4 The Marathon Murders

by Chester D. Campbell

“Actually, he got real interested. Seems he’s an antique car buff. He was familiar with the Marathon, said he’d been over and looked at a couple of them at the old building they’re remodeling.”

  “That probably helped your case.”

  “Right. I think maybe I’m off the hook.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Jarvis’s eyes had a new twinkle. “My boss at the Pentagon said the same thing when I called him.”

  “Have you two come up with anything new today?” Kelli asked.

  I told her about Audain’s pending return and Jill’s digging at the library. “We’re looking for more info on the situation at Marathon in 1914. I hope your letter stash can shed some light on it.”

  “They do. My great-great-grandma gave a lot of details on what happened at the company both before and after Sydney’s death.”

  “Good. We’ll take them home and—”

  My cell phone rang, interrupting things as usual. It was Sheriff Driscoll.

  “Did you check out Malcolm Parker?” I asked.

  “Yeah. He’s got an airtight alibi for Monday night. That little car wasn’t his, anyway. I talked to him shortly after you called, but we’ve been damned busy the last couple of hours.” He sounded harried.

  “What happened?”

  “We’ve got ourselves another body.”

  The little phone seemed to get heavier. “Who?”

  “Casey Olson. Some kids hiking along the river came across his car at the edge of the woods. It was off Highway 141 down in Puryear’s Bend.”

  “Was he in the car?”

  “No. The body was found in the underbrush nearby. Shot in the head and back and arm.”

  “Sounds like whoever did it wanted to make sure he was dead.”

  Jill, Kelli and Warren stared at me with puzzled looks.

  “Yeah. That shot in the back makes it look like he was trying to get away,” Driscoll said.

  “Any idea when it happened?”

  “I don’t get enough killings around here to make a good guess, but the TBI boys say it looks like maybe two or three days.”

  “Is Agent Fought investigating this one, too?” I asked.

  “He and his crew are still at the scene. The main reason I called is I thought you’d like to know about Olson’s car.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s a 1990 red Corvette.”

  Chapter 19

  My audience barely moved a muscle as I repeated Sheriff Driscoll’s story. When I got to the part about the red car, Jill’s eyes flashed like a pair of headlights suddenly switched on.

  “I knew it,” she almost shouted. “He must have been at Bradley’s house Monday night.”

  “You may be right,” I said. “But if so, somebody else had to have been with him.”

  Kelli folded her arms and cocked her head. “Sounds like co-conspirators who had a falling out.”

  I glanced through the window, where the sky had begun to brighten and the rain had stopped. “You may be right, too, Kelli. But we’re no closer to establishing a link between those murders and the missing papers.”

  “Do you still believe there’s a connection?” Warren asked.

  For no good reason, the question rankled me. I pushed up from the table and stood there, hands on my hips, staring out the window, hoping for a ray of sunshine to penetrate the confusion. It failed to arrive. All of a sudden I felt tired, more tired than I had any cause to be. Was I getting too jaded for this business? I wondered. For a moment I considered giving back their retainer and saying sorry but I want the hell out. Whether it was pride or loyalty or a pure streak of stubbornness, I couldn’t do it. I looked back at Warren.

  “My instincts say yes, there is a connection. I’ve always been a firm believer in the intuitive process. I think what it really amounts to is perception. We gather a bunch of information from lots of different sources. It churns around somewhere deep in our brains and gets distilled into something useful by the subconscious. But right now it doesn’t seem to mean shit.”

  “Greg!” Jill had a shocked look on her face. “We don’t need that language, and just what are you talking about?”

  I kicked the table leg out of frustration, damned near injuring my toe. “This case is getting under my skin, babe. Everything we’ve learned so far leads absolutely nowhere. In 1914, some money went missing and a man died. Now some papers that might solve the mystery of the money are missing, and two men have died. Is that a link? Where is it headed? What’s going on?”

