Outcast In Gray: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 7)

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Another murder,” she said.

  “Like the others?” I said.

  “No, not quite like the others.”

  “Was that the sheriff?” I said.

  “Yeah, old Buster Murdock himself.”

  “And he desires your help?” I said.

  “Not so much. He just wants me to come have a look-see. Said I might find it interesting and informative.”

  “Buster said that?” I said.

  “In so many words. Said to get my tail over to Old Fox Road as fast as I can motor. Got a female victim this time.”

  “But it’s different.”

  “Said it was. You ready to travel?” she said to me.

  I looked down at my sparsely eaten plate of food, sighed, and then looked at her with my attempt to show sadness with my current plight. I was tired, hungry, and still a detective.

  “You want me to tag along?” Rosey said.

  “Mind staying with the dogs this time?” Starnes said.

  “Works for me,” he said.

  Starnes jumped into her truck and I joined her. Ten minutes down the road she finally spoke again.

  “Sheriff said it was a partial decapitation.”

  “Partial.”

  “Yeah, it appears that whoever was after this woman may have been interrupted. Couldn’t finish the job.”

  “Sounds messy.”

  “Buster said as much. Said both of his deputies were outside throwing up while he was talking to me. Can you imagine? Grown men in this line of work with weak stomachs,” Starnes said as he sped on towards the crime scene.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You said Old Fox Road?”

  “I did.”

  “That’s the road mentioned in that old note I found in Rufus Ramsey’s cabin.”

  “You sure?”

  I took out my cell and pushed the one on my speed dial for Rogers. She answered on the second ring.

  “Check that info I gave you from that old grade school note I found in the log cabin of our first victim. The name was Old Fox Road, correct?”

  Seconds went by.

  “Yes, dearie, it was Old Fox Road,” Rogers said.

  I clicked off and told Starnes what Rogers had just affirmed.

  “Aha,” Starnes said.

  “Aha? You never say aha. I say aha.”

  “Then you missed your cue.”

  36

  The crime scene at the house on Old Fox Road was one of the more gruesome of my career. The body of a woman was lying in the bed with her head almost completely severed. Whoever or whatever had attacked her had not done it with the precision of a surgeon. It appeared to me that her neck had been chewed instead of cut. Starnes pointed to several deep bite marks on the woman’s arms. Probably defensive wounds. The scene was not pretty nor was my imagination as to how it might have gone down here.

  Sheriff Murdock was standing in the living room talking with one of his ashen-faced deputies. When we had entered the house, we passed the other deputy who was outside in the yard. His face was green.

  The deputy standing next to Sheriff Murdock looked as if he might vomit some more. A young woman was taking photographs of the bedroom and the body lying on the bed.

  “Similar but different,” Starnes said.

  “Rushed,” I said.

  “You thinking interrupted from the deed?”

  “Something like that. If not, why not finish and have a complete decapitation. It was close, you can see.”

  “Yeah, I see.”

  Starnes moved closer to the neck of the body to examine the singular strand of flesh that held the head to the torso.

  “You think any flesh was eaten?” I said.

  “Maybe, but only as a by-product. It was not the intention to consume this one, if it’s the same culprit as the other three.”

  “You have doubts as to the connection?” I said.

  “Not really. Those teeth marks on the arms are similar in size to our other deaths. I’m thinking it’s our canine killer, but for whatever the reason, it chose not to devour, only to kill.”

  “With a vengeance,” I added.

  “Vengeance?”

  “Gruesome way to die, frightening and painful. I’m thinking that this killing was more personal than the first two. Fits with the murder of Hack Ponder better … in being more personal.”

  “Maybe, but I have a strong suspicion that the deed was interrupted,” Starnes said.

  “By what?” Sheriff Murdock moved next to me.

  “No idea,” Starnes said.

  “I don’t need your conjecture,” he said.

  Murdock looked at me quickly.

  “And I don’t want yours at all,” he added.

  “Mum’s the word,” I said.

  “You think there’s a connection between this one and the other three?” Murdock asked Starnes.

  “I do,” she said, “but we need some verification by the Asheville folks.”

  “I’ll take care of that. Where are you on this investigation?”

  “Still roaming the mountains tracking down the few clues we have.”

  “Who is this woman?” I said, trying to humanize the revolting scene as much as I could under the circumstances.

  Murdock frowned at me and then turned his back and spoke to Starnes.

  “Name’s Dottie Higgins. Lived alone here. Divorced, no children.”

  “Higgins her married name?” I said to the Sheriff’s backside.

  “Went by her maiden name, Higgins,” he said without turning to acknowledge me.

  I was getting the rather strong impression that Sheriff Buster Murdock did not like me.

  “Her married name?” Starnes said.

  “Jones.”

  “Anything else?” Starnes said.

  “Worked at Ingles as a cashier. Not much to go on,” he said and walked into another room of the small house.

  “I don’t think he likes me.”

  “I think you’re right,” Starnes said.

  We hung around until Murdock said that the funeral home could take the body. It had been three hours by this point and everyone was gone except for the sheriff. Starnes and I were still looking over the crime scene.

