Month: September 2018

Chapter 1

I saw her the moment I opened the door.  She was standing on the far side of the waiting room looking into the eyes of Thomas Jefferson, sitting reposed in a reproduction painting by Steve Penley.  One he had produced for his 2008 book, The Reconstruction of America.  Whoever she was, I agreed that Mr. Jefferson’s eyes could transport you to another world.

   It was the second time in the last two days I had eaten at Pirates Cove Cafe, then walked across the street to the new offices of Connor Ford, Private Investigator, and found someone mesmerized by the mysteriously intelligent eyes of Mr. Jefferson.  Yesterday, it was a woman from the Sand Mountain Reporter wanting to sell me a year’s worth of print advertising.  She had read about me in her own paper, how Marshall County’s only brick and mortar private detective had a newly renovated office.  Today, it was probably the Reporter woman’s twin sister from WQSB radio.  My mind hadn’t changed.  This type advertising didn’t work.

“Good morning.”  I said, always wanting to be polite, but hoping it was someone waiting to see Blair, my secretary.  She too was new.  I refused to get caught up in another lecture on branding or the pitfalls of social media.  I think, tomorrow, I will walk around to the rear of our building and enter through the back door.  A little extra walking won’t hurt.

“Hello.”  She said. I had startled her, which reminded me, we needed to get the door-ding thing installed to announce someone’s entry.  My first impression.  She was attractive, not beautiful, but handsome in a feminine sort of way.  She was wearing a gray cashmere sweater.  Warm for my office but wouldn’t win a playground fight against the cold wind and light mist outside.  Then, I saw her overcoat, laying across one of the leather chairs along the front wall.  Already making herself at home.  Damn salespeople.

“I don’t see Blair, my secretary at her desk.”  I figured she was back in our kitchen making coffee.  It wasn’t yet 8:00 a.m.  I made a mental note to remind Blair to stop by the kitchen and make the coffee on her way in from the back door, before walking to the front to open the main door.

“She’s making coffee I think.  She let me in.  I figure I’m a little early.  I was standing outside when she, Blair is it? opened the door.”

I always could kick myself when I jumped to a conclusion without fully exploring the issue.  Usually, there’s one or two things yet to consider, even when I’ve done a thorough analysis.  “I’ll tell her you’re still waiting.”

“Are you Connor Ford?”  She had walked towards me.  I could see her bright green eyes.  But, I also saw they were narrowed, rigid, cold, hard.

“I am.  And, you are?”

 “I’m Marissa Booth.  I came to make an appointment.  Is there any chance I could meet with you now?” 

Normally, I would have said something like, “I’m busy on a case right now.  Why don’t you make an appointment?”  I tried not to let someone’s looks persuade me one way or the other.  Sometimes I failed.  Marissa was more than pleasant to the eyes, my eyes, and she had that look of quiet desperation.

“Let me check with Blair.  Maybe I can adjust my schedule.”

At Blair’s insistence, I returned a call to attorney Dalton Martin, my best friend since high school.  He had worked as an associate with the local firm of Bearden & Tanner for several years.  He had recently made partner.  I was happy for him.  I was also happy to return his call.  We had a good working relationship.  We did each other favors all the time.  His firm didn’t have an investigator on staff, choosing to use one from out-of-town when they had a big case, which left me with quite a bit of work to do on what Dalton called his “meat and potatoes” cases. 

I wasn’t really surprised when Dalton said he had called to tell me late yesterday he had given my name and card to a lady who had dropped by his office.  Her name was Marissa Booth.  I thanked him and said she hadn’t wasted any time, that she was sitting in my waiting room as we spoke.  I was about to reveal my slight, but growing, frustration over the number of collection case investigations he had thrown my way since the end of October, when he said, “I doubt it will be much of anything, but at least it’s something different.  Her father was found dead Sunday afternoon and she’s a little suspicious.  The police have kept it quiet.  Probably figuring it was just a heart attack.”

Dalton filled me in with just a few basic facts.  He didn’t know much.  The victim was Adam Parker, a teacher at Snead State Community College here in Boaz.  He was found slumped over in his car behind the College’s Science Building.  Dead. 

I told Dalton I appreciated the referral and would keep him updated if hired and assuming Ms. Booth granted me permission to do so.

I buzzed Blair over the intercom and asked her to see our early morning visitor to the conference room.

I swiveled my chair and opened Flipboard on my computer to see the morning’s news headlines.  I hated when I relapsed.  Trying to keep up with national news was not only a waste of time, it was depressing to say the least.  My hero, Thomas Jefferson, would die a double death if he could see what the American people were choosing as national leaders.  Pitiful, deplorable.

Marissa was already seated when I walked in.  “I’m very sorry about your father.  I just heard.  My friend, attorney Dalton Martin, told me.  I’m not sure what I can do for you.  If warranted, the police will investigate.”  I said, sympathetic towards Ms. Booth but also not wanting to waste a lot of time.  Thankfully, I had a solid inventory of cases to work.

“I don’t trust the police.  I know my Dad was murdered.  He was healthy as a horse.”  My first impression of Marissa in my waiting room had been positive.  Because it was based on looks.  But now, I wasn’t impressed at all.  She seemed the modern American, clueless about reason and logic, oh so willing to jump to the conclusion she wanted to reach, without properly considering the evidence, or lack thereof.

“That’s three big claims.  I suspect you are more correct about your father’s health than the other two.  Do you mind telling me why you don’t trust the police?  I assume you’re speaking of the City of Boaz police?”

“I am.  Jake Stone, police-officer Jake Stone, is an idiot and an asshole, probably a criminal.”  Marissa said opening a small box of Kleenex she had pulled from her purse.  I let her gather herself.  A long minute or so later she relayed a few more facts, facts to her.  Stone had recently made some derogatory comments about her father on Facebook.  Something about his research project on abortion.  Seems like Stone also knew Marissa’s father had supported Doug Jones in the recent Alabama Senate race.  Stone and a few of his buddies had been damning Jones over his recent vote rejecting a Republican bill that would have banned most abortions after 20 weeks of pregnancy.  

“Let’s say for arguments sake that you are correct, that you cannot trust Jake Stone.  That doesn’t mean his way of thinking, his animosity towards your father, has or will infect the entire police department.”

“You may be right but, for me, the best position, the safest position if I want to know the truth, is to not trust the Boaz police.”  She dabbed her eyes again.  Even with her sadness and grief and a hefty dose of anger, her eyes were mesmerizing, in a different sort of way than Mr. Jefferson’s. I felt she had to be a warm and passionate woman, especially under normal conditions.

“You also said you believe your father was murdered.  What are your reasons?  I assume you have some objective evidence?”  I asked, again anxious to finish this meeting and get back to my desk.  The new office carried a heavy mortgage.   I needed to work on active cases.

“Mr. Ford, I live in Nashville, so I’m not attuned to the local heartbeat, but I do know my father.  He and I are close, were very close.  We talked by phone nearly every day.  We also shared emails and texts.  Adam Parker was a perfectionist.  That was both a curse and a blessing, especially for a biologist.  That’s what he has taught the last two years at Snead College.   I was aware that he had never fit in around here.  He never said, but I fully believe, he was afraid.  There’s three people that I believe had something to do with his death, or they know somebody who did.”

“Dalton, my friend and the attorney you saw yesterday, said your father was found slumped over in his car.  Couldn’t it have been a heart attack?”  I asked.

“I guess it could, but I suspect it was triggered by something other than his own body.  I’ll hopefully know in a couple of days.  I’m having an autopsy conducted.”

“What exactly are you wanting me to do?  I assume you are here because I’m a private investigator.”

“Correct.  I want you to determine what happened to my father.  I’m not a rich woman but I can afford to hire you, with my salary and the inheritance my late grandmother left me.”

“What do you do?  Where do you work?”  I asked.

“I’m a professor of New Testament and Early Christianity at Vanderbilt University Divinity School in Nashville.  Please Mr. Ford, please help me.”

“Call me Connor.  I’m not your elder.” 

“Connor, will you take my case?  I need answers.  I loved my father.  I know he could be a pain in the ass, but he loved the truth.  I will never be able to live with myself if I don’t do everything I can to learn exactly what happened.”

“How long are you in town?”  I asked.

“For a week.  I must deal with his house.  Thankfully, he was only renting but he had it packed with his research materials, a few thousand books and a boat-load of journals and documents.”

“All I can promise right now is that I will consider taking your case.  I need a few days to think about it.  What would be helpful would be for you to provide anything you feel is even remotely related to the cause of his death.  Things like texts, emails, letters, Facebook posts and comments.  You see what I mean?”  I asked.

“I do.  I’ll be back by tomorrow with some things I’m confident will persuade you.  Changing the subject, but what is your fee.  That is, if you accept my case?”

“I work off a retainer.  I charge $150 per hour for my time.  I also charge $60 per hour for Joe’s time.  Joe Carter is my assistant, an apprentice investigator.  Finally, I charge $25 per hour for any time Blair is working on a specific research task directly related to your case.  Not for typing a letter but bulldogging and gopher work.  I also charge for all expenses related to the case.  I would request you sign a written agreement and pay a $10,000 retainer to begin.”

“That sounds fair.”

“I appreciate you coming and again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks Connor.  I look forward to working with you.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Since Marissa’s car was parked out back, I walked her through the kitchen and the file room to our building’s rear entrance.  We didn’t have enough parking out front, especially with our neighbor, Pirates Cove, consuming most of the few spaces along the one-way street. 

Chapter 2

Joe was looking at my collection of crime and legal thrillers along the back row of my office when I returned from escorting Marissa out the back door.

“Have you read all of these?”  Joe had been with me for two years.  Even though he was still an apprentice investigator (according to NAPI’s standards–National Association of Professional Investigators), he was on track to becoming a real Sherlock.

“Certainly.  Several of them twice.  A few, like “A Time to Kill,” by Grisham, three times, at least.  And, those are just my hardbacks.  I have a few hundred other ones on my Kindle.”

“I used to read a lot for pleasure, now seems all I do is study.  You were lucky not to have had to take those darn State Board exams.”  Joe said, scanning the back cover of “An Unsuitable Job for a Woman,” by. P.D. James.

“I agree, but you don’t have a five-year apprenticeship like I did.  Most of the old heads, even though there was no legal requirement, wouldn’t dare turn a youngster like you loose with a case until he’d spent half-a-decade as a sidekick.  Now, put James under your arm and let me hear if you’re close to untying a knot.”  I said reminding myself this subject was growing a little weary.  The closer Joe’s two-day test got, the more he seemed to verbalize how unfair it was.

“Funny.  I met with Hannah, Hannah Knott, yesterday afternoon. Our meeting ran late so I didn’t come back by the office.”  I really liked him.  For several reasons, but one was he was considerate.  Over my nearly fifty years I had seen that characteristic evaporate.

“Sit and speak.”  I said pointing to the round oak table in the corner of my office, behind the two leather wingback chairs across from my desk.  He took my advice and held on to one of my favorite crime novels of the 1970’s.

“Coffee?”  Blair came in holding two large cups of coffee.  She didn’t have to ask.  Considerate.  I love that both members of my staff learned this invaluable trait.

“Thanks Blair.  I think she’s going to be a keeper.”  Joe said, allowing his eyes to follow her out of my office.  I couldn’t fault him for noticing.  He was twenty-eight and single, and in between girlfriends.  Blair, also was single, but seemed oblivious to her stunning beauty.  I hoped the two stayed focused on their work.

“How did it go with Hannah.  Yesterday?”  I asked.  Mrs. Steven Knott had been a client for several months.  Steven is the Minister of Music at First Baptist Church of Christ in Boaz.  Hannah suspects her husband is having an affair.  So far, we have been unable to verify her suspicions.

“Finally, a breakthrough.  You’d think she would have found an opportunity to look at Steven’s iPhone several times over these last two months.  The man is insanely mechanical.  I’m glad our client is patient.  Yesterday morning, while he was in the shower, where he normally always has his cell phone, in the bathroom that is, Hannah heard his cell phone vibrate.  He had left it in his underwear drawer.  She suspects he got distracted when she, as she often does, pops in unannounced to try and distract him.”  I had trained Joe to be thorough, but somethings could be left out in the retelling.  Just get to the relevant stuff.

“I assume Hannah got a look-see and found some evidence?”  I asked.

“Yes, Steven’s iPhone vibrated because he received a text.  It was from, you want to try and guess?”

