The Closing: A Whippoorwill Hollow novel (The Whippoorwill Hollow novels) (13 page)

Wednesday morning was scorching hot. The mercury stood above ninety when Nate drove down a dirt road and across a one-lane bridge that arched over Little Bear River. Clarence Shifflett lived alone in an unpainted little cinderblock house with a green tin roof that sat back from the road on the banks of the river. Clarence stood on his front stoop dressed in a shiny brown suit, a string tie, and his trademark felt hat. Unruly shocks of silver hair stuck out from the hat rim. He was clutching a big black briefcase to his chest with both hands.

Nate drove to the house and stopped. Clarence squinted at Nate. “That you, Nate?”

Nate leaned across the seat and opened the door. “Get in.”

Clarence climbed in and set the case on his lap.

“What’s in the case?”

“Tools of the trade.”

Nate drove the winding road to Bloxton. The heat cooked the asphalt. The mountains shimmered on the horizon. “Did you find anything on Jones?” he asked.

“My contact in St. Louis found his personnel file. The rumors about him are true. He served in Vietnam, and he was one helluva fighter.” Jones’ story seemed to have had an effect on Clarence. Uncharacteristically, he recited what he had learned about Jones from memory without reference to his notes. “Jones was drafted in 1961. When he’d served his time, he reenlisted and volunteered for combat duty. The army sent him to Vietnam with the first wave of American troops that fought the North Vietnamese. He fought at a pitched battle on the Drang River in November, 1965. His platoon was ambushed from two sides in a clearing near a creek bed. Jones was shot in the thigh in the first minutes of the fighting, but he couldn’t retreat from the field because his platoon was cut off from the rest of the US forces. His platoon held off the enemy forces for two days and nights before their battalion reached them and pulled them back. Over half the platoon was killed. Jones fought the entire battle with a shattered femur. He killed scores of North Vietnamese troops and the army gave him a lot of the credit for the platoon’s survival. He got a Purple Heart for the wound and a Bronze Star for bravery. His leg wound was so serious they ruled him medically unfit for combat and sent him back to the states. He was discharged in 1966.”

Nate was surprised. Given what he’d learned about Jones’ corruption of the evidence in the Deatherage case, he expected his reputation to be a myth, but if anything, the rumors understated his heroism. It didn’t add up. “Did your source see anything at all in his record that looked off-color?”

“Nothing. His record is clean.”

Nate shook his head. “All right. What did you find out about Swiller?”

“I tracked Swiller back to Albemarle County through the DMV records. I called a retired deputy there, one of my old buddies. He gave me a lot of scuttlebutt on him.” Clarence struggled with his case to extract a notepad. He held the pad close to his eyes. “Swiller’s people were rich landowners in Albemarle County all the way back to colonial days, but he didn’t live up to his family name. He was a gadfly as a young man and he didn’t improve with age. He barely graduated from the University of Virginia. Took him six years. His daddy’s money got him into Washington and Lee Law School, but he didn’t do much better there, graduating at the bottom of the class in 1930. He opened a law office in Charlottesville the next year, but he was more interested in the whiskey bar than the legal bar. In the thirties and forties he racked up a long record of convictions for drunk driving and drunkenness in public. In the fifties his boozing began to mess up his law business. His clients filed a pile of bar charges against him. Mrs. Dietrich at the state bar looked up his record for me. Nice lady.”

“Those records are confidential.”

“Judge Blackwell chairs a committee looking to write new legal ethics rules, you know. Mrs. Dietrich somehow got the idea she was talking to the judge.”

Nate grimaced. “I wonder how she got that impression.”

Clarence chuckled. “Mrs. Dietrich said Swiller showed up drunk at a trial and the case had to be postponed. That was in 1956. The Virginia State Bar’s disciplinary board gave him a written reprimand. It happened again in ’57 and another time in ’60. The disciplinary board pulled his lawyer’s license for three months after that third one. Mrs. Dietrich said they usually see that kind of pattern with the lawyers who drink too much. She said whiskey is the downfall of many—” Clarence caught himself. “I’m sorry, Nate.”

“Just tell me what happened to Swiller.”

