A Murder In Passing (21 page)

“Okay.” Newland looked back over his notes and then closed the pad. “I'll talk to all of them. Starting with Mr. Emory. He has more guns than good sense.”

“Maybe one less. There was an empty spot in a display case of Berettas, a model that might match the gun that killed Donnie Nettles.”

Newland re-opened his pad and jotted a note. “Emory should have sales records.”

“Did you know his father?” I asked.

“No. Not alive.”

Nakayla sat down. I stared at Newland. It was an odd thing to say.

“I was a young patrolman. I was called to the pawnshop the morning Mick Emory found his father's body.”

“The suicide,” I said.

“That's what it looked like.”

“It wasn't?”

“It was. According to the coroner's inquest. But the investigation started as a homicide. That's standard procedure. There was an old detective must have been thirty years my senior. Mark Patterson. He's long dead. Patterson complimented me on the way I secured the scene at the pawnshop. He told me to always approach a death as a homicide. A killer will look for a way to pass off murder as something else. Usually an accident or a suicide because the best way to get away with murder is never have it revealed to be a murder. I never forgot what he said.”

“He was right.” I suddenly became conscious of my prosthesis, damp from the rain and irritating my stump. “I lost my leg because someone tried to kill me by making the attack look like Iraqi insurgents. A murder passing for a war casualty.”

“Nothing new about that,” Newland said. “King David sent his loyal soldier Uriah into the front lines of battle so David could marry his widow Bathsheba. Lust, betrayal, adultery. Pick a motive. Maybe the worst is when murder passes for righteousness, soaking streets in the Middle East with the blood of innocent men, women, and children, or leaving a smoking pile of rubble and bodies where the Twin Towers of lower Manhattan once stood. You can try passing it off as something else, Sam, but it's still murder.”

Chapter Twenty-one

I woke at four when a voice from a subconscious corner of my brain refused to stay mute. Nakayla lay sleeping beside me, her breathing as regular as a metronome.

We were at her house where we came after I gave Newland my statement at the Asheville police station. I couldn't face going back to my apartment. Jason had spread his clean clothes across my bed in preparation to either hang or fold them. I would deal with them later.

The voice in my head that roused me wasn't Jason's or Nakayla's. It was Detective Newland posing a question he hadn't asked. “If you were that easy to identify, then why weren't you?” I'd argued that the shooter would have been able to spot me walking from the front parking lot to the Kenilworth. A rifle scope powerful enough to yield a perfectly placed shot to Jason's head could also provide an image magnified enough to see the quarry wasn't me. Although the shirt and slicker Jason wore were mine, they weren't that distinctive. But, the artificial hand at the end of his right sleeve was. That trumped our similar height and coloring.

If I wasn't the target, then why Jason? His involvement with the case started and ended with Mick Emory. Newland would be all over that lead. Either the shooter had made a hasty decision to fire based solely on clothing, or he knew damn well who was in his crosshairs. That meant parallel investigations, one with me as the target and the other focusing on Jason Fretwell. And if it were tied to Jason's involvement with our case, then there was some connection Nakayla and I were unaware of.

“I've got some other interesting information for you, but it can wait till we're all together.” Jason's words from yesterday afternoon. From the time Nakayla and I left for the folk school to when we spoke with him at the mouth of the Nantahala Gorge, Jason had learned something of interest to both Nakayla and me.

Suddenly, I had an urgent desire to get back to my apartment. If any trace of Jason's information existed, it would be there.

I slid out of bed, felt along the floor for my prosthesis, and dressed in the guest room. I wrote Nakayla a short note asking her to call me when she got up.

The rain had stopped and the cooler air of a high-pressure system dispersed the last remnants of the clouds. Traffic consisted of a few Saturday morning delivery trucks and farmers headed to the Asheville market on Charlotte Street. In no more than fifteen minutes, I pulled into the long driveway of the Kenilworth.

