Dangerous Undertaking Page 17

  Tommy Lee stared into his coffee cup, as if the answer were to be found there. “I’m afraid the Feds are going to have to break that case for us. We need to learn if Dallas was killed because of his land or because he witnessed the dumping of the toxic waste.”

  “Again, that comes back to the power company. We’ve got Fred Pryor, Bob Cain, and those Kentucky men who were late Friday morning.”

  “Yeah. Pryor doesn’t want the EPA delaying construction. That could cost hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions of dollars at a time when he needs to look like the corporate heir apparent. We know Cain is a hothead who acts first and thinks later, and we know those Kentucky families depend upon the power company for both a paycheck and housing. Pryor’s right-hand man, Odell Taylor, tells them what to do. That could include loading and unloading the drums.”

  “Taylor,” I said. “He’s the guy Pryor depends on when dealing with the crew. Have you heard anything from that EPA investigator Kyle Murphy?”

  “No. Finish your coffee and let’s see if he had a nice weekend.”

  Kyle Murphy pulled a report from a file on the desk where Jane Cummings had organized materials. Evidently, Jane was attending to her normal Monday morning duties for Fred Pryor in the other trailer.

  “They all said they were with Leroy Jackson at a morning prayer meeting,” said Murphy. “They just ran long.”

  “On a Friday morning?” I asked.

  “That man keeps them in line,” said Tommy Lee. “I hear even Odell Taylor’s fallen in with them. What else have you got?”

  “We were busy all weekend working through the federal computer networks. I’m not going to give you the written files, not unless it’s needed for prosecution, but I will tell you we traced a path that had some interesting turns and twists.”

  “Money,” said Tommy Lee. “You followed money.”

  “Too bad I don’t live here, Sheriff. You just got my vote.”

  “What do you have?” I asked impatiently, anxious to hear names.

  “Where does this path begin?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “Excellent question,” said Murphy. “Where it starts is always as important as where it ends. This trail begins with a discretionary account controlled directly by Fred Pryor. Now there is nothing wrong with that. I made a quiet inquiry in their Charlotte office and learned project managers often have access to funds not earmarked for any particular budget line. Ridgemont Power audits them quarterly and the expenditures are assigned to a job cost. It gives the manager of a major project like this one faster reaction time without being tied to purchase orders and computer checks, especially when you’re isolated in the mountains, three hours from the home office.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” I asked.

  “Only six thousand. That was the budget for the quarter. It is wired into the local branch and Pryor can manually write a check for cash.”

  “So, what’s unusual?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “He isn’t a full month into the quarter and the account’s nearly depleted. We got photocopies of the canceled checks. Only one stub has a reference, a hundred dollar check to Luke Coleman for bereavement written Sunday, October twenty-first. Two checks were written Friday the nineteenth. One for a thousand dollars, the second for two thousand. Both made out to cash. The last check was issued Wednesday the twenty-fourth. It was also for two thousand dollars.”

  “Any endorsements?”

  “The Coleman check cleared Friday with Luke Coleman’s signature on the back. All of the other checks were cashed by Fred Pryor. The local teller remembers the one last Wednesday. Pryor came running in just at closing, and she had to get the funds from the vault.”

  “That was the day he came back from Charlotte,” said Tommy Lee. “And it was late that afternoon when he learned about the dumping and Dallas Willard’s death.”

  “Then he was called back to Charlotte the next day to help set the strategy for dealing with you guys,” I said.

  “It doesn’t cost two thousand dollars to drive to Charlotte,” said Tommy Lee. “He must have needed it for something that night.”

  “So, not counting the Coleman check, five thousand dollars has disappeared,” I said.

  “No,” said Murphy. “The FBI did a routine check on the bank accounts of the people who came in contact with Pryor during that period. Sheriff, your mention of Bob Cain turned up a cash deposit last Monday in his personal account. One thousand dollars.”

  “One of the checks Pryor cashed on the previous Friday,” I said.