“No, why don’t you just tell me.”

“Peyton Todd. Obviously, she was in his Contacts or Hannah wouldn’t have known who was sending the text.  Peyton said, ‘Don’t forget the tickets.  Can’t wait.’

“Tell me about Ms. Todd.  I assume you have tracked her down?”  I said, guiding Joe a little more than I should have to.

“That was easy.  I called Blair.  You know she knows everybody, lived here all her life, never even moved away for college. Her and Peyton were semi-close during high school.  She’s Kurt Prescott’s assistant at Sand Mountain Bank.”  Joe said sharing a story his grandfather had told him.  Sand Mountain Bank, originally, was a local bank formed in the 1930’s, operating until the mid-1980’s or so.  Until, it was bought out by a big holding company, Southtrust Bank I believe.  Two years ago, Kurt Prescott, a great-grandson of one of the original founders, returned to Boaz from Atlanta to re-charter SMB.  From all I’d seen, it had been a good idea.  I had a personal account there and they always seemed busy.  I really liked the new building they built on Billy Dyar Blvd., next to the pharmacy.  Bank Row, as it was being called, now had nearly as many banks as Boaz had churches.

“What else did you learn?”  I asked.

“That’s pretty much it.  That’s big isn’t it?  Just learning her name.  Now, we know who Steven is having an affair with.”  Joe’s mind must have followed Blair all the way to her desk because it certainly hadn’t stayed in his head.

“We do?”

“Well, not for sure, but I think that’s a reasonable deduction to reach.”  Maybe Joe was thinking.  A little.

“We need confirmation.  Let me ask you.  You know I’ve deliberately stayed passive about this case, allowing you to lead and manage.  What is the end game here?”

“Do you mean, what does Hannah want to accomplish?”  Joe asked.

“Certainly, it’s her case, her life.  We work for her.  She sets the agenda.”

“I have to say I’m not really sure.  It’s a weird case.  Hannah’s a weird woman if you ask me.  It seems she wants to know for sure Steven is having an affair.  Then, she can confront him to see if he will be remorseful, repentant.  I think Hannah wants her marriage to work.”  Joe said. 

“So, she’s not after blood, not wanting to grab the kids, the money, and throw Steven’s ass out in the cold?”  I knew this would be what most women would want or should want.

“It’s the Christian thing to do, she says.”  Joe was like me.  We both had grown up in churches, Southern Baptist Churches, but neither of us hardly ever attended.  We both simply shed that set of clothes.  For me, it was over twenty-five years ago.  For Joe, it was maybe six or seven.

“Back to your investigation.  You’ve been tailing him for over a month.  You haven’t learned anything to support Hannah’s suspicion?”  I asked.

“Not really.  Like I said, he is mechanical to a fault.  His life is rather boring.  He’s at church six days per week by 8:00 a.m.  Monday through Friday’s he goes to Health Connections for about ninety minutes to work out.  Saturday’s, well, I haven’t been following him much on the weekends.”

“Health Connections?  Ninety minutes?  Sounds like you might want to look under the hood.  Especially now that you suspect Peyton is his girlfriend.  Maybe, they are meeting there, sitting in the spa for ninety minutes.  Maybe, ambling over to the linen closet.  Who knows?”  I said, wishing I had taken a little more active role in Hannah’s case.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at my desk drafting a report for Dalton.  He and Trevor, Trevor Nixon, one of Dalton’s law partners, were in the early stages of a capital murder defense in Jackson County.  They had hired me to conduct a preliminary investigation, mainly locating a few potential witnesses and preparing a written profile of their backgrounds.  Dalton wanted my report by Thursday afternoon for his meeting with his chief capital murder case investigator, Bobby Sorrells from Dothan.  He was scheduled to be in town Friday morning.

At 5:00 p.m., I was finishing my first draft when Blair came in and said she was leaving unless I had something else for her to do.  I said I was okay.  She lingered in my doorway like she had something to say.

“Here’s the rule around here.  If you want or need to say something, just let it flow, assuming it’s just us clowns here and no clients.”  I said wanting her to feel welcome and a vital part of our operation.

“I don’t want to get any one in trouble, but I think Joe likes me.  I would be okay with it too, in liking him, but now is a bad time.  You know, when I interviewed, I told you about my divorce and that I might never get over it.  I really feel Joe is a good guy but I’m nowhere ready for another commitment, not even just to date.”

“Why tell me?  Why not tell Joe?”  I asked.

“I kind of think of you as a father figure and I don’t want to hurt Joe’s feelings.  I thought you might drop a hint or something, nothing to make him think I didn’t like him.”  Blair said.

“Thanks.  I suppose I should take your ‘father’ comment as a compliment.  I’m just glad Camilla doesn’t think the way you do.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I get it now.  She is a lot younger than you, isn’t she?  I bet she’s not much older than I am.  I didn’t mean.”  I think Blair would have continued digging herself deeper into a hole, except that for the voice coming from the back door.

“It’s just me.”  Camilla said.  She always said that about this time every day.

“Come on in.  We’re in my office.”  I said as though she couldn’t figure that out on her own.

When Camilla stood in my doorway, she said, after seeing Blair, “Oh, I’m sorry.  I thought you were alone.  I didn’t see Blair’s car.”

“It’s not here.  In the shop.  Mother is supposed to pick me up about now.  I’ll go look for her.”  I could tell Blair was embarrassed.

“It’s nice of you to come by and see your dear old dad, Camilla.”  I hardly ever ignored an opportunity to be a comedian of sorts, or to put someone on the spot.  Blair’s face turned red.

“Dad, do you still think of me as your favorite daughter?”  Camilla asked.  I think she knew what I was up to.

“I certainly do.  You’re thirty-two and I’m nearly fifty.  I’m old enough to be your dad.”  I said.

“Blair, don’t you think I’ve got a good-looking father?”  Camilla asked, as Blair was putting on her jacket and gathering her purse and cell phone.

“Ya’ll are making fun of me.  Connor, I didn’t mean to imply that you are too old for a young woman, just that I needed someone, a wiser someone, for advice.”  Blair now had reached my door and Camilla had moved across and was leaning against my crime and legal thrillers.

“Kind, sweet, considerate, and competent.  What more could I want in an assistant.  Blair, my dear, we were only joking, having a little fun.  You stay exactly the way you are.  You’re perfect for Connor Ford, Private Investigations.”

After Blair left and I heard the back door close, I got up and walked over to Camilla.  Her lips were ever more of a thrill than any one of the hundreds of novels lining the whole back side of my office.  Other than a little temper that she so far had managed to cage, she was near perfect for me.  Tall, brunette, shapely in just the right areas, and a true romantic.  We made a good pair.  She was the best thing that had happened to me since my divorce over five years ago.  Camilla, I fully believed, was a keeper.

Chapter 3

Blair buzzed me a few minutes after eleven o’clock.  I had just returned from the Marshall County Courthouse in Albertville where I had testified in a divorce case.  Marissa was in the waiting room asking if she could see me or whether she needed to make an appointment.  At least, this time, I had a choice.  It wasn’t a difficult decision.

“Good day Mr. Ford.  Thanks for seeing me.”  Marissa said, standing in my doorway holding two leather briefcases.

“I’m Connor.  Remember?  Yesterday, I’m not your elder?”  I said motioning her over to the oak table.

“Some habits are hard to change.  Dad ingrained that Mr. stuff in my head from a little girl.  He said, “until you establish a friendship it is Mr. and Ms.  If it’s strictly business, then stay strictly formal.”  She said, still standing but having opened both cases.

“Then, consider us friends.  What do you have for me?” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to leave all this but wanted to give you a hint at the type of information Dad produced, cataloged, and retained.  This brief case.”  Marissa stood more in front of the dark-colored brief case.  “This brief case contains a chronological stack of email correspondence between Dad and Jake Stone.  You can see here, Dad attached articles supporting his arguments.”  She handed me an example.  The email listed three different attachments.  There was probably thirty pages, in addition to a two-page email.

“Looks like your father was thorough.”  I said.

“He was a perfectionist.  You’ve heard of a type-A perfectionist.  They perceive anything less than perfection as failing.  Who else do you know who would have kept such records?  Ninety-nine percent of people, even if they referenced supporting data, would not have gone to the trouble of printing out the documents and creating a physical file.  I won’t go into Dad’s indexing and cross-referencing system.  Let me just say.  It was thorough.”  Marissa said, finally sitting down across from me.

“Adam Parker sounds like an interesting man.  I wish I had known him.  I suspect he would be the type to get under your nerves after a while.  I bet he wouldn’t get along with the temperamental type.”

“Not just a moody person, but someone, say, the disorganized, flaky, oversensitive type would have made him claw the wall.”  She stood and pulled out a journal from the tan-colored brief case.  “Dad was a multi-layered person.  He had what he called his public life and his private life.  Privately, he kept detailed journals.  Here, he would be more emotional.  Don’t let that statement mislead you.  Even his emotions were logical and well-reasoned, if there is such a thing.  Here, here’s an example from back in the summer: ‘Mr. Stone’s outburst, including his use of damn and idiot stirred my anger.  That enemy of reason.  I somewhat regret my own response, one virtually dripping with sarcasm. Some of my peers might even label it an outburst: ‘your reference to the Bible is unpersuasive.  Where’s your evidence I should care what the Bible says?’”

“That was emotional?  I don’t even catch the sarcasm.”  I said.

“I think he was engaged in a little game he liked to play.  By himself.  It’s almost like he was saying, ‘surely Jake Stone couldn’t be serious to root his anti-abortion arguments in the Bible.’  Fortunately, Dad was a much better communicator in his public life than his private.”

“Marissa, I’m enjoying our little chat but at this rate we will be here till midnight.  Why don’t you show me some things that convince you Jake Stone can’t be trusted, maybe even had something to do with your father’s death.”  I said.  Always, the bad guy of sorts.

“I can tell you are not much of a chit-chatter.  I’m not either.  I’m new at this.  I’ve never had a reason to seek out the services of a detective.”

I didn’t respond.  Verbally.  But, I did nod and gaze toward the two open brief cases.

“Okay.  I see.  Look here.”  She pulled her iPhone out of her dark wool jacket pocket.  “The two of them, Dad and Stone, first started communicating on Facebook.  Dad wasn’t one to waste much time, but he did use social media in his professional life.  Mostly keeping up with his Biologist colleagues.  Several weeks ago, it seems Stone tagged Dad in a post.  Here, read it.”  She tapped her iPhone screen a few times and handed it over to me.

“Liberals like local Biologist Adam Parker don’t value life.  They think it’s okay to abort a baby at any time.  Like that damn Democratic Senator who stole the election from the God-fearing Roy Moore.” 

“Did your father respond to this?”  I asked.

“Scroll on down, fifteen or twenty comments.” Marissa responded.

I finally found it.  Here it is, ‘Mr. Stone might spend some time reading and researching facts.’  Well, I can tell Adam Parker wasn’t the type to respond to an attack with emotion.”

After a few more similar examples, Marissa showed me on Facebook where Adam had issued his challenge to Mr. Stone.  Asking him to engage in civil dialog via email.  To his credit, Stone had agreed.  She had me read Adam’s first response to Stone’s assertion that life begins at conception just like the Bible says.  I could see how Jake Stone would get upset.  Adam’s writing was academic, narrowly focused, completely sterile to most Southerners.  He defined fetus and referenced several peer-reviewed articles that argued a fetus wasn’t even remotely viable until at least twenty weeks, thus it wasn’t a living person.  Before this time, it was more like an organ and that we (Americans) don’t make women or men donate a lung, a liver, a heart, eyes, any body part, whether we are dead or alive.  It’s strictly a matter of choice. 

Adam also listed a few reasons why a woman might have an abortion after twenty weeks.  He first cited a statistic.  Only 1.3% of abortion procedures occur after 20 weeks gestation.  From scanning one of the articles attached to Adam’s first email, I gathered that the vast majority of these, post-twenty-week abortions, occur because of the discovery the fetus, call it ‘baby’ if you want, has a fatal, or near-fatal condition.  Although there are several earlier screenings a woman can have in her pregnancy, the most comprehensive and revealing test is an amniocentesis, which can’t be performed until the 16-week mark at a minimum.  The article’s author wrote: “The optimum times are between 16 and 22 weeks.  This test can diagnose chromosomal abnormalities, neural tube defects, and some genetic disorders. However, an amniocentesis is an invasive and risky test (with a chance of causing miscarriage), so many women wait to receive results of earlier screenings before deciding to undergo one. For those women who are experiencing routine pregnancies initially, this is likely the first time they receive any sort of actual diagnosis of fetal anomalies that could be fatal.”  My eyes were growing weary.

