5 A Sporting Murder
Read 5 A Sporting Murder Online
Authors: Chester D. Campbell
A SPORTING MURDER
Greg McKenzie Mystery No. 5
CHESTER
D. CAMPBELL
© 2010 by Chester D. Campbell
Night Shadows Press.
LLC
All rights reserved. Without
limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of
both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Also by Chester D. Campbell
Greg McKenzie
Mysteries
:
The Marathon
Murders
(4)
Deadly Illusions
(3)
Designed to Kill
(2)
Secret of the
Scroll
(1)
Sid Chance
Mysteries
:
The Good, The Bad
and The Murderous
(2)
The Surest Poison
(1)
Post
Cold War Political Thrillers
The
Poksu Conspiracy
(2)
Beware
the Jabberwock
(1)
When you get a strange feeling that something isn’t quite
right, even though there’s no obvious basis for it, your comfort index begins a
slow slide, like a worn tire on an icy road. You have no idea where it might
end up but know it won’t be someplace you want to go. That’s how I felt after
getting the call from Arnold Wechsel on Saturday afternoon the week before
Christmas.
Jill and I had spent a few hours at
the office that morning, tidying up loose ends to clear the deck for the new
case we had taken on the day before. A brisk north wind that bore the sharp
sting of winter chased us back to our warm and cozy log cabin in the woods. I
don’t mean to sound like some latter-day Abe Lincoln; it was closer to a manor
than a country cottage. As for the woods, think a forested three-acre plot in a
heavily-populated Nashville suburb.
I had just pulled off the padded
jacket that made me resemble an Iditarod driver who’d wandered off course when
the phone rang. I checked the caller ID and saw Arnold’s name. We hadn’t heard
from the young man in a couple of months.
“Where’ve you been, Arnold?” I asked. “Long time no see.”
“I have been working many hours,”
he said, his German accent making it sound like “verking.”
“Your Uncle Jeff has been pretty
quiet lately, too,” I said. Arnold’s Aunt Lisle was married to Jeff Price, an
old Air Force OSI colleague now stationed at Ramstein Air Base in Germany.
“I talk to my
mutter
every
week or two.”
His mother was Lisle Price’s
younger sister. Three years ago they had paid his way to study the maintenance
of high performance vehicles at Nashville Auto Diesel College.
“I hope everyone is doing well over
there,” I said.
“Yes, thank you.” A man of few
words, he got right to the point. “I am calling for a special reason, Mr.
McKenzie. I have some important information for you.”
From my limited experience with
him, I knew Arnold was a serious young man. Now he sounded downright
mysterious. “What sort of information?”
“I do not wish to talk about it on
the telephone.”
“Then come on over. We just got
home and don’t plan to go anywhere else.” We had invited him for dinner once,
so he knew where we lived.
“Not there. I do not want it known
that we meet.”
This was beginning to get spooky.
“What does it concern?”
He hesitated, then said, “Your
National Basketball Association matter.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d just
heard. My voice sharpened. “Arnold, how did you know we had any interest in
that situation?”
“Please, I will tell everything
when we meet. It will, how do you say, blow the mind.”
I looked around at Jill and shook
my head. “When and where?”
“Seven-thirty tonight at a small
automobile repair shop owned by my friend. It will be closed, but he gives me
the key.”
Arnold provided me an address in
the Dickerson Pike area of Northeast Nashville and promptly hung up.
Jill saw my puzzled look. “What was
that all about?”
I told her what Arnold had said.
“How do you suppose he knew about
our case?” she asked. “We haven’t even met the principals yet.”
“That’s something I intend to ask
him when we meet. It sure sounds like the situation Terry mentioned, though.”
Terry Tremont, McKenzie
Investigations’ best lawyer client, had called us in yesterday afternoon. He
was retained by a group of Nashville Predators’ hockey fans circling the ice
wagons in an effort to thwart a clique of local businessmen intent on bringing
an NBA team to Music City. It was the old story of this town ain’t big enough
for the both of us. Or, in this case, the three of us, since Nashville already
had both professional football and ice hockey.
