Deadliest of Sins (6 page)

Eight

Detective Victor Galloway was
law enforcement's yang to District Attorney Drake's cool, intellectual yin. Galloway wore a tattered Atlanta Falcons T-shirt instead of a suit, red Asics running shoes instead of leather brogans, and kept his police badge fastened on his belt rather than pinned over his heart. When Mary knocked at the entrance of his cubicle, he had his feet up on his desk, sipping a bottle of orange Jarritos soda.

“Victor Galloway?” she asked, not seeing any name plates or name tags or name anything.

“
Sí, senorita
.” He grinned and winked. “
Que pasa?
”

She smiled. Away from the mountains of Western North Carolina, people often mistook her Cherokee black hair and olive skin for Latina. “I'm Mary Crow,” she said, stepping into his office. “From the governor's judicial task force.”

Gulping his soda, Galloway whipped his long legs off the desk and stood up. “I'm sorry,” he sputtered, his face turning red. “I haven't worked here long enough to know who to salute yet.”

“Well, you don't have to salute me.” Mary handed him the carte blanche letter the DA had written for her. “I'm looking into the Bryan Taylor case.”

As Galloway scanned the sheet of paper, she scanned Galloway. Like her, he had olive skin and black hair. Unlike her, his eyes were a fierce blue, his body rangy and muscular. She felt, oddly, that she'd seen him somewhere before.

“Okay.” He looked up from Drake's letter. “Have a seat and I'll get you up to speed.”

She lifted a heavy packing box from his one chair and pulled it up to the desk.

“Sorry about all the clutter,” he said. “I just moved up here from Georgia.”

“Really? Where in Georgia?” asked Mary.

“Cobb County. I got my detective shield in Marietta.”

Mary smiled. “I used to be a prosecutor in Deckard County. How'd you wind up here in Carolina?”

“Got tired of Atlanta traffic and Marietta politics.” He laughed. “When two newer guys got promoted over me, I saw the writing on the wall. This little force put out a call for a detective who could
hablo Español
, so I answered the ad. Took a big cut in pay, but at least I'm not spending three hours a day stuck in traffic.”

“Why
Español
here?”

“Lots of Latino-on-Latino crime along Jackson Highway. The chief got tired of his conviction rate sinking because his cops had misunderstood the Spanish.” He shrugged. “
Aquí estoy yo
.”

She nodded, wondering if Galloway shared the same macho distaste for investigating gay crimes that most cops did. “So they put you undercover, in the middle of a gay murder investigation?”

Galloway smiled. “I was perfect to go deep—too new for anybody to recognize.”

“Okay—what can you tell me about this case?”

He rifled through a stack of papers on his desk and pulled out a thick envelope. “You can read it, or I can tell you the basics.”

“Let's do both,” said Mary. “You start first.”

Galloway opened the file. “Bryan Taylor, twenty-seven-year-old white male, found dead along Jackson Highway. He was a resident of Brooklyn, New York, here visiting his parents.”

He handed Mary two photographs—one of a handsome young man with sandy brown hair and several days' worth of beard on his cheeks. The second was a crime scene photo where that handsome face was bloodied beyond recognition. “Geez,” said Mary. “Did someone take a tire iron to his head?”

“We think it was a baseball bat. He'd just subbed in a church league softball game. Bryan had played on St. Alban's team before and was a pretty good short stop in high school.”

“So did he make the winning play at second base and then get beaten to death?”

“Actually, his team lost,” said Galloway. “After the game they went over to Clancy's Grill—it's a popular place with ball players. His teammates said Bryan ordered a hamburger, drank a couple of beers, and then left. We think somebody followed him, killed him, and dumped his body a couple of miles down the road.”

“He wasn't killed at the scene?” asked Mary.

“No, he was dumped. Wasn't a shred of evidence along that highway.”

“Had he hit on anybody at the bar?”

Galloway shook his head. “According to his teammates, he ate, drank his beer, and left. Said he had an early flight back to New York the next day.”

“Where was his car?”

“Here's the odd part … his car was parked at an I-85 truck stop, twenty miles east of his home. And no,” he continued, answering the question Mary was about to ask, “it hadn't been wiped. It was lousy with his and his mother's fingerprints … it was her car. There was also a partial print of somebody who isn't in the system. And a single black hair was found on the driver's seat.”

“Pubic hair?”

“Nope. Head hair. But we didn't get any of the root, so no DNA there.”

Mary asked, “You think he drove to the truck stop for a brief encounter and got more than he bargained for?”

“That's a possibility,” admitted Galloway. “Except he never showed up on any of the lot security cams. Didn't buy gas or go in the store, or go to the men's room.”

“So maybe he just got lucky in the parking lot. You know, in the back of a semi.”

