4 The Marathon Murders

by Chester D. Campbell

  “From what we’ve heard, he was the one who accused Sydney Liggett of embezzling funds.”

  “Yeah. They had a lot of problems that came out in the bankruptcy case. There were accusations of company officers selling cars out the back door, the money not on the books. The guy who designed the cars and served as general manager until they canned him charged they priced the cars at a loss. It was a big mess. After they brought Hedrick in as secretary-treasurer, it became apparent he knew nothing about manufacturing cars. They named a new president to keep an eye on Hedrick’s business habits, but this guy knew nothing about the auto industry, either.”

  “Sounds like the blind leading the blind,” Jill said.

  “That’s for sure. One of Nashville’s leading investment people later said there was no one in charge, and no one connected with the operation knew anything about making cars. They had a good thing going at first but made several basic errors.”

  “Such as?”

  “Instead of concentrating on only two models at first, like Henry Ford did, they tried to compete at three different price levels and several different styles. Everybody, except a few that got out early, lost their shirts when Marathon went under.”

  “Was Sam Hedrick one of them?”

  “He sure was.”

  I thanked Geary and told him we’d keep in touch. After we hung up the phones, Jill looked across at me.

  “Where do you suppose Sam Hedrick got the money to start Hedrick Industries a few years later?” she asked.

  I tapped my fingers on the desk as what we had just learned ran through my mind. “I have a hunch those missing papers could hold the clue.”

  Chapter 36

  Warren Jarvis called around nine, his voice tight as a guitar string, to see what if anything we had heard from Kelli.

  “Nothing,” I said. “No email. No fax. No phone call.”

  “I don’t like it, Greg.”

  “Neither do I, but I’m not sure what we can do about it.”

  “Well, I’ve waited long enough. I’m going up there. I intend to camp out at that motel and wait until she shows up or calls.”

  “I don’t blame you. Just let us know of anything you learn.”

  A short time later, I got the promised call from Allen Vickers. He was a pleasant sounding man but spoke in the hurried voice of a busy executive.

  After identifying himself, he asked, “What does McKenzie Investigations want with me?”

  “Irving Glastonbury told me he had talked to you, probably a couple of weeks ago, looking for a living relative of Sydney Liggett, who was assistant treasurer of Marathon Motors.”

  “He sure did. I told him about Arthur Liggett. Are you related?”

  “No, but a client of ours is. I wondered who told you about Arthur?” I sat back and waited for another disappointing reply but got a surprise instead.

  “He wasn’t all that difficult to find. I called a couple of people I knew who were related to some of the Marathon folks. Stone Hedrick’s grandfather was secretary-treasurer when the company closed. He knew right away who I was looking for.”

  “Did you tell him about the papers that were found over at the old Marathon office building?”

  “Yeah. He seemed real interested in that. Of course, I told him I didn’t really know anything other than what Irving had said, about the note regarding the District Attorney. Do you have any more information on that?”

  “No. The papers are missing, and we’re currently looking for them.”

  “Well, good luck. I know some folks got burned. Fortunately, my great-grandfather was one of those who cashed in his chips before things went sour.”

  I hung up the phone and put a big exclamation point after the notes I had taken. Jill peeked over my shoulder.

  “Stone Hedrick? Camilla’s father?”

  I looked up. “None other. More and more signs are pointing toward Hedrick Industries.”

  Jill patted the heel of her hand against her forehead. “It just dawned on me where the Samran plant name came from. Sam for the founder and Ran for his son, Randy.”

  “Good one. I think you’re right.”

  “Should we go up there and let me do my thing with the office people, see if I can find out who the mysterious Kayjay is?”

  I spun my chair around. “The sheriff doesn’t want us up there, but as long as we stay out of his way, I don’t see any problem.”

  “Sheriff Driscoll doesn’t have any say in Macon County anyway.”

  “You’re right as usual, babe. Before we do anything else, it might be fruitful to drop by and see Arthur Liggett. I’ll bet Stone Hedrick is the man he told Kelli and Warren about. The one who tried to get him fired.”

