Chiefs (57 page)

He came around the rear corner of the house and stopped. Tucker and the two FBI agents were standing some thirty or forty feet up the hill behind the house, ankle deep in kudzu, staring at something at their feet. Foxy Funderburke was walking quickly, silently, toward them, loading a sawed-off shotgun. Howell heard the click as Foxy snapped the weapon shut. The three men up the hill, hearing the sound, turned. Howell realized what was about to happen. He formed a megaphone with his hands, took a deep breath, and shouted, at the very top of his lungs, “Hey!” Then, without waiting to see what happened, he stepped behind the corner of the house and flattened himself against the logs.

There was an enormous roar, and simultaneously large splinters exploded from the corner of the house. Then came two or three other explosions, so close together he could not be sure of the number. He got quickly down on his hands and knees and stuck his head, close to the ground, around the corner of the house. Tucker, Carr, and Sutherland were all standing in a half crouch, pistols held at arms’ length, pointed at Foxy, having all just fired. Foxy was sprawled on his back, twitching, trying to pick up the shotgun. The three men came quickly down the hill, and Tucker kicked the weapon away from him.

Howell got up and ran toward the group. As he reached them, he saw that Foxy was pumping a great deal of blood from his chest into the ground. Foxy seemed to see him for a moment, looked wildly around him, tried to speak, failed, then stopped moving. Carr held fingers at the old man’s neck and shook his head. Sutherland took out a penlight and flashed it into the open eyes. “Nothing,” he said.

Tucker walked to the house and through the back door. Howell, too dazed to ask questions, followed him. Inside, Tucker found a phone in the living room and dialed a number. “Bartlett? … This is the chief. I want you to do some things. First, call Dr. Tom Mudter, and ask him if he can come out to Foxy Funderburke’s place right away… . No, don’t call an ambulance, just ask the doctor to come. Now, how many prisoners have you got in jail? … Good, I want you to call the city manager—at home, if he’s left the office, and tell him you need all the picks and shovels he’s got at the city garage. Call one of the patrol cars in and have the man relieve you, then break out your prisoners, and take them over to the garage, pick up the tools and a truck, and get out to Funderburke’s place on the double. Have you got that? … Good, and bring all the flashlights you can find—if there’s any emergency lighting at the city garage, bring that and some power cable… . Never mind, I’ll fill you in when you get here. Now move it!” He hung up the phone and looked at Howell. “John,” he said, “did I tell you how glad I am to see you?”

Chapter 22.

BILLY LANDED at Roosevelt field with ten minutes to spare before dusk. He resolved, if he were ever elected governor, to find a way to get a beacon and landing lights installed at the little strip.

“Let’s go to my house first,” he said to Holmes. “We could both use a drink, and we can try and locate Tucker from there. I’ve got to get a handle on this thing. Your source says he’s getting federal search warrants for Foxy’s place, and the police station says he’s in New York. This whole thing is screwy.”

Patricia made them both comfortable and brought them a bourbon. Billy called the police station. Tub Murray answered.

“Tub, this is Billy Lee. Is the chief in New York, or where?”

“Governor, he’s out at Foxy Funderburke’s, as far as I know,” the patrolman answered, sounding confused. “He called here about forty-five minutes ago and told Bartlett to send Dr. Mudter out to Foxy’s, and to let all the prisoners out of the jail and bring them out there with a lot of picks and shovels. That’s all I know, sir. Maybe you could get hold of him by calling out at Foxy’s.”

Billy thanked the man and hung up. “This gets crazier by the minute. Tucker’s apparently out at Foxy’s, and he’s asked for Tom Mudter and some picks and shovels.” He grabbed the Delano phone book, looked up Foxy’s number, and dialed it.

“You know, there was a time when I could have told you
Foxy’s number just like that,” Holmes said, snapping his fingers. “Even after the dial system went in, I knew a lot of ‘em. Funny how you forget things.”

