A Dirty Shame (9 page)

I didn’t mind using the threat of Jack when necessary. Jack was the one person George could be intimidated by. George didn’t say anything to acknowledge I’d actually spoken, but he didn’t physically remove me from his truck and toss me across the lawn either, so I figured I was in good shape.

It wasn’t a long drive to Murphy’s Auto Shop, and I thought it best not to mention that George ran two stop signs and almost sideswiped Mrs. Meador on the two-mile trip. Most of the people out and about got out of the way as soon as they saw the tow truck, and I unclenched my fingers from the door handle when I saw George’s satisfied smirk. Nope. I’d been right about my initial observation. His wife’s death hadn’t softened him one bit.

As soon as he backed the tow truck into the driveway of his shop, I had my door open and feet on solid ground before the engine turned off.

“Mornin’, Doc Graves. Heard you was back.” Wormy Mueller spat a stream of tobacco juice and wiped the grease off his hands with a dirty bandana. Wormy didn’t weigh a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, and his age was somewhere between thirty-five and sixty-five. If he had a name other than Wormy, I’d never heard it.

“Back and making an impression, it seems,” I said, pointing to the creative vocabulary on the side of the Suburban.

Wormy wheezed out a laugh and spat another stream of tobacco juice. “So it seems. We’ll get you fixed up. Got some stuff that’ll take the paint right off. Though you might consider keepin’ it how it is. Thataways everyone’ll know when you’re comin’.”

“I’ll consider it.”

A white Cadillac pulled into the far bay, and I froze as I remembered what Vaughn had told us about Reverend Oglesby being run off the road. Wormy went down to greet the middle-aged guy who got out of it, but I didn’t recognize him. A tan passenger van pulled in next to the Cadillac and I lost sight of it.

I rubbed at my arms with unease and tried to maneuver around to get a license plate number from the Cadillac, but the car was already in the bay with another car pulled in behind it, blocking most of the car from my view. It would have looked suspicious for me to go down and start checking things out. Kenny Laubach saw me staring as he made his way to the rack of tools along the wall, and I quickly turned my gaze.

I needed to find out who owned that white Cadillac. Not that there weren’t a million white Cadillac’s out there to begin with, and the chance of that being the same one was probably slim, but I needed to know. I was going to have to ask George, no way around it.

I turned my attention back to my Suburban and watched as George worked the levers and chains with expertise. His muscles strained across his shoulders and arms, and when he lifted his arms to release the lock on the pulley, I saw the tiny mark on his tricep. My hand felt for the Beretta in my pocket and I took a step back before I remembered we were in public.

It wasn’t a large tattoo, but it was a symbol I’d recently become familiar with—a shield and sword design topped by a crown. It matched the brand I’d found on Reverend Oglesby perfectly.

“It’s slow this morning,” George said, making me jump. It was the first words he’d said to me since we’d left the funeral home. “I’ll get started on the tires now. Wormy can deal with the other later. It’ll be $1200 total. Cash or credit.”

The spit had dried up in my mouth and the familiar taste of fear rose like bile in the back of my throat. I was tired of the fear. Tired of looking over my shoulder every time I went outdoors. But I couldn’t seem to help it. And obviously there was that need for fear if men like George Murphy were involved in what we thought they were.

I took my hand from the pocket that held my gun and wiped my sweaty palm on my coat. I needed to stay calm and play it cool. Jack would be here soon. At least he would once I texted him and told him about the tattoo on George’s arm and the white Cadillac.

I think more than a minute went by with us staring at each other in silence, and it wasn’t until I felt the calm start to take control again that I realized what he’d said. “Twelve-hundred dollars?” My voice chose that moment to crack and fade, and I coughed to try and hide it.

“Four new tires and the paint removal. That’s labor intensive.”

“What about four used tires?” I asked.

“I’d have to go over to the dealership in Richmond. They have pre-owned. I could probably have them by Monday. Tuesday if they aren’t backed up. Still run you eight-fifty though.”