Terry wanted us to check into a
rumor that something shady was going on among the NBA franchise seekers. He had
been frank in laying out his skepticism. He thought his clients’ concerns were
based on flimsy evidence.
“Somebody heard bits of a
conversation and told somebody else,” Terry had said. “Could be strictly a
rumor, but these people are fanatics. They’re really fired up about this, so we
need to try and find some answers.”
From Arnold’s description of
information that would blow my mind, it certainly sounded like he was ready to
confirm the rumor.
“He didn’t give me much chance to
ask questions,” I said.
Jill moved into the kitchen and
filled the carafe with water to make coffee. “You probably wouldn’t have gotten
any answers. Arnold is a sweet boy, but he can be awfully reticent.”
“I’m getting some bad vibes from
this,” I said.
Jill spooned coffee into the filter
and flipped the switch. “If this has the potential to solve our case, you
should be getting good vibes.”
I sat at the kitchen table and
gazed about at the miniature Christmas tree on the long white tile counter,
plus numerous other holiday doo-dads my bride of nearly forty years had
artfully placed around the room. It was the season for good vibes. I just
didn’t have them.
“I wish we’d been able to talk with
one of Terry’s clients before now,” I said. “What did you get set up with
Bradley Smotherman?”
“His secretary said we could see
him at eight-thirty on Monday. He’s in one of those office buildings on West End out past Centennial Park.”
Smotherman was ringleader of the
group called Protect our Preds, the super hockey fans we would be working with.
“Did you have any luck with Gordon
Franklin or Mack Nolan?” I asked.
She ran slender fingers through her
thick black hair, a feature that, along with a pleasantly-curvy body, sometimes
made people mistake her for my daughter. Not an ego-soothing notion. She was
nearly as old as I was. “Franklin will see us Monday at eleven-thirty. Mack
Nolan, as you might guess, will be harder to pin down. I talked to his manager.
He promised to make time for us as soon as possible.”
I understood. With a string of top
country hits, the young man was much in demand around the circuit. He, along
with the other two well-heeled fans, had put up most of the money for the
organization. They had hired Terry Tremont and planned various strategies in an
attempt to thwart the basketball promoters. Being primarily a Tennessee Titans
fan, I wasn’t prepared to take sides on the issue. But if Arnold held the key
to clearing up the claims of skullduggery, I anxiously awaited hearing him out.
I disliked the place as soon as I stepped out of the car, my
breath vaporizing in the cold December night as though I had lapsed back into
the smoking habit. Rather than smoke, the smell of used oil and worn tires tainted
the breeze. The street appeared as cluttered as the back room in a neighborhood
bar. Iron rods criss-crossed the window of the small auto repair shop that had
been a service station in a previous life. In a half-hearted attempt at
Christmas décor, a winking string of icicle lights writhed like a nervous snake
above the overhead door.
A shiny red Corvette several years
removed from the showroom sat next to the building. Arnold Wechsel had driven
it when he visited our house. I saw no lights inside but knew he had to be
here. I was running a few minutes late. As I approached the office door, hands
jammed into the warmth of my jacket pockets, I regretted not bringing my 9mm Sig
Sauer. Like most PI’s, I didn’t carry it routinely. I had been a bit lax in my
thinking tonight, though, feeling Arnold’s imposing size would keep any bad
guys at bay.
At the door I hesitated, then
turned the knob.
I pulled the door open, stared into
the darkness. Something began to take shape on the floor as my eyes adjusted. I
drew back, half expecting a bark or a lunge. Instead, I realized it was a body.
I felt a pounding in my chest. Was it Arnold?
My first impulse was to rush in and
turn on a light. My cop instinct restrained me. Not without a weapon.
I hurried out to my Grand Cherokee
for a flashlight. Back at the door, I shined the light inside. Worn black and
white vinyl tiles covered the floor. One white square was tinged a garish red. Arnold
Wechsel lay sprawled on his back beside a battery display, a lifeless stare fixed
on the ceiling.