Billy looked at him worriedly. The banker had been talking that way all afternoon. He hung up the phone. “Busy.” He tried again, with the same result. They sat and quietly sipped their drinks for a few minutes, and Billy tried again. “Still busy. I think we’d better go out there.” They stood up. “Mr. Holmes, it’s not really necessary for you to go. I can drop you off at home.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it,” Holmes replied. The drink seemed to have revived him. “Let’s go.”

At the turnoff for Foxy’s house, they were stopped by Sgt. Buddy Bartlett. “Oh, I’m sorry, Governor, I didn’t recognize you.” He slapped his forehead. “Gosh, sir, I forgot to tell the chief you were trying to reach him. I thought he had already left for New York when you called this afternoon.”

“Buddy, what’s going on up there?” Billy asked.

“I don’t really know enough of it to explain it to you, sir. You’d better let the chief do that.”

Billy put the car in gear and started up the mountain. As they came to the top of the hill and began their descent, they could see the log house silhouetted against bright lights from behind. They parked in front of the house and walked around to the back. Billy saw Tucker immediately and called to him.

“Good evening, Governor, Mr. Holmes,” the chief said.

Billy was baffled by the lights and the digging men. “Tucker, tell me what’s going on here, will you?”

“Come over here for a minute, Governor.” Tucker led the way up the hill through the kudzu, which was being chopped and raked by a number of men. He stopped before a heap of dirt and metal.

Billy stared at it. “Is that a motorcycle?”

“Yessir, it is,” Tucker replied. “We found Sonny Butts.”

Billy and Holmes looked at the motorcycle, then at each other.

Tucker pointed them toward the house. “If you’ll come inside I’ll explain the whole thing to you,” he said, and walked them down the hill. As they walked through the kitchen door, John Howell waved at them from the telephone. Dr. Tom Mudter was sitting at the kitchen table, writing.

“Evening, Billy, Mr. Holmes,” the doctor said. “Tucker, if you’ll get somebody to move Foxy’s truck we can put his body in the garage. We’ll need a place for all the remains, anyway. There’ll be a lot of cataloguing to do.”

“Is Foxy dead?” Billy asked incredulously.

Tucker led them into the living room and sat them down. He opened a file folder and handed it to Billy. “Let me start at the beginning, Governor,” he said.

Billy stared down at the sheet of paper before him. Even after so many years, he recognized his father’s handwriting immediately.

Billy was still trying to absorb what Tucker had been telling him for the past half hour, when a man in a dirty blue suit came in. Tucker introduced him as Special Agent Carr of the FBI.

“Tucker,” said Carr. “We found a fresh grave; you’ll never guess where.” Tucker raised his eyebrows. “It was in the garage, under Funderburke’s truck. If we’d moved it sooner we’d have found it immediately. God only knows why he buried him there. Two to one it’ll turn out to be the boy in the latest bulletin.”

“How many does that make so far?” Tucker asked.

“Seven, counting the cop. And we’ve only just begun.”

Billy walked out back with Holmes and Tucker. “We need a lot of help, here, Governor,” Tucker said. “Do you think you could get us some National Guard assistance?”

Billy nodded. “I’ll call the governor right away.” He went back into the house.

“Uh, Chief?” Tucker turned. It was Bobby Patrick. “Uh, can I help you out in any way?”

Tucker introduced him to Ben Carr, who looked at him for a moment and said, “Sheriff, you could relieve the chief’s man down at the main road. We could use him up here. Just keep anybody from coming up here who doesn’t have any business here.”

“Right, yeah,” said Patrick, backing out of the house, grateful for some official function.

Carr looked at Tucker and laughed. “There’s a sheriff who’ll probably have a number of candidates opposing him come election time, when word gets out that he and that Talbot County judge didn’t want to search this place.”

Billy returned from the house. “The governor is calling the National Guard commander at La Grange, who will call you and offer whatever you need.” He looked around him. “Mr. Holmes and I are of no use here. I think we’d better go.”

“All right, Governor, I’ll keep you posted.”

“I’d appreciate it if you would. And if there’s any kind of assistance I can give you, don’t hesitate to call me—at any hour.”

