by Allen Kent
Allyson Penn raised a surprised brow, drawing a wry chuckle from my attorney.
“Hard to imagine, isn’t it? But it allows us to make a very compelling case that there would have been no death if LJ had received the medical attention he needed, but was denied by his son.”
“Do we have a statement from the sheriff’s deputy to that effect?”
“She is out of the country, but we can easily get one.”
Penn nodded appreciatively at Able. “Very good. But that still doesn’t address the issue of the claimed trespass without a warrant and refusal to leave when asked. We can certainly make a case to the court that the officers were performing duties consistent with their responsibilities as investigators, but I’m not certain that will merit a summary judgment in our favor.”
“It might, if we can show that the officers were fired upon before even being able to announce their intent,” Able noted. “And when finally given permission to come down, were confronted by armed men who turned on your client when asked to lay down their weapons. Officer Joseph was simply defending herself and her partner. That shouldn’t even require a qualified immunity defense.”
Penn smiled cynically. “I can’t imagine that Mr. Greaves is about to admit that he knowingly fired on two officers in a marked vehicle as they came onto his property. Or that he and his father greeted them with weapons raised—and threatened to shoot the sheriff if he didn’t leave. None of those facts are stated in the complaint, and for good reason. I’m certain Greaves and his attorney will dispute them.”
“Let me schedule a deposition for Verl,” Able suggested. “With just me and the sheriff present for this one. Verl isn’t what I would consider a ‘coachable’ witness. If we approach this right, I think Mr. Greaves might be willing to help us out.”
13
Marti had a note on the desk when I got back to the fishbowl that Jerry Covell wanted a call. It was a few minutes past 4:30 and I decided first to clean up a few items of unfinished business, then drop by the market on the way home. I called Grace’s mother and Yusef Haddad, told them Grace was safely in Scotland, would be meeting with police there, and would report back by tomorrow morning. Then I checked in with the presiding commissioner to catch him up on the Greaves lawsuit.
Jim Bowman runs 300 head of Angus cattle and has as many acres in feed corn up in the northeast part of the county. Since before I left for college, he’s been presiding commissioner, leaving his sons to run the farm while he makes certain the roads and bridges up that way are well maintained and property taxes on farmland stay low. It’s a symbiotic relationship that doesn’t escape many county voters. But Jim is a smooth-talking, Stetson-wearing, visit-every-morning-coffee-club campaigner who has managed to keep other names off the ballot. He also insists on being called on county-related business before I contact either of the other commissioners.
“I don’t want Able to settle this one,” he ordered after my five-minute summary of our meeting with Joseph and her counsel. “The damned Greaves have been a thorn in the side of the county since before Missouri joined the Union. They still have that suit pending against us and Mid-Missouri Water over that dam that’s half built out in Blackjack Holler. I don’t want a red cent of county money going to that sorry sonofabitch.”
“We’re a long way from any settlement, Jim,” I assured him. “I’m sure Able will be checking in with you, and you can let him know what you want.”
“Damn right, I will,” he spouted. “Have you called Bob or Wendall yet?”
“No, Sir. I always start with you.”
“As it should be. I’ll call them. I want to make sure we’re all on the same page on this.”
“Call them separately,” I reminded him. “Remember the Sunshine Law doesn’t allow the three of you to meet without posting public notice—even if it’s by phone.”
“You know where they can put their damn sunshine law,” he bellowed. “Where the sun don’t shine.”
“I’m just trying to keep the newspaper off your back, Jim.”
“You worry about maintaining law and order and bringing our kids back home safely. I’ve had a dozen calls from parents who worry about the ones who are still over there who haven’t disappeared. And you let me worry about the damned paper.”
Somehow the sunshine laws fell outside the Commissioner’s definition of law and order. I left it to him to handle calls to his fellow statesmen.
Jerry Covell had abandoned the meat counter and was running the register when I walked into Family Market just before 6:00. He finished checking out Gladys Hinds, shouted back to his daughter who was stocking the bread shelves to take over for him, and led me into the back storeroom. He perched against a stack of cases of diet Dr. Pepper and indicated a seat for me on a Pace’s Chunky Salsa box.
“Heard anything about the missing kids?” he asked first.
“Nothing new so far. Grace just got there. She’ll call with a report tomorrow.”
Jerry nodded soberly. “Terrible thing. That, and about the Parkers. The kids disappearing and that explosion literally shook the whole town. That’s all anybody’s been able to talk about today. The Parkers were good people. A real tragedy.” His eyes wandered absently off toward the meat locker, and he was silent for a moment.
“Have you heard something about what might have caused the explosion, Jerry?” I prompted.
He gave his head a quick shake to regain focus. “Oh, no. That’s not why I called you. I may know where you can find Fits Loony.”
“Oh? Alive, I hope.”
Jerry nodded. “I think so. And I’m just putting two and two together. But Farley Buzzard was in today for his weekly supplies. He added a forty-pound bag of sunflower seeds.”
“He’s never bought any before?”
“Never.”
“Maybe he’s decided to start feeding birds out there at his place.”