I could put the tires on my emergency credit card. Barely. But I’d been using it to live off of while I’d been recovering, and my limit would be maxed out if I did. But Mrs. Perry’s interment would help alleviate that some.

“Fine. New tires it is.”

I waited until George had the Suburban in the bay and then went in the tiny office that also doubled as a waiting room. There was a black and white TV in the corner and wood paneling on the walls. It smelled of grease, sweat and old cigarette smoke. There was a coffee pot plugged in with what looked like a fresh brew, but I couldn’t bring myself to try it.

I texted Jack with a bunch of capital letters and exclamation points, telling him about George and the Cadillac, but I didn’t hear back from him immediately, so I figured he’d found something helpful and couldn’t get away. I cracked my knuckles anxiously and watched George through the grimy window as he replaced my tires.

The auto shop filled up over the next hour, but no one joined me in the little office, and when I walked outside to stretch my legs, I noticed the Cadillac was no longer there. I saw Wormy Mueller looking at me this time, his gaze a little concerned, and I realized I’d been staring at the empty bay where the car had been for longer than was probably normal. I gave him a non-crazy kind of smile and headed back into the office to finish waiting.

Several of the townsmen came and went, sitting outside to talk to the mechanics who weren’t busy. The women who brought their cars by usually walked a block up to the Towne Square to do some shopping while they waited. But there were enough people around that I felt a semblance of safety when George came in an hour later. He wrote out a ticket silently and I gave him my credit card, looking around once more to see a trio of customers outside the station and five of George’s mechanics working on different vehicles.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” I said, watching his face carefully. “I’ve never seen it before. What is it?” I pointed to the little symbol under his sleeve, but George ignored me and swiped the card.

He attached the receipt to a clipboard and slapped it down on the counter for me to sign. I grabbed the pen and went to scrawl my name when George grasped my wrist. The nausea hit me first as my stomach roiled at his touch, and then the blackness started to creep in towards the outer corners of my eyes.

“Don’t touch—” I barely got out before sweat popped out on my skin.

He tightened his grasp and I might as well have had Jeremy Mooney’s fingers around my throat again. I couldn’t get the air in, no matter how hard I tried.

“You ask a lot of questions that don’t need to be answered, J.J. Graves.” His voice was barely a whisper, but I heard him plain enough. I started to struggle, trying to pull my arm away, but George was too strong. “Look where it’s gotten you. You can’t look anyone in the eye, and you flinch every time someone gets close to you. You think people don’t notice that sort of thing? The smell of your fear is so strong I can almost taste it.”

“Take your hand off me.” I had to think about each word as it came out of my tormented throat, but still my voice trembled and broke under the strain.

He didn’t do as I said. “You and your sheriff are going to end up dead if you keep poking your nose into things best left unbothered.”

I realized he was telling me something important, and if I kept my mind focused on the case, the blackness would recede. My lungs relaxed and I took in a big gulp of air. My skin was cold beneath George’s fingers, but I was still standing on my own two feet.

“Who? Give me a name, George,” I said, much calmer than I felt.

“You know who.” His grip tightened more and he shook me a little. I’d have bruises. “They won’t care who you are. And you’ll never see it coming. They have eyes and ears everywhere. And if you try to leave, they’ll taunt you and use you until they lose interest. They will not give up if you stir up this hornet’s nest.”

I opened my mouth to ask something else, but George released me so I stumbled back a few steps. I fought the urge to rub at my wrist.

“I’ll tell Wormy you’re ready for him,” he said. “I don’t want to see you in my shop again. You’re nothing but bad news and trouble.”

“Who was the man in the white Cadillac?” I asked.

George stared at me like I was the Devil himself, and his face shut down so there was nothing but emptiness in those pale, pale eyes.

“I’ve never seen him before.”

George walked back into the bay area toward Wormy, and I flexed my hand, trying to get the circulation going again from where George had cut it off. I huddled into one of the orange plastic chairs against the wall and took comfort from the weight of the gun in my pocket.

