Driven Be Jack_A Jack Nolan Novel

by Robert Tarrant

  PJ nodded, but didn't say anything in response. As she pulled out onto the street I asked, "Where is this place named after the cattle . . . this Pineywoods?"

  "It's north west of Lake Okeechobee. I guess you'd call it South Central Florida."

  I asked, "What's the industry up there, if it's not cattle?"

  "I think it's a mix, some cattle, some citrus, some truck farming. From what I've learned it's not an area of rampant economic growth. I have the distinct feeling that the area has seen its better days. Don't know what happened, just seems to be dying a slow economic death.

  I nodded and said, "I guess all of the decline isn't in the inner cities."

  A few minutes later PJ steered us onto westbound I-595. This is the expressway where thousands of aspiring Daytona 500 drivers come to practice every day. I had never ridden with PJ, but quickly learned she could compete with the best. Westbound traffic is lighter in the morning, most people are headed eastbound from the communities on the western edge of the metro area toward Fort Lauderdale or the roadways headed south toward Miami. We were doing about eighty in one of the center lanes when two motorcycles blasted by us as if we were standing still, one on each side.

  PJ casually remarked, "Couple of closed caskets there."

  At the western end of I-595 we took I-75 a short way before turning north on US 27. I'd never been on this stretch of road, but couldn't help but think about all of the trips I had taken on US 27 from the Lansing area to northern Michigan. Rather than a sea of pine and bounding whitetail deer, I was looking out at scrub growth along endless canals, and the occasional sunning alligator. Minutes later the view was the endless sea of sawgrass that constitutes the River of Grass extending from the southern tip of Lake Okeechobee over one-hundred miles to the southern tip of Florida.

  I turned to PJ and asked, "You told me on the phone that you had located the victim's father still living in Pineywoods. Does he know we're coming?"

  She shook her head, "Nope. I thought it would be better if we caught him cold. I didn't want him sitting around all night recalling what he said ten years ago, just to repeat it today. If there is anything new to be learned it will come from his unrehearsed comments."

  "How can you be sure where he is today?"

  Shrugging her shoulders PJ replied, "Can't be sure about it, but I expect to find him at home. From what I was able to learn he's on some type of permanent disability. He's had a couple of minor brushes with law enforcement himself, always related to alcohol. My guess is that he spends his mornings sleeping off the night before."

  "What kind of disability?"

  "The infamous back injury. He was a delivery truck driver of some sort and evidently hurt his back lifting."

  "Back injuries are tough cases. I did a few worker's comp cases when I was in private practice and back injuries are tough to disprove."

  PJ said, "Yeah, I think worker's comp cases provide as much work for private detectives and lawyers as divorce."

  We talked about the case a little more, but then the conversation drifted to more mundane topics like the latest political scandals and the ever changing Florida weather. Somehow we burned up the hours and before I knew it we were driving down a narrowing asphalt road with a burgeoning crop of potholes. I asked, "You sure we're on the right road? This is really the boonies."

  PJ smiled and said, "What? Don't you trust Google Maps?"

  Just then we rounded a sweeping curve and passed a faded, bullet hole scared, sign reading Pineywoods City Limits. One of the posts was bent, as if bumped by a passing vehicle, giving the sign a distinct list to one side. Shortly, I would recognize that the sign was emblematic of the town itself.

  On the edge of the town we passed a small block building whose two front windows were totally covered in sun-bleached advertisements. Three, equally bedraggled, gas pumps stood in front of the building. At this point the roadway widened into the main street of the town. Both sides of the street, in what was once the central business district, were lined by one and two story cement and brick buildings that appeared to have all gone through several facade changes before they were collectively allowed to fade into blight. Nearly half were boarded up. The other half gave off a tired vibe as if going through a slow, albeit quiet, death. Very few of the angled parking spaces on the main street were occupied and those that were contained predominately older model, well worn, pickup trucks. We saw no one entering or leaving any of the businesses and certainly no one walking along the broken sidewalk.

