Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (11 page)

“It’s the shotgun shell casing. I’m sending it to a friend of mine, and FBI agent. She’s going to see if an electrostatic charge can reveal a print.”

Nick used a paper towel to wipe coffee from his bushy moustache. “Shit, after fifty years, the genie might stick his redneck head outta the bottle, or in this case, the shotgun shell.”

I removed a folded sheet of paper from my pocket and handed it to Dave. “Here are some names and numbers. I found the name of the listing real estate broker the state is using to show the property. He’s a broker with a good batting average. There’s strong interest from a corporation called Vista Properties. Maybe you can find who’s the decision maker, and who’re his or her allies in Jackson County. Call the listing agent and tell him you’re interested in the property, ask him if the local airport can accommodate a Gulfstream G650 jet—but before you fly in for an inspection, you will have your representative go by for the pre-inspection.”

Dave smiled. “And you, Sean, no doubt, are my representative.”

“Yes. I pulled satellite images of the property and buildings. I have a good feel for the logistics. But the place is locked and guarded. Admittance is by invitation only. Thanks for the breakfast. I need to be hitting the road.”

Dave poured more coffee into his cup, looking up at me through the steam. “Be damn careful, Sean. This one has layers of bureaucratic complicity all over it, very dangerous because of where the dotted lines may lead. Maybe that little box in your hand will open the Pandora’s box. If not, after so many years, you’re looking for a needle under a hill of hay.”

“But if you set fire to the hay, the rats will run. After the hay has burned, the needle will be there. It might be charred and blackened, but in some form, it’ll be there. I just have to use a magnet to draw it out—to find it.” I petted Max on her head, turned to leave, looked at the glass eye of the wahoo on the wall and remembered the expression in Curtis Garwood’s eyes when he released his wahoo back to the sea.

EIGHTEEN

H
e’d seen her name in the local newspaper, and now he needed to find her. Jesse Taylor used a red pen to circle her name in the
Jackson County Patriot
. The story was about how she’d managed to get convictions in difficult cases up and down the Second Judicial Circuit in the state of Florida, a district encompassing six counties from the Gulf Coast to the Alabama/Georgia state lines. She’d been in her current job less than two years. Previous to that, assistant state attorney, Lana Halley, worked as a prosecutor in the Ninth District, the Orlando area. Not only did Jesse circle her name, he underlined the reporter’s name, Cory Wilson.

Jesse sat in the lobby of the state attorney’s office in the courthouse, the folded newspaper in one hand, feeling a touch of familiarity,
been there and sort of done it
, he thought when he’d met with Detective Larry Lee. The lobby floor was old marble, highly polished, an afghan rug near the reception desk. A large painting of former president Andrew Jackson sitting in a saddle on a white horse, hung on the wall above two walnut doors leading into the offices. Jesse shifted the newspaper to his other hand, staring up at the painting; Jackson’s eyes seemed to look through him—a nonverbal invitation to leave the county that bore his name.

The double doors opened wide and a woman walked out into the lobby, dark blue suit, high heels that sounded like taps on the marble floor. Jesse recognized her from the black and white picture in the paper that accompanied the article. She almost took his breath away, black
hair to her shoulders, emerald green eyes, and dark eyebrows against radiant skin. She had a winning smile, one that could probably open the minds of any jury. Jesse suddenly wished he were thirty-five years younger. She walked across the lobby, extending her hand. “Hi, I’m Lana Halley. You must be Mr. Taylor. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. I appreciate you taking the time to see me on short notice.”

“You told my assistant it was urgent, time sensitive and could have implications to multiple, unnatural deaths. You hit all my buttons.”

Jesse reflexively licked his dry lips. He lifted the folded paper. “I’d done my homework. Read the story about you, how you’re a victim’s rights kind of lawyer. The article said how you’d come from nothin’, a broken home to put yourself through law school and try to turn things around for others. I think that’s a noble thing to do, Miss Halley.”

