“It’s all so real,” a voice whispered into her ear. She jumped and let out a small shrill cry. She turned to see Leon Galt standing right behind her.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” She did not even try to hide her annoyance.
“Are you kidding?” he asked, taking a few steps backwards and spreading out his arms. “This is my home-away-from-home. These are my people. Welcome.” His smile and manner reminded her of a real estate agent showing a house for sale. “Actually, I was standing near the ticket counter when you walked in. I came up here to say hello.”
Russell walked up, recognizing the infamous author. “Are you Noel Future?”
“I am indeed.” They shook hands, and it was obvious her brother was star struck.
“I’m Deena’s brother, Russell Sinclair. Would you mind autographing these books for me and my buddy?” He reached down into his pocket and pulled out two much-read copies of Roswell: Inside the Hanger.
Deena couldn’t believe it. She watched as Galt pulled a pen from his shirt pocket as the two men chatted like old friends. Do not ask me to take a picture, she thought, hoping her brother would get the message telepathically. Russell pulled out his cell phone, looked at Deena, and said, “Would you mind tak—” He stopped short when he saw the look on her face. It was a look that said, ‘Don’t you dare!’ He put the phone away and took one step back, like a soldier who had just been dressed down by his sergeant.
“Not as big a fan as your brother, I take it,” Galt said. “I’m signing books down the street until noon. I’ll be at Hoffman’s around the corner for lunch after that if you’d both care to join me. I know you probably have more questions. Hopefully, I can answer at least a few of them for you.”
Deena noticed a change in his demeanor: less haughty, more humble.
“Perhaps,” she said. “Thanks.”
He reached inside his suit coat and pulled out a brochure, and handed it to Deena. “Remember, ‘X’ marks the spot.”
She looked down and realized it was a map of the museum and the surrounding grounds, similar to the one she got with her ticket. “I already have one.” She looked up just in time to see Galt walking back through the crowd toward the elevator.
“I know you’re mad,” Russell said, “but I couldn’t help it. I mean, it would be like if you met, uh, Harper Lee. You’d be like, ‘I love your book. I love Atticus. I love Boo Radley.’ Am I right?”
Annoyed that she could never stay mad at her brother, she looked at him and said, “Let the dead bury the dead, this time Mr. Finch.”
They went back to the first exhibit and spent the next hour wandering through the detailed displays. A miniature recreation of Dealey Plaza, newspaper articles, short films, photographs, the Warren report—everything one could imagine related to the assassination. There was even a display about conspiracy theories. “Look,” Russell said, pointing to an article on the wall. “Noel Future wrote this.” Deena read silently, not wanting to admit she was somewhat impressed.
“Let’s go outside.” Russell motioned toward the elevator. “I want to see the grassy knoll.”
When they stepped outside into the bright sunlight, Deena reached in her purse for sunglasses. She was not sure which direction to walk, so she got out the map Galt had given her. “This way,” she said, and they headed toward Elm Street.
They walked along the sidewalk, watching tourists take turns dodging cars to stand on the ‘X’ in the road to have their pictures taken. Several people exercised their right to free speech, proclaiming wrong doings by the government to anyone who would listen…or not. Some people handed out flyers, others had easels and cardboard signs. One man stood on a crate with the words “Soap Box” stenciled on the side.
“Democracy at its finest,” Russell said. “Reminds me of the Sixties.”
They walked around and Deena read descriptions from the map. “This is where Abraham Zapruder stood,” she said. “Here is where that young couple lay on the grass to protect their children.”
They walked up the hill to the fence. “Here is where the second gunmen supposedly stood.” She looked over the fence into what seemed like an ordinary parking lot filled with ordinary cars. On the broken concrete next to the fence, she saw a faint mark on the ground. “This must be the place,” she said, pointing it out to Russell. She looked back at the map and noticed something unusual. The ‘X’ on the map had been written with an ink pen; it was not pre-printed. ‘X’ marks the spot, she thought, recalling Galt’s words when he gave her the map. She gasped. “Russell! Matthew was the second gunman!”
“And I’m the Easter Bunny,” he laughed.
“No, look.” She showed him the map, pointing at the ink mark. “Leon Galt thinks Matthew was the second gunman on the grassy knoll!”
“That’s insane! That’s crazy, and believe me, I know crazy.”
“What time is it?” she asked, forgetting her brother never wore a watch. She looked down at her own. “Almost 12:30. We need to get to that restaurant before he leaves.” They hurried down the street back toward the museum.
The West End, the area of Dallas where they were, had received much needed revitalization over the past few years. Deena and Gary had been there several times to dine and browse through the high-end boutiques. She knew right where to find the restaurant.
When they went in, the lunch crowd was in full force. The dimly lit interior, brightened by neon beer signs and television screens, starkly contrasted the solemn memorial they had just left. Tourists and business people alike gathered to soak in the lively, relaxed atmosphere. Texas country, probably Willie, bounced off the high ceiling and exposed brick walls. Even Deena’s mouth watered as the savory aroma of sizzling steaks and spices blasted her senses. She spotted Galt in a back booth. He smiled as they approached. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it,” he said, waving to the waitress as they sat down across from him. “What would you like?”
