The Hunters Series: Volumes 1-3

by Glenn Trust

  The old, retired state senator looked forward to the weekly visits with his grandchildren. Having them near brought back their youth. It had been an innocent time, when he and Lauralee were just starting out together. The children running through the old house was like a spring breeze blowing through the open windows. He savored it, drinking it in, dreading the moment when PT would say it was time to go. It was their Sunday ritual. PT and Lisa were good to them and worked hard to make sure that both sets of grandparents were able to spend time with the grandchildren, but to Prentiss it was never enough. Sunday was theirs though. That had been established, and his anticipation for their arrival grew each week as the hour approached.

  PT, short for Prentiss Terrence Somerhill, Jr., had become a partner in his father’s law practice when Prentiss, Sr. had started spending more time on his state legislative duties. Then when the senator had unexpectedly retired from the Georgia State Senate, PT was left in full control of Somerhill and Son, Ltd., Attorneys at Law. The practice became his passion, and he had grown it into a much more profitable undertaking than when the senator ran it in between stays in Atlanta with the legislature and campaigns for re-election.

  PT had watched his father in the political arena and had stood by his side during the long campaign meetings as his assistant. For a time, he had wanted to follow in his father’s place, not just in the law practice, but also in the political forum. But, with Senator Somerhill’s abrupt resignation and alienation from his former colleagues in the state senate, PT had turned his focus entirely on their law practice.

  Somerhill and Son, Ltd. became the child of the son, while Somerhill, Sr. transitioned into retirement. PT concentrated on his family and the practice, and he was good at both. An exceptional lawyer, with his father’s stature and his mother’s disarming face, he was also a devoted father and husband.

  Shifting in his chair, the retired state senator wondered where his sandwich was. He was about to call through the open window when kitchen sounds made their way out onto the porch. The familiar busy sounds of activity coming through the window were pleasant. It was a peaceful moment, sitting in the warm sun, listening to his wife’s bustling activity.

  Thirty minutes later, the sandwich had been eaten and the empty plate and glass lay neatly on the porch beside his chair. Somerhill leaned back in the rocker. The warm afternoon sun on his face was soothing and within a few minutes, he drifted into his Sunday nap.

  Coming onto the porch to gather the dishes, Lauralee Somerhill squinted towards the tree line where the distant popping of gunshots continued sporadically. She could make out no sign of the Jackson boys, but she knew that the clearing was too deep in the woods for them to be seen.

  Stooping gracefully and nimbly for her seventy years, she retrieved the plate and glass from the porch and went into the house. Tidying the kitchen, she deposited the dishes in the kitchen sink, gave a final look through the window at her husband sleeping peacefully in his chair, and went up the stairs to their bed for her own Sunday nap before the children arrived.

  6. The Deep End of the Pool

  Stopped at a traffic signal in his black Mercedes, the African American member of the group that had gathered in the office on the square took a hand rolled Dominican cigar from the breast pocket of the gray suit he had worn to the meeting. Clipping the end of the torpedo, he lit up, the glowing blue flame of the gold cigar torch sounding like a mini jet engine. Patiently waiting for the light to change, he puffed until the car filled with aromatic, blue-gray smoke. As the traffic light changed, he rolled the driver’s window down allowing the smoke to escape. His wife hated it when he smoked in the car. The window would remain down for the duration of the hour-long drive home.

  After leaving his colleague seated on the sofa, he had calmly walked around the courthouse square and down a side street to his car. A police cruiser on patrol had been driving around the square on routine Sunday afternoon patrol. In another era, a strange black man in an expensive suit walking the deserted square, passing the plush offices and upscale shops would have been reason enough to be stopped and questioned. Now, the white officer behind the wheel had not given him a second look. Times had changed, at least for professional looking black men in expensive suits. These changes were not lost on him, nor were they taken for granted.

  The son of a Haitian immigrant, he had watched his father and mother work two and three jobs each until they could afford to purchase a small storefront in one of Atlanta’s poorest black neighborhoods. The small store had evolved into a small diner, and then, a second. Working his way up through the business, he had done every job from washing dishes to running the grill and planning the menus.

  When they felt he was sufficiently groomed and ready, his parents gave him full control of the business. It was an opportunity he did not squander. The two small restaurants grew into a chain of upscale eateries specializing in a blend of Caribbean cuisine and soul food, and although they frequently occupied space in fashionable malls and upscale neighborhoods, he never forgot his roots. Wherever the chain expanded, he always made certain that there was a local café version of the restaurant in a neighborhood accessible to those who did not frequent the high-end malls and shopping districts. He would not forget the humble people who had made his family’s business prosper, nor would he forget the movement that had allowed it to expand to the trendy, fashionable neighborhoods, becoming one of the largest privately owned restaurant chains in the country. The enormous wealth and security his family enjoyed was the direct result of that movement.

  Driving carefully and deliberately to his home, he mentally reviewed the meeting on the square, and the sacrifice he and the others had been called upon to make to see the plan through. Clayton Marswell had been an early leader of the movement. Not as well-known as the great civil rights luminaries of the period, he had stood by their sides and sat in their councils. His input and quiet direction were crucial in the early years, and while many on the outside may not have known his name, they saw his influence in methods used and arguments made.