“I was tempted to ask, but I didn’t want to get him thinking I was suspicious. And you know Farley. He treats his goats like family and loves that Pyrenees he got to replace Rupert when the cougar killed his sheep dog. But I don’t see Farley as the type to be feeding birds.”
“Not the Farley I know,” I agreed.
“For one thing,” Jerry continued, “Farley’s as tight as a duck’s ass with his money. He’s getting these seeds for someone else. And why do I stock sunflower seeds? For all the old ladies in town who do feed birds, and for Fits Loony. I’ll bet you a couple of my best loin chops that he’s got Fits hiding out with him.”
“That’s a bet I’ll pass on,” I said, pushing up from the chunky salsa. “I want you to be right. I’ll head up there now and check it out.”
“Call me if you find Fits,” Jerry insisted.
“First thing. But if he’s hiding out with Farley, he doesn’t want to be found.”
Jerry swept his hand across his heart. “Not a word from me. I’d just like to know he’s okay.”
Farley Buzzard raises Boer goats on fourteen acres up near Willston. He sells milk to the folks in the county with lactose issues and meat to the Haddad families and to the burgeoning Latino community that works the poultry plants down along the state line and prefer it to beef.
Farley’s battered single-wide trailer sits on six piles of concrete blocks. He skirted the bottom with corrugated metal sheeting he salvaged from the roof of a neighbor’s loafing shed when it was being demolished. There are enough breaks and rust holes in the galvanized tin to allow all manner of critters to live under the trailer. Although Farley isn’t one to go out of his way to feed birds, a little extra residential wildlife doesn’t bother the man.
He greeted me on the steps as he has every time I visited the place before, standing with hands thrust deep into the pockets of the same striped overalls that had also been part of every meeting. He’s a mountain of a man with a weather-leathered face that peers out between a curly brown thatch of hair and a tangled, coffee-colored beard. To say that he’s a man of few words would b
e a gross exaggeration. What little does pass his lips is mumbled with the greatest economy of mouth and jaw.
“Good evening, Farley,” I greeted as I stepped from the Explorer.
“Evenin.”
“How’s the goat business? You had any more trouble with cougars since I was here last?”
“Nope. Cain’t complain.”
“You remember that Haddad girl that came out with me as part of that school job-shadowing thing? Maybe you heard she’s gone missing on that school trip to Scotland.”
“Heared that. Nice girl. Real shame.” Farley remained planted on the top step of his poured concrete porch.
“I thought you might be able to help me with something else. Maybe you also heard someone tore up Fits Loony’s place. He’s also missing.”
“Heared that too.” The big man wrinkled his nose and blinked nervously.
“Have you heard anything about what might have happened to Fits?”
Since becoming sheriff, one of the things I’ve come to appreciate about folks in this area is that they’re loath to lie to you. Some are masters of prevarication, but few will outright lie. The question gave Farley enough pause that I knew he was looking for middle ground.
“Why you askin’?” was his solution.
“I figured from looking at his place that he might be having trouble with someone. I need to find him to see what I can do to help.”
“Knowin’ Fits, I’d say he’s tryin’ not to be found,” Farley mumbled.
I nodded. “I appreciate that. And if I were to find him and he wanted to stay out of sight, I’d respect that. But the best solution is to get whoever’s causing him trouble off his back so he can go back to his squirrels.”
“I’m guessin’ they must have skirred him bad,” Farley ventured.
“All the more reason to get him some help. Do you know where he is, Farley?”
The goat farmer’s face tightened behind his hairy mask. “If I did, I wouldn’t be sayin’ less he wanted me to.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. But I’m just trying to help him, Farley. If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t say a thing. But you might think about this. If I could find him, someone else might be able to as well.”
Farley rolled his shoulders uneasily, then turned as the door behind him opened and Fits stepped out beside him.
“How did you find me, Tate?”
“Nothing for you to worry about, Fits. Jerry called from the market to tell me Farley had asked for sunflower seeds with his order. Not something Farley would normally be buying. Jerry will keep it quiet, but he was worried about you.”
“You saw my place?”
“Yes. What happened down there?” I turned to Farley. “Can we go inside for a few minutes and talk?”
The big man looked around nervously, then pointed at a low, flatbed trailer propped at the edge of the dirt patch in front of the house. “Maybe we can sit there,” he offered. I realized that during the few times I’d visited the Buzzard farm, he’d never asked me in. I knew better than to push it.
Fits is the yin to Farley Buzzard’s yang—a slip of a man with thin gray hair, a drawn, narrow face, large nose, and a propensity to ramble on, once he gets talking. Even on the warmest day he wears a loose-fitting jacket with side pockets large enough for a squirrel on one side and a handful of seeds on the other. His favorite grey squirrel rides in his inside breast pocket where it knows how to pull back the edge and have a peek out. Fits had managed to get away from his cage with the inquisitive animal, and it ventured a look as the three of us made our way to the flatbed. I chose to stand while Fits and Farley boosted themselves up on the trailer.
“Tell me what happened at your place,” I prompted, knowing that once I got him rolling, it would mainly be a matter of interrupting.