I don’t know how much time passed, but I watched Wormy make the spray-paint on the Suburban disappear like magic, and I watched George get into his pickup truck and head south towards Newcastle. He gave me one last, long stare as he drove by, and I knew then that death hadn’t forsaken me when I’d lived this past winter. It was still out to get me, and I’d just looked it in the face.

It was eleven-thirty by the time Wormy finished with the Suburban and handed me the keys. I’d decided to keep my mouth shut about questioning the other mechanics about the man in the white Cadillac and let Jack deal with it. George had scared me, and I didn’t want word getting back to him.

I still hadn’t heard from Jack by the time I backed out of the auto shop on $1200 worth of new tires, so I assumed something in Westmoreland caught his attention. I drove aimlessly around town, wondering how a place could never change or why the people who lived there never seemed to want it to. The businesses and houses were the same. So were the people for that matter. The family names written on the gravestones in the cemetery were the same names as those who occupied most of the town now.

Mr. Hardesty stopped sweeping his front walkway long enough to wave to me as I drove by his pharmacy, but Mrs. Conroy next door gave me a stony stare and crossed herself before she hurried back inside her quilting store.

I don’t know why I turned onto Queen Mary instead of heading back to the funeral home, but I found myself headed in that direction almost as if I didn’t have control over my actions. I saw Reverend Thomas’s old car at the church and knew he and Lorna must be back from seeing Mr. Oglesby, but I didn’t want to have anything to do with either of them in my present state of mind.

I let the Suburban idle at the crossroads of Queen Mary and Heresy. I wanted to see the house. Wanted to remember it for what it was. A miserable pile of rotting wood with blood stained walls, and the ghosts of parents who I’d once thought loved me. They’d never been overly affectionate, and they’d believed in letting me live my life and learn my lesson if I made a wrong choice, but I’d always thought that initial kernel of love that every parent should have for a child was in there somewhere. But the kind of people who were capable of doing the things my parents had couldn’t have possibly loved me. Not really.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and found my courage, and I was just about to turn left onto Heresy when my cell phone rang. I saw Jack’s name in the display and answered, more than a little relieved that I didn’t have to make that turn after all.

“How was the Sheriff in Westmoreland County?” I asked.

“Dead,” Jack answered. “Head to my office, and I’ll fill you in.”

“10-4. I can be there in ten.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “Thanks for staying inside the funeral home like I asked. It was nice not to have to worry about your safety while I was gone.”

“Technically, you didn’t ask,” I said, looking in my rearview mirror to see Jack’s cruiser behind me. His sunglasses covered his eyes, but his mouth was set in an angry line. “You ordered. You know I don’t do well with orders.”

“I’ve noticed.” He hung up and then did a three-point turn in the middle of the road to head back to the police station.

I sighed and followed him. I’d been back in Bloody Mary for a little over twenty-four hours, but it was starting to feel like I’d never left.

I followed Jack all the way back through town and parked in front of the block of municipal buildings that sat dead center in the county square. The courthouse was in the middle—a gothic stone structure carved with what was supposed to be the goddesses of justice and mercy at each cornerstone, but they looked more like the gargoyle versions of Ren and Stimpy due to a rather untalented sculptor and a shortfall in the budget.

The police station flanked the left side of the courthouse and the fire station flanked the right. Jack pulled into the parking spot reserved for the sheriff and I took the spot next to him that was reserved for the county commissioner. I wasn’t really sure what the county commissioner did, but I was almost a hundred percent sure he didn’t work on weekends.

We didn’t speak as we entered the station. There was a buzz of activity—the ringing of phones and the hum of voices. All noise stopped, and a dozen faces started in curiosity as soon as we walked in.

“I need Colburn, Lewis and Martinez in my office,” Jack said, walking straight back to his square box of an office.

It was glassed on three sides, but he had the blinds closed so no one could see in. It hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d seen it. Same threadbare carpet, and a dented desk with a computer that had seen better days. It was piled high with files and an empty coffee mug. There was a door behind his desk that led to a little room he used if he needed a bed to crash in for the night. Jack’s office gave Spartan a whole new meaning.