“That was my first thought, except for this.” Galloway pulled another picture from the file—this one of Bryan with his arm around another young man. “This is Leo Maiello, Bryan's husband. They got married in New York six months ago. Bryan was a newlywed and, according to his parents, very happy.”

“Too happy to go prowling around truck stops?”

“He texted Leo at nine thirty-four that night, saying he was on his way home.
Can't wait to see you
was his last message.”

“And Leo was in New York, equally thrilled that Bryan was coming home?”

Galloway nodded. “Leo checks out. He's the stage manager at some Broadway theater. He was at work that night. No less than Bernadette Peters backed up his story.”

“You really talked to Bernadette Peters?” Mary was impressed—on her last trip to New York she'd seen the red-headed actress bring down the house in a Stephen Sondheim play.

“I did,” said Galloway. “She was really nice. Sympathetic, you know?”

Mary flipped through the file, looking at the crime scene photos, notes of the interviews with Taylor's parents and friends. She stopped at a group photo of the ball team, grinning at the camera. “All of his teammates check out?”

“They do. The rest of them stayed at the bar until the Yankees game ended, then they went home. A typical night in church league ball.”

Mary frowned at the picture. “Who was St. Alban's playing that night?”

“This is where it gets interesting.” Galloway grinned. “Reverend Trull's One Way Saints team. I happen to be their newest left fielder.”

Suddenly, she remembered where she'd seen him. At church last night, sitting toward the front, along with some other broad-shouldered young men. “You were there last night, at the church service, weren't you?”

His brows lifted. “How do you know?”

“I was there, too. The governor called me yesterday and I booked it down here in time for the Wednesday night prayer meeting.”

“Can I ask why the governor is so interested in this one particular crime? Is she a friend of Taylor's family?”

Mary wondered what she should tell him—she wasn't sure how much of her agenda Ann Chandler wanted known. “The governor's concerned about the number of crimes against gay people in this state. Since that Trull video went viral, businesses are starting to look elsewhere to expand, simply because they fear their gay employees won't be safe.”

“They sure as hell wouldn't be safe around here,” said Galloway.

“Do you think Reverend Trull has anything to do with that?”

“I think Reverend Trull has a lot to do with that, Ms. Crow. I grew up Catholic, thought I'd heard every weird interpretation of Christianity on the planet. But this guy spins it in ways that would make Jesus blush.”

“What's this Warriors for Christ group?” asked Mary. “They mentioned it last night at church.”

“From what I can gather, they're God's own shock troops of mercy. Anything bad happens—a flood or a tornado or a blizzard—they load up this van and take food and medical supplies. You're supposed to be able to drop everything and leave at a moment's notice.”

“What about people who have jobs?”

“They need to have jobs they can leave,” said Galloway. “It's a pretty elite group.”

“So you don't think there's a connection between them and Bryan Taylor?”

Galloway shook his head. “The demographic's wrong. The Warriors are older—men and women established enough in their careers that they can take time off, or retirees with nothing but time on their hands. The baseball team's more likely to hide a killer.”

“Tell me about that,” said Mary.

“They're young, full-of-fire guys who played in high school and probably could have played in college, if they'd been smart enough to get in. They hunt, fish, distrust strangers, and—”

“Hate gays?” Mary interrupted.

Galloway studied his orange Jarritos bottle. “Let's just say a gay person would not be welcome on their team. Whether or not Reverend Trull spurred one of them to kill Bryan Taylor is still up for grabs.”

Mary realized Galloway had just returned her to the gray area of law that Ann Chandler considered black-and-white: whether a preacher who advocated action against a particular group could be held responsible when and if one of his flock took matters into their own hands. She reached for the thick file that lay on Galloway's desk. “Would you mind going over this with me?”

“I'll get you a soda and tell you everything I know,” he said. “I've got nothing to do until the baseball game tonight.”

Nine

That the poison ivy
was payback for the day before did not surprise Chase; Gudger's favorite means of discipline usually involved scrubbing or painting or picking bugs off his tomato plants. What gave him pause was the enormity of the task. The poison ivy draped kudzu-like over Gudger's back fence for half the length of a football field, seemingly sending out even more hungry tendrils as he stood there looking at it. All morning he'd worked, yet he'd only cleared about a yard of growth. Now the sun was high and blistering; sweat stung Chase's eyes as mosquitoes whined around his ears. When he stepped back and looked at what he'd accomplished, he realized that it would probably take him the rest of the summer to grub out this fence.

Mindful of the sticky poisonous sap that covered his gloves, he pulled them off finger-by-finger, then took off his shirt. As the breeze cooled his sweat-soaked back, he sat down in the shade of a non-ivy-contaminated tree. All morning he'd kept an eye on Gudger, or at least on Gudger's car. He'd decided if it ever left the driveway, Chase was heading for the other end of the fence to get his backpack and Mary Crow's card. But Gudger, apparently, had no travel plans. Suzie Q just sat like a big black beetle, baking in the sun.