“His drinking got worse. In ’61 he flat didn’t show up for a trial. The disciplinary board pulled his license for six months. Then in ’62 he didn’t show up the last day of a jury trial. The court issued a bench warrant on him. The Albemarle County sheriff’s boys found him passed out drunk on his kitchen floor. The judge had to declare a mistrial, assign the case to another lawyer, and retry the whole thing. The disciplinary board was mighty pissed about that one. They took his license for a year and told him they would disbar him for good if he slipped up again. He didn’t give them the chance. He shut the doors on his law practice in Charlottesville and drank his way through his inheritance. By the summer of ’63 he ran out of money and declared bankruptcy. In November ’63, the disciplinary board’s suspension wore off, and shortly after that, he showed up in Bloxton to represent the well-known murderer Creighton Long. He moved to Bloxton, opened a law office in a building near the old freight yard, and handled criminal cases there till he died. Kept to himself in Bloxton, I guess. Nobody I called there knew much about him.”

Nate shook his head, mystified. “I don’t understand how Swiller got the Long case.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Long was an indigent defendant. The case was notorious. I’m sure defense lawyers from all over Virginia volunteered to represent him for the publicity. Yet Judge Herring told District Judge Gwathmey to appoint Swiller, a bankrupt broken-down drunk coming off a string of suspensions. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes sense when you know Judge Herring’s background.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was hard to find much on the judge because you didn’t want me to talk to anyone who might tip him off, but I found out enough to guess why he gave Swiller that big case. The judge went to Washington and Lee Law School. He graduated in 1930, just like Swiller.”

“Washington and Lee’s a small law school. If the judge and Swiller were classmates, they knew each other.”

“They knew each other all right. The postal records show the same address for them while they were in law school—33 University Circle, Apartment 3B.”

“They were roommates.”

“They were, and I’m guessing they stayed in touch after law school. If I’m right, they were friends for more than thirty years when the judge appointed Swiller to represent Long. Is it legal for a judge to appoint his friend to represent people in the judge’s own courtroom?”

“There’s no rule against that, but if the judge persuaded Swiller to lose the Deatherage case or other cases on purpose, they engaged in a criminal conspiracy. What I don’t understand is why Judge Herring would risk his career to convict Deatherage or anyone else.”

“I was in law enforcement for forty years. I’ve seen people commit serious crimes for every kind of reason. From what I’ve heard about this judge, his motive for rigging the outcome of this case might be power.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Judge Herring is the chief judge of the circuit and the only circuit judge in Buck County. He didn’t get into that position by accident. He worked and schemed to get to the top. Power is its own reward for a man like that. Maybe he can’t get enough by following the rules.”

Nate and Clarence arrived in Bloxton at half past noon. “Is there a restaurant where all the truckers stop to eat?” Clarence asked.

“There’s a place called The Grill on Ewell Street near the state road. I’ve noticed trucks parked in front of it every time I’ve been here.”

“If the truckers eat there, it’ll have the best food in town and it’ll be popular with the locals. Drop me off there.”

“Okay,” Nate said. “There’s another place I’d like you to look at. Deatherage told me he met Updike at a restaurant called the Coal Bin. I drove by it last time I was here. It’s on Water Street about three blocks from The Grill.”

“I’ll get directions from the help at The Grill and walk down there for supper.”

The Grill was a little white frame building in a gravel lot. Three tractor-trailer rigs, an oil tanker, and a cement truck were parked in front of it. Nate dropped Clarence off there and agreed to pick him up at seven at the Coal Bin.

Nate wanted to find Henry Crawford. He might have seen or heard something that would lead to the identity of the murderer. Nate drove every street in Bloxton looking for him. No luck. He went to the abandoned warehouse and searched it. Crawford wasn’t there either. He stood in front of the warehouse and thought about the man who attacked him and removed Crawford and the mattresses from the warehouse. That man might be holding Crawford somewhere, keeping him away from Nate. It wouldn’t be difficult. A steady supply of liquor would keep the old drunk out of sight. He was probably somewhere in the county, but Nate didn’t know where else to look. Without help, he was at a dead end.

Nate squinted at the sun. The temperature had risen into the high nineties. Streams of perspiration trickled down his back under his shirt. He wiped sweat from his face and stared at Odoms’ house. Odoms was the logical person to reach out to for help, but Nate felt uncomfortable doing so. In Buck County, Odoms was the most vulnerable class of citizen. He was poor and black. He had no reason to help Deatherage and Nate had no right to drag him into a contest with the local authorities. Nate stared at Odoms’ house for a long time. He could think of no one else in the county he trusted. He crossed the yard and knocked on Odoms’ door.