“You see what I’m saying?”  Marissa asked.

“Uh, I’m not sure.  I do see that your father believed in details, sticking with a science type argument.”

“Absolutely.  This is just the type of argument that people like Jake Stone would find offensive.  He and his type are not interested in facts, real evidence.  They are so anchored to the Bible, that’s all they know, all their brains will hear and acknowledge.  There’s many sophisticated words for this syndrome but the most common one is brainwashed.”  Marissa said, again standing and digging down into the stack of documents in the dark-colored briefcase.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings but all you’ve shown me so far is two people having a semi-friendly discussion.”

“All you’ve seen is the beginning.  It gets much worse.  I’m looking for the first threat.  Here it is.”  Marissa pulled out a thick document and flipped to the last page.  “Look at Stone’s post-script in his email responding to Dad’s argument over the right of a woman to choose.”

She handed me the document already folded to the relevant page. ‘You and your type don’t belong in Boaz, Alabama.  In fact, you don’t belong anywhere on the planet.  Nature has a way of destroying the weak and insane.’  I read it twice.  “Well, I have to admit, that is much different than anything you’ve shared before.  It’s tangible evidence he, Jake Stone, believed your father’s position on abortion was unacceptable, and he wasn’t welcome around Boaz, but it’s still far from indicating Jake had any intent on murdering your father.  I’m sorry, but unless you’ve got something much stronger, I can’t in good conscience take your case.”  I said this with a little sadness.  I liked Marissa.  She obviously loved her father.

“Would you at least withhold your decision until after the autopsy is completed?”

“I don’t foresee that changing anything.”  I said.

“Please Connor.  And, please read more of these emails.  If you will, I think you will gain a better sense of Mr. Stone’s growing anger and disgust with my father.  Can I leave these two briefcases?”  I could see tears start to form in Marissa’s eyes.

I couldn’t quiet put my finger on it, but this woman had a subtle, almost innocent, way of persuasion.  It was like she disarmed me while I was in my sleep.  I reached down and made sure my Ruger SR9 was still in its holster on my right side.  “Okay, I’ll wait till the autopsy is finished.  Also, I’ll read some more, but I’m not promising to read everything you brought.  Please don’t take this as any type commitment to take this case.”

“I take you strictly at your word.  Here’s my cell number if you need to call.  Also, I’ll let you know when I hear from the autopsy.”  Marissa said sliding a business card across to me.

Chapter 4

I decided to eat a bowl of oatmeal at home this morning.  Garrett, my regular Pirates Cove breakfast partner, was visiting his oldest daughter in Birmingham.  Garrett Lane, a retired Methodist minister, was my senior by at least twenty-five years, my parent’s minister for twice that time, and now, the only one I allowed within earshot to attempt to pierce my hardcore logic armor with stories of faith, the supernatural, and a unique brand of Bible inerrancy.

After finishing my oatmeal and two slices of toast laden with a thick layer of strawberry jelly, I walked to my study and opened the Adam Parker journal I had brought home with me last night.  I had meant to read some in it last night but got distracted when Camilla called.  She had gotten in late from an all-day workshop at The Cosmetology Center in Huntsville.  It was still hard for me to believe she had shelved an eight-year career in nursing to become a hair-dresser. 

Parker’s 2018 journal was almost full.  Out of a total of 200 pages, he had filled up 160.  The first entry, dated January 1, 2018 read: “Lawton Hawks’ comment, ‘Life begins at conception.  Abortionists are killers.  The law should prosecute them for the murders they commit just like anyone else who kills.  Unfortunately, the law says otherwise.’  Hawks’ reference to Acts 5:29 is troubling.  I’m unsure exactly what he meant but it could be he believed vigilante justice for all abortionists is justified.  I wonder if Hawks would include me as a conspirator to murder, since I believed in a woman’s right to choose?”  I turned to my side table holding my desktop computer and opened Facebook.  I searched for Lawton Hawks and scanned the comments my query produced.  My suspicion was confirmed.  Boaz Councilman Lawton Hawks had, on December 31, 2017, written the quoted comment as a response to a post shared by Jake Stone, a post showing an alleged twelve-week-old human fetus laying inside an adult’s hand.

As I continued to read Adam’s journal entry, my iPhone vibrated.  It was Joe Carter.  “Morning Connor.  My dentist’s office just called and is trying to change my appointment to 8:00 instead of 10:00 this morning.  I have a favor to ask.”

“I bet it has something to do with that stack of subpoenas we received yesterday from Dalton.”  I said, knowing Joe had a full day ahead of him, even without a dental appointment.

“Would you mind serving two of them first thing this morning.  Timing is a little more difficult with these.  I can take care of the others after my teeth cleaning.”

“No problem.  I don’t have an appointment until 11:00.  Who are they?”  I asked.

“Ansley Mandy.  She’s a nurse and drives to Birmingham five days per week.  Gets home late.  She lives on North Main.  The other one is for Jake Stone.  You know, the police officer.  He’s usually at the police station first thing every morning.”

“Okay, no problem.  Be sure and leave them on my desk.  I’ll leave the house right now, so I can catch Ms. Mandy.”

“Thanks Connor.  I owe you.”  Joe said.

I closed Adam’s journal, walked to the kitchen, grabbed my keys off the bar and headed out.  It was already seven o’clock.  I hoped I could swing by the office and get to North Main in time to catch Ms. Mandy.

During my drive to town my mind thought back to the last time I served a subpoena.  It was Labor Day 2004.  I was still working for Bobby Sorrells, Investigations in Dothan, Alabama.  Just two weeks earlier, I had also started attending law school in Birmingham five nights per week.  Billy Arnold, a highly successful, local business man, had just been acquitted of rape a few weeks earlier.  The alleged victim was now suing Mr. Arnold to recover financial damages for the alleged assault.  I had no problem serving the subpoena.  Arnold, who insisted I call him Billy, even invited me into his home and offered me a cup of coffee.  I refused but got the feeling he was a conman.  Bobby always said, “feelings will get you killed.”

As I sat at the red-light at Highway 431 my mind changed gears.  My life had been a whirlwind ever since I served that last subpoena.  I had left Bobby Sorrells and completed law school.  Practicing in Dothan with Teague, Loggins, and Spradling for eight years, my divorce in 2011, my murder trial and acquittal in early 2014, and finally, my return home to Boaz in October 2014.  I was out of the office in two minutes and turned into the driveway at 410 North Main Street, in another three.  I felt blessed the swirling winds had landed me in a business of my own and a job I thoroughly enjoyed.

Unfortunately, I was late. According to her sister, Ansley Mandy left five minutes ago.  I backed out onto Highway 205 and headed south.  In less than five minutes I was sitting in the parking lot across from the Boaz Police Department.  I grabbed the right subpoena and almost opened my truck’s door.  I realized I should have thought about how to use this opportunity to get some type of reading on Jake Stone’s current feelings about Adam Parker.  I should have used my driving time to develop some form of strategy.

Before Marissa Booth had entered my life, all I knew about Jake Stone was that he and his sister, Jane Ellsworth, owned the Brass Lantern Restaurant.  It was another long-dissolved business that had recently been revived.  I looked at the subpoena.  The parties to the civil lawsuit were Sysco Foods, Inc. and Jake Stone.  He was the defendant.  I was curious why I didn’t have a subpoena to serve on Jane Ellsworth.  I made a mental note to ask Dalton.  Maybe, Jake was the responsible party, the one who had guaranteed the contract with Sysco Foods. 

I chose to ignore my idea to craft a strategy.  I chose to wing it.  I got out of my truck and walked across the street.  As I was walking up the hill to the dispatch window the front door opened, and Jake Stone walked out.  I assumed he was about to head out on patrol.  At first, he didn’t see me.

“Mr. Stone, do you have a minute?”  I asked, now almost within hand-shaking distance.

“What does it concern?  I’m now on duty.”  Stone said pushing his Billy club into a side-slot on his belt.

“I’ve been instructed to deliver you some papers.”  I reached out toward him with my right hand holding the blue-wrapped subpoena.

“And, I’ve been instructed not to accept them.”  He replied.

“Consider yourself served.”  I followed him over to his car and laid the papers on the hood right next to the driver’s side windshield.

“Consider yourself devoured.”  Stone said opening his door.

“Mr. Stone, I take that as a negative, very improper, way to address me.  Would you like to explain?”  I asked.

“Hell no, I wouldn’t.  Now, get your ass out of my face.”

“Let me ask you, Jake, may I call you Jake?”

“No, don’t call me anything, except Mr. Stone.”

“Okay Jake, did you ever tell Adam Parker, ‘Consider yourself devoured’?  I asked, seeing if I could get a further rise out of the asshole Stone.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.  What’s that to you?”  Stone asked.

“It might just become part of my full-time job.  You hated Mr. Parker, didn’t you?”

“I sure as hell did.  The world’s a better place now that he’s in hell.”  I couldn’t remember when I’d had such a delightful conversation.

“You’re pretty smart aren’t you Jake, using hell two different ways.  Are you smart enough to cover your tracks, or am I going to find you killed Mr. Parker?”  I was way out of line.  I was letting my feelings govern my words.  Bobby would be very disappointed in me.

“You’re Connor Ford, aren’t you?  Are you going to kill me like you did that Gore fellow a few years back?  Yes, I know you.  All of us are keeping an eye on you.”

“I would guess you consider me a killer just like you do everyone who performs an abortion.”  Stone slammed his door and walked towards me.  I saw his right hand slid down towards his club.

“Mr. Stone, Jake, you need to back up.  I won’t play word games with you like Mr. Parker did.”  I said hoping he would realize he couldn’t bully me.

“Shut the fuck up, you smart ass.”  I braced myself when I saw both his hands coming towards my chest.  I wanted to punch his face but had to maintain control.  If he wanted to fight, I had to let him take the first action.  I suspected someone was watching us through the big glass window beside the police station’s front door.

I let him push me back.  No doubt he was strong.  I couldn’t retain my stance, but I didn’t fall to the ground.  I recovered and acted like I was going to turn back towards my truck behind me.  Just as I did, just as I feigned fear by breathing in, opening my eyes as wide as I could, I swung and landed a solid right uppercut to the underside of his left jaw.  He fell back across the hood of the car but didn’t stay there long.  Even though he was a little taller than me, maybe six-two, I had at least forty pounds on him.  He bear-hugged me and lifted me off my feet.  We slammed down on the pavement and both struggled to gain the top position.  Just as I rolled him to my right and was about positioned to swing my right fist at his head, two officers came outside and pulled me off.  The fight was over.  Jake’s mouth was bleeding.

It was nearly 11:00 before I got to the office.  It had taken Dalton nearly three hours to convince the City Attorney to release me without filing any charges.  If it hadn’t been for Karen Lee, the dispatcher, who said that Jake started the fight, I probably would have been charged with third degree assault.  I figured her job would be in jeopardy. 

While I washed my hands and face looking in the mirror I told myself I was getting too old for these school-yard tussles.  I also hoped the Adam Parker autopsy gave me even the slightest evidence he had died under suspicious circumstances.  Jake Stone was a bully and needed a good licking.

Chapter 5

Other than my eleven o’clock appointment with Boaz Mayor Zach Mohler, I spent the rest of the day at my desk finalizing my report to Dalton on his Jackson County capital murder case.  With Bobby Sorrells coming to town in less than a week, I wouldn’t have another multi-hour stretch of time to complete the report.  I certainly didn’t want to be saddled with the responsibility tonight since Camilla was returning from her two-day workshop in Birmingham.  The best part of the afternoon was overhearing Blair and Joe laughing in the kitchen after he returned from serving a dozen subpoenas.  Joe had a way of innocently embellishing the truth to create hilarious stories of him figuratively slaying dragons.  This time, Joe had shared how two older women, the mother and grandmother of the defendant, had virtually held him against his will in their kitchen while they skinned two rabbits all while their male offspring was changing clothes.  The punch line happened when, fifteen minutes later, the defendant came out wearing a woman’s dress and a sunset-red wig.

