Dangerous Undertaking Page 19

  The offices for the Gainesboro VISTA were in a brick building at the north end of town. A line of five parking spaces in the adjacent lot had been stenciled VISITORS. All were open. The news business on a Tuesday afternoon must not have been bustling.

  I entered a modest reception area. Bookshelves on either side touted the various awards and trophies the small daily had earned since its founding seventy-five years ago. Across the room, a woman as old as the paper sat at a multi-line telephone. The headset hung around her neck and she read the large-print version of Reader’s Digest. On the front of her desk were two signs with arrows pointing in opposite directions: Editorial to the left, Advertising to the right. The lettering for Advertising was twice the size of Editorial.

  The woman looked up and shoved the magazine out of sight. “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Melissa Bigham, please.”

  “She’s a reporter in Editorial,” answered the woman, and the smile which briefly appeared for a potential advertiser vanished.

  “Yes. I have information for her.”

  The receptionist looked at a pegboard mounted alongside her phone. Six or seven sets of initials were listed in dry marker. “M.B.” had a blue peg sticking out of the In hole.

  “Melissa’s here but she’s on her line. You can go on back,” she instructed. “I can’t leave my post. She’s in the third cubicle on the left.”

  I saw the top of her head first, short brown hair cut for easy maintenance. She heard me step behind her and glanced over her shoulder. She must have been in her late twenties, cute now that I could take a closer look and I wasn’t intimidated by Jack Andrews and his biker pals. She sat in front of a computer terminal. Her Nikon rested atop the monitor and her notepad hung from a suction cup stuck on the metal cubicle wall.

  “Hey, what’s up?” She tucked the phone against her shoulder and kept her fingers speeding across the keyboard to complete her thought.

  “I need space on the front page of tomorrow’s paper,” I said.

  “Expanding the funeral home to handle all the bodies?”

  Just the irreverence I expected from a reporter, no matter how small the paper.

  “We’re going to trap a killer,” I whispered.

  Melissa took her hands off the keys and said, “Gotta go” into the receiver.

  “I can wait a minute,” I said.

  She hung up the phone. “Just a call from the school system. Next week’s lunch menu. Country-style steak is not the kind of thing to yell stop the presses over. Barry Clayton, right?” She stood up and rested an elbow on the top of her cubicle. “Are you serious about trapping a killer?”

  I looked around the deserted newsroom.

  “There’s nobody else here,” she assured me. “But we can talk in the conference room if you like.”

  “No. If we’re alone, this is fine. I am serious, but you’ve got to print what I say and no more.”

  “You know I can’t agree to that. I’d be compromising the paper, not to mention my own ethics. I do have a few.”

  “The paper won’t be publishing anything that’s not true. Just consider me an anonymous source with limited but accurate information.”

  “I can’t make any promise for placement. I don’t make up the front page.”

  “Then tell whoever does it’s the inside, exclusive track on a major story.”

  Melissa’s eyes brightened at the carrot dangling in front of her. She cleared the screen with a single key stroke. “Give it to me now. I’ll take it straight to the editor as soon as I finish.”

  Chapter 19

  Except for the time I spent at college or working in Charlotte, P’s had been the only shop where a barber had ever touched my head. Since my first wailing episode in the toddler’s booster chair to the trim the week before my gunshot wound in the cemetery, P.J. Peterson had clipped my curly locks. P.J.’s dad Pete had founded the barbershop/gossip emporium in 1935. Twenty years later, Pete Jr., aka P.J., had joined his dad and his older cousin in the family business. In the early 1970s, P.J. acquired me, red-faced and screaming, as a new customer. P Senior died in 1978, and although the surviving Petersons hired another barber, no one sat in or worked old Mr. P’s chair. It reigned near the storefront window as a constant reminder that eventually we all get that final haircut.

  Melissa Bigham’s story had been in the newspaper’s version of primetime—the front page, above the fold. Reading it had given me the urge to get a haircut.

  The shop chatter abruptly ceased as I walked in. All eyes turned to me, formerly Jack Clayton’s boy, now town celebrity.

