The Summer House

Chapter 7

I’m going stare to stare against this county’s sheriff, and I realize I’ve just struck the first shoal of the investigation.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry if I’ve crossed a line, Sheriff Williams,” I say, trying to make my voice as quiet and reasonable as possible. “May I ask why you won’t give us access?”

“Because,” she says, “it’s our department’s policy only to allow sworn Georgia peace officers and forensics specialists access.”

“I see,” I say. My NYPD style of dealing with competing law enforcement agencies by raising my voice and pounding the desk won’t work here. “Well, perhaps we should move on. The victims. Do you have an accounting of who they are?”

The sheriff goes to another file folder, and I have to admire her for her neatness.

“All right,” she says, “and I warn you, it ain’t going to be pretty.”

“Warning taken,” I say.

The first color photo comes to Connie and me. A man on his back on an old, wide-planked wooden floor, eyes open, forehead and nose torn away by bullet wounds. Lots of blood and exposed flesh and bone. Long brown hair. Upper part of a black T-shirt.

“Gordon Tilly,” she says. “Age twenty-one. Student at Savannah Technical College, studying commercial truck driving.”

The next photo is not as graphic. A young man sprawled out on an overturned couch, the couch covered with a dark gray blanket. The back of his head is a mess of hair, bone, and blood.

“Randall Gleason,” she says. “Age nineteen. Not sure of his status.”

Another flip. A woman this time. Black T-shirt as well. Eyes closed, mouth open, thick brown hair, neat round hole in her forehead. Resting on the same old battered wood floor.

“Sally Tisdale,” the sheriff says. “Also nineteen. A student at the Athens Beautician School in Savannah.”

The next photo shows a woman crumpled up against the base of a wall, the back of her skull a familiar mess.

“Gina Zachary, age twenty,” she says. “Dropout from Savannah Technical College. Her body was on the second floor, in a bedroom.”

The sheriff pauses, and realizing her hesitation, I say, “The next one is bad, I gather?”

Williams purses her lips. “The worst.”

The photo comes over, there’s a sudden intake of breath from Connie, and I stare and look away, remembering the first time I saw something similar, back on the job, and the only way I kept it together was to pretend I was looking at a doll someone had broken. And I also remember Duffy, a detective counting out the days and weeks before retiring, and him telling me, Most of this new tech is good shit, helping us break cases, but I do hate color crime-scene pics. Black-and-white... you didn’t get as sick to your stomach.

Sheriff Williams nearly whispers. “A little girl, around two years of age... I... I just don’t know.”

We three sit there for a dark few seconds, and she says, “Last two.”

Flip. Dead man in a rumpled bed, eyes and mouth open in surprise, another neat bullet hole, in his forehead. “Stuart Pike. Twenty-two. The dump was rented in his name. Also a dropout of Savannah Technical College.”

Flip. I take a breath. Thank God, the last one.

An older woman, and I instantly see she doesn’t fit. More mature, early thirties, a bit of makeup, the top of her blouse showing some taste and dollars, and the look on her face isn’t that of surprise but of terror. The right side of her head is a gaping, bloody hole.

Sheriff Williams gathers up the photos. “Lillian Zachary. Thirty years old, resident of Atlanta and a Delta Air Lines employee.”

Connie says, “Relative of Gina Zachary?”

“Gina was her younger sister,” Williams says. “A Volvo parked in the yard was also registered to her.”

The dead people go back into a file folder.

Williams’s voice is somber. “Last homicide in this county... three, maybe four years ago? Millie Porter, she got tired of her boyfriend, Barry, tuning her up and so one night she cut him in half with a 12 gauge. That was a murder. These” — she taps the folder for emphasis — “were executions. And why? We don’t know why. But we’re sure it was done by your fellas.”

I say, “Mind sharing what you’ve got so far?”

“Oh, we’ve got a lot,” she says, “and our investigation is continuing, but the key part is a witness that places your Rangers at the murder scene, leaving in a pickup truck registered to Staff Sergeant Jefferson, right after there was gunfire.”

