Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

  “Anybody helping you?” he asked as he strolled out to the waiting area. He appeared to be around thirty, dressed in dark pants and a blue dress shirt, hair brown and shaggy.

  “No,” I said. “You’re the first live body I’ve seen around here.”

  He grinned. “A little morgue humor there? What can I do for you?”

  I explained who I was and what I was doing here.

  “I haven’t run into anything like this before.” He studied me for a moment as though I were some sort of oddity. “Please have a seat, Mr. McKenzie. I’m Dexter Longley, forensics technician. And I just happen to be your man. I was on call Saturday morning. I’m the one who went to the scene, and I also helped the pathologist with the autopsy.”

  I took one of the chairs and smiled up at him. “I appreciate your willingness to help. Tell me about the condition of the body when you got there.”

  Longley sat in the chair across from me and tugged an ear thoughtfully. “He was lying on his left side, across the console, with his head against the driver’s seat. There was a near contact entry wound on the right temple, with searing around it. I knew it was almost certainly fatal.”

  “Near contact meaning the barrel was not pressed against his head?”

  He nodded. “But it would have been held less than ten millimeters away. The bullet left a small hole with a wide band of blackened tissue around the edges. It’s caused by a combination of flame from the muzzle and soot from burnt powder.”

  “Did you find any blood or powder burns on his hand or sleeve?”

  “No. You don’t always get high velocity back spatter from a wound like this.” He smiled, then leaned forward. “Dr. Crandall has a thing about the term ‘powder burn.’ Powder does not burn the skin per se. He says we should refer to it as powder tattooing, stippling or blackening caused by flame and soot.”

  “Okay, no powder burns. Did you do anything like a paraffin test on Tim’s hand?”

  “We did a Gunshot Residue Kit using SEM—scanning electron microscopy.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Traces of elements you would expect after someone fired a gun. Barium, antimony and lead.”

  I frowned. “Traces. Doesn’t that test sometimes produce false positives?”

  “It can, if the person has been handling certain chemicals. But it was just one more indication that we were looking at a suicide.”

  “What about the bullet’s trajectory?”

  “Angled slightly downward.”

  “And that’s consistent with suicide?”

  “It varies. He had long arms. With shorter arms, it might have been slightly upward. But the temple is the favorite site.”

  “I understand the gun was found on the floor.”

  “Right. Statistically, I think only in about a quarter of the cases is the gun found still in the victim’s hand. The bullet was recovered also. It was a .38 caliber semi-jacketed hollow point.”

  “All right,” I said, “it sounds pretty cut and dried. All very scientific. But tell me this—would anything you found rule out the possibility of someone else firing the gun?”

  He crossed his arms and thought a minute. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders. “I guess not. But consider the circumstances. The victim was obviously under a lot of stress, anguished over the accident that had killed two people at The Sand Castle. It appeared to have been his fault. Sergeant Payne of the sheriff’s office was a witness to his appearance and behavior. Videotapes from the ranger station showed only Mr. Gannon’s car going into the Seashore. All the findings were consistent with suicide. And absent any evidence that someone else had been on the scene at the time of the shooting, Dr. Crandall could reach no other conclusion than a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  Thanks to Sergeant Payne, I thought, no real search had been made for evidence of anyone else at the scene. “You do a pretty good job with the doctor talk yourself,” I said.

  “Actually, that was my first choice. But in my second year of med school, I ran out of money. So I took paramedic training and worked with the Emergency Medical Service a couple of years. I’ve been here the past five. Did you say you have a condo on Perdido Key?”

  “At Gulf Sands.”

  “I live near Perdido Bay, not far from the key. We bought a little house there after our second son was born.”

  “Tim Gannon had three boys,” I said.

  He rubbed his chin. “That’s bad.”

  “Very bad. What did Dr. Crandall come up with regarding the time of death?”

  “He put it somewhere between one and three a.m.”

  “If I turn up evidence that somebody besides Tim Gannon was likely there at that time, would he be open to a change in his ruling?”

  “You’d have to ask him, and he isn’t in now. But I’d say he would be happy to consider any evidence you can develop. I’m sure the district attorney would, too.” He grinned. “I don’t know about the sheriff.”

  Neither did I. And I was a long way from putting anyone else on that road at the National Seashore early Saturday morning.

  Chapter 17

  When I met Jill back in the lobby, she had an appointment slip for Friday at one p.m. “Any chance you’ll have Tim’s death figured out by then?” she asked.

  I mimicked her eye-rolling routine. “I’ll be lucky if I can figure out all the players by then.”

  “Where do you plan to start looking?”

  “Our best lead at the moment is Sherry Hoffman. But it would help to know a little more about her before we turn up on her doorstep.”

  “Any ideas there?”

  “Who do we know who keeps up with everything that goes on in the vicinity of Perdido Key?”

  “Marilou?”

  “She’s not bad. But I’m thinking about somebody else—our friend Charlie Brown.”

  She nodded. “Charlie knows all.”