  “Mornin’, Barry,” P.J. called from behind the balding pate of Mayor Sammy Whitlock.

  “Mornin’, Barry,” echoed the mayor. “How’s the arm?”

  “Mending fine,” I said.

  There was a round of “that’s good” from the six other men, only half of whom were waiting for haircuts.

  “Guess you saw the paper this morning,” said P.J.

  “No,” I lied. “Something special?”

  “You’ll never guess who has come forward to claim the Willard property,” said P.J.

  “I haven’t a clue,” I said and eased into a plastic chair beneath the shelf stacked with vintage Butch Wax.

  “Wait, don’t tell him, let me read the article.” Mayor Whitlock fumbled his hands free of the barber’s cloth and reached out for a newspaper. One of the assembled court passed him the front page. No one loved the sound of the mayor’s voice more than the mayor.

  “‘The aftermath of Dallas Willard’s murderous rampage that ended in his own death took a surprising turn yesterday. An exclusive investigation by the VISTA has uncovered a previously unknown heir who stands to inherit the entire tract of land in the Willard estate. Talmadge Watson, the reclusive brother of the late Martha Willard, plans to file his claim as sole surviving heir at the Laurel County Courthouse tomorrow. When asked why he had not stepped forward sooner, Mr. Watson said, “Martha and I had some distance between us and hadn’t talked in over sixty years. But that was our business, nobody else’s.”’

  “That sounds like ol’ Talmadge, don’t it?” commented the Mayor.

  “Yeah,” agreed P.J., “except everybody knows his business.”

  The men laughed. Mayor Whitlock said, “He’ll keep making shine till he drops dead in the fire. With all that acreage, he’ll have plenty of new places to hide a still.” He glanced back to the article and paraphrased. “Says he’s not concerned whether county records prove his claim or not. He’s got the family Bible with his and Martha’s birth dates entered in their grandmother’s handwriting.”

  “Talk about an old testament,” said P.J.

  A wheezy voice from the corner piped up, “Shoot-fire, probably has Jesus’ autograph in it.”

  That got an even louder round of laughter. Mayor Whitlock handed the paper back, P.J. resumed his scissor snips, and the talk wandered to property taxes and how much land Talmadge would probably have to sell to keep the best. I enjoyed the free entertainment while awaiting my turn. My only commitment wasn’t until noon.

  “See you got your ears lowered.” Tommy Lee gave his review of P.J.’s handiwork as I sat down across from his desk.

  “Undercover work. Talmadge was the talk of the morning.”

  “Good. I’d have been surprised otherwise.”

  “Anything happening?”

  “Not yet. Cain is spending the day politicking. I called in some favors from Buncombe County and a couple of their people are shadowing him. I’ve got tails in place ready to pick up Taylor and Pryor when they leave Broad Creek. I expect Kyle Murphy to call soon.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And while I was at it, I asked Buncombe County to keep an eye on Waylon Hestor and Alex Soles. Just because we couldn’t see a connection doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

  “Especially Soles,” I agreed. “Psychologist for a man whose land he wants.”

  Tommy Lee had
set his plan in motion yesterday while I called on Talmadge and Melissa Bigham. He contacted Murphy and learned Odell Taylor was scheduled to spend this morning with his men doing general clean-up. Grading had been halted pending the outcome of the EPA investigation and further soil tests. Murphy reported the EPA had not discovered any additional contamination, but they still had ground to cover. Ridgemont Power claimed that if the suspension lasted much longer, Taylor and his men would be laid off.

  That prospect wouldn’t be the only problem on Taylor’s mind. Murphy had been instructed to tell Pryor the sheriff would be by at noon to ask Taylor a few questions about Dallas Willard. Pryor knew he had to fully cooperate, and the sheriff was free to take as much time as he required. Taylor had all morning to wonder what prompted Tommy Lee’s return visit. He had made his statement once already, and his men had all corroborated they had not been on the site the night Dallas died.

  The morning hours would pass slowly for him. At a quarter to twelve, Taylor was to break his men for lunch and walk from the gravel base of the dam construction to the EPA’s trailer. Kyle Murphy would give Sheriff Wadkins the use of his office for the private interrogation. Except Tommy Lee never planned to be there.