Odoms opened the door and grimaced. “I hoped I’d seen the last of you. What you want now?”

“Have you seen Henry Crawford?”

“Ain’t seen him for days.”

“Where do you think he might be?”

“He’s a homeless drunk. He don’t have a regular place to be.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“About noon the day before you came here and questioned me about the killing. He was walkin down Ewell Street with a bottle of wine. He went inside the warehouse.”

“So you haven’t seen him since the night that red pickup was parked here.”

Odoms looked concerned. “That’s right, now that you mention it.”

Nate wiped sweat off the back of his neck and looked at the warehouse. “If you wanted to get rid of the old mattresses in the warehouse, what would you do with them?”

“Burn em.”

Nate thought about that. “Burning them would take a long time.”

“Not if you poured gas on em. I’d guess a half hour to an hour.”

“Lots of smoke. It would attract attention.”

“That’s true. Black smoke. Lots of it. People would see it for miles around. Smell it closer by. So what?”

“I don’t think the man who took the mattresses would risk drawing attention to a fire. If you couldn’t burn them, what would you do?”

“Haul em to the county dump.”

Nate nodded. “Where’s the dump?”

“Other side of Bloxton.”

“Show me where it is. Ride with me.”

“Why you so interested in those mattresses?”

“Somebody knocked me out that night you saw the red pickup. While I was down, he got Crawford out of the warehouse and removed the mattresses. For some reason, he doesn’t want me to get a good look at them. Burying them would be a big job. Burning them might attract attention. The county dump seems like a logical alternative for quick disposal.”

“Why would somebody hide the mattresses from you?”

“They may have evidence of the murder on them, Updike’s hair or fibers from her clothes or an old bloodstain.”

“Why you botherin me about this malarkey?”

“I don’t know my way around Buck County. I need help. You’ve been straight with me. I trust you. I don’t trust anyone else here.”

“Why should I help you? I don’t care what happens to Deatherage.”

“Henry Crawford is missing. You seem to be the only person who cares about him. Whoever took the mattresses may be holding him against his will.”

Odoms seemed to reflect on Nate’s points. “All right, damn it. Wait here.” Odoms left and returned with a pistol in his hand.

“You won’t need a firearm,” Nate said.

“You don’t know what you’re up against, lawyer. I’ll take you to the dump, but that’s the end of it. You’re on your own after that.”

About five miles outside Bloxton, Odoms pointed to a wooden sign with the words “County Dump” scrawled in white paint. Nate turned onto a dirt road that cut a path through scrub pines. A rusty pipe stretched across the road, blocking access.

Odoms said, “You got to pay a dollar to the man.”

Nate gave Odoms a dollar. He walked across a clearing to a shack. An old black man came to the door, and Odoms paid him. The old man limped to the gate, unlocked it, and waved Nate and Odoms through. Nate drove down the dirt road and rolled the car to a stop on a shelf of land that overlooked a gaping ravine. Odoms and Nate walked to the lip of the ravine. The stench of rot soured the air. A flock of sparrows flew out of the dump, momentarily blotted out the sun, and streaked a dark line across the sky. All manner of castaway items lay at the bottom of the ravine—rusted bed springs, broken furniture, hollowed-out hulls of junk cars, rusty refrigerators and stoves, boxes and bags of trash. They scanned the surface for several minutes.

“Don’t see the mattresses,” Odoms said.

Nate returned to the car, retrieved a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment, and walked back to the cliffside. He peered at the trash through the binoculars for a long time. “It’s only been a few days since they disappeared. If they’re here, they should be on the surface.”

“Lemme have a look,” Odoms said. Nate handed him the binoculars. Odoms searched for a while longer but finally gave up. “They ain’t here.”

“Looks like we guessed wrong,” Nate said.

They returned to the car and drove away from the dump. Nate drove through the gate and stopped at the paved road. “Where else could someone hide those mattresses?”

“It’s a big county. Could be anyplace.”

“Maybe you were right with your first guess. Maybe he burned them. It was late at night, very dark. Maybe he wasn’t worried about the smoke.”

