The Rivers Webb (17 page)

“Plannin' a trip?” Sam finally asked.

Gerald turned and looked at him curiously now.

“And what would give you that notion, Doc?”

Sam smiled.

“It's a bit late ta' be getting' dinner. And I figgered you weren't the sort o' man that would be eatin' two whole sandwiches, plus a big ol' mess o' potato salad all by y'self, now would you?”

“I suppose not,” Gerald said cautiously.

“‘Course, a couple o' sandwiches and some potato salad would do a fella' pretty well on a long car trip…in case he gets hungry on the way.”

Gerald didn't respond.

“Mind ya', I'm jes' thinkin' out loud, Gerald. And it ain't none o' my business any which way. I'm jes' thinkin' out loud.”

“'Course you are, Doc,” he said, believing none of it.

“Just like I might think—out loud, o' course—that you're startin' ta' look a little peekid, but that certainly don't mean I know that you're getting' sick.”

“Sick?”

“Oh, now don't let me put no thoughts inta' your head, now. I certainly wouldn't want ta' do that. 'Specially on account o' how you help so many people, and how so many o' them folks count on you.”

“'Course not,” Gerald said, still cautious.

“But o' course, if you was to feel poorly, I would certainly hope that you would have the good sense to put off any thoughts o' travellin',” Sam said.

As though someone had suddenly turned a light on, Gerald sat a little straighter in the stool.

“Just plain cancel the trip, huh?” Gerald asked.

“That is, if ya' were travellin,” Sam added.

“Right.”

Sam looked down at his now empty coffee cup and hopped off the stool.

“Well, you jes' think about what I said, now. After all, a whole lotta people around here count on you, so's you gots to take care o' yourself. 'Cause, some times a fella' may feel on top of the world one minute, than out o' the blue, he's gonna feel real poorly. When that time comes, he best just stay on home.” With that, Sam Posey walked out into the night and disappeared, leaving Gerald to ponder his words.

A few hours later, a very agitated Arnold Rivers was driving down a dark dirt road, headed toward Atlanta. He should have been grateful that Gerald was able to help him sneak out and into his car, but he was more angry about having to make the drive by himself.

He couldn't believe that Gerald had taken ill at the last second. The drive would take several hours and he was tired enough having to deal with Wilhelmina all day. He would have preferred taking it easy and relaxing while Gerald did the driving. It would also have been helpful to have his new partners to see the level of importance he had already attained by having a personal servant at his beck and call. Men like this appreciated power and authority.

Not that it mattered. Arnold had worked very hard to make sure every aspect of this new partnership would transpire precisely as he had envisioned it. This final meeting, though important, was, in many ways, a formality.

Up ahead, Arnold saw a dim light moving around across the side of the road. It looked as though someone were trying to signal him, so he pulled over and started to get out of his car.

The light coalesced into the shape of a man, and he realized someone was trying to use a flashlight to get his attention. Most likely someone with car troubles who needed a lift.

“Need a little help?” he asked, rolling down his window.

The figure ahead hardly seemed to move to Arnold. But with a sudden jolt, the hand that gripped the flashlight thrust that unbearable glow into Arnold's face, and the other hand leapt suddenly into view, revealing a small .38-caliber pistol.

Arnold Rivers heard a loud pop. He would never hear anything ever again.

Chapter 8

Friday, May 27th, 1942

It just didn't seem fair. Earl had been through so much over the fast few weeks, it was only right that he take a little time off. Especially considering that he had, in that short amount of time, found the dead body of Reverend Rivers, been smack-dab in the middle of a gunfight, and learned that one of his oldest and dearest friends may well be a crazed murderer. He had hoped that he might get Arthur to shed some light on all this—maybe even say something that would prove, if even just to him, that Arthur truly was innocent. It was not to be. Arthur would not even raise his head to look poor Earl in the eyes.