  Jill picked up the large envelope Kelli had put the letter copies in. “If you’ll pardon us, folks, Greg and I need to get home and see if something in these letters won’t steer our intuitions onto the right path. Let’s go, Greg.”

  I apologized on the way, and by the time we reached the friendly confines of our weathered log walls, Jill had talked me into viewing the situation from a different perspective.

  “You’ve always been a man who believed in action,” she said. “Let’s get busy doing something instead of mulling over what isn’t happening.”

  She decided we needed a good dose of “brain food” to beef up our deductive abilities before tackling the letters. She brought a couple of generous servings of salmon (“high in omega-3 fatty acids,” she said) from the freezer, sprinkled spicy looking stuff on them and shoved them into the oven to bake. To accompany the fish, she prepared corn and string beans with slivered almonds. A salad of romaine lettuce, red cabbage, carrots, tomatoes, and radishes topped off the menu.

  After that tasty—and healthful, she assured me—meal, we sat at the dining room table and spread out the sheets of neat though faded handwriting. I started with 1914. Jill worked downward from 1919.

  “This is a refreshing exercise,” I said. “People don’t know how to write letters like this anymore.”

  “So true. This lady didn’t mind pouring out her soul.”

  After I had studied several of them, one particular letter caught my attention.

  “Listen to this, babe,” I said, then read:

  “Dearest Sister,

  “I was happy to hear that Elmer’s gout has improved. I wish I could say the same for the situation here, but I fear it is getting no better. It seems to have become worse than any physical affliction I have ever encountered. After hearing disturbing rumors from another Marathon wife, I finally prevailed on Sydney to confide in me. He swore me to secrecy, that I would talk to no one but him about it. Since writing is not talking, and since you are so many hundreds of miles away, I see no problem in relating this to you.

  “Sydney said the national sales representative keeps making glowing reports about all the cars being sold and new deals made. But the cash coming into the company fails to reflect such success. He said bills to suppliers are being paid late and the workers frequently don’t get all of their pay. Sydney says this isn’t good for morale and has resulted in poor workmanship in many cases.

  “Sydney has talked to the Treasurer about all of this, but the man insists there is no problem, everything will be all right. It is just a temporary condition, he says, but Sydney is quite worried and is determined to find out what is causing the problem.

  “Tell everyone we are in good health and hope to see you in a few months.

  “Your loving sister, Grace.”

  I could always count on Jill to catch little idiosyncrasies in people’s behavior, and she came up with one right away.

  “Have you noticed she never uses his boss’s name? It’s like she has a deep-seated antipathy toward him.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “In one letter she wrote something like, ‘I cannot abide the man. He has no moral compass.’”

  Jill sorted through several sheets in her stack. “Here’s one that pretty much sums up the final chapter. It was written five years after Sydney Liggett disappeared.”

  “What does she say?”

  “She refers to her son’s recent wedding, then says, ‘I know I should be happ
y about Henry’s marriage, but the enclosed newspaper story crushed all my hopes for seeing Sydney again.’ Kelli copied the old clipping, which must have been yellowed and faded.”

  Jill summarized the story. In the fall of 1919, a hunting party in Dickson County, about forty miles west of Nashville, ran across a dilapidated barn on a farm unused since being tied up in an estate controversy for several years. The land was located near the original highway between Nashville and Memphis. One of the hunters looked inside and saw a car. When he investigated further, he discovered a human skeleton on the front seat. The car was a Marathon. A check of the license plate showed it belonged to Sydney Liggett.

  Liggett’s body was identified by what was left of his clothing, and papers in his wallet. Finding no obvious signs of foul play, the county coroner ruled it death by dehydration or starvation. After consulting old news reports of the disappearance, he reasoned that Liggett had pulled his car into the barn to hide. His fear of being detected caused him to stay there too long to survive in the extreme summer heat. Apparently the weather that year matched what we were experiencing now. The coroner also reported evidence of animals around the car, possibly feasting on the remains. Although no money or papers were found, the local sheriff speculated they could have been carried off by animals.

