Four Blind Mice

Chapter Twenty-Five

We were getting nowhere fast and it was frustrating as hell for both of us, but especially Sampson. The clock was ticking so loud for Ellis Cooper I could hear it just about every minute of the day.

Around nine that night, John and I had dinner at a popular local spot called the Misfits Pub, out in the Strickland Bridge shopping center. Supposedly, a lot of non-com personnel from Fort Bragg stopped in there. We were still nosing around for any information we could get.

“The more we know, the less we seem to know.” Sampson shook his head and sipped his drink. “Something's definitely not right here at Bragg. And I know what you're going to say, Alex. Maybe Cooper is the heart of the problem. Especially if he put the Sanders up to calling you.”

I nursed my drink and looked around the pub. A bar dominated the room, which was crowded, loud and smoky. The music alternated between country and soul. “Doesn't prove he's guilty. Just that he's desperate. It's hard to blame Cooper for trying anything he can,” I finally said. “He's on death row.”

“He's not stupid, Alex. He's capable of stirring the pot to get our attention. Or somebody else's.”

“But he's not capable of murder?”

Sampson stared into my eyes. I could tell he was getting angry. “No, he's not a murderer. I know him, Alex. Just like I know you.”

“Did Cooper kill in combat?” I asked.

Sampson shook his head. “That was war. A lot of our people got killed too. You know what it's like. You've killed men, ”he said. “Doesn't make you a murderer, does it?”

“I don't know, does it?”

I couldn't help overhearing a man and woman who were sitting next to us at the bar. “Police found Vanessa in the woods near 1-95. Only disappeared last night. Now she's dead, she's gone. Some freaks did her with a hunting knife. Probably Army trash,” the woman was saying. She had a thick Southern accent, and sounded angry, but also frightened.

I turned and saw a florid-faced, redheaded woman in a bright blue halter top and white slacks. “Sorry, I couldn't help over-hearing. What happened?” I asked. “Somebody was murdered outside town?”

“Girl who comes in here sometimes. Vanessa. Somebody cut her up,” the redhead said, and shook her head back and forth. The man she was with wore a black silk shirt, cowboy hat, and looked like a failed country and western singer. He didn't like it that the woman was talking to me.

“My name is Cross. I'm a homicide detective from Washington. My partner and I are working a case down here.”

The woman's head shot back. “I don't talk to cops,” she said, and turned away. “Mind your own business.”

I looked at Sampson, then spoke in a lowered voice. “If it's the same killer, he's not being too careful.”

“Or the same three killers,” he said.

Someone elbowed me hard in the back. I whirled around and saw a heavy-set, well-muscled blond man in a checkered sport shirt and khakis. He had a 'high and tight'. Definitely military.

“Time you two got the hell out of Dodge,” he said. Two other men stood behind him. Three of them. They were dressed in civilian clothes, but they sure looked like Army. Time you stopped causing trouble. You hear me?"

“We're talking here. Don't interrupt us again,” Sampson said. “You hear me?”

“You're a big load, aren't you? Think you're a real tough guy?” the front man asked.

Sampson broke into a slow smile that I'd seen before. “Yeah, I do. He's a tough guy, too.”

The muscular blond tried to shove Sampson off his stool. John didn't budge. One of the blond's buddies came at me. I moved quickly and he swung and missed. I hit him hard in the gut and he went down on all fours.

Suddenly, all three men were on us. “Your asshole friend's a killer!” the blond yelled. “He killed women!”

Sampson hit him on the chin and he sunk down on one knee. Unfortunately, these guys didn't stay down once they were hit. Another bruiser joined in and that made four against two.

A shrill whistle sounded inside the bar. I whirled around and looked toward the door. The military police had arrived. So had a couple of eager-looking deputies from the Fayetteville police. They all had batons at the ready. I wondered how they'd gotten here so fast.

They waded in and arrested everybody involved in the bar fight, including Sampson and me. They weren't interested in who'd started it. Our heads bowed, we were escorted out in handcuffs to a black-and-white and shoved down into the squad car.

“First time for everything,” Sampson said.