After that wasted conversation, Earl decided that he needed to get far away from it all. So, after running back to his house for a few necessities, Earl set out to visit his cousin in Birmingham. It seemed perfect. He could spend a week or so away from all the killing and pain, while fishing on a completely new river. It was just what Earl needed, and all he had to do was get out of town.

Perhaps there was a little voice that nagged at the back of Earl's head to ignore the car that was pulled off to the side of the road. Perhaps, somewhere in his subconscious, a persistent urgency was trying to tell him to step on the gas and keep his eyes on the road ahead of him. It didn't matter, because Earl was a Georgia-born man of the south, and generations of courtesy, kindness, and manners trumped even the strongest sense of self-preservation.

For this reason, Earl really had no choice but to stop and get out when he saw Arnold Rivers' car off to the side of the road. He recognized it easily enough. There were only a very few brand new cars in all of Coweta County, and all but two of them belonged to the Rivers family.

“Mr. Rivers? You alright in there?” Earl asked. He received no answer. “Mr. Rivers? Arnold?”

When he still got no answer, the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up, and there was a leaden feeling in his stomach. Earl Cameron knew what he was going to find behind the wheel, even before he inched his way up to the drivers' window. He even tried to stop and turn around. He figured it would be no great tragedy if someone else were to make this particular discovery. But try as he might, he could not get his own body to turn around, any more than he could force his legs to cease their slow but steady progress toward the car. What was worse, he could not seem to quiet his disobedient lips and tongue from flapping out their stupid questions:

“Mr. Rivers, are you alright? Is ever'thing okay?”

When he finally did come abreast of the driver's side of Arnold Rivers' car, Earl was damnably determined not to look inside, but to his own detriment, he did anyway. As he stood there, face to what was left of the face of Arnold Rivers, Earl had just one question on his mind.

“Why cain't you dead folks just leave me alone!?”

* * *

Saturday, May 28th, 1942

In a big city, such as New York, Chicago, or even Atlanta, when there is a murder scene, you'll have a whole team of police and medical examiners poring over every nook and cranny to find even the slightest clues in order to find the guilty party.

In Coweta County, there was Mr. Parrot.

He was already feeling a little over-utilized in his capacity as volunteer medical examiner, especially since he had never had to actually investigate anything until recently. Being called out here at two in the morning to do this seemed a bit much to ask—especially since his only company out there on that dark Georgia road was Earl Cameron, who was less than comforting.

“Earl, could I get a hand over here?” he asked to the huddled figure 10 yards away.

“Whatcha need?” Earl asked cautiously. He had made it perfectly clear that he wanted to be nowhere near the body, and was reluctant to even be there at all, except that Parrot needed him to show him where, exactly, he had found the car.

“Don't fret. You won't have ta' lay so much as a finger on Mr. Rivers, here. I just need you to hold this fishin' line so's I can figg'er out where he was shot from.”

Earl slowly came up and took the end of the line from Mr. Parrott, then watched as he fished it through the highest of the three bullet holes in the windshield.

“Where'd you learn how ta' do that?” Earl asked, as his curiosity overrode his distaste.

“I been talkin' to that Webb fella'. He's been down ta' the funeral home a couple a' times this week, askin' all kinds o' questions about them bodies we got—even went with me ta' look 'em over a bit. Real sharp eye, that fella'.”

Mr. Parrott was now holding his end of the fishing line at a point where he imagined the bullet had connected with Arnold Rivers' skull.

“Lift y'er end up there, Earl. Try an' get it so that there ain't no bit o' line touchin' any o' the sides, there…”

Earl complied readily, fascinated by the whole procedure.

“So, that Mr. Webb feller, he told ya' all about how they solve them crimes up in the big city?” Earl asked.

