Dead to Rights

by Jack Patterson

  “And the second thing that happened?”

  “This was the big one: Susannah was the driver who hit Devontae while he was riding tandem with Phillip. Phillip died in the accident, while Devontae became paralyzed in his legs. It was a sad day around Pickett. Susannah was home visiting from college and had been at The Pirate’s Den, drinking with some friends. She claimed she wasn’t drunk, and her blood alcohol level came back at zero. And then it was simply ruled an accident. Devontae has only grown more and more bitter through the years. But at the time, he was bitter and visibly angry. Whenever anyone saw him out in the community, Devontae wore a scowl on his face.”

  “But he’s confined to a wheelchair and paralyzed, correct?” Cal asked.

  Arant nodded. “That’s why it’s ludicrous to some degree. If Ray did it, he’d have to have some help—not to mention getting someone to actually pull the trigger for him. There’s no way he could’ve gotten into her house on his own.”

  “Let’s not waste our time on him,” Cal said. “We need to focus on the viable suspects in this case.”

  “Those are all the names I heard at the time and through the years. The honest truth is I have no idea now who did it. Every one of them could be guilty, if you ask me.”

  CHAPTER 30

  CAL GAWKED AT THE CROWD filing into the Pickett County Fairgrounds just before 11:00 a.m. Living in the south, he had seen his share of southern culture that would bewilder anyone unfamiliar with its customs and rituals. But the people attending the annual Walk the Plank Demolition Derby seemed like a hidden culture that had just been discovered and documented in a National Geographic special. The south didn’t hold a monopoly on demolition derbies—or banger racing, as they were called in England—but it did on the people who enjoyed the sport.

  He looked over at Kelly, whose eyes managed to widen even more than his own.

  “What do you think of this?” he asked.

  Speechless, she simply shook her head.

  Pickup trucks elevated by a hydraulic system bounced up and down to the beat of a hard-driving country music song. Gun racks decorated the back windows of more trucks than even the sticker of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes fame taking a leak on the owner’s most-hated NASCAR driver. One elderly woman glared at Cal when he didn’t stop fast enough for her at a cross walk. She proceeded to salute him with her middle finger, pull her sweater back to reveal her handgun, and spew a stream of tobacco onto the hood of his rental car.

  “Do you think she’s really a woman?” Kelly finally asked.

  Cal nodded. “Most of the women I’ve met in my travels to the rural south are as sweet as a glass of iced tea. But there are always a few who seem to defy the status quo. She’d fall into the latter category.”

  They followed the parking attendants’ directions, parking next to a 1940s era pickup truck on the right. Seconds later, a beat-up Suburban from the 1980s pulled up next to them on the left. Over the track’s loudspeaker, an announcer gave a rundown of the day’s events, starting with several short races before the flag dropped to start the derby.

  Cal bought a pair of tickets and entered the turnstile with Kelly. Before they arrived at their seats, everyone stopped and faced the flag, first for Lee Greenwood’s rendition of God Bless the USA, followed by Miss Pickett County singing The National Anthem. The anthem performance sounded somewhat familiar despite a few dropped words and changes to the lyrics where bombs burst in air not once but twice.

  “I hope singing isn’t what she does for the talent portion of those pageants,” Kelly whispered.

  Cal chuckled and took a seat. Kelly, meanwhile, headed back down the aisle and slipped into the stream of the late-arriving crowd. She’d told Cal she wanted to take some pictures for her portfolio, surmising that this would be her only opportunity to photograph such a unique event.

  Using his binoculars, Cal watched the pits to see if there was anything interesting happening. He also wanted to watch any of the people he viewed as suspects in the case and hopefully interview them one last time before heading home. He felt as if he was more confounded about the death of Susannah Sloan than he was before he left Seattle. He still had no idea who killed her—and he still hadn’t ruled out Isaiah Drake either.

  Jacob Boone revved up his car before climbing out and grinning maniacally at several of the other drivers. Sheriff Sloan walked around the corner of a white cinder block building on the infield where it appeared a driver’s meeting was set to occur. He motioned to Boone to join him.