  The frontage on one side of the street for one entire block, of the six-block business district, was occupied by the Trafford County Courthouse and its surrounding property. The courthouse is a stately two-story structure of sandstone colored brick accented by large white columns supporting the portico over the expansive front porch. It seemed as if the entire budget for upkeep in the community had been spent on the courthouse. The only detraction was an ugly single-story projection out the rear of the building with a sign indicating it housed the Trafford County Sheriff's Department and Jail.

  The far city limits were delineated by a discolored red low-slung metal building at the back of a large parking lot of cracked and broken concrete. A neon cursive script sign hung over the front entrance announcing Bar. A couple of pickups with huge mud-bog tires were parked near the door. Otherwise the place was doing a good imitation of an abandoned property.

  Just beyond the bar we noticed a sign on the roadway announcing Road Closed 2 Miles, Bridge Out. I muttered, "One way into town and one way back out."

  PJ looked at me and said, "Man, how do people live here? I expected that the place was on the downhill slide, but I don't see how it can go any lower." With that she turned us around and retraced our route for a couple of blocks before turning onto one of the side streets. For the next few minutes we cruised the few side streets.

  Most of the houses were low block structures constructed on slabs making them look like they had sprouted out of the scraggly yards. Interspersed were small modular homes in assorted weathered pastel colors. Many houses displayed yard art consisting of old pickup trucks perched on cinder blocks. Most of the side streets were nothing but crushed stone and sand held together by never-say-die weeds.

  At the end of one street we found a sight that rivaled the courthouse in looking out of place. It was a park and wide boat ramp leading into the river. The park with its gleaming green steel-roofed picnic structure accommodating a dozen shinny new tables proudly displayed a plaque stating that it had been built with funds from the U.S. Department of the Interior. It was reassuring to see that the federal government was helping to reinvigorate the town in such a productive manner.

  As we retreated from the park, we noticed it was actually located at the point where two rivers joined to continue their march to Lake Okeechobee and the Everglades. Maybe these waterways had at one time been the life blood of the town. Pineywoods wouldn't be the first town left to die after water travel was replaced by highways and railroads.

  During our tour we had noticed a small metal-sided building with a fake brick facade around the front door. The sign prominently displayed in front of the building announced Pineywoods Police Department, Chief Jason Davies. I asked PJ, "With the sheriff's department appearing to be much larger than the city police, why do you think they didn't play a role in a case like this? I didn't see anyone from the sheriff's department even listed on the prosecution witness list, much less testifying."

  "You didn't see any state investigators either, with the single exception of the forensic analyst from the regional lab who testified that the victim's DNA was found in Robinson's car. I'm sure, with a high profile case like the disappearance of a young girl, both the sheriff's department and the Florida Department of Law Enforcement were chomping at the bit to get involved. It seems like Chief Davies kept the entire investigation in-house."

  "Probably not a good idea to ask the chief why, though?"

  She chuckled, bringing out her dimples as sh
e said, "No, probably not a good idea."

  I asked, "So where does the victim's father live anyway?"

  PJ pointed in the direction we had come from and said, "We go back out of town and take the first dirt road running north. His house is up there a mile or so."

  I asked, "Google Maps?"

  "You got it."

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was just after 11 a.m. when we drove slowly past the address PJ had identified as Daniel Bennett's. A cloud of dust mimicked our every move on the dirt road. The house, a square cement block structure with a low pitched roof, set at the end of a driveway defined by two tracks worn through the otherwise thriving crop of weeds. An old Dodge pickup truck sat at the end of the drive a few feet from the back door of the house.

  PJ drove past the house about a half mile and found the entrance to a fenced and gated pasture where she could turn around on the narrow road. As we started back toward the house I asked, "What's the plan?"

  "Your part's easy, just follow my lead. I'm going to improvise, depending on what type of reception we receive. It would be a great help to me if you could take notes, if you don't mind?"

  I flashed her one of my more flirtatious smiles and said, "Oh, I'd take notes for you anytime, Detective Johnson."