She smiled. “Please, call me Lana. You can’t believe everything you read in the news. That reporter included more than he really had to. I understand this has to do with the old reform school. Let’s go to my office. I only have a few minutes, but I’m an excellent listener.”

“That’s always a good start.”

He followed her across the lobby, before walking through the open doors. Jesse glanced up at Jackson on the horse, the president’s eyes narrow, following him into the halls of justice. They walked through a maze of corridors, paralegals in cubicles tapping on keyboards, sorting through files and staring into computer screens and case histories. She led him into a small office, took her seat behind a desk that was free from clutter, one file folder in the center, an American flag on a wooden pole behind her, a picture of her in a graduate’s cap and gown, an older woman resembling Lana, standing next to her. No father.

“Please, have a seat.” She gestured to one of two vacant chairs in front of her desk. Jesse sat in the chair next to the window, overlooking the courthouse square. He held the newspaper on his lap, his hands sweaty. She glanced at his scarred hands and then looked up at him. “What’s this about multiple unnatural deaths, you mean murder?”

“Yes. I don’t know how many. What do you know about the Florida Home for Boys?”

“Not a lot. I came here after it was closed.”

“I spent almost a year in there for taking my pop’s old car on a ride for half an hour one night when I snuck outta the house to meet a girl I was sweet on.”

“Sounds like your father went to an extreme.”

“That’s putting it mildly. I’ll be brief. The men in charge of us were as brutal as Nazi guards, maybe worse ‘cause they got to administer punishment. By this I mean boys, some young as nine, forced to lie on their stomachs in a small building. The men would take turns beating us. A kid would get at least thirty hits from a long leather strap with a small shard of metal in it. Blood would fly like a damn slaughterhouse.” She listened, swallowing dryly, jotting an occasional note on a clean legal pad. He told her about Andy Cope, the letter from Curtis Garwood. Then he added, “I have an eyewitness to Andy’s murder.”

“Who is that?”

“He’s name’s Jeremiah Franklin. His brother, Elijah, never made it out of there alive.”

“Do we know if the perpetrator is still alive?”

“Jeremiah says he is.”

“What’s this man’s name and what role did he play at the school?”

“Jeremiah wouldn’t give me his real name.”

“Why?”

“He’s afraid. He’s a black man living in the country in Jackson County. When we were kids, many of us were locked up due to petty stuff like truancy, maybe stealing a candy bar from a five ‘n dime. We called the meanest of the staff, the Preacher. He’d try to justify his bloody punishment from Old Testament Bible verses. He always talked about the wrath of God and Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“If the man who allegedly did these things is alive, would Mr. Franklin testify?”

“He’s considering it.”

“But he hasn’t said anything in fifty years. And from what you tell me, there’s no physical evidence that can, beyond a reasonable doubt, firmly put this man at the scene the night Andy Cope was killed, correct?”

“I don’t know. Caroline Harper mentioned a shotgun shell casing…maybe…”

“Maybe we’d find the gun after half a century. I’ll need a lot more if I’m to present this to a grand jury.” She glanced at the watch on her left wrist. “I have to go. Thank you for coming.”

Jesse looked out the window to the courthouse square, the lofty oaks barely moving in the warm breeze. He watched an elderly black man in overalls slowly walking down the sidewalk, shuffling by in front of polished stone monuments to war. He eased down to sit on a park bench, tossing a peanut to a squirrel hopping close to him.

“All I want, and all Caroline Harper wants, is for somebody to look around the school property for hidden graves.”

“And that takes probable cause and a court order.” She lifted up the file in front of her. “A class action suit, claiming abuse from former residents of the school was tossed out in 2010 because the judge said the statute of limitations had long expired. The Florida Department of Law Enforcement did an extensive review, and those findings were presented to this office. The state attorney, my boss, said that based on the information, he couldn’t prove allegations of abuse. In other words, Mr. Taylor, the assertions aren’t prosecutable.”

“What if I can get somebody to help me? Somebody to look around with me, a fella with a background in law enforcement.”