  “You staying?” Murdock said to Starnes.

  “Yeah, I wanna look around the house a little before I go.”

  “Be sure the door is locked. Here,” he said and handed her the yellow tape roll. “Put this up. Still an active crime scene. We might want to come back and see what we can see. Tell those funeral home people to be careful not to touch anything but the body.”

  Murdock frowned at me again before turning to go.

  “What are you looking for?” I said to her.

  “Same thing you’re looking for.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “I figured you would want to hang around without prying eyes, a bad disposition coming from the sheriff, and some breathing room to examine the place.”

  “Know me well.”

  “Getting there,” she said.

  “It’s close to midnight,” I said.

  “Got a heavy date or something?”

  “Not tonight. You take this room, I’ll start at the front and work my way back here.”

  I went through all of the drawers in the living room. Dottie had a large collection of pigs on her shelving in the living room, dining room, kitchen, and even the bath. She was slightly overweight and I wondered if the pigs had some personal meaning for her. Could’ve been just something she liked to have around, like Ida and her collection of pigs. It crossed my mind that lots of people liked to collect little pigs.

  I went through the drawers and pantry of the kitchen but found nothing. It was a one-bedroom cottage-type structure, so it didn’t take long to search it. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I was diligent in my search.

  It was after one o’clock when I returned to Starnes who was now sitting in a cushioned chair in the bedroom next to the bed. The body had been removed. Th
e crime scene had been preserved due to the micro-management of Starnes when the funeral home people came for the body. Starnes looked tired. I was tired as well.

  “Find anything?” I said.

  “Pigs and shoes.”

  “Shoes?”

  “Closet full of ’em. And she liked pigs, too.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Anything else?”

  “Nothing that helps us.”

  “No secret drawers?”

  “None that I could find,” Starnes said.

  “You go through all of the boxes of shoes?” I said.

  “Just the first twenty or so,” she said.

  “Wow, she did like shoes.”

  “Like I said,” she pointed to the closet.

  I opened the door and it was full of boxes.

  “Where are her clothes?” I said.

  Starnes pointed to another door.

  “Oh, that’s nice. Two closets.”

  I opened the second closet and it was a walk-in full of clothes on both sides of the confines. I found some more shoe boxes underneath the clothes hanging on the right side.

  “You check out these boxes?” I said.

  Starnes joined me in the closet.

  “No, I figured that they were more shoes.”

  I opened the top row of boxes. All shoes. I started on the bottom row and noticed that there was a small, hinged door behind the boxes. Because of the hanging clothes, and the fact that it was after one o’clock in the morning and rather dark in the closet, it was hard to see. Hidden, but not truly well hidden.

  “You see this door?” I said.

  Starnes squatted down and looked at the small door behind the shoe boxes.

  “You think this opens into the Bat Cave?”

  “Unlikely. Last name was Higgins, not Wayne.”

  There was a latch bolt on the small door. I moved the shoe boxes over and slid the bolt over to open it. Inside the tiny closet was a wooden cigar box. A lock guarded the contents.

  “You recall seeing a key that might fit this lock?” I said.

  “Nope.”

  I re-entered the bedroom and walked over to her dresser. On the top she had a small dish full of pins, buttons, and a paperclip. I took the paperclip and opened the cigar box. It took me several seconds to maneuver the wire so that it opened the more or less decorative lock.

  “Burglary 101?” Starnes said.

  “My daddy the sheriff taught me how. And, it ain’t much of a lock.”

  “Wow. My daddy made me go to church.”

  I smiled at her. “Mine, too, but he also taught me some valuable tricks along the way.”

  “Must’ve been a different religion.”

  Inside the cigar box was a collection of pictures, report cards, and a sealed envelope. I gave Starnes the photographs while I shuffled through the report cards. There were twelve of them. Complete school history of one Dorothy Elaine Higgins of Ebb’s Creek in McAdams County. She seemed to be an average student consistently making C’s with an occasional B thrown in. Her teachers all liked her, but commented that she was a quiet girl and made few comments in the classroom. Nothing stood out to me.

  I opened the sealed envelope. Inside were folded pieces of aged notebook paper. Each folded piece had been tightly creased and opened to a full-sized sheet. The writing on each piece was that of an elementary school child. That was my guess. That, or an extremely immature adult. They were all love notes. Each one said basically the same thing. She liked or loved the person to whom each was written and she wanted to meet him after school. I had to assume that Dottie Higgins had written these notes and had failed to give them to her desire love interest. The notes were not signed, but the initials DH were at the bottom. Unrequited love.

  I handed the first few opened notes to Starnes while I opened the last two remaining ones.

  “Anything interesting in the photos?” I said while I fumbled with the next to last folded paper.

  “Yeah,” she said, “this one.”

  She handed me the photo. It was a school picture of the entire class. On the backside it read ‘Mrs. Robertson’s 5th Grade, Athens Elementary, 1984.’ The face of a little girl was circled with a red pen. Several circles had been drawn around that face. The face of a little boy had also been circled with a red pen. Again, several circles were evident around the boy’s face for emphasis no doubt. They were not standing side by side. There was a tall person standing between the two red circled children. A black pen had been used to blot out the entire body of the tall child. Above the red circles for the little girl was the word ‘me.’ Above the red circles for the little boy was the name ‘Rufus.’

