The Hunters Series: Volumes 1-3

by Glenn Trust

  Both deputies shook their heads indicating they were not offended. Andy Barnes knew what he was doing at a homicide scene. They would take all the help they could get.

  “Nope, it’s our crime scene,” Ronnie said. “As the victim is a neighbor of a missing, potential murder victim, I’d say this is part of the ongoing GBI task force investigation. That makes it your crime scene too.”

  “Right, but I know you’ve had some experience with murders yourself. Those serial killings last year.” He looked at George. “I understand you did pretty good on that one. I don’t figure Shaklee and Price give out praise lightly. They were pretty complimentary of you. Called you a natural hunter.”

  George shrugged. “Lot of us involved in that one. I was just there at the end.”

  “End is the most important part sometimes,” Andy said, appreciating the deputy’s humility.

  “Well, it’s clear you know what you’re doing at a murder scene, Detective,” Kupman said. “What you did in five minutes, we would have figured out, but a lot slower. We aren’t too proud to recognize an expert when we see one.”

  The sound of the front door banging against the interior wall as it was noisily pushed open caused their heads to turn. “What’s going on here? Someone fill me in.” Sheriff Klineman pushed his way past the deputy dusting the doorframe and into the living room. “Kupman, what do we have?” He eyed the well-dressed black man in the fedora standing comfortably in the living room beside his deputies and added, “And who the hell is this?”

  “This, Sheriff, is Detective Andrew Barnes of Atlanta PD Homicide. He is part of the GBI task force and is here in Pickham County to assist us.” He turned to Andy and said, “Detective Barnes, let me introduce Pickham County Sheriff, Richard Klineman.”

  Barnes nodded and smiled. “Sheriff.”

  Sheriff Klineman said nothing. The look on his face said all that needed to be said. Jesus Christ, a fedora-wearing detective from Atlanta was standing in the living room of one of his constituents. The wheels churning inside his head could almost be hear by the others in the room. What the fuck was going on? The thought seemed to scream from his brain audibly into the room. The red hue that shot up from his neck, covering his face, was visible to all.

  “Chief Deputy, tell me what is going on, and I mean now. Are we turning this into another murder conspiracy?” He glanced over at George, who smiled, wishing he had a chew in his mouth so that he could send a stream of tobacco juice at the sheriff’s shiny shoes. No, on second thought, he wouldn’t do that inside the Crandall’s place. But there was the sheriff’s nice new SUV provided by the county parked outside. It was a thought.

  “We are investigating a murder, Sheriff,” Kupman said, taking the sheriff by the sleeve hoping to lead him away from Ron Crandall who had lifted his head in tearful agony at the sheriff’s loud entrance into his home.

  Klineman jerked his arm away from the chief deputy. “What’s going on, Kupman? Brief me now.” He looked at George and Andy and said, “Start with what the hell they are doing here.”

  “They,” said Ronnie clearly and deliberately, “are part of the GBI task force investigating the string of murders occurring across the state to select individuals.”

  “Task force! Goddammit. I knew it. You are trying to turn this into one of Mackey’s conspiracy theories.” He turned towards George. “Leave now, Deputy. Get out. This is a Pickham County investigation, and since you are part of the GBI now, you can leave. We’ll call if we need you.” He turned towards Barnes. “You too, Detective. You can go.”

  Turning back towards Kupman, his face showed a moment of surprise as his chief deputy jerked him by the arm down the adjoining hallway to a bedroom, away from the hearing of Mr. Crandall. Ronnie closed the bedroom door behind them with a firm click and turned, approaching the sheriff within a few inches of his face.

  “Are you completely insane?” Ronnie Kupman, normally calm and controlled, had fire spitting from his eyes.

  “You…you, can’t talk to me…” Klineman was startled and intimidated by Kupman’s tone.

  “Yes, I can, Sheriff. We are alone in here. Just you and me, for now. So, I ask you again, are you insane, or so completely overwhelmed by the idea that you might lose an election that you don’t give a shit about anything else?”

  Klineman’s mouth moved open and closed silently and his eyes seemed to be all whites, but he made no response.