I caught my breath and my heart
seemed to stop. I swept the area with the flashlight but saw no one. Moving
carefully to his side, I squatted down and checked his pulse. Nothing. A large,
stocky young man with a neck like a Titans lineman, Arnold had fallen almost
the full depth of the office. A small round hole in his cheek with dark
smudging around it told me he had been shot. Blood pooled beneath his head from
the exit wound.
I felt totally helpless.
Jeff Price’s wife and sister-in-law
had been happy that a friend was nearby in Nashville to offer help if needed.
In the back of my mind, I knew this was not my fault, but I felt responsible
anyway. He had come here to give me information he thought I needed.
My investigator mindset kicked in
and I knew what I had to do. Find who killed Arnold Wechsel. I pulled out my
cell phone and speed-dialed my Homicide buddy, Detective Phillip Adamson.
“Phil, this is Greg McKenzie,” I
said.
“Damn, Greg. You really know how to
spoil a guy’s nap.” He spoke slowly, as if grappling with clouds that needed
clearing.
“Sorry, friend. This is one call I
really wish I didn’t have to make.”
He suddenly sounded wide awake.
“What’s happened?”
“I was supposed to meet a young
German who’s the nephew of an old OSI colleague. He was bringing me some
information. When I got here, I found him shot in the face. Dead.”
“Damn. Where are you?”
I gave him the address, explained
the condition of the body, the darkened shop office.
“I’ll get a patrol car and an
ambulance over there.”
“Thanks.”
“You carrying?”
“No.”
“In that area, on a Saturday night?”
“Not my smartest move lately.”
“That’s for sure. Stay in your car
until they get there. I’ll be right behind ’em.”
I took a last look at Arnold, already dreading the call to Jeff Price at Ramstein. The Metro Police chaplain
would contact the family, but I needed to alert Jeff when things settled down.
I pulled the door shut, walked over and placed my hand on the hood of the sleek
red car, using a handkerchief to avoid disturbing any fingerprints, or leaving
any of my own. Still warm, despite the frigid air. I glanced at my watch. Seven-forty-three.
He hadn’t been here long. Was he a target of opportunity for some young punk
out to grab a quick buck? If so, the killer would have high-tailed it out of
here. Or had someone been waiting to ambush him? In that case, the murderer
could still be around.
I got in my Jeep and pressed the
door lock. Would anybody have heard the shot, I wondered? I looked around the darkened
street. A drab market that likely depended on the sale of beer and cigarettes for
survival sat to one side, closed for the day. A vacant building in the other
direction had a For Lease sign in place of its former occupant’s name. Across
the street, a blue tarp stretched over the roof of a burned-out house. The nearest
occupied residence appeared a couple of doors down, where a bare bulb with a
few years of grunge on it cast a dim glow over the porch. Not the sort of area
where people would come out and volunteer information even if a cannon had been
fired.
I took out my cell phone and made
another call I dreaded. When Jill answered, I tried to put it gently. “I’ve got
some bad news, babe. When I got here, I found Arnold had been shot.”
“Oh, Greg! That’s awful. Is it
bad?”
There was no way to make it any
easier. “As bad as it gets.”
“You mean he’s…”
“Dead,” I said when she hesitated.
“Phil Adamson and more cops are on the way.”
“His mother will be devastated.”
After a moment of pained silence, she asked, “Who could have done it?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
“Do you have your gun?”
“No. Coming to meet with Arnold, I didn’t see the need for it.” Though I should have, considering the location.
“Be careful, dear, and don’t do
anything rash.”
I liked to think of myself as a guy
who chooses the prudent alternative, although expedience sometimes seems to get
in the way. I didn’t make any promises. My wife knows me too well for me to try
blowing smoke in her direction.
I heard the sirens before I got off
the phone. Shortly afterward, I found myself flanked by two Metro Nashville
Police blue and whites. I got out with my PI card in hand. A burly, stern-faced
cop with a thick mop of white hair confronted me. From the look on his face, I
gathered he was not at all happy that I had forced him out in the cold away
from a warm, cozy corner café.
I held out the card. “I’m Private
Investigator Greg McKenzie.”
He gave my ID a cursory glance.
“They told me you’d be here. Where’s the body and what happened?” The tone of
voice told me this was not a guy to mess with.
