The Summer House

Chapter 72

Special Agent Connie York spots the familiar shape and logo of the Waffle House just off Route 204 leading into Savannah, and she has a tinge of anticipation, knowing that the airport she arrived at a few long days ago is just a quick drive away.

It’ll be wonderful, she thinks, to get this damn thing wrapped up, get back on a silver bird, and get the hell out of Georgia.

She parks beside the bright-yellow-and-red building with its black lettering and gets out of her car, thinking of an article she read once that said FEMA had a “Waffle House index” with which it determined how damaged a community was after a hurricane or tornado passed through it. The sooner the local Waffle House opens after a natural disaster, the quicker a local community would recover.

York opens the door and steps in, wondering what kind of index the CID could establish if she broke this case in the next several minutes at this particular Waffle House.

The interior is like every other Waffle House she’s been in, with bright lights, a counter, and booths with red cushions. There’s a good mix of customers here at midday, locals and workers, and in the last booth, sitting by himself, is a nervous-looking male who nods at her as she approaches.

He’s in his late twenties, light-brown hair buzzed short, with deep-blue eyes that are flickering around, like old memories are haunting him. He has on blue jeans and a soiled white T-shirt that is tight against his torso and bulky upper biceps.

York steps up to him and says, “Let’s change seats.”

“Huh?”

She takes her soft leather bag off her shoulder, gestures with her free hand. “Move around. I don’t know you, I don’t know where you’re from, all I know is that you told me you have knowledge about a mass killing that took place less than a week ago. Move it. I want my back against the wall.”

The guy gets up and does just that, and she thinks, Good. Score one for the team. Him moving shows he is malleable, weak, and she will use that to her advantage.

When he is settled, she sits down, content with knowing that from this last row of booths, she has a good view of the restaurant’s interior. A young blond waitress comes over and drops off the multicolored menus, and Connie barely gives the menu a glance as she looks closer at the man across from her, with his muscles and close-cropped hair.

Something comes to her.

A gamble, but what the hell.

“What unit were you in before being discharged?” York asks. “And how long have you been working for Sheriff Williams?”

Her questions seem to stun him, because he stares, nods, and says, “How do you know?”

“We know a lot more than you think,” York says. “Answer the question. Starting with your name.”

He clasps his hands in front of him on the clean table. “Dwight Dix. Before I became a deputy in Sullivan County, I was in the Tenth Mountain Division, out of Fort Drum. Did part of a tour overseas in Afghanistan before...”

Dix seems ashamed, and York won’t push it, not now. “Something happened, you were discharged, at loose ends... and Sheriff Emma Williams offered you a job. Right?”

A quick nod. “That’s right.”

She takes out a white legal pad and pen, sets them before her.

“Very well, then, Dwight. You told me you had information about those killings. I believe you. You gave me details only someone who was there or intimately involved would know. What happened?”

Dix shakes his head. “Nope, we’re not gonna do it this way.”

York feels tense, part of her wanting to grab this fool by his T-shirt neck and slam his thick head onto the table. You had something to do with a two-year-old girl being killed!

She takes a breath. “What way is that, Dwight?”

He taps her legal pad. “I want you to write something legal for me. About immunity. About me telling you what happened that night at The Summer House and who did the shooting, and why. I get that piece of paper promising not to prosecute, and then I’ll talk.”

York keeps her voice even. “You like watching those Law & Order marathons on TV, is that it?”

“Huh?”

She says, “Dwight, I’m a law enforcement officer with the US Army. I don’t have any pull with county or state law enforcement, and not much with federal law enforcement.”

His face falls, and she adds, “I mean, I could write something up like that, but it wouldn’t be legal, it would be a lie, and that’s not how I operate. Understand?”

“But I need something...”

York uncaps her pen. “This is the best I can do, Dwight,” York says. “I’ll write out a statement and sign it with my name, rank, and service number, and—”

“How about your badge number?” he interrupts.

“CID agents don’t have badge numbers,” she says. “I’ll make a statement saying that in my professional opinion you have expressed remorse and have offered invaluable investigative assistance, and that in any future dealings with state or federal law enforcement, I will be willing to speak up on your behalf to protect your legal interests.”

