Murder Key

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “But, Sheriff,” said the deputy, “these guys almost killed Caldwell.”

  The sheriff scowled. “He won that medal saving my dad’s life. Unhook ‘em.”

  “Okay,” mumbled the deputy as he went about unlocking the cuffs.

  Jock held up his hands, grinning, his pistol pointed toward the sky. “Sorry about that, Sheriff,” he said. “We weren’t sure what kind of reception we’d get.”

  The sheriff nodded.

  I was too stunned by what the sheriff had said about my old sergeant to say anything. Jock looked at me and said, “You never told me about the medal.”

  “It didn’t seem important,” I said. “I lost most of my team that day, and that’s not hero stuff.”

  I turned to the sheriff. “Are you really Jimbo’s kid?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How is Jimbo?”I asked.

  “He’s fine. He lives here in Merrit County. He’ll be glad to see you. I grew up on stories about how you saved his life.”

  “Did he tell you that he saved mine?”

  “No, that never came up.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “But he did. Ask him about it.”

  I introduced him to Jock, explaining that Jock was an old high school buddy visiting from Texas.

  * * * * *

  We were sitting in the sheriff’s office. He was behind a big desk, Jock and I in side chairs facing him. There were no windows, and fluorescent lighting gave the place the feel of a hospital waiting room. There were no pictures on the walls, no plaques or certificates. Just a bare room with a minimum of furniture. Jock and I had dictated statements to a secretary who was typing them up in the next room.

  Sheriff Kyle Merryman leaned back in his chair. “Caldwell is finished. I’ve heard rumors that he was quick with that billy he likes to carry, but I’ve never been able to prove it. Your statements will give me the leverage I need to fire him.”

  I nodded. “Why have you kept him on until now?”

  “His dad’s on the county commission, and I have to go to them every year to fund this office. Caldwell senior is a bully, and he won’t like that I’ve fired his boy. It always just seemed easier to go along to get along. I keep Caldwell junior, and the commission gives me the budget I ask for.”

  “What about now?” I asked.

  “I don’t think there’ll be a problem. The other commissioners will go along with me when they get proof that Caldwell is abusing citizens. They kind of looked the other way when it was just Mexicans.”

  Jock grinned. “Sounds like a nice little county you got here.”

  The sheriff thought about that for a minute. “It’s not all bad. This was a quiet little place until old Senator Foster started buying up property. Turned a lot of good ranch land into truck farms and started bringing in the Mexicans to work them.”

  “Senator?” I said.

  “Used to be,” said the sheriff. “He served in the state senate forty years ago, and he likes to use the title. Everybody just got in the habit of using it, too.”

  “What can you tell us about him?” I asked.

  “Not a whole lot. Why? You interested in buying some vegetables?”

  I laughed. “Not exactly.”

  I was about to tell him what I’d heard about the senator when the office door burst open.

  A big man from my past came through the door. “Matt, you shavetail son-of-a-bitch.”

  I stood to shake Jimbo Merryman’s hand, and he grabbed me in a bear hug. I hugged back. The years had been kind to my old sergeant. He was still fit, his hair now completely gray, and what little was left was still worn in a buzz cut. His voice was undiminished, loud and brash and southern.

  “God, it’s good to see you,” he said. “When Kyle called, I couldn’t believe it. I thought by now some jealous husband would’ve shot your sorry ass dead.”

  “It’s good to see you, too, Jimbo.” My voice cracked; tears were welling in my eyes. Shit. I couldn’t break down here. Not in front of the two toughest men I’d ever known. What the hell was wrong with me?

  I disengaged from the big soldier, quickly wiped my face on my shirt sleeve, and mumbled. “Got something in my eye.”

  The others pretended not to notice.

  I introduced Jimbo to Jock. “This tub of guts saved my ass in the Nam.”

  Jock stared at Jimbo. “Could’ve saved us all a lot of trouble if you’d just left him there.”

  “I would’ve, except the brass kind of frowned on us losing lieutenants. I was just trying to make rank.”