  The Rev. Charles Brown was pastor of Lost Bay United Methodist Church, located on the mainland almost in sight of the key. Lost Bay was smaller than our church in Hermitage, with a few hundred members who met in an attractive one-story building with a high-pitched roof over the sanctuary. This was topped by a soaring steeple with a simple cross. I don’t know how the steeple managed to escape the wrath of hurricanes like the one that pummeled the area back in the summer, but it did.

  Jill insisted we attend Sunday services at Lost Bay whenever we were in residence at the condo. By chance we happened to be there for Charlie’s first sermon in July. At the reception that followed, he got interested in my background—his son was an Air Force navigator—and we wound up visiting in the Brown home a couple of times before being chased out of town by the hurricane.

  When we reached the church around two, the sun was doing its shirt-soaking best to let us know that summer was still intent on making a last stand along the coast. A line of cumulus clouds drifted overhead like fat sheep marching in lock step. After blowing through the pines, the breeze carried the odor of turpentine. I parked the Jeep near the entrance to the white stucco building and we went inside. The secretary told us to go on into his office. Charlie was just getting off the phone.

  The room was small, containing a cluttered wooden desk, a few padded metal chairs, a table that looked old enough to have come off the ark stacked with magazines and papers, several shelves packed with books. A few pictures adorned the walls, including two portraits with collars I assumed meant early bishops of the church. Hanging above his desk was a large drawing of the other Charlie Brown, signed by Charles Schulz.

  “Jill, Greg...great to see you again.” The good reverend jumped up from his chair and hurried around the desk to greet us. He was a master at making everyone feel welcome. You’d almost swear he had been sitting around all day waiting for the chance to speak to you.

  “We just got in last night,” I said.

  He started to give Jill a hug, but she raised a cautioning hand. “Watch the shoulder,” she said. “Remember, I’m a recovering surg
ery patient.”

  He nodded. “I remember. Greg e-mailed me about it. Are you doing okay?”

  “Doing fine, thanks.”

  Charlie was a little shorter than me, about the same height as Jill, with a build that was more oval than rectangular. He had lively blue eyes that made his broad smile glow and a thick mane of white hair he groomed in something of a Robert Redford look. A tan jacket hung on the back of his chair. At sixty-three, he was winding down toward retirement, but you’d never know it by the pace he kept.

  “You ought to come down more often,” he said. “Enjoy the sunshine. Please have a seat. Is it getting cold back in Tennessee?”

  “Cool, but not really cold,” I said, scooting onto one of the chairs.

  “We got out ahead of a cold front that was swinging our way,” Jill said. As a pilot, she always described the weather like an airman.

  Charlie moved behind his desk. “Gee, I haven’t been back to Tennessee in I-don’t-know-when. I think I told you I graduated from UT. Journalism.”

  “If I remember correctly, you worked as a newspaper reporter in Pensacola.”

  “For eight years. Then I got the call and went back to school, to seminary at Candler in Atlanta. What’s going on in Nashville? I see the Titans are still winning.”

  Jill gave him a serious look. “Right now, Charlie, we’re more concerned about what has been going on down here.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “That balcony collapse at The Sand Castle,” I said.

  He raised both hands and rubbed them downward across his chubby face, letting them meet in a prayerful gesture. “A horrible tragedy. I knew two of the people who were injured. And then the young architect committing suicide. Did you know he had been to church here?”

  “Tim Gannon?” Jill arched a questioning brow.

  Charlie’s blue eyes widened as if a light had suddenly flashed on. “Of course. I remember now. He told me he was staying at your condo. He was a friend of yours.”

  “His mother and dad are our closest friends,” I said. “The whole family goes to our church.”

  “He was just a young man. Such a terrible waste.” Charlie glanced across at a newspaper on the table. “I believe I read where the funeral was to be in Nashville yesterday.”

  “We left right after the burial,” I said. “I need some help, Charlie. Tim’s father asked me to find out who killed his son.”

  Seeing the puzzled look on his face, Jill spoke up. “We don’t think he killed himself.”

  He sat still for a moment, staring. Then his eyes resumed their normal glow. “Well, I know exactly the man you need to talk to.”

  That perked me up in a hurry. “Who?”

  “A sergeant with the sheriff’s office. He’s one of my parishioners. He did the investigation.”

  My hopes took a sudden dive. “Sergeant Payne?”

  “You know him?”

  “We met at the sheriff’s impound yard where they had Tim’s Blazer. I’m afraid the sergeant is one hundred percent certain it was suicide. And he’s not about to change his mind.”

  “He’s about as stubborn a man as I’ve encountered lately,” Jill said.

  “Sorry to hear that.” Charlie frowned. “I’ll admit, he has definite ideas about most things, but he’s really a good man. His wife runs a beauty shop near here. He’s a devoted husband. They have no children, but he’s great with the young ones. Helps teach Sunday School for sixth graders.”

  I nodded. “No doubt he looks like a giant to them.”

  “I’ll grant you, he doesn’t have discipline problems. Not on the job, either. He was in the Army—Rangers, I think—before working for a private security firm. He’s been a deputy the past fifteen years. I’ve heard him say he’s never fired his gun except for practice.”

  “I’ll agree, he sounds like a fine man,” I said. “But I’m afraid he’s not going to do anything to help me.”

