Grass Roots (17 page)

“I can walk over to the courthouse and get an order from the Judge, if you like.”

“Now, Will, no need to go to extremes,” the sheriff chided. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a set of keys with a large tag attached.

“Here you go. He’s not going to be driving for a while, anyway. Maybe not ever.” He grinned.

“Don’t be such a pessimist, Clan,” Will laughed.

“I’ll have that boy free as a bird in another month.”

“Yeah, sure you will,” the sheriff laughed back.

Will left the jail and walked around back to the parking lot. The chocolate-brown van was parked in a corner, dusty and neglected-looking. Will unlocked the rear door, and sunlight flooded into the back of the van. The carpet was missing, and everything was covered with black fingerprinting dust. The cushions had been removed from all the seats and were piled in the back bay. He closed the rear doors, went around to the driver’s door, unlocked it, and got in. He switched on the ignition and cranked the engine;

the battery was weak, but the engine caught. He let the engine run while he looked through the papers the sheriff had given him.

On top was a receipt for the carpet. There was a lab report attached.

The carpet had harbored a bloodstain, type A positive, that matched the victim’s blood type; fibers had been found matching a sweater worn by the victim.

The sweater was described in some detail; it was from Rich’s department store in Atlanta, a size medium, of black lamb’s wool. Carpet fibers matching those from the van had been found on the victim’s clothes.

Will laid the lab reports on top of his briefcase, got out of the van, and made a note of the vehicle identification number on the plate attached to the windshield post, then he got back into the van and drove it toward the Luthersville highway. He pulled into the Magi Mart parking lot and went inside.

Charlene Joiner was helping a customer, and he looked idly around the place while she finished. When the customer had gone, she came from behind the counter and offered her hand, cool and soft, as always.

“Hi,” he said, “I managed to get Larry’s van released.

If you can take five minutes off, you can drop me at my car, and then you’ll have wheels.”

“Oh, good,” she said.

“It’s been a bitch without a car.” She looked over her shoulder.

“Mavis, will you cover for me for ten minutes?”

“Sure,” the woman called back.

“We’re not busy, anyway.” “Have you got a men’s room here?” Will asked.

“Right through there,” she said, pointing at a door.

“I’ll meet you in the van in two minutes,” he said.

When he emerged, Charlene was in the driver’s seat. He got into the passenger seat, and she drove off toward the jail.

“I got the lab reports, too,” Will said.

“How do they look for Larry?” she asked.

Will had trouble not watching her breasts as she turned the van’s wheel.

“Too soon to say. There was some blood on the carpet and some fiber evidence, too.

I’ll do what I can to rebut the findings. What’s your blood type?”

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“I want you to go to a doctor or a clinic as soon as possible, today, if you can, and get it typed. Get something in writing.” “All right,” she said. She glanced sideways at him.

“Are you really going to run for the Senate?”

“Yes, I am, but keep it under your hat, will you? I won’t be announcing for another couple of weeks.”

“You’ll have to run against old MacK Dean, then?”

“That’s right.”

“Think you can beat him?”

“I’m sure going to try.”

She pulled the van up in front of the jail, and Will put the papers into his briefcase and closed it.

“I think you can beat him,” she said, smiling.

“I’ll vote for you, anyway.”

“Thanks for your confidence.”

“Don’t mention it,” she laughed.

It was a pleasant sound, her laugh.

“See you soon, then,” he said, and got out of the van. She drove away, and he got into his own car. He had one more stop to make in Greenville.

He drove out to the La Grange highway and found a sign directing him to the spot. Half a mile down a dirt road, he saw smoke rising ahead. A moment later, he stopped the car and surveyed the scene. There were half a dozen fires burning here and there. A hundred yards away, a bulldozer was pushing landfill over garbage.

Will retrieved the papers from his briefcase and got out of the car.

Flipping to the last page, a hand-drawn map, he walked along, referring to the paper and trying to get his bearings. After a couple of minutes, he stopped. A dozen yards away, he saw a strip of yellow tape on the ground. Printed on it were the words crime scene. do not cross. He walked over, referred to the map, and saw the spot where Sarah Cole’s body had been abandoned.

