Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7)

by Tom Lowe

  I started calling Deputy Ivan Parker when my phoned vibrated. It was reporter Cory Wilson. He was next on my to-call list, and now he was saving me time. I answered. “Mr. O’Brien, I have some bad news.”

  “I never like conversations to begin like that.” I looked at the shotgun shell in the box, closed the cardboard flaps and asked Cory Wilson to deliver the news.

  SIXTY-TWO

  There was a long pause on the phone. I could hear Cory Wilson take a deep breath. I could hear the motors groan as a garbage truck lifted a faded green dumpster in the far corner of the Heartland Motel parking lot. Cory said, “I know, sorry. I just wanted to let you know that someone stole my notes. Although I’m relatively new in this career, I take notes—as you saw, the old fashion way, by hand. A lot of the guys use tablets, recorders, whatever. But I find when I physically write down something, I better remember it. I write down the key parts of the interview when I’m questioning people. For me, it sticks. I keep my notes locked in my desk drawer. When I came to work they were gone.”

  “Was the lock broken?”

  “No. And I’m sure I locked the drawer before I left.”

  “Maybe whoever did it has a key. Wouldn’t be too hard to find one in your office.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. But what’s really bothering me is why would anyone bother? Also, a lot of what I had in there is what we discussed and much more. I’m thorough. I’ve done research, made extensive notes about Vista Properties, James Winston, state attorney Carson, some of the principals with Horizon and even senior management within the department of law enforcement. I’ve been tracing as much of their personal and professional connections as I could find. I also had notes about you.”

  “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “Your background, much as I could locate. It looks like you had quite a confession and conviction rate with suspects when you worked Miami-Dade homicide. But your military service record is a blank slate. The stuff about you taking down the plane with one shot and how that level of covert savvy could lead to the unearthing of Jackson County’s most heinous secret—the possibility of a hidden cemetery filled with the bodies of boys. That’s a story. I wasn’t going to press, of course, until I had more, otherwise its mostly supposition, at least the parts about the cemetery.”

  “Who do you think might want to steal your notes?”

  “Wally Holland, maybe.”

  “You think it’s professional jealousy or could it have an ulterior motive?”

  “The latter. I think he has an allegiance to some powerful people. Maybe he’s on their payroll. I don’t know. But I do know that if he’s some kind of an informant, your cards have just been exposed. And I feel bad about it. That’s why I’m calling you. Watch your back. If Wally’s in cahoots with people like Detective Lee, James Winston, or Jeff Carson, you may be arrested for jaywalking. Marianna is a surreal kind of Mayberry. Rumors move at Internet speeds. Just be careful.”

  “Did you visit Cypress Grove?”

  “No, not yet. Why?”

  “Did you reference that place in your notes?”

  “Only once. And I remember I wrote a note to myself to check at CG, but I didn’t spell it out and I didn’t list a name of a potential interviewee. So I seriously doubt if anyone could decipher those initials.”

  “Do me a favor, okay?”

  “Sure. After compromising your investigation, that’s the least I can do.”

  “Don’t visit Cypress Grove just yet. Give it a couple of days.”

  “All right. Can I ask why?”

  “Sure. But I can’t answer you. All in good time, though. I have to go.”

  “Oh, one other thing. There’s going to be a news conference Friday morning. The department of law enforcement is calling it in reference to the reform school acquisition. It’s expected that the big announcement will be the sale of the property and exactly what it is that Vista plans to build there. I was hoping to have my story in the can before the announcement.”

  “That gives us four days. In the meantime, especially since your notes were compromised, write a story about me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can write that I’m in town to unearth the truth about the history of the Florida School for Boys and the possibility of multiple hidden graves. You can quote me by writing that justice for Andy Cope and others is long overdue. That will do two things. First, it’ll open a Pandora’s box of news media questions as Vista Properties and Horizon make their acquisition announcement. They won’t be happy about that. Second, it’ll draw out those who’ve seen your investigative notes and give them a target—me.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “It takes the dangerous heat off you as a journalist and gives them a real threat—and that’s me.”

