The Summer House

Chapter 13

I wait for Sheriff Williams to take a breath and I step forward, keeping my voice soft and low. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Sheriff, and with all due respect, I’m not here to play games.”

“You got one funny goddamn way of showing it,” she says, nearly spitting out the words.

I say, “Sheriff, you have to admit you placed us in a box. You told me we couldn’t get access to the crime scene. I respect that. If I didn’t, then I would have had Special Agent Sanchez” — I gesture to him, standing about three meters away — “knock that door down and let us in. I didn’t do that.”

The sheriff folds her arms. “A goddamn good thing you didn’t or you and yours would be getting processed right now in my county jail.”

I smile, nod, trying to maintain a reassuring look. “I respect that, and appreciate that, Sheriff. Now, if I may, we’re all here. It’s still early on a Sunday morning. You’ve been active-duty, you’ve been exposed to enemy fire and danger in Iraq. Not many people can say that, now, can they? And you know that out in the field you have to bend sometimes to get your job done.”

Sheriff Williams lifts an eyebrow. “Like me bending to let you into the crime scene?”

“Sheriff, my detachment and I are here on official business. We need to get into that house. And I’m just asking you — from one Army vet to another — to allow us in.”

I wait, then a slight smile appears on her previously hard face, and she lets her arms fall free. “You’re a slippery and smart one, I’ll give you that. All right, we go in, but no photos, nothing taken from the house, you follow my lead.”

“Absolutely.”

She nods to me. “And don’t forget, Major, I’m a slippery and smart one, too.”

I follow her to the wide wooden steps leading to the door of the old home, and she removes the yellow-and-black police tape and gently drapes it on a railing. Up at the door she turns and says, “Years and years ago this was a famous place in our little town. It belonged to a rich fella named Callaghan, owned a shipping company over in Savannah. There’s a little lake nearby, and he and his family and rich friends loved coming here during the summer, ’fore air-conditioning came here.” She shakes her head. “Yeah, a nice little historical place. Poets, writers, politicians — they all made their way here. Including FDR, like I said earlier. And then the Callaghan family got hit hard during the Great Depression, had to give it up and other properties, and from generation to generation, it came to this. Being rented to a bunch of losers by some property management company. Okay, let me give you a bit of a timeline before we go in.”

Behind me, Connie and Manuel have notebooks and pencils in hand, both starting to scribble. She says, “This past Thursday Whitey Klamer, a friend of one of the deceased and a student at Savannah Technical College, came by for what he said was a random visit at about 7:00 a.m. Right. At that hour of the day? Based on what we’ve found in the house, he was probably coming for a drug buy. Nobody answered his knocks, the door was partially open, he went in, saw what he saw, came out and puked, and then called Dispatch. First unit responded, saw the extent of the crime scene, and I was next, along with everybody else on the force, including retirees.”

She squats and points to the hinges, where I note familiar-looking scorch marks and bent metal. “One of the first things I spotted. Look. The Rangers used det cord or some other explosive device to get in. Very quick, very pro.” She stands up and takes a folding knife from her pocket, opens it up, and cuts through the seal blocking the entry. “Give me a hand, will you?”

She drags the door to one side, and I do the best I can with one hand, the other one holding on to my cane, and I think, Good job, Sheriff, putting me in my place and showing us who’s still in charge.

Williams says, “You can bet how much the shit hit the fan when we saw what was in here. My investigators got right to work, and we started canvassing the area.”

I ask, “Did you call for help from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation?”

She scoffs. “The GBI? The vampires? Nope, no thank you.”

Connie says, “Why do you call them vampires?”

The sheriff turns to Connie and Manuel. “Legend has it vampires can only come into your house if you give ’em permission. Same with the GBI. State law says they can only come in to work with local law enforcement if you let them in. Believe me, not many sheriffs in Georgia want that. Not going to happen in my county. Okay, let’s take a look-see.”

We cluster just beyond the entrance. My eyes adjust to the dim light. The first thing I see is an overturned couch. There are yellow and orange triangular evidence markers on the scuffed and worn wooden floor, now stained with blood.

Without notes — which I admire — Williams starts reciting the facts of the crime scene, pointing to different areas in the room.

“This is where we found the first three victims,” she says. “Gordon Tilly, Randall Gleason, and Sally Tisdale. This TV here was still on when their friend stopped by Thursday morning, paused on some kind of shoot-’em video game. Ironic, huh?”

“Yes,” I say. “Very ironic.”

We go farther into the home, and I spot more of the plastic triangles on the floor. The counter in the kitchen area has fingerprint dust residue, and the same is on the wooden walls leading to the stairs going up to the second story.

Williams says, “We recovered from the residence two 9mm pistols, a shotgun, and a .308 hunting rifle, along with scales, plastic bags, and about twenty pounds of marijuana. And before you ask, the pistols had not been recently fired.”

