Dead Reckoning (The Still Waters Suspense Series Book 1) Read online

  Scruggs coughed and waved a hand dismissively, as if either place amounted to the same level of inconsequence. “I guess they don’t teach ‘em to listen too good over that way, huh?” The man turned, wobbling as he did so, and shuffled deeper into the apartment. The wheels of the portable oxygen tank squeaked beside him. “He ain’t here and I don’t figure he did whatever it is you’re after him for. I ain’t shooing you away, but I can’t stand longer’n a few minutes at a time, so if you want me to say more, you’re gonna have to come in and sit.”

  Evan and Peters followed him into a small living room furnished with an overstuffed easy chair, a couch, and a console-style tube television. Willy pulled his oxygen over to the chair before collapsing into it, then waved a hand in the general direction of the couch. The cushion on the left side had been squashed almost flat, while the armrest on the right was covered in a light dusting of sand. Evan surmised that someone, probably Eric, made a habit of sitting sideways on the couch, while propping his shoes on the opposite armrest. This would be the position that would allow optimum viewing of the television. He chose the flattened left cushion because it put him closer to Willy and kept him out of the dirt.

  “Don’t ever get old, boys,” Willy said. “it’s a real kick in the crotch.” He only had fifteen years or so on Evan, but those had obviously been hard years.

  “I can’t say the alternative has much to recommend it,” Evan said.

  Willy raised his eyebrows, as if considering Evan’s point, then scowled and shook his head, “Like you’d know. What’re you trying to pin on Eric?”

  “You been watching the news, Willy?” Peters asked.

  “What would I wanna do that for?” Willy scoffed. “Ain’t never nothin’ new on the news no more.”

  “Mr. Scruggs—” Evan started.

  “Crap, Peters!” Willy said, “You hear that? He called me ‘Mister,’ like he thinks I’m gonna think he respects me or something.” He let out a short burst of laughter that devolved into a coughing spell. Evan thought he sounded like an outboard motor that had been filled with paint.

  When he quieted, Peters said, “Willy, someone went and shot Hutch. Killed him. Early yesterday morning.”

  Willy Scruggs’s dim eyes hardened, seeming to come just a bit more alive. He sat up in the chair, dropping the pretense of dismissive contempt.

  Peters continued, “Now, I don’t believe Eric had anything to do with the killing, but we’re talking to everybody that might have had something against Hutch. We need to talk to Eric just so we can cross him off the list. Do you know where he is?”

  “Somebody killed Hutch?” Willy asked.

  Evan nodded, and waited.

  “What do you know,” Willy muttered, settling back into the chair again. “Now, why would somebody go and do a thing like that?” He took a framed photo from his side table and stared at it in his lap. “Eric didn’t do that, I know that for a fact. If I thought he had done it, I’d have taken care of it already.” Evan didn’t know if the warble in Willy’s voice was due to his frail state, or if the man was about to start crying.

  “Is that a picture of your son, Mr. Scruggs?” Evan asked.

  Willy made a pfft sound, flapping his loose upper lip. “What the hell would I want a picture of him for? If I ever want to see his lazy ass I just look to where you’re sitting and there he is.” He turned the frame around so Evan could see the photo of a glowing twenty-something blond holding a bundled blanket with a tiny pink face peeking out. “This is my girl and her baby, my grand-daughter.”

  “They’re lovely,” Evan said. “What are their names?”

  “Jordan’s my little girl, and her little girl’s Avery. Only thing right I did in my life…”

  “Willy, we’re not here to talk about your daughter,” Peters said, annoyed. He was still standing. “We’re here to see Eric.”

  Willy curled his upper lip again, dismissing Peters. “Eric ain’t here. Probl’y won’t be back for a while from what I hear. He’s been in ICU up to Panama City since last weekend. Got into some fentanyl, thinking it was Oxy, I guess. Point is, anything that happened around here, Eric didn’t do it.”

  “That’ll be easy enough to verify,” Peters said.

  “Verify this, Peters,” Willy said, making a show of slowly raising his middle finger.

  “Cute, Willy,” Peters said with a sneer. “I think we’re done here.”

  “You were done as soon as you came through the door,” Willy shot back. “I told you he didn’t do nothing.”