“Bud Light for me,” Russell said. “She’ll have iced tea.”
“What, no appetite?” Galt was finishing off the last of his steak and baked potato.
“The second gunman? The grassy knoll? Really?” Out of breathe and exasperated, Deena couldn’t seem to form a complete sentence.
“I know it seems hard to believe—”
“Hard to believe?” Russell put both of his hands on the table and leaned in. “It’s downright absurd. Now, Mr. Future or Galt or whatever, you know I respect you, I do. But certainly you can understand why we would like to hear some proof before you go off publishing such an extreme allegation? I mean, you show up out of the blue asking questions, you mysteriously find my sister, then you tell us you are going to indict our uncle in the biggest crime of the twentieth century? You must be able to understand why we are asking for proof.”
Deena had never been more proud of her brother than she was at that moment.
Galt measured his words carefully. “First, let me say that I have sources, sources who keep me informed.”
Deena finally found her voice. “Mark Lancaster? Did he tell you about me?”
“Yes. Your Uncle Mark. See? No big mystery there.” The waitress set down their drinks and cleared away Galt’s plate. “Let me explain how this works,” Galt said as if teaching Conspiracy Theory 101. Russell cupped his hand over his right ear so he could hear over the crowd and music. “None of us were actually there. You weren’t. I wasn’t. So you must construct your theory like you would a tent. Each piece of evidence is a pole. Too few poles, and the tent falls to the ground. Enough poles, and the tent stands sturdy. Even if you lose a pole here or there—maybe one gets a crack—the tent stands up. Your theory stands up. That’s about the best you can do.”
“So show me your poles,” she said and realized how awkward that sounded. “You know what I mean.”
Galt chuckled. “I can only tell you to look at his service record and his associations.”
/> “We know about his army career, about the wet work,” Deena said. “But this was eight years later. Where’s the connection?”
“He may have left the army, but the skills he learned stayed with him. He had a reputation that many people knew about, including people outside our government.”
“He was thirty years old then. Did you know he wore glasses?”
“Bifocals. To read. His distance vision was perfect.” Deena was sure her face revealed that she was unaware of that fact. “Look,” he said, “you’ve got to keep an open mind.”
“If what you say is true, why would he do it? Money? Blackmail?”
“Or a combination.” The waitress came by with the check, and Galt handed her his credit card.
“What if he refused?” Deena asked. “Could that be why someone killed him?”
“Sure, but the evidence shows that he didn’t refuse.”
“And they killed him anyway,” Russell said, shaking his head. “Just like Oswald.”
Deena could see that Russell was starting to buy into this theory. “Do you know what will happen if your book comes out and makes this claim?”
“Yes. Matthew Meade and a few others will become household names.” He thanked the waitress and signed his receipt.
“The press will be all over this. Reporters will stalk our family. The hatred and anger—I can’t even imagine.”
“And the money. I’ll make a fortune, and you all can probably get a piece of the pie as well.”
That’s it, she thought. Where’s a stun gun when I need it? She scooted toward Russell, indicating it was time to go. “I have a lead, a good lead. If there’s a hound dog’s chance in Hades that it’s true, I’m going to prove it. And when I do, Mr. Galt, your tent is going to come crashing down and take you with it.”
And with that, she and Russell marched toward the exit. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but she thought she heard him say, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
*
“Watch where you are going! You’re going to get us killed,” Russell said, gripping the front dash with both hands. Deena swerved back and forth onto the highway shoulder as she dug around for something in her purse.
She wanted to talk to Gene Collins again as soon as possible, so they left downtown Dallas and headed straight to Bingham. “Here it is.” She held up the small black address book and handed it to Russell. “We can ask Collins if he knows any of these people. That way we can narrow down who we have to hunt for.”
Russell flipped through the pages, trying to read the small printing. “I don’t have my reading glasses, so I can’t see a dadgum thing.”
“It doesn’t really matter because all of the phone numbers are old-style. There are two letters and four digits. We just need to ask Collins if any of them worked at Barnes Medical.”
“How long until we get to Bingham? I’m starving and I need to take some medicine.”
“We can stop and get a burger. There’s a place just a few miles up. It’s not Hoffman’s, but it’ll have to do.” Something caught Deena’s eye in the rearview mirror.
“Crap-a-doodle-doo!” A highway patrol car, lights flashing, pulled in behind her.
“Be cool.” Russell said, as she pulled onto the shoulder to stop.
“Why wouldn’t I be cool? I haven’t committed a crime or anything.” She waited while the officer got out of his car and approached her window.
“Hello, officer.” She heard Russell grumble something. “How are you today?”
He leaned down a little to see inside the car, making eye contact with a nervous Russell. “Ma’am, I need to see your license and registration.”
“Why, sure officer.” She got her wallet and started to hand it to him.
“Take it out, please.” She obeyed, and then reached over in front of Russell to unlatch the glove compartment. Feeling around for the packet of papers that Gary always made sure was up to date, her hand touched something solid, metal. She leaned over closer to see a gun in her glove compartment. She heard a slight gasp from her brother. Be cool, she thought, and reached under it for the plastic folder. “Here you go, officer,” she said in a forced, pleasant voice.