Manuel says, “Were these people known to you?”

The sheriff shrugs. “Some. But from what I heard from my sources and others, they were strictly small-time, not on my top ten. Upstairs?”

To me, the wide stairs look as daunting as the first time I saw a climbing rope, dangling in a gym when I was in seventh grade at PS 19.

“You go first,” I say. “I don’t want to hold you up.”

Six minutes later, I’m at the top of the stairs, with Williams, Connie, and Manuel all pointedly looking away from me, as I feel how warm my face is, the trickle of sweat down my neck and back, and the burning and screaming coming from my insulted left leg. Fingerprint dust is on the doorframes to both bedrooms.

“Thanks,” I say to no one in particular. “Sheriff?”

She takes an audible breath. “Worst scene is in here.”

“Then let’s get it over with.”

We cluster at the entrance to the bedroom while the sheriff goes in, points to a group of evidence triangles on the floor and stains on the floor and against the cracked plaster wall.

“Gina Zachary,” she says. “She was found here, shot in the back of the head. Looks like she was trying to protect her little girl... and, well, that’s her bloodstain over there.”

It’s small and cramped in this bedroom, the smells deeper and fouler. I’m breathing through my mouth.

“The bed,” she says, not bothering to point. Blood spatter is on the wall where the mattress butts up against it. “Stuart Pike. Shot dead here in bed. His name’s on the lease.”

Manuel speaks up. “He was in bed?”

“Yes,” the sheriff says.

“Okay,” Manuel says after a moment.

The sheriff says, “Something wrong?”

“No,” Manuel says. “Seems funny, that’s all. Downstairs the door gets blown open, there’s shooting, running up here, the Rangers are chasing up after them... and he’s still in bed.”

I keep quiet, and so does Connie.

Williams shrugs. “Maybe he was drunk. Or doped up.” She glances at her watch. “One more, right across the way.”

We go into the other bedroom, which has two beds. The air is only slightly better in here.

Williams points to blood spatter on the floor. “Last victim. Lillian Zachary. Older sister of Gina. Looks like she was hiding under the bed when she was dragged out and shot.”

I look at Manuel and Connie, and they’re just taking in the scene. A few seconds pass.

“Sheriff, anything else you can tell us?” I ask.

She rubs at her chin, checks her watch again. “We got two witnesses who put your boys on the scene or heading to the scene. Lady up the way was walking her dog Wednesday night, heard some shouts and gunfire. There’s a utility light at the end of the driveway. She saw a pickup truck come down the driveway, haulin’ ass. It stopped, and she saw the driver and a passenger. She got a partial plate number ’cause she was spooked by all the noise. We managed to trace it to a Ford F-150 Supercrew registered to Sergeant Jefferson, and she IDed him and another Ranger from a photo lineup we were able to later pull together. After we put out a BOLO for ’em, a Ralston police cruiser spotted the Ford at the Ralston Pub & Grub Friday night, and all four were inside, getting drunk.”

“All right,” I said. “And the other witness?”

“There’s a Gas N’ Go about a mile down the road. Owner of the store remembered two of your Rangers coming into the store, kinda wired up. They were dressed in regular Army camo gear, not civilian clothing. Two other fellas were out in the parking lot, smoking. Then they got into the F-150 and headed out, going in the direction of this place. Time stamp says they were at the store ’bout twenty minutes before the lady walking her dog heard the shooting.”

Manuel and Connie maintain their composure, but I can sense what they’re feeling. This is not looking good for the four Rangers.

I say, “That’s very thorough. Thank you, Sheriff.”

One more look at her watch. “I’ll tell you two other things before I get going. One is that we dusted the area and found prints belonging to two of your Rangers, Staff Sergeant Jefferson and Corporal Barnes. And we recovered shell casings, and they’re—”

A chiming sound cuts through the thick air, and the sheriff digs a cell phone out of a rear pocket, slides a finger across the screen, and brings it up to her face. “Sheriff Williams,” she says. I can make out the murmur of someone talking to her, and she nods and says, “Okay, okay... Thanks, Bobby, for pushing this one through. Appreciate it. You take care. Best to Mary and the kids.”

Her face looks worn as she puts the phone back into her pocket. “That was Bobby Pruitt over at the GBI’s forensics lab in Savannah. We seized Sergeant Jefferson’s 9mm Beretta pistol when he was arrested Friday night, and Bobby did me a favor, put the pistol right on top of the test list.”

“I thought the GBI were vampires.”

The sheriff says, “Not when they’re staying put in Savannah and helping me out with a solid.”

I think we all know what’s coming next, which doesn’t make it sound any better.

“Sorry, Major,” she says. “The shell casings we found here are a match to Sergeant Jefferson’s sidearm. The truth is, your Rangers were in this house that night and killed all these people, including that little girl.”