He stared at the car, remembering the night Sam didn't come home. They'd started worrying when Jay Leno went off—his mother pacing in front of the windows, Gudger first calling Sam's cell phone, then his cop buddy Crump, then making an official report to the police. Hours later the cops had called back on the landline, saying they'd found Gudger's car but not a trace of Sam. They'd brought the car back, after the forensic team had gone over it. For days afterward his mother had gone out and sat in it, touching the steering wheel, stroking the upholstery, as if Suzie Q might be coaxed into telling what had happened.

“I bet the car knows,” Chase whispered, staring as the heat shimmered from its black roof.

“Knows what?” the voice came over his shoulder, out of nowhere. Chase jumped, turned. Gudger stood there, dressed in khaki pants and a white polo shirt, Taser hanging from his belt. “Are you talking to yourself now, Olive Oyl?”

“Uh-huh.” He'd learned it went better if he just agreed with Gudger, regardless of whatever stupid thing he said.

“Well, yourself better tell you to get back to work.” Gudger tossed him an apple and a can of Coke. “I've got to go to the hardware store. When I get back, I'd better see a lot more fence cleared than I'm seeing now.”

“Yes sir.” Chase lowered his head, trying to hide his excitement. The hardware store was ten minutes away! Gudger would be gone long enough for him to get that backpack!

He gulped the Coke, watching as Gudger walked down to the car. Suzie Q's motor roared to life as her brake lights came on. A moment later, she and Gudger rolled down the driveway. Chase waited until they turned down Kedron Road, then leapt to his feet. Ten minutes to the hardware store, ten minutes in there, then ten minutes back. He'd have half an hour to find the backpack, get the card, and call Mary Crow.

He raced along the fence line, ignoring the branches of poison ivy that slapped against his bare chest. The back of Gudger's house came into view, then the stacked up remnants of the swimming pool. Finally, he reached the toolshed. The clothes he'd taken off the night before still lay in a pile. For an instant his cheeks flamed as he wondered if Gudger had truly posted those pictures of him on YouTube. Then he shrugged it off; nobody would laugh at him until school started in August. Right now all he wanted was to find that backpack.

He slowed, retracing his steps, searching the deep green underbrush that crowded up from Mrs. Carver's back yard. He remembered dropping the backpack close to the fence, near a fallen tree, but he couldn't remember exactly where. Walking slowly, he searched the thicket all the way to the end of the fence without seeing a thing. A moment of panic gripped him—had Gudger found his backpack? Did he now have his EVEDINSE files?
Please no
, he prayed.
Please anything but that.

He took a deep breath and turned to retrace his steps again. Now he was going in the same direction as he had yesterday—maybe that would make it easier to find. Inching along the fence line, he peered into the underbrush. He saw a squirrel dart through the leaves, a mottled rock that could have been a snapping turtle, then he saw something shining through the branches of a bush. He hurried toward it. It was his backpack! His dad's old blue carabiner clip glinted in the dappled sunlight.

He leaned over the fence, pulled the thing to him. Cradling it like a football, he raced for the house. It had taken him far longer to find the backpack than he could have imagined. Gudger would be coming home any minute. He ran past the toolshed, over the ground still wet from the slaughtered swimming pool, across the patio, and into the house. He headed straight for his room, throwing his backpack on the floor. He held his breath as he unzipped it. To his great relief, his EVEDINSE file lay undisturbed, along with Mary Crow's business card. He grabbed the card, stashed the backpack on the floor of his closet, and raced for the den. He had only moments now to reach Mary Crow before Gudger got home.

He glanced out the window, to make sure no black car was rumbling up the driveway. All he saw was the white fence that surrounded Gudger's front yard, and two small goldfinches pecking at the bird feeder his mother had put out. He hurried to the phone, dialed the number, awkward with the process of sticking his finger in seven different little holes and letting them spin. The phone seemed to work okay, though. After a few clicks, Mary Crow's number began to ring. He turned toward the window to watch for Gudger when his heart sank. Suzie Q's chrome grille glittered like a menacing smile as the car slowly rolled up the driveway.

“Answer,” he whispered, his legs beginning to tremble. “Answer now!”

The phone rang again. He ducked to the floor as Gudger drove past the house and pulled the car into the garage. In just a minute he would be inside the house.

“Please,” he cried, begging now. “At least let your answering machine pick up!”

The growl of Suzie Q's engine stopped. He heard her door open. He was just about to put the heavy black receiver back in the cradle when a voice said
hello
. Not an answering machine, but a real person.

“Miss Crow?” he gasped, fighting tears.

“Yes?” She sounded puzzled, as if she didn't recognize him.

“This is Chase Buchanan, from yesterday?” He hopped on one leg as he watched Gudger get out of the car.

“Well, hi, Chase. How are you doing?”