“Well, he told me a bit. I was mench'nin' to him about old Jack and Bob Halbert, an' how we all kinda' wondered about when Frank ended up shot in the head when those two went huntin' a couple years back. Ever'body knows them two brothers got on about as well as a snake an' a preacher's wife, but Jack swore it were an accident, so it went down on the books as a accident. But there was somethin' that just seemed off ta' me about it. I could never put my finger on it, but somehow that hole in the back o' Frank's head seemed…odd. Step back a ways, Earl. There's good. See how the fishin' line comes up to y'er middle? That's about where you'd hold a gun if you were gon' shoot somebody, I guess.”

Earl was standing about 35 feet from the car.

“Anyways, when I told Mr. Webb about those Halbert boys, that's when he told me about how they use string to figg'er out where a fella' was standin' when he took a shot at somebody. I wished I'd a known about that back then, but I guess it's never too late to learn somethin', right Earl?”

“What was Mr. Rivers shot with?” Earl asked. Maybe it was the clinical way in which Parrott was going about the task, but Earl was starting to get over his fears a little.

“Well, I ain't had the chance to dig nothin' outta his skull, yet…but them holes in the winda' sure ain't big enough for a shotgun slug. And, sinced he was shootin' 'from the hip,' as they say, it sure weren't no rifle. I figg'er it was a .38, just like what killed the reverend.”

Earl was quiet for a moment as he looked down at the line in his hand, then followed it up to Arnold Rivers' car. There was a strange expression on his face.

“Mr. Parrott?” he asked.

“Yea, Earl?”

“Does it seem to you that this is an awful far distance to shoot from? I mean, like you said, ‘from the hip?' I don't know, really. I ain't never shot nothin' but my old squirrel rifle, but whoever done killed poor Mr. Rivers shot him clean in the head three times, without missin'. That just seems…hard ta' do.”

Mr. Parrott stopped and stared at Earl as though he had just discovered the man standing there. It made Earl feel nervous all over again.

“Ya' see, Earl,” he finally said, “that's what they call in the investigative biz'ness a ‘real good observation.' A REAL good'en.”

He might have said more, but the headlights from an oncoming car distracted him.

“Well, lookey here…Coweta County's finest have finally woke up.”

Dan's patrol car pulled in just behind Arnold's car. It was evident that Dan was still a little bleary-eyed from having been awakened at the late hour. John, on the other hand, looked a little more aware as he exited the vehicle and approached the body.

“Thanks for waiting, Mr. Parrott. Can you tell us anything that isn't obvious?” John asked as he peered into the car. Mr. Parrott couldn't help but notice that the man still had a slight limp, though he tried to mask it.

“Well, me an' Earl here was just finishin' up findin' out how far away the shooter was.”

“And?” Dan asked.

“Earl's standin' at the spot.”

Both men turned to see where Earl still stood, dutifully holding a piece of fishing line.

“That's a hell of a shot,” John commented.

“That's what I said!” Earl chimed in.

“You said right, then. Dan, how far away do you think that is?”

“Maybe thirty to thirty-five feet. How many shots were fired, Mr. Parrott?”

“Three. All in the head. No misses.”

The four men stood in silence for a moment, contemplating the meaning of it all.

“There's somethin' else,” Mr. Parrott said suddenly, “Somethin'…well, hell, it's somethin'!”

“Well, what is it?” Dan asked.

“I found a note.”

“Note?” John said with renewed interest. “What kind of note?”

“The short kind. Look here,” Mr. Parrott said, as he directed both men back toward the car. With very delicate care, he reached with two fingers to remove a wrinkled slip of paper off of the dash.

“Are ya' sure it's from our killer?” Dan asked.

“Well, I cain't really swear to it, but I'm fairly certain that Arnold didn't go around jottin' little snippits down in his own blood.”

“That's a good point,” John quipped, taking the note and reading it by flashlight.

“Just couldn't let this one go…”

“What couldn't ya' let go?” asked Earl, from his safe vantage point.

“No, that's what the note says. ‘Just Couldn't Let This One Go. Dot—Dot—Dot.' Exactly.”