Jack had a couple of boards set up in the corner and I took the chair that looked the least rickety and sat down. I was starting to get antsy with the silent treatment.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “But I needed to go in with George so I could get the Suburban back for a pickup this afternoon. Mrs. Perry’s daughter called, and I need the business.” Jack stayed stonily silent and I rolled my eyes. “You should be glad I did go. I wouldn’t have seen that tattoo otherwise. Or the white Cadillac. Though it would’ve been better if I could’ve gotten the license plate,” I murmured. “
And
I was in public. They’re not going to do anything in the middle of town in broad daylight. I’m assuming you got all my texts?”

No answer.

“Haven’t you grown out of the silent treatment yet? It’s very juvenile. And it doesn’t work on me.”

I kicked my legs against the bottom of his desk, making an obnoxious racket, until he finally turned to look at me with murder in his eye. That’s the thing about two people who knew each other so well. We knew the exact thing to do that would drive each other crazy.

“I saw Reverend Thomas and Lorna were back from their trip. You have time to talk to them yet?” I stopped kicking my legs against the desk and saw the anger drain inch by inch from his shoulders.

“That’s where I was when I saw you drive by,” he finally said. “I talked to Lorna again. Turns out she did know about Oglesby and Vaughn. I got an earful about how if I was a good friend I’d try to make Vaughn un-gay, but other than that, she didn’t have much to add to the investigation. She did, however, tell me the list of things that made her good wife material. I appreciate organization in a woman.”

I saw the devil gleam in Jack’s eyes before he turned back to his board, and I sat back and tapped my fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. He was still irritated with me, and now I was irritated because I didn’t like the thought of
anyone
as Jack’s wife.

There was a quick knock at the door, and Jack called out a quick, “Enter.” Colburn, Lewis and Martinez walked in. “Close the door and take a seat,” Jack said, taking command. He glanced at each of us, and it was then I could tell that the anger ran deeper than whatever I’d done. Something had happened in Westmoreland County and it wasn’t good.

“I’ve chosen each of you to form this task force,” Jack said. “The main reason, with the exception of Doctor Graves, is that you’re not home grown. I can’t trust anyone whose family is local. Not even from the damned state. I know each of your backgrounds, and I promise I know you better than you do by this point. I can’t trust the cops outside this room or the people in this county. This case is going to get messy, and it’s going to be dangerous. We’re going to be looking at other cops. Everyone’s a suspect. I need to know now if anyone has a problem with that.”

Silence was the only answer and Jack gave a sharp nod. The others found seats and Jack turned back to the empty boards and began placing crime scene photos in rows with magnets, each one labeled with a date and location.

“What we’ve got is six similar crimes over the course of the last thirty years. I’ve still got feelers out, but I’m expecting I might have a few more to add here when it’s all said and done. None of these took place in the same county, and only our vic and one other was branded with the Aryan symbol, which is the most likely reason the deaths were never linked before. There are variations to the torture, but when you look at them as a whole, they’re the same.”

“I did the background like you asked,” Colburn said. “Virginia has one of the largest chapters of the Aryan Nation in the whole United States. They’ve been cited for a few riots and protests, but nothing else blips on the radar. They’ve got a fucking website with propaganda and how to join, but the general membership list is private. We need a warrant to access, and I’ve already contacted Judge Wilbourn. But it’s just weird that they’d come out like this and make a statement so boldly. Something’s off here.”

“Agreed,” Jack said.

Colburn slouched back in the chair and crossed his boots. “Doctor Gregory Vance came in voluntarily for questioning. He’s waiting for you in interview once we’re done here.”

“Who’s Doctor Vance?” I asked.

“The current president for the Aryan Nations, Virginia Chapter.”

“He’s a doctor? A medical doctor?” I asked Colburn.

“Yep. Got a private practice down in Gloucester. General practitioner.”

