A Murder In Passing (15 page)

“Double G?”

“Yeah. Guitars and Guns. Your one-stop redneck Christmas store.”

“And Earl Lee?”

William Lang looked to his father to answer.

“Earl Lee's on the wrong side of the grass. Way I heard it he took one of the pawned guns and blew his brains out. Gotta respect a man who tests the product he sells.”

“When did this happen?”

“Oh, twenty years ago I reckon. He'd folded up his trash business. I guess desperation can cause a man to do extreme things. Like killing himself.”

“I hear he was pretty desperate to get that county contract forty-five years ago.”

Nobody said anything. I suspected we were all thinking the same thing. A man who proved desperate enough to kill himself could also have been desperate enough to kill someone else.

The intercom on William's phone buzzed.

“Yes,” he snapped.

“Mr. Lang,” a woman said. “Joe Caspar from the American Legion is on line two.”

“I'll have to call him back.”

“Yes sir. He just wanted you to know someone shot and killed Donnie Nettles.”

William collapsed back in his chair. “Jesus.” He glared at me. “I think we're done here.”

I walked out of the office without saying another word. I was too shocked myself.

I'd gone no more than ten feet when I heard old man Lang's angry voice.

“Just what the hell's going on, Willie?”

Chapter Fifteen

As soon as I left the Lang parking lot, I called Detective Curt Newland of Asheville homicide. I had no idea where the shooting of Donnie Nettles had occurred, but “Newly,” as he was nicknamed, would be my fastest source of information. He and I had a strong friendship, cemented when Nakayla and I uncovered the murderer of his partner.

“What's up?” he asked.

“Know anything about a shooting involving a Donnie Nettles? I think he's an Asheville resident.”

“Yeah, but it's out of our jurisdiction. Evidently Nettles was killed in his home last night, a gated community called The Cliffs at Walnut Cove in southwest Buncombe County. What's your interest?”

“Nettles was the guy who organized the mushroom hunt where I found a skeleton.”

“Yeah, I read about that. You working it?”

“Hewitt Donaldson's the defense attorney for a woman charged with the crime. He's hired us to investigate.”

“Could his client have popped Nettles?”

“No way. She's eighty-five years old and I believe she's innocent.”

Newland laughed. “There's a first. Donaldson defending someone who's innocent. So what's your tie-in to Nettles?”

“None that I know of. He called yesterday curious about the case, but he didn't have any connection to it that we know of.”

Newland sighed. “Sometimes coincidences are just that. But if you like, I'll contact a friend in their investigative unit and see what I can learn.”

“Thanks, Newly.”

Next I phoned Hewitt Donaldson. I summarized my conversation with Newland, and then moved to the real purpose of my call. “I think I kicked a hornets' nest with the Langs.”

“How so?” he asked.

I gave him the rundown on my encounter with William Lang. How he'd volunteered the details of his last conversation with his uncle and that I figured he was giving a DNA sample the next day.

“William's the other shoe,” Hewitt said. “Overcash got the rifle match and then William's testimony directly contradicted Lucille's story. Overcash thought he had motive, means, and opportunity. And he wanted jurisdiction even before the remains were identified. We're fortunate he rushed the arrest.”

“Why's that?”

“Your hornets' nest. The arrest brought John Lang into the picture and now you've gotten him and his son on opposing sides. Interesting to see how that plays out.” He paused a second. “What's your next move?”

I checked the time. After two thirty and I was forty minutes from Asheville. “I've got a meeting unrelated to the case and then I'll head to the office. Tomorrow morning I'll talk to Mick Emory at the pawnshop. It's clear there was no love lost between his father and the Langs.”

“Could be tough tying Earl Lee Emory to Lucille's rifle.”

I laughed. “Not my problem. You're the storyteller. I'm confident you'll create a more than plausible explanation for the jury.”

“True. But I'd welcome a supporting fact or two. Like maybe Earl Lee taught Annie Oakley how to shoot.”

Hewitt and I set a tentative appointment for lunch the next day after my conversation with Mick Emory. Meanwhile Hewitt planned to schedule the deposition of William Lang.

I'd driven about ten miles farther when the call came from Newland.

“That was quick,” I said.

“Caught my man on the scene. And he's their top guy with gunshot wounds. Matches the autopsy about eighty percent of the time.”

That was impressive. On-site examinations can be tricky, particularly if there are multiple entry and exit points that aren't always clear as to which is which.