A few minutes before 5:00, I slid out the back door in between stories and swung by Pizza Hut.  I was ready to be with Camilla and didn’t want either of us slaving in the kitchen.  She was sitting in the dark on the back porch when I drove up.

“Don’t you think it’s a little cool to be out here?”  I asked, noticing she didn’t even have a sweater on and her blouse was short-sleeved.

“I’ve been stuck in a room full of hot-flashing middle-aged women.  It’s strange to me they complain about their fluctuating temperatures but love the room at a hundred degrees.  Plus, I needed the cool air to clear my head of the hair-dye toxins.”  I had set the pizza in a chair by the back door and walked across to her just standing up from the swing.  I didn’t have to reach out for her.  I was lucky to have found an affectionate woman.

“I’ve missed you.”  I said trying to be more open with my feelings.  Before she left Tuesday morning, we had an argument, not really, but certainly an intense discussion about how I didn’t always show her that I trust her.  She complained about me always analyzing everything.  I wanted to be more of what she wanted and needed.  I had to learn to leave my work at the office and truly be with her when we were together.

“Wow.  Mr. Touchy-Feelie.  I like it.  This old dog can learn.”  She said, laying her head on my shoulder and using both hands to pull us closer together.

For a minute we stood there, frozen.  At least I was freezing.  Finally, she leaned her head back as though she was going to kiss me.  I couldn’t see her eyes.  I leaned in to kiss her, but she said, “Emily is still angry at you for divorcing her mother.”

“Where did that come from?”  I asked.

“I had dinner with her last night.  She’s a wonderful young lady.”  Camilla took my hand and led me into the house.  She had arrived earlier and had already unlocked the back door.  The house was well lite, and I could smell the sweet scent of an apple pie that she was cooking, a frozen one she had bought at Walmart.  Camilla wasn’t a cook-from-scratch type of woman.

I sat the pizza down on the kitchen bar and said, “Emily is nearly your age.”

“So, I’m not a young woman?”

“No, not really.  To me, a young woman is like twenty-two, not thirty-two.”  I said.

“With that logic, I guess you are an old man.  For sure, sometimes I feel like I’m sleeping with my father.”  Camilla said opening the oven and checking the pie.

“Ugly picture.”

“Which part?  You are the same age as my father you know.”  Camilla opened the refrigerator and poured me a glass of cranberry juice and her a glass of milk.

“I thought we’d settled the issue.  Your words, ‘age is just a number.’  Now, back to Emily.”  Camilla rolled off double paper towels for us instead of using plates and dished each of us a slice of pizza.  I was glad she liked to jostle and joke about my age.  Even though I was certain our seventeen-year difference wasn’t a problem, I knew I had to do everything I could to avoid becoming a grouch.

“She’s thinking about moving to Gadsden, maybe even Boaz.  She’s interviewing with Gadsden Regional Medical Center.”  Camilla said taking a bite of our Supreme Pizza.

“That’s surprising.  Seems like I’m surrounded by roving nurses.  Ansley Mandy lives in Boaz and is a nurse in Birmingham.  You are a former nurse, now nursing an old man, and my thirty-year-old daughter is encroaching on the man she hates.”  I said.

“Connor Ford, you are wrong.  Emily, I believe, down deep, adores you, worships you.  Sometimes, girls, daughters, need their fathers to be open and honest with them.  Admitting a mistake sometimes pays big dividends.”  Camilla said, pulling the apple pie from the oven and setting it at the end of the bar to cool.

“So, I made a gigantic mistake?  I’m the one who shoulders all the blame?  Amy and I were kids when we married.  Less than a month after we graduated high school.  Nine months later the little Emily package arrived.  Amy and I were kids trying to raise a kid.  Add in college and later the police academy.  The gorgeous little baby grew up almost without a father.  I put my schooling and my work a football field ahead of my relationship with my one and only child.  Lonely child and a lonely woman.  I take full responsibility for being too busy.  But, Amy is the one who had an affair.”  I said, wondering how and why we were rehashing all of this.  Was Camilla questioning her sanity and her recent willingness to start talking about our engagement?

Camilla placed another slice of pizza on my paper towels and moved her barstool across from me.  “I think we need to slow down just a little.  Let me tell you why I think this before you respond.  Okay?”

“I take it you’re not talking about how fast we’re eating pizza.”  I said.

“You’re right.”

Camilla went on to tell me she loved me but with Emily contemplating moving to Boaz we needed to postpone shacking up together for now.  She didn’t like the ‘shacking’ word but I clearly understood what she meant.  For several months, Camilla had stayed overnight at my place about as much as she had at her Sundown apartment.  I loved her beside me as I fell to sleep every night.  By the time she finished encouraging me to invite Emily to live with me for a while until she got settled, I felt I didn’t have much choice.  I wasn’t an expert on women, but I knew getting mad and demanding Camilla move in likely wasn’t the best route to winning her heart for good.

The apple pie was wonderful as usual but falling to sleep with Camilla in my arms was even sweeter.

Saturday morning Camilla had an early appointment.  She was the newest beautician at Serenity Salon.  The owner, Deb Moody, had started a seven o’clock haircut special that fell in Camilla’s lap three days per week.  She didn’t mind because she knew this was a good way to build her book of business.  Camilla was friendly, caring, and inquisitive enough not to make the customers feel crowded or uncomfortable.

Garrett was already waiting at our table when I walked in Pirates Cove.

“Good morning Mr. Ford.  You don’t have me a subpoena, do you?”  I pulled out a chair and sat down, not responding.  His face looked serious.  For a few seconds and then he smiled.

“I suspect you’ve heard about my little run-in with Jake Stone?”  I asked.

“I’ve been here drinking coffee since 6:30.  That story was all the buzz around here until you walked in.”

“I’d rather not rehash that if that’s okay.  How was your daughter?”   I asked, trying to change the subject.

“She’s fine, busier than ever.  I think I told you about her new position at Birmingham Southern.”  Garrett said motioning for a waitress.

“Professor of Biology?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m sure she will find a college affiliated with the United Methodist Church to be quite different from the University of Chicago.”

“That’s an improper conclusion if you’re thinking Gina will not have complete academic freedom.”  Garrett said.

The waitress came and filled our coffee cups and took our orders.  “I’ve got a question, a Bible question.”

“Fly it towards me.”  Garrett, seventy-five, was never far from surprising me.  Either by his words or by his actions.  Both seemed to have something to do with flying.  His words flew easily and most times, poetically, He was working on earning his pilot’s license, the fairly new type that allows a pilot to fly light-sport aircraft without the need for an FAA medical certificate.

“When does life begin?  According to the Bible.”

“That’s an interesting question.  No doubt, there is more than one answer or response.  According to who you ask.   Many people think that a human being is created at the time of conception, but this belief is not supported by the Bible.  I believe the correct answer is that life as a human begins with breath.  After God formed man in Genesis 2:7, He ‘breathed into his nostrils the breath of life and it was then that the man became a living being.’  I can hear Gina’s words on this subject.  Funny.  She and I were talking about this yesterday.  Gina said, ‘The fact a living sperm penetrates a living ovum resulting in the formation of a living fetus does not mean that the fetus is a living human being.  According to the Bible, a fetus is not a living person with a soul until after drawing its first breath.’”

The waitress set down our food and walked away.  “I suppose there are other Bible verses that support your position?”

“Definitely.  “In Job 33:4, it states: ‘The spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life.’  One of my favorite passages comes from Ezekiel 37:5 and 6.  It states, ‘Thus says the Lord God to these bones:   Behold, I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live.   And I will lay sinews upon you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.’”

I poured maple syrup over my pancakes and pondered what Garrett had said.  “If life doesn’t begin at conception then it seems to support the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1973 Roe vs. Wade ruling that recognized a woman’s right to an abortion based on the Fourteenth Amendment.”

“No doubt, you are spot on.  Here’s something that might surprise you.  Although the Bible never specifically addresses the issue of abortion, reality reflects that God is an abortionist.  Garrett said spreading blackberry jam on his toast.

“What?  I’ve never heard that.”

“Did you know there are approximately 60 million miscarriages worldwide every year?”

“That’s astounding.”

“Since Gina is a biologist and I’m a theologian, we’ve spent quite a lot of time talking about abortion and related subjects.   Did you know that as few as one-quarter of all conceptions avoid re-absorption or miscarriage, and of those fetuses that do make it to full-term, another large percentage die during natural childbirth?”  Garrett said with a mouth full of eggs and bacon.

“But, don’t a lot of Christians argue that God considers a baby in the womb to be as human as a full-grown adult?  There’s that verse, I think it’s in Jeremiah that says God knows us before He forms us in the womb.”  I said.

“That’s right, here it is exactly” ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.’”

“That seems to conflict with your position, that life begins at first breath.”  I said noticing two Boaz police offers come in the front door.  I was glad neither of them was Jake Stone.

“Clearly it’s a conflict.  My friend, it’s the Bible isn’t it?  I won’t say this too loudly for fear of being overheard, but the Bible is man-made.  It has conflicts.  The reason is there are a bunch of different authors and their works were created over many decades and centuries.”  Garrett said.

“So, what makes your argument any better than that of most every Southern Baptist, that life begins at conception?”  I really wanted to have a well-reasoned position on this.

“First, majority opinions are normally wrong.  I think the best way to know the truth on this issue is to look to science and not even reference the Bible at all.  Viability is the key.  A human fetus is not viable, meaning it cannot sustain itself.  That doesn’t happen until twenty-four weeks, some say twenty-eight weeks.”

“That makes sense.  It doesn’t seem the law should protect a person until he, she, it, is a person.  But, for sure, most Southern Baptists think that a woman who has an abortion is a killer, more specifically, a murderer.”  I said, finishing mopping up the last of my pancakes.

“And, the doctor who performs the abortion is a co-conspirator, just as guilty.”  Garrett added.

“It seems pro-lifers, specifically those who argue life begins at conception are rife with hypocrisy.  Most of them don’t give a rat’s ass about the baby once it’s born, fighting against any financial support for poverty-stricken mothers.  Heck, these people have no sympathy for pigs, cattle, chickens, all sentient beings that feel real pain when slaughtered.  These people don’t care if a human fetus feels no pain.  Don’t get me started.  Don’t get me started or I’ll spew out my hatred of the NRA and how most right wingers, Republicans that is, say they are pro-life but don’t give a rat’s ass about school kids getting gunned down every few days.  To me, in many respects, we are no different than pigs and cows.  We are all animals.  Sorry, for the rant.”

“You’re forgiven.  I’ve got to go.  It’s your day to pay.”  Garrett said, standing up and putting on his coat.

“Thanks.  Have a good day.  See you tomorrow if the creek doesn’t rise.”

Garrett walked out, and I paid the waitress.  As I was leaving a tip on the table, my iPhone vibrated.  It was only a few minutes after 8:00 but Blair was looking for me.  “You have an email I think you will want to see.  Where are you?”

I walked across the street and once again forgot to walk down the sidewalk along Highway 168 to the rear of my office.  I walked in the front door and saw Marissa using her iPhone to snap a photo of Thomas Jefferson, my hero.

Chapter 6

I had already decided to take her case.  If Marissa still wanted me to investigate the death of her father, Adam Parker, I was willing.  In large part, because of yesterday’s confrontation with Jake Stone.  He was a bully.  Bullies are tyrants.  It was the type of case I loved.  Since my days as a criminal defense lawyer I had adopted the phrase, “Rebellion to Tyrants is Obedience to God,” as a motto of sorts.  I had even pasted the statement on my letterhead and attributed it to Thomas Jefferson.  It was years later before I learned that he had really loved the statement, but the correct source was Benjamin Franklin. 

Stone wasn’t the only reason for my decision.  I liked Marissa Booth.  It wasn’t because of how she was becoming more attractive every time I saw her.  That was true, but it was something in her eyes that said she came from good stock, stock that once it set sail, wouldn’t look back until reaching the foreign shore.  I was still pondering my mixed metaphor when Blair brought two cups of steaming coffee to the conference room.

After an exchange of pleasantries, she said, “I wanted to come by and pick up Dad’s briefcases.”  I noticed she hadn’t even looked at me, but instead peered looking at my shelves loaded with legal and crime thrillers while holding her coffee cup close to her face, gently blowing away the steam.

“Okay, but I haven’t finished my review.”

“You didn’t read my email?”

“I did, at least your subject line, just as I walked over from Pirates Cove.”  I said.