“That’s certainly convenient,” I said, looking at Jack with my brows raised.

“I thought so too,” Jack said. “Everything is falling into place nice and tidy. Vance is fifth generation Virginian. His parents and grandparents are dead, but there’s some history there. He’s also got two sons. Ages thirty-six and thirty-eight. One followed in dad’s footsteps and is a cardiologist over at Augusta General. The other owns a couple of car dealerships. One in Richmond and one in Fairfax. They’re both worth taking a closer look at.”

Jack sat on the corner of his desk and crossed his arms as he studied the board. “I spent the morning with the asshole sheriff over in Westmoreland. We’ve got a like crime from his county,” Jack said, pointing to the first crime scene photo. “Almost a year ago. Julie Lawrence was an African American attorney who was taken from the courthouse parking lot. Surveillance cameras were conveniently broken during the kidnapping. Twenty-nine years old with a husband and two-year old daughter. Husband reported her missing when she didn’t show for dinner that evening. They found her body three days later when it was dropped in the same parking lot they’d taken her from. She’d been raped and tortured extensively, many of the methods matching our current victim, including the lashes with a sharp piece of metal attached to the implement.”

“There were no suspects?” I asked. Jack tossed me the copy of the file and there were exactly two sheets of paper inside.

“Not much of any police work done at all. A Sheriff Cole was in charge of the investigation. Questioned the husband extensively and the family of the man she’d been in the middle of prosecuting. And then all of a sudden two weeks after the murder Cole gets a wild hair up his ass and decides he and his entire family need to move to Utah. So he resigns and away they go.”

“That’s handy,” Colburn said.

“You want me to track down the Sheriff?” Martinez asked.

“Already made a pass at it and did a run on Sheriff Cole,” Jack said. “Looks like he and his wife were killed in a house fire a couple of months after the move. It was ruled homicide. Whole damned house was covered in gasoline. Went up like a match. No suspects. No witnesses.”

“Jesus,” Lewis said. “What did the new sheriff have to say? I assume he took over the investigation.”

“Yes,” Jack said between gritted teeth. “Good old Sheriff Anderson, who was the deputy sheriff under Cole. It’s in his cold case files. He said there wasn’t a trail by the time he took office, and there hasn’t been anything since, so he’s chalked it up to being a random act of violence. Incompetent asshole.”

“I want to follow up on the case Julie Lawrence was working. The accused was a small-time meth dealer named Ronnie Campbell. The DA was trying to get him to roll on bigger fish, but Julie Lawrence goes missing and then all of a sudden there are enough holes in the case you can pour water through it. Campbell goes free and was killed when his meth trailer was blown all to hell during the cooking process.”

“It’s unstable,” Colburn said. “And with all the wooded areas in these parts, I know there are more labs popping up than the DEA can keep track of.”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed. “But they found parts of Ronnie Campbell for fifteen blocks. Police shut the case down pretty quick, saying it was an act of stupidity instead of a homicide, but from everything I read out of Julie Lawrence’s files, she said Campbell wasn’t smart enough to be anything but a deliveryman. And a low level one at that. He wouldn’t have been cooking anything in that trailer. So we need to look closer. See if we can find a connection between Julie Lawrence and Daniel Oglesby. I put out a few feelers to some other counties and got these other hits. I’ve got all the notes, all the suspects. It’s a shitload of paperwork to follow up on. It’s your lucky day, Lewis.”

Jack dumped a stack of papers as thick as two phone books into Lewis’s lap. Parker Lewis wasn’t my idea of a normal cop. He was originally from Chicago and still slick with the city image. He was thin and bony, a couple of inches taller than me, and his hair was dark blond and gelled within an inch of its life. He had bright green eyes and compensated for his weak chin with a goatee. He and Martinez had been partnered up for a couple of years and worked the streets, such as they were, but Jack wouldn’t have put him out there if Lewis couldn’t handle himself.

Lewis sighed and looked at the thick stack of paperwork. “Thanks, boss. I guess I didn’t need that date tonight.”