Dangerous Undertaking (14 page)

“You know it does.” A defensive edge crept into Pryor’s voice. “What’s your point, Sheriff?”

“My point, Mr. Pryor, is that Ridgemont Power and Electric is clearing land once the site of a major paper mill. It now appears that toxic waste associated with that mill has been disposed of in a most irresponsible manner. I thought you might be concerned, especially since you are flooding Pisgah Paper Mill land with the water which will eventually flow from the taps of thousands of your customers. I know Ralph will be concerned.”

Pryor chose his words very carefully. “Well, you are the first to bring it to my attention. If what you say is true, then I and Ridgemont Power and Electric certainly decry and condemn this outrage. We want to assure you and all our customers that since filling of the reservoir has not yet begun, we have complete access to the land and will reinspect a site that has already been thoroughly examined. There is no way toxic waste can remain undetected like that which has been submerged at Hope Quarry all these years. We hope those guilty can be found and brought to justice no matter how long ago the violation occurred.”

Tommy Lee stood quickly, forcing the man to look up at him. “That’s the interesting part. I don’t think the EPA will be looking for guilty parties of long ago. They’ll be focused on here and now. You see, along with those drums of chemical waste, the EPA found the body of Dallas Willard. You’ve heard of Dallas, I believe. And less than a week ago, he was very much alive.”

Pryor’s face turned to paste.

The sheriff paused long enough to make sure the executive was indeed speechless. “I won’t trouble you for further comment at this time. We’ll be in touch.”

We left him at his desk and closed the door behind us. As I passed by Jane Cummings’ phone, I saw that Fred Pryor had already put one of the lines in use.

Chapter 14

“What do you think he knows?” I asked.

“More than he’s telling,” said Tommy Lee. He started the patrol car and we drove away from the Broad Creek office. “I’m not sure he was surprised about the toxic dump, but there’s no question in my mind that Pryor was surprised to learn we found Dallas Willard’s body.”

“Surprised that we found it or surprised that Dallas had been killed?”

“That’s the critical point. What do you think?”

I tried to reconstruct Pryor’s reactions as Tommy Lee told him about the Pisgah Paper Mill waste. Pryor’s PR speech of bringing polluters to justice was canned, and I’m sure he’d given it before. It was the kind of thing he would say whether he thought his company were involved or not. However, if he knew a dead body was linked to the waste, he should have been more nervous when the sheriff first mentioned the pollutants.

“I think he was stunned that the body was with the contamination,” I said. “Everyone has anticipated that Dallas could be found dead, most likely a suicide or case of exposure. But since those drums have a link to Broad Creek, Pryor is desperately trying to convince himself no one from his company is guilty.”

“I agree. I just hope if he discovers what happened, he has got the sense not to cover it up.”

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.

“Head back to the office. The M.E. report should be there by now. I want to see it.”

I skipped to the “
CONCLUSIONS
” section and paraphrased aloud. “Probably no chance for defense. There were no other discernable marks on the body to indicate a struggle. Victim was standing at the time of the attack. Assailant had to be within a foot or two.”

“Know that from the angle of the wound,” said Tommy Lee.

“He says a four-inch blade. Something like a folding knife.”

“Yeah. That’s bad. They’re so damn common.”

“No indications of alcohol or drugs in Dallas’ system.” I read the rest of the report in silence, and then laid it in front of Tommy Lee. “Sure turned this out fast.”

“Government pressure. I think the EPA is hoping Dallas could be blamed somehow for the toxic dumping.”

“Why?”

“If it was an accident that happened while disposing of the drums, then I no longer have a murder investigation and I am no longer in their hair.”

“A knife wound changes that,” I said. “What do they say now?”

“Nothing. Clamps are coming down. I talked to someone in the criminal division. They’re tracking former employees of Pisgah Paper. Another main probe is Broad Creek and Ridgemont Power. Ralph Ludden has a lot of Washington political clout and will be pulling PR strings, but basically he’ll cooperate with the investigation. I’ve made it clear the murder is the most serious offense of all, and we have jurisdiction. I demanded their full assistance and any information pertaining to Dallas Willard that they might uncover.”

“You see anything else in here that surprised you?” I asked.

“The coat.”

“What coat?” I looked again at the report. “There is no mention of a coat?”

“Exactly. Where is the long gray coat he wore in the cemetery to hide the shotgun? It wasn’t in the pickup and it wasn’t on the body. Was he killed elsewhere, say inside, and then moved to the quarry? But you know how rough that road was. How did the murderer bounce him around in the pickup without some blood seepage? We went over that truck carefully and there were no blood stains.”

“Someone not only has the shotgun but the great coat as well.”

“That’s what I think,” said Tommy Lee.

“So, where are you going to start?” I asked.

“With a return visit to our new best friend, Fred Pryor. We’ll see him bright and early in the morning. He thinks he’s got troubles with the EPA. Wait till he hears in no uncertain terms his company is the subject of a murder investigation. And I’m gonna be in his hair like a hungry cootie.”

“Really? I’ve always thought of you as more of a louse.”

“You’re confusing me with my opponent.”

“Do you think Cain’s involved in this somehow?” I asked. “He’s in charge of security.”

“Certainly a possibility. But I’ve got to be careful not to look like I’m persecuting him, especially since I’ve already arrested him once.”

“That Coleman boy who died of the snakebite. His father is part of a group that works at Broad Creek. Wonder if they would know anything?”

“Maybe,” said Tommy Lee. “They back yet?”

“I don’t know. Last Sunday night the Colemans and their preacher went straight to Kentucky from the visitation. They might drive home today. Reverend Pace said they all live close together, like a compound. You ever seen it?”