“Could be.” Odoms stroked his jaw. “There’s another place to dump trash. It’s easier to get to. You don’t have to go through a locked gate, and there’s less chance somebody will see you there.”

Odoms directed Nate to drive west to Dealeton. Just past the town, they turned off to a dirt road. The car crested a rise and a manmade canyon opened up before them, stretching out for several hundred yards. They drove down a road that was cut into the cliff walls of the gaping hole. The road rounded the huge hole and descended to the bottom of a pit. Two thirds of the way around the wall, Odoms told Nate to stop the car. He got out and went to the edge of the road and Nate followed. Trash thrown from the road cascaded down the slope and formed great piles of debris at the bottom.

Odoms said, “Red Diamond Rock Products dug this quarry years ago. When all the rock was gone, they laid off their workers, pulled out of the county, and left this big hole behind. It’s illegal to do it, but some people throw their junk in there. There’s no gate to block your way. You don’t have to pay here. You could throw those old mattresses in this hole and figure nobody would notice em or come here lookin for em.”

They scanned the piles of junk and Odoms saw the mattresses first. Five mattresses were strewn along the slope of the biggest mountain of trash. From the high spot on the road, they looked like wrinkled postage stamps.

“How do we get down there?” Nate said.

“We follow this road to the bottom and drive along the flats to the base of that pile of junk.”

The mound of trash looked small from the road above it, but as they drove across the bottom of the quarry, the mountain of cast-off goods loomed higher. When they rolled to a stop at the foot of the mound, Nate guessed the pile of trash was sixty feet tall.

Odoms craned his neck to look at the top. “Ten years’ worth a junk mounts up.”

The trash hugged the wall of the pit and stretched down a long steep slope to the bottom. The mattresses were not visible from the quarry floor, but based on the view from above, Nate guessed they lay close to the top of the slope.

Odoms and Nate awkwardly picked their way up the mountain of junk. Nate’s foot broke through the seat bottom of an easy chair. He cursed, kicked free of the chair, and climbed on. Farther along, Odoms stumbled over a rusty metal bed frame and fell to his knees. He struggled to his feet, mopped his face with the belly of his shirt, and squinted at the sky. “Hot as hell.” When they finally reached the mattresses, they sat down to catch their breath.

Odoms said, “What are we lookin for?”

“If Updike was killed on one of these mattresses, it should still have an old bloodstain on it.”

Nate and Odoms rose and inspected the closest mattress. It was filthy. Stains of various colors and shapes marred both sides. Some of the stains were dark, but Nate couldn’t tell if they were bloodstains. They looked at three more mattresses, all of them filthy and covered with stains. Nate was hot and winded. He stood with his hands on his hips, sweating and breathing hard. The last mattress lay behind Odoms. A stain on it caught Nate’s eye. It was centered in the top half of the mattress. It was dark red and it glistened in the sun. Nate pointed to it. “That looks like dried blood.”

Odoms grabbed one end of the mattress and tried to turn it, but it was heavier than the others. He dropped it, covered his nose with his hand, and stepped back. “God almighty. There’s trouble here. I know that smell. Grab the other end and help me.”

Nate grasped the end of the mattress and they flipped it over. The lining ripped open. A cloud of vapor billowed from it and an oval-shaped melon-sized object fell out of the tear in the mattress. It was maroon, purple, and blue. It was framed by matted hair streaked with dried blood.

Nate staggered backward and fell. He sat up on his haunches and vomited. Odoms leaned over the mattress and looked at the protruding head. He walked over to Nate and sat down beside him.

“I smelled that rot in Korea,” Odoms said. “You don’t ever forget it.”

“Is it Henry Crawford?”

“You can’t tell by his face. He was beat too bad, but the hair and the beard are Henry’s.” Odoms wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Had to be a cold man killed Henry. He was just a poor old drunk who couldn’t crawl out of his bottle.”

They sat for a while without saying anything. Then Odoms said, “What you gonna do about Henry?”

“Notify the sheriff.”

“I don’t wanna be part of it. They’ll put Henry’s killin on me. I’m the nigger in this mess.”

Nate agreed. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. There’s no need to expose you. I’ll tell the sheriff I found him on my own. I’ll keep you out of it.”