Say Goodbye

TWENTY-NINE

DAHLONEGA FELL UNDER THE JURISDICTION OF THE Lumpkin County Sheriff ’s Department. Unfortunately, the sheriff was out for a week on a D.A.R.E. training seminar. Instead, Sal managed to line up a four o’clock appointment with Sheriff Boyd Duffy of neighboring Union County.

Harold had to bow out. He already had an afternoon meeting with a couple of bankers helping him trace terrorist money online. His parting advice: “Visit the U.S. Forestry Service fish hatcheries by Suches. Those guys know everything.”

That left Sal, Kimberly, Quincy, and Rainie. With Dahlonega an hour’s ride north on the GA 400, they decided to shoot straight up and back. It would mean a late night, but they’d all worked later.

They formed a small caravan: Sal and Kimberly in the lead car, Rainie and Quincy bringing up the rear. Sal’s mood hadn’t improved since their meeting with the arachnologist. He drove with his swarthy face set in a perpetual scowl, preoccupied with thoughts he apparently didn’t feel like sharing.

Kimberly worked her cell phone. She called Mac first, but he didn’t answer. She left him a message, hoping she didn’t sound as defiant as she felt. She debated touching base with her supe, but decided less was more. No one really cared what she did for one afternoon, as long as she got the paperwork processed and kept her assigned cases moving ahead.

Which she would do. Later tonight. First thing in the morning. Absolutely.

Next, she tried the lead investigator for Alpharetta, Marilyn Watson. Watson picked up, just in time for Kimberly to lose the signal. She tried again, with mixed results.

“No latent prints…air…ber. Projectile…impressions.” Watson reported when Kimberly asked what evidence had been recovered at the Tommy Mark Evans homicide.

“Wait, you got a shoe print?”

“Tire tread…sions.”

“You got tire tread impressions? Do you know what kind of vehicle?”

More static. Fuzz. Then dead silence.

Kimberly glanced at her cell phone. Signal strength had dropped. Sure enough, she heard three beeps, then the call was gone.

She scowled while eyeing the digital display, waiting for signal strength. No such luck.

“She said they got tire tread impressions,” Kimberly reported at last. “Still not sure about shoe print or not, and it sounded like they did recover a projectile. Or maybe not. It was that kind of conversation.”

“What kind of vehicle?”

“Didn’t get that far. But assuming they cast the impression, we should be able to examine it ourselves. If I ever get a signal back, I’ll see if she can e-mail the digital photos. I have some contacts that should be able to tell us fairly quickly if the tire is feasible for a Toyota FourRunner.”

Sal finally looked at her. His eyes were dark, brooding. They called to her in a way even she understood wasn’t healthy.

“You ever do anything other than work?” he asked.

“Never.”

He grunted, eyes returning to the road. “Me, neither.”

She smiled, but it was sadder than she intended.

She gazed out the window, watching the concrete jungle of greater Atlanta give way to flat brown fields. They came to a light, headed north onto Highway 60 and began to climb. The countryside gave way to startling ravines and towering hillsides, all choked with thick green kudzu vines. They passed luxury condos, a pristine golf course, exotic water features.

Kimberly started to connect some dots. If the past thirty minutes had involved hardscrabble chicken farms and trailer parks, then this section of northern Georgia was about money. Lots of it. Harold had been right-there was gold in them thar hills.

“We’re supposed to meet Sheriff Duffy at the Olde Town Grill in the center of Dahlonega,” Sal spoke up.

“You got an address?”

“You’ve never been to Dahlonega, have you?”

She shook her head.

“Trust me, no address is required.”

She figured out what he meant fifteen minutes later, when they blew by a McDonald’s, passed through an intersection, and entered a picture-perfect postcard of nineteenth-century American architecture. Bare broadleaf trees soaring in the middle of a charming public square, dominated by a two-hundred-year-old brick courthouse, now serving as the Dahlonega Gold Museum. Quaint storefronts bore signs declaring general store, gift shop, antiques, homemade fudge. Tourists meandered down quaint red-bricked sidewalks.