“Miss Crow, my sister Sam called last night!”

“That's great!” Mary replied. “I told you she would.”

“No!” he cried, breathless. “You don't understand. She called on Gudger's landline. She's in trouble! She needs help!”

“Did you tell your mother? Call the police?” asked Mary.

“No, Gudger came in and grabbed the phone out of my hand.” He looked out the window. Gudger was heading straight for the back door. “I gotta go. Please call the cops for me—its Sam's only chance!”

Before she could answer, the little boy had hung up, his voice replaced by a dial tone. Mary clicked off her cell phone, ashamed that the child had not crossed her mind all morning.

“Everything okay?” Galloway asked softly from behind his desk.

“I don't know,” she replied. “This weird little kid came to my office yesterday—said he'd hitchhiked up to Asheville on a peach truck. He claimed his stepfather had sold his sister and wanted to hire me to find her. He's from this county—you may have heard of the case.”

“What's the name?” asked Galloway.

“Buchanan. The kid's name is Chase, he calls his sister Sam.”

“Samantha Buchanan,” said Galloway. “She was the big story before Reverend Trull stole the show.”

“So what's the deal?”

“She vanished on her way home from babysitting. They found her car over on Jackson Highway—lights on, motor running, purse and wallet intact. Everything intact except Samantha, who wasn't there at all.”

“Do they have any leads?”

“I don't know … I came on board here after that happened.” His blue eyes flickered toward his open door. “Hey, Crump,” he called to someone out in the hall.

“Yeah?” A tall man with graying hair stuck his head in the door. A sergeant's chevron decorated the sleeve of his uniform.

“Come tell this nice lady from the governor's office what you know about Samantha Buchanan.”

Crump stepped inside the office and basically repeated the same story Galloway had told her. “We're pretty sure she met up with a boyfriend,” he added. “Nothing else makes sense.”

“That's not what her little brother thinks,” said Mary, relating what Chase had told her. Crump listened, then shook his head.

“That little Buchanan punk is probably one of the reasons his sister ran away. The kid's a nut case.”

“Oh?” Mary thought of the hungry little boy who'd inhaled a half-pound hamburger before she'd gotten her napkin in her lap.

“Yeah. He used to call in a couple of times a week. One day it would be a robber trying to break in the house, a few days later it would be the people next door, cooking ice. He had some kind of old Civil War pistol—it's a miracle he didn't shoot himself in the ass.”

“Did you respond?” asked Mary.

“Every time—Ralph Gudger would usually lead the charge. He was dating the boy's mother and thought maybe some of his old collars were harassing the kids, but that never materialized. Then, after Gudger married the kid's mother, the calls stopped.”

“Did you know the boy's terrified of Gudger?”

“Wouldn't surprise me,” said Crump. “Gudger always said the kid needed to man up—I imagine he's trying to make that happen.”

“This Gudger sounds like a real piece of work,” said Mary, remembering how the boy had huddled in her car, quivering like some animal caught in a trap.

Crump nodded. “Gudger's tough. I've known him for years. He's an ex-army MP, a no-shit kind of guy. Life with him was probably too tough for the girl. The boy'll likely run away, too, if he ever grows the nuts to do it. You know how these blended families are.”

Mary winced at the memory of her own failed blended family. Yeah, she knew how exactly how those families were.

“You playing ball tonight?” Crump turned his attention to Gallo-
way.

“Right field for the Saints,” said Galloway. “Come on out and cheer for me.”

“No thanks,” said Crump. “I've worked security for that durn church for the last five nights. I'm parking my ass and a six pack in front of TV tonight and watching a real game. No pussy church league for me.”

Galloway lifted a hand. “I hear you, brother. Thanks for stopping by.”

As Crump ambled out the door, the new detective turned back to Mary. “So how come this Buchanan kid's gotten under your skin? I thought you were the governor's hired gun.”

“I don't know—you've got to admire any eleven-year-old who hitches to Asheville to hire a lawyer to nail his stepfather. It sounds to me like he's got plenty of moxie already.”

Galloway laughed. “Tell you what—let's make a deal. I'll check out this Gudger's phone records if you'll come cheer me on at the baseball game.”

She looked at him as if he'd gone crazy. “You want me to cheer for you and the One Way Saints?”

“It's not just my fragile male ego,” he said. “I need better cover. I've been knee-deep in Trull's church for three weeks, solo. They're going to start thinking
I'm
gay if I don't show up with a girl at some point.”

“So you want me to be your beard?”

“You could call it that.”

Her first inclination was to tell him she had a busy evening of washing her hair planned. But then she realized Victor Galloway was her only inroad into what was really going on at Trull's church. It would be nice to report back to Ann Chandler with some inside information.

“Okay.” Mary smiled. “Where do I go?”

“Armory Park, diamond two. Just sit in the One Way bleachers and cheer whenever I do something right.”