Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (12 page)

Jesse looked across the street, the neon glow of the word
Cocktails
, coming from a sign high above a bar. At that moment, the neon resembled a lighthouse beckoning Jesse across a troubled sea to a safe harbor, if only for a short stop. He crushed the remains of his cigarette against a steel post, flipping the butt into a pothole in the parking lot. He returned to his room, got dressed and drove three hundred yards to the fleeting promise of confidence.

The interior of the bar was dark, small wattage lights flickering from overhead fixtures, a Carrie Underwood song on the jukebox, the smell of spilled beer on the mats behind the bar. A middle-aged woman with dark hair pinned up, wiped shot glasses with a white towel, smiling at Jesse when he took a seat at the bar. He looked around—only three customers in the middle of the day. A man sat with a woman in a burgundy booth, stuffing coming from the cracked plastic seat cover. One man sat at the far end of the bar nursing a thin beer in a glass mug.

“What can I get for you?” asked the woman, setting the white towel down on the bar.

“Shot of Crown. Can of Bud.”

“Comin’ up.” She hummed to the song on the jukebox, cracked open a cold can of Budweiser, and poured a shot of Crown Royal, setting them both in front of Jesse. “You wanna run a tab?”

“That’d work.”

She smiled and went to the other end of the bar to refill the customer’s mug.

Jesse knocked back the shot of Crown and took two long pulls from the can of beer, the alcohol giving him a light burn in his throat, quickly hitting his empty stomach. He finished his
beer and sat on the stool, reaching in his front pocket, getting out the card with Detective Larry Lee’s name and number on it. A woman said, “Sheriff’s office, Glenda speaking.”

“Detective Lee, please.”

“Hold please.”

Jesse gripped his phone, the alcohol entering his bloodstream, a Tim McGraw song,
Like You Were Dying
, coming from the jukebox. “Detective Lee.”

“Detective, this is Jesse Taylor.”

“Talk to me, Jesse. You got anything more to go on?”

“How ‘bout an eyewitness, that good enough for you?”

“Depends. Who’s your witness?”

“Promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll get him in a witness protection program if he agrees to testify.”

“We’ll do what we can. We’re not in the business of endangering witnesses. What’d he see?”

“Andy Cope’s murder, that’s what he saw. And he’s been scared to tell anyone because he has no trust in the justice system. I’m hopin’ you can prove him wrong, Detective. His name’s Jeremiah Franklin. Lives in the sticks off Stevenson Road, beyond a pecan grove.”

“Who does he say did it? The perp still alive?”

“He’s still alive. To get the story and name from Jeremiah, you’ll have to convince him that he’ll be safe. Then, Detective Lee, you can solve what I’d imagine is the coldest case in Jackson County history, at least in the last fifty years.”

“Does this Franklin have a number?”

“Don’t you guys ride out and speak to folks face-to-face anymore?”

“Not after a half-century. He can come in here and talk with us. I’ll call him and extend the invitation.”

“That’s bullshit. You want me to do your job?”

“That might be the last job you ever do. You been drinking, Jesse? You’re slurring your words a tad. A few years ago that would have been a violation of your parole.”

“So you spend time checking me out and no damn time investigating the murder of a child. That’s such crap.”

“Don’t let the booze talk for you, pal. Be careful driving. You never know who’ll be following you back to your motel. You really don’t want a DUI in my county.”

TWENTY

S
ome places with a dark history have a strong sense of presence, often palpable. It’s something I felt years ago visiting Arlington National Cemetery and Andersonville, the site of a Confederate Civil War prison camp. I sensed this today driving slowly by the closed reform school near Marianna. The steel gray of a razor wire fence juxtaposed in front of a cobalt blue sky with white clouds drifting serenely far above the tree line on the property.

Prison fences don’t surround most cemeteries, but most cemeteries aren’t the place where the living has died. Here it was different. The brick cottages and other buildings scattered among the live oaks and the pines looked pastoral, resembling a boarding school for children of prosperous families. The institution could have doubled as an elite military prep school, one where trust-fund graduates were groomed and destined for West Point, the Navel Academy or Ivy League colleges.

It wasn’t.

If looks can be deceptive, this place, based on Curtis’s letter and what I’d read, could have been a façade for a Hollywood horror movie. The fence went for hundreds of yards. I slowed to a stop well before coming to the main entrance and the gate. I played back the satellite images in my mind. Now at street-level, I had a very good idea of what I was seeing. A large
black crow landed at the top of a roof on the closest cottage and called out, cicadas hummed in the pines.

I looked for the building known as the White House. I knew the basic area where it was, but I couldn’t see it from where I stopped my Jeep. I could see the cottages, rolling landscape, a ball field, maybe an abandoned swimming pool in the distance. It had the trappings of a Hansel and Gretel world—candy cane houses of terror, a place where witches and warlocks ruled and abandoned kids would have to find ways to survive, to outwit the ogres or suffer the consequences. But it wasn’t a Grimm’s fairy tale, it was real—a deserted reform school with more than a century of charade. From the outside looking in, most people would see tranquility, never recognizing deception.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out the photo of Andy Cope and whispered, “Are you somewhere in here? Maybe with your help I can help your sister.” The big crow called out again and flew away, to the north, toward another field. I looked beyond the fence and spotted a tree line in the distance. I started my Jeep, put it in gear, and headed for the entrance to the Dozier School for Boys.

After a few minutes, I turned right into a long drive that led to a locked gate across the entranceway. There was a guardhouse, lots of shade from live oaks, dappled sunlight coming through the branches. A pickup truck was parked to the left of the guardhouse. There were two other vehicles, a blue Toyota and a white Chevy Malibu parked in the shade.