  At ten after twelve, the call came in from Murphy. Tommy Lee put him on the speaker phone. “How’d it go?”

  “Like we expected,” said Murphy. “Taylor found me sitting in Jane Cummings’ vacant chair, reading the Gainesboro VISTA. I sent Jane to lunch early. I acted surprised when Taylor came in. He asked where you were and I said I was sorry. I forgot to send word you had to cancel.”

  “How did he react?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “At first he was relieved. I could tell he had been nervous about talking to you.”

  “Good. I want him nervous.”

  “Then it dawned on him this was probably only a postponement. He would still have to face a new round of questions. He asked me what happened. I said you had a development you had to check out and I slid the paper over to him.”

  “Had he already seen it?”

  “I don’t think so. He read it. Repeated Talmadge Watson’s name to himself, then looked at me like I had some explanation.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I laughed and said sounds like this old coot is going to be a real estate tycoon. Taylor asked if you thought Talmadge had killed Dallas for the land and was that why you canceled. I said I had no idea. You were tight-lipped with me, but you told me you’d be back to see him in a day or two. He said if Talmadge Watson was the killer, then you had no cause to bother him again.”

  “Right,” said Tommy Lee. “He wishes. Interesting he tried to immediately peg Talmadge Watson as the man who killed Dallas Willard.”

  “I guess that’s natural,” said Murphy. “Talmadge gets quite a windfall.”

  “Also natural for someone who is looking for a fall guy for his own crime. I think Taylor doesn’t like the heat. If Talmadge could be convicted for the murder, then the property is back on the auction block and he’s off the hook. But, Taylor knows that’s not going to happen. Then what did he do?”

  “He gave me back the paper and said, ‘Murder’s a terrible thing, ain’t it?’ I agreed and apologized he came up to the trailer for nothing. I told him to take an extra fifteen minutes for lunch and I’d clear it with Pryor. I waited until I heard the gravel crunch of his footsteps fade, and then peeked out the window. Taylor went straight to Pryor’s office.”

  “We should have had it bugged,” said Tommy Lee.

  “He only stayed about five minutes, and then went back to his men. I’m going to hang in here until everyone leaves.”

  “Murphy, you ever want the quiet life, I’ll find you a job up here.”

  We could almost see the Fed smile through the speaker phone. “Quiet life? Sheriff, I’ve never been in the middle of so many dead bodies in my life.”

  I waited with the dispatcher in the radio room of the Sheriff’s Department. Communication was essential and the network of surveillance needed a nexus for efficient operation.

  The two-way crackled. “I’m ready for him,” said Tommy Lee. “Won’t press him too closely. I don’t expect anything to happen until after nightfall anyway. No sense taking chances. Once I know he’s headed home, I’ll ease back.”

  “Want some company?” I asked.

  “Sure. Just don’t drive up here with rap music blaring. There’s an abandoned barn on adjoining property. Looks right down on Taylor’s. If he stays put, you can probably come in after dark. Bring a fresh thermos of coffee and—hold on, I see him. He’s at the main highway. At least he’s turning in the right direction.”

  Two hours later, I pulled my Jeep Cherokee beside Tommy Lee’s patrol car. The sheriff had parked broadside against the rear of the dilapidated barn. Missing slats of siding afforded a view through the back wall and out its open doors. I joined Tommy Lee in the front seat of his car, bringing a thermos, binoculars, and a white paper sack.

  “Here’s a bag of doughnuts. This is an official stake-out, isn’t it?”

  “It is now,” said Tommy Lee, “although I never eat these things. I’d weigh four hundred pounds. Just pour me a cup of coffee.”

  “Anything going on?” I asked.

  “No. And that’s unusual. I would have thought he would run out somewhere. Pick up a few groceries, beer, or cigarettes. He just came straight from work. Maybe he spotted me.”

  “It makes sense he wouldn’t leave,” I said. “If he wants to get to Talmadge, he’s got to be making a plan and getting his arsenal together.”

