Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (33 page)

“If the perp or perps are distracted because they’re dealing with Jesse, it might give you an opportunity for easier penetration in hostile territory. Where’s the other tracker going?”

“A detective’s car.”

“There is something about investigating the investigators that offers a satirical irony in the footnotes of the justice system.”

“File it under poetic justice system.”

“Indeed. I’m looking at my computer screen and I can see the one tracker that’s still with you. They other one is on the move, heading north out of Marianna.”

“That’s Jesse. I’m hoping he’s driving back to Caroline Harper’s place. Her address is Woodland Road, in Jackson County. Can you see if Jesse’s heading in that direction?”

“Come on, Sean, give me something a little more challenging. Of course I can.”

I spotted the deputy pulling into a parking place. “Got to go, Dave. Don’t let Nick spend too much time with Max. Nick doesn’t stick to the Mediterranean diet. He calls Max hot dog. If she eats three meals a day with him, she’ll turn into a kielbasa sausage.”

Dave chuckled. “I’ll take her for a long walk.” He disconnected.

I picked up the package I’d received from FBI agent Carly Brown, got out of the Jeep and walked over to Deputy Parker’s squad car. He lowered the window. I could see my reflection in his dark glasses. He said, “I had the lab take a close look at the boot prints. They enlarged them about the size of your Jeep. The image you sent me matches the print in Mrs. Franklin’s yard right down to the design on the sole and the unique wear on the boot. Sort of like looking at fingerprints with scars. So all I have to do is find the guy walking around with those boots.”

“We got a match on boot prints. Now let’s see if we can do the same with fingerprints, scars and all.” I opened the envelope and lifted out an 8x10 enlargement of the print lifted from the shell casing. I handed the enlargement to him.

“So the feds lifted this from a shotgun shell fired a half century ago.” He removed his sunglasses to inspect the image, releasing a low whistle. “If he’s alive, the shooter is definitely up there in years.”

“That night at Shorty’s when Jesse Taylor was arrested…the guy he fought with, Cooter Johnson, his grandfather is still alive. Goes by the name of Hack Johnson. Do you know him?”

He looked up from the print to me, his eyebrows rising. “I know of him. They say he’s a mean ol’ bastard. I heard, years ago, when his family was even more prominent, if somebody crossed him—if they really pissed him off, he’d say ‘I smell smoke.’ Maybe a week later, maybe
a month later or even longer, the person’s business, house or even their car would be torched. Two people died in one of those fires. They were just kids. I was in middle school at the time.”

“Through the years, with multiple arsons, couldn’t your investigators connect the dots to Johnson?”

“Not without physical evidence. He was just too good, or they were not that good, or maybe a little of both. But that kind of strong-arm bravado made people afraid of him, even some of the police. I’d heard that no one, including Cooter, ever has received a speeding ticket or even a parking ticket because of possible retribution. It’s like our town had its own country mafia.”

“
Had
…you mean they’re not a factor now?”

“Not as much. The old man keeps a low profile. You’ll see him occasionally. He still drives, but most of the time one of his sons or grandsons is doing the driving.”

“I think that family is still a force around here today. The photo of the bloody boot print I got after they beat Jesse Taylor senseless, the print that matches the one you found in the elderly woman’s yard, most likely came from them. And they left something else on Jesse…a brand.”

“You mean as in branding an animal?”

“Jesse had been drinking when he drove out to the reform school and shot a padlock off a remote gate. He’d left the lock with the security guard, and a left a message for Johnson. Looks like the guard delivered both. Later, the two guys that attacked Jesse used a lighter to turn the lock red hot and held it against Jesse’s arm, leaving a brand.”

“Shit. That’s sending one hell of a message—as in you’re marked, leave town. Maybe one of the two guys who jumped Jesse Taylor was that security guard.”

“That’s a possibility. Run the forensics on his boots and you’ll know.”