I stopped in front of the guardhouse, could barely make out the man behind the dark glass windows, variegated sunlight reflecting from the glass. I parked beneath one of the oaks along
the driveway and got out. A mockingbird danced on a limb above me, its call sounding like a car alarm going off.

There was movement from both cars. A man in the Toyota finished a phone call and came toward me. A woman in a business suit followed him. The man wore designer jeans, button down white shirt and a dark blue sports coat. His blond hair was gelled, short. The woman wore her brown hair up. I could see a strand of pearls at the base of her neck as she approached. Both were in their late thirties.

The man extended his hand well before he got to me. “Are you Mr. O’Brien?”

“That’d be me.” I shook his hand.

“Delighted to meet you. I’m Ben Douglas. Your employer, Mr. Farnsworth, sings your praises.”

“He’s too kind.”

The woman extended her hand and looked up at me. Wide smile. Freshly applied lipstick. High heels. It would be challenging to walk around the property, lots of grass, in heels. That might be a good thing—an early exit. She said, “I’m Lisa Kurz. It’s good to meet you, Mr. O’Brien.”

“Please, Sean works even better.”

She smiled. “Your timing is excellent, assuming there’s a strong interest from your company. The state’s had the property on the market for eight months. If you see potential, there’s still time for a bid. Ben will give you the particulars. I can help you with the history of the property and what the state may be willing to mitigate for serious offers.”

I could tell Ben Douglas was waiting for her to pause so he could begin his pitch. He jumped in and said, “Let’s show you around. I think the property will speak volumes for itself. Mr. Farnsworth mentioned his interest in converting the land into an old Florida-themed development, something that reflects a turn-of-the-century feel, upscale houses, all with front porches—homes that invite neighbors to be neighbors, not strangers. Large backyards. Lots of green space and natural park-like settings. Florida at its finest, like the grand seaside cottages and homes of yesteryear with all modern conveniences.”

I smiled. “Turn-of-the-century…going back to when this place was envisioned and built.”

Lisa Kurz didn’t pause a beat. She said, “It was a splendid time in Florida, the winter destination for much of the Northeast and Midwest. But as the state grew with permanent residents, a need for a juvenile facility like this was apparent. The state didn’t want to build something that looked like a prison—after all, these were boys. So they created a rural campus-like setting that had a lot of the attributions of a working farm. It would keep the kids busy, out of trouble, and give them a skill in agriculture.”

I nodded. “I suppose it’s all about planting seeds. The harvest will tell how well that was done.”

She smiled, but kept her lips together. Ben Douglas was about to say something when the guard approached. He walked with a light limp to his right leg, carrying a clipboard, mid-sixties, tall, military haircut, black shoes reflecting the sunlight. “How you doin’?” His accent was Deep South, gruff. He wore a silver ring on his right hand with a U.S. Marines insignia in the center. His nametag read: J. Hines

“I’m fine, thanks.”

He nodded. “I know you’re with these folks. I just need to see an ID before you walk the grounds.”

“No problem.” I opened my wallet and displayed my driver’s license, keeping my left thumb over the last few digits. He looked at my picture and then looked at me. As he started to write the number, I closed my wallet, putting it back in my pocket. “If you need a number, you have my license tag. My meeting today with Mr. Douglas and Miss Kurz is confidential, per the wishes of my client.”

He started to say something, but Lisa interjected. “It’s okay, Johnny. Mr. O’Brien is with us.”

He stared at me. I could tell he was trying hard to make the connection. The mockingbird flew to a tree above the guardhouse, blurting out car alarm shrieks. Then the guard said, “O’Brien…Sean O’Brien. You have a good visit, you hear.”

I didn’t know how long my tour of the facility would be. But I did know I’d just been made.

Johnny the guard knew my name.

TWENTY-ONE

I
t was an impromptu stop. Something unplanned. But, as Jesse Taylor knew, not a whole helluva lot had been planned since reading Curtis Garwood’s obituary. Jesse thought more about death now than ever. Or maybe he was thinking more about life—living life. Maybe if he could find some kind of closure for Andy’s sister, Caroline Harper, he’d find it for himself.

Jesse spotted the small sign on the one-story building and hit the brakes, looking for a place to turn around. He cut through a parking lot in downtown Marianna and drove back to the building. The sign on the side of the brick read:
Jackson County Patriot – On Guard Since 1879
. He parked in the lot, picked up the newspaper on the seat next to him and whispered the reporter’s name, “Cory Wilson…let’s see if you’re here.”

Jesse entered the building, walking down a short hallway decorated with awards and accolades the newspaper and its reporters had won through the years. The reception area was really a long counter, a small stack of newspapers on one end, business cards near a ceramic bowl filled with peppermint candies. People worked at desks in an open office setting, most seemed attached to computer screens. One larger man, with flushed skin, puffy face, strands of comb-over hair feathered across his scalp, ate a hamburger and fries at his desk.

A middle-aged woman in jeans and a yellow blouse stitched in butterfly images, stood from her desk near the counter and met Jesse. Her dirty blond hair was pulled tight in a ponytail, round face with a narrow smile, capped teeth. “Can I help you? You lookin’ to place an ad? We have a special this month that applies to print and online too.”

“No ma’am, I’m not here to buy an ad, but I do like your newspaper. Been reading it every day since I got back in Marianna.”

Her smiled dropped a notch. She tilted her head, folding her arms, trying to place his face somewhere in her memory. “How may I help you, sir?”

“Is Cory Wilson here today?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “He’s here. Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I have something even better.”

“And what might that be?”

“A story. I have a damn good story for him.”

Another woman, mid-twenties sat at her desk near the counter. She looked up from her keyboard, overhearing the conversation. She picked up her phone, buzzed a man sitting next to the man eating the hamburger, and said something into the phone.