“I think we just entered a time warp,” Kimberly said.

“Something like that.” Sal looped around the town square, giving her the nickel tour. The flower beds were decorated with winter greens and interspersed with items such as a stagecoach wheel, or horse drinking trough, or bleached steer’s skull. It was like visiting a movie set of the Old West, except she was still in Georgia, the state she knew best for its stifling hot summers and fresh peaches.

“In late September, early October,” Sal was explaining, “this place is lousy with leaf peepers. Can’t get a parking space to save your life. You and your husband should check it out sometime. I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Sal’s voice had taken on an edge. It was enough to make her say, “Absolutely. Romantic getaway, cute bed-and-breakfast, tour of the wineries. Mac would love it.”

Sal didn’t speak again, which was just as well.

He found parking in front of a giant wooden stamp wheel that, according to the plaque, had once been used to help extract gold ore. They waited for Rainie and Quincy to park, then followed the tiny arrow to the Olde Town Grill.

Sheriff Boyd Duffy was already there, occupying half of a corner booth. He was a big bear of a man with piercing black eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. Kimberly was guessing former football player, avid hunter. Probably scared the shit out of the local kids. Good for him.

He was also black, which made him a bit of an anomaly for this part of Georgia.

Upon spotting them, he called out in a booming voice, “Special Agent Martignetti!” He heaved his large body from the booth with surprising agility. “And Special Agent Quincy, I presume.” He took her hand, shaking it without crushing it, further moving him up in her esteem. “Please, call me Duff. Like the beer from The Simpsons cartoon. Yeah, it’s a long story. Welcome, welcome. Northern Georgia’s a fair sight prettier than that smoggy ol’ city. You’re in for a treat.”

More handshakes for Rainie and Quincy, then he gestured to a larger table where they could all have a seat. Another wave of his giant arm, and a blonde with bouffant hair appeared, bearing menus and mason jars of sweetened tea. “Food here is excellent,” Duff extolled. “Fried chicken will blow your mind. Then there are the homemade cinnamon rolls and the biscuits and gravy. I recommend one of everything, but then, for a fella like me, that’s ’bout what it takes.”

Kimberly couldn’t pass up a cinnamon roll. Neither could Rainie. Quincy, predictably, ordered black coffee. Sal, at least, made the sheriff proud by going with the fried chicken. A little more small talk, and they got down to business.

“So now four busy folks like you didn’t head all the way up to the Blue Ridge Mountains just to take in our sights. What can I do for you?”

Sal took the lead: “We’re pursuing a person of interest in the disappearance of approximately ten prostitutes. We have reason to believe that the subject, an avid outdoorsman, might be familiar with this area, so we came to take a look.”

Duff raised a brow. He was no dumb bunny. “In other words, you think he dumped the bodies somewhere in these hills.”

“It’s a possibility.”

The big man sighed, folded his hands on the table. “All right. So who’s your person of interest?”

“We don’t have a name yet, just a picture.” Sal opened up his dark green binder, took out a copy of the composite sketch prepared by Special Agent Sparks and Ginny Jones, and handed it over to the sheriff. “I have extras if you need them,” he offered. “We’d like to get this circulating to as many law enforcement agents as possible.”

“Hold on, hold on. One thing at a time.” The sheriff was fumbling around with his breast pocket. He finally extracted a pair of black-framed reading glasses and perched them on the edge of his nose. He regarded the sketch, grunting softly to himself.

The waitress arrived bearing platters of food. Duff raised his arms, still holding the sketch, and the waitress slid a platter of turkey and gravy in front of him.

“Got any pictures of him without that cap?” the sheriff wanted to know.

Sal shook his head.

Duff regarded the sketch a moment longer, then set it aside, picked up his knife and fork, and cut neatly into his meal.

“Well,” he said brusquely. “First things first. I don’t recognize the fella; then again, you white guys all look alike to me.”