John stared at the note as though he might, by careful inspection, magically force more meaning out of it.

“Well, at least it ain't initials this time,” Dan said. “So, what do ya' think he means? What couldn't he let go?”

“Was it even him?” John asked absently.

“Beg pardon?” Mr. Parrott asked, trying desperately to follow the conversation.

“Well, we can't just assume that the killer was referring to himself. Maybe the note was addressing some character flaw the killer saw in Arnold—like he was pointing out that there was something Arnold couldn't let go. Or, he could have been stating that he couldn't let
Arnold
go.”

“This is givin' me a headache,” Dan complained.

“I don't suppose, by any chance, that you happen to recognize the handwriting on this little note?” John asked.

Mr. Parrott shook his head.

“Cain't say as I do.”

“Alright,” John relented, “we'll pick this up tomorrow. What else you got, Mr. Parrott?”

“Not a whole lot, I'm afraid.”

“Was the car moving?” Dan asked.

“Naw. There ain't no skid marks, or any sign that he braked suddenly. But the car was still in drive when Earl found 'im.' Most likely, Arnold pulled up 'cause he saw somethin' up ahead. That's when 'e got hisself shot.”

“An ambush,” John commented. Dan managed to shake the sleep from his eyes as he walked up to where Earl was still held the fishing line.

“Earl's standin' in the middle o' the road, which means our killer was, too. I'm thinkin' that he wasn't trustin' in Arnold's good nature to brake for a fella' standin' in front of 'is car, holdin' a gun.”

“Yeah. Sounds reasonable,” John answered. Dan walked from Earl to the side of the road, knelt down, and pulled a flashlight from his belt. He shined it around for just a moment.

“Bingo!”

John moved over beside him to see what he was looking at.

“That right there…” Dan said as he reached down and touched a wet spot on the ground with two fingers, “ain't clay.” He rubbed his two fingers together for a second, then tentatively brought them up to his nose and inhaled.

“Brake fluid. Somebody parked a car right here.”

John looked around for a moment.

“Earl stopped to help a car along the side of the road. Do you think maybe Arnold Rivers did the same?”

“Like you said,” Dan said, “an ambush.” With that, he got up from his perched position and walked back to Earl. A puzzled John followed, just footsteps behind him.

“Mr. Parrott, would you be so kind as ta' turn the lights on?”

“Beg pardon?”

“The headlights on the car. Turn 'em on.”

Without really knowing why, Mr. Parrott reached into the driver's side of the car and switched on the headlights. The effect, in the dark Georgia night, was considerable.

“Aw Geez, Dan!” Earl exclaimed, “you tryin' to blind us?”

“That's kinda' the point, Earl. That's a damned hard shot, all by itself—as you already pointed out. Throw in blindin' headlights, and you got yer'self a ‘one-in-a-million' shot. Only, this fella' did it three times.”

“Yeah?” Earl said. He clearly wasn't following Dan's train of thought. But John was.

“And, when you figure in the level of planning it takes to determine where Arnold was going to be, so that the killer could set up a broken down car that would cause our victim to pull over…”

“Then it all adds up to one thing,” Dan finished.

“And what would that be, exactly?” Mr. Parrott asked.

“Our killer is a professional,” John said, then turned directly to Dan.

“And suddenly my earlier questions about Arnold's business associates don't sound so paranoid, do they?”

It was one of those classic scenes that deserved a moment of silence, as every man present contemplates the varied implications of what had just transpired. It was not to be, however, because at that moment Mr. Parrott chose to remember something that overshadowed everything.

“So…which one of us is goin' to tell the sheriff about all this?”

* * *

As it happened, Mr. Parrott need not have worried. None of them were faced with the unpleasant task of informing the sheriff of his brother's demise. That fell to Deputy Fred Flandon. Mind you, it wasn't their intention of sticking poor Fred with the duty. But when it came to delivering the news, they ran into a formidable obstacle.