He took the paper, examined it, and walked back to his police cruiser.
“What the—?”
“It’s mine,” Russell whispered. He quickly closed the glove box. “I put it in your car when we drove up to see Henry Wilcox. I forgot all about it.”
“Is it legal? Will we get in trouble if he sees it? Oh, here he comes.” They both sat up straight, unnaturally so.
“Ma’am, have you been drinking today?”
“Drinking? Only iced tea, sir.”
“I observed you weaving back and forth a few miles back. Can you explain?”
“Why yes, officer. I was trying to find something in my purse, and I guess I was being careless. My brother,” she said, motioning to Russell, “told me to be more careful.”
He looked back and forth at the two. “Would you mind getting out of the car? Both of you.”
This is it, she thought.
“You can just stand right there,” he said, pointing to Russell. “Ma’am, if you’d come over here, I need you to perform a few tests.” Like an obedient child, Deena followed. “Watch me as I demonstrate.” He spread his arms out and touched his nose using one hand at a time.
If I weren’t about to go to jail, this would be funny, Deena thought. She performed the task flawlessly. He then had her walk a straight line. Luckily, she was wearing sandals and not heels.
“Thank you. You can both return to your vehicle and wait for me.” He went back to his car and stood there writing on a large notepad.
“What do you think?” she asked Russell as she sat staring out the front windshield. “Are we going to be okay?”
“Maybe.” They waited for what seemed a lifetime until the officer returned.
“Ma’am, I am issuing you a citation for reckless driving. I need you to sign it to indicate you received the citation. It does not mean you agree. There is information on the back about what you will need to do.”
“Thank you,” she said, signing and taking her copy.
“I suggest you be more careful and pay attention to the road. Have a nice day.”
“Thank you, I will.” She pressed the button to roll up her window and let out a huge sigh of relief. After waiting for an opening in the traffic, she carefully drove off.
“Take the next exit,” Russell ordered. “There’s a Dairy Queen. I’ll put it in the cargo bin.”
Walking inside to order their meal, Deena realized she was still shaking. After they settled in the booth to eat, she finally asked her brother the million-dollar question. “Why did you bring a gun? I thought you said you didn’t have any bullets.”
“I don’t. It’s not loaded. I just didn’t know what we’d be up against, and I wanted to be prepared.”
She waited for a young mother with her toddler daughter to walk past, and then asked, “How is an unloaded gun going to help? Are you going to throw it at somebody or what?”
“I know, I know. You’re not a gun person, so you wouldn’t understand.”
“I could just see us now. ‘Hey Mister Criminal, give us a minute to run to the sporting goods store to buy some ammo, and we’ll be right back.’”
Russell ate his sandwich without speaking. After a few minutes, he said, “Let’s focus on the matter at hand—Gene Collins.”
“I want you to go in with me. Maybe he’ll be more intimidated if we’re both there.” She wiped salt off her blouse from the French fries she was eating. “There’s a lot riding on this meeting. If Collins doesn’t admit to Wilcox’s theory, Matthew could go from sympathetic victim to notorious killer.”
Chapter Twelve
“Mr. Collins, you have visitors,” the attendant announced. Deena stepped into the doorway with her brother right behind.
“You again?” he asked. “What do you want now?”
“Mr. Collins, this is my brother Russell, and we need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Good thing you came today. I might not be here tomorrow, if you know what I mean.” He picked up the remote and muted the television. “I’m not really in the mood to answer questions, but being that you’re Matthew’s kin and all, fire away.”
Deena and Russell sat down at the table across from him. “I’m not exactly sure how to ask this, but here goes. Do you know anything about people stealing merchandise at Barnes Medical while you were there?” She watched him closely to see his reaction.
“Obviously you know something or you wouldn’t be asking about it.”
“The information I received is that you and others working in the warehouse had a scam going where you were taking inventory and selling it on the black market. I was also told that you all were caught and fired. Is that true?”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
“Yes and no. Yeah, merchandise would walk out the back door, but we’re not talking about some big organized crime here. Just a little employee pilfering now and then. Why do you ask? What does this have to do with Matthew?”
“So were you fired?”
“First, tell me the connection.”
“My source,” Deena said, staring him right in the eyes, “accused you and your partners of killing my uncle.”
“That’s not true! Matthew Meade was my best friend. I would never do anything like that, not to him or anyone.” He choked and took a swig of water.
Russell took a softer tone. “I know how it is, man. Fighting in the war does things to you. You are taught to kill over there, and when you come back here…you know.”
“No, I don’t. I’m telling the truth.” Collins coughed. “Look, I don’t know who you talked to, but this is the truth. A couple of us were helping ourselves to some of the merchandise and selling it on the side. Someone ratted on us to Matthew. He told me to cut it out, or he’d have to tell management. I told him I would stop and tell my buddies to do the same. One of them kept it up. A few weeks later, we all got canned. The boss didn’t know who to trust, so we all went down for it.”
Sharpe Shooter (Cozy Suburbs Mystery Series Book 1) Page 11