  We arrived at the Safe Harbor Nursing Home around ten-thirty. Liggett’s room had just been cleaned. He sat in his recliner, dressed in a fresh shirt and tie, watching the latest financial news on CNBC. I noticed the gray mustache had been trimmed. He looked up when we knocked and walked in.

  “Good morning, Mr. Liggett,” Jill said. She walked over to pat his arm, which he had stretched out to grip the chair.

  “Well, I’m happy to see you two detectives. What have you done with my granddaughter? I haven’t heard from her in a couple of days.”

  “I think she’s doing a little checking of her own up in Hartsville and Lafayette,” I said. I gave his large, unsteady hand a vigorous shake.

  “Tell her not to forget her old granddad.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t do that,” Jill said.

  “Mr. Liggett, you told Kelli about having trouble with a man who tried to get you fired over an equipment order you had cancelled,” I said. “Might that have been Stone Hedrick, the chairman of Hedrick Industries?”

  He frowned and twitched his mustache. “You’re darned right it was Hedrick. The man is only interested in making a buck. Doesn’t matter if his equipment is the right thing for your hospital or not. I’m sure he would have happily swatted me like a fly.”

  I followed Jill’s eyes over to the window, where a fly buzzed about the curtain. I felt certain Arthur Liggett was not exaggerating his problems with Hedrick. “Were you aware that his grandfather was your grandfather’s boss at Marathon Motors?”

  His jaw sagged and his eyes widened. “I had no idea. Do you think he had something to do with those papers disappearing?”

  “We think it’s a good possibility. If we can nail something down, we’ll go to the police.”

  Liggett’s eyes glared with a determined look. “You bring that man down, Mr. McKenzie. Put him behind bars.”

  As we walked out to the car, Jill shielded her eyes from the sun and gave me an anxious look. “Mr. Hedrick and Mr. Liggett sound like archenemies, don’t they?”

  “There’s certainly no love lost. But I have trouble translating that into murder.”

  “Could Stone Hedrick know what’s in those papers?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. He took over the business from his grandfather, so he was associated with Sam for several years.”

  I suggested we head home before starting out to Macon County. I didn’t like the way things were shaping up in this case. There had been too much violence already, and we seemed to be closing in on a possible solution. In case we should encounter any more trouble, I wanted to be ready. I intended to pick up my Glock 27 and an ankle holster and let Jill get her little .38 revolver, which she carried in a purse with a special pocket. The Glock was a recent acquisition, ideal for a hot weather weapon. Barely six inches long, the .40 caliber pistol fit neatly beneath my trouser leg and could be accessed quickly in a pinch.

  We decided to save time by grabbing a sandwich while we were at home. My watch showed well after noon by the time we started back around Old Hickory Boulevard toward Madison. We began the familiar trek up I-65 and Vietnam Veterans Parkway. Traffic remained a hassle until we passed Gallatin. After that the roads became less traveled. The brilliant August sun seemed to set fire to every shiny object along
the highway as we sped past gently swaying cornfields and sweeping green pastures dotted with cows, white, black, brown and spotted.

  We saw Warren’s rental car in front of the motel in Lafayette. Shortly, we turned south on Highway 10 toward the Samran plant. It was near mid-afternoon when we rolled in there. Monstrous cumulonimbus clouds—a term I had learned from Jill—stretched skyward as their gray and white shoulders rose in the process of nurturing their stormy offspring. I parked in the visitor lot and let down the windows while Jill went in.

  Happily, the cloud formations blocked the sun. Unhappily, rather than cooling the temperature, they merely increased the humidity. My shirt had begun to feel like a towel I’d used following a shower. Thanks to the thick, high-topped socks I had donned, the ankle holster was no problem. I considered sitting there with the air conditioner running, but a glance at the gas gauge discouraged that idea.