“Once. Went up there trying to straighten out why their kids weren’t in school. They’ve spread their shacks out along some acreage the power company owns. Not really an organized compound like those Branch Davidians in Waco. More of a migrant workers camp, except they had to build their own shelter. The site is not far from the power project. We can stop by on our way to rattle Pryor’s chain.”

A little before nine the next morning, Tommy Lee pulled behind an old maroon Plymouth. Reverend Pace’s car. He and Sarah Hollifield were just getting out as we parked. Gone were Sarah’s tartan skirt and black shoes. Now she wore jeans and a pair of hiking boots. Pace was making progress with his new charge.

“Got a new congregation?” joked Tommy Lee.

“Can you believe it?” asked Sarah. “That’s their church.”

We walked over to a circle of wooden benches surrounding a hand-hewn, six-foot cross erected in the center. It was an outdoor amphitheater carved in the woods where twenty or thirty worshipers could gather.

“From catacombs to cathedrals, it’s the people who make the church,” said Pace. He turned his attention back to us. “They in trouble with the law?”

“No,” said Tommy Lee. “We’re just following up some things. The Colemans back yet?”

Pace pointed to a shack barely visible through the trees. “Don’t know. Sarah and I dropped by to see.”

We walked thirty yards through the woods. Pace led the way, followed by Sarah. I stayed close behind, sticking to the narrow path which had been worn from the outdoor church to the compound of makeshift houses clustered on the ridge. Tommy Lee brought up the rear. As we stepped into the open, a voice broke the stillness.

“Wouldn’t be thievin’ now, would you?”

Leroy Jackson stepped around the corner of the first shack. He carried a gym satchel in one hand and his Bible in the other. Without a word of greeting, he strode to us, his face darkened with suspicion and anger.

“I truly hope you haven’t suffered any theft or vandalism, Mr. Jackson,” said Pace. He forced himself to present a smile and an attitude of concern. “We only came by to see that everything was all right with the Colemans. Figured you and them would be back from Kentucky.”

Leroy Jackson paused a moment, not sure how to react to Pace’s disarming words. “I drove all night to get back,” he said flatly. “Luke and his wife are coming in tomorrow. Now I got to go to work.”

“Power project?” asked Pace.

“Yeah. Hard, honest labor. I don’t have any rich, liberal denomination sending me a paycheck.”

Pace let the criticism pass unanswered.

“Well, we don’t want to hold you up,” said Pace. He nodded to us. “I believe you know Mr. Clayton and Sheriff Wadkins, and this is my associate, Reverend Sarah Hollifield.”

“A woman? A woman preacher? I suggest you read your Bible, Miss Reverend Sarah Hollifield. First Corinthians 14:34—‘Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home: for it is a shame for women to speak in the church.’”

Sarah’s face bloomed scarlet at the admonishment, but a fire leapt in her eyes. “‘Let your women keep silence,’ Mr. Jackson. I have good news to preach. Was it not Mary Magdalene to whom the Risen Lord first appeared and commanded she tell the others? Was it not also St. Paul who wrote we are all one in Christ, ‘there is neither male nor female.’ Yes, I do read my Bible, thank you, with my mind and my heart.”

She turned away from Leroy Jackson before he had a chance to argue further. Reverend Pace whispered an “Amen” and followed, trying not to show the pride I knew he felt for his spunky sidekick.

“Let’s go,” Tommy Lee told me. “Mr. Jackson, I’m sure we will be meeting again.”

“The Colemans have suffered enough,” he said. “Leave them alone.”

As we walked back to the patrol car, I had the feeling Leroy Jackson’s eyes never left us.

“But I understood Mr. Pryor just returned from Charlotte yesterday.” Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins made the statement sound like an accusation.

Jane Cummings simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “Mr. Ludden phoned Mr. Pryor last night. Mr. Pryor left me a message this morning that he was driving to Charlotte and would not be in the office today.”

Tommy Lee looked at me and I could tell he was disappointed. Evidently Ridgemont Power and Electric was circling the wagons, and Pryor was being indoctrinated with the company line. I hoped that would mean full cooperation.

“When is he coming back?” asked Tommy Lee.

“He said he’d call when he got there. It’s a three-hour drive. I don’t expect to hear from him before one. If the meeting only lasts this afternoon, then he’ll probably drive home tonight. He has rented a condo over in the Mica Valley resort.”

“Well, when he phones in, let him know I want to speak with him first thing in the morning. Would you check his calendar?”

The woman flipped the pages of the date book on the corner of her desk. “I can’t confirm his schedule until I speak with him, but it looks clear.”

I edged closer to her desk, trying to get a better view of the appointment book. “What was Mr. Pryor’s schedule last Thursday and Friday?”

She reviewed the pages. “He was in Asheville Thursday. That’s where our main office was before we came here full time. Then he was here on Friday.”

“Would you check his Friday morning appointments?” I asked.

“Nothing noted here. Perhaps it’s on the daily log. Mr. Pryor has me keep a project journal. He likes a detailed record on a day-by-day basis.” She hesitated and wondered whether she should be telling the police about her boss’ private diary.

“I suggest you get it,” said Tommy Lee. He anticipated her wavering. “The journal is just your chronological report of project activities. We’re not requesting privileged information.”

With that official assurance, she retrieved a loose-leaf notebook from the top of the credenza behind her desk. She opened it and found the days in question. “Here’s last Friday.” Several paragraphs were typed on clean white paper that had been hole-punched and reinforced so as not to tear out of the three-ring binder. She turned back a page. “And this is Thursday. Yes, Mr. Pryor spent the day in Asheville.”

Thursday’s report was handwritten on a sheet of lined yellow legal paper. “I forgot to re-type this one,” Jane said. “Power was out that morning.”

“Thursday?” I asked. “It was also out Friday when we first came by looking for Dallas Willard.”