Remembering Dresden (Jack Turner Suspense Series Book 2) (13 page)

“I’d love to come back, but I don’t want to get in the way of what you are supposed to be doing.”

“You won’t be in the way. I can’t do my research day and night. My head would explode. You could come after dinner, after I quit working for the day.”

“I suppose I could do that.”

“Of course, you can. Let’s plan on it. I’ll finish up, let’s say, around six thirty.”

“How much time will you need for dinner?”

“That includes dinner. I’m going to work through it. I just bought some of those frozen dinners. I’ll pop one in the microwave and eat while I’m working.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it. I’ll be over there sometime just after six thirty.”

“Great.”

“Well, I better go. Can’t wait to see you.”

They both said “Love you” and hung up.

Jack was standing behind the recliner now. He looked at his watch. The phone call had only lasted five minutes. Really, not much of a break when you think about it. She really did interrupt the flow of his concentration, in a good way. Maybe he should just go with the flow and take his lunch break a little early.

Yes, that made sense. And while he was eating, he could spend a little more time on this project. Eat on the couch, as he looked over the scrapbook with the obituaries.

He’d save the photo album for this evening, when Rachel came over.

Jack sat in the recliner with a fresh cup coffee, the scrapbook lying open in his lap. As intrigued as he was by the photo album, he had quickly become even more so with this. A photo album made sense. A collection of one’s pictures over time. This did not. Unless it was a collection of obituaries from deceased family members, which this was not. Jack had already concluded it wasn’t a collection of old war buddies, either. So, what was it? What was the point of cutting out various obituaries from a local newspaper—of people who were not relatives—and pasting them into a scrapbook?

Jack slowly turned the pages and quickly realized…none of these obituaries were from the local newspaper. None were even from the same newspaper. He read them aloud. “
The Florida Times-Union, The Miami Herald, The Sarasota Herald-Tribune, The Post and Courier from Charleston, The Daily Sentinel in Texas, The Houston Chronicle, The Roanoke Times
and
The Kansas City Star
.”

Eight in all.

Jack noticed something else, something he hadn’t realized before but should have. All these obituaries were written in the 1990s. He had assumed they were newer than that. But given that the ages of the dead men represented were all in their seventies, the articles would have to be that old. World War II veterans dying now were in their nineties. He quickly thumbed through them and confirmed something else: the obituaries had been pasted in chronological order. In other words, the first article was about a man who’d died in February, 1993; the last one died in April, 1998.

Eight men in five years.

He flipped back to the first article and began to read:

WWII Pilot Dies in Accidental House Fire

William James Hanover, son of Tom and Madilyn Hanover, died in his home on Sunday, May 13, the likely cause was smoke inhalation. He was 71 years old. An investigation of the fire is still underway but authorities do not suspect foul play. Hanover was known to be an avid smoker. He appears to have died while taking a nap on the living room sofa, a fire department spokesman said. Results of an autopsy are still pending.

When the fire department arrived, one whole side of Hanover’s house was fully engulfed in flames. He was a widower and lived alone.

Hanover was a long-time Tampa resident, having moved here in 1952 with his bride, Mary Gleason from Vermont. The couple had been married since 1945, shortly after Hanover came home from the war.

Hanover served in the U.S. Air Force during World War II. He was a First Lieutenant, captain and pilot of a B-17 bomber in the 379
^th
Bombardment Group. His crew successfully flew 35 missions over Germany from Kimbolton airfield in England. Hanover won the Distinguished Flying Cross after one harrowing mission to Cologne, where he managed to bring his bomber home with only one remaining engine.

Jack continued reading a few more paragraphs, but the article shifted to things like what Hanover had done after the war and listed the names of his surviving children and their spouses.

He carefully turned the black scrapbook page and began to read the second obituary. It was from the Miami Herald, dated about six months later. This man’s name was Franklin Hodges, who died at age 74. Like Hanover, he had also died in his home but Hodges was killed from what appeared to be an explosion. Fire department officials suspected a ruptured gas line. Once again, no foul play suspected.