  Jock chuckled. “I hear you, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I hear you.”

  Jimbo said, “I guess you know he saved my life that day in the bush.”

  “He never mentioned it,” said Jock. “Not once, and I’ve known him his whole life.”

  Jimbo grinned. “Not surprised,” he said. “When you all get through here, Kyle’s going to bring you by the house for supper. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  “I’d love to see Molly,” I said, “but we don’t want to just show up on short notice.”

  “Too late. Molly’s already cooking. I’ll see y’all at the house.”

  When Jimbo was gone, the sheriff turned to me. “Now, tell me why you’re interested in the senator.”

  I sat quietly for a moment. “Kyle,” I said, “I don’t know if I can trust you. You’ve kept a corrupt cop on your payroll for your own benefit. You’ve got what appears to be a slave labor camp in your county, and this rogue deputy is obviously protecting the people who run it. He had no other reason to stop us or to try to rough us up. Tell me why I should trust you.”

  The sheriff leaned back in his chair and used both hands to massage his temples, all the while looking straight at me. “I don’t know if I can trust you either, Matt. A lot of water has gone under the bridge since you and my dad were in Nam together. Show me a card, and let’s see how the hand plays out.”

  I looked at Jock. He nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Somebody’s trying to kill me. We think it’s tied up with illegal immigrants and drugs. A Border Patrol agent who’s been working with Jock and me told us about a camp here in Merrit County.”

  “What’s the Border Patrol guy’s name?”

  “Paul Reich.”

  The sheriff reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a cell phone. “Did you know you can buy these little phones at convenience stores over in Ft. Myers?” he said. “They have a limited number of minutes to use, and then you throw them away. They’re completely anonymous. Untraceable.”

  He dialed a number, and then said into the phone, “This is Viper. Let me talk to Reich.”

  Then, after a moment, “Agent Reich, this is Viper, authentication code Friar Tuck. I’m about to blow my cover, but I need you to vouch for me.”

  Kyle handed me the phone. “Tell him what you need to.”

  “Paul?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Matt Royal.”

  “Good Christ, Matt. How did you find Viper?”

  “Actually, he found us. Your Viper is Sheriff Merryman.”

  “Holy shit! You’re sure?”

  “Jock and I are sitting in his office in the courthouse. Turns out his dad’s an old friend of mine.”

  “Viper’s been giving us good information, but we haven’t been able to figure out who he is. I’ll be down there this evening. We need to talk.”

  “Here’s the sheriff,” I said. “See you soon.”

  I handed the phone to Kyle. He told Reich to come to his dad’s house and gave directions.

  I told Kyle about the attempts on my life and our trip to Mexico, and what we’d turned up.

  The sheriff frowned, and was quiet for a moment. Then, “I know about the camp. I didn’t know how the Mexicans got here. I knew Caldwell was hooked into the bad guys, and I think his dad is, too, but I can’t prove anything. Casey is the enforcer. He makes sure the Mexicans don’t get out of line, and he s
cares off anybody who looks too closely.”

  Jock said, “Who else has been looking?”

  “We get some immigration advocates coming around sometimes, and Caldwell just stops them and suggests they leave the county and don’t come back. I’ve gotten a couple of complaints, but they’re anonymous. I guess folks don’t trust anybody in our department.”

  I asked, “How long has this been going on?”

  “About a year now, maybe a little less. I got the first complaint from a farm worker advocate in January. It was an unsigned letter telling me that there was a labor camp in my county, and that the people were virtually slaves. Apparently this person had been told to leave the county by a deputy.”

  “What did you do?” asked Jock.

  “I made an anonymous call to the Border Patrol office in Tampa. I have a small force, and I didn’t know which deputy was bent. I did know that the Mexicans were working for the senator, so I figured he must be involved.

  “I didn’t know whether anybody at the Border Patrol might be on the payroll. Never heard back from them, so I became Viper. Turns out they were concerned about the Sheriff of Merrit County. I’ve been running my own investigation and, as Viper, keeping the Border Patrol posted.”