  “Martha Crandall…remember her Sheriff? She organized one of your fund-raiser dinners…she’s lying on the kitchen floor of her own home with her skull crushed. Her husband is grief-stricken, unable to even speak, and all you can think about is that the GBI might be stepping on your toes.” He inched even closer to the sheriff’s face. “You are pathetic.” He spit the words out.

  Klineman stood staring at Kupman, unable to speak or respond. After a minute of staring into Ronnie Kupman’s eyes, his mouth started to open, as if to say something, anything, to defend himself against the anger in the chief deputy’s eyes and voice.

  Kupman cut him off with a smile, edging so close that their noses almost touched. He spoke in a threatening whisper, so that only the sheriff would hear. “Here’s how it is, Dick.” The sheriff’s face reddened one shade deeper at the use of his familiar name. “This is a GBI task force investigation. The murder of Martha Crandall is clearly tied to the disappearance of Porter Wright, who has been identified as a potential target for assassination. If you can’t understand that, then you are dumber than I thought, but I don’t think you are dumb. I think you are the most self-serving bastard I have ever known in my life, and will do anything to be reelected. It is a disgrace to call you sheriff, but that is what the voters have made you, so hear this…Sheriff…” Kupman took a breath. “Stay out of the way. If you interfere in any way in this investigation, I promise you, you will not be sheriff again.”

  “D-did…did you just threaten m-me? Did you?” Klineman struggled to recover his voice and respond to his chief deputy’s intimidating warning.

  “You will have my resignation when this is over. Until then, stay out of the way, Sheriff.” Kupman turned towards the door. “You’ve been warned.” He left the room, pulling the door closed behind.

  Richard Klineman stood alone in a bedroom that had been turned into a playroom for the Crandall’s grandchildren, trying to recover his composure. Teddy bears and baby dolls stared up at him uncomfortably until he felt able to open the door, walk through the living room, and out to his SUV.

  Andy and George, seated in George’s pickup, watched the sheriff leave the house.

  “Sheriff Richard Klineman, huh?” Andy said. “Shaklee and Price didn’t tell me about him.”

  “I’m not surprised,” George responded.

  “Richard…Dick,” Andy turned to George with a smile. “Good name for him.”

  “Yep,”

  67. Shit Rolls Uphill

  “We need help.”

  Shaklee’s statement to Perry Boyd seated across the conference room table spoke for itself and required no comment from Boyd. Things were moving fast, most of the task force was down in Pickham County by necessity, leaving only Shaklee and Boyd to work on Perkins and follow-up on the leads from his interrogation. There was also the unclear and nagging connection between PT Somerhill, Stanton James’ death, and the ‘Term Limits’ list. PT’s involvement was gnawing at them both.

  “Any ideas?” Shaklee waited while Boyd thought it over.

  “There are a couple I know of that we could bring in.”

  “Right.” Bob nodded. “Who?”

  “Couple of homicide detectives. They work for me.”

  “I have to ask, you know…trustworthy?”

  Boyd nodded his understanding. “Completely. I ask them to stay quiet, they will.”

  Bob understood. Working in a specialized unit like homicide brought people together. It made them loyal to one another above all else. Like an infantry squad in combat, they fought for each other, more tha
n country, and would do things for each other that they would never consider doing on their own. In this case, that meant keeping things quiet until Shaklee and Boyd determined it was time to go public.

  “What about you? Anyone here we can bring in?”

  Bob had given that some thought. There were a number of agents he trusted, hell, all of them, really, but there was a problem. The GBI was a state department, a division of the Department of Public Safety. The task force had been organized by the governor’s office. Asking a state employee to withhold information from their direct chain of command was a touchy thing. They had taken an oath to support the constitution and, therefore, the duly elected officials of the state. Shaklee had made his decision, it might cost him his career, but the decision was made. He was going to get to the bottom of the ‘Term Limits’ conspiracy. He could not ask others to jeopardize their careers.

  “There are people I trust, people we could bring in, but I’m not sure I want to place them in that position. State agency, working on a state task force.” He shrugged. “I don’t want anyone losing their jobs because I asked for confidentiality.”