I read “Dexter” on his name plate,
then pointed toward the shop entrance. “He’s just inside that door. He’s been shot
in the face.”
The sound of another siren cut
through the cold night air. The cop looked around as a boxy Metro Fire
Department ambulance swerved into the parking area and added it’s flashing
lights to the Christmas tree effect of the police cars.
“Hadn’t we better check out the
building?” a low-pitched female voice asked from behind me.
I turned to see the blue uniform of
the second cop, who had stood silently behind me. She was a little shorter than
my five-ten and a lot slimmer. I judged her to be mid-to-late twenties.
“You see anybody else around here,
McKenzie?” Officer Dexter asked. It sounded more like a demand.
“No.”
“How long you been here?”
“Around fifteen minutes. I didn’t
see anyone, but they could have gone out the back.”
“You didn’t go inside?”
“Only to check his pulse. I didn’t
find any.”
“Come on, Bolling,” he said. “You
stay where you are, McKenzie. I’ll get back to you.”
The officers drew their guns and
headed for the building in a cautionary crouch as two men climbed out of the
ambulance, one carrying a large equipment bag.
“What do we have here?” a tall paramedic
asked, zipping up his blue jacket against the icy breeze. He had the physique
of a basketball center and the weary expression of someone who’d rather be back
at the fire station drinking coffee instead of traipsing around in this
God-awful cold.
I explained what I had found, that
the cops were clearing the building. As the ambulance crew ambled toward the
shop, I headed back to my car. I didn’t see any advantage to standing out here
freezing. As I slid onto the seat, I realized I’d not had a chance to consider
the repercussions of this murder on our case. Before I could get my mind shifted
away from the shock of finding Arnold dead, the cell phone rang.
“I’m headed out North First,” Phil
Adamson said. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Hang in there. I’ll be on in a
jiffy. Patrol guys on the scene?”
“Guy and gal,” I said. “Dexter and
Bolling.”
“Watch your flanks, buddy. Tom
Dexter’s a real hardass. He give you any problems.”
“Not yet.”
“Give him time.”
“I wasn’t too pleased with the way
he delivered his ‘I’ll get back to you.’”
Phil chuckled. “Try to keep from
getting cuffed before I can make it over there.”
He was familiar with my reputation
for not treading lightly on toes that got in the way. I stuck the phone back on
my belt and looked up to see the older cop stalk out of the shop headed for my Jeep.
Evidently he’d left the young policewoman to monitor the crime scene. I donned
my Tennessee Titans cap and stepped out onto the asphalt.
“Find anybody else?” I asked.
“No. You know the victim?”
“His name is Arnold Wechsel.”
“Who is Wechsel and what’s he to
you?”
Where his face had looked stern
before, he twisted it into a scowl now.
“He’s the nephew of a former Air
Force colleague of mine. He called this afternoon and asked me to meet him here
at seven-thirty tonight.”
“What for?”
“He said he had some information
for me.”
“About what?”
“He said he’d tell me when we met.”
“You make a habit of this,
McKenzie? Traipsing around at night in shitty places with no idea why?”
“Officer Dexter, I worked a quarter
of a century as a special agent for the Air Force Office of Special
Investigations. I’ve spent many a night meeting with informants, having no idea
what sort of info they might show up with.”
“I don’t give a damn if you’ve
spent a hundred years meeting with pimps and whores. I want to know what you
were doing here tonight. And don’t tell me you were just fishing.”
I couldn’t see the handcuffs on his
belt, but I knew they were there. And though I had no desire to try them on, I’d
had about enough of his blustering.
I took a deep breath. “I just
talked to Detective Phil Adamson on the phone. He was on North First and said
he’d be here in a jiffy. Why don’t we wait for him and I can satisfy everyone’s
curiosity with one telling?”
“Are you refusing to answer my
question?”
I’m sure he wasn’t accustomed to anyone
crossing him. I suspected the flush in his face did not just stem from the
weather. He seemed to be near the boiling point. And so was I.
“No, sir. I’m not refusing anything,”
I said in a slow, deliberate voice. “I’m merely suggesting—”
“Bullshit!”