those GBI agents specific orders. Mackey was to be arrested, publicly walked into the jail there in Pickham County and then booked for murder and violation of the public trust.”
“Yes, well, he was arrested and booked on the charges specified on the warrant.” Sandy spoke calmly. “Did it myself as a matter of fact.”
“You snuck him in the back door. Those agents…you…violated my direct orders. Mackey is not to be protected from public scrutiny. I have an obligation to ensure that there is full and open disclosure, and…”
Davies interrupted the speech. “What you want is to publicly parade and humiliate a man who has put his life on the line more than once for people like you, and you are doing it for your own political purposes.” He took a breath, lowering his voice. “We used the prisoner sally port to bring him in, standard procedure.”
“I want…”
Not in the mood for further games, Davies interrupted. “Mr. Swain, I don’t give a shit what you want.”
“What did you…”
“I said I don’t give a shit. Let me put it to you this way. I’m the elected sheriff of Pickham County. This is my county, my jail. I make the rules about how prisoners are to be handled here. The agents told me about their orders. I found those orders to be flawed and I advised them so, and that we would use the rear entrance. Let’s just say that the GBI agents were…outnumbered. There was no way we were walking George Mackey through the gauntlet of reporters you had posted outside.”
Swain struggled to bring his rage under control. He spoke quietly, through gritted teeth. “You have made a huge mistake, Sheriff.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Swain.”
The call disconnected.
The phone still at his ear, Colton Swain stared across his desk at Richard Klineman. The former sheriff of Pickham County, Klineman would never have had the balls to hang up on the attorney general, or anyone else for that matter. He was weak. In fact, it was his weakness that made him an attractive ally; he could be controlled. In his own, devious way, Klineman had his uses.
Swain replaced the phone in the cradle. “Tough little son of a bitch.”
Klineman nodded. Sandy Davies had been one of his deputies until he had run against and defeated Sheriff Klineman in the last election.
“Well, he won’t be able to control what happens in Macon. There will be a goddamned perp walk in front of the cameras and press! I want those pictures on every evening news report and every newspaper in the state!” His eyes narrowed. “And I want you to see to it.”
“But…”
“No buts, Dick. Do it and don’t think that it’s below you, a former sheriff, an elected official.” He smirked. “I don’t give a shit. You get out there and start making calls. Brief them all. You let them know that the Attorney General will be personally appreciative of their cooperation in reporting this news. And if they choose to downplay it because of Mackey’s hero status, you can let them know that I will be…disappointed.”
Klineman, speechless, nodded.
“Get to it…Dick.”
Pickham County’s former sheriff stood and walked from the office, wishing to God that his mother had not chosen to name him Richard.
14. You Can Do This
“What’s going on?” Andy Barnes pulled on his suit coat, walking from his office, cell phone at his ear.
“What do you mean?” Bob Shaklee pulled into a parking space at the State Executive Office Building.
“I just got a call from Pamela Towers. She told me to meet with you and the governor there.”
“Really.” The governor’s assistant who proudly bore the unofficial title of Organizer-in-Chief was not one to be ignored. “I guess you better meet us then.”
“What’s it about, Bob. You behind this?”
“Not me, Andy, and I don’t know why the governor wants to meet with you.” Actually, he suspected the reason, but thought it might be better not to speculate with Andy just now. “I’ll see you there.”
Thirty minutes later, Andy Barnes was seated beside Bob Shaklee on a sofa in the governor’s anteroom. At the appointed hour for the meeting, Pamela Towers opened a door and came out of her office opposite the governor's.
“Bob, good to see you.” She extended her hand as Shaklee stood, then held her hand out to Andy. “And you, Agent Barnes. It’s a pleasure to see you, as well. I imagine you are wondering what this is all about.”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Feels like I’ve been called to the principal’s office.” Andy tried to read her face, unsuccessfully. A seasoned political operative, Pamela Towers did not reveal information or send subconscious signals so easily.
Towers nodded at the secretary by the governor’s door, and waited while she picked up the phone and spoke into it.
“Governor, your ten o’clock is here.” There was only a momentary pause. The governor was waiting for them. “Yes sir.” She nodded at Towers.
“This way, gentlemen.” She led them through the large double wooden doors.
Governor Jesse Bell was not seated behind his desk. As usual, he occupied a chair in the sitting area to one side of the room. He sipped coffee while he read through departmental reports contained in the color coded files stacked on the table beside his chair. He allowed the three to stand respectfully for a moment, waiting, and then raised his head from the files, smiled and rose to greet them.
“Good to see you, Bob. Have a seat.” He looked at Andy, hand out. “Agent Barnes, last time I saw you, you were recovering in a hospital.”
Andy nodded. “Yes sir.” It was not a memory he cared to relive. The undercover operation that had been instrumental in breaking up a major crime organization run by Roy Budroe had nearly cost him his life.