  “You know what, Peters?” Evan said, “Why don’t you head out to the car? I’ll be right out.”

  Peters turned and stared at Evan, surprise and irritation evident on his face. After a beat, he pursed his lips, nodded, then said, “Well, I guess you are the boss, aren’t you?”

  Evan smiled politely.

  Peters scoffed, then turned on his heel and walked out the way he’d come in.

  Willy Scruggs laughed his yogurt-gargling laugh, pushing his head back into the headrest. “I guess you told him, didn’t you?” he said. “I went to school with that guy, if you can believe it. He’s always been an ass.”

  “Be that as it may, Mr. Scruggs,” Evan said as he stood, “He and I both appreciate your cooperation and the information about your son. I hope he has a speedy recovery.”

  “Yeah, I guess I hope so, too,” Willy said.

  Evan saw the man was gripping his daughter’s photo so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. He said, “Willy, I noticed you started talking to us about your daughter when we told you that Sheriff Hutchins had been killed…”

  Willy nodded his head, pressing his lips together. His eyes had taken on a reddish tinge around their rims, “The way I figure it, I only got her ‘cause of Hutch. Her an’ Avery. Ol’ Hutch busted me up pretty good. I spent twelve years in the state pen ‘cause of him. And that’s what saved my life. All the boys I ran with back then, they died while I was away. Car wrecks, OD’s, just bad business and such. I’d’a died, too if he hadn’t locked me up.”

  “Sometimes that’s what it takes,” Evan said. “Sometimes we have to lose too much before we change.”

  The older man looked over at Evan, his eyes narrowing, as though he was reappraising him.

  “Hell, if he’d got to me sooner, maybe I wouldn’t be all tore up,” he said finally. “I’m dying of kidney failure and about three other things besides. Avery’s my first grand-baby. Jordan says she’s gonna have three more. I probably won’t be around to see them, but whatever time I do get, it’s ‘cause of Hutch. I owe him, you know. I’m not in touch with too many guys anymore, but if I hear anything I guess I’ll pass it along.”

  Scruggs looked back down at the picture in his lap and Evan suddenly felt intrusive.

  “She really is a beautiful girl,” Evan said. “Thank you for inviting us in, Mr. Scruggs.”

  Willy nodded, then turned his eyes to the photo. Evan saw himself to the door.

  ELEVEN

  PETERS WAS LEANING AGAINST the cruiser, typing on his phone, when Evan crossed the small yard. Peters looked up as Evan said, “You think you and I can work together, or should I team up with someone else?”

  “Maybe I was out of line, Caldwell, but you don’t know this place and you don’t know these people,” Peters said. He didn’t sound like he thought he was out of line.

  “Maybe,” Evan said, “But this is what I do know: you get someone like that talking, you let them talk.”

  “Let’em talk, huh?” A grin spread across Peters’ face. “You’ll love Ricky then.” He opened the driver’s side door as Evan opened his.

  “Listen, Peters,” Evan said evenly. “If you’re trying to make me feel like an outsider, you’re late to the party. But let me explain something. I don’t want to be sheriff. I intend to get out of it any way I can, but I take the investigation of Hutchins’ death very seriously.” Peters glanced over at him as he cranked up the car. “I wouldn’t undermine y
ou or make you look weak in front of a civilian, and if you try it again with me, I’ll cut you off at the knees, do you understand? It’ll get in our way.”

  Peters turned the air on full blast, then looked back over at Evan. “I guess I can work with that,” he said.

  The interviews with David and Nathan Eubanks were mercifully short. Neither brother had any interest in visiting with law enforcement and were quick to provide an alibi. They had been at the Thirsty Goat until last call the night Hutch had been killed. David had paid his tab by credit card and was able to show as much on his on-line bank statement. Nathan had paid cash, but said plenty of folks, and the bar’s camera system, could alibi him.

  By the time they showed up at Johnny Bowles’s apartment, word of the interviews had gotten out. Johnny greeted them at the door with Clapton’s I Shot the Sheriff blaring out of his sound system. At first, Johnny thought it was funny, but Peter’s quickly convinced him otherwise. After a brief interview, Evan concluded that Bowles was an idiot, but not likely a murderer.