Will stood and looked around him, turning slowly through 360 degrees.

Plastic bags, garbage, and more garbage. Then he stopped turning.

Thirty yards away, in the trees at the edge of the Greenville City Dump, was a shack. Will started toward it, pacing off the distance. At the door, he stopped and had a good look. The shack had been put together from bits of everything—plywood, chip board scrap lumber, and tarpaper. The front of the place was nearly covered in old hubcaps, shiny, dull, and bent. Will recognized one from a ‘68 Oldsmobile, like one he used to own. There was a length of pipe protruding from the roof of the shack, and a wisp of smoke curled up from it.

“Good morning a voice said from behind him.

Will turned to find a black man of indeterminate age, dressed in tattered overalls, approaching him from the trees.

“Good morning,” he said.

“You live here?”

“I sho’ do,” the man said, smiling to reveal a number of missing teeth.

“Make my living out here,” he said.

“Do right well out of other folks’ lea vins

“My name is Will Lee,” Will said.

“What’s your name?” “I’m Roosevelt Watkins,” the man said.

“Pleased to meet you.” He stuck out a hand.

Will shook it and reflected that he had known half a dozen black men called Roosevelt. It had been a popular name among blacks during the thirties.

“Mr. Watkins,” Will said, “I wanted—”

“Oh, you can call me Roosevelt,” the man interrupted, grinning.

“Everybody calls me Roosevelt. I met Mr. Franklin Dee his self one time, back during the war, and he called me Roosevelt.”

“Well, Roosevelt,” Will said, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yassuh,” Watkins said, “you go right ahead. I’ll tell you the answer if I know it.”

“Tell me then,” Will said, “have you had any conversations with the sheriff lately?”

“Why, I sho’ has,” Roosevelt said, grinning and slapping his thigh.

“I been a right popular fella with the sheriff right lately.”

“Ah.” Will grinned.

“I think you’re the fellow I’m looking for.” He stood in front of the shack and had a long talk with Roosevelt Watkins.

huck Pittman was driving to work when the radio call came.

“Your partner says a package from the Pentagon arrived,” the dispatcher said.

“Roger,” Pittman replied.

“Tell my partner to meet me at Piedmont Hospital.” He made an illegal U-turn, nearly sideswiping a limousine in the process. Ten minutes later, he was at the hospital; Keane’s car was parked in the emergency entrance. Pittman flipped down the sun visor, which displayed the car’s ID, and went inside. Keane was waiting at the front desk.

“Pearl has checked out,” he said, handing Pittman a thick brown envelope.

“Here’s the package; the nurse is getting me his address now.

Apparently, his chart wasn’t back in the files yet.”

Pittman drew Keane to a bench and sat down, opening the package and handing his partner half the photographs.

“You got a picture in your mind of Sarge?”

“Sure.”

“You pick him out; I’ll do the same.” Both men moved quickly through the sixty-nine photographs. When they had finished, Keane had picked one photograph, and Pitt man had two. They spread them on the bench between them.

“Christ,” Keane said, “they could be brothers.”

“Shit. I don’t like this, I was hoping for a clean ID.”

Keane signed.

“All we can do is try.”

A nurse called to Keane from the desk.

“Here’s Mr. Pearl’s address.”

“It’s in Brookhaven,” Pittman said.

“Follow me; I know the street.”

Pittman drove faster than he should have, straight out Peach tree Road.

A mile past Lenox Square, he turned left and quickly found the street.

He was surprised by the house; it didn’t look like the sort of place where the owner of strip joints would live. He and Keane walked to the front door of the red brick Queen Anne house and rang the bell. Leah Pearl answered the door.

“Oh, hello. Sergeant,” she said.

“Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Pittman replied, stepping into the house, which was quiet and smelled of something good cooking.

“I was glad to hear Mr. Pearl was home. May we see him for a minute?”

“Of course,” the woman replied.

“Follow me.” She led them to a glassed-in porch that ran the width of the back of the house. Manny Pearl was struggling along the floor with an aluminum walker, dragging his left foot.

It was the first time Pittman and Keane had seen him without his head swathed in bandages. Now there was just one large one on his face, under his right eye, and one on the back of his head.