Sal appeared startled. Duff shot him a grin. “That was a joke, son. When you’re peeling a sixteen-year-old you’ve known all of his life off the pavement after he decided to go Evel Knievel with his new motorcycle, you gotta learn to laugh a little. You big-city boys investigate strangers. I handle my own neighbors, day in and day out. If your subject, as you called him, lived around here, I’d probably know him, even with that stupid cap.”

“So he’s not local.”

“Probably not full time,” Duff said. “Then again, we got tens of thousands of tourists each year, not to mention the summer people, the day hikers, the weekend hunters. Mountains are a four-season resort and we got the traffic to prove it. Now, you tell me a few things, and we’ll see if we can’t whittle this down. Where were these prostitutes last seen alive?”

“Mostly around the greater Atlanta area. Sandy Springs in particular. The club scene, not streetwalkers.”

“So your subject is working the metro-Atlanta area. Why’d you come here?”

“According to one witness, he’s an outdoorsman. We also recovered a hiking boot from the subject’s vehicle that contained plant material consistent with the Chattahoochee National Forest-”

“Couple of acres,” Duff interrupted.

“The sole of the boot contained traces of gold. That got us thinking Dahlonega.”

Duff nodded his head, chewing thoughtfully. “Been to the gold museum yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Should. It was on those front steps that Dr. Stephenson, assayer at the mint, tried to stop all the Georgia miners from bolting to California for the 1849 gold rush by saying, ‘Thar’s gold in them thar hills,’ pointing of course to the Blue Ridge Mountains. See, even back then folks were being encouraged to work and buy local.”

No one had any comment on that, so Duff returned to the matter at hand:

“Well, let’s start with your subject. Let’s assume for a moment that he is a hiker or hunter or whatnot, and like most of ’em in the state, he spends his weekends up here. Guy like that needs to eat, sleep, buy supplies. Looking at Lumpkin County, biggest town is Dahlonega. And around here, people are gonna eat at the Olde Town Grill, the Smith House, Wylie’s Restaurant, couple of other places. For lodging you got the major chains-Days Inn, Econo Lodge, Holiday Inn, Super Eight. Also, the Smith House again, which is right around the corner. It’s got good food, reasonably priced rooms, and better yet for your purposes, a gold mine on the premises. You can wave your picture in front of the staff there, see if they can tell you anything.

“For supplies, there’s the general store, but that’s really for tourists. Most folks go to Wal-Mart. Given the crowds they see, not sure if the cashiers will be able to help you. If this guy is as serious a woodsman as you think, I’d head fifteen miles north of here to Suches, which is my neck of the woods.”

“Suches?” Kimberly interrupted.

“Valley Above the Clouds,” Duff assured her. “You haven’t seen pretty till you’ve been to Suches. Now, Suches is blink-and-you’ll-miss-it tiny. But given its access to the Appalachian Trail, couple of camping grounds, and the lake, it sees some traffic. You’re talking hikers, hunters, campers, four-wheelers, fishermen, bikers-”

“Bikers?” Rainie asked. “You mean like cyclists?”

“Motorcyclists. They cover the road like tar every summer. Now, if your guy is a hiker, chances are he’s stayed in Suches. Meaning he’s eaten at either T.W.O. or Lenny’s, and he’s purchased supplies at Dale’s. I’d start by taking your sketch to those three places. Face it, town that small, there’s no place to hide.”

Sal was taking copious notes. Now he looked up. “But by your own admission, Dahlonega and Suches are very busy places-”

“Sixty thousand tourists each year.”

Sal nodded grimly. “Well, see now, that’s a problem. Whole point is that this guy has been dumping bodies for over a year without anyone noticing. Given all the hikers, hunters, fishermen, motorcyclists, how would such a thing be possible? Forget the gold. There are tourists in them thar hills, and they photograph everything.”

Duff flashed a smile. He finished up his turkey, going to work on the mountain of mashed potatoes, before speaking again. “If your guy is dumping bodies, it’s not off a major hiking trail-you’re right, no way someone wouldn’t have run into him by now.” He held up a hand, starting to count off fingers. “That rules out Woody Gap, Springer Gap, the AT, the Benton MacKaye Trail, Slaughter Gap Trail-”

“Slaughter Gap Trail?” Rainie spoke up.

