Buried Memories (17 page)

At nine
P.M.
, her phone rang and a man told her if she wanted her billfold back, she had to meet him at the entrance to Cherokee Shores. Her head told her not to go, but she had already reported the theft to the police, and they had done nothing, so this was her only chance. Forgetting about her safety, she drove to the entrance and discovered the same two men in the brown-and-beige Chevy pickup waiting for her. She got out and walked over to them.

“Where’s my billfold?” she asked.

They got out of the truck. One man was heavy, had a mustache, and dressed in nicely tailored slacks and a shirt. The other man, skinny and at least six feet tall, wore jeans and a western shirt.

“What does Jamie know about Jimmy Don’s disappearance?” the mustache asked.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Bitch,” the man said, and slapped Kay across the face. “Answer us. What does he know?”

Kay fingered her stinging cheek. “I have no idea.”

“You’re holding out,” he said, and slapped her harder.

Kay backed up as tears rolled down her face. “All I know is that he drowned.”

Both men came after her, slapping her, and knocking her to the ground. They laughed as she lay in the dirt alongside the road. Then they climbed in their truck and drove away.

Sheriff’s Deputy Rick Rose owned a gift for gab in addition to being blessed with nonstop energy for both work and play. His office held fishing and golf trophies, as well as sharpshooting plaques. Four prized deer heads shared wall space with a stuffed fish.

But work was his highest priority and he became known for his thoroughness. He checked out any phone number given him to see if that person could shed any light on a case. He ran down all tips he heard. His work sometimes went into the wee hours of the morning, but he had the support of his wife, who was an emergency room nurse and understood difficult hours. Besides, the pretty brunette was his confidante, his lover, and his best friend.

Rose was accustomed to working on cases others couldn’t crack, for he believed that no amount of effort was too much if it brought someone to justice. But he did things his own way. Sometimes he didn’t arrest a petty lawbreaker if that person might prove more valuable down the road for information against someone else who had committed a more serious crime.

That very situation came up in the spring of 1985 when a deputy arrested Ron Becker.

Rose looked up to see two men standing in the doorway of his office. One was another deputy, who had a tight hold on a handcuffed Ron Becker.

“This guy wants to see you,” the deputy announced. “Okay?”

“Sure. Come in, Ron. Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into a little trouble.”

“Possession,” the other deputy interjected. “Had four marijuana cigarettes on him when we stopped him for speeding.”

“Ron,” Rose said in mock disgust. “Fast cars, fast drugs. What’s next, fast women?”

“I wish,” Becker said, and dropped into the chair in front of Rose’s desk.

“Thanks,” Rose said to the other deputy. “I’ll handle this from here.”

After the deputy left, Rose asked, “So what’s up?” “Got some info you might be interested in,” Becker said.

Rose tolerated the familiar petty criminal. Twice before, Becker had given Rose information that solved a couple of cases. Becker always told the truth, and Rose would cut anybody slack who had that trait.

“What do you know?” Rose asked.

“Remember Jimmy Don Beets?”

“Has anyone forgotten him?”

“That’s what my info’s about. I know who offed him.”

Rose sat up straighter. “Who’s your source?”

“Some guy Betty Beets been screwing. When she told him all this stuff, she was three sheets to the wind. She let it all hang out.”

“What’d she say?”

“What do I get for telling?”

“If we wire you to the lie detector and you’re a hundred percent, we’ll take away your cigarettes and slap your wrists.”

“Betty did it,” he said abruptly. “Shot Jimmy and stuffed him in a wishing well she has in her yard.”

Rose flinched. “In a wishing well?”

“Yeah. Guess she had Jimmy build it first. Woman’s got ice water in her veins.”

“She buried him all by her little self?”

“Got her kid to help. Sweet mom, huh?”

“Sweet information, if it’s true.”

Rose loved the chase. He had an inquisitive mind and a background in law enforcement. His granddaddy was a cop, as well as his dad. His grandfather had a heart attack and died on the job, while his father later switched to fire fighting and retired a fireman.