  Perry Boyd understood. Atlanta homicide was pretty far removed from the influence of the state. Shaklee and his team were right under the governor’s nose. Boyd knew that Shaklee was taking a huge career risk in not being completely forthcoming with information developed by the task force, but it was the right decision. The murder conspiracy was clearly being directed from above, and they didn’t know where that ‘above’ was just yet. Until they did, they had to keep the investigation confidential.

  Still, Boyd knew that he and Barnes, Mackey and Price, Ronnie Kupman, and even Johnny Rincefield, had the luxury of plausible deniability. They were following the orders of the task force leader, Bob Shaklee.

  Shit usually rolls downhill, but in this case it was flowing right back into the face of Agent Shaklee, task force leader. Boyd regarded Shaklee across the table with a serious sense of respect.

  “Let’s bring in my people,” Boyd said simply, reaching for the phone.

  Bob Shaklee nodded and watched as Boyd punched the numbers into the phone, then said. “I appreciate this, Perry.”

  “No problem. Let’s just crack the case and find the sons of bitches.”

  Detective Gary Poncinelli answered the direct line ringing on his desk with a simple, “Poncinelli.” Anyone calling this number would know who he was and where he worked.

  “Ponce, this is Boyd.”

  “Hey, Cap. What’s up? Haven’t seen you around.”

  “Is Hurst in?”

  Looking around the open office area, Poncinelli spotted Lieutenant Hurst. “Yeah, Freddy’s here. What’s up, Cap?” The tone of Poncinelli’s voice indicated his curiosity and concern at the same time. It was not like Captain Boyd to sound so conspiratorial. He was pretty much an up-front, in your face, kind of guy.

  “Get Fred and meet me in thirty minutes. Bring your own cars; you’re going to need them. Anybody asks, you’re on special assignment with me. I’ll bring you up to speed when you get here.” Boyd gave Poncinelli the address, which he immediately recognized as the GBI offices in Atlanta. He asked no questions. Cap said he would bring them up to speed. That was good enough.

  Thirty minutes later, Detectives Poncinelli and Hurst sat across the task force conference table – command center from Perry Boyd and Bob Shaklee. Shaklee let Boyd brief his two detectives, filling in occasional small details. The detectives listened intently, making notes of names and locations in their notepads.

  Gary “Ponce” Poncinelli had been with the homicide squad a year and a half. Ending his Marine Corps active duty service with a second deployment to Afghanistan, he had come home and signed on with APD. Graduating at the top of his academy class, he was a natural law enforcement officer, even-tempered by nature and tough when he had to be. His entry into homicide had been more rapid than most, but he had quickly earned the respect of his fellow detectives.

  Lieutenant Frederick “Freddy” Hurst was a lifelong Atlanta resident. He had grown up watching the APD cruisers ride through his neighborhood, running around corners to avoid them, as he served as a lookout for local thugs and drug dealers. An uncle, retired from the Army, had turned his life around and given young Freddy the motivation to do something else, something more with his life. He had joined the Army himself, serving as a tank gunner in the first Gulf War. Like Ponce, he had found it a natural move to apply for entry in the Atlanta Police Department. A ten-year member of the homicide squad, Lieutenant Hurst was possibly the most respected homicide investigator in the city, with more solved cases under his belt than anyone else, including Captain Boyd. He had earned his fedora two months after joining the squad.

  Perry Boyd concluded his briefing. “Everything I just told you is confidential. If you need to discuss the case, you do it with me or Agent Shaklee, or another member of the task force. No one else. Clear?”

  Both detectives nodded. The look on their faces showed that they were wondering the same thing. What kind of shit has the Captain just dragged us into?

  Boyd didn’t give them time to ask, sending them out on their first task force assignments as a GBI administrative assistant walked in with the typed transcription of Terrell Perkins’ statement. It was time to lean on Mr. Perkins one more time while Shaklee made his report to Elizabeth Crestline, walking the delicate line between outright lying to his superiors and withholding sensitive information in the interests of confidentiality.