  “Mrs. Liggett objected to this line of reasoning but got nowhere with her protest,” Jill said, glancing back at the letter. “By that time, Marathon Motor Works had gone out of business and the case was considered closed.”

  She looked up at me, her eyes narrowed. “Sydney Liggett was railroaded.”

  “Sure sounds like it. The coroner probably wasn’t a doctor, more likely an undertaker. All he had was a bag of bones. Without any knowledge of forensics, he’d have had no clue if it was a natural death or homicide.”

  She placed the letter back onto the pile. “And without those papers, we’ve got no chance of proving it was murder.”

  Chapter 20

  I picked up Friday’s newspaper from the driveway as we returned from our morning walk. I pulled it out of its plastic bag, a useless precaution with the rain only appearing these days in afternoon deluges, and checked the front page. Gasoline prices were going up, as usual. TennCare, the state’s version of Medicaid with added benefits for the uninsurable, garnered more headlines. The latest news from Iraq and a drug-related double murder finished off the morning’s top stories.

  “Casey Olson didn’t make page one,” I said as Jill and I rounded the driveway where our house popped into view like a secluded mountain cabin. Except the only thing around that remotely resembled a mountain was the small knoll that it sat on.

  “How about the inside pages?”

  I stuck the paper under my arm. “Hard to walk and read an unfolded newspaper, babe. I’ll check it when we get to the house.”

  As we came through the door, I grabbed a towel I had left on a chair and began wiping my face. My Titans ball cap felt soaked around the sweatband. Friday was destined to be another scorcher.

  Jill started up the stairs toward our bedroom. “I’m getting my shower,” she called back.

  I felt like I’d already had mine. Walking into the kitchen, I spread the newspaper out on the table. The story occupied a choice spot at the top of page one of the local section. The headline read: “Second murder reported in Trousdale County.” The account offered little we didn’t already know, except for some background on Olson, listed as age twenty-four. He was identified as a maintenance worker at the Samran plant in Lafayette, a small town about fifteen miles north of Hartsville in Macon County. The company made high-tech hospital gurneys. Olson’s background showed destructive tendencies—he had competed often as a demolition derby driver.

  After showers and breakfasting on instant oatmeal and fat free muffins, we headed to the office. I had just settled down at my desk when Phil Adamson called.

  “Was your pal summoned to the DA’s office yesterday?” he asked.

  “He was, and apparently got along famously with your young prosecutor.”

  I told him about Warren’s fortunate mention of Marathon, which struck a positive chord with the antique car buff.

  “Well, I hope he’s still in a good mood when I report the latest development,” Phil said.

  I leaned back and shook my head. “And that would be?”

  “We got an anonymous tip this morning, no doubt brought on by that news story, that we should dig a little deeper into Warren Jarvis’s past. The guy even gave us the date for an article in a Las Vegas newspaper.”

  I tried to recall what Jarvis had told me about his career. Then it hit me. “He was stationed at Nellis Air Force Base outside Vegas years ago. What was the story about?”

  “According to the paper, Captain Jarvis was with a bunch of hot-shot fighter pilots at a bar one night when a guy starts making snide remarks. They got into a scuffle and Jarvis shoves the guy, who falls and hits his head on the corner of a table. He went into a coma and died a couple of days later.”

  Cops get very uncomfortable when they find a pattern of activity. I knew what Phil was thinking. Did Jarvis make a practice of overreacting in a violent manner? Had he used more force than necessary to stop Harold Sharkey? The big problem was that Jarvis hadn’t even touched the PI.

  “Did you check on the outcome of the case?” I asked. “Was Warren Jarvis charged with anything?”

  “The newspaper didn’t say. I’ve contacted the Vegas PD for more info. They haven’t gotten back to me.”

  I felt a pang of conscience that told me I should do something to help my friend out of this mire. “Were you able to ID the guy who called in the tip?”

  “No. He used a pay phone. You know how many anonymous tips we get.”