  I asked, “What have you found out?”

  “Not much. I think a guy named Jimmy Wilkerson is running the camp, but that name is probably an alias. He has no record of any kind in any of the data bases. Not even a record of his birth.”

  “We know about Wilkerson,” I said, and related the events in Orlando and in eastern Manatee County. “Tell me about the senator. His title keeps coming up, but we’ve never heard a name until now.”

  Kyle smiled. “The senator. He’s an odd duck.”

  The sheriff told us that the senator, whose name was Conrad Foster, was in his late seventies, and, as a young man, had been elected to the state senate. He left after one term because of some improprieties that were never made public. He liked being called “Senator,” so people still accorded him the courtesy title.

  He had grown up in eastern Sarasota County on a large truck farm owned by his father. Once he inherited, the senator, with a little help from his political cronies, expanded the holdings until he was one of the largest land owners in the state of Florida. His holdings included cattle ranches, citrus groves and truck farms.

  He employed a lot of people, most of them Mexicans, and most of them illegal. He’d never been charged with any labor law violations himself, but once in a while the Border Patrol would sweep down on his farms and arrest some of the illegals. It didn’t happen often, and the number of arrestees was small enough not to make a dent in the senator’s operations.

  There had been rumors for years that the senator paid off the politicians to keep his operations solvent and keep the flow of labor unimpeded. No one knew anything for sure, and there had never been an investigation.

  Kyle leaned back in his chair, his booted feet on the desk. “A couple of years ago, the senator bought up several small cattle ranches in Merrit County, plowed them up and planted crops. The old cracker cowmen moved on, and the Mexicans started showing up.”

  Jock said, “And nobody’s doing anything about the illegals.”

  The sheriff grimaced. “No. The big farmers and the big construction companies don’t want to lose the cheap labor, and they put a lot of political pressure on the Border Patrol. They’ll make a show of raiding some small farmer from time to time, but the senator doesn’t get bothered much. I think once in a while he’ll lose a few workers, but that’s planned. Don’t want it to look like he’s getting any special treatment.”

  “Where does Paul Reich fit in?” I asked.

  “Far as I can tell, Reich is straight as an arrow. He’s probably got some juice in Washington, so the locals don’t mess with him. If we can find the proof, he’ll take the senator down, and the hell with the consequences.”

  Jock leaned forward. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said.

  37

  Murder Key

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jimbo Merryman lived out near the edge of town in a small ranch house that sat on a large lot facing a short dirt road that ran off the main highway. No other houses were visible as we parked in his driveway.

  A large banyan tree shaded the front yard, and azalea bushes filled the beds on either side of the front stoop. A well tended lawn of emerald green grass surrounded the house like a thick carpet. An ancient citrus tree sunned itself at the corner of the home. Spring would bring brilliant color to the flowering trees and hedges, and the smell of citrus blossoms would sweeten the air.

  Jimbo had come home from the wars, at last.

  We trooped up the sidewalk, the sheriff in the lead. Suddenly, the front door burst open, and out came a large lady, moving at full speed. She was wearing a muumuu in a bright floral design, big red flowers nestled on a sea of yellow. Her gray hair was in a bun at the back of her neck, her large blue eyes hinting at the beauty she had been when she was young.

  She rushed passed Kyle, whooping with joy. “Matt, you rascal. God, I’ve missed you.”

  She enveloped me in a bear hug, and then leaned back, hands on my shoulders. “You’re still a handsome devil,” she gushed. “I don’t think you’ve changed at all. Still got all your hair and there’s no gray. When old Jimbo croaks, I’m coming for you.”

  I laughed. “Jock Algren, meet the inimitable Molly Merryman, the woman who finally domesticated the Sergeant Major.”

  “Not completely,” she said, chuckling. “Kyle, don’t just stand there. Get our guests inside and find them something to drink.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the sheriff, grinning as he led us into the house.

