Black River

FIFTY-ONE

It was a phone call that O’Brien didn’t want to make. If he told Laura Jordan too much, she may figure out that he was at the crime scene before police found Ike Kirby’s body.

And there was no sign of the Civil War contract.

After the murder of her husband, and the theft of the diamond, the news about the stealing of the contract would continue to pour acid on her pain. But, she didn’t need to learn the news from a local television station, so O’Brien made the call. When she answered he said, “Laura, something horrific has happened, and I want to give you what information I’ve heard.”

“What is it, Sean? Are you okay?”

“Yes. Ike Kirby has been a victim of a homicide.” He heard her gasp. O’Brien said, “Police are investigating a double murder at the hotel where Ike was staying. Apparently, the killer murdered the clerk and Ike.”

“Oh dear God. I am so, so sorry. He was just here. I need to sit down. He was so kind…I don’t have words…”

O’Brien could hear a muffled sob. He said, “Laura, whoever killed Ike probably stole the Civil War document. That would be the only reason his life was taken.”

“This must come to an end. Why in God’s name? He was such a sweet man. I feel so bad for his family.”

“I’m not certain, but odds are whoever killed Ike was the same man who killed Jack. If police can find this killer, it’ll help some with closure for you.”

“I don’t know what that word means anymore. I have to go, Sean.”

Four days after the double homicide in the hotel, Detective Dan Grant thought he’d have to lead a raid on the man’s house deep in the Ocala National Forest. Maybe he wouldn’t have to. The man, Silas Jackson — a white supremacist with a record of violence, was expected to pick up a paycheck at the accounting office trailer for the movie, Black River. He was to be compensated for a week’s worth of work before his termination. The accountant for the movie, a forty-something, no nonsense woman with a Boston accent, told Detective Grant that Silas Jackson said he’d be in around 1:00 p.m. to pick up the check.

Dan Grant was there at noon. He was there, waiting with his partner, Larry Rollins, a poker-faced, large-boned man with a military haircut and a tiny pink scar between gray eyebrows. At 1:00 p.m. sharp, Silas Jackson opened the door to the office and entered. Dan Grant said, “Mr. Jackson, we’d like a word with you.”

“I already talked to you. Nothing’s changed.”

“Murder changes everything.”

“You got the wrong guy.”

“We want to speak with you about the death of Jack Jordan.”

“I didn’t shoot him.”

“Let’s step outside the office.” Grant motioned to the door and waited for Jackson to exit. The detectives followed him outside, actors and production crew moving about the lot. Grant said, “Over here, in the shade.”

They stepped to the shade under a lofty live oak. Detective Rollins leaned in and asked, “Where were you Sunday night ago? Around four in the morning?”

“Home in bed.”

“Anybody with you?”

“I ain’t married.”

“Got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

Dan Grant said, “Well, we know where you were two weeks before Jack Jordan’s death. You were on a secluded part of the St. Johns River, and you were watching Jordan and his film crew pull a diamond out of the river. Not only were you watching, you were watching through a riflescope. What kept you from shooting Jordan in the river? Too many people? Figured you’d better not kill them all. So you’d bide your time until there was a better opportunity.”

Silas Jackson said nothing. He ran his tongue inside one cheek, glancing at the actors standing near a craft services food truck.

Grant half smiled. “Sort of ironic — as you were pointing a rifle at Jack Jordan, the film crew on the pontoon boat captured you in its lens. And you know what gave it away? Your Confederate uniform. We had a video company enlarge a few single frames and guess what we found. We found you, Jackson.” He held up a sheet of photographs. “The uniform you were wearing when you auditioned to be part of the cast for the movie matched these shots the wardrobe department took of you.”

“Plenty of men around here, especially now, have access to a Confederate uniform.”

“But they don’t have access to your boots. Take off your left boot, Silas, and hand it to me.”

Jackson raised his right eyebrow, his face contorted, looking hard at Grant. “Why?”

“Because we said so,” snapped Detective Rollins. “You got a choice. You either do it here, or we take you downtown to check your hoof. What’s it going to be, pal?”

Jackson sat in one of three folding chairs in the shade, lifted his left boot, removed it and handed the boot to Grant. He looked at the sole and the bottom of the heel. He gave the boot back to Jackson and said, “I’m betting this chink in the heel matches one of the boot prints found on the ground where you stood by the big cypress tree that day down by the river. The same place where we found some loose change on the ground next to a musket …a .58 caliber. And that’s the rifle you used on the movie set.”

“Ya’ll boys are makin’ a big mistake.”

“You made the big mistake when you shot Jack Jordan, then you killed a history professor who was examining the old contract from the Civil War. And you took out a hotel clerk who just happened to be there when you were about to commit murder.” Grant studied Jackson’s eyes. “How the hell is an old contract, something that is useless today, worth killing to get it? Civil War’s been over for a long damn time, Silas.”

“The first war one, maybe. The second one is just beginning. You got no evidence tying me to shootin’ some history professor. And I didn’t shoot Jack Jordan or anybody else.”

Grant smiled. “I didn’t say the history professor was shot. He could have been knifed, or strangled, or pushed in front of a train. How’d you know he was shot?”

Jackson said nothing, white cottonwood blossoms floating the breeze behind him, a blue heron calling out as it flew to the top of a pine tree. He watched a mosquito alight on his forearm, sticking its snout into the center of two six-shooter pistols tattooed on his arm, fire coming out of the barrels. Jackson scrutinized the mosquito drinking, then he slapped it, blood smearing over tattoos. He wiped his palm on his jeans, then cut his eyes up to the detectives. “Ya’ll are bloodsuckers, too.”

Grant leaned in closer to Jackson and said, “I don’t believe you give a crap about some dusty Civil War contract. I believe you stole the diamond. It’s the one thing that can finance your little army and your big cause. Or maybe trade it for arms. Where’s the diamond?”

“I didn’t steal it. But if I had, I’d damn sure hock it to finance a cause that’s spelled out in the U.S. Constitution. Maybe you ought to read it sometime.”

Grant pointed to a twenty-year-old green Ford pickup truck parked near a semi-truck loaded with production lights and equipment. “That Ford 150 yours?”

“Yeah.”

Grant looked at Rollins. “Tell him what you have, Larry.”

Detective Rollins nodded. “We have video of your truck rolling through a red light at the intersection of Seaside and Atlantic Avenue at 4:17 in the morning Ike Kirby was killed. The Hampton Inn is less than a half-mile away from that intersection. Wanna tell us what you were doing at that location at that time?”

“No law, at least not yet, against a morning drive.”

“But there is a law against murder.”

“You’re trying to railroad this shit on me because of all the publicity. The government’s most likely behind this bullshit game. I want a lawyer.”

“You’ll get one,” said Detective Rollins. “The very best legal minds Confederate money can buy.”