Retracing the route I'd taken less than twelve hours earlier, I sped passed the site where the gunman had waited. I parked in the rear and jogged to the exterior door, still unsure as to who had been the bullet's target.

In my bedroom, Jason's duffel bag sat empty at the foot of the bed. His socks, underwear, shirts, and slacks were on the spread where he'd laid them after taking them out of the dryer. On the nightstand were the two Jack Reacher novels I brought him the previous Monday. A slip of paper marked a spot about two-thirds of the way through the top volume. The makeshift bookmark was blank, a strip torn from a sheet of computer paper.

The chair at my small desk was pulled out. Jason had sat there. When I touched the spacebar of the keyboard, the computer screen flared to life. The text on the page read,

WELCOME TO THE US ARMY SNIPER SCHOOL.

WHEN YOU VOLUNTEER TO UNDERGO THE TRAINING HERE, YOU ACCEPT ONE OF THE MOST DEMANDING CHALLENGES THE ARMY HAS TO OFFER. SNIPERS HAVE A PROUD HERITAGE WHICH CAN BE TRACED BACK TO THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR. UPON COMPLETION OF YOUR TRAINING, YOU WILL BE A MEMBER OF THAT ELITE GROUP. IT TAKES A SPECIAL TYPE OF SOLDIER TO MEET THE CHALLENGE. HIGH STANDARDS HAVE ALREADY BEEN SET, NOW IT IS UP TO YOU!

“ONE SHOT—ONE KILL”

MISSION

TRAIN SELECTED SOLDIERS TO ENGAGE POINT TARGETS WITH LONG RANGE PRECISION FIRE; TRAIN SNIPER FIELD CRAFT TECHNIQUES; DEVELOP SNIPER DOCTRINE; AND PROVIDE SUBJECT MATTER EXPERTISE TO THE FORCE.

The website's URL was www.specialoperations.com/Schools/Army_Sniper/

Jason had been looking at the information for the school at Fort Benning where he'd received his training. I clicked the arrow to go back to the previous screen. It was a GOOGLE search for sniper school, Fort Benning, Georgia. One more click back and the page switched to the Military Channel's Top Ten Snipers. I scrolled down to number one. Marine Corps sniper Carlos Hathcock. Nicknamed “White Feather.” He served two tours of duty in Vietnam. Ninety-three confirmed kills with unconfirmed kills in the hundreds. He was so deadly the North Vietnamese put a thirty-thousand dollar bounty on his head. Hathcock died from complications of multiple sclerosis in 1999.

The fact that Jason would have been looking at these sites wasn't unusual given his special ops training. What was eerie and an unacceptable coincidence was his shooting occurred within a few hours at the hands of a sniper.

Nothing else showed up in the browser's history. Nothing was written on the notepad I kept by the phone. But I picked the pad up and examined the top sheet. A faint depression showed where the pressure of the adjacent ballpoint pen had made an imprint. It could have been from my writing on the previous sheet, but the letters were a childlike scrawl. Jason trying to write with his left hand.

I opened the desk drawer and found a number two pencil. I laid the point on its side and lightly ran the lead back and forth over the sheet.

A phone number appeared. 706-555-6505. I wasn't familiar with the area code. Then a word appeared under it that was a mystery unto itself. “ghost.” Two more words followed. “missed mission.”

I went back to the computer and called up the Web page for the sniper school. I clicked the Contact icon. The identical phone number appeared. Jason Fretwell had called someone at Fort Benning and discovered something he wanted to share with Nakayla and me. Something tied to “ghost” and “missed mission.”

The time was close to five o'clock. That was early for even the military. I dialed the number and got a recording. “You have reached the U.S. Army Sniper School. Leave your name and a brief message and we will get back with you as soon as possible.” The male voice was clipped and authoritative. The beep sounded and I hung up. My inquiry wasn't one I wanted to leave on a machine.