“Well, you look fit now.” The governor continued to hold his hand, concern in his eyes. “No problems, I hope?”
“No, sir. I feel fine. Few aches and pains now and then, nothing serious. To be expected, the doctors say.”
Bell smiled and nodded. “Good…good. I’m glad to hear it.” He turned to the chairs around the sitting area. “Everyone, please take a seat.”
“Coffee anyone?” The governor refilled his cup from the stainless steel decanter on the table and looked around. There were no takers. He lifted the cup and sipped. “Bad habit of mine. Mrs. Bell says I should cut down, but as I often tell Pamela here, Georgia may be the Peach State, but it runs on coffee.” He laughed softly and put the cup down.
Bell looked at Barnes. “Andy…do you mind if I call you, Andy.”
Barnes nodded. “Please do.”
“Good.” Bell smiled genteelly. “Andy, I wanted to invite you to our little get-together, bring you up to speed on what’s happening, how things are done. This is our regular briefing where Bob briefs us on cases that the OSI is working and any support the team might need from us.”
Andy nodded and remained silent. Bob was composed, not showing any concern that his deputy had been invited into the inner sanctum of the governor�
�s office to a meeting that had heretofore been conducted only by Shaklee. He was fairly sure he knew what was coming.
Bell moved his gaze from Andy. “You are probably wondering, Bob, why I invited Andy here without your knowledge.”
“It has crossed my mind, but I have an idea.”
“Yes, I imagine you do. You are not one to be easily deceived.” Bell smiled. “Let me get directly to the point then. I am relieving you of your duties as the Director of the Office of Special Investigations, until the case against George Mackey is resolved and the possible subsequent case against you.”
Bob’s only reaction was a polite nod. Andy’s was more animated.
“But….Governor Bell, Bob Shaklee put this team together. He is the leader that we all follow…the glue.”
“Yes, he is Andy. He’s all of those things and more, and we owe him a great debt of gratitude. But for now, until the criminal prosecution of Mackey is over and the investigation into Bob’s handling of the shooting review, we have decided that it is in the best interest of the OSI team that he be removed from any involvement in casework.” Bell did not have to mention that it was in the best interest of his reelection campaign not to have the questions about Shaklee and Mackey repeated at every press conference between then and November.
“With all due respect, Governor, I don’t think you understand…”
“I do understand, Andy. Completely.” He leaned forward in his leather chair, closing the space between Barnes and himself. It was a well-practiced gesture, intimate and friendly, intended to make the listener, Andy in this case, feel that they were conversing as friends. “I understand, and that is why I am appointing a new Director of the OSI, an interim director to stand in until Bob can come back without the investigation hanging over his head. I am appointing you.”
Stunned, Andy sat back in his chair. He looked at, Bob. “Did you know?”
Shaklee shrugged. “I suspected. I didn’t know.”
Pamela Towers spoke for the first time. “This is a very sensitive matter, as I am sure you can appreciate, Andy. We had to keep things quiet until we were ready to make the announcement.”
Bell nodded. “That’s right. The OSI has become a key part of our administration, of our fight against crime. You…the entire team have done an exemplary job. We hope to make this transition in leadership quiet and seamless so that the OSI can continue its fine work.”
Slumped in his chair, Andy was speechless.
“You can do this, Andy.” Bob looked at his friend and smiled. “It’s the right decision.”
15. The Predator Was Gone
The loud rapping overhead sounded like drumsticks pounding an incredibly fast rhythm on a two-by-four. He looked up, scanning the upper parts of the tree. The bird stood out immediately. No camouflage here, clinging to the side of the pine.
The bird’s brilliant red head contrasted starkly with its deep black back. As he watched, the bird hopped a few inches up the tree’s trunk. His head became a whirling blur as he beat out a rapid tattoo in the bark, searching for an insect.
God, this was a great job. Charlie Creel had been an arborist for the Southland Lumber Company for twenty years. He never tired of it and loved his time in the field. Responsible for managing a large tract of the company’s pine groves in south Georgia, Charlie monitored tree growth and health, reported projected lumber yields and generally made sure there were always trees to cut. It was the perfect job.
Mostly he just loved being outside. The woodpecker rapped again, and he smiled, wishing he had not left his camera in the truck. He could walk back to retrieve it but by the time he got back the bird would likely have moved on. No, better just to sit here and watch, enjoy the show.
Fifteen minutes later, the woodpecker flapped its wings suddenly and disappeared into the trees. The pine grove became instantly and deeply quiet. The contrast between the rapid beating of the bird’s beak and the sudden silence was pleasing and intensely peaceful.
Slowly, examining trees as he went, he made his way a half mile back to the dirt road. Periodically he would stop, inspect the bark of a tree, make a notation in his notebook and mark the tree with a spray paint can he carried in a small pack hanging from his shoulder. The pines were in good shape. This would probably be his last visit to this section before the loggers were called in to harvest the timber.