“Well, lucky for me, I was over in my storage building, filling a tub with acorns,” he started, leaning forward with elbows on knees and an intense frown wrinkling his narrow face. “I heard this crashing outside and had the sense to look through the window ‘stead of running out. There was these two men—one older, one younger—breaking my poles and cutting at my wire with axes. One of them was yellin’, ‘You in there, you son of Bile?’ or somethin’ like that. When I didn’t answer, he sent the younger one around to the back and told him to see if there was propane going into my house. ‘If there is,’ he told him, ‘twist the pipe loose where it goes through the wall and let’s get out of here. Something will set it off.’”
“Just a minute,” I interrupted. “Let’s go back to the ‘son of Bile.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
Fits shook his head. “Not a thing. But I didn’t hear it too good ‘cause they was slashing at the poles and my wire at the same time.”
“It wasn’t ‘sonofabitch,’ maybe?”
“Naw. It was son of Bile or Bill or somethin’ like that.”
“What was your pa’s name?” I asked.
“Francis.”
“Hmm. Okay. Then the older guy told the younger guy to go to the back and pull your propane line loose where it went into the house?”
“Yep. But as the kid was movin’ that way, the front poles broke and the whole cage started to tip forward. He hauled hisself back out, and they waited for things to settle down. Then he went around to the back again. He was gone maybe five minutes while the older man just stood there and watched to see if the place was going to cave in. My squirrels was runnin’ all wild and scared to death. I almost went out after them with one of my bows. But I’ll admit it to you, Tate. I was shakin’ in my boots. They looked set on doin’ me some harm and . . .”
I cut in again. “Were they armed with anything but the axes, Fits? Did you see other weapons?”
“The axes was enough. And the kid had a can with him. Like a can of spray paint. I could hear him shaking the little ball inside while he was walkin’ to the back. You know how that rattles . . .”
“Did you recognize either of them?”
Fits looked over at his burly companion. “That’s just what Farley asked me. I think Farley would have gone after them if I’d knowed who it was. Didn’t know either of them, Tate. And you know I’ve met pretty much everybody lives in the county and . . .”
“I think they painted some numbers on the back of your house,” I interrupted. “The numbers three, eighteen, and twenty. Those mean anything to you?”
The question quieted him for a moment as he stared at a spot somewhere in the center of Farley’s patch of dirt. “Nope,” he said finally. “Don’t mean nothin’ to me. I was thinkin’ maybe it had somethin’ to do with the number of squirrels I got. When people think I’m crazy, it usually has somethin’ to do with my squirrels. But there’s more than thirty of them and . . .”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “You stay put here with Farley. I’ll see what I can figure out about all this. I don’t think it’s related to the squirrels. But I don’t know what else it is. Farley, thanks for taking him in.”
I nodded to the big man and turned back toward the Explorer, knowing I’d have to walk away from a conversation with Loony if I was going to bring it to an end. He called after me.
“Maybe it was when I first built the cage, Tate. That could have been March of five years ago. But now that I think of it, it was later in the spring. Maybe May. . .” He was still speculating when I turned the Explorer back down Farley’s drive and headed for home.
I waved back through the open window. “I’ll be in touch with you, Fits. You just keep your head down till you hear from me.”
14
When my phone erupted with the theme song from The Great Escape at 4:00 a.m., it jerked me upright, fearing I had missed hearing another blast or that someone had followed me to Farley Buzzard’s place and had discovered Fits’ whereabouts. Beyond the bedroom window, the splatter of rain on the metal roof of my woodshed deadened night sounds like the slushing of surf from a white noise machine. I snatched up the cell and answered without glancing at
the number. It was Grace.
“Tate, you sound alarmed,” she said.
I glanced again at the clock. “It’s four in the morning here, Grace. I was asleep. You scared the crap out of me.”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking it was a little later than that. But I just finished talking to the police here and learned some things you need to hear.”
I swung my feet onto the floor and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “That doesn’t sound good,” I mumbled, having been pulled from some pretty deep sleep. “Tell me.”
“First of all, they were able to trace the general area Danny’s texts came from. The first was from near Aberdeen—about the same area where Miriam’s phone was found. The second came from farther south near a place called Dundee.”
“Hmm—both along the coast,” I muttered.
“You know these places?”
“Generally. And they’re in a direction they might have taken if they really were going to England.”
“Yes. In fact, the police here are asking me a lot of questions about Danny and Miriam. What kind of kids they are. What kind of relationship they have. They seem to think there’s a good chance they really did go off with some couple like the text said, and will show up in a week when the school group is ready to go home.”
“Well, if I were in their shoes and didn’t know Danny and Miriam, I’d probably be wondering the same thing. Is there anything new that makes them think so?”
“Well, that’s the main thing I called to tell you. We’re staying in a hotel called The Kings Highway in the middle of the city. Some witnesses told the police they saw the kids talking to some people in a little café not too far from here. In fact, only about a three-minute walk. One woman said Danny and Miriam left with this couple who also looked like tourists.
“What did she mean—like tourists?”
“The couple had on shorts and big sunglasses—and brighter colors than most Scottish people wear. The witness remembered them saying they were going to the castle.”