  As I sat there sweating, I tried to piece together in my mind where we stood. Bradley had not given up the Marathon papers before his murder, or there would have been no reason to toss Arthur Liggett’s house the next day. An unknown assailant, assisted by Casey Olson, had killed Bradley. The killer then did away with Olson, his witness. Mickey Evans had identified a recent close friend of Casey’s from Samran, a man known as Kayjay, who might possess information about Casey’s plans and other associates. The killer had apparently dropped a Dallas Lights cigarette when leaving Bradley’s home. He had also dropped or discarded a Dallas Lights pack near the scene of Casey’s death. Shelby Williams’ story had checked out, eliminating him as a suspect.

  We now knew that Stone Hedrick was aware of the hidden papers, that he detested Arthur Liggett. And it was beginning to look like he had knowledge of what the papers contained. As I thought about Hedrick’s involvement, I recalled my discussion with Camilla Rottman Friday night. I had mentioned a case where a man was killed because he had something somebody else wanted. She had picked up on our comment the day before about going to the police regarding a murder. And as we were leaving, Jill told about our plans to attend Pierce Bradley’s funeral. Jill didn’t mention the name, but Camilla would have known the identity of the reference. She no doubt tied it to the case we were working. Which led to the question of Camilla’s involvement.

  Immersed as I was in my mental ramblings and lulled by the heat, I sat up, startled, when Jill opened the passenger side door and slid onto the seat. I glanced at my watch. She had been inside for almost half an hour.

  “You must have made some headway,” I said. “You’ve got that chessy cat grin.”

  “You want to know who Kayjay is?”

  “I believe that’s why we came here.”

  “Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants, it’s Kirk J. Rottman.”

  “Camilla’s son,” I blurted.

  Jill gave me a knowing look. “I notice you said Camilla’s, not Roger’s.”

  “She’s the one who seemed to be more concerned about him.”

  “Well, he’s the maintenance supervisor at the plant. He was Casey Olson’s boss.”

  I got a sudden feeling of apprehension. “You didn’t talk to him, did you?”

  “No. They said he wasn’t working today. Incidentally, several people from Samran plan to be at Casey’s funeral tomorrow.”

  How close was Kirk Rottman to Casey? I wondered. How much had they shared about each other’s lives? I decided Mickey Evans might be the key to answering those questions. I also wondered what Kelli had pumped out of her.

  I started the car. “Let’s pay a call on your young friend Mickey. I have several more questions that she might be able to answer, now that we have a better idea of what we’re looking for.”

  The grin returned. “Okay, dear. You’re going back into Trousdale County. Just remember to stay out of Sheriff Driscoll’s way.”

  I intended to. “Why don’t you get on your phone and find an address for Kirk. He could be in either Lafayette or Hartsville.”

  As we drove along, Jill got busy on the phone while I kept one eye on the road and one on the huge cloud formation with its anvil-shaped, flattened top. My pilot confidant had taught me this was a fellow you should avoid. However, it appeared to be moving on a track that would soon intersect with ours.

  By the time we reached Highway 25 on the outskirts of Hartsville, I had to switch on my headlights. The clock on the dash glowed 3:00 p.m. but the sky looked more like eight or nine at night. Huge raindrops soon began to pelt the windshield, almost with the force of hailstones.

  “You’d better take it easy, Greg,” Jill said. “This looks like it could be a doozy of a storm.”

  I slowed to 25 as we entered the town and took the cutoff that would become Main Street. We passed few cars as the rain battered down in torrents, creating impromptu streams along the roadside. Streaks of lightning burned jagged holes in the darkened sky, and thunder rumbled like a series of explosive eruptions that shook the earth. Wind gusts made bushes along the street sway like dancers in a bizarre choreographed routine.

  We finally made it up the hill to Mickey Evans’ house, where I was relieved to see her small Ford in the driveway. I knew we should have called or checked the restaurant first, but I didn’t relish the thought of making more than one trip out in this deluge. Ruts in the driveway had already become mini-ponds.