  I wonder what that’s all about.

  Cal put his binoculars down to glance at the order of events. When he looked back up, he saw Boone disappear around the corner where Sloan had been. Cal strained his neck to catch any further action but was derailed when Crazy Corey Taylor stepped into his line of sight toting a sign proclaiming, “The End is Near!”

  Exasperated, Cal put his binoculars away and sighed, gesturing for Taylor to move along. Taylor obliged, dancing and spinning as he moved down the aisle. He also repeated the message on his sign, yelling it. Taylor’s antics led to at least three children breaking into tears.

  Cal returned to watching the pits when Taylor returned, this time interrupting Cal by leaning over and whispering in his ear. “Figure out who did it yet?” Taylor asked. “If you want to know who did it, come find me sometime.”

  * * *

  THE SOUND OF METAL colliding with metal at fifteen to twenty-five miles per hour echoed across the grandstand, always followed by a chorus of oohs and ahhs. Cal understood the appeal of watching cars ram one another for sport. The singular objective to destroy the other competitors and be the remaining operational car took away the pretense that a race was necessary. It was a vehicular gladiator event. And even as someone who was uninitiated, Cal enjoyed it.

  Jacob Boone was one of the final two competitors but lost when Earl Underwood clipped the back of his car, which proceeded to flip and land wheels up. Boone climbed out and signaled that he was okay, leading to Earl’s attempt at a victory donut. However, Earl couldn’t generate enough speed, and he instead settled on a celebratory flip after climbing out of his car.

  While the crowd cheered Earl’s win, Cal was walking down the steps to meet Kelly when he noticed a pair of reporters with cameramen interviewing Sheriff Sloan. Cal hustled over to see what they were questioning him about.

  “We understand that the FBI has taken over the investigation of Jordan Hayward’s death,” one of the reporters said. “Can you tell us anything you learned before ceding jurisdiction?”

  Sloan grimaced. “I’m not really authorized to comment on the crime scene at this time, but I will say it was unusual.”

  “So is it safe to assume that this wasn’t a suicide?” the reporter asked.

  “No, this wasn’t a suicide,” Sloan confirmed.

  “Could this be the work of the Marsh Monster?” the other reporter asked, tongue-in-cheek.

  Sloan’s eyes narrowed. “A man’s dead and you want to make a joke like that? The Marsh Monster may not be a monster in the way we think of them, but whoever he is, he’s killed a couple of good people in Pickett. And it’s no laughing matter.”

  The reporter turned beet red and slunk back.

  Cal stepped forward to ask a question, but Sloan noticed him.

  “That’s all I’ve got time for,” Sloan said before he turned and hopped over a barrier wall, distancing himself from the media members.

  Cal watched Sloan until he vanished from sight. Cal was still staring when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

  “Cal! Cal! Hello? Earth to Cal?”

  Cal blinked and realized Kelly was standing right there. “Oh, hey. Did you get some good photos?”

  She grinned. “Did I ever? However, there’s one you’ll be particularly interested in. Here.”

  She handed Cal her camera.

  He looked at the small display screen.

  “Zoom in,” she said.

  Cal followed her instructions and en
larged an image of Sheriff Sloan and Jacob Boone exchanging a large duffle bag.

  “Go to the next picture,” Kelly said.

  Cal scrolled to the next photo and zoomed in to see Boone staring into the opened bag which appeared to contain several stacks of cash.

  “Jacob Boone was right,” Kelly said. “People aren’t always what they seem in Pickett.”

  CHAPTER 31

  CAL AND KELLY MANAGED to beat the rush to Curly’s Diner, which quickly became packed with race attendees. They nodded to Curly, who brought them a menu and two glasses of sweet tea.

  “If you two stay here another few days, you’ll be able to order the usual, and I’ll know what you mean,” Curly said with a smile.

  “No offense, but we’d like to avoid that,” Cal said.

  “I understand. I wouldn’t want to stay around a place where I was making so many enemies.”

  “Are people talking about us?” Kelly asked.

