Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series) (33 page)

Martha gave him a sharp look, but Redbone did not respond directly to her. He spoke to Robert. “Martha is the best personal guard we have, and I think your parents might be more comfortable with a woman in the house than with a strange man.”

Kruger called on the radio to ask where I was. I told him I would join him in a couple of minutes. To tell the truth, I was very happy to delegate the work of talking to the McNutts to Willie Dill. “Why doesn’t Robert help me while you’re talking to them?” I asked.

I checked the laser again before we left the blacksmith shop. It was holding steady, and Robert and I walked around the store and across to the community center. I was careful to keep myself between him and the woods, and we crossed the road without incident. I called Kruger to meet me at the back and told him how I wanted to do the search.

Redbone joined us a moment later and waited in the woods with Robert while Kruger and I spotted our tree. When we joined them, I saw Redbone had changed sweatshirts with Robert, and the youngster was wearing a dark cap. He saw my look and nodded. The two of them were about the same size, and Alex was wearing body armor.

The tree the laser pointed to was a large pine, and the first limbs were at least fifteen feet above us. I asked Robert if his dad had a ladder when he grinned and pointed behind me. I turned around to see Alex Redbone grab the first limb and haul himself over it. A couple of minutes later, I heard him tell us he had spotted the laser.
 

Two minutes later, he was on the ground pointing to another tree deeper into the woods. “I found a mark where the bullet grazed a branch,” he told us. “It may have hit that one.” Ten minutes later, he was standing on the ground again, handing me a plastic bag containing a small bullet. It was bright and unmarked except for the tiny grooves left by the rifle barrel. More to the point, I could see it was a .223.

Kruger shook his head. “How in the world did you do that?” he asked.

“My grandfather was half squirrel,” Alex told him solemnly.

“I believe it,” I told him. “How did you know where to look?”

Redbone shrugged. “I don’t know. I just did.” Then he grinned. Reaching in his pocket, he brought out another bullet, one just like the first. “It’s an old Indian trick!” Kruger couldn’t figure out why the rest of us were laughing.

We went back to the community center and stood in the deep shade cast by a large gum tree behind it, talking about what to do next. Then I heard a soft pop and Redbone fell to the ground. I threw myself at Robert, knocking him down and pinning him to the ground beneath me. My automatic was in my hand, and I raised it straight up, firing three quick shots. I saw Kruger crouched behind the gum tree, his pistol pointing toward the woods.

For a moment there was silence. Then gunshots broke out on the other side of the woods, near the road. My ears were still ringing from my own shots, but I could hear someone crashing through the woods, and at least one other person in pursuit. Grabbing Robert by the shirt, I hauled him into the community center. “Are you hit?” I asked, looking over him anxiously.

“No,” he said. His face had lost all color. “Is he dead?”

I turned to look for Redbone, but he was coming through the door holding his side. “No such luck,” he groaned, falling into a chair. He was having trouble breathing.

“Watch the front door,” I told Robert. I helped Redbone to the floor and stripped off his jacket and shirt. His body armor was badly torn, and I could see blood seeping through. When I peeled back the armor, there was a shallow gash in his side, and I could see a massive bruise forming. I told him what I saw.

“It feels like I have broken ribs,” he told me. “The bastard must’ve been using hunting bullets. I was lucky.”

I glanced at his wound again and saw something else. “Hold still,” I said. Taking out a pair of tweezers, I reached into the wound and pulled out a small metal mushroom. I held it up so he could see it.

“Hey, I found another bullet,” Redbone quipped, managing a faint smile. He poked his little finger through a hole in the jacket he had been wearing. “I’m sorry, Robert. I seem to have ruined your jacket.”

“Cool!” said Robert, taking the jacket and looking at the hole.

“Robert,” I said to him sternly. “Whoever did this was trying to kill you.”

“I know,” he said, shrugging off my concern. “He missed.”

I looked at Redbone, who shrugged. “I think your dad may look at it a bit differently.”

“You not gonna tell him!” Robert protested.

“I have to, Robert,” I said. “He’s your dad. He needs to know so he can protect you.”

Robert was saved from any reply by the front door opening. I had my gun up and leveled before I saw it was Robert senior. “What in the hell is going on?” he demanded.

“The man who killed Luther Adams just took a shot at Robert,” I told him. “Alex here took the bullet. He was wearing Robert’s jacket.”

McNutt looked at Redbone’s wound and at the jacket. Robert had his little finger through the hole. “Why did he do that?” McNutt demanded.

“We think Robert may have seen Smiley Jones’ killer,” I told him. “So did Luther Adams.”

“No, why was he wearing my son’s jacket?” McNutt corrected.

“We thought there was an outside chance this might happen,” I replied. “I thought it was a good idea while we were outside.”

“It turns out we were right,” Redbone added.

For a moment I thought McNutt would hit me. “You get back to the house, son,” he told Robert in a quiet, angry voice. “I need to talk to these men.”

“Wait!” I said. “It’s not safe for him to go outside just yet. The killer may still be out there.” Redbone nodded.

“Why wasn’t I told about this?” McNutt demanded.

“That’s my fault,” came a voice from the doorway. It was Willie Dill. “We didn’t know there was a definite threat.” Martha Johnston came in the door right after him. She was carrying a Uzi.

“Who the hell are you!” McNutt snarled.

Dill did an impressive federal flip. The case was FBI, and the badge was gold. “My name is Willie Dill. We are federal agents. This is Agent Johnston, and this is Agent Redbone.”

McNutt took the identification folder and looked at it carefully. “All right. Let’s assume who you say you are. Who’s trying to shoot my son?”