  The atmosphere thickened as they drove inland toward White City and away from the fresh gulf air. The paper mill had closed over seventeen years ago, long before Evan first visited Port St. Joe, but mile after mile of paper-mill trees still lined either side of the highway. The pines had been planted in rows as precise as lines of type on a page. As far as scenery went, it could be better. Evan found the symmetry and monotony somewhat unsettling. He kept his eyes on the road.

  At first, they drove in silence. Then Peters called Gulf Coast Regional Medical Center in Panama City and confirmed Willy Scruggs’s story. Eric had, indeed, been admitted to the ER for a fentanyl overdose and had only been released that morning. Peters reported this to Evan, which reopened lines of communication between them. By the time they reached White City, the tension had settled back to ambient levels and the two were exchanging general small talk.

  It was a little after three in the afternoon when they arrived at the Nickell residence. Ricky Nickell’s trailer sat in a dirt patch behind a screen of pines and cypress trees. Four F150s and a GMC pickup truck loitered at one end of the lot, one up on blocks, one slumped on flat tires like a middle-aged woman after an all-night drunk.

  Large black oil patches stained the ground beneath each of them. A girl with oil-black hair, wearing high-heeled western boots, tie-dyed yoga pants and a pink sports bra, wandered around the trucks, picking butterflies out of the air, except there were no butterflies.

  “Well look here. It’s Kinzy,” Peters said. “She’s a favorite party favor on the local tweaker scene. Help yourself out here, Caldwell, don’t try the ‘let ‘em talk’ approach on her.”

  “Yeah, I think I could have figured that out on my own,” Evan said.

  He waited until Kinzy was on the far side of a truck before opening his door. He could hear her either muttering or singing to herself, but couldn’t catch any individual words. By the time Evan and Peters reached Nickell’s trailer, she had them identified as an audience. Her voice grew louder as she made a bee-line towards them.

  Evan pounded on the door, calling, “Mr. Nickell, Gulf County Sheriff. Please come to the door.”

  “…the door Ricky the door come to the door it’s the police of chief to the door mister nickel in a pickle pickled beets beat beaten pickles...” Kinzy’s voice vacillated between strident scolding and sing-song playfulness.

  She reached the foot of the steps where Evan now stood. “Helloooo, officer,” she cooed. “What can I do for you?” The girl’s pupils had dilated to the point that her irises were barely visible, their color indiscernible. Evan also noticed a smattering of small round welts on her bare mid-section. “Ma’am,” Evan said, “we need to talk to Ricky.” In his peripheral vision, he saw Peters shaking his head and grinning.

  “Yeah, they didn’t want to open copper, you know the Branch Davidian tile?” Kinzy asked. “Well they educated us to unite with abounding slip sloppy sequins sequence sequester them up there, right, real decisive like? But the bees keep coming out!”

  “Ma’am…” Evan tried again.

  “Did you explain the neat hum notice?” She demanded, hands on hips. Then she turned to Peters and snapped, “Why the hell is there isn’t less legs in there?” She stopped speaking abruptly, holding one bent arm out to her side like a mannequin, and looked around as if confused.

  Peters ignored her and said to Evan, “That white Ford is the truck he currently drives. Means he’s in there. You just have to keep knocking.”

  “That’s right!” Kinzy scolded, violently shaking one finger at Evan, “You just knock and knock and knock but don’t knock it until you tried it cause you just don’t know do you? But I do. It’s in there. It’s cause of the hot steady acoustics in a quick minute. You got it. It’s his Ford built Ford tough tough luck, lady,” She burst out laughing.

  Evan had met dozens like her, but he never stopped wanting to take a shower when he met another meth head. It was like they enveloped anyone nearby in a thick, oozing coat of despair. He knocked on the door again. “Ricky Nickell, open the door. Gulf County Sheriff.”

  A weary, beleaguered voice came through a screened window, “Dang, Kinzey, give it a freaking break already!” Evan noticed several BB sized holes in the screen.

  Kinzey stopped laughing and commenced another string of words that only tangentially connected to each other.

  Evan talked over her, “Mr. Nickell, I need you to open this door, sir.”

  “I’m coming!” came the answer, followed by, “Kinzy! Shut up!”