  As the car came to a stop behind the Dodge pickup, PJ handed me a small notepad from a satchel resting on the floor under her legs. I also notice her tuck a small pistol encased in a holster into the waistband of her slacks. For the first time it hit me that we really had no idea what we were walking into.

  PJ rapped loudly on the back door, which seemed to be the only entrance to the structure used in recent history. At least during the life span of this crop of weeds. There was no response nor any sound from inside. She rapped again, this time louder and longer.

  The sound of someone inside hacking and coughing was followed by, "What the hell is it?"

  PJ called, "Mr. Bennett, Daniel Bennett?"

  A crashing noise, as if someone had knocked over a kitchen chair, was follow by a loud long string of curse words.

  The door jerked open and we were face to face with a medium height, slight man, with dirty collar length blond hair and a stubble of several days growth. His eyes were narrow slits revealing bloodshot orbs. Even from our distance his breath was uninviting. He was barefooted, wearing dirty jeans and a tee shirt that was once probably white, but now was various shades of gray. The clothes looked, and smelled, like he had worn them for several days. As his slits focused on PJ he cocked his head as if unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

  PJ said, "Hello Mr. Bennett. I'm Patty Johnson and this is Jack Nolan, we're investigators following up on the death of your daughter, Jessica Parry. We know how difficult this is, but we'd really like to ask you a couple of questions. May we come in?"

  Bennett coughed several times and spit something I didn't want to look at out the door into the dirt about two feet from where I was standing. Finally, finding his voice he said, "She's been dead ten years, little late to be investigating isn't it? I got a notice that they're gunna execute the son-of-a-bitch that killed Jessica real soon. What's to investigate?"

  PJ's voice took on a gentle, motherly, tone, "I know how difficult this is for you, and your family, Mr. Bennett, but we are hoping that if we can develop any new information maybe we can locate Jessica's body before Freeman Robinson is executed and we lose any hope of finding her."

  "I don't know what the hell I can do. You want to ask somebody for information, ask that black bastard."

  Just then a gust of breeze sent a dirt devil from the driveway dancing past us. PJ said, "Please Mr. Bennett, let us come in for a couple of minutes. Just to talk. We won't inconvenience you long. I promise."

  A look that could only be described as lecherous crossed his face as Bennett replied, "Oh, it ain't no inconvenience. It ain't like I got anywhere else to be." With that he turned and stumbled back into the kitchen. We followed.

  The kitchen was a small area with a counter running the length of one wall. A stove stood on one wall and a refrigerator on the opposite. The sink was overrun with dirty dishes and a trash can in the corner was overflowing with take-out cartons and beer cans.

  Following another coughing fit Bennett opened the refrigerator and took out a can of beer. He popped it open and took a long drink, draining at least half of the can. He turned and sat down at the small worn vinyl-top kitchen table. After taking another short gulp, he said, "Have a seat." He motioned to the two remaining upright chairs at the table. The fourth chair, which he must have knocked over on his way to the door, remained on the floor.

  PJ took the chair directly across from him. I remained standing, muttering, "I'll just stand. Been sitting in the car all morning." I know enough about interview techniques to know that it would be best if I blended into the background and let Bennett indulge a fantasy of being alone with PJ.

  Before PJ could get started with her questions, Bennett belched and said, "Where's my damn manners, you guys want a beer?"

  PJ and I both replied, "No, thank you."

  Tipping his can back fully, Bennett drained the contents and tossed the empty in the general direction of the overflowing trash can. "Suit yourselves. I'm gonna have another though." With that he got up and retrieved another beer from the refrigerator. I noticed how distended his stomach was. This guy's got serious health problems, whether he knows it or not.

  While he was getting resettled and opening his beer PJ said, "Mr. Bennett, we know you shared everything you could possibly think of at the time with the police, but we were hoping that maybe in the ensuing years something may have occurred to you that you hadn't thought of earlier. Something that seemed insignificant at the time."

  He ran his hand through his oily hair, "I don't know. I can't think of anything. I couldn't contribute much at the time. I was out of town when it happened. I drove a delivery truck taking supplies to ranches. My routes took me away, one, two, sometimes three nights at a time. I was gone when Jessica disappeared."