“Hey, Sergeant, Officer Keane, how you doing?” Manny said, beaming at them.

“Check out my chariot here.”

“You’re doing great, Mr. Pearl,” Pittman said.

“Can we sit down for a minute? We’ve got some pictures to show you.”

Pearl waved them to a metal porch glider covered in flowered plastic cloth. The two detectives sat on either end, with Manny Pearl in between.

“Now just take your time,” Pittman said, “and even if you think you recognize the guy, I want you to look at all the pictures before you decide for sure.”

Manny went carefully through the pictures, one at a time, dropping them in a stack onto the glass coffee table in front of him. Pittman and Keane watched him anxiously.

Suddenly, Manny stopped. He looked hard at the photograph, then put it down beside the stack before continuing.

Twice more, he did this, until the three men Pinman and Keane had picked were in a stack by themselves.

The two policemen looked at each other, and Keane rolled his eyes.

Manny spread the photographs out before him and looked from one to the other. He held up a finger, and in a diving motion, zoomed it down to the picture on the right.

“This one,” he said, emphatically.

“No doubt about it.”

“You’re sure, Mr. Pearl?” Pittman asked.

“Those three guys look enough alike to be brothers.”

“So maybe they’re brothers,” Manny said.

“What do I care? This is the putz who shot me. He was the leader.

I wouldn’t forget the face.”

Pittman turned over the photograph and read aloud.

“Senior Master Sergeant Ferkerson, Harold C. (retired), 400 Airport Road, East Point, Georgia.” He looked at Keane.

“That’s South Atlanta. How come he wasn’t in the Atlanta area batch that we showed Mr. Pearl?”

Keane shrugged.

“We screwed up there, I guess.”

“Mr. Pearl, thank you,” Pittman said.

“Can I use your phone?”

“Sure, right beside you, on the table,” Manny said.

Pittman called his captain on his direct line.

“Captain,” he said, “Manny Pearl has made an identification of his assailant from photographs we got from the Pentagon.

The man is a retired army senior master sergeant named Harold C. Ferkerson, of Airport Road in East Point.”

“Good going. Chuck,” the captain replied.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to take him now,” Pittman said.

“What do you need?”

“I want a warrant, a SWAT team, ready for anything-this guy is a pro and has access to automatic weapons-and an East Point Police Department liaison.”

“Where?”

“There’s a gas station at the old airport exit from 185

South. We’ll rally there in”—he looked at his watch-“twenty minutes; make it ten a.m.”

“You got it,” the captain said.

“Anything else?”

“I don’t mind press, if you don’t,” Pittman said.

“Why not? The crime got a lot of play, why not the arrest?”

“And, Captain, I’d like the Pentagon to fax us this man’s service record. We’re going to need it eventually anyway, but I’d like to have it when I question him.”

“I’ll make the call myself, as soon as I’ve got this together.”

“Thank you, sir.” Pittman hung up the phone.

“Let’s get going,” he said to Keane.

Manny Pearl grabbed Pittman’s sleeve.

“Listen,” he said, “you be careful. This guy’s a hard one.”

pitt man used the siren all the way, and so did Keane, right behind him. There was an East Point police lieutenant named Brown waiting for him at the gas station.

“What we got here. Sergeant?” Brown asked.

“You remember the killings at the dirty bookstore Christmas Eve?”

“Oh, yeah. Those guys?”

“One of them, anyway, the guy in charge.”

“I’ll stay outta your way, unless you need my help,” the lieutenant said.

“I think we’ve got it covered,” Pittman replied.

“Thanks for coming out, though.”

The SWAT team van pulled into the station, followed by a brightly painted van with a microwave dish on top.

Pittman shook hands with the SWAT commander, a captain named Meadows, then went to the TV van. A young man in a tweed jacket got out and approached him.

“Sergeant Pittman? Jerry Cross, Channel Six News.”

“Hi, Jerry,” Pittman said.

“Now listen, this is a dangerous one.” He explained whom they were arresting.

“Now, first, I have to case the location, then I’ll come back for you.

You stay behind the SWAT van at all times, got that?”

“Sure,” the reporter said.