“That could easily have been funny.  I sense you have a subtle sense of humor, one that even you often miss.”  Marissa was observant, even though I hadn’t tried to be funny.  This time.

“I can be subtle.”

“To the autopsy.  I was disappointed.  That’s almost disgusting of me.  What I mean is, I just knew Dad died under suspicious circumstances. Apparently, my gut was confused.  My head also, I guess.”  Marissa said.

“What I’m about to say won’t be subtle.  Are all Bible professors as shallow as you?”  I said wanting to shock her, certainly to get her attention.

“What?  I’m confused.  Should I be insulted?  I think I am.”

“That was humor, but it was meant to be open and honest, direct.  Question.  Because the autopsy states Adam died of natural causes, necessarily means he wasn’t murdered?”  I asked.

“Well, I would think most people would reach that conclusion.  What am I missing here?” 

“Autopsies aren’t perfect.  Nothing is perfect, not even Adam Parker.  And, please don’t take that as an insult in any way.”  I said, hearing the back-door ding.  It’s probably Joe.

“Are you suggesting that Dad killed himself?”  Marissa asked.

“Wow, I didn’t know I could be that subtle.  I didn’t mean to imply that but now that you mention it, that’s a possibility.  Isn’t it?”  I asked, wondering where this conversation was going, feeling she might storm out at any second.

“There’s no way my father killed himself.”

“I think what I’m trying to say is that we don’t know much at all.  And, if I’m going to investigate this case, I need to have an open mind.  So, do you.  We should assume nothing.”

“Case?  Investigation?  I obviously assumed that decision was made the moment you saw the autopsy results.”  Marissa said, looking at her iPhone that had just signaled a text notification.

“I can see where you could think that.  I’ve led you down that path.  But, I’ve had a change of mind, especially after my little visit with Jake Stone yesterday, spending some time in those two briefcases, and contemplating Baptists and abortion.”

“You think Adam’s death deserves an independent investigation?”  Marissa asked.

“To be honest, I would normally respond in the negative based on what actual evidence we have.  But, here, your case, Adam’s death, there are sufficient circumstantial ingredients floating around that have triggered my sixth sense, that thing most people call a gut feeling.  Of course, you’re the one who must foot the bill.  It’s ultimately up to you.”  I said, subconsciously reminding myself that I always had to consider the business side of things.  I now had a hefty mortgage to pay after buying this old building and spending a small fortune renovating it into an impressive set of offices.

Marissa shifted her body, turned more towards me, and looked me straight in the eye.  Her green eyes were even lighter, accentuated by the fluorescents overhead.  “My decision was made almost from the beginning, since I first talked with Dalton Martin about you.  I’m ready to sign your agreement and pay the ten-thousand-dollar retainer.  Why don’t we do that before you change your mind?”  Marissa had set sail.

Over the next thirty minutes, Blair printed out our standard engagement letter, I made a few changes, with Marissa’s approval, Joe witnessed her signature, and she tendered a cashier’s check dated the first day she had appeared in my office.

“I’m leaving Sunday afternoon for Chicago.  Since the autopsy is complete, Dad’s funeral will be Monday afternoon.  Mother and Dad had preplanned everything, but I still have several things I need to do.”

Blair had gathered all her contact information on Tuesday when the two had completed our standard intake form.  “What’s the status of Adam’s house, the contents?”  I asked.

“I’m sorry to say that I’ve not made any progress.  To be fully transparent, I’ve not done anything but explore and reminisce.  I was waiting on your decision.  I concluded, that if you took the case then you would want to inspect Dad’s place.  Also, his office at Snead.  I’ve made arrangements with Dean Naylor that nothing be touched there until you give the go-ahead.”

“Thanks for having confidence in me.  I guess that’s what you did, at least in part.”  I said. 

Marissa gave me keys to Adam’s house and school office and stood up to leave.  “Oh, something I wanted to leave with you.  Probably nothing.  Here’s a list of Dad’s students.  I’ve had some time and have let my mind fly around whereever it wanted.  For some reason, I did a Facebook search for each name.  You’ll find it interesting that Natalie Goble is Jake Stone’s step-daughter.”

“Gosh, that’s interesting.  You learned this from Facebook?”  I asked.

“Yes.”  Marissa said, slightly shaking her head and looking a little sly the way she squinted her eyes.  “Mostly.”

“It’s amazing how Facebook and Twitter and Instagram have almost revolutionized detective work.” 

“One other thing and I’ve got to run.  Natalie’s best friend is Paige Todd, who’s also a student at Snead.  Seems like the two of them are anything but Southern Baptist fundamentalists.  You might enjoy reading their posts.”

I again led Marissa out the back door.  As I walked back down the hall towards the front office I couldn’t help but question my decision to have the rear of our office face the parking lot.  I hadn’t contemplated the effects of the one-way street and Pirates Cove.  Sometimes, little things bothered me.  Big things too.

It was Saturday morning and I was taking things slow.  It had been a hard week and all I wanted to do after my breakfast was to read and dose and dose and read in my recliner.  A little after ten o’clock Emily called my cell and asked if it was okay to drop by.   Apparently, she had just completed one of three required interviews at Gadsden Regional Hospital.

Even though she said she would arrive around 10:45 a.m., it was almost noon when her and a Harley type walked in from the back porch.   It was my term for anyone who looked like a biker, someone with long hair, a mangy beard, and a hefty beer-belly.  Carl actually didn’t look like a biker of any type, whether Harley or Honda.  Neither did he have long hair or a beard.  And, the best I could tell, he had abs like I had twenty-five years ago when I completed the police academy.  I had to face it.  I wouldn’t have been satisfied if Emily had walked in with Saint Peter.  She was still my little girl.  Of course, I was forgetting what a wild stallion she had been, especially during and for three years following her high school graduation.

“Hi Dad, this is Carl.  He’s a friend from St. Vincent’s.  He drove me up in this nasty weather.”

“Hi Carl, nice to meet you.”  I stood up and the two of us met in the middle of the den.  “Thanks for driving Emily.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Ford.”

“Connor, just call me Connor.”

“Carl, come back around one o’clock if you will.  Do you remember me saying Harbor Freight is only about a mile further north from where we turned on Martin Road?

“I think I’ve got it.  See you at 1:00.  Nice to meet you Connor.”  Carl said as he walked out the back door.

“He seems nice, respectful, hopefully responsible.”  I said.

“Dad, I know what you’re thinking.  ‘Has she taken up with another low-life?’

“Probably, to some degree.  It’s kind of hard after considering your history.  But, forget me, what’s up?”  I said, wanting to be responsible myself, which seemed to call for less judging.

“I just wanted to come and make sure you are really okay about me moving in while I’m getting my feet under me with this new job.”

“I am.  To be honest, at first, I didn’t like the idea at all, mainly because it happened, your request, about the time Camilla had decided to move in.  But, she and I have talked it through enough.  I want to put you first for real, for maybe the first time in my life.”  I said motioning Emily to sit on the couch.

“Thanks for that.  I hope you know that I want us to become close.  It’s important that we forgive each other and make a clean start.  Don’t you think?”

“What exactly do I have to forgive you for?”  I asked.

“Don’t even try to be funny.  You know, maybe not as good as mom, how much of a hellion I was when I was in high school.”

“Also, don’t forget your three years after high school.  I seemed to remember the sucking sound coming from mine and your mom’s checking account while you roamed the world and.”

Emily cut me off before I could complete my sentence. “And partied and slept around more than any healthy person should?”

“What’s important is what we do now.  I can’t, and you can’t go back.  I suspect we both would do a few things differently.  I know I would.”  I said.

“Dad, you don’t have to, but would you mind going a little deeper there.  Let me just say, I ask that because I want to know you better, I want to know how you feel, now and about back then.”  Emily said.

“To be blunt, I abused you.  Now, don’t think I’m talking about sexual abuse.  No, never, but I did ignore you.  I think it had a lot to do with your mother.  After she finally came clean, well, I’m assuming she did come fully clean, about her sexual promiscuity in high school, I thought I had forgiven her and that we had moved on with our lives, especially as we struggled with school, work, and a colicky baby at Auburn.  In truth, I don’t think I ever was able to love your mother like a wife deserved to be loved.  It was like I subconsciously believed that she had been dishonest with me.  In 2009 or 2010, after Amy had the affair with one of her old high school boyfriends, you know who I’m talking about, I felt a little vindicated.  None of this should have influenced our relationship, mine and yours.  I should have put you first, but I didn’t.  Instead, I threw myself into my work, later into law school.  Of course, by that time, you had graduated from Dothan High School and had flown the coop as they say, you were gone.”

“Thanks Dad, for being so honest with me now.  It’s important for me to ask your forgiveness.  I know you know all this but here lately, I guess after we talked the other night and Camilla and I kind of ganged up on you, I’ve been wanting to spell it out.  Dad, I’m sorry for being such a slut, having two abortions, and causing you and mom a living hell.  Can you forgive me, even try to forget, and help me go forward?”  Emily said.

“Of course.  I can, and I will.”  I said getting up and moving over beside Emily on the couch.  She turned to me and hugged my neck.  “I love you Emily.”

“I love you too Dad.”  She released me and we both continued to sit on the edge of the couch facing each other.

“Life is lived one day at a time.  I know that sounds trite but the older I get the more I realize this is true.  Maybe we could promise each other that we’ll try our best to do a full day’s work for a full day’s pay.  That didn’t make a lot of sense.  Did it?”  I asked.

“No, but it sure points to the right philosophy.  It’s kind of like that saying, ‘don’t go to bed angry.’  Emily said, looking around the room and almost smiling as she looked behind my chair at the hundred-plus year-old log walls.

“Your granddaddy would be proud of you.”  I said.  “And your grandmother.”

“I have so many regrets.  It seems I barely knew them.  I remember short visits while I was growing up.  I remember their kindness and generosity.  Now, I so hate myself for traveling the world and partying for three years when I could really have gotten to know them, maybe even coming to live with them.”

“Okay baby, here’s the rule.  Look forward, not backward. You’re less likely to break your head or your heart.” 

“That’s good.  Did you make that up?”  Emily asked.

“Probably not.  I might have modified a little.  It’s not an original thought.”

It was nearly 1:30 before Carl returned.  Emily and I enjoyed some coffee while we both stood at the bar.  We talked about Amy and the decisions she was making in her venture of returning, with Parkinson’s, to her home across town, and how much hope she had for Emily’s new nursing job.  She was excited about landing a nurse’s supervisor’s job.  I was proud of my one and only child.  After being a wild bronco and roaming the countryside for years, I was proud that she had returned to Alabama, excelled for four years at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, stayed committed for an equal number of years at St. Vincent’s Hospital, and, despite a failed marriage to Tyler Tyson, was determined to move forward to an even better life.  It was a good day for Emily and me.

Chapter 7

After Marissa left, I walked to Blair’s office.  I was almost ready to remind both to focus on their work and stop their flirting when Joe said he needed to talk with me but had a quick errand to run.  I told him I should be available all day.

Joe left, and I returned to my office and made a couple of calls.  As I was making out a deposit slip for Marissa’s retainer check my mind made a connection and cleared up some confusion it had since my meeting two days ago with Mayor Mohler. 

The main purpose of his meeting was to again congratulate me on the opening of my new office.  I had given him the tour and we had settled at the round table in my office.  I now couldn’t recall how we had started talking about our lives and backgrounds.  I think it was something to do with my building’s past. 

Mohler shared that Cato’s, a women’s clothing store, was in my building back in the early and mid-seventies.  That’s what led him to mention his ex-wife, Sandy Goble.  Her mother had worked at Cato’s.  The Mayor had gone on to tell me that for the first few years, his and Sandy’s married life was happy and satisfying even though they had to struggle financially.  It was then he mentioned their one and only child, Natalie.  I think the Mayor let his tongue slip just a little when he breathed, “it hurts when your own daughter, step-daughter, seems to favor her police-officer step-father over me, the father who raised her.”  I probably shouldn’t have asked my follow-up question.  

Now, my mind did a little organizing.  Natalie Goble, Adam Parker’s student, was the Mayor’s step-daughter, even though he had first said she was his daughter, indicating, at least to me, that he thought the two of them were especially close, at one point.  Natalie’s mother, Sandy Goble Stone, was Jake Stone’s wife, and Vice-President of First State Bank of Boaz.  Finally, there appears to be some tension between Natalie and her father, and possibly between him and step-father Jake Stone.  Hell, there must be some friction between the two men.  I pondered whether it was true animosity.  I knew that type often led to fist-a-cuffs.