Rose immediately called the DA’s chief investigator, Michael O’Brien, his good friend and counterpart in the DA’s office, who would be very interested to hear Becker’s information. Rose thought about one of the courses he took for his degree in criminal justice. He learned that a female killer remained undetected for a longer period of time than the male, for she tended to be painstakingly methodical and just as lethal. The problem was more with the male-dominated law community that just didn’t think a woman would do it.

Michael O’Brien basically did all the investigative work for the DA. His office was near the center of downtown Athens in the new Justice Building, a departure from the basically turn-of-the-century Athens architecture. The Justice Building stood just a block from the three-story redbrick courthouse. Distances in town were measured from “Courthouse Square,” because everyone knew where that was. And typical of small towns, most trusting Athenians didn’t lock their cars around the courthouse.

In less than fifteen minutes, Rose took Becker to meet with O’Brien for the lie detector test. In a small, sterile room, both men watched the polygraph technician place a blood pressure and pulse cuff on Becker’s arm, then the respiration tube around his chest. First he asked Becker test questions, telling him to answer yes or no to all of them. He showed him an ace of hearts, and asked if it were a queen of diamonds. When Becker answered, “Yes,” the chart indicated a false reply. After answering the test questions, the technician began asking the important ones.

“Did Gerald Albright give you information about Betty Beets?

“Yes.”

Rose and O’Brien watched the moving chart that indicated Becker had told the truth.

“Did Betty Beets murder her husband, Jimmy Don Beets?”

“Yes.”

The questions continued, covering every aspect of Becker’s information. The chart registered all his answers as truthful.

“Ron, I know you want to stay anonymous,” O’Brien said. “Let’s play ‘what if.’ Say Albright lies through his teeth and says Betty didn’t say any of this. Are you still good for the info?”

Becker thought a moment.

The investigators knew he’d rather be charged with possession than go in front of a courtroom and squeal on someone he knew.

But Becker said, “Sure. Call me. I’ll testify.”

He left, and Rose opened the sheriff’s file on the Beets case he had brought with him. He showed the thin file to O’Brien. It held only a copy of Betty’s missing person’s report and the supposed sighting of Jimmy Don by his niece in Dallas. No evidence suggested that Betty Beets had been questioned. There were no followups.

“Looks like we’ve just reopened the case,” O’Brien said.

A month after Betty Beets secured the “Determination of Death” for Jimmy Don, the news trickled down to his son, Jamie—an heir Betty had forgotten to mention. Jamie had not been served notice of Betty’s action, and therefore could not protest. He called the declaration premature and improper, and asked for a new declaration trial to set aside the judgment that favored only Betty.

Bobby Branson leaned against a tree in his yard, laughing with a friend. They were enjoying the balmy spring evening until Ray Bone pulled up and parked in the driveway. He nodded to Bobby and went inside the house.

“Who’s that?” his friend asked.

“Some jerk,” Bobby said. “My mom’s boyfriend.”

“He acts like he owns the place. What’s he doing here?”

“Good question. I’ll go ask him,” Bobby said with a glint of mischief in his eyes. He ran up the steps of the trailer and found Ray in his mother’s bedroom.

“How come you’re hanging around? Mom’s not here.”

“I’m going to take a nap. Do you mind?”

Bobby minded, but said nothing and went back to his friend, who by then had hopped on his motorcycle and busily roared through the yard. Dust clouds rose as he cut donuts in the dirt in the rear of the property. He stopped near Bobby.

While the young men talked, Ray stormed out of the house. “Bobby, come here! Tell your friend not to ride his bike in the yard. He’s tearing up the place. Your mom would be furious if she knew.”

“Mom doesn’t care. She lets me ride in the back.”

“Tell your friend to stop or I will. And believe me I’ll tell him the hard way.”

Bobby threw Ray a disgusted look and went back to his friend. “Better stop riding through the yard. You’d never know what that creep will do.”

“And your mom lets him stay here?”

“I don’t know why we put up with him. He’s been an asshole since the day he arrived. I’ll be back in a sec,” Bobby said.

Bobby shook with nervousness when he entered his mother’s bedroom to wake up Ray. “Get the hell out of here,” he said with uncharacteristic boldness. “Mom and I don’t want you around anymore.” Bobby knew that wasn’t true—only
he
didn’t want Ray around. Ray had told him he’d beat the hell out of him if he didn’t do what he said.