“Provides access to Blood Mountain-”

“Blood Mountain?” Rainie looked at Kimberly and Sal. “Personally, if I were looking for bodies, I’d start with Slaughter Gap Trail and Blood Mountain. But that’s just me.”

Duff grinned again. “As I was saying, Slaughter Gap Trail and Blood Mountain are pretty popular these days, making them not the best choice”-he gave Rainie an apologetic smile-“for hiding bodies. However, then we have the U.S. Forestry Service roads, many of them hard to find, easy to get lost, and almost always remote, crisscrossing all over the damn place.”

“The fish hatchery!” Kimberly remembered.

Duff nodded approvingly. “That’s right. We got the fish hatchery located off of USFS Sixty-nine. Then there’s USFS Forty-two, also known as Cooper Gap Road. But see, by USFS standards those two roads are like superhighways. It’s the dozens of other muddy, unmarked, nearly impassible roads that make life interesting. They’re used just enough that if a four-wheel-drive vehicle was spotted parked overnight, no one would question it. And yet, the roads and trails are also remote enough, you can go for miles without ever seeing another soul. For your guy, they’d be perfect.”

“How many of these roads are we talking?” Sal asked.

Duff shrugged. “Hell if I know. I’ve lived in these mountains my entire life and I doubt even I know all of ’em. What you need is a decent USFS map. And probably a USGS map, as well, because those government types don’t always talk.”

“That would be the other option,” Kimberly said immediately. “The U.S. Forestry Service and Geological Survey teams. You’re right, they’re the ones traipsing all over these mountains, collecting samples, building databases. I worked with a team out of Virginia once. They spend more time in the backwoods than any hiker out there. If we could get them our composite sketch, plus a description of the suspect’s vehicle, they might know something.”

“I got some friends there I can call,” Duff offered. “They are the eyes and ears of the mountains, so to speak.”

“So,” Sal murmured between pursed lips. “We can distribute our flyer to some of the local establishments, see if we get any hits. Then strike up a dialogue with the USFS and USGS folks.”

“You know, between Sheriff Wyatt and myself, we got quite a crew. Most of our deputies would be happy to assist with something other than the normal naughty tourist or punch-drunk high schooler. Wyatt’ll be back by the end of the week. I’ll debrief him, then we’ll both take a crack at it.”

“I don’t want the subject spooked,” Sal stated. “Priority at this point is to find the girls and/or their remains. Then we go after Dinchara.”

“Dinachara?” Duff frowned. “Thought you said you didn’t have a name.”

“It’s an alias. An anagram for arachnid.”

“Say what?”

“You know, arachnid, as in spiders.”

“I know arachnid, son. I’m just not sure what a grown man is doing naming himself after a bug.”

“Catching prey,” Kimberly said quietly. “Except for one. Sal, tell him about Ginny Jones.”

It was after six by the time they left Duff. Most of the stores were closed, but they managed to find Wylie’s Restaurant and show off the sketch. No one recognized the drawing, but the manager promised to keep her eye out. Sal handed her his card, then they were on their way.

Next up was the Smith House, once a grand private residence, now a recently renovated hotel, country store, and restaurant. The lobby smelled like buttermilk biscuits and candied yams. That was enough for Kimberly.

“Dinnertime!” she declared.

Rainie and Quincy were game. Sal, who’d already dined on fried chicken, merely shrugged. “I can always eat.”

Food was served family style. They paid a flat fee to the girl working the cash register in the lobby. She gave them tickets to take downstairs to the dining hall, where they would be served all the fried chicken, baked ham, roast beef, dumplings, okra, steamed vegetables, and homemade rolls they could stand. No alcohol, but unlimited iced tea and lemonade.

At the bottom of the stairs, they discovered the entranceway to a twenty-foot mining shaft. All Kimberly could see was a deep black hole, barricaded with Plexiglas. Didn’t seem that exciting, but Quincy and Rainie lingered long enough to watch the video documenting its discovery.