Joe didn’t return to the office until 2:30. He tapped on my door and I motioned him in.

“Thanks for your idea.  It paid off.”  Joe said, introducing a subject, skipping the heart of the issue, and then stating a conclusion.  He rarely did this.

“Your welcome but place me in the correct country before asking me about its weather.”

“Hannah Knott.  Two days ago, you said I should dig a little deeper into Health Connections, the time, ninety minutes or so, everyday Steven spends there.”  Joe said, pulling out his notepad from his jacket pocket.

“You learned something relevant to Hannah’s case.  Tell me.”

On Wednesday afternoon I followed him.  Like clockwork, at 5:00 p.m., he left First Baptist Church of Christ and drove to Health Connections.  This time, I didn’t wait in the parking lot.  I doubt if he even has a membership there.  He walked straight down the hall past the exercise room and through the doors that leads to the swimming pool.  There is an emergency exit door at the end of the hall, past the doors that led to the pool.  By the time I reached the exit door and looked out the glass window at the top of the door, he was in a white Maxima with Peyton Todd, that’s who I assumed at the time.  I was lucky to go back out the way I had come in, get in my car, and find them.  I tailed them.  When they parked and exited her vehicle, I could tell it was Peyton Todd.  I had already done a little research.  She’s shown on the Sand Mountain Bank’s website, standing beside her boss, Kurt Prescott.  She’s really easy on the eyes.”

“You didn’t say where they went.  Where did they exit the Maxima?”  I asked.

“A fairly small brick house down Henderson Road, right beyond the animal hospital.  I checked, it’s a house owned by a Jane Ellsworth.”

“That’s Jake Stone’s sister.  I wonder if it’s her place, or if there’s someone else with that name.  Not likely around here but could be.”  I said, pondering the possibilities.

“I parked in the animal hospital’s parking lot and could see the house quite well, especially with my binoculars.  They stayed for over an hour.  Both days, yesterday and Wednesday, same routine.  They were back at Health Connections a little before 6:30.”

“What all do you know about Peyton Todd?”  I asked.

“She’s been at Sand Mountain Bank since it opened, a little over a year ago.  She’s the main man’s executive assistant, according to the website.”

“Kurt Prescott, the Bank’s President and one of the original founders.”  I added.

“Yes, Peyton did work at Wells Fargo.  I’ve asked around.  It seems she had worked there for several years but had been out of work for nearly a year before being hired by Prescott.”  Joe said.

“You don’t know why she left Wells Fargo?”  I asked.

“No.”  Before Joe could say anything else, Blair buzzed my intercom and said Hannah Knott was here to see Joe.

“You’ve got a visitor.”

“I knew she was coming.  Would you mind meeting with us?”  Joe asked.

“No problem.  Let’s meet in the conference room.”

I hadn’t seen a photo of Peyton Todd, but I couldn’t imagine why Steven Knott would do anything to risk losing Hannah.  She was drop-dead gorgeous.  There was no better way to put it.  Sometimes clichés said it better.  The ones that were true that is.  She was tall, maybe five feet eight.  She was shapely.  I was surprised she was showing me how curvy she was.  And, everybody else who was looking.  Her tight black dress accentuated her peaks and valleys.  It was almost dizzying.  I thought it odd especially given mine and Joe’s previous conversation where he had said she was a devout Christian and all she wanted was for Steven to admit his sins and restore their marriage.  She sat down, barely smiling.  To me, her dark hair was a little disheveled.

I pushed the pleasantries through quick.  Hannah spoke. “Joe, you said on the phone Steven is spending time with a Peyton Todd.  Are you sure they are having an affair?”

I thought the woman must be quite gullible.

Joe looked at me like he was thinking the same thing. “No, I don’t know for certain.  I haven’t seen them kissing or in bed or anything remotely close.”  I was glad to hear that Joe could get straight to the point and be clear with his client.

“You think because for two days he and this Peyton woman have spent time alone, they are having an affair?”  Hannah’s beauty obviously compensated for her thick mind.

Joe again looked at me, like he wanted me to speak.  “Hannah, I’m sure this is difficult, but in my experience, someone who is engaged with such subterfuge is not out spreading the Gospel.”  I said that intentionally, wanting her to face the music, no pun intended.  Her wonderful, godly, Southern Gospel singing husband, wasn’t satisfied with Hannah’s beauty and her abilities beneath the sheets.

“Subterfuge?”

“Steven isn’t pumping weights and making laps in the pool.  He’s working on his biceps and abs in a more natural way.”  I said, thinking, ‘do I need to draw a few pictures.’?

“You don’t have to be so graphic.  You might be wrong you know?”  Hannah Knott, the woman with a knotted brain.

I was glad Joe spoke up.  I was growing tired of this lame conversation.  “Hannah, do you have an idea of what else Peyton and Steven would be doing for over an hour at Jane Ellsworth’s house after he had sneaked out of Health Connections two days in a row?”

“I need to be completely honest with you two.  Steven had a gambling problem.  It’s why we now live in Boaz.  We moved here nearly two years ago.  It wasn’t a move we really wanted to make.  We both were from Montgomery and Steven had a great job with First Baptist Church.  Until, he was fired.”

“Why?”  Joe asked.

“The pastor and Deacon board got wind of his gambling.  And, his affair.”  Hannah said reaching into her purse for some Kleenex.

“Were the two connected?”  I asked.

“Is that like a chicken and egg question?  A ‘which came first’ type of thing?”  Hannah asked.

“Sort of.”  I said.  I assume the gambling came first.  I’m curious if that lead to the affair.  And, why.  Of course, the affair may have led Steven to gambling.  It’s an odd world.”

“That may go to the point I was trying to make a while ago when I asked Joe if he knew Steven and Peyton were having an affair.  I feel like I might be detecting a pattern.  Steven gets into hot water with his gambling and then he starts looking for a way out.  That’s how it happened in Montgomery, or that’s what he told me.”

“Elaborate on that a little.”  Joe asked.

“The woman there, I don’t even want to say her name.  It disgusts me.  She was a banker.  Seems like he’s attracted to women and money and banks.”

“Normally, that’s where the money’s at.”  I said, feeling quite astute.

“Steven has told me that after the affair started, she, that woman, suggested she help him out.  He was already in debt.  I’m not sure, to answer your question, if the affair started before the debts mounted.  Anyway, the woman thought she was smart and tried to redirect some bank funds for Steven’s benefit.  He declares he knew nothing about it.  The long and short of it is First Baptist let him go.  I never have been able to figure out how he got the Minister of Music job here in Boaz.  I suspect the Montgomery church kept quiet, probably didn’t want to tarnish their reputation.  Apparently, First Baptist Church of Christ relies on God’s guidance more than a thorough investigative report.”  Hannah became quiet and stared at her iPhone.

“Let me see if I followed you.  You are hesitating to conclude that Steven and Peyton are having an affair because you believe he is pursuing her for financial relief, even though you admit that in Montgomery, it was the woman who initiated the idea to screw her bank?”  I asked.  “Does that sum it up?”

“Pretty much.  Maybe I’m being a little naive.  It really doesn’t make a lot of sense to think that she would appear out of the blue and offer Steven money.  She’s after something.”  Hannah said, now, curiously, for the first time, looking around my office.  She seemed entranced by all the novels staring back at her.

“Or, Steven’s after something or maybe two somethings.”  I said.  I suspect his gambling problem simply coincided with his sexual desires.  Sorry, no insult intended.  I’m jumping over a foggy abyss.  We don’t know what we’re saying.  Has Steven returned to gambling?  Is he in debt again?  Is Peyton aware of this?  If so, has she offered to help him out?  If so, how?  Is she amenable to nicking the bank?  Again, we have more questions than answers.  One thing I would bet on, is that your husband is having an affair with Peyton Todd.”  I always liked to ask questions.  There is normally one more that needs to be asked.

“What else do we know about Ms. Todd?”  Joe asked.

“I’ve done a little research myself.  It seems there are several folks around the College who have lived here all their lives and seem to feel the heartbeat of the city. Peyton has one daughter, Paige Todd, who is a student at Snead State.  She’s one of my English Literature students.  Peyton is the ex-wife of a Boaz police officer, Jake Stone.”  I thought I would lose my dentures and I didn’t even have false teeth.  What a world, what a city.  It was almost as if everybody was related in some way, everybody had been married to everybody else’s ex-wife or husband.

“So, Paige Todd is Jake Stone’s step-daughter?  Funny, I just learned that her best friend, Natalie Goble, is also Jake Stone’s step-daughter.  He is currently married to Sandy Goble, the Mayor’s ex-wife.  I’m going to need to draw a diagram.

Blair stepped in the conference room and motioned for me to meet her outside in the hallway.  “Hannah, thanks for coming in.  I have an issue to deal with, so I’ll leave it with Joe to figure out our next move.”  I knew Blair’s hand-signal meant that I had an important phone call and it didn’t need to wait.

An hour later I was still sitting at my desk reeling from what Bobby Sorrells had told me.  He had called from Dalton’s office.  At first, I thought he simply wanted to ask me a few questions about the preliminary investigative report I had prepared on Dalton’s capital murder case.  It wasn’t that at all.  It was a simple six-word sentence that had thrown me into a tailspin: “Tommy Lee Gore has been released.”

Tommy was the brother of Brandon Gore, the man I was accused of killing.  I did kill Brandon Gore, but I didn’t murder him.  I knew that from day one, but it took the Houston County Sheriff and District Attorney nearly fourteen months to learn differently.  During that time, I stayed in jail.  I stayed for three reasons.  One, I didn’t have enough money to post a million-dollar bail.  Second, I wanted to build a bank of days towards my sentence in the event I was found guilty and sent to prison.  And third, I hate to admit it, but I was a little afraid of Tommy Lee Gore.  After discovering his dead brother, he swore to kill me.  I believed him capable of doing so.  Now, after three years in jail over a drug trafficking conviction, he was free as a bird, other than the terms and conditions of probation.  I had no doubt he still held a deep grudge against me for the death of his brother.  I hoped he didn’t know that Bobby Sorrells and I had furnished most of the grease that had slid him north to Harvest, Alabama and Limestone Correctional Facility. 

I left the office at 4:45 and looked every way but up as I crossed the parking lot to my truck.  I was glad Camilla and I had planned a weekend at the Mentone Inn north of Fort Payne.  It was our favorite getaway.  I doubted Tommy Lee would think to look for me there.

Chapter 8

It was too cold over the weekend to visit DeSoto Falls, just south of Mentone.  It was a favorite spot since it was last September, Labor Day weekend, that we had descended the stairs to a visitor viewing area and had first discussed getting engaged.  Looking back, it was a lamebrain idea.  Not that Camilla had been too rude or disinterested.  She had commented, “your kind of weird Connor Ford, a true romantic man would have simply gotten down on a knee and presented me with a diamond ring while asking if I would marry him.  You are too scared, thinking you had to do a little investigative work before making any type commitment.”  She had been right.  I was fortunate that she hadn’t asked me to call her a cab.  I was also lucky that I had found Mother’s ring in my middle desk drawer the following Tuesday morning.  Camilla had cried when I, on bended knee, after coming in, unannounced, to Serenity Salon, and popped the big question.  I loved how Camilla put up with my slow but steady attempts at becoming a true romantic.

Camilla and I spent Friday night through Sunday afternoon in the Orange Room at the Mountain Laurel Inn, braving the near-zero degree, howling-wind weather, only once.  And that was Saturday afternoon to venture across the street to the Wildflower Cafe, only to find it closed due to frozen water pipes.  We had quickly returned to stand beside a roaring fire in the giant rock fireplace at the Mountain Laurel Inn, the quaint bed and breakfast that was becoming our favorite weekend getaway. 

Being locked away for nearly two days with the gorgeous Camilla was unlike the last time when my movements were fully restricted.  I’m not sure why I had brought up my prison days when I did.  I probably should write a book, a type of instruction manual on how not to be a true romantic.  It was after nearly setting our pants on fire standing beside the fireplace.  We had retired to the Orange Room and easily slid beneath the sheets.  It was only a moment after Camilla had convinced me I was still man enough to meet her almost insatiable desires, that I had said, “prison was the most boring time of my life.”  She, not surprising, now that I’m looking back, had thought I was expressing my boredom over her sweet smile, and her smooth, sensuous, and steady kisses.  It was my quick thinking that had saved me.  I was able to clumsily quote a little stanza from my favorite poet, Donald Hall, and his poem Love Is Like Sounds:

Love is like sounds, whose

last reverberations

Hang on the leaves of strange

trees, on mountains

As distant as the curving of

the earth

Where the snow hangs still in

the middle of the air.

