Dead to Rights

by Jack Patterson

  Cal knocked on the door jamb of Sloan’s office. Sloan didn’t look up.

  “What is it?” he groused.

  “Sheriff, mind if we have a quick word with you?” Cal asked.

  Sloan stopped typing and turned around in his chair to face Cal and Kelly. “Didn’t I give you what you wanted at the lake?”

  He spun back around in his chair and continued typing.

  “We have a few more questions for you, if you don’t mind,” Cal said.

  “Well, I do mind. I’m very busy right now.”

  “What? Typing a letter that someone is going to throw away seconds after reading it?”

  Sloan slammed both his fists on his desk at the same time before letting out an exasperated growl. “You’re probably right … for once,” Sloan said, slowly turning back around to face his visitors. “What do you want to know?”

  Cal looked down at his notepad. “Was there a weapon found at the crime scene for Jordan Hayward?”

  Sloan shook his head. “The murder was likely committed somewhere else, which is why I’m pretty pissed about the feds sweeping in and taking the body.”

  “Was it a gunshot wound? A knife wound? What killed him?”

  “Obviously I don’t have a coroner’s report, but based on the bruising around his neck and the lack of any other type of visible wound, I would guess cause of death will be asphyxiation.”

  Cal took a deep breath before launching into his next question. “Could this murder have been committed by the same person who killed your daughter?”

  Sloan scowled. “What the hell kind of question is that? You know Isaiah Drake is still in jail and may that bastard rot there. So to answer your asinine question, no.”

  Cal flipped through a few pages in his notes. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular but was mentally preparing himself for the best way to ask his next question, the kind of question that would turn the conversation from tense to a full-fledged storm of wrath and fury. “Sheriff, one last question before we leave and get out of your hair for good.”

  “Thank God,” Sloan said. “I’ll answer anything to get rid of you two.”

  “So, the night that Susannah was murdered, where did you go when you left the office?”

  A wry grin spread across Sloan’s face. “I thought we already went through this. I was here all night.”

  “The records you let us go through when we got here—we saw where you logged out between 9:30 p.m. and 11:00 p.m. Where did you go?”

  “These logs?” Sloan said as he pointed at a log book on his desk.

  Cal nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “This log?” Sloan asked again, his tone almost mocking Cal.

  “Would you mind turning to the page with the date of May 7, 2004?”

  Sloan opened the book and began turning the pages. When he arrived at the page, he stopped and smiled. “Well, would you look at that? I didn’t log out that night. Y’all must’ve been lookin’ at the wrong book.”

  “Let me see that,” Cal said as both he and Kelly leaned down close to study the log book after Sloan held it out to them.

  Sloan stood up. “Do you see it now? You must’ve made a mistake when you first reviewed it. Mistakes happen. All is forgiven, especially if you get the hell out of my town now and never come back.”

  Kelly narrowed her eyes. “Good thing I took a picture of the log book before you doctored it.”

  “Doctored it?” Sloan said. “You think I doctored something? Well, good luck with that one. You say I doctored it; I say you are full of it. Nobody’s gonna believe your photoshopped picture of my log anyway.”

  Cal backed away from the desk, holding his recorder out so that it would capture more clearly anything Sloan said.

  “Maybe not,” Cal said, “but I’ll bet they’ll believe a witness who told me that she saw you at your daughter’s house around the time of Susannah’s death.”

  “I hope you’re not insinuating what I think you are,” Sloan said. He then pointed to the door. “Out now! And don’t come back!”

  CHAPTER 26

  CAL GRABBED THE BELL before it clanked against the glass as he and Kelly entered Hank’s Pawn Shop. Cal expected a somber environment since he was sure that the news of Jordan Hayward’s death had already spread like wildfire in the tight-knit community. But he didn’t expect to find an empty showroom again.

  “Hello?” Cal called. “Is anyone here?”

  He waited a beat. Nothing.