  Curly broke into a wry grin. “This is Pickett. Everybody talks about everybody.” He tapped on the table. “I’ll give you two a minute to decide and be back.”

  Cal waited until Curly disappeared into the kitchen before he started talking. “I feel like we’re in a demolition derby ourselves here trying to figure this case out,” Cal said. “We don’t have enough definitive proof to get Drake exonerated yet—if he even deserves to be exonerated—and we’ve watched our list of suspects reduced to one … but only because he’s dead.”

  “Hayward’s death doesn’t get him off the hook,” Kelly said.

  Cal nodded. “True, but it does make helping Drake clear his name that much more difficult.”

  “So, let’s go through all our suspects,” Kelly said. “Start with Sheriff Sloan. Motive?”

  “Racism? Disgust? Protecting his family’s honor?”

  “I could possibly see the first one, but protecting his family’s honor? It’s the 21st Century. Who doesn’t have a daughter these days bringing shame upon her family name? The Kardashians even celebrate their shame.”

  Cal huffed. “Let’s stay focused. We could lament the downfall of our entire country once we start talking about reality show celebrities, particularly ones known for their abnormally large body parts.”

  “Good point.”

  Curly returned and took their orders before moving to the next table.

  “So let’s say Sloan is a racist and didn’t want his daughter marrying a black man. Why not kill Drake instead?” Cal asked.

  “Less blowback. Easier to get away with killing your daughter than killing a superstar athlete.”

  “Or easier to hire someone to kill your daughter,” Cal countered.

  “You think he hired someone like Jacob Boone?”

  “Possibly. I wouldn’t rule that out. But all we know for sure is that Sloan has something to hide.”

  “And he’ll keep on hiding it, too. With his ability to doctor the logs, no one is going to believe what we found out about Sloan being logged out during the time of Susannah’s death. We’re just going to seem like a pair of sad muckrakers.”

  Cal laughed. “We’ve been called worse.”

  “What about Jordan Hayward? His motive?”

  “Jealousy. He didn’t want anyone taking his girl away, even his best friend.”

  Kelly furrowed her brow. “So, he murders her?”

  “Could’ve been a crime of passion, and then he thought he’d be able to pin it on Drake.”

  “But Drake can’t remember anything. How’d he pull that off?”

  “Maybe Drake didn’t see it. What if Hayward knocked Drake out and then killed Susannah before Hayward decided to frame one of his best friends?”

  Kelly nodded. “Hayward was the beneficiary to Drake’s fortune … whatever is left of it at this point.”

  “It’d be worth finding out who’s the beneficiary of Drake’s money now that Hayward’s gone. Might at least give us motive for Hayward’s death.”

  “Of course, Hayward’s motivation would be the same as Drake’s, albeit jealousy over a different guy.”

  Curly slipped Cal and Kelly’s meals onto the table.

  “Enjoy,” Curly said before he scurried away. Cal and Kelly began to attack their meals.

  “And Boone?” Kelly asked after getting down her first bite.

  “He’s got revenge as a motive. Susannah Sloan effectively took his kids away from him. I don’t care how he tries to portray himself now, that’s a pain that doesn’t just go away.”

  “Should I even bring up Devontae Ray?”

  Cal shook his head. “That just seems like a reach, though I wouldn’t rule it out at this point. Maybe he was working with Boone.”

  “But do we have any indication that those two run in the same circles?”

  Cal shrugged. “Not yet, but it’s worth considering, even if it seems farfetched.”

  Cal’s phone buzzed on the table.

  “Who is it?” Kelly asked.

  “Marsha Frost from The Innocence Alliance. This should be interesting.” Cal answered his phone. “This is Cal.”

  “Hi, Cal. This is Marsha. I’ve got some big news.”

  “Oh? Go on.”

  “A federal judge stepped in on behalf of Isaiah Drake and ordered a new trial. But not only that, the judge ordered Drake to be released immediately.”

  Cal smiled and mouthed the news to Kelly. “So, where’s Drake now?”

  “Not sure,” Frost said. “Robert Sullivan wasn’t readily available to help him get released, but apparently Drake talked one of the prison guards into releasing him by giving the guy an autographed football for his son.”