  Perry Boyd decided that he wouldn’t want to be in Bob’s shoes for anything and figured that he had the more enjoyable assignment. This was reaffirmed as he pushed open the door of the adjacent conference room and saw young Mr. Perkins, murderer and rising star in the criminal community, handcuffed to the table again, a look of deep concern on his face.

  “How’s it going, Terrell?” Boyd smiled.

  68. ”I reckon so...”

  The amber liquid in the half-empty bottle gave off a soft yellow glow. The bar lights shining through the glass appeared as shimmering candles. Sim Lee stared into it like a fortuneteller looking into a crystal ball. The reflected shapes of people moving around the bar floated, distorted, tortured ghosts in the glass. He took a sip from his tumbler and replaced it on the bar, cupping his hands around it.

  Bill Quince sat sipping the same beer he had ordered when they first entered Pete’s Place. He waited patiently, knowing in his simple way that Lee would come up with a plan and let him know what they were going to do next. Whatever it was, Quince knew he would be the driver and would need to be sober. Lee on the other hand seemed to think better with a few drinks in him. For now, his partner sat transfixed by the bottle of bourbon on the bar.

  Roy Budroe circulated around the bar, mingling and bullshitting with his customers. He gave the two at the end of the bar their space. Lee and Quince were not from the area, had walked into Pete’s Place as strangers the day before, but Budroe was a good judge of people, especially the people who frequented his bar, and he knew that they were serious men, dangerous men. He made sure that they remained undisturbed while they drank and discussed their business quietly. Whatever that business was, Budroe would not be asking questions unless they required his services.

  It took an hour of sipping bourbon for the sting of the call with Puckett to fade. Bill Quince sensed the change in his partner. Lee, staring into the bottle, was thinking, coming up with their next move. That was good. Lee’s plans were always good. He always figured things out.

  Finally, Lee’s head turned towards Quince. “We gonna find that cabin.”

  Bill nodded and sipped from the beer bottle. “Thought Puckett said wait.”

  “He did.” Lee sipped his own drink, slowly, as if trying to find the way to explain things to the big man beside him. “But, sitting here waiting is not what’s best for us. You know how he is. He likes to control things if they aren’t going just the way he planned. Drives me nuts sometimes.”

  Q
uince nodded, sipped his beer, and waited. Sim would explain.

  Lee looked at him speaking slowly. “If we wait, we lose pay, money that we are owed for the job. He ain’t gonna pay us full rate if he has to come down here with that Big Bud guy.”

  Quince nodded again to indicate he was following the explanation, so far.

  “On top of that, it means he don’t trust us to get it done, or he wouldn’t be coming down. I told him how it was, that the man was gone when we got here, but didn’t matter. He’s coming on down anyway.” He shook his head and took a sip of bourbon. “So, only way to fix things between us and him is to go ahead and do it.”

  “Do it?” Quince asked, looking at his partner to make sure he understood the plan Lee was laying out.

  “Do it,” Lee said nodding. He looked his partner in the eye. “We go find that cabin from the map the lady drew for us. We take the man, do what we get paid to do, and get things cleared up before Puckett gets here. He has to trust us then. Then things get back to normal.”

  Quince nodded, thoughtful. “What about the wife, the family? Are they going out to that cabin?”

  “Yeah, they might be. Just their bad luck, I guess.” He lifted his glass and touched it to Quince’s beer bottle. “We do what we got to do partner. You with me on this?”

  Bill Quince nodded. “I reckon so, Sim. Reckon so.”

  69. He’s Got A Visitor

  Sitting around the coffee table in the office on the square, PT Somerhill and Edward Paschal sipped large takeout coffees from Styrofoam cups and munched the danish that Somerhill had brought in from the pastry shop around the corner. The morning sun cast long shadows from the buildings across the square. They were alone. PT had given his secretary the morning off.

  “Interesting situation we are in.” Paschal’s statement was tentative with a tone of uncertainty. The uncertainty was merited. The elimination of James, while not a surprise, had moved their enterprise to a new level. They had all long since passed the point of no return, but they now knew without doubt what turning back would mean.