  The sacrifice of the judge was terrible, but he recognized it as a necessity. The drastic changes being wrought by the movement Marswell had been drawn into would change the way things were. The very fabric of their world and the benefits derived from the sacrifices of Marswell and others would be altered, possibly permanently. All that they had gained, and the methods used to achieve those gains, were in danger. And so, they had agreed to the sacrifice, on condition that an equally significant sacrifice would be offered on the other side.

  Nodding softly to himself, the pungent smoke from the cigar clenched in his teeth circled his head. There would be an equal sacrifice; he would see to that, he thought grimly, or there would be hell to pay. A wry smile crossed his face at the thought. Hell might be where they were all headed before this was through and before things returned to business as usual, if they ever did. But if he was going to hell, he was not going alone. A deep puff on the cigar filled the car with gray smoke.

  The third man in the meeting left the office on the square in a much less steady fashion than his collaborators. A real estate broker by trade, he had gained entry to the group and its plans through his rise as a representative to the Georgia legislature, and his willingness to do virtually anything requested of him by those in power in order to secure some small measure of power for himself. When he had been approached by the group to take over a soon to be vacated state senate seat, he did not hesitate. He knew that his easy, unopposed victory would be orchestrated by those with whom he had met today, and others. He also knew that they would expect something, perhaps many things, in return for his entrance into the group of elites.

  Unlike the others in the group, he was a less-than-average man, considered by them to be lacking in strength of character. Coming from different backgrounds, they had one thing in common. Their inner strength was largely derived from the circumstances from which they had risen. Driven to succeed, they had become accustomed
to success. Nothing would be allowed to stand in their way or thwart their purposes.

  Coming from a moderately prosperous middle class family, there had never been any great want or any great dream in his life. He had coasted through the University of Georgia with mediocre grades and then had joined his father’s real estate business. He was the boss’ son and was treated as such. Not much had ever been expected of him, and in return, he gave little.

  Unlike the others, he had been content to get by, always looking for the easy way out, or in, as the case might be. He might have drifted through life an unknown or easily forgotten shell of a human being had it not been for one dominating trait. Living life in the shadows of everyone he had ever known, his one great motivation was an enormous, unbearable lack of self-esteem. The hollow carcass that he was would do anything to be more.

  The overwhelming need for recognition and status blew air into the empty balloon that was his psyche. It lifted him up and, for a time, the balloon would expand so that he might appear to be more. But with crisis and trial, came pinpricks that let the air out of the balloon until all that was left was the flaccid shell of a man who desperately wanted to be more, but could never be, without the assistance of another.

  The others in the group recognized these flaws in their collaborator. They would carefully use his character, or lack thereof, to their benefit and, if required, later discard him and his services, covering their tracks. Weak as he was, he was not unaware that he was playing in the deep end of the pool with the big boys now. He also knew that they would not hesitate to hold his head under, permanently, if he failed them or broke ranks with them.

  And so, he struggled with the gearshift in his red Italian sports car, trying not to draw the attention of the police as the whiskey he had gulped in the office burned in his gut and reddened his face. The alcohol filtered into his bloodstream. The drive to the affluent neighborhood in a suburban metro Atlanta county seemed interminable.

  The warning he had been given to stay sober had been a valid one. He was the weak link. They knew it and he knew it. Under even moderate questioning, he would fold like a lawn chair in a hurricane. They had no doubt.

  Inquiries into his whereabouts that Sunday afternoon, why he had been drinking scotch, and driving his fancy sports car in such an erratic fashion, would inevitably lead to more questions. One chink in his armor, one flaw, one doubt, and he would be cut adrift…or worse.

  He swallowed the thought down with the lump in his throat. A burning pit of anxiety, mixed with fear, in his stomach. Telling himself they needed him, for now, he tried to believe he was an equal part of the team. Somewhere deep inside, he knew that he was tied in with men who held little more than contempt for him.

  Down there in the pit of his stomach mixing with the anxiety and fear churning in his gut, the understanding of his status with the others added to the acid and bile gurgling up into his throat. He swallowed hard again, trying not to puke all over the interior of his fancy Italian sports car.

  7. The Fedora

  The man in the charcoal gray fedora wheeled the black Crown Victoria around the empty, hulking warehouse. Cruising rapidly along the rear of the building, he came to a stop at the yellow crime scene tape. Strung across the drive near the building’s loading dock, the tape marked a neat, fifty-foot perimeter around a late model black BMW sitting on its wheel hubs.

  Stepping from the Crown Vic, a stocky, muscular man in his mid-thirties adjusted the fedora and stood still for a moment, eyeing the scene. His eyes moved rapidly, taking in the surroundings, searching for anything that might unravel the mystery that had become his assignment. Position of the BMW. Buildings. Windows. Debris. Things that would be more visible from a distance looking at the scene as a whole, than from up close. He let it all sink in, storing a picture in his brain that he could refer to later.

  Satisfied, he walked towards the crime scene. Approaching the yellow tape, he was met by a young officer who could not have been out of the academy more than six months. The officer lifted the tape to allow the man in the fedora to pass under.