  Jimbo was coming in through the sliding glass doors that led to his lanai and screened pool. “Got the charcoal going,” he said. “The steaks will be ready soon. The Border Patrol guy called for directions. He should be right along.”

  Kyle was rattling around in the kitchen, the sound of ice dropping into tumblers reaching out to the family room over-looking the pool. “Name your poison, gents,” he called out.

  Jock and I both ordered bourbon on the rocks. Jimbo asked for a Scotch, and told us to make ourselves comfortable. Kyle brought the drinks and joined us. We sat in the overstuffed furniture and sipped our whiskey, Jimbo telling us about his quiet life in a small town. He needed action, and was looking forward to the next few days. The old soldier was ready to join up and help us take down the bad guys.

  The sheriff sat quietly, watching his dad, concern etching his face. Molly had excused herself and was making salads in the kitchen.

  “Dad,” said Kyle, “tell Matt about the heart attack.”

  “Nothing to it,” said Jimbo. “Docs fixed me right up.”

  Molly coughed from the kitchen doorway. “No, they didn’t,” she said, “not all the way. He has to take it easy, Matt, so we need to keep him out of this mess with the Mexicans.”

  “Ah, Mol,” said Jimbo, “I can take care of myself.”

  “He’s like an old fire horse,” said Molly. “The alarms go off, and he’s ready to run, pull the wagon, get smoke in his nostrils. He doesn’t understand that he can’t do that anymore.

  I raised my drink. “Top, you’re the best soldier I ever met, or even heard of, but you’re only a Sergeant Major, and Molly’s the General.”

  Turning to Molly, I added, “We’ll follow orders, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Matt,” she said, and returned to her kitchen.

  Jimbo frowned, and then smiled, and waived his drink in a dismissive gesture. “Okay, okay, I know when to retreat,” he said. “I’ll stay out of it, but keep me posted on what’s going down.”

  A car door slammed. “That’ll be Paul Reich,” said Kyle, getting up and moving toward the front door.

  When introductions were made, and he had a tall Scotch and water in his hand, Paul began to talk. He was excited about what we’d put together so far, but he was c
oncerned about a leak in his operation. He hadn’t told any of his people that he’d contacted me about Juan Anasco, nor had he ever told them about Viper. No one knew he’d come to meet us, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  “We’ve known about the leak for some time,” Paul said. “That’s why I was brought in from D.C. The people at the top gave me a blank check on this one. I can get pretty much anything I want.

  “A lot of the information that comes directly to me stays with me. I never told anybody about Viper, because he was giving me good intelligence, and I was afraid somebody would leak the information to the bad guys. If that happened, they’d shut down before we could get to them.

  “Jock, you and Matt turned up at just the right time. I was able to use you for intelligence gathering when I couldn’t use my own people. I’ve kept David Parrish in the loop, and Rufus Harris has been a big help. He’s clean, but we’re not sure about his people. The leak may be in DEA instead of in our shop.”

  Jimbo settled himself deeper into his chair, and said, “Matt, what about this guy Logan Hamilton? You’ve kept him in the loop. Is he good people?”

  I nodded my head. “He was a chopper jockey in Nam, Top. Won a silver star for pulling some grunts out of a bad situation. Got shot up doing it, too. I think he was a lot like our old buddy Scholfield. I’d trust him with my life.”

  “Good enough for me,” said Jimbo.

  Kyle rattled the ice in his glass, took a last sip of gin and said, “You know the problems in my department. I’ll be taking some heat in the next few days over that idiot Casey Caldwell. His old man is going to stir up a shit-storm with the County Commission.”

  Reich frowned. “How’s that going to affect what you do?”

  “It won’t. I got more votes in the last election that any of the commissioners, and they won’t screw with me too much. It’ll all die down in a few days.”

  Jock nodded. “We may not have a few days.”

  “I know,” said Kyle. “I’ll be here for whatever you need. Just keep in mind that the only manpower I can provide is myself. I’m down to two deputies, and I wouldn’t trust either of them on this thing.”