“What's he say?”

“Contact wound. Back of the head. All six tells.”

That was shorthand for a definitive evaluation based upon six markers. There would have been an abrasion of the skin as the projectile created the entry wound, unburned gunpowder tattooing the scalp, soot from burned gunpowder, seared skin from the muzzle flame, triangular tears from the hot gases injected into the wound, and finally, a muzzle contusion from the gases pushing the skin back against the barrel. I thought of the horrific damage such a contact shot would inflict, and then saw Donnie Nettles' smiling face as he handed me my whistle and welcomed me into the club. I felt sick to my stomach. Nettles was a guy I'd like to have known better.

“Any brass?”

“No. The shooter picked up the spent cartridge.”

“How do you know it wasn't a revolver?”

“Muzzle contusion has the u-shape.”

That told me that the muzzle had the slide mechanism of a semiautomatic pistol.

“Is your guy good enough to speculate on the model?”

“He's smart enough not to. But if he were pressed, he'd go with a nine millimeter Beretta, mainly off the muzzle contusion.”

“And the slug?”

Newland grunted. “That's the odd part. From the angle of the entry, exit, and the point where it then struck an interior wall, Nettles had to be standing at the time, facing away from the shooter. When my friend's team went to remove the slug, they discovered it had already been dug out.”

That was odd. That also signaled there would be no prints. Someone had done a careful cleanup.

“They got a motive?”

“Nettles was in his pajamas. Looks like forced entry in the middle of the night. His wife was in Washington D.C. visiting their new grandson. His car was in the shop overnight. The theory is the perp thought no one was home.”

“You said it was a gated community.”

“Wouldn't stop someone coming in on foot,” Newland said. “The house had been tossed, jewelry boxes empty, no wallet for the deceased, but big items like the TV and computer system weren't taken.”

“Nettles put up a fight?”

“Not that they can determine. Again, they're still on the scene.”

“Who found him?”

“Landscape crew noticed the back door was open and the area around the latch splintered. That was at eleven this morning.”

“I don't like it, Newly.”

“Yeah, me neither. Too professional for a run-of-the-mill break-in. Most of these guys are methed up and make a run at a house with an old cargo van.” He paused. “Of course, the guardhouse eliminated that possibility. Maybe they came for jewelry and cash, something more likely to be found in these multimillion-dollar homes.”

“You know what Nettles did for a living?”

“No. Not my case. I just got the report from the scene.”

“Thanks. I owe you.”

“No problem. What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. It's not my case either. It's a matter for the Buncombe County Sheriff's Department. But I'd appreciate a heads-up if you hear anything that sounds like it's more than a burglary gone bad.”

“Like what?” Newland asked.

“Like the name Jimmy Lang surfaces for some reason.”

“He's your bones in the log?”

As much as I trusted Newland, I wasn't about to make any comment that undercut Hewitt Donaldson's carefully orchestrated efforts to keep the skeleton unidentified. “I don't know, Newly. He's still a John Doe. It's just that I don't like surprises. I met Nettles at the scene of a crime, and less than a week later, he's murdered.”

“All right. I'll keep my ear to the ground.” He laughed. “And my mouth shut.”

I hung up and tried to shake off the feeling of despair a senseless killing always gave me. I shifted focus to the immediate task ahead. Sam Blackman, Ace Investigator was about to become Sam Blackman, Do-Gooder.

I parked in a visitor's space near the rehab section of the V.A. hospital. Jason Fretwell might not be in a physical therapy session, but it was a good place to begin looking for him.

I stopped outside the open door to the therapy room. The men and women inside were stark reminders of our soldiers' sacrifices that too many people in this country choose to ignore. I watched a young man struggle to walk on two artificial legs and a woman brush her hair using a prosthetic hand. An elderly man with an oxygen tank rolled a plastic bowling ball at a few pins, a recovering stroke victim I assumed. I thought of Mr. Carlisle, my roommate during my stay here. The World War Two veteran passed away shortly after my discharge. Mr. Carlisle particularly liked bowling with the plastic set, calling his fellow veterans contestants rather than patients. That's what it took, a competitive spirit and the determination not to give into bitterness and frustration.

“Couldn't stay away from me, could you?”

I turned to see Sheila Reilly smiling down at me. The woman must have been six three or six four, at least half a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than me. When she told you to do something, you did it. No drill sergeant commanded more obedience.