I figured the school would probably open at eight, nine at the latest. I didn't know whom Jason had talked to, but the army kept good phone logs. I debated whether to turn what I'd found over to Newland or pursue it myself. The answer was easy. I'd been a Chief Warrant Officer. I knew my way around the military bureaucracy far better than an Asheville police detective.

For the next thirty minutes, I searched the Internet using word combinations with “ghost,” “sniper,” and “army,” but I found nothing remotely relevant. There wasn't anything more to do until I could reach someone at Fort Benning. I lay down on the sofa and fell asleep.

My cellphone rang.

“Hello,” I muttered.

“Sorry,” Nakayla said. “Did I wake you? You told me to call.”

My head cleared quickly. “What time is it?”

“Seven thirty. What's going on?”

I summarized the notepad and Web information. “Jason made a call to Fort Benning.”

“If he actually spoke to someone. Does your landline phone keep a list of outgoing calls?”

“No. Just incoming.”

“Well, we can check with the phone company. You don't know if he was tracking down someone he served with?”

“No, but the fact that he was looking at the top snipers in history might be a clue.”

“Who was number one?”

“A marine named Hathcock. Vietnam.”

“William Lang was in Vietnam,” Nakayla said.

“Yes. And that's a damn good alibi since Lucille and John Lang both said William returned there the week before Jimmy disappeared.”

“Right.” She thought a moment. “There's somebody else on the periphery, but I don't see how he would have fit in.”

“Who?”

“Donnie Nettles. He was in Vietnam and he knew the terrain of the Kingdom of the Happy Land. He might have had a role, good or bad, in this whole mess.”

Nakayla was right. We couldn't ignore even the most unlikely connection. “Okay. Can you find out a little more about him?”

“Yes. I'm heading into the office.”

“Why?”

“Because that phone system does keep a log of recent calls, both in and out. Jason was there on Thursday while you and I were talking with Jennifer Lang at the gallery. Maybe he started making inquiries then.”

“Shirley,” I said. “She described him as the cute guy on the phone.”

“Then we need to find out who he was talking to.”

“And call Newland. He needs to put Jason in protective custody, coma or no coma. I'll be in as soon as I place the call to Fort Benning.”

Shortly after eight, I redialed the number.

“U.S. Army Sniper School. Staff Sergeant Benfield.” His voice sounded identical to the one on the recording.

“Yes, sir. This is Chief Warrant Officer Sam Blackman calling from the V.A. hospital in Asheville.” I neglected to add the word “former” in front of my rank.

“I'm investigating a shooting involving a special ops sniper who was discharged just yesterday. We're trying to determine if the incident involves the army in any way.”

“Yes, sir. How can I help?”

“The victim was one of your graduates. Probably came through within the past year or eighteen months. SPC Jason Fretwell.”

“Fretwell? Ah, Jesus.” The pain in his voice was audible.

“You know him?”

“Yeah. I mean we get thirty to forty men for each five-week course, but some of them stand out. Fretwell was top of his class. How bad is he?”

“Head wound. He's in critical condition.”

The staff sergeant paused, absorbing the news. “Sir, if he was discharged, can you tell me why you think it's an army matter?”

“Fretwell was shot by a sniper.”

The phone went absolutely silent.

“Staff Sergeant Benfield?”

“Sorry, sir. I hate to hear it. Fretwell was very easygoing. I can't imagine him having a run-in with someone.”

“I agree. I know him. I like him very much. And I'm going to get to the bottom of it. Now I have reason to believe Fretwell called this number yesterday between ten and three.”

“I was in a training session all day,” Benfield said. “I can check the duty roster for who would have taken the call.”

“Thank you. I'm more interested in the person Fretwell asked to speak with. Track him down and have him phone me immediately. Here's my direct line.”

I gave Benfield my cell number and thanked him.

When I stood up from the sofa, I felt light-headed and realized I hadn't eaten since lunch in Murphy the previous day. I fixed a bowl of granola with milk and poured a large glass of orange juice. The old adage was true for even a pretend soldier. An army travels on its stomach.