  I did. And I knew Phil wasn’t concerned about who had called, just was there any truth to the tip. Unfortunately, there had been. I was concerned, however. Either it was a friend of Harold Sharkey looking for revenge, or someone out to make trouble for Warren. I’d just have to wait and hope for the best.

  When I told Jill what had happened, she sat there and rubbed her forehead, then looked up. “One more reason we need to find some answers to this Marathon business as quickly as possible.”

  I decided to try Agent Fought again, see if I could pry any new insights out of him. When I reached him on his cell phone, he tossed me a fast one.

  “Did you find a link to my case?”

  I couldn’t bluff my way out of that. I decided to try candor. “No, I’m afraid not. But it isn’t for lack of effort. Things just don’t seem to be meshing for us. I guess you know how that goes.”

  “Been there, done that.”

  “I understand from Sheriff Driscoll that you have another body to deal with. Does it look like Casey Olson’s murder is tied in with Bradley’s?”

  “Fits your red car tip, doesn’t it?”

  “Right. But there are too many little red cars around.”

  “I’ve seen my share. The crime lab boys are analyzing mud from Olson’s car to see if it matches the soil at the lakeside. They have some other trace evidence they’re looking at, also.”

  “Have they come up with anything regarding that piece of stainless steel tubing you found in the Jeep?”

  “Not its origin, but the ME says it was probably used for a blow to the back of Bradley’s head to make sure he was out of it before they drove his Jeep into the water.”

  “Does that mean they’ve turned to drowning as the real cause of death?”

  “Right. The doc said the lungs and sinuses contained bits of debris, indicating he was still breathing when he entered the water.”

  I cringed at the picture that conjured up. Drowning must be one of the most unpleasant ways to go. Drowning was a new twist, and I made a note on my legal pad. “Has the ME completed his autopsy report?”

  “Not yet, but he’s released the body. Bradley’s sister is planning a funeral for tomorrow morning.”

  That was definitely an event
we would attend. “Getting back to Casey Olson, has the autopsy produced anything interesting there?”

  “I’m not sure what you consider interesting, but we have a nine millimeter bullet. We’d like to know whose gun fired it.”

  “Do you have any theories on that?”

  “Not that I’m prepared to say.” I heard another voice in the background, then Fought spoke hurriedly. “I’ve got somebody waiting for me. I have to go. Let me know if you come up with anything.”

  It had the ring of don’t call until you have something for me. Fought didn’t sound overly interested in talking about the case, except for a few obvious pieces of evidence. At least he wasn’t shutting us out cold.

  “Don’t forget our party tonight at the Rottman’s.” Jill looked across as I sat there doodling with my pencil. “I haven’t decided what I’ll wear. Something a bit dressy but not flashy.”

  As much as I hated it, I knew I’d have to dress up. “Will my business suit do?”

  “Sure. This won’t be a formal affair. Just be your usual charming self and you’ll be the hit of the party.”

  “Oh, boy. It’s getting deep in here. As you have been known to say, babe, flattery will get you everywhere.”

  She gave me her beta-eating-its-neighbor smile. “I’m counting on it.”

  “One thing we haven’t done,” I said, “is check out the place where it all started.”

  “Where what started?”

  “The Marathon murders. We haven’t been to Marathon Village to see where they found the papers. Maybe there’s something around the place that will give us a lead.”

  Chapter 21

  You could get to Twelfth Avenue and Clinton Street much easier back when touring cars were at their prime. Just travel out Charlotte Avenue from the State Capitol, turn right at Twelfth, go north a few blocks and there you were. But modern engineers came up with a design they called the Inner Loop, a multi-lane monstrosity that channeled three interstate highways around downtown Nashville. Besides altering street patterns, its path split neighborhoods apart. A public housing project north of Charlotte became so rundown the city finally abandoned it. The section around Clinton was part industrial, part residential. It had become a high crime area and a hangout for drunks and homeless men. A railroad line ran past it to the north.