Rolling onto our sides, her left and my right, had spun-up a slight smile on her natural face, untarnished by Mary Kaye. I had attempted to give her my interpretation, “love is like my moans and groans that hang on these strange orange walls.”  Her sly smile had transformed into a wave of laughter.  She finally had responded, “you’re totally weird Connor Ford, but at least you make the effort to touch my heart.  You’re a keeper but a lifetime will be needed for you to reach those distant mountains.”

I had not been the only one to mention the past.  After our love-making we had stayed in bed until dinner downstairs.  She had never asked me much about mine and Amy’s relationship.  The only thing Camilla knew specifically was that I had caught Amy in an affair in 2012.  For some reason, she was interested in details. Pretty much during the entire two plus years we had been dating, she knew only a framework of my past. I thought it strange that she had waited until shortly before our engagement to probe into such a natural subject—the background of the one you have just promised to marry.  She wanted to put flesh on the past skeleton of my life.

Camilla started at the beginning, more specifically, the beginning of mine and Amy Vickers’ relationship.  I was open and honest.  I knew from experience that dishonesty in any degree was no way to build a sustainable foundation for any two people, especially two people who were promising to spend the rest of their lives together in holy matrimony.  

I had shared how Amy and I had met at Boaz High School and had started dating when I was in the eleventh grade and she was in the tenth.  It was, for me at least, true love.  I thought it was for Amy.  Until I learned several months later that she had lied to me.  It was in April of 1971 that a friend of mine had shared with me a rumor he had heard.  That in the ninth grade, Amy had dated Brandon Gore and that he had gotten her pregnant.  When I confronted Amy about it she at first had denied even having sex with him, much less becoming pregnant.  I shared that the love I had for Amy enabled me to forgive her after she finally confessed.  She made me believe that she had made a mistake, that Brandon Gore was three years older than her and had manipulated her into having sex.  One time and that she had never been pregnant, never even thinking she was pregnant. 

The rest of the weekend was spent answering Camilla’s questions.  I never got mad or even frustrated with her.  Although it continued to puzzle me why she had waited so long to bring up the past, I was patient and wanted to be as open as possible.  She covered a lot of ground, about twenty-five years of my life.  I think she agreed with me on the importance of honesty and trust in our relationship.  As we drove back home on Sunday afternoon, I felt I had violated my own rule by withholding the fact that Amy’s affair had been with Brandon Gore, the same Brandon Gore she had sex with in the ninth grade.

We arrived home just a little after dark.  I felt Camilla and I both needed a little breathing room, so I drove to the office.  I opened my email and soon became bored with a long list of questions Bobby had left me concerning a couple of witnesses in my report.  My mind couldn’t get interested in his case.  But, my newest case flooded my mind when I noticed the keys to Adam Parker’s home and office still lying beside my computer.

I drove to the one-story rental house on West Mann Avenue, just past Snead College.  From the outside, it looked old, virtually the same age as all the other houses surrounding the school.  Inside, was a different story.  The house had been completely remodeled.  It wasn’t fancy, but it was clean, bright, and had the feel of simple elegance.  The walls were all painted beige and the floors were oak hardwood with a natural finish.  I must have misunderstood Marissa.  I thought she had implied her father’s house was, at a minimum, fully disheveled.  I had been expecting to have to hold my breath as I squeezed between piles of books and mountains of garbage.  All six rooms were neat and tidy: two bedrooms, a study, a bath/laundry room, a den/kitchen combination and a large sun-room across the entire back of the house.  It was obvious the sun-room had been added when the house was remodeled.

I had ignored Marissa’s note in the middle of the den floor when I had arrived, choosing instead to take a full tour.  After playing with the automatic blinds built into the glass windows out back I had returned to Adam’s study and the journal entry Marissa’s note had suggested I read.  She had left it open on the giant roll-top desk in the corner.  The entry was dated January 1, 1981.  It was over a page long.  Adam was in the ninth grade at Dearborn High School in Chicago.  His parents, both professors of linguistics at the University of Chicago, were the cold cerebral type. 

Adam shared his deepest thoughts about what a horrible Christmas vacation he had as his parents tried to instill in him the importance of good grades and setting goals at an early age.  Adam used some graphic language to describe how his father castigated him about his laziness and his unwillingness to deal with reality.  It seems Adam had made a B on his first semester report card, the first grade less than an A he had since second grade.  It was particularly damning because it was in English. 

Marissa had boldly written in her note for me to read the sideways writing that Adam had apparently written much later than the first day of 1981.  It read, “it was that Christmas holiday that I first realized I would never be able to please my parents, but for some strange reason (one I will forever be eternally grateful.  Reader, I’m not fully sure what I mean here.) I will be eternally grateful that they instilled in me the deep longing for dissatisfaction.”

I had carried Adam’s 1991 journal out into the sun-room when my iPhone vibrated.  It was Camilla and she was suggesting I come home.  Emily was there wanting my help.  I turned off the lights, locked the door and drove home to Hickory Hollow, the log cabin my dear parents had left me in their Joint Will.

Chapter 9

Monday morning came too soon.  I even skipped my walk to Oak Drive and back.  Emily had stayed until nearly 1:00 a.m.  It was like her and Camilla had performed a well-orchestrated double-team exploration into my sordid past.  I was fortunate both loved me, even though for two hours or so I wouldn’t have bet a nickle Emily had the will or capacity to accept that the responsibility for the breakup and divorce of her parents was complicated and that blame lay at the feet of both her mother and father.  This morning, I had mixed feelings whether we all had made the right decision.  Emily would move in with me, for now, while she settled into her new job at Gadsden Regional Medical Center; Camilla would remain in her Sundown Apartment; and I would try my best to leave my investigative bent at the office while I was at home.

I had just sat down at my desk with a cup of Blair’s coffee when my iPhone vibrated.  It was Joe.  “Good morning Joe.  Field work first thing Monday morning?”  I asked.

“Uh, actually, I slept a little later and just left Grumpy’s.”  It was a local diner.  A good place to eat a cheap meal and to hear even cheaper gossip.  “I just heard some news.  Haven’t confirmed anything, but, if true, it hits pretty close to home.”

“Okay, you can tell me.”  I said, wishing I wasn’t always so damn impatient.

“Lawton Hawks was found dead late last night.  He was murdered.  I knew you would want to know.”  Joe was right.  He knew that Lawton Hawks was Camilla’s father.  He didn’t know they weren’t close, in fact, they were estranged.  But, he was still her father.

“What else have you heard?”  I realized that rumors and gossip were often false but sometimes there were slivers of truth rolling off a few yelping tongues.

“He was found behind the new Dollar General being built on East Mill Avenue, just right up the road from Grumpy’s.  It seems two guys on the construction crew found him behind the dumpster sitting out back.  I’ve noticed in passing there is a tall wooden fence along the back side of the property.  I suspect it was a fairly secret place to dump a body.”  Joe said.  I could tell he was driving because I could hear his radio in the background.  It always was on and always tuned to WQSB in Albertville.

“Anything else?”  I asked.

“That’s about all, but I’ll keep you posted.  I should see you late afternoon.  Just to let you know, I worked several hours over the weekend.  That’s why I’ve been a little lazy this morning.”

“No problem.  Joe, you’re doing good work.  Keep it up.”  I said, knowing full well I wasn’t fully satisfied, heck, I wasn’t even half-way satisfied.  But, that didn’t mean Joe wasn’t doing a good job.  I couldn’t help but recall Adam Parker’s statement he had written sideways along a January 1, 1981 journal entry: “I will be eternally grateful that my parents instilled in me the deep longing for dissatisfaction.”  I understood, at least in part, what Adam meant.  Some people seem to thrive on dissatisfaction.  I was one of them.

After hanging up with Joe, I called Camilla.  She was still home.  Since it was Monday, she was off today.  As my phone rang the third time, I was feeling like I should have returned home to see her.  When she answered, I rationalized a phone call was appropriate since her and her father were the furthest thing from close.

“Hello handsome, you already missing me?”  Camilla said.  I could picture her in the kitchen, sipping coffee, and staring out the windows above the sink across the back yard and towards the pond.  She loved seeing the ducks when they were swimming.  At times, depending if the ducks were in their favorite spot, you could only see their heads above a wooden fence rail.  The elevation of the house and pond created a weird scene.  Camilla had said more than once, “sometimes I feel like those ducks, my head is disconnected from my body.  I live in my head and I’m paddling around with invisible feet trying to find my way.”

“Baby, I’ve got some news.  It’s about your father.”

“My father.  Remember.  I don’t acknowledge having a father.”  Camilla said, saying pretty much what I had expected her to say.  Funny, I had wanted all weekend to ask her a few questions about her past, including some details concerning her fully dysfunctional family.  Now, I wasn’t sure if I’d made the right decision to listen and respond to Camilla’s questions and to leave mine for another day.

“Camilla, I’ve just heard that your father is dead.  He was found this morning.  Right now, all I have is gossip.  He may have been murdered.”

“It doesn’t really surprise me.  I’ve kind of expected something like this.  For years I fantasized about killing him myself.  He had a subtle way of pissing people off.  I don’t know how he was able to be elected five times to the Boaz City Council.”  I think Camilla would have kept talking.  I wasn’t sure exactly how this was affecting her. 

“Why don’t you come hangout with Blair today.  You two could go out for lunch.  I wish I could join you, but I have to go to Guntersville.”

“Thanks Connor.  I do appreciate your concern, but I’m okay.  We can talk more about it tonight if you need to.  Bye, drive carefully.”  As she ended our call I suspected she was struggling just a little more than she was revealing.

All I knew about the root of Camilla’s dislike, almost hatred, of her father, was that a few years ago he had dumped his wife, Camilla’s mother, Darlene, and taken up with Rita Cranford, a woman nearly ten years his senior.  In Boaz, and probably most everywhere, the natural pattern is for a man to seek out a younger woman.  I had some experience with that.  Of course, everywhere else wasn’t Boaz.  It had its own mystery water. 

And, every other younger woman wasn’t Rita Cranford.  Even though she was probably sixty years old, she looked twenty-five, well, for sure, no more than forty.  It must have been in her genes because it sure wasn’t because she had been pampered.  Her husband, Billy Cranford, and Rita had started Brite Look Cleaners in the late seventies.  At the time of Billy’s death, 2009, I believe, they had a three-store chain with locations in Boaz, Albertville, and Guntersville.  It was common knowledge that if it hadn’t been for Rita’s work ethic and business acumen, Brite Look Cleaners would have struggled to survive.

Camilla hated Lawton as much for marrying up as she did for dumping her mother.  I knew she would always blame him for the onset of her mother’s Parkinson’s, and for his unwillingness to provide more than a penance of support after she became unable to work.

My meeting Monday afternoon was with Mark Hale.  He is one of two detectives with the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department.  Mark and I have known each other since 1992 when we both attended the police academy.  We both worked as patrol officers with the city of Dothan.  In 1996, he had stayed on as a sergeant while I moved on to work at Bobby Sorrells, Investigations.  Eventually, Mark left the police department and went to work for the Houston County Sheriff, working his way up to detective.  Our relationship had become tense, to say the least, when I was arrested for the murder of Brandon Gore.  Our solid friendship deteriorated more over the following fourteen months I was in jail.  Our relationship was only semi-restored in 2014 after my acquittal.  It was two years later before I saw him again.  Sometime in mid-2014 he had taken a job with the Madison County Sheriff’s office because his latest girlfriend lived in the small Marshall County town of Grant. 

Long story short, things didn’t work out for Mark in Madison County and so, in the summer of 2016, he accepted a detective position with the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department.  Over the past year we had made great strides in fully restoring our friendship, and our working relationship.  As much as we could, we exchanged information.  It was this reason I had called him late yesterday afternoon.  I wanted and needed his thoughts on the Adam Parker case.  Now, I had two reasons to talk with my old friend.  The Lawton Hawks case would currently be getting his and his partner’s full attention.