I was shoveling the last spoonful into my mouth when my cellphone rang. I grabbed it from my belt, hoping for the callback from Fort Benning. Nakayla's number flashed on the screen.

“Hi,” I said. “I haven't heard anything from the sniper school yet.”

“That's not why I'm calling. I'm at the office. The phone memory shows Jason made one call Thursday while we were at the gallery.”

“Let me guess. Fort Benning, Georgia.”

“No. At a quarter to twelve, Jason phoned the Double G Pawnshop.”

“Mick Emory? We'd just left him.”

“Yes. Curious, isn't it?”

“You know what we've got to do.”

“Yes. You or me?”

“I'll do it. He'll have questions even though I don't have answers.” I disconnected from Nakayla, opened my contacts icon, and speed-dialed Detective Newland.

Chapter Twenty-two

Curt Newland and his partner Tuck Efird were already en route to Mick Emory's home—a cabin outside of the Candler community about nine miles west of Asheville.

“And you have no idea why Fretwell phoned Emory?” Newland asked after I'd given him word of the call.

“No. Jason congratulated me on the way the interview had gone. He didn't mention anything he thought needed to be followed up.”

“Would he have taken the initiative on his own?”

I thought about Jason's desire to work for our agency. “Possibly. He wanted to feel like he was helping us.”

“Okay. Let's assume something came to his mind after you left him at your office. We'll see if Emory mentions the call unprompted. If not, we'll press him. You're sure about the time?”

“Nakayla's the one who checked the phone log.”

“Then I'm confident it's accurate. I'll be back in touch. And Nakayla called earlier. We've got a guard by Jason's bedside.”

“What's the latest?”

“Touch and go. He's been placed in an induced coma, but the cranial pressure's increasing. I'll keep you posted.”

He hung up before I could mention the Fort Benning lead.

It was nearly nine o'clock when I reached the office. Nakayla sat in front of her computer screen, whipping through web pages like they were unwanted newspaper ads.

“Any luck?” I asked.

“A little information on Donnie Nettles. I knew he was a real estate developer, but I didn't know how successful. He worked the commercial side—office buildings and shopping centers. He was evidently careful not to over extend himself and was one of the few to survive the collapse of 2008.”

“A real estate mogul who hunted mushrooms. You think he'd have been out on his yacht.”

“Donnie was down-to-earth in a lot of ways. He was born in Harlan, Kentucky in 1948. His family moved here in 1960. He's listed as a member of Asheville American Legion Post Two.”

“Someone from the Legion called William with the news,” I said. “He and Donnie must have been in the same Post.”

“Post Two's Web page has a brief bio stating Donnie was on active service in Vietnam from 1967 to 1969. He would have been nineteen in 1967, a year younger than William.”

“We need to go to army records to see if they served together.” I thought about the implications. “If they were buddies, I wonder if Mick Emory would have been a common enemy?”

The office line rang and she snapped up the receiver. “Blackman and Robertson.” After a second, she said, “Oh, hi, David. No, you're not too early.” She swiveled to face me and mouthed, “David Brose.”

I gave her a thumbs-up. The historian of the John C. Campbell Folk School must have come up with something. I crossed the middle sitting room, entered my office, and sat impatiently at my desk. Waiting to take action drove me crazy. I could never have been a sniper.

My thoughts drifted to Jason Fretwell. Had his parents been notified? Were travel arrangements being made? I felt an obligation to speak to his physical therapist Sheila Reilly, but I didn't know if she was in the hospital on Saturday. She would be devastated if Jason died. Despite her gruff exterior, there was no question how much she cared about her patients.

And then there was the other end of the age spectrum. Harry Young. I pulled out a legal pad and wrote Harry Young across the top. Might as well use the time to work on my remarks for Harry's memorial service.

Before I could start, Nakayla rapped on my door. “We might have a break. David Brose thinks he's found the photograph.” She slid into my extra chair.

“Can he scan or fax a copy?”