Connie says, “And what else?”

Sheriff Williams glances at her watch. “What else is that I’m missing my favorite nephew’s birthday party, and I think I’ve done enough for you folks tonight.”

My words don’t match what I’m feeling, but I say them anyway. “Sheriff Williams, you’ve been exceptionally kind and gracious. My deputy and I thank you.”

Williams gives me a slight smile. “Glad I can help the Army. Me? I’m just a small-town sheriff in a small rural county. This... this is a horror show. And I mean to see it right to the end.”

I gesture to the photos of her in military uniform. “The Reserves?”

She swivels and looks up at them as well. “Nope, Georgia National Guard. Ten proud years, in public affairs. Spent a lot of time deployed in Iraq.”

“Same for me,” I say. “I was a detective, second class, in New York, and in the Reserves, Criminal Investigation Division. Then this happened,” and I spin my cane back and forth.

“Sorry,” she says. “Mind me asking what happened?”

“Don’t mind at all,” I say. “After all, we’ve both been there, done that.” I take a breath, hoping the good sheriff notices. “I was in a small convoy, heading out to a village as part of an investigation. I was the lead investigator. My Humvee got hit by an IED... typical story. Driver killed, gunner lost a leg, and I had a few broken bones, and I was trapped for a while as my left leg got roasted and toasted.” I shrug. “Made it out alive, which is a plus. Came back home after a few months at Landstuhl in Germany and Walter Reed near DC, and then One Police Plaza wanted to put me behind a desk. Can’t really blame them — I suck now at running — but the Army offered me a full-time role. That’s why I’m here.”

She smiles, a bit more warmth this time. “Good on you, Major Cook. I like your style.”

I speak quickly. “One more thing, if I may, before you go to your birthday party. Any chance we can meet tomorrow morning for more of a debrief?”

“I don’t see why not,” she says. “Let’s say... 8:00 a.m. Just before church. Hey, you folks want to know the times and places for services on Sunday?”

Connie speaks up. “Thank you very much, Sheriff, but the owner of our motel passed along a church list to me when I registered.”

I have a confident feeling that Connie is lying and say, “All right, ma’am, 8:00 a.m.”

“See you back here.”

And I toss in, “And perhaps you’ll change your mind and allow us to visit the murder house?”

Her slight smile widens. “See you tomorrow, Major. At 8:00 a.m.”

The shock from going out of cool air-conditioning into the hot, muggy outside air nearly takes my breath away, but Connie and I keep pace as we get back to the silver Ford Fusion.

“What a mess,” she says.

“Biggest one I’ve ever seen,” I say.

“What now, boss?”

“You show me the grand lodgings you’ve secured, and we wait for the rest of our team to arrive.”

I’m standing by the passenger door, and Connie is standing opposite me. She eyes me and says, “Sir?”

She wants to talk, so I say, “Anything odd strike you about the good sheriff back there?”

She taps the roof of the rental. “Where should I begin?”

“Number one on the runway,” I say. “Go.”

Connie looks back at the municipal building. “She didn’t ask for our IDs.”

I nod, pleased. “That’s right,” I say. “Tell me more.”

Connie says with confidence, “This is the biggest case she’s ever had. Seven dead civilians, four elite Army Rangers charged, in her jurisdiction. And a man and woman appear, claiming to be Army investigators, and she doesn’t ask for our identification?”

I say, “She knew we were coming, and she knew who we were. Good job, York.”

“And there were a lot of look-at-me photos with prominent politicians,” she adds. “But there was one photo that didn’t fit. Did you see it?”

“The grumpy-looking old man standing on the steps of the Capitol?”

“That’s the one,” she says. “Wonder who he is and why his photo is in her office.”

“Then find out,” I say.

“I will,” Connie says. “However you look at it, though, all those photos mean the sheriff is a player of some sort.”

“That’s right,” I say, opening the car door. “Small-town sheriff my ass.”