  “I’d bet on it,” said Tommy Lee.

  “Four thousand is still missing,” said Murphy. “We haven’t said anything to Cain or Pryor because we don’t want to tip our hand until we trace more possibilities.”

  “And you’ve examined all Pryor’s personal accounts?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “And then some. In the last six months he has borrowed the maximum on his 401k, taken a second mortgage on his home, and depleted his savings.”

  “What’s he buying?” I asked.

  “Nothing yet. The money has gone into a holding account for a limited liability company, a real estate venture named New Shores.”

  “Who else is in it?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “We’re running the name through the North Carolina Secretary of State’s office now.”

  “New Shores,” said Tommy Lee. “We know of some new shores soon to be created, don’t we, Barry. I smell a sweetheart deal. A little inside profiteering.”

  “If that’s the case, I’ll be turning the information over to the SEC,” said Murphy.

  “And if that doesn’t lead anywhere?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “When it looks like a dead-end, we’ll confront Cain and Pryor with the checks.”

  “How was Cain normally paid?” I asked.

  “Monthly retainer. That’s not due until the first of November and he is not paid in cash but by check.”

  “Hush money?” I asked.

  Kyle Murphy shrugged.

  Tommy Lee smiled. “Maybe. Or maybe he actually earned it in a way Pryor wants to keep hidden.”

  “Toxic waste dumped in a quarry,” I said.

  “Toxic waste and a body. Two bodies—Dallas Willard and Fats McCauley. And I still can’t see the connection.”

  “I’m glad I don’t have your problem, Sheriff,” said Murphy. “That’s why I’m giving you all we’ve got.”

  Tommy Lee shook the younger man’s hand. “You’re all right, Murphy. For a Fed. Think I’ll drop in and brighten Fred Pryor’s Monday morning.”

  We actually brightened Jane Cummings’ day first. At least she had to smile when Tommy Lee said, “Would you tell the tight ass I’m here to see him?”

  She picked up the phone and buzzed his extension. “Mr. Pryor, Sheriff Wadkins is here to see you.”

  We heard some garbled, muffled reply come from the receiver. A tinge of color spread over the woman’s cheeks. She hung up the phone.

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff. Mr. Pryor says you’ll have to make an appointment for later this afternoon. He’s reviewing material he has been ordered to give to the EPA immediately.”

  “Did he really say that, Miss Cummings?”

  “Not in those exact words. More like if I can’t get rid of you, he’ll get rid of all of us.”

  “Nice guy.” Then Tommy Lee took in a deep breath and bellowed, “Tell Mr. Pryor he will be charged with impeding the investigation of a double homicide. Tell Mr. Pryor if that door doesn’t open in ten seconds, I will place a phone call to The Charlotte Observer and report that a senior executive of Ridgemont Power and Electric is stonewalling evidence which links a public utility to the brutal murders of a mentally deranged young man and an elderly furniture store owner. Tell Mr. Pryor the EPA acknowledges the magnitude of the crime of murder even if he does not. And tell Mr. Pryor—”

  The door opened and Pryor stood shaking with fury.

  “What do you want? Just tell me and then get the hell
out of here.”

  “Good morning,” said Tommy Lee. “Thank you for clearing your busy schedule. I want to ask you a few questions.”

  Pryor closed the door behind us and we sat in the same chairs as during our earlier visit. The office décor was beginning to grow on me.

  Before Tommy Lee could say a word, Pryor stated, “I know nothing of how those containers wound up in Hope Quarry. I have no idea who killed Dallas Willard or why his body would have been dumped either separately or with the toxic waste. I had never heard of Travis McCauley. His murder is regrettable, but I challenge you to find any connection to this project. Furthermore, I know of no direct links between work done on this site and any of the deaths that occurred. Frankly, such a suggestion is unsubstantiated and irresponsible.”

  “Are you finished?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “I am, but the legal counsel of Ridgemont Power and Electric may not be,” he said with undisguised contempt.