“He doesn't have it. He said after we left he started thinking about the date 1932 and the fact that Doris Ulmann was with Julia Peterkin taking photographs for
Roll, Jordan, Roll
, their book about the South Carolina lowcountry. The folk school wouldn't have received prints of those images. The excursion to the mountains for the Kingdom picture was just a day trip from Peterkin's plantation.

“So, Brose sent an email to a friend at the South Carolina Historical Society in Charleston. They have one-hundred-sixty-nine platinum prints and a copy of the deluxe edition of
Roll, Jordan, Roll
. He got a reply last night and felt it was too late to call us. But his friend said the Kingdom photograph sounded familiar and could be part of their collection. Remember, the Kingdom straddled the state line.”

“Yes, which is why Deputy Overcash hurried to establish jurisdiction. What happens now?”

“Brose suggested I call his friend at ten. She'll be at the historical society then, and maybe she can email a copy of the image.”

I glanced at my watch. “In forty-five minutes.”

“Right. I hope we can learn something to share with Newland while he's pursuing his interviews today.”

I nodded, but I wasn't enthused about the prospect. Jason Fretwell's shooting made an evil in the present much more of a priority than an eighty-year-old photograph. And now that the district attorney had dropped the charges against Lucille Montgomery, the descendants of the Kingdom of the Happy Land weren't even relevant.

Nakayla must have read my thoughts. “What's the matter? You think we're wasting our time?”

“Probably. I not only don't see a connection, I can't even imagine one.”

“The tendrils of the past can be long and deadly.” Her face hardened with resolve. “Just because you can't imagine it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist.”

She was correct and knew that fact better than I did. An event from 1919 had claimed the life of her sister.

“I'm keeping an open mind.”

Nakayla stood, shaking off the dark memory. “Better an open mind than an empty one.”

She returned to her office and I picked up the legal pad. Harry Young. He'd been the connection between the murder of Nakayla's sister and that of her great-great grandfather. The tendrils of the past had reached across ninety years with deadly consequences. I jotted down notes referencing the world of Harry's boyhood and the world he lived to see. Through all the changes, Harry remained consistent in his kindness and love for others, regardless of their race or economic status. I wanted to think the world had become more like Harry. But it hadn't. Jason Fretwell clinging to life was proof enough.

I worked on my remarks, only vaguely aware of Nakayla's voice when she placed the call to the South Carolina Historical Society.

The phone rang. Nakayla was still on the first line so I answered. “Blackman and Robertson. Sam Blackman.”

“What the hell do you think you're doing? Why'd you sic the law on me?”

I recognized the angry, whiny voice of Mick Emory.

“I didn't sic the law on anybody, Mr. Emory. They're investigating the shooting of my friend. I gave them the names of everyone we spoke with yesterday. Yours was one of many.”

“Well, they took all the boots and pants from my closet.”

Soil sample, I thought. Looking for a match to the dirt at the crime scene.

“And they're shuttin' down my business.”

That was a surprise. “Why?”

“To check the ballistics on all my rifles. You know how many god-damned guns I've got?”

“You still have your guitars.”

“Listen, smartass. I didn't shoot your friend and I didn't try to shoot you. You're no more to me than a pimple on my butt.”

I started to lose my cool. “Oh, yeah. Then how do you explain your phone call with Jason Fretwell?”

Emory was silent a moment. “Look. I never talked to him. I was tied up with a customer and the answering machine took it. He asked me to phone him and left this number. But you two pissed me off and I didn't call him back. That's the God's truth.”

“What did he want?”

“I don't know. Like I told the police, he said he had a question and would I please get in touch. He sounded friendly enough.” Emory sighed. “I'm sorry he was shot. I wish I could help.”

I didn't like the guy, but he sounded sincere. “All right. If I learn what Fretwell wanted to ask, I'll be in touch.”

“Can you get the police off my ass?” he pleaded.

“No. They've got a murder to solve. And if I find out you're lying to me, you'll want them for protection.” I hung up.