“We don’t know for sure,” Dill told him. “We think it’s this man— Edward Posey.” He showed McNutt a photo.

“He looks like Smiley Jones,” McNutt said.

“It’s his son,” Dill told him.

“His son?” McNutt said. “His son killed him?”

“It’s a long story,” Dill said. “Dr. Phillips can fill you in. Right now I’m concerned about the safety of your son. This Posey is bad news.”

“I’d like to get my hands on him,” Robert McNutt said softly. “Take a shot at a child of mine!”

“We need to talk about protective custody,” Dill responded. “How long has it been since you had a family vacation?”

Robert McNutt looked at Dill like he had gone crazy. “We can’t be taking a vacation,” he said. “We’ve got a store to run. Robert has school.”

“Robert can’t go to school until we catch Posey,” Dill insisted. “I don’t want to get pushy, buy he’s a material witness. We can put him in protective custody if you don’t cooperate. I don’t want him killed like he nearly was today.”

McNutt didn’t like it, but he saw the sense of what Dill was saying. “You take Robert and his mama,” he said. “I’ll stay here and run the store. She can make sure he keeps up his lessons.”

“You take his mama where?” a new voice sounded from the front door. It was Robert’s mother. “What’s going on here?”

It took a few minutes to sort out, but when Dora McNutt found out her son was in danger, she insisted on closing the store. “You’re crazy, Robert McNutt!” she told her husband. “The man’s offering us an expense-paid family vacation, and you’re not taking it? What’s the matter with you? We haven’t had a family vacation since we got here! Where will we be going?” she asked Dill.

“I had a family ranch in Wyoming in mind,” Dill told her. “We use it as a safe place sometimes. Martha’s husband runs the ranch, and it’s quite nice this time of year. We could send you somewhere else, too, I suppose, but it wouldn’t be nearly as comfortable.”

“We’ll be ready in an hour,” Dora replied. This precipitated an argument with her husband, but she cut it off. “We’re the only store in town, and it won’t hurt business a bit. Clara can run the place until we get back, and I don’t care if she steals us blind.”

McNutt tried to put up a good fight, but two hours later the three of them were in the car and headed to Little Rock with Redbone and Martha Johnston. I hated to see Robert go, but he was excited. Even Robert senior was showing some excitement by the time they left. He smiled when he hung a “gone fishing” sign in the store window.

When they were gone, Dill suggested we head into Nashville for a belated lunch. “I’m too pumped to sleep,” he told me. “Why don’t you drive if you don’t mind?” I agreed, and Dill was out like a light before we were three miles down the road. I took my time getting to Nashville.

*
 
*
 
*

That afternoon I headed for Little Rock. I phoned Weaver to let him know I was bringing him some fresh bullets, and he told me he would stay late at the lab to run ballistics. He hoped to have the DNA from the cigarette butts ready, as well as fingerprint results from the lottery ticket.

Walking back into my old office was a strange experience. This was the first time I had actually been there since retiring, although I had visited the lab several times. There had been other meetings in the building, but I had never gone to the area where Dee had his office. The staff were gone for the day when I got there, which made it easier in some ways, but having to wait in the foyer for an escort was a new experience. Nor did knowing why this was necessary change much in the way I felt.

I was glad when Dee showed up to escort me to the office area himself. He was apologetic about it. “It won’t be long until I’ll have to have an escort, too,” he laughed. “Only, I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

“Any idea what you’re going to do?” I asked when we were in the elevator.

“The first thing is trying to get my life back,” he answered. “I don’t know if my wife and I will make it, but I’ve got to try.” That was strange, the way Dee referred to her as his wife and not by her given name. It sounded to me like there was a lot of distance between them already. “I’m not sure what she wants to do,” he added. “She seems to be doing better now that we’re apart.”

When the elevator stopped I was surprised to see we were on the lab floor. “I thought we would stop by here,” Dee explained. “Weaver called and asked me to bring you here first. He wants to fill us in together.”

Weaver was waiting for us in the lab conference room. He was as excited as a young pup on its first hunt and was holding a FedEx envelope. When he saw us, he opened the envelope and set the papers in it on the table. Without pause for a greeting, he launched into his presentation. “This came this morning from the Department of Defense,” he said, handing us a letter encased in a clear plastic sheet protector. “No one from this office has touched these documents without gloves, and I was able to raise some good prints. The original paper looks like standard government bond.”

Weaver handed us photocopies of the letter. It was on what looked like a Department of Defense letterhead and at the end was a scrawl that could have been made by a chicken scratching for food. The letter was addressed directly to Weaver as head of the CID, which was odd, and it was short and to the point:

Enclosed you will find a DNA profile and fingerprint chart for 1st Sgt. Wilbur Edward Posey, deceased, United States Army. The profile was taken from blood on dog tags removed from Sgt. Posey’s body by Graves Registration in 1972. His remains are not available for examination. The date of his death and the manner of his death is classified. We affirm he died in service to his country. No further information is available. Our condolences to his family.

“Is it just me, or is that exceptionally cold?” I asked.

Both men nodded. “Even by Department of Defense standards,” Dee said. “Did you catch the name above the signature?”

I nodded. “It appears our Captain Smith’s first name is John. He either doesn’t have a middle initial or didn’t bother with it.”

“His fingerprints are classified, too,” Weaver told us. “I ran them as soon as I brought them up from the letter. There was only one set of prints, and we got a very fast bounce. The one thing that is for real is the FedEx account. This was sent from the Pentagon.” He stopped and let us absorb the news.