  “By George, I think we have a genuine clue here,” I said to Starnes.

  “Wow. It pays to be a sleuth.”

  “Let’s not overstate. Sometimes it helps when the criminals do something stupid.”

  “Or fail to cover their tracks.”

  “That helps, too,” I said.

  “And we sleuths must be meticulous and resolute.”

  “I like the words obstinate and relentless.”

  I handed Starnes the photo of the 5th grade class and opened up the next to last sheet of notebook paper. I expected to find yet another love note from DH to her secret interest, probably Rufus. I was guessing, as was Starnes, that the Rufus was Rufus Ramsey. We had no proof as yet, but the pieces were beginning to fall into place. And I was suspicious.

  It was not necessarily a love note. It was merely a note from Rufus. Shrewd detective that I am, I noticed that right away when I saw his signature at the bottom of the brief note. It simply was two r’s intertwined with each other. Ah, 5th graders. Working their identities, trying to become. Much like adults, methinks.

  The note read—“I will meet you by the mailboxes this afternoon. RR”

  37

  Rogers awakened me early the next morning. I was still groggy from my deficit of sleep. Starnes and I had finally gotten to bed around three o’clock. Six fifty-four of the morning was a bit early for my body and mind to function properly after less than four hours of sleep.

  “Shouldn’t stay out so late, Missy,” Rogers said.

  “Just working the case.”

  “New developments?”

  “Another murder.”

  “You need to speed up your solving mode.”

  “Like I have control over that…anyway, why are you calling so early?”

  “To help you, my love.”

  “You’re being too sweet. What’s wrong, what have I done now?”

  “Feeling guilty, are we?”

  “What do you have for me?”

  “Vital information, no doubt.”

  “No doubt. Let me lie back down while you enlighten me.”

  “Go make coffee. I’ll wait,” Rogers said.

  “Good idea,” I said as I forced my tired body from the prone position and walked into the kitchen to the aroma of delicious smelling coffee already made.

  Rosey was sitting at the table reading a book. He pointed to the coffee pot and the empty mug sitting beside it. I poured it full and took a long swig. It was good. It was better than good.

  “Okay, I’m ready. Let me have it,” I said to Rogers as I sat down opposite Rosey.

  “K.C. Higgins, Kewtie Cecilia, has quite the reputation for breeding dogs. She is known outside of your mountainous county as being one of the top breeders in the southeast. It seems that if you are looking for the kind of canine which she breeds, her offspring are the ones you want.”

  “And that variety would be…” I said.

  “This is why you need the coffee. She breeds English Sheepdogs with coyotes.”

  “Be still my heart.”

  “Yeah, I knew that would peak your interest. It’s a specialty for her and she’s been at it for over a decade, long enough to build her reputation.”

  “You woke me for this only?”

  “Naw, my child. You scold me too quickly. I have more data.”

&nbs
p; “Lay it on me before I return to sleep.”

  “Are you not drinking coffee as we converse here?”

  “I am, but that won’t stop me from falling asleep.”

  “Finish the pot off and then call me back, girl,” Rogers said.

  “Not quite. I shall drink and listen. Talk to me. Whattaya got?”

  “It seems that a child with the initials K.C. was abandoned in the late 70’s according to this old newspaper editorial I found. Your county paper, as a matter of fact. It suggest that there was a story about a woman finding a child who had lived in the wild, but the writer seemed to suggest that the story was more legend than fact. The writer suggested that this wild child was an invention by this woman who supposedly found the child, and was likely a ruse by her to gain some advantage, money or otherwise. In my opinion, the writer had a weak point and didn’t really make his case. I even wondered why it was found on the editorial page.”

  “Any names given?”

  “You mean, like the name of the woman who raised the child?”

  “For starters.”

  “No name provided by the reporter, … well, I assume it was a reporter. More jack-leg reporter than trained professional, in my humble opinion.”

  “Didn’t know any of your opinions were humble, dearie,” I said.

  “No need to be humble when one is always correct with facts.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s thing. So, no names in the article you found?”

  “No names, only the initials K.C. which happen to match the initials of the person you asked me to investigate. It could’ve easily been all made up by that jack-leg reporter. Still, when I came across that in light of your investigation and conjecture, I thought it worthwhile to tell you.”

  “Anything more?”

  “Nothing of substance.”

  “I need you to keep digging. Look for a roster of names for the 5th grade class of Athens Elementary, 1984. Teacher was a Mrs. Robertson. I would like to know the names of the entire student class that year.”

  “I’ll call you when I have something. And, I suppose, you want me to keep digging until I find the name of the woman who found that child.”

  “I already know that. But, it would be good if you could find some evidence to support what I already know.”

  “Hot dog, I get to back up your intuition with fact. Always a fun thing. Let me see… if you already believe you know who it is, then that means…. oh, my…do tell. Josephine Starling, I would fathom a guess,” Rogers said.