“If it’s some of the Johnson clan, most likely that message was meant for you, too, because you stood up to them with the Miranda issue.” He ran his wide thumb across the top portion of the steering wheel, flecked sunlight falling though the oak branches and across the car’s window. “And you think this fingerprint came from Hack Johnson fifty years ago?”

“Maybe. There’s only one way to find out.”

“It’ll take a court order to go back in those damn swamps and print that old man. Just because he worked there doesn’t mean much. Hundreds of people from Jackson County have worked at the reform school through the years. Unless we can speak with Jeremiah Franklin and unless he ID’s Johnson, we’re pissing into the wind. And when I rode out to Jeremiahs place, his converted school bus, it looked like no one had been there in days. No garbage in the container. No fresh tire marks. Nothing. He might be out of the state.”

“How well do you know the state attorney?”

“Carson?”

“Yep.”

“He’s a politician. I don’t see him personally take many cases to trial in the district, unless they’re high profile cases. He has a lot of competent assistant SA’s who are sharp. Probably one of his best is Lana Halley.”

“You trust her?”

“Don’t have a reason not to.”

“Then whatever evidence we can obtain needs to be evaluated by her because the way to obtain that court order you mentioned, the way to get a backhoe on the reform school land, is for Lana to convince a grand jury that the preponderance of evidence opens those long closed doors. If your sheriff is as by-the-book as you said, bring him in the loop after the physical evidence is accrued. In the meantime, you’ll have to be even more covert around people like Detective Lee. Are you good with that, knowing what you know now?”

“Absolutely. Let’s do this.”

As he studied the print, a Marianna city police squad car pulled into the parking spot next to Deputy Parker’s cruiser, the sound of the police radio coming from the squad car. The officer got out, a thick file folder in one hand. He locked his car and glanced in my direction, doing a slight double take. He recognized me and I recognized him from the investigation into the attack on Jesse. The officer walked toward us, a twisted smile working at the left side of his mouth.

SIXTY-FOUR

J
esse Taylor drove with one hand, using the other hand to search for aspirin in his car. He found the aspirin bottle in the middle console, shook out two extra-strength pills, lifting a water bottle from the drink holder. Empty. Not even a mouthful left. He tossed the bottle onto the adjacent seat, popped the aspirins into his mouth and chewed them, dry swallowing, the bitter taste of crushed charcoal on his tongue.

He touched the four-inch bandage above his eye, a dried blood spot about the size of a dime in the center of the dressing. He rolled his shirtsleeve up so air could circulate around the burn, glancing down at the image singed into the flesh and muscle on his forearm. He looked at his watch. Fifty minutes and he’d be meeting Jeremiah Franklin on the riverbank. Fifty minutes and he’d know for sure who killed Andy Cope. Fifty years and fifty minutes later he would hear the truth and then have the chance to face his demons head on, in the daylight. No longer would he be wedged in the dark quicksand of a nightmare.

Jesse sneezed, the exertion causing immense pain from the nerve endings attached to his shattered ribs. His hands shook, a chemical taste deep within his gut. He felt the flames fanning in the core of his chest. “Screw it! Gotta dull this.” He searched his pockets, lifting out the small plastic prescription bottle. He mumbled. “Need water.” Jesse lifted his phone to his lips. “Find the nearest store.”

The artificial intelligence, a woman’s voice said, “Crawford’s Corner, convenience store is nine point three miles east on U.S 121.”

“Thank you, darlin’.”

Jesse made a U-turn on the county road and headed southeast—headed to a store to buy water for washing down narcotics to launder psychological and physical pain. He looked at his watch, stepping on the accelerator.

His phone buzzed in one of the drink holder pockets. Jesse picked it up and squinted, trying to see the caller ID screen. It was Caroline Harper. He answered. “Caroline, I’ll be home shortly.”

“Where are you? You should be getting rest.”

“I’m meeting Jeremiah at the old Bellamy Bridge. Listen Caroline…he’s gonna tell me who shot Andy. Then we got to get him into witness protection.”