Jack read down a bit until he found the paragraph describing Hodges’ World War II involvement. Again, like Hanover, Hodges had flown B-17s in the war. The article didn’t mention which bombardment group Hodges flew for, but it did say he was based in Kimbolton, England. Jack was pretty sure that meant Hodges must’ve also flown for the 379
^th
. He set the scrapbook aside for a moment, went over to his laptop at the dinette table and googled it. Sure enough, Kimbolton was where the 379
^th
had been based.

Hmmm. What were the chances?

He brought the laptop back over to the living room and set it on the coffee table, in case he had any more details to look up. Picking up the scrapbook, he went on to read the third obituary, dated five months after the second.

Okay, this was becoming ridiculous. The headline itself grabbed Jack’s attention:

Former World War II Bomber Pilot Dies in Fire

Before reading any further, Jack read the headlines and first few sentences of all the other obituaries. Every single man, in one way or another, had died at home in some kind of fire-related accident. He spent the next thirty minutes reading through each article, only this time he took notes.

Besides the fact that they were all killed in some kind of fire in their homes, none of the fires appeared to be listed as arson. All of them were cited as accidental deaths. No foul play suspected. If not plainly stated, that was the implication.

The other astounding coincidence? All of the men had flown B-17 bombers during the war and all but the last one mentioned either Kimbolton airfield or that they had flown for the 379
^th
bombardment group. The last one didn’t mention any bomb group affiliation, but Jack was certain if he looked it up he’d find this pilot had flown for the 379
^th
, as well.

This was crazy.

Jack set the scrapbook down on the coffee table next to his laptop and sat back on the recliner. The implications of what he’d discovered began to set in. A scrapbook of former bomber pilots, all from the same bomb group, all killed in their homes over a period of five years in fire-related accidents.

And no one suspected a thing.

Why would they? The deaths took place in different cities across several different states. The internet was alive then but in its infant stage compared to now. Most local police departments had no way of comparing data with other police departments, let alone different law enforcement agencies.

If someone had a mind to kill these men this way, and make it look like an accident, Jack saw how they could easily get away with it. Just then, part of that first conversation he’d had with Mr. Bass played through his mind. They had been standing out on the porch. Bass had been talking about “old man Wagner.”

He was a strange one. Had this fierce look in his eyes. I was a younger man then, bigger than I am now. Linebacker in high school if you can believe it. Wasn’t afraid of nothing. But if I’m being honest, I was afraid-a him. Made me feel like he’d snap my neck if I crossed him.

Jack shuddered. He was certain he was holding a scrapbook old man Wagner had put together himself. Jack had no idea why just yet, but what else made any sense? These obituaries were his trophies. Men, who for some reason, Wagner had killed in house-related fires made to look like accidents.

And Jack was holding in his hand the only thing that tied them all together.

It was another gorgeous afternoon in downtown Culpepper. Burkhart Wagner—called Burke by friends, Senator Wagner by the rest—stood by the thick burgundy drapes in his plush sixth-floor office peering out at the sight. He was looking down at the array of historic shops and buildings that surrounded the manicured city square.

Wagner had paid some serious dues for this view and liked to catch it whenever he could. Right now his eyes focused on the County Courthouse Annex. He could see it clearly from his office. It was a place he knew well—from the inside. As exciting as it was arguing live cases before a jury, these days Wagner preferred to avoid courtrooms. Too much work for the money. Of course, it was his ability to sway juries in those same courtrooms during some high profile cases ten years ago that secured the leverage he now enjoyed, as he hammered out far more lucrative financial schemes behind the scenes.

Those victories had earned Wagner something of an intimidating reputation. No one wanted to fight him in court. The threat of it alone tended to make folks settle out of court fairly quickly. The following year, that same public exposure had secured an upset victory for Wagner in the district’s state Senate seat, held by a retiring Democrat. Since then, Burke Wagner had become one of the state’s rising Republican stars. He found it amazing how much attention people paid to someone who could talk well.