I had driven over the causeway into Guntersville when Mark called my iPhone.  “Sorry buddy, bad timing I know.  I should have called you an hour ago.  I’m back in Boaz.  It’s going to be later before I can meet.”  Mark said.  I could hear the squawking of a police radio in the background.

“I just past Publix’s.  Should I wait on you?”  I could have gotten pissed for Mark wasting my time letting me drive all the way to Guntersville.  But, I didn’t.  I valued our friendship and didn’t know exactly how strong it was given our rocky past.  More importantly, I needed him.  He was a valuable resource.

“Probably not.  I may be here a while.  I suppose you’ve heard of the murder right up the street from your office?”

“I’ve heard some rumors.”  I said.

“Pull in to Burger King and grab you a cup of coffee.  I’ll call you back in no more than ten minutes.”  Mark said, whispering to someone that he was coming.

“Okay, will do.” 

It was twenty minutes before Mark called.  I was halfway through my second cup of coffee.  “Sorry again, this scene’s a party.”

“I appreciate your time.  I know you’ve got your hands full, especially now.  I’ll not take much of your time.  What can you tell me about the Adam Parker case?”  I asked.

“That it’s not a case.  Have you not seen the autopsy?”

“I have.”

“Then, you know Parker died of natural causes.”  Mark said.

“Maybe, maybe not.  I received an email from Parker’s daughter last night.  She’s in Chicago burying her father as we speak.  Marissa, the daughter, said her father’s latest physical exam shows that he was in almost perfect condition.  She attached a copy which included a statement by his doctor that his heart was as good as any twenty-year-old that he had ever examined.”  I said having pondered this since reading it earlier this morning.

“Still no case.  Connor, you know the Sheriff’s office doesn’t pursue cases without a reason, a reason that, at least at a minimum, indicates there has been a crime, that the victim died from criminal actions.”

“I know.  I know.  But, I’m getting those vibes.”

“Connor, let me stop you right there.  The expert of all experts in criminal investigations, the one and only Bobby Sorrells, would rip your tongue out right now if he heard you.”  Mark said, and I knew it was the truth.

“You’re right.  ‘Objective facts don’t have feelings, and neither should you.’  I can hear him now.  By the way, he’s in town, working on a case with Dalton Martin, a triple homicide out of Jackson County.”  I said.

“Listen, I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

“Mark, are you telling me that nothing, absolutely nothing, has crossed your mind, or your desk, that seems even a smidgen odd in regards to Adam Parker’s death.”  I had to ask because I knew enough about Mark that he had a great imagination, one that he allowed to roam freely but while at the same time didn’t influence his final conclusions.  That was reserved strictly to objective facts.

“I really need to go.”  Mark said but then paused and hummed.  This was Mark thinking and pondering, filling the air with a virtual hand, outstretched, palm open and facing towards on-coming traffic.  STOP.  WAIT.

The humming got boring.  “One thing, and it’s probably about as relevant as the color of the red-light at the intersection of Highways 431 and 168 the moment Adam Parker’s body was discovered.”

“Now, you’ve got my attention.  If you believe there’s not a chance in hell that its important, I have itching ears.”  I was simply wasting breath, Mark was a solid detective.

“His car, Parker’s car, was not parked the way he normally parked it.”  Was Mark trying to be funny?

“How would you know that?”  I asked.

“It’s called investigation.”  Mark said drawling out the thirteen-letter word.

“Can I ask how you determined this?”

“After the Boaz Police Department called our dispatch I drove to Boaz.  They were extra cautious and wanted us to look, just to make sure it wasn’t anything suspicious.  While there, I queried a few star-gazers.  One girl, I think a student, said that Parker always pulled into his parking spot beside the science building.  He had a designated spot since he was a professor.”

“So, you’re saying when his body was found in his car it had been backed into his parking spot.  Right?”  I asked.

“Yep.  Now you could care less what color the light was.”  Mark said, at first confusing me.

“The light?”

“Hey man, you figure it out.  I’ve got to go.”  Mark was about to hang up on me when I thought to ask.

“Quickly, do you remember the name of the student who told you that?”

“Hold on, I’m sure I jotted it down in my black-book.”  Mark didn’t hum but a few seconds.  “Goble, Natalie Goble.”  See you Connor.”  Our call ended.

By now I was over halfway back to Boaz.  The remaining eight or so miles all I could think about was why would Natalie Goble be hanging around a possible crime scene.  I let my imagination loose.  As I drove into the parking lot behind Connor Ford Investigations I thought I caught a glimpse of Paige Todd in the background.

Chapter 10

Monday evening was good and bad.  Emily was already home when I arrived a few minutes before six.  We hadn’t talked about it, but for some reason I was expecting her to show up with at least a U-Haul trailer filled with a few pieces of furniture, a ton of clothes, a couple dozen novels, and her iPad.  I was right about her iPad.  Surprisingly, she had only two suitcases of clothes, no furniture, and no books.  Emily loved legal and crime thrillers nearly as much as I did but she declared that she was now fully committed to e-books.  “They are cheaper and lighter.  I can carry an entire library in my iPad.”  Over pizza that Camilla had brought, the three of us spent an hour at the kitchen bar alternating our discussion between Netflix and which series we were currently watching, and how substitute writer, Reed Farrel Coleman, was doing with the Jesse Stone series after its creator, author Robert B. Parker, had died.

It had all gone downhill after I made the mistake of asking a silly question, “I wonder which came first, Jesse or Jake?”  Of course, Jesse wasn’t real, but Jake was.  My mention of Boaz police officer Jake Stone had prompted Camilla to mention Lawton, which precipitated Emily marching Amy onto center stage.  It seems ever since Amy was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, she has become sentimental, often cornering Emily and making her listen to stories from high school and the early years of our marriage.  After Emily’s orientation at the hospital and during her drive to Boaz, Amy had called and shared a story about Lawton Hawks and Darlene Jenkins.

I was surprised that Emily relayed so many details, and I was surprised she didn’t already know one fact.  While Amy and I were in the eleventh grade at Boaz High School, so was Lawton and Darlene.  While Amy and I were spending our private time kissing and heavy petting, Darlene was sharing front row seats with Lawton.  She had gotten pregnant and, in the spring of 1985, had given birth to a near perfect baby girl.  Amy had either omitted telling Emily that Camilla was that child or Emily had failed to listen carefully before. 

The tension had gotten so intense between Emily and Camilla, I did what I often do and asked another question.  This time, it made things even worse, especially for me.  I had asked Emily how Amy was doing.  This is when I learned she was moving back to Boaz.  My world was growing smaller and smaller.  The news wasn’t totally unexpected.  I had been surprised that Amy had stayed in Dothan after Brandon’s death.  She was now either following Emily or me.  The only good thing about the bad thing was it seemed to reconcile Emily and Camilla.  I went to bed early to avoid their continual insistence that I had to “be there” for Amy as she faces such a monumental health crisis. 

I was halfway through an article from Adam Parker’s light-colored briefcase Marissa had left with me.  The author argued that “if fetuses are human persons, one cannot be pro-choice on abortion, just as one cannot be pro-choice on slavery and at the same time maintain that slaves are human persons.”  I suspected Parker had a response but before I could read it, Camilla called my iPhone.

“Sorry about last night.  I know that was difficult on you.  Please know I’m fully committed to you, to us.  I’ll do everything I can to help you support Amy.”

Camilla could be a hell-cat when she got her dander up but at her core she was kind, respectful, and encouraging.  “Thanks, but you seem to indicate I have some moral duty to my ex-wife.”  I said contemplating what my duty would be if Amy stayed in Dothan.

“You do.  Mark 10:8: ‘And they twain shall be one flesh: so then they are no more twain, but one flesh.’  Now, you’re quoting scripture?  I thought you’d outgrown that book.”  I said, realizing how difficult it must be for a Christian to have to live with so many rules.

“In 2011, the one flesh split.  We returned to twain.” 

“Funny.  You want to know something else that is funny, funny in a sick sort of way?”  Camilla asked.  I figured she was between haircuts or perms.

“Mayor Mohler was in for a haircut.  He normally sees Barbara but she’s out today.  I don’t think he’s made the connection between you and me.”

I just had to interrupt, comedian that I am.  “Twain, you and me.”

“For now.  By the way, that’s something we could talk about if you ever have time, all with Emily and Amy coming to live with you.”

“Funny.  You mentioned a sick funny, what was it?”  I asked.

“The Mayor, like most everybody else, was talking about the first murder in Boaz in ages.  I suspect he also doesn’t know that Lawton was my father.  Anyway, he said he hoped it, the murder, wasn’t some sort of ritual killing.”

“Why would he say that?”  I asked.

“I was about to tell you.  Quit asking questions and listen.  It seems there were three B’s etched on his back.”

“Like bumblebees?”

“No stupid.  The letters, alphabet.  B as in boy.”  Camilla said.

“Can I ask a question?”

“I doubt if I could stop you.  But hurry, I have another appointment walking in.

“Did the Mayor say anything else, like what he thought the B’s stood for?”  I asked.

“Nope, just said three capital letter B’s were carved, no, I think he said etched in.  He did later, I think, say the B’s were burnt into the flesh.”

“Let me know if you hear anything else.”

“I will.  It’s a shame, my callousness is a shame.”

Camilla didn’t give me a chance to respond.  Her feelings for her father, and even her mother, were so foreign to me.  I had always been close to mother and her mother, my maternal grandmother, and even though Dad and I knocked heads, I could never in a million years imagine me being so nonchalant after he passed, not to mention, if he died in such a brutal way.

I spent the rest of the day at my round table reading from both of Adam’s briefcases.  I didn’t even leave for lunch, opting instead for a grilled cheese and a small bowl of vegetable soup from Pirates Cove.  Blair was evolving into a real asset.  These days, secretaries were eager to avoid domesticating their jobs for their boss.  I was glad Blair had made it a part of her everyday routine to ask if I was hungry or needed a cup of coffee.  I guess, since I was such a father-figure, she felt compelled to take care of her daddy.

At 5:30, just before I was about to leave the office, Marissa called.  She relayed that Adam’s funeral yesterday had been the hardest thing she had ever endured.  No doubt, her and her father were close.  She said staying with her mother had been nearly as difficult as watching her father’s casket lowered into the ground.  I learned that Adam and Anna Parker had divorced in 2000.  According to Marissa, Anna just finally gave out; Adam had driven her crazy from his growing perfectionism.  In 2001 he had left lab work and accepted a job teaching Biology at the University of Tennessee.  I learned that he had stayed there until moving to Boaz in 2014 to teach the same subject at Snead State Community College.  The main issue Marissa had with staying a few days with her mother was that she had become a literal hoarder since Adam moved out in 2000.  “Her place stinks, books, Bibles, and garbage are everywhere.  I saw several rats and no cats.  I can’t believe I stayed with her.”

I shared with her a little of what was going on in my own personal life—something I rarely did with clients.  “When are you coming back to Boaz?”  I asked.

“Not for a while.  I’m headed back to Nashville in a couple of hours.  I can’t stand another night in this rat hole.  Anyway, I’m a month behind at school and I’ve only been away ten days.  I have two article deadlines to deal with, not to mention two courses to teach.”

“Sometimes, I’d like to hear more about your work, maybe learn something about your religious philosophy.”  I said.

“My theology might surprise you.  Listen, I’m needing to go but wanted to share something else, another sort of surprise.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”  I said.

“Mother shared with me some email correspondence she had recently with dad.  He had contacted her about his will, something about her going ahead and deeding the house to me instead of leaving it in their names and having to go through probate when the last of them died.  I got the feeling that dad was somewhat anticipating his death, but I may be wrong.  He may have just been his usual self, trying to plan out every little thing.”

“Estate planning is important.  More people need to do it before they die or become legally incompetent.”  I said.

“Sounds like a lawyer.  Of course, you were one for, what, ten years?”  Camilla asked.

“Actually, I’m still licensed to practice law.  But, those days are over.”

“I bet you’ve got some stories to tell.  Since you’re interested in my work, we’ll have to swap our fishing tales sometimes.”  Marissa said.

“Seems like everybody here lately is interested in my past.  I suggest we focus on learning what killed your perfectionist father.”  I said.

“Okay, we’ll talk about his past and leave yours alone. Bye for now.”

After we got off the phone I made a note to visit Adam’s office at Snead.  I figured that’s where he kept his computer.