  “You shut up you nippy praise minute!” she shot back. “Quick frogs oil soil! You crank! Thanks tank rank stank…”

  “Go back over by the trucks or the bees will get you, Kinzy!” Ricky yelled. This was followed by a loud snap. The window screen twitched and Kinzy yelped. Her string of words accelerated, now at a much higher pitch as she scurried away from the trailer. A new red welt appeared in the middle of her lower back.

  Evan felt a mild bump of adrenaline and color rising in his cheeks. He grabbed the door knob and pulled. It swung open a couple inches before catching on the security chain. Peters began to protest, probably about needing a warrant, but he didn’t get that far. Evan wrapped both hands around the edge of the door and wrenched it open, ripping out the chain. The cheap aluminum door bent and flew open, banging against the side of the trailer.

  Evan was through the opening. A stick figure dressed in boxer shorts was standing in the middle of the room holding a Daisy air rifle. “I said I’m…” he started, then his eyes popped wide when he got a look at Evan. “Hey you can’t…it’s not a real…”

  Evan was on him before he could finish. He snatched the air rifle with his left hand, bringing it up horizontal, then grabbed it with both hands and drove it into Ricky’s chest. Ricky lost his grip on the rifle, stumbled backward three large steps, and crashed into the wall, putting a crack in the beige paneling. The whole trailer rocked. Ricky plopped onto his butt, staring wide-eyed up at Evan.

  Evan tossed the Daisy away. It clattered into the kitchen, breaking something glass. Both of his fists had balled of their own accord, but he took a deep, measured breath and slowly uncurled them. After another breath, he said, “You find that entertaining, Mr. Nickell? Shooting that girl with a pellet gun?”

  “Ain’t a pellet gun, just BBs,” he said in a petulant tone. “Besides, you can’t just bust down my door…”

  “You were assaulting that girl. With a weapon. While two law enforcement officers were banging on your door,” Evan said, calming himself. “Probably one of the dumbest things I’ve seen all week, and that’s really saying something. And now you’re under arrest for it.”

  “But, but it’s just Kinzey…”

  “And since I had to enter the premises to stop the assault, I also have cause to arrest you for marijuana possession, judging from the smell.”

  “I don’t possess any weed, man. We smoked it all,” Ricky said, closing his eyes and
rolling his head slowly from side to side. “What’re you harassing me for, man? I got like this monster hangover, man, an’ Kinzey won’t shut up and now my door is all busted.”

  “We’re here to talk to you about Sheriff Hutchins,” Peters said.

  “What? He got another straining order for me? I told that self-righteous old man that he ever bring me another one of those I’d cram it down his throat ‘til he choked.” He lowered his head into his palms. “I need some Kool-Aid, man.”

  “When was the last time you saw the sheriff, Mr. Nickell?” Evan asked.

  “I don’t know…when he came an’ told me I couldn’t see Julie no more, I guess,” Ricky said. “Pervert wants ‘em all for himself.”

  “So, you were pretty upset with the sheriff?” Peters asked.

  “Sure I am! He’s an ass…Wait a minute, why you asking me where he’s at? Huh?”

  “Can you tell us where you were Thursday night, and who you were with?” Evan asked.

  “What? No! I don’t gotta answer any of your questions! You can’t even come in here without a warrant,” Ricky said, looking up from his palms. “I know my rights!”

  “What are they?” Evan asked.

  “What are what?” Ricky said.

  “Your rights. You said you know them. What are they?”

  “I, um…I have the right…I have…” Ricky’s face flushed. He glared at Evan, then at Peters. “I don’t gotta tell you my rights!” He finally blurted.

  Peters chuckled and shook his head, arms crossed on his chest.

  Evan said, “That’s okay, Peters will give you a refresher. Mr. Nickell, you’re under arrest for assault with—”

  “But that was just Kinzey!” Ricky nearly screamed. “She wouldn’t stay away and my head is slamming.” He looked around, bleary eyes wide. “I want to press charges, officer! I want to charge her with assault ‘cause she was assaulting me with her ever-yapping mouth.”

  “Mr. Nickell, focus,” Evan tried.

  “No, no, get this man,” Ricky said, becoming animated. “You need to arrest her, not me. It was self-defense, man. I couldn’t listen no more or I’d have killed myself, woulda just shot myself in the head. It was her or me, man. It was the only way to get her to shut up!”