“That’s the job of either the Jackson County Sheriff’s office or the police, depending on the scene of the crime. I’d give them a call.”

“Already done it. Met with Detective Larry Lee in the sheriff’s department. He gave me every reason why this is not even a cold case ‘cause he says it isn’t even a case ‘til there’s a body.”

She stood. “I’m sorry for what happened to you as a boy and how that was allowed. Corporal punishment in the state ended in 1968.”

“There’s a big difference between a spankin’ and a beatin’. And I’d say shootin’ a kid in the back is the ultimate corporal punishment. Thank you for your time.” He turned to leave, lifting his phone, scrolling as he walked to the door, putting on his glasses, mumbling. “O’Brien…got his number somewhere.”

Lana said, “May I ask who you’re referring to?”

“Fella’s name is Sean O’Brien. He’s helping Caroline Harper look into what happened to Andy. Why? Do you know this guy?”

She clutched the file to her breasts and walked Jesse to the door. “Yes, I do know him. I prosecuted a case in Orlando. Mr. O’Brien had been trying to find someone who killed a college girl and her boyfriend in the Ocala National Forest. It involved a drug cartel. He and a Seminole Indian friend entered the forest on behalf of the girl’s mother. And in the end, the state had only one of the accused to stand trial.”

“Why’d you only have one guy to put on trial?”

“Because you can’t prosecute dead men. Four of them never made it out of the forest alive.” She paused and exhaled a deep breath. “Mr. Taylor, I want to make this clear to you…do not begin some kind of a vendetta hunt or blood feud in Jackson County. It won’t be tolerated.”

NINETEEN

D
ave Collins was in his element of plausible denial. Somehow, I thought, you can take fieldwork from the retired intelligence operative, but you can’t screen out the covert gene that makes deception work well. I mailed the package to FBI agent Carly Brown in Tampa, and had just returned to the road in my Jeep when Dave called. “You’ll be meeting with real estate agent Ben Douglas at the gates to the former Dozier School for Boys. Benjamin and I had a nice chat. The local airport can indeed accommodate private jets. I told him that my representative, Sean O’Brien, is my senior advisor, and a man whose judgment in commercial property I trust implicitly.”

“Did he ask you what you might have in mind for the property?”

“Indeed. I told him that, as a private equity firm, if I decided to add it to the portfolio of one of our companies, then it’s all about location, price, and the cost of conversion. He was quick to let me know the local zoning board had already given the green light for single and multi-family development, including golf course construction. And he was also quick to point out that there are other bids in and the window of opportunity is closing. Can you be there by four o’ clock?”

“Shouldn’t pose a problem.”

“Oh, and one other thing…the Florida Department of Law Enforcement will have a rep there, too. Her name is Lisa Kurz. She’s a public relations person for the state. Maybe she’s there to sell you on the future and gloss over the histories of a dark past.”

“We’ll see. How’s Max?”

“In the hands of Nick at the moment. I’m not sure who’s walking whom, but last I saw Max was leading Nick down the dock.”

Jesse Taylor paced the floor of his small motel room, windows open, a warm breeze coming through the blinds. He wore a white tank top. Jeans. No shoes. He looked through his wallet, retrieving a folded piece of paper. He dialed the number. After four rings, there was a long beep, indicating it went to voice-mail. He said, “Hey Sonia…it’s Jesse Taylor. We met in the sheriff’s office lobby. I need to talk with your Uncle Jeremiah. It’s urgent. I need his number or he needs to call me. You got my number. Call me, okay?”

He disconnected, lit a cigarette, stepping outside to smoke it. Jesse leaned back against the white veneer wall, traffic stopping and starting at the intersection near the old motel, the smell of diesel exhaust coming from across the road. He thought about Curtis Garwood’s letter, thought about Caroline Harper. Remembering what the old black woman, Jeremiah’s mama, had said on her porch while snapping green beans.
‘After all these years, I don’t pull the covers over me a night without thinkin’ ‘bout my boy, Elijah. Hep me find lil’ Elijah, wherever they put him.’