A red-cheeked waitress found Kimberly and Sal two seats next to a family of six. They met Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, and four-year-old twin boys. The twins ran laps around the table, while the very tired mother shot Kimberly a wan smile and said, “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not a problem,” Kimberly assured, and then patted her own stomach.

The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, is it your first?”

“Yep.”

“You and your husband must be very excited.” She shot Sal a smile.

He froze with his hand on the bowl of peas. “What?”

“I’m very happy,” Kimberly told the woman. “At least at the moment.”

The woman laughed. “Yes, ma’am, that’s the way it is. Is it a girl or boy? Do you know?”

“No, we want to be surprised.”

“So did we,” the woman said. “And boy, were we. If I could offer one bit of advice?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t have twins.”

Rainie and Quincy arrived and made their introductions. Rainie dug into the fried okra with gusto. Quincy picked his way delicately through the steamed vegetables and baked ham.

The smell of meat didn’t bother Kimberly as much as it had yesterday. Another phase ending? A new phase beginning? Life, even prenatal life, didn’t stand still. She nibbled on some ham, okra, catfish. She started to feel that warm, contented glow that came from a good meal, a productive day, the companionship of family and friends.

She’d forgotten about the sketch until the waitress returned with refills of iced tea.

“Oh, is he a friend of yours as well?” the waitress asked, gesturing at Kimberly’s open bag.

“Who?”

“The man in that picture. We used to see him in here all the time. With his boy, of course. Those teenagers, my Lord, they can eat.”

Sal stopped chewing. He held a drumstick suspended between his greasy hands, staring at the sketch, the woman, the sketch again.

Kimberly recovered first. “You know him?”

“I recognize him. In the fall he came in quite often. About yay-high, right? Not real big, but strong looking. Has some muscle to him. And always wearing that cap, even when at the table.” The waitress shook her head. “I tell you, in my day, my grandmother would’ve tanned my hide for less.”

“His name?”

“Oh um…” She bit her lower lip, cradling the pitcher of iced tea on her hip, thinking. “Bobby? Bob? Rob? Ron? Richard? You know, I can’t remember now. I’m not sure he said.”

“What about the boy?” Kimberly pressed.

“Skinny white thing. Sixteen, seventeen years old. All arms and legs, but no meat on his bones. You know how teenage boys look-like they’ve never been fed. He’s a quiet one. Sat, ate, barely said a word.”

“And the boy’s name?”

Again the waitress shook her head. “You know, some folks come here because they’re feeling social, they like to introduce themselves and strike up a friendly conversation. Others…hey, they just come for the okra. Who are we to judge?”

“Do you remember how the man paid?” Rainie spoke up, following the conversation intently.

“Sorry, ma’am, that would’ve been taken care of upstairs.”

“But if he paid with a credit card…” Kimberly murmured, following Rainie’s train of thought.

“We need to speak to the manager,” Sal announced.

The other family was aflutter now. “Is everything all right? Who is this fellow? Anything we should know?”

All eyes were on Sal. Even the twins had stopped running. “Routine investigation,” he assured them brusquely, then he had his arm on Kimberly’s shoulder, pulling her up.

She didn’t need any encouragement. They made a beeline for the manager’s office.

Turned out going through all the credit card receipts would take some time. They needed to provide more specifics. Date, time, amount? The waitress was summoned to see if she could recall an exact date. She thought the man and his son had come in half a dozen times between September and November. With a bit of prodding, she narrowed one of the visits to sometime over the Columbus Day weekend. The amount would be for two people, late in the evening, the waitress believed. She had been surprised the boy was allowed out at that hour.

Credit card receipts were not computerized. Instead, the manager pulled open a file drawer, organized by month. Turned out the Smith House was a popular choice for lodging and meals. Particularly Columbus Day weekend.

Kimberly returned to the dining hall to find her father and Rainie and deliver the happy news.

“Manager needs some time to sort the records, so guess what, folks? We’re spending the night!”