At the road, he threw his bag across the seat of the pickup, climbed in and started the engine. He heard the woodpecker again, at a distance now, deep in the woods.
Moving slowly along the dirt track, he checked the condition of the trees, watching at the same time for the wildlife that roamed the woods. A possum scampered across the road. From the cover of the pines, a pair of white tail deer looked up curiously at the truck. He slowed the pickup gently, lifted his camera from the seat and managed a couple of shots before they moved away, out of sight behind the trees.
Over the years, he had amassed a large collection of nature shots, flora and fauna. A couple had even gotten honorable mention in contests around the state. Combining photography with his work was another reason he loved the job.
A mile further along the sandy road, he caught the unmistakable odor. Something had died.
He slowed the pickup looking around the clearing he had come to. Probably some small critter killed by a fox or raccoon, but it could be a deer. A panther or black bear would be a large enough predator to bring down a deer. Whatever it was might still be feeding. With a little luck, Charlie Creel might just get an image of a panther on the kill. His heart raced.
Experts, whoever they were, said that panthers no longer roamed the backwoods of Georgia. Black bears still lived in the swamps and mountains, sometimes wandering into populated areas, but the panthers were gone.
The experts were full of shit. Charlie had seen a panther. It had been a day like today, but later, in the twilight, just after the sunset. He was cruising slowly along a logging road with his headlights on to cut the gloom. The big cat had crossed the road not thirty yards ahead. The animal had moved too quickly for him to pick up the camera.
When he reported the sighting to the State Department of Natural Resources, Wildlife Decision they all but laughed at him.
“I know what I saw.” Charlie stood in the DNR office in Valdosta.
The officer assigned to take his report had the tired look of a man who had heard the story of Bigfoot one time too many. Charlie was annoyed. Bigfoot was fictitious with no credible sightings. Panthers were real animals. No one argued that they roamed the swamps of Florida.
“Get a picture?”
“Huh? Well, uh…no. It was moving too fast.”
“Moving fast in the twilight and you know what it was.”
“I know what I saw.”
“Mighta been a bobcat, or even a big raccoon.”
“I know the difference between a cat with a bobbed tail and an animal with one almost three feet long. It stretched almost across the entire logging road. Tip of the nose to tip of the tail, it must have been close to seven feet long, loping along close to the ground.”
“Still, if this was Florida I’d say there was maybe a chance you saw a swamp panther…maybe. But this is Georgia.”
“Right, ‘cause all the panthers in Florida read maps and know where the state lines are. They wouldn’t dare cross over the line ’cause you say they can’t.” Charlie turned away in disgust. Bureaucratic, brain-frozen moron, were the only words the condescending DNR officer could make out as Charlie slammed the door behind him.
Determined to be ready to capture the image if there was a big cat on the carcass, he grabbed his camera and got out of the pickup. Standing outside, the stench rose by a factor of ten. Something was dead, and it was big.
He walked quietly into the clearing following his nose to the kill, moving a few feet at a time, scanning ahead, alert for any sign of the predator he was sure had been there. Holding the camera chest high, in both hands, at the ready, he advanced steadily.
He had gone about fifty feet when he heard the flies. They were close, which meant he was close. The incessant buzzing indicated that the predator was probably not around the kill. He relaxed a bit, but held the camera ready to snap images. There might be some sign on the carcass, scat droppings or other evidence that would indicate what predator had brought it down.
Near the edge of the clearing, the knee-high grass thinned out. The sound of the buzzing flies rose several decibels. Charlie held the camera just below his chin and pushed forward to capture the image of whatever it was.
“Son of a bitch.” The camera almost dropped from his shaking hands.
Lying crumpled on his side where he had fallen the previous Sunday, the body of the drug courier was a veritable scavenger smorgasbord. The neat little hole where the .32 caliber bullet had entered his brain and ended his life was visible in the skull. The flesh around the hole had been chewed and eaten away. Flies buzzed in and out of the orifices of his face laying their eggs. Maggots crawled from the bullet wound and from his mouth. Scavengers had torn away at the soft flesh of his cheek and tongue. Others had gnawed on his fingers and hands. Where the gases had distended his stomach, causing it to burst through the skin, some animal had pulled out a long, ropy piece of intestines.
Charlie Creel reflexively lifted the camera and began shooting pictures. It was the only thing he could think to do. After a few minutes and a hundred images, he realized there was something else to do.
He ran back to the truck. There was no cell phone service, but the truck was equipped with a portable radio. He lifted the microphone and called the Southland Lumber office.
“Th-there’s a body here.” They were not the standard words to start a radio transmission.
“10-9 Unit 103. That you Charlie? Repeat your traffic.” The security guard on duty answered the radio twenty-four hours a day. Crews were often out late, and logging being what it was, calls for emergency help were not out of the ordinary.
“A body. There’s a body here…uh…tract twelve hundred, section eighteen. Get some help here.”