  “Want to try the umbrellas?” I asked. The small collapsible jobs were stashed behind the front seat.

  “This wind would blow them apart. We might as well run for it.”

  I jumped out and made a dash for the porch, not in my best form with the weight of the ankle holster. Jill came behind me. She huddled close to the wall in an attempt to avoid the gusty sheets of rain.

  The screen stood open, blown back against the wall, it’s spring hanging down, stretched out of shape. I pounded on the door loud enough to wake the dead.

  No answer.

  “Maybe she’s in the back and can’t hear with all the racket this storm is making,” Jill said. “Try the door.”

  I turned the knob and pushed.

  The door opened.

  I tugged at Jill’s arm. “Get in there before you drown.”

  I followed her inside and closed the door. Apparently the storm had knocked out the electricity as no lights showed anywhere. With the shades drawn, I could barely see.

  “What’s that smell?” Jill asked.

  I didn’t answer. The odor had assaulted my nostrils as soon as the door closed. It was a smell you never forgot, once you’d experienced it. Shifting my eyes about the room ahead, I stepped back with one leg, went into a half-crouch, and pulled the Glock from its holster at the other ankle. I detected no movement. Turning to the nearest window, I tugged at the shade. It slipped from my fingers and clattered to the top, ending with a bang that jangled my already tense nerves. The storm had begun to pass, brightening the sky. Pale light streamed through the window.

  Jill uttered a muffled cry. I saw her hand reach up to cover her mouth.

  “Don’t move, babe,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

  The crumpled figure of a girl dressed in a pink nightgown lay on the floor a few feet beyond us. A pair of broken glasses lay at one side. Blood spatters marked the carpet, the sofa and the wall behind, as if someone had thrown a can of paint in that direction. Her face had been beaten almost beyond recognition. But there was no mistaking the short brown hair. It was Mickey Evans.

  I gripped the Glock, moving cautiously, although the brown color of the blood told me this was a crime scene several hours old. Reaching her side, I put my hand down to check her pulse. The cold stiffness of her arm told me we were way too late. Rigor mortis had done its job.

  Chapter 37

  No matter how many homicides you’ve seen, and for me that numbered quite a few, you’re never fully prepared for the lengths to which people will go to desecrate the bodies of their fellow humans. It’s especially bad when the victim is someone you’ve met. Someone who’s already gotten a raw deal out of life.<
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  While Jill and I stood there transfixed by the unholy scene before us, the retreating storm added its own gruesome graphic as a distant flash of lightning produced a momentary glow, highlighting the lifeless body on the floor.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, keeping my voice low but determined. “Don’t touch anything. I’ll get the door.”

  She dabbed a tissue at her eyes as I held the door with my handkerchief.

  Out on the porch, I found the rain had turned into a moderate but steady shower. The wind had died down a bit and the lightning had almost disappeared in the distance. In our earlier rush to get inside the house, I hadn’t noticed the drop in temperature. Now the skin on my arms tingled, almost a shiver, as I hurried across to the Jeep.

  After settling down behind the wheel, I got out my cell phone and punched in the sheriff’s number. The dispatcher answered.

  “I need to speak to Sheriff Driscoll,” I said.

  The guy sounded bored. “He isn’t in.”

  “Is he still tied up with that big operation going down today?”

  His attitude changed. “I can’t comment on that.”

  “Well, you’d better get in touch with him and advise him he’s got another corpse on his hands. And this one is gruesome.”

  The dispatcher’s tone shifted from businesslike to full alert. “A corpse . . . where?”

  I identified myself, gave him Mickey Evans’ name and address, and explained what we had found. I suggested he have Driscoll call me on the cell phone.

  “That poor girl,” Jill said when I had turned off the phone. “Who could have done such a terrible thing to her?”

  “Somebody who was damned angry.”

  “It’s such a waste.” She stared at the crumpled tissue. “First Casey, and now her.”

  “Probably the same killer got them both.”

  She shook her head, then turned to me. “Do we need to wait around here for the sheriff?”