  “I regret that. Is there any way I could be of help?”

  I smiled. “Actually, you’re the one I planned to look to for some answers. I want you to put on your old reporter’s hat and see what you can come up with.”

  He gave me a skeptical glance. “That’s been a long time ago, Greg. But I’ll try.”

  “What do you know about a lady named Sherry Hoffman?”

  “Well, that’s an easy one,” he said, smiling again. “Sherry is a beautiful young lady, probably around forty. She lives just off Gulf Beach Highway, not too far from here. It’s a nice house on Big Lagoon. She runs a very successful real estate firm closer into town. Want more?”

  “Anything you can give me.”

  “Her father was Admiral David J. Hoffman, better known among the troops as Davy Jones. He was commander of the Naval Air Station some years back. He did a lot to help the city and was quite well thought of by Pensacolans. Sherry had finished college by the time he transferred to Washington. She had a good job here—I think she worked in a law office—and decided to stay. I believe she’s been in real estate for ten or fifteen years.” He tapped his fingers thoughtfully. “I guess that’s about it.”

  She sounded quite interesting, but I still didn’t see anything that might offer a tie-in with Tim Gannon. “Do you know if she had any connection with The Sand Castle project?”

  “I know she was there Friday night when the accident happened. Sergeant Payne told me she was the one who called 911.”

  I caught Jill’s eye and saw the look of surprise. We were definitely on the right track. “Do you know why she was there?”

  He shrugged. “I’m pretty sure she sold some condos for it. In fact, I heard...well, I don’t know.”

  “You heard what?”

  “It was just a rumor.”

  “Charlie, investigators thrive on rumor. What did you hear?”

  “As a preacher, I don’t like to indulge in rumor and gossip. I have found most rumors tend to exaggerate the situation.”

  “You’re not preaching now. You’re reporting.”

  “If you put it that way, I guess I might as well give you what you military types call the scuttlebutt. You’ll have to sort out the fact from the fancy.”

  “Please.” I leaned back in the chair.

  “I heard she had threatened to sue the developer, this Baucus fellow, over some units she claimed to have sold. According to the story, he contended his in-house people had made the sales. I don’t think she ever went through with the lawsuit.”

  If that were true, it didn’t sound like Sherry Hoffman would have been involved in anything on behalf of The Sand Castle. But Charlie was admittedly relaying rumors. “We heard something about her wanting to run for state senator. You know anything about that?”

  “That’s no secret,” Charlie said. “She’s a very bright woman with an agenda.”

  “What’s holding her back?”

  “Money, I’d say. I hear she hasn’t lined up the financial support she needs. She’s something of a sharpie, though. After a brief marriage some years ago, she took back her father’s name.”

  “Smart lady,” Jill said, “if her dad was quite popular here.”

  “How does Sherry Hoffman figure into your investigation, Greg?” Charlie asked.

  I shrugged. “Frankly, I’m not at all sure right now. But we need to call on her and see if it might lead somewhere.”

  “One other point I might add,” said Charlie. “They say Miss Hoffman is a bit kooky in some ways. I’ve never been in her home, but I’ve heard the décor is rather...well, to put it charitably, eccentric.”

  Oddball or not, I hoped she could shed a little light on what had happened to Tim last Friday night.

  Chapter 18

  We stopped by the condo after winding up our visit with Charlie Brown. As we walked through the door, I heard the answering machine’s beep. When I played the message, Walt Sturdivant’s voice burst furiously through the speaker.

  “I looked at Farnsworth’s copy of the plans. The bastard was right.
They show the smaller rebars. But I’m damned certain that’s not what was on the original. Furthermore, it specifies the wrong strength of concrete. We specified four thousand p.s.i. What he has shows three thousand. The structural engineer’s seal on it must be a fake. The sheet was a copy. Some sonofabitch must have pasted the seal on before they copied it. I also talked to the building inspector’s guy. He says they called Boz on the carpet yesterday. They questioned him closely about his certifications. He claimed he didn’t realize the rebars were too small. He was just going by what the plans called for. I’ve heard enough of this shit. I’m headed back to Nashville. Call you later.”

  “What do you make of it?” Jill asked.

  “Our friend Walt has an acid tongue,” I said. “Worse than yours truly.” Jill had worked to shorten my four-letter vocabulary since retirement, with modest success.

  “Granted. But I was referring to his remarks, not his rancor.”

  “I don’t know. I just hope we can find some way to establish exactly what the original plans called for. Sounds like Farnsworth is being a bit devious. And remember, Walt said earlier that Detrich would be the guy most likely to benefit from altering the plans. I think it’s time we checked on the contractor.”

  I found Tidewater Construction in the phone book, with the same address as The Sand Castle development office, called and asked where I could locate Claude Detrich. I was given a phone number for Tidewater Construction in Biloxi. At the Mississippi office, a slow-talking secretary advised that Mr. Detrich would not be in until tomorrow. I started to leave my number, then changed my mind.

  When I got off the phone, I saw Jill standing at the balcony railing, gazing out at the emerald green waves rippling toward the shore. She heard me walk through the doorway and began pointing. “The dolphins are out in force. Right there. Must be at least half a dozen.”