  “Hello?” Kelly said. “Anybody home?”

  Except for the faint sound of a radio playing from somewhere else in the building, it was eerily silent.

  “Let’s go find out what’s going on,” Cal said, pressing ahead toward the doorway to the back. He parted the thick plastic strips hanging over the doorjamb and held them open for Kelly. Once she walked through, he turned to see Hank staring at a chest full of money.

  Hank looked up at the pair after Cal cleared his throat.

  “This isn’t what it looks like, I swear,” Hank said, a cigarette bobbing as it dangled from his lips. He stood up and stepped back from a large wooden trunk, a trunk loaded with neat stacks of twenty-dollar bills.

  Cal noticed the name Jordan etched into the side of the box and a crowbar lying next to it.

  “I’m not the cops, Hank, so you don’t have to worry about me,” Cal said. “But this does raise some suspicion about what you’re doing right now with presumably Jordan’s chest, which is full of money.”

  Hank used his foot to flip the lid shut before resting his right leg on top of the chest.

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” Hank said, glancing down at the crowbar.

  Cal eyed Hank closely and waited a second. In a flash, Cal jammed his foot on top of the bar, raking it to himself along the concrete floor. It wasn’t a moment too soon, either, as Hank had lunged for the prying device as well.

  Cal held his hands up in a posture of surrender.

  “We just came here to talk about Jordan Hayward’s death and see if you guys know anything,” Cal said. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “And neither do we. So, I suggest you get on outta here.”

  Kelly perked up. “Without any answers? I don’t think so.”

  One of Hank’s employees, who’d been watching the entire exchange take place from a corner of the room, stepped forward. He had the name Gary emblazoned on an oval name tag attached to the right side of his chest.

  “Jordan was into some—”

  Hank held up his hand. “What’s wrong with you, Gary? Do you wanna get killed, too?”

  “No, sir, I don’t. That’s why I think you oughta tell them—”

  Hank spun around and started yelling over him. “Another word out of you and you’re fired. You understand me?”

  Gary nodded and continued sifting through a pile of musical instruments scattered haphazardly on a storage shelf.

  Hank turned back around to face Cal and Kelly.

  “I’m not sure how Jordan got all this money. It certainly is odd that he’d wanna keep it here at work.”

  Gary rattled around with the instruments, making plenty of noise.

  “You sure he wasn’t stealing from you?” Cal asked.

  “I keep the books myself, so I’d know if he was,” Hank said. “Wherever this came from, it wasn’t this store.”

  Gary stood up and jogged toward them. “Stop lying through your teeth, Hank, and tell them the truth. At least maybe Jordan will get some justice. He’s dead now. It’s the least he deserves.”

  Hank sneered. “Jordan deserved a bullet to the head.”

  “That’s not how it ended for him,” Cal said.

  “Oh?” Hank said, somewhat surprised.

  “Strangled to death, likely by someone he knew.”

  “Tell ‘em, Hank.”

  “Shut up, Gary,” Hank said.

  Gary strode toward the trio, refusing to comply with Hank’s demands to be quiet.r />
  “It was the Enforcer.”

  “The who?” Kelly asked.

  Hank put his hand on his forehead, shaking it as he glowered at Gary in disgust.

  “I told you not to say another word,” Hank said.

  Gary ignored Hank and continued to answer Cal. “Jordan worked for a regional drug dealer named the Enforcer. The word on the street was the Enforcer was looking for Jordan because he was supposedly skimming some money off the top. Needless to say, you don’t wanna mess with the Enforcer.”

  “So, you don’t think any of this had to do with Isaiah Drake’s case?”

  Gary furrowed his brow, staring awkwardly at Cal. “Why would it?”

  Cal shrugged. “Just a theory I’m playing with.”

  “Uh, no. Jordan had plenty of problems, but he and Drake were thick as thieves, literally.”

  “Literally?” Kelly asked. “Meaning, they were actually thieves?”