As she narrates this to Dwight, she writes down the words, and she signs them with a flourish. After tearing off the sheet, she passes it over to Dwight, keeping her face calm and impassive, because that piece of paper is total and utter legal bullshit.

But he bites.

He folds it up and puts it in his pocket. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

“Were you there the night of the killings?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Who ordered them to take place?”

“Deputy Clark Lindsay, but I’m sure Sheriff Emma was behind it. Hell, nobody in the sheriff’s department can take a crap without her say-so.”

“Who was there?”

“Me, Clark, and Teddy Collins.”

“Why did you do it?”

He shrugs. “We did our jobs. We were told that in this house was a bunch of low-life drug dealers that had skated over and over again on various charges. We were told to clear the place out. Clark said not to worry, these guys had competitors — it’d eventually be pinned on some rival drug gang.”

York again thinks of two-year-old Polly Zachary. “Did you shoot that little girl?”

“Shit no!” he says, raising his voice, causing some customers in the nearby booths to turn their heads and look at him. “There were two guys sitting on a couch. I took them out. Clark and Teddy... they took care of the rest, the girl downstairs and the folks upstairs.”

“But the Rangers were arrested two nights later,” she says. “You’re telling me they weren’t involved?”

Another shake of the head. “Nope.”

“But there was evidence from the scene. Fingerprints, shell casings.”

Dwight says, “I heard later from Clark that the Rangers were there about an hour or so ’fore we got there. That’ll take care of the fingerprints, I guess. And Clark... he’s got another job working as a civilian attendant at the shooting range at Hunter. I bet he could get some empty shell casings from a certain Ranger’s pistol if he had to.”

York is writing so hard and fast that she is sure the pen is close to shredding the paper. She has a memory of once working on a computer jigsaw puzzle, with none of the 128 pieces fitting, until she used the Help feature of the program and reduced the number of puzzle pieces to 24. Then the puzzle was solved within seconds.

This deputy, this disgraced soldier, this killer sitting so calmly across from her, he is her own Help feature.

Damn, won’t the major be happy when she calls him later.

“But here’s the big question, Dwight,” she says. “Why? What was the real reason to frame the Rangers for those killings? What was it?”

He seems to be wrestling with something, and she says, “Dwight, what I signed there, I’m behind it one hundred percent. I won’t let you be by yourself. I promise.”

The man squeezes his hands together. “It had something to do with Afghanistan, when they was there.”

Afghanistan, she thinks, just like Major Cook thought.

“Dwight,” she says, “tell me.”

In the parking lot of the Waffle House, Bo Leighton carefully parks the stolen Honda Accord that he and his cousin Ricky lifted a few minutes ago after they had tailed the guy earlier from Sullivan. Lesson he learned a long time ago is that if you need wheels, get something dull-looking and ordinary that doesn’t stand out, and then use it quick, ’fore the owner makes the call and the stolen car is sent out over the wires.

He and Ricky are both wearing black wrestling sneakers, loose khaki pants, and short black hoodies. Each has a ski mask on his head, ready to be pulled down in the next thirty seconds when they start dancing.

Bo switches off the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition. He says, “You ready?”

His cousin says, “Damn it, now that I’m here, I’m kinda hungry. Why can’t we get something to eat and then do the job?”

Bo feels the usual frustration bubble to the surface. His cousin has dead-aim with a gun and is quick with his fists and boots, but most times he fails to see the larger picture. Like the time when he was first picked up on an adult charge that got reduced, and he was on work release, with two weeks left on his sentence, and he left a county lawn-mowing job to get a beer at a nearby tavern. In doing so, he got an extra twelve months tacked on for attempted escape. And why? I was thirsty for a beer, he said.

Bo swivels in his seat and picks up a black gym bag, unzips it, and hands over a Desert Eagle .45 semiautomatic pistol. “Because we were told by Sheriff Emma that the job has to be done now, as soon as possible.”

“Funny thing, what we’re about to do to that deputy, ’cause of his boss.” Ricky works the action of the Desert Eagle, sits up, and slides it into his waistband.

Bo does the same with his. “Don’t worry, he’ll get a nice cop funeral. Make his family so proud.”

Before Bo opens the door, Ricky says, “What happens if some other cop or do-gooder gets in the way?”

Bo says, “Kill ’em all.”