  “Maybe,” agreed Tommy Lee, “or maybe he’s just not sure what to do.”

  The two-way radio crackled as the dispatcher’s voice broke through our conversation.

  “I copy you,” replied Tommy Lee. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a phone call for you from Kyle Murphy. I can patch him through if you like.”

  “Okay,” said Tommy Lee.

  “Wonder what he wants?” I asked.

  “Sheriff, do you hear me?” Murphy’s voice was tinny but clear.

  Tommy Lee paused a beat, then depressed the mike key. “Yeah. What is it?”

  “I just got a report faxed from Somerset, Kentucky, but your deputy says I shouldn’t bring it to you.”

  “No. Any more cars up here and we’ll look like a parking lot. What’s the bottom line?”

  “We ran background checks on the men who came in late on the Friday morning after we think Dallas was killed. They all came back clean.”

  “Dead-end, huh?”

  “Not exactly. It’s interesting that we found Taylor’s tracks go back to Kentucky. He migrated here fifteen years ago with enough money to buy a grader and bulldozer. Started putting in roads and driveways for developers and retirees who were building their mountain homes. He did good work and got picked up on the Broad Creek Project.”

  “Well, that explains the Kentucky connection,” Tommy Lee said. “He brought Luke Coleman and the rest of Leroy Jackson’s flock down to join him.”

  “But you also wanted checks on all the men Taylor supervised, not just the ones who clocked in late. Turns out Leroy Jackson did time. I mean serious time, like more years in prison than out. His sheet goes back to teenage theft and larceny, then various assault charges, some of which were violent enough that he went into observation and evaluation for mental problems. A borderline psychopath. He was a prime suspect in two capital murder cases but the D.A. didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute. He has been out eight years now, his longest stretch of freedom. The last conviction was for aggravated assault with a knife. Bar fight over a twenty dollar pool bet. Served eighteen months and his cell mate was an old con man called The Preacher.”

  “The Preacher,” repeated Tommy Lee. “So he found himself a mentor.”

  “Yes,” said Murphy. “Evidently, Leroy Jackson had a conversion experience. He was released from jail a self-proclaimed prophet and over time attracted enough Kentucky hil
l people to found his church.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It gets better,” Murphy continued. “Prison records and parole applications name next of kin for notification of emergency situations. Jackson has only one listed relative, his brother Odell Taylor.”

  Tommy Lee pressed down the key, stepping on Murphy’s words. “Leroy Jackson is Odell Taylor’s brother?”

  “Half-brother. Taylor’s father died when he was an infant. Couple years later his mother remarried long enough to have Jackson before the marriage broke up.”

  The nerves in my neck tingled. “The drive to Kentucky,” I said.

  “What?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “Pace and I remembered that only the Colemans and Leroy Jackson were present at the funeral home when Fats said ‘too cold.’ But they left the visitation and drove straight to Kentucky. Fats was killed later the same night, after they had gone. We’ve not considered Jackson because we assumed he went with the Colemans.”

  “Except the day you and I were at their compound with Pace and his intern, Leroy Jackson showed up and said he’d driven all night to get back and the Colemans were returning the next day. He had driven his own truck.”

  “Exactly. Jackson could have stayed late enough Sunday to kill Fats and still have made the burial service in Kentucky.”

  “What about Taylor?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “Maybe he and Jackson are tied into everything together. Blood is thicker than water.”

  “Tell that to Norma Jean and Lee Willard,” said Tommy Lee. “Blood is flowing like water and we may have a psychopath at the spigot.”

  “And not a soul watching him,” I said.

  “No one to blame but myself,” said Tommy Lee. “God damn it. Leroy Jackson has a free hand and we don’t know where he is.” He keyed the mike. “Thanks, Murphy.” Then he told his dispatcher, “Have Talmadge Watson brought to town immediately. I don’t want to take any chances that Leroy Jackson can get anywhere near him.”

  I sat quietly while Tommy Lee finished radioing his instructions. Thoughts darted through my head like trout in a mountain stream. “Maybe we should confront Taylor now.”