  Gary nodded. “Not sure about Jordan, but I know Drake got caught once with some other guys. I can’t remember who all was involved, but I know the sheriff let Drake off the hook.”

  “Gary, you’re gonna get popped in the mouth if you keep talkin’,” Hank groused. “Especially if you keep talkin’ about things that you don’t really know about.”

  Cal cocked his head and stared at Hank. “So, since you obviously know what happened, do you want to tell me?”

  Hank glared at Gary. “I think Gary has said enough for the both of us.”

  “Suit yourself,” Cal said. “I won’t ever reveal you as my source if you change your mind.” He handed Hank a business card. “Call me if you decide you want to help me tell an authentic story.”

  Hank snatched the card from Cal’s hand and shuffled off toward his office.

  Cal turned to Gary. “Thanks. I appreciate all your help.”

  “Good luck, y’all,” Gary said.

  “Keep your luck,” Kelly said over her shoulder as she and Cal began walking away. “Based on how your boss just responded, you’ll probably be needing it more than we will.”

  Cal and Kelly returned to the Okefenokee Inn so Cal could write his story about the mysterious circumstances surrounding Jordan Hayward’s death and Kelly could upload a few pictures. In about an hour, they were both done and determined a celebration was in order at The Pirate’s Den later that evening.

  Just as they were about to walk out the door, Cal’s cell rang. It was Marsha Frost.

  “I was just thinking about calling you,” Cal said. “This story just keeps getting better and better. It shouldn’t be too long before I have enough solid evidence to help exonerate Isaiah Drake. Not even a recent law school graduate could whiff on this case.”

  “Better hurry,” Frost said. “I just received a phone call from one of the judges handling Drake’s case, informing me that Drake was just denied a retrial and for now remains locked up.”

  “What? Are you kidding me?” Cal said. “How could they possibly look at all that evidence and continue to hold him? I don’t know if I’ve ever run across a greater miscarriage of justice.”

  “I’ve seen several greater injustices just this week,” Frost said. “But that’s why I do what I do.”

  “Since you’re the expert, do you still think we can get him a retrial?”

  “Maybe, but it’s up to you and what other kind of facts you can get me.”

  Cal hung up, sighed, and looked at Kelly.

  She stared knowingly at her husband.

  “Looks like our trip to The Pirate’s Den isn’t going to be celebratory after all, is it?” she asked.

  Cal shook his head. “Not in the least bit.”

  While they were walking toward the car, Cal’s phone rang again, the screen displaying an unknown number.

  “This is Cal,” he said as he answered.

  “Cal Murphy?” a man on the other end of the line asked.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Tripp Sloan, Susannah’s brother. I heard you were workin’ on a story about Isaiah Drake and my sister’s murder. I’m on my way from Savannah to visit some friends in Pickett this weekend and would love to meet with you.”

  “How about dinner tonight at The Pirate’s Den, say seven o’clock?” Cal asked.

  “Perfect. See you then.”

  Cal hung up and looked at Kelly. “There’s still hope for our visit to The Pirate’s Den tonight. Tripp Sloan wants to talk.”

  CHAPTER 27

  THE PIRATE’S DEN was crowded with customers celebrating the end of the work week. While waiting for a table, Cal and Kelly endured a half hour of modern country pop, songs about girls in blue jeans, boys with trucks, and people everywhere drinking. The gray-bearded man nursing a bottle of beer next to them launched into a tirade about the state of country music.

  “Country music sold its soul to the devil years ago,” the man said. “Nashville ain’t put out a listenable song in fifteen years.”

  “More ‘an that,” mumbled his drinking companion.

  “Probably right. There ain’t no Hank or young Waylon Jennings or Merle Haggard to rescue us from this garbage.”

  “Don’t we wish.”

  Cal and Kelly nodded in agreement, which was little more than a polite gesture.

  The gray-bearded man stared at Cal.

  “Who’s your favorite country music singer, buddy?” he said, slapping Cal on the arm.