“You need to slow down, okay. I want to know who killed my brother more than anybody living. But I want to do it right, to bring justice for Andy. Call Sean. Tell him where you’re going. He’ll meet you and help you and Jeremiah through this.”

“Jeremiah doesn’t trust anybody but me. He lost a brother in there, too. I gotta go.” Jesse disconnected. His face was flush, hot. Sweat trickling down the center of his chest and into the bandages binding his cracked ribs together. He coughed, the taste of blood replacing the bitterroot of aspirin on the back of his tongue.

I watched the subtle undercurrents between Deputy Ivan Parker and officer T. Garret. It seemed to be slightly beyond judicial turf. More personal. More abrupt than what officers from counterpart agencies needed to be. Officer Garret looked at me. “Mr. O’Brien, you get around. So you’re meeting with the county boys too.”

“This is Deputy Parker.”

“I know ol’ Ivan. What’s happening, Parker?”

“Always trying to keep the crime stats low here in the city of southern charm.” He smiled.

“We’ll that’s part of the problem. The city’s ours. The county’s yours.” He grinned.

“The city lies within the county.”

I nodded, trying to add some levity. “In South Florida, we just called it Miami-Dade. Solved a lot of turf issues doing that. It was Deputy Parker’s card that I gave you after you’d photographed the bloody boot prints in Jesse’s room. I’d mentioned that Deputy Parker had photographed a similar print.”

His grin dropped, pupils narrowing a notch. “Wasn’t a whole lot of reason to compare boot prints when your pal, Mr. Taylor, wants to move on. And we have no ID and no surveillance camera video on two guys in ski masks. It is what it is. If something comes up, we can always see if the boot imprints match. But right now, I have more important stuff to do like to testify in a rape trial in a half hour. So if ya’ll excuse me, I’ll be heading inside the courthouse.” He grinned and left, walking down a concrete path to the steps of the courthouse.

Parker watched him walk away and said, “Terry was a couple grades behind me in high school. He has some kind of insecurity going on in his big head.”

“I hear there may be a news conference this Friday. The company trying to buy the reform school property may be making a formal announcement. It’ll no doubt involve a lot of heavy hitters—city and county politicians, the state attorney, people from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and maybe even someone from the governor’s office.”

“I’ve been hearing those drums beating too. Didn’t know Friday was the day. How’d you get wind of it?”

“Some of the principals from Vista Properties are in town. I’ve noticed a few more dark suits here than when I first arrived.”

“You always this observant?”

“Not always. This would be a good time to let Lana Halley know about the matching boot prints. Let her know you have a fingerprint or a thumbprint from the shotgun shell and you’re searching for a match. Something else, too.”

“What?”

I reached into the package and lifted out the second GPS tracker, leaving the shotgun shell in the box. “Do you know what car state attorney Jeff Carson drives?”

“Yeah, it’s a BMW. Black. Late model.”

I handed him the tracker. “You might want to slip this on the underside of his car. I have a feeling he’s meeting with some people who would be a direct conflict of interest if it came to an investigation into former criminal activities at the reform school.”

He studied it, his doubts coming to the surface. He looked up at me. “Who might those people be?”

“Anyone who would leverage a property sale with that kind of black cloud hanging over it. Unless the haze was lifted by an impartial investigation, their activities are suspect…so far any request in that direction is an immediate shutdown.”

“Man, you know what you’re asking me to do? Run a stakeout on the highest-ranking prosecutor in the Second Judicial District of Florida. If I get caught, I’d be damn lucky to get a job as a dogcatcher. I couldn’t get far enough from Jackson County, and with a wife and kids, that’s not an easy option.”

I held out my hand. “I understand. Give it back to me and I’ll do it.”

He blew out a long breath, staring at the black tracker with a suction cup mounted on the top. “I might be able to slap this on the underside of his car, but there’s no way I could follow him in a marked sheriff’s vehicle.”