“Yeah. Most of the bruises you gave me have healed so I came back for more.”

She glanced at my left leg. “I saw you walk from your car. Impressive.”

“Are you in the market for a poster boy? I'll have my agent call you.”

Sheila's smile faded. She looked beyond me to the veterans struggling to regain their health and, for some, their very identity. I turned and scanned the room. The ages ranged from two octogenarians who could have served in Korea or even the Second World War to three young men who couldn't have been out of their teens or a few weeks out of Afghanistan.

War rolls like a wave across the generations, leaving shattered lives in its trough while lifting up others as examples of heroism and devotion. I was no such hero and I regretted my remark.

“No, not a poster boy,” Sheila said, as if reading my mind. “But a man who didn't quit. And that's all we can ask of these men and women. Don't quit. Don't give up on life.”

“I know. Giving up on life dishonors those who served beside you and died. It took me a while to realize that.”

We stood quietly for a few moments, watching the patients go through their therapy.

Then she said, “If you're looking for Jason Fretwell, I just finished with him about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Is he back in his room?”

“No, he was headed outside. He likes the fresh air.”

“Thanks. I think I know the spot.”

“Don't be a stranger, Sam.”

I looked up at this woman's strong face, a face that had pushed me beyond my endurance more than once. “I won't.” I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her. It was a bear hug except the bear was the huggee.

She gave a responding squeeze that collapsed my lungs like a cheap accordion. “Take care.”

She released me and I staggered backwards. “Take care? Another hug like that and you'll be taking care of me on one of the wards.”

I found Jason on the grounds where I thought he'd be. He sat alone on a bench by a bed of blue and pink pansies that would soon fade as spring crossed into summer. He was staring at his prosthesis, slowly opening and closing the fingers. It was a marvel with microprocessors and miniature motors that responded to the muscle actions of his lower arm. I could tell from his expression that Jason would push the device to the limit. The world that had seemed so closed to him was opening again.

“Hey, hotshot. Learning to count on your new fingers?”

He grinned and raised the back of his prosthetic hand toward me. “No, I'm trying to get the middle one to stand by itself. Just for you.” He scooted down the bench, inviting me to join him.

I sat and stretched my legs. Easing the weight off my stump always felt good. “You're getting pretty proficient with that thing. You'll be dealing cards before long.”

“Not unless I'm capable of pulling aces out of my sleeve.”

“So, when are they cutting you loose?”

“Doc Anderson says Friday. I've been here longer than the government would like, but he was insistent I stay an inpatient until I mastered the basics.”

“He was like that with me too. One of the good guys.”

Jason nodded. “Doc Anderson's why I came back.”

I knew Jason was a farm boy from Indiana. I hadn't thought about why he was in Asheville for his care. The government isn't the most logical when it comes to assigning the wounded to bed space.

“Was he your doc the first time?”

“Yeah. When I'd healed enough, they discharged me and I went back to my folks near Fort Wayne. Then when it came time to be fitted for a prosthesis, I pushed to return to Asheville. Anderson pulled some strings and said I was a candidate for the microprocessor hand. And here I am.”

“Where will you be after Friday?”

“Back in Indiana.” He shook his head. “Moving in with my parents, I guess. Starting over.”

I turned on the bench and looked directly at him. “What would you think about staying in Asheville?”

“And do what? Make a cardboard sign and stand on the corner of Broadway and Patton Avenue?”

“No. I mean get a job. A friend of mine owns a private security company. He'd like to talk to you.”

“So, I'd be a damn mall cop?”

“I don't know what the hell you'd be. Maybe you'd clean out his toilets.”

Jason flinched. My anger at the emergence of his dark mood surprised both of us.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I deserved that.”

“Look, I'm not trying to push anything on you.”

“I know. Sure, I'll talk to him.”

“I'll set it up for tomorrow. His name's Nathan Armitage. He was a big help to me when I was in your position, and he helped Nakayla and me start our detective agency.”

Jason's face brightened. “Hey, what about you guys?” He lifted his prosthesis. “Need an extra hand?” He looked at the gap between my khakis and left shoe where the metal of my prosthesis gleamed in the sunlight. “Or extra legwork?”

“I'm afraid Nakayla and I don't have enough work to keep us busy. But we're not in competition with Nathan, so if the need arises, you could probably freelance for us.”