  “I doubt they are finished or will be for quite awhile. Especially with the real estate hanging in the balance.”

  “Real estate?” Pryor’s curiosity got the better of his self-righteous indignation.

  “Yes, although he forfeited his legal claim when he shot his brother and sister, Dallas Willard definitely can’t inherit the property as a dead man.”

  “Well, the state will take care of that,” Pryor said. “I imagine there will be a buyer.”

  “The state?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “With no heirs.”

  “Who told you there were no heirs, Mr. Pryor?”

  “Well,” he stammered for a few seconds, “I don’t know that anyone told me. I must have read it in the newspaper.”

  “Ah, well, I wouldn’t believe everything I read in the paper. I suspect the Willard land will stay in the family. These mountain people love to hunt on their own ground. Hell, they’ll be able to fish in your new lake. You know, with all those new shores you will be making for them.”

  If I hadn’t been staring intently at Fred Pryor’s face, I probably would have missed the quiver of his lower lip as Tommy Lee casually said “new shores.”

  “Are you here to question me about real estate?” he asked.

  “No. Something you know something about. Electricity, or the lack thereof. When we first met, your power pole had been knocked down.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I want the names of every man who was late that Friday and their employment records and applications. And, I want the same for every person supervised by Odell Taylor whether they were working that Friday or not.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Pryor protested.

  “Mr. Pryor, there are a lot of things you don’t see. Like the fact that there is a link between that toxic waste and death. An old man lost a prized horse because of somebody’s illegal action.”

  “A horse?” asked Pryor. “Like that nag I saw when I went up to inspect the quarry yesterday?”

  “Yes,” said Tommy Lee. “That nag had sired the unborn foal that was also killed by the contaminated creek water.”

  “Tell you what, Sheriff, just to show you I’m not the hard-hearted bastard you claim I am, I’ll send that old farmer—”

  “Mr. Charles Hartley,” Tommy Lee said.

  “I’ll send Mr. Hartley a check for his loss, even though we bear no responsibility. If we’re finished that is.”

  “For now,” said Tommy Lee and stood up. “I’ll tell Kyle Murphy to expect those employee files by mid-afternoon. He has offered the full resources of his department.”

  As we passed Jane Cummings’ desk, Pryor yelled from his doorway, “Jane, draw up a check for Charles Hartley.” He paused, then said, “Hey, Sheriff, how many cans of dog food you think that horse was worth? Fifty?” He slammed his office door.

  Jane Cummings looked up at us. “You know,” she said, “he’s beginning to piss me off.”

  Tommy Lee and I stepped down from the construction trailer into the late morning sunlight.

  “I hope I didn’t overplay my hand,” said Tommy Lee.

  “You mean with the new shores comment?”

  “That and dangling the prospect of an heir in front of him. I’m just trying to make him jump because he’s probably got everyone else toeing the company line.”

  “His stunt with the check for Charlie Hartley reminded me of somebody else.”

  “Who?”

  “The Coleman child. Maybe I’ll have to help someone step out of the company line.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “I need to revert to my daytime job. An undertaker consoling a family. Some ol’ time religion wouldn’t hurt either.”

  “Barry, should I be having a bad feeling about this?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  I do my best contemplating while lying on my sofa with my eyes closed—not a nap but a relaxed reflection, as I like to call it. However, this time all I saw was a grieving mother and Fred Pryor handing her a hundred dollars for the life of her son. Was Jimmy Coleman collateral damage, nothing more to Fred Pryor than Charlie Hartley’s horse? And there was Fats, hovering over Harriet Coleman. What did he say? “Too cold. It was too cold.” I sat straight up on the sofa. Fats’ other words sprang to mind, the words he had written on the note pad—“Barry Clayton, weather.” “Weather” and “too cold.” I telephoned Mom to find out how to reach Reverend Pace. He had also heard Fats’ words and would know more about any religious rituals that might be involved.