“I expect the National Guard can give us all we need,” Tucker replied. “Mr. Holmes, we could use three or four more phone lines out here. Do you think you could arrange that?”

“Of course,” Holmes replied. “I’ll have them out here within the hour.”

John Howell joined them. “Billy, I’ve got a clear beat on this, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tip any other press for another twnety-four hours.”

Billy looked around him. “Sure, John. From the looks of this operation it’ll be that time before we know the extent of this, and I can’t say I want to be the one to announce it. That’s up to Tucker and Mr. Carr, I expect.” He turned to Hugh Holmes. “Why don’t we go home, and leave this to the professionals?”

“I’d like nothing better,” replied the banker. Considering all that had happened, Holmes was strangely silent on the way home, Billy thought.

Back at Foxy’s, John Howell loaded a camera and began walking slowly about the digging area, photographing everything. He stopped to take a shot of an old black man leaning on his shovel. The man pointed at Tucker across the way.

“That sho’ is some chief of poh-leece we got, ain’t it?” he said to Howell.

“Yep. He’s quite a fellow.”

“Always wuz.”

“How’s that?”

“I’se knowed him since he wuz a boy,” the man said. “We used to git in a heap o’ mischief when we wuz chillen, Willie an’ me.

Howell stopped taking pictures. “You grew up in Columbus, did you?”

“Oh, nossuh. We growed up right here in Delano. Willie’s daddy done used to work for Mr. Billy’s daddy, when he wuz still farmin’.”

Howell looked closely at the man. He seemed perfectly sane and sober. He was one of the prisoners Bartlett had brought out to dig. Howell got out a notebook. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“My name’s Walter Johnson,” he replied, “but folks call me Pieback.”

Chapter 23.

BILLY SPENT a quiet Saturday at home, waiting to hear from Tucker. He talked briefly with Holmes, and they agreed it would be better, under the circumstances, to make no more phone calls to legislators.

“This thing at Foxy’s is going to overtake us shortly,” Holmes had said, “and it will obliterate everything else. Let’s don’t try to swim against the stream.”

Late in the afternoon Tucker Watts and John Howell arrived, both looking exhausted. Patricia pressed some hot soup on them, and Billy mixed them a drink. Soon they were settled in Billy’s study before a fire. It had begun to rain outside.

“We’re finished out there, for the most part, and it’s a good thing, too,” Tucker said, glancing out the window. “The FBI has sent a pathologist down, and he and Dr. Mudter are cataloguing the remains, with the help of an anthropologist from the University of Georgia, who’s had a lot of experience on archaeological digs.”

“How many?” asked Billy, dreading the answer.

Tucker produced a notebook and flipped through several pages, counting. “We think we’ve found them all now.” He paused and took a deep breath. “It comes to forty-three.”

Billy had been expecting bad news, but the number struck him like a blow. A moment of nausea came and went.

When Billy didn’t respond, Tucker continued. “We’ve been able to identify seven of them from personal effects buried with the bodies. The rest are being checked against old missing-persons records in Atlanta. Most of them will probably never be identified.

“It’s difficult to tell exactly when all this began, but I think it’s likely that the one your father dealt with, the boy found by the old Scout hut, was the first victim, and the second body found, the one from Waycross, was the second or third. After those two experiences, Foxy became much more careful, and, as far as we know, no others ever got off the place alive.”

Billy was still unable to say anything.

“We found a lot of paraphernalia in a hidden cupboard at the back of a broom closet—handcuffs, rubber hoses, a lot of stuff. We haven’t had a psychologist in on this yet, but it seems to me that the whole thing began when Foxy applied for the chief-of-police job and didn’t get it. He felt he had been cheated out of it, somehow. Foxy had some sort of police fixation, and he conducted interrogations. None of his victims, of course, would have known the answers to his questions.”

“Were these sex crimes?” Billy was finally able to ask.

“Without a doubt,” said Tucker. “Only the body found in the new grave in the garage was recent enough for a reliable determination—he had been sodomized—but if we knew the truth about all the victims, I’m sure it would be much the same.”