  “But you’re putting yourself at risk.”

  I smiled. “Sometimes you just have to enter the cave and poke the dragon. Often, what you seek is just on the other side of the dragon. Gotta go.” I disconnected and called Deputy Ivan Parker. When he answered I said, “I have the print I told you about. The spent shell casing, too. Where can I meet you?”

  “I’m leaving the office now, en route to the courthouse. Meet you on the square, south entrance to the courthouse. Ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes. See you then.”

  “Oh, O’Brien, don’t know if you heard, but yesterday there was a lot of movement on the reform school property. There were a few white, unmarked vans and a moving van. A half dozen black luxury SUV’s, too. No one asked for any assistance from the sheriff’s office. But somebody was up there doing something. I just hope they weren’t moving bodies.” He disconnected.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Caroline Harper pulled her car into the lot next to Jesse’s car and said, “Here we are. You sure you’re going to be okay to drive?”

  Jesse unbuckled his seatbelt and looked over at her. “Absolutely. You worry too much. You don’t need any more damn worrying. You served your quota of fret time.” He tried to smile.

  “I’ll follow you back home.”

  “You go on without me. I need to check in at the front desk, settle up, and get a receipt. I’ll be back ‘fore long.”

  She sighed, watching a Hispanic maid push a cleaning cart down the walkway in front of the rooms, one of the wheels on the cart squeaking. Jesse got out of Caroline’s car. “No more fretting, okay.” He nodded and walked toward the front office. Inside the office he waited until Caroline had left, then he poured black coffee into a paper cup at the coffee stand. The clerk was on the phone confirming a reservation, a Fox News commentator talking loudly from a TV mounted to the wall.

  Jesse exited, walking as fast as he could to his car. He could feel the throbbing in his fractured ribs, the pulse of pain in the wound over his eye, and the fiery sting from the burn on his arm. He got into the car, turned the ignition, and started for a place he knew well…a spot on the river where he’d fished and swam with other boys. One of them was Jeremiah Franklin, and even after fifty years, Jesse remembered catching fat bluegill in the clear waters of the Chipola River below the dark shadow of the Bellamy Bridge.

  I parked my Jeep in the shade of a live oak on the south side of the courthouse square and shut off the engine, the motor ticking as it cooled. Deputy Parker wasn’t here yet. I called Dave. “Thanks for the trackers. I placed one in Jesse Taylor’s car. He’s on a dangerous mission. Keeping tabs on him could do two things: possibly save his life and, hopefully, lead me into the lion’s den.”

  “If the perp or perps are distracted because they’re dealing with Jesse, it might give you an opportunity for easier penetration in hostile territory. Where’s the other tracker going?”

  “A detective’s car.”

  “There is something about investigating the investigators that offers a satirical irony in the footnotes of the justice system.”

  “File it under poetic justice system.”

  “Indeed. I’m looking at my c
omputer screen and I can see the one tracker that’s still with you. They other one is on the move, heading north out of Marianna.”

  “That’s Jesse. I’m hoping he’s driving back to Caroline Harper’s place. Her address is Woodland Road, in Jackson County. Can you see if Jesse’s heading in that direction?”

  “Come on, Sean, give me something a little more challenging. Of course I can.”

  I spotted the deputy pulling into a parking place. “Got to go, Dave. Don’t let Nick spend too much time with Max. Nick doesn’t stick to the Mediterranean diet. He calls Max hot dog. If she eats three meals a day with him, she’ll turn into a kielbasa sausage.”

  Dave chuckled. “I’ll take her for a long walk.” He disconnected.

  I picked up the package I’d received from FBI agent Carly Brown, got out of the Jeep and walked over to Deputy Parker’s squad car. He lowered the window. I could see my reflection in his dark glasses. He said, “I had the lab take a close look at the boot prints. They enlarged them about the size of your Jeep. The image you sent me matches the print in Mrs. Franklin’s yard right down to the design on the sole and the unique wear on the boot. Sort of like looking at fingerprints with scars. So all I have to do is find the guy walking around with those boots.”