  Cal squinted and looked skyward, all in an effort to give him time to conjure up the name of at least one country musician from yesteryear. He was coming up empty.

  “He loves the Charlie Daniels Band,” Kelly said, saving him from sure scorn. “He loves the song about the devil going down to Georgia.”

  “Uh huh,” the man said as he nodded. “Y’all ain’t from ‘round here, are ya?”

  “What gave us away?” Cal asked with a slight grin.

  “Y’all talk funny—both of ya.”

  The hostess called out, “Murphy, party of three. Murphy, party of three.”

  Cal exhaled, relieved to be saved from further critique about their mode of transportation or dress appearance compared to the majority of The Pirate’s Den clientele. He and Kelly followed the young woman to their table.

  “Where’s the other member of your party?” she asked.

  “He’s on his way,” Cal said. “Would you mind pointing him in our direction when he gets here?”

  “Will do,” she said, winking at Cal before she walked away.

  “What do you think this is all about with Tripp Sloan?” Kelly asked.

  “Maybe he wants to clear his conscience,” Cal said. “Remember that Drake said he was hanging out with Tripp right here the night of Susannah’s murder.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  When the waitress came around, Cal and Kelly both went for stronger drinks, ordering some craft beers from a Savannah brewery. They didn’t have to wait long before Tripp Sloan slid into one of the empty chairs at their table.

  “Tripp Sloan,” he said, offering his hand to Cal and then Kelly. “It’s so nice to meet y’all. My dad told me I should talk to you while I was here.”

  “Really?” Cal said. “And your father is Sheriff Sloan?”

  Tripp nodded. “I see you’ve become fairly acquainted with him. He can be very off-putting at times.”

  “And threatening,” Kelly said. “But let’s not quibble over that.”

  Tripp nodded knowingly. “Well, I don’t live in Pickett any more and never intend on returning. Draw your own conclusions about that, if you know what I mean.”

  Tripp flagged down the waitress, whose jaw dropped when he she recognized him. They talked for a minute before she scampered back to the kitchen to get his drink.

  “Bekah and I went to Pickett County High together,” Tripp said. “She was a freshman when I was a senior, but we stayed in touch until I moved away about eight years ago.”

  “So, why’d you move?” Cal asked.

  “I think
I’ve made it abundantly clear why I pulled up my roots and left,” Tripp said. “I also had some job opportunities in Savannah that were far more lucrative than anything I’d ever get in Pickett.”

  “Okay, we don’t want to hold you up here,” Cal said as he leaned forward, “but let’s cut to the chase. What can you tell us about the night of your sister’s murder, Isaiah Drake, and anything else related to this case?”

  Bekah handed Tripp a beer bottle, which he promptly began to peel the label off of. “Let me preface everything by saying I drank quite heavily that night,” Tripp said. “And the next few nights after, to be honest. Losing Susannah was hard on my whole family. But to answer your question, that night wasn’t all that unusual as I recall.”

  “You met Isaiah Drake here?” Cal asked.

  Tripp nodded. “I wasn’t the only one with Drake that night. My boy Jordan Hayward was here. Jacob Boone was here, though he was drinking with some other guys.”

  “When did Drake leave The Pirate’s Den?”

  Tripp pointed to a spot along the wall. “Drake was standing right there. He went to the bar to get a drink, stopped, and then made a dash for the parking lot.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I followed him outside, of course, to see what was goin’ on. He left so quickly. Then Jordan Hayward went after him. I was worried something was seriously wrong. Like maybe somebody had died or somethin’. Little did I know somebody was about to—and that would be my sister.”

  “Did you ask him why he was leaving?” Kelly asked.

  “By the time I reached the parking lot, his Phantom was peelin’ out onto the road.”

  “So, Hayward went with him?”

  “I think so. I mean, eventually he showed back up at the bar by himself, but who really knows where he went. He said he didn’t want to talk about it when he got back.”