  Stopping short of the tape, he slid his jacket back exposing the Atlanta homicide detective badge clipped to his belt.

  “Homicide. Detective Barnes,” he said, looking at the young officer.

  “Yes, sir. I know.”

  “You know?” Barnes eyes him sharply. “You know who I am?”

  “Oh. No, sir. I mean, I know you’re homicide and all…I mean, the hat and all.”

  “It’s a fedora, son,” Barnes said as seriously as he could, trying not to laugh at the young officer’s awe of the homicide detective mystique. A little mystique was good. Stepping under the crime scene tape Barnes added, “You’re not in the academy any more. You don’t have to ‘sir’ me,” he eyed the rookie’s nametag. “Officer Torrance.”

  “No, sir. I mean, I know, sorry, sir.” The young officer could not take his eyes off the fedora, wondering what one would look like on his own head one day.

  Detective Andrew Barnes stopped just inside the tape perimeter. Crime scene techs were photographing the scene from a distance, scanning the ground for evidence. They would not approach the car or body until he examined the scene and gave them direction. He took another look around from a different perspective, then looked at Torrance. “Show me what you have, Officer.”

  “Yes, sir, I mean…right.” He paused looking unsure. “Uh, I’m not sure where to start, sir…I mean, Detective.”

  Barnes smiled. “Okay, Torrance, take it a step at a time. Just brief me, and I’ll ask questions. Tell me how you found the car and body.”

  Officer Torrance nodded, took a deep breath and began. “Right. So, I was on patrol, just checking the area. Came around the side of the building and saw the car. I could tell right off that something wasn’t right. I mean, it didn’t have any tires.”

  Barnes nodded. “You always prowl around warehouses on Sunday afternoon?”

  Torrance looked at him puzzled. “Well, I uh…I mean…”

  Barnes chuckled outright at the young officer’s discomfiture and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Torrance. I just meant most officers probably would have been hiding out at a fire station somewhere watching the Braves baseball game. Not you though, huh?”

  “Oh, well, no. Sunday’s pretty quiet. Thought I would check the warehouses. Maybe find a burglary or something.”

  “Well, you found something. Good thing that you did. No telling when this would have been discovered.”

  The young officer smiled and nodded, appreciating the compliment. Barnes returned the smile remembering his days as a young cop, trying to make a name for himself, always looking for something to get into.

  They approached the BMW, Detective Barnes scanning the ground and surroundings as they walked. Stopping at the car’s trunk, he motioned over a crime scene tech.

  “You can start dusting the trunk and outside of the car for prints. When I finish, start on the interior. Get what we can before we disturb everything moving the body from the car. Complete photo set up close.”

  The tech nodded and headed to his van to gather equipment.

  “Torrance, you touch anything?” He asked the question over his shoulder as he walked along the side of the BMW looking closely at the car’s body, the finish, scratches, everything.

  ‘Well,” Torrance was nervous. “I did, well, I had to get close to see what it was and well…”

  Barnes looked over at him. “No problem. You gotta do your job. Just show me where and what you touched, or might have touched.”

  “Right.” The young officer walked over and indicated places he touched, or might have touched. He showed Barnes how he had approached and examined the man slumped against the passenger door.

  “Okay,” Barnes replied with a business-like nod. “You run the registration?”

  “Uh, well no, the tag is gone, probably taken by the perps.”

  “Go around to the driver’s side and
get the vehicle identification number from the dash. Run the VIN.”

  The look of chagrin on the young officer’s face almost made Barnes feel sorry for him, but Barnes had work to do, and there was just one way for the boy to learn. Then he turned to the BMW.

  Barnes stood just to the rear of the vehicle’s front passenger door and looked down. Shattered glass from the passenger window mixed with the victim’s blood covered the ground. He could see clearly, where Torrance had stood to examine the dead man.

  Taking a small pad from the interior breast pocket of his suit jacket, he began noting all of the details he had observed to this point. Looking at the man slumped against the door, he knew that the cause of death was likely a gunshot at close range. Estimating the height of the bullet as it had impacted the side of the man’s head, he looked to his right searching for some impact on the building’s brick wall. At that distance, it was hard to tell. There were a couple of chipped spots that could have been bullet impacts. He turned to the evidence tech who was dusting the car’s trunk lid and examining it closely for latent prints.

  “Tom.”

  The tech looked up. “Yeah, Detective, what’s up?”

  “When you’re done there, check the wall for a bullet impact, and if we’re lucky, maybe a bullet. Start at ground level directly opposite the passenger window here and then ten feet up and ten feet right and left. That should about cover possible trajectories. We can expand from there if we need to.”

  “Right.” Tom the tech lowered his head again, peering closely at the trunk, holding the puffy dusting brush just inches from his face and car as he scanned for prints.

  Replacing the notepad in his pocket, Barnes pulled out a pack of latex gloves and began tugging them over his large hands. While working the gloves on, he looked down and turning, spread his feet wide, straddling the broken glass and blood on the ground, bringing himself even with the passenger door. He peered closely at the victim, making mental notes.