  “We got a match on boot prints. Now let’s see if we can do the same with fingerprints, scars and all.” I opened the envelope and lifted out an 8x10 enlargement of the print lifted from the shell casing. I handed the enlargement to him.

  “So the feds lifted this from a shotgun shell fired a half century ago.” He removed his sunglasses to inspect the image, releasing a low whistle. “If he’s alive, the shooter is definitely up there in years.”

  “That night at Shorty’s when Jesse Taylor was arrested…the guy he fought with, Cooter Johnson, his grandfather is still alive. Goes by the name of Hack Johnson. Do you know him?”

  He looked up from the print to me, his eyebrows rising. “I know of him. They say he’s a mean ol’ bastard. I heard, years ago, when his family was even more prominent, if somebody crossed him—if they really pissed him off, he’d say ‘I smell smoke.’ Maybe a week later, maybe a month later or even longer, the person’s business, house or even their car would be torched. Two people died in one of those fires. They were just kids. I was in middle school at the time.”

  “Through the years, with multiple arsons, couldn’t your investigators connect the dots to Johnson?”

  “Not without physical evidence. He was just too good, or they were not that good, or maybe a little of both. But that kind of strong-arm bravado made people afraid of him, even some of the police. I’d heard that no one, including Cooter, ever has received a speeding ticket or even a parking ticket because of possible retribution. It’s like our town had its own country mafia.”

  “Had…you mean they’re not a factor now?”

  “Not as much. The old man keeps a low profile. You’ll see him occasionally. He still drives, but most of the time one of his sons or grandsons is doing the driving.”

  “I think that family is still a force around here today. The photo of the bloody boot print I got after they beat Jesse Taylor senseless, the print that matches the one you found in the elderly woman’s yard, most likely came from them. And they left something else on Jesse…a brand.”

  “You mean as in branding an animal?”

  “Jesse had been drinking when he drove out to the reform school and shot a padlock off a remote gate. He’d left the lock with the security guard, and a left a message for Johnson. Looks like the guard delivered both. Later, the two guys that attacked Jesse used a lighter to turn the lock red hot and held it against Jesse’s arm, leaving a brand.”

  “Shit. That’s sending one hell of a message—as in you’re marked, leave town. Maybe one of the two guys who jumped Jesse Taylor was that security guard.”

  “That’s a possibility. Run the forensics on his boots and you’ll know.”

  “If it’s some of the Johnson clan, most likely that message was meant for you, too, because you stood up to them with the Miranda issue.” He ran his wide thumb across the top portion of the steering wheel, flecked sunlight falling though the oak branches and across the car’s window. “And you think this fingerprint came from Hack Johnson fifty years ago?”

  “Maybe. There’s only one way to find out.”

  “It’ll take a court order to go back in those damn swamps and print that old man. Just because he worked there doesn’t mean much. Hundreds of people from Jackson County have worked at the reform school through the years. Unless we can speak with Jeremiah Franklin and unless he ID’s Johnson, we’re pissing into the wind. And when I rode out to Jeremiahs place, his converted school bus, it looked like no one had been there in days. No garbage in the container. No fresh tire marks. Nothing. He might be out of the state.”

  “How well do you know the state attorney?”

  “Carson?”

  “Yep.”

  “He’s a politician. I don’t see him personally take many cases to trial in the district, unless they’re high profile cases. He has a lot of competent assistant SA’s who are sharp. Probably one of his best is Lana Halley.”

  “You trust her?”

  “Don’t have a reason not to.”

  “Then whatever evidence we can obtain needs to be evaluated by her because the way to obtain that court order you mentioned, the way to get a backhoe on the reform school land, is for Lana to convince a grand jury that the preponderance of evidence opens those long closed doors. If your sheriff is as by-the-book as you said, bring him in the loop after the physical evidence is accrued. In the meantime, you’ll have to be even more covert around people like Detective Lee. Are you good with that, knowing what you know now?”