  “‘Too cold,’” I said when I reached him. “I know what Fats meant when he said it. The weather was too cold for the snakes.” I waited for the voice on the other end of the phone to respond, but the silence told me my point was being thoughtfully considered.

  “Yes,” Pace said at last. “No rattler would have been out on a rock at that temperature. I knew something bothered me about Luke Coleman’s story. I even looked for rocks around his house. I didn’t think about the cold.”

  “We can’t prove it,” I said, “unless someone tells what really happened. You’ve probably witnessed snake-handling before. Do you think that’s how the boy was bitten?”

  “No. I been in these hills forty years and never heard of any church or sect letting kids handle serpents. Maybe he was with his dad when they were ousting the rattlers from their den.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe a lot of things. What we do know is they probably lied about how the boy was bitten. So what else are they lying about, and how far would they go to keep their snake-handling a secret?”

  “You think Luke Coleman or that Leroy Jackson killed Fats McCauley?” asked Pace. “They heard Fats say it was too cold for the rattler to be out of its den.”

  “What proof did Fats have?” I asked. “He just mumbled ‘Too cold’ and went on home. Luke Coleman and Leroy Jackson went to Kentucky that night. They weren’t in town. No, I was thinking if we don’t know the truth of how the snake bit Jimmy, we might not know the truth of when the snake bit him. They could have been afraid to bring the boy to a doctor and they tried to care for him themselves. Remember Friday morning several of those church members were late. Maybe that’s the reason.”

  “They were praying over Jimmy Thursday night? But that could give them an alibi for Dallas Willard’s death and the chemical dumping,” said Pace.

  “Possibly, and I want to establish that fact so we’re not wasting time on the wrong trail.”

  “Where do you want to start?”

  “I only know of one place,” I said. “Harriet Coleman. Someone has got to get her to tell what happened.”

  Pace sighed. “Well, way I see it, it’s not a problem of the law, it’s a problem of the spirit. She needs a comfort.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Would you go with me?”

  “A preacher and an undertaker?” He laughed. “Guess we’re not so far apart at that. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning. My old Plymouth might be a little w
orn, but it will look more at home in the Colemans’ woods.”

  Chapter 18

  From the edge of the trees at the Kentucky workers’ compound, Reverend Pace and I watched Harriet Coleman hang a pair of jeans on the clothesline stretched across her front porch. The washtub of milky rinse water had just yielded up the last garment for drying in the morning sun. Harriet stepped back and looked along the fifteen feet of cord at her Jimmy’s clothes fluttering in the breeze.

  I could only imagine how the finality of this never to be repeated cycle of washing and drying for her little boy must have torn at her heart. Suddenly, she whimpered and slid down against the porch post.

  She didn’t hear Pace calling her name. She did feel my hand on her shoulder and the squeeze which brought her to her senses.

  “Mrs. Coleman, are you all right?”

  She squinted against the sun to make out the two men standing over her. She looked at Pace. “The preacher. From the funeral home,” she stammered. “I’m all right.” She struggled to get to her feet and willingly accepted my arm.

  “Yes. We met at the visitation for your son. I’m Reverend Pace, Mrs. Coleman. This is Barry Clayton. He was there as well.”

  Harriet Coleman gave me a nod of acknowledgment. “I remember. You were very kind.”

  “We came by just to talk for a few minutes,” said Pace. “If you have the time.” He let his eyes wander to the string of drying clothes and the empty washtub.

  “I was just finishing up. Jimmy’s things. I know it’s not right to keep them when some other boy could wear them.”

  Her act of charity, coming from one who had lost so much and had so little, touched us both. I saw Pace’s eyes glistening. Without hesitation, he reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. The woman fell against him, and all the unspoken sorrow boiled over as she cried against his chest. I opened the front door and motioned for Pace to bring her inside.

  We seated Harriet Coleman in a plain rocker with a blue plaid cushion. The small front room had no sofa. Two other chairs were pulled around the kerosene heater. Four old framed photographs were clustered on one wall. Family portraits of another, more prosperous generation.