Over the next few years, Wagner found it just as easy to sway folks on the Senate Chamber floor as he had in the jury box. Of course, it helped if you didn’t mind bending the truth here and there to make your points. Burke Wagner wasn’t a true conservative, either morally or politically. But he didn’t consider that much of a handicap. As he’d confided to one of his closest friends, “I could certainly play one on TV.”

The talk was now that Wagner was in line to become the leader of the Republican majority in the Georgia senate, which would make him one of the state’s most influential power brokers. In that office, he’d have a strong voice in shaping every major bill that came before the Georgia General Assembly. He’d be among a handful of people who made the final decisions on which programs were funded in the state budget.

Now…a position like that would mean some real money.

Wagner smiled as he thought about it. What would his father think if he could see him now? The old man certainly had his virtues, but his methods in dealing with people had been archaic, even brutal. Burke could never get him to see it. The game was all about leverage. One could whack people with a stick or use that same stick to set a massive boulder rolling downhill.

Wagner turned from his view of the city below and sat in his stuffed leather chair. It squeaked slightly as he leaned back. He loosened his silk tie and shifted his neck from side to side, working out a kink. He took a final sip of his Cafe Amaretto and thumbed quietly through the pages of some contract negotiations, prepping for a meeting with his young aide, Harold Vandergraf.

Being a state senator was a part-time job for Wagner. Had to be, considering the senate only convened the first few months of each year. The rest of the time, Wagner practiced law as a senior partner in the firm of Wagner and Reynolds. But Wagner had already set his sights on bigger things. Either the Attorney General’s office or winning a Senate seat in Washington.

The intercom chimed. Wagner leaned forward. “Yes, Jane?

“Harold’s here.”

“Okay. Send him in.”

The sleek black door opened admitting a lean, impeccably dressed, young man in his mid-twenties. “Afternoon, Senator.”

Wagner hadn’t insisted Vandergraf call him that, but he didn’t mind. He nodded. “Got a mission for you, Harold. Come on in, have a seat.

“What is it?” Vandergraf sat in an upholstered office chair.

“It’s a piece of cake. Can I get you anything? Coffee, a drink?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“I need you to pay someone a visit.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Maybe. He has been in here a few times last month, and I think you were with me when we visited his office once. Mr. David Herndon, owns Herndon Real Estate Group. His firm is looking to buy a huge tract of land on the edge of town, out where that new on-ramp is scheduled to connect State Road 19 to the highway.”

“Is that official?” Vandergraf said. “I thought it was still just talk.”

“It’s not official, but it’s more than talk. I’m in a position to change that, but I’m also in a position to shut it down, or else delay it so long it might as well be. I communicated that to Mr. Herndon. He’s been weighing his options about a decision I’ve asked him to make a few days ago. The problem is, I didn’t give him a few days. I gave him one day. I need you to visit him and remind him of that discrepancy.”

Vandergraf smiled. He didn’t need to ask why Wagner didn’t just send Herndon an email or give him a call. Most of the tasks Wagner gave him were handled this way. In person. No paper trail, no recordings, no digital fingerprints.

“What incentive do you want me to offer Mr. Herndon, to induce him to get back with you right away?”

Wagner sat forward in his chair. “Since this is just a first warning, simply suggest that I’m leaning toward delaying this improvement project until next year…unless he can give me a good enough reason to speed things up. He’ll know what you mean.” Wagner picked up a plain vanilla folder and handed it to Vandergraf. “But just to make sure, here’s a file to look over. It’s Herndon’s personal information. Names and addresses of his wife, kids, what school his grandkids attend. Things like that. I’ll let you decide what to do with it.”

Vandergraf looked down at the folder, opened it, glanced at it for a second then closed it. “I understand. I’m guessing by the urgency in your tone, you’d like this done soon?”

“Very,” Wagner said. “Like this afternoon.” He got up and walked to the wet bar, popped open the glass top to a crystal carafe half-filled with scotch, poured himself a drink.