I started to phone Newland, but I had nothing to tell him other than Mick Emory was shaken by his visit. Better to let the detective do his job without me pestering him.

“Sam, can you come here?” Nakayla sounded urgent.

She was off the phone with her face close to her computer monitor.

“What is it?”

“Pull up a chair and take a look.” Nakayla scooted aside to give me room.

In the middle of her screen was a black and white photograph, remarkable in image detail. Five people stood in front of a stone chimney. I recognized the landscape as virtually identical to the site of the Kingdom's last remaining vestige that Ed Bell had shown Jason and me earlier in the week.

Two African-American women stood side by side with three children in front of them. The elder woman leaned on a black cane and her hair was covered with a white kerchief. The dress covering her thin body was a simple checked print. Even though she was far from a kitchen, she wore a white apron tied at the waist.

The other woman looked to be around thirty, and though her face was lined, her smile rejuvenated her youth. Her dress was a smaller checked pattern with a rounded white collar and matching trim on three-quarter-length sleeves. Her hands rested on the shoulders of a pretty African-American girl of no more than five. Her floral print dress was sleeveless and hung loosely around her body. Her wavy black hair sported a bow made from the same fabric.

I realized the girl had to be Lucille with her mother Lucinda and grandmother Loretta. Two boys flanked her. The one on the left held her hand. The boys were a couple of inches taller than Lucille. Each wore what looked like canvas dungarees cinched at the waist with a loop of hemp rope. Matching gray shirts were tucked in place.

I leaned in closer. The bewildered expressions on the children's faces must have reflected their reaction to Doris Ulmann in her long dress standing behind the big camera. The boys' expressions were identical because their faces were identical. Identical white faces.

I turned to Nakayla. “Lucille said there were more children in the picture than this.”

“Lucille lied. That's why Marsha looked confused during our interview.”

I studied the photograph again. The light went off like an old-fashioned flashbulb. “Jimmy and John Lang.”

“I don't know another set of twins mixed up in this.”

Pieces began to fall together. “This photograph is of descendants of the Kingdom. Julia Peterkin's letter confirmed that.”

“That's right,” Nakayla said. “Which means the twins are also descendants of the Kingdom.”

“The body in the log. It's Jimmy Lang after all.”

“Yes. It explains why John Lang was so adamant about not giving a DNA sample.”

“But then Lucille and Jimmy could have married.”

“If Jimmy revealed his lineage, he also exposed his twin brother.”

“How did they manage?”

“They were passing. It's been done. Among the offspring of Thomas Jefferson and Sally Heming, three of the children lived in white society. But after the Civil War, the southern states implemented their rule that one drop of black blood classified you as black. One ancestor of African descent assigned you to the Negro race, forfeiting all rights and privileges enjoyed by whites in a segregated society.”

I shook my head with disbelief. “So, the irony is the Loving versus Virginia Supreme Court decision meant a black man who was passing could marry a black woman without recrimination.”

“Without legal recrimination,” Nakayla corrected. “Southern white society would still have frowned upon a union it saw as an abomination. Lucille understood that.”

“And so did John Lang. He was helping Lucille because she knew the secret.”

“Yes,” Nakayla said. “And Lucille knew the brothers' business would be destroyed. Now all the motives are back in play with Jimmy Lang as the murder victim. We need to talk to Hewitt.”

“No. We need to talk to Lucille. It's time we got some truthful answers.” I stood and pointed to the screen. “Print that photo with the best quality you can.”

“Where are you going?”

“I'm calling Captain. I want to know if Marsha is with her mother, and I want Captain setting protection for Lucille.”

“Protection?”

“As far as John Lang thinks, Lucille is the only other one who knows the truth behind the photograph. That might be why John Lang tried to hire us in the first place. If a print of the photograph turned up, he hoped to control it.”

“You think he killed his own brother?”

“What was the very first homicide?”

“Cain and Abel.” Nakayla's face turned grim. “Call Captain. I'll print the picture.”