  “Absolutely. Let’s do this.”

  As he studied the print, a Marianna city police squad car pulled into the parking spot next to Deputy Parker’s cruiser, the sound of the police radio coming from the squad car. The officer got out, a thick file folder in one hand. He locked his car and glanced in my direction, doing a slight double take. He recognized me and I recognized him from the investigation into the attack on Jesse. The officer walked toward us, a twisted smile working at the left side of his mouth.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Jesse Taylor drove with one hand, using the other hand to search for aspirin in his car. He found the aspirin bottle in the middle console, shook out two extra-strength pills, lifting a water bottle from the drink holder. Empty. Not even a mouthful left. He tossed the bottle onto the adjacent seat, popped the aspirins into his mouth and chewed them, dry swallowing, the bitter taste of crushed charcoal on his tongue.

  He touched the four-inch bandage above his eye, a dried blood spot about the size of a dime in the center of the dressing. He rolled his shirtsleeve up so air could circulate around the burn, glancing down at the image singed into the flesh and muscle on his forearm. He looked at his watch. Fifty minutes and he’d be meeting Jeremiah Franklin on the riverbank. Fifty minutes and he’d know for sure who killed Andy Cope. Fifty years and fifty minutes later he would hear the truth and then have the chance to face his demons head on, in the daylight. No longer would he be wedged in the dark quicksand of a nightmare.

  Jesse sneezed, the exertion causing immense pain from the nerve endings attached to his shattered ribs. His hands shook, a chemical taste deep within his gut. He felt the flames fanning in the core of his chest. “Screw it! Gotta dull this.” He searched his pockets, lifting out the small plastic prescription bottle. He mumbled. “Need water.” Jesse lifted his phone to his lips. “Find the nearest store.”

  The artificial intelligence, a woman’s voice said, “Crawford’s Corner, convenience store is nine point three miles east on U.S 121.”

  “Thank you, darlin’.”

  Jesse made a U-turn on the county road and headed southeast—headed to a store to buy water for washing down narcotics to launder psychological and physical pain. He looked at his watch, stepping o
n the accelerator.

  His phone buzzed in one of the drink holder pockets. Jesse picked it up and squinted, trying to see the caller ID screen. It was Caroline Harper. He answered. “Caroline, I’ll be home shortly.”

  “Where are you? You should be getting rest.”

  “I’m meeting Jeremiah at the old Bellamy Bridge. Listen Caroline…he’s gonna tell me who shot Andy. Then we got to get him into witness protection.”

  “You need to slow down, okay. I want to know who killed my brother more than anybody living. But I want to do it right, to bring justice for Andy. Call Sean. Tell him where you’re going. He’ll meet you and help you and Jeremiah through this.”

  “Jeremiah doesn’t trust anybody but me. He lost a brother in there, too. I gotta go.” Jesse disconnected. His face was flush, hot. Sweat trickling down the center of his chest and into the bandages binding his cracked ribs together. He coughed, the taste of blood replacing the bitterroot of aspirin on the back of his tongue.

  I watched the subtle undercurrents between Deputy Ivan Parker and officer T. Garret. It seemed to be slightly beyond judicial turf. More personal. More abrupt than what officers from counterpart agencies needed to be. Officer Garret looked at me. “Mr. O’Brien, you get around. So you’re meeting with the county boys too.”

  “This is Deputy Parker.”

  “I know ol’ Ivan. What’s happening, Parker?”

  “Always trying to keep the crime stats low here in the city of southern charm.” He smiled.

  “We’ll that’s part of the problem. The city’s ours. The county’s yours.” He grinned.

  “The city lies within the county.”

  I nodded, trying to add some levity. “In South Florida, we just called it Miami-Dade. Solved a lot of turf issues doing that. It was Deputy Parker’s card that I gave you after you’d photographed the bloody boot prints in Jesse’s room. I’d mentioned that Deputy Parker had photographed a similar print.”