“Who says?” Ray asked, looking irritated.

“Me and my mom.”

“Like hell.” Ray got up and started getting dressed. “We’ll just go down to the Cedar Club and talk to Betty. Bet she didn’t say anything like that.”

Bobby went outside with Ray on his heels.

“Get in that truck, boy. You and me are goin’ to see your mom.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t wanna go.”

“You go, or I’ll make you go.”

Just as they began to argue, Bobby’s friend pulled out a gun and shot into the air. Ray’s reputation for meanness evaporated like hot air. He took off running like any bully would when actually confronted. Bobby dashed into the house.

A moment later, seventeen-year-old Bobby tore outside with two six-shooters, one in each hand. Bullets blazed from each gun. He kept looking for Ray, but didn’t see him, so he went to his truck. When he heard a noise from the direction of the truck, he began shooting, and he continued to shoot until he had emptied both guns. The smell of gunsmoke, along with its haze, permeated the night air.

Then everything was quiet. Bobby laughed at having shot out all of Ray’s tires.
That was for good measure. Ray deserved it.
Bobby knew it was mean, but he thought of how Ray treated them, and it felt good. When he looked around, he notice his friend had left.

It seemed like only seconds before the Cherokee Shores security pulled up to his house, and a guard stepped in front of Bobby. No doubt, more than one neighbor had called to report the disturbance.

The guard grabbed the guns from Bobby and said, “Okay. What happened?”

“Ray was trying to force me into his truck, and then he—” Bobby stopped. He saw Ray sitting in the backseat of the guard’s car. Words failed to come out of his mouth.

SIXTEEN

The middle-aged woman who lived on the side street backing up to Betty Beets’s corner lot had endured four years of being awakened through the night by gunshot. More than once, she and her retired husband peered into the Beets’ yard to see Betty’s boys outside shooting at tin cans. Sometimes Betty joined them.

One day the neighbor witnessed a knife-throwing contest between Betty and her boys. They were aiming at a sapling oak, and squealed with delight when they hit the skinny little tree.

Tonight the woman’s house had been hit by gunfire. Her husband had died the previous spring, and disregarding her fear of confronting gun-toting neighbors, she called the police. Now that the security guard had arrived, she hurried from her house to the Beets’s property.

“I reported the shooting,” she said. “He had a shotgun.”

The guard turned to Bobby. “Were you shooting a shotgun tonight?”

“I used one of those,” he said, indicating the firearms the guard had already confiscated.

“No, Bobby,” the guard said. “A shotgun. Do you have more guns in your house?”

Bobby nodded, and motioned for the guard and neighbor to follow him. He led them into the trailer through the living room, down the hall, and into the kitchen. He squatted down and pulled out the bottom kitchen drawer. Underneath were five pistols. He handed them to the guard.

“I saw him out with a shotgun earlier,” the neighbor said emphatically.

“It’s in here,” Bobby told them and went to the hall closet and brought back a shotgun.

“I’m taking these,” the guard said. “Got to check them to make sure they’re not stolen.”

When the three went back outside, police had arrived and were examining Ray’s truck. It glimmered in the glare of their bright flashlights, and the many bullet holes puncturing it made it look like a casualty of war.

An officer shook his head. “Who got mad at the truck?” he asked.

The guard started to tell him, but the officer’s attention was diverted when he noticed a shotgun in Ray’s truck. The officer had earlier run a check on both Bobby and Ray, so he knew of Ray’s record as a convicted felon.

“Tell me about this, Mr. Bone.”

Ray stared at the gun. “That’s not mine. I have no idea how it got there.”

Rose and O’Brien frequently talked over the Beets’s case and discussed what approaches they’d take to gather information.

O’Brien had ten years’ experience with criminal investigations, dating back to when he got out of the navy. The navy had sent him from Vietnam to Texas, then recruited him to work security for the naval air station. He continued working with law enforcement to pay his way through college. The native Oklahoman first attended Baylor University, then graduated from the University of Texas at Tyler.