  “Any idea where he’s headed?” Cal asked.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he was headed straight for Pickett.”

  “We’ll be on the look out for him,” Cal said.

  “Be careful, Cal. When I spoke to Drake, he was acting a little strange.”

  “Strange? How?”

  “Like he’s angry and mad. And he wants revenge.”

  “Revenge on who?”

  Frost sighed. “He’s convinced Sheriff Sloan was the one who killed Susannah. And he’s also convinced she’ll never get justice.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a good situation.”

  “I know. Just be careful and watch out for him,” Frost said. “I would hate for him to become the person everyone believed he was years ago.”

  CHAPTER 32

  UNDAUNTED BY SHERIFF SLOAN’S WARNINGS, Cal and Kelly decided to make yet another run at him. Armed with a picture that demanded answers, Cal knew his journalistic reputation would be held suspect if he didn’t at least give Sloan a chance to answer for the suspicious nature of the photo.

  After freshening up at the Okefenokee Inn, Cal and Kelly headed to Sloan’s house. With a dirt driveway that stretched more than 200 meters, Sloan had the modern day equivalent of a moat. It was clear he didn’t want to be bothered, yet if someone dared to attempt contact, he’d see the person coming and could prepare in plenty of time.

  The moment Cal pulled into Sloan’s long drive and began rattling along with driveway, Sloan looked up and glared at him. Sloan was outside with a trailer hitched to his truck. One of the unidentifiable cars from the demolition derby sat on the trailer as Sloan appeared to be hammering on the body of the vehicle before he stopped and walked toward the driveway to meet his uninvited guest.

  Cal came to a stop twenty yards from Sloan’s house, a sprawling brick ranch decorated by a handful of ungroomed bushes beneath each window and an antique weather vane perched atop the roof. But Cal didn’t stop on his own volition: Sloan, wielding a sledge hammer, stood in the middle of the driveway.

  “You ready for this?” Cal asked Kelly.

  She nodded. “Are you?”

  Cal shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  They both exited the vehicle and approached Sloan, who remained stoic.

  “How many times does a man need to tell a couple of report
ers that they aren’t welcome any more?” Sloan bellowed.

  Cal forced a smile. “My teachers always told me I didn’t have the best listening comprehension skills.”

  “They were right,” Sloan deadpanned.

  “Look, I know we’ve been a thorn in your side this week, but it’s for a good reason: We don’t want to see an innocent man die.”

  Sloan shook his head. “If you keep comin’ around here when you’ve been warned, people won’t see you as so innocent.”

  Cal sighed. “I’m going to take that as a joke and not a threat.”

  “You shouldn’t take it that way,” Sloan said, throwing the sledge hammer over his shoulder.

  “Sheriff Sloan, we have a few more questions for you,” Kelly said before pausing and taking a deep breath, “like this picture of you handing over a duffle bag full of cash to Jacob Boone.”

  “I swear to God, if this was the wild west, I would’ve dropped you two a long time ago,” Sloan said with a sneer.

  “But it’s not, is it?” Cal shot back. “And it’s difficult to get away with murder twice, I hear.”

  Sloan’s knuckles whitened around the handle of the hammer as he stepped forward.

  “Just what exactly are you insinuating, Mr. Murphy?” Sloan asked.

  “I think it’s pretty clear,” Cal said. “At least, it certainly will appear that way in my story if you refuse to answer a few simple questions. I mean, I can’t help what the public takeaway will be from the article when I write that you declined to comment. If an FBI probe begins surrounding the practices of your sheriff’s department as a result, you can’t blame me for that either.”

  Sloan took a deep breath but remained silent for almost a minute. When he finally spoke, he lost his edge, apparently resigned to the fact that Cal had painted him into a corner.

  “What do you wanna know?” Sloan asked.

  Before Cal could answer, the roar of a car storming down Sloan’s driveway arrested the attention of everyone. Cal spun around to see a vehicle kicking up a cloud of dust as it hurtled toward Sloan’s house.