  "Did you know Freeman Robinson before this happened?"

  "Yeah, no, well sorta. I didn't really know him. I just knew who he was. I watched him play football a few times. Hell of a running back until he blew out his knee."

  "Jessica knew him?"

  "Well, of course. They were in school together. She graduated the year before her death. They would have graduated together, but he dropped out a few months short of graduation. I heard that after his football career was over the school wasn't so interested in helping him get to graduation. When he was the big football star the school was always arranging tutoring help for him, but after his injury that sorta dried up. Got into trouble a couple of times and eventually just quit school."

  "Was Jessica one of his tutors?"

  Bennett cocked his head as if analyzing PJ's question. "Yeah . . . a couple of classes."

  "Seemed like I read in the file somewhere that she tutored him some during their junior year and for two or three subjects their senior year."

  He exhaled a stale breath, "Yeah, that sounds right. What are you driving at?"

  PJ turned her hands palm up and gestured as if to show she was empty handed. She said, "I'm not driving at anything, Mr. Bennett, I'm just trying to verify information in the files. I'm on your side here. I just want to find your daughter."

  "You mean her body. My daughter's long dead and gone." With that he took another long drink of his beer.

  PJ said, "I know that your wife testified that your daughter never dated Freeman Robinson, contradicting his statement to the police. She was a very pretty girl. She did date other guys?"

  He nodded, "Yeah, plenty. None serious though. She didn't want to get tied down to any guy around here. Not her. She was leaving for the big city, bright lights and all that shit, just as soon as she saved enough money."

  "Where did Jessica tutor Freeman? At the school, his house, your house?"

  "She sure as shit would never have been to his ho
use and he was never here. No, the school had strict rules about that. Always had to be at the school. Usually, right after school, except during football season when it was before school."

  "Did Jessica tutor anyone else?"

  "Yeah, well . . . maybe. I don't really know. I didn't know much about her tutoring anyone 'til this happened. I was gone a lot. Like I said, my job took me away a lot."

  PJ nodded slowly, "Sure, that's understandable. Maybe her mother knows? When locating you, I saw that you and Jessica's mother, Amanda, are divorced, but I didn't find any information on her current address. Do you know where she is now?"

  His bloodshot eyes glowed as if they were hot coals. "Of course I know where she is. She's right where she's been since a year after the trial of that damn animal that killed Jessica. She's in Greenhaven in Arcadia. The stress of all of the searching for Jessica, then accepting that she had been murdered, then going through the damn trial, it was just too much. Amanda had some type of mental breakdown. The doctor's had some fancy name for it. Some days she's no more than a vegetable, staring out the window as if she thinks Jessica will somehow reappear. I didn't have any choice, but to put her in a place where people could take care of her. I couldn't watch her all the time. I had to work." He took another drink of his beer before continuing with an even sharper edge to his voice, "And don't think I abandoned her, 'cause I didn't. I divorced her because the lawyers said it was the best way to get the government to pay for her care. I sure couldn't afford to pay the bills at that place."

  PJ returned to her soothing, motherly, tone, "Mr. Bennett, I can't imagine how much pain your family has gone through. I'm really sorry for your loss and pain. I was really hoping that if we could locate Jessica it might help bring some level of closure to it for you. Maybe it would help your wife . . . er . . . Amanda."

  Bennett stared at PJ in silence. Finally he said, "I don't know, maybe it would help her." He held his forehead as if a stabbing headache had suddenly bloomed, "It's so hard for me to see her this way. She looks so broken, as if all of the energy has been sapped from her body. She was a beautiful woman. A real head turner. Now she looks like she's ninety years old and most of what she says is gibberish." He paused to drain his beer before continuing, "I go to see her, but it breaks my heart to see her like this. I guess I go less and less. Seeing her like she is today is robbing me of all the memories I have of the way she was before." With that he abruptly stood, tossed the empty toward the trash pile, and retrieved another beer from the refrigerator.