Killerfind (5 page)

“Oh, God,” Rhetta said. She wasn’t laughing. She
stopped sifting to snatch the flashlight and shine it into the hole.

“What is it?” Ricky scooped another handful of dirt
before she saw it. “Oh, no!”

They both stood and gaped. A gnarly finger bone
wearing a heavy onyx ring protruded through the crumbly dirt.

“Can that be…?” Ricky said.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a hand.” Rhetta bent over the
hole again.

Ricky backed away. “Whose is it?”

“I don’t know, but whoever belongs to it may still
be connected to it, so I think we need to call the cops,” Rhetta said, turning
and heading for the doorway.

Ricky dropped the metal detector and scrambled after
her. “I’m coming with you. I don’t want to be alone with that hand. Or whatever
is attached to it.”

When they reached the doorway, both women stopped
and leaned against the outside of the barn. Rhetta welcomed the heat and
brightness of the sun and the warmth of the barn’s wood siding.

“I think we may have just discovered where Malcom
Griffith has been all these years,” Rhetta said.

“What? Why do you say that?” Ricky clutched her
stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.” With that, she swiveled around and
upchucked against the barn.

Rhetta clutched her own stomach. “I’m a sympathetic
puker,” she mumbled and began inhaling deep breaths until the urge subsided.
“Are you okay?” she asked Ricky when her own nausea passed.

Ricky gulped, then held up her hand and nodded.

Rhetta pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed
the sheriff’s office. As she dialed, she whispered, “I saw two gold initials on
that black ring—M and G.”

orty
minutes later, Rhetta
remained outside but watched as the deputy strode toward what she knew to be a
gruesome discovery. The lone officer who responded to the call told her they’d
probably found the remains of a dead cow and scoffed when she insisted he’d
best take a look.

“I don’t know of any cows who wear initial rings,”
she whispered to Ricky. “In fact, I don’t know of any cows who wear any jewelry
at all.” Ricky choked back a laugh. “Unless you count ear tags.” Both women
began to suffer hysterical giggles.
Not appropriate
, thought Rhetta.
I
better suck it up and shut up.

When the deputy reached the excavation, he squatted,
and pulled out a ballpoint pen, which he used to prod the dirt. He shot up and
slapped at the transmitter on his shoulder. Rhetta clearly heard his shrill
voice calling in his location and requesting the coroner. She sighed and walked
over to a still-trembling Ricky, who was puffing away at her third cigarette as
she leaned against the barn. Rhetta could barely resist jerking the cigarette
away from her friend and sucking until the nicotine made her head spin. This
barn discovery was setting her resolve to quit smoking back a significant
number of notches.

“I need to call Randolph.” Rhetta resisted the
cigarette craving, and pulled out her cell phone. She slid her thumb across the
first name on her favorites list.

Her husband answered on the third ring. Before he
could even say “Hello,” Rhetta blurted, “Randolph, Ricky and I just found a
body, and I believe it’s Malcom Griffith.”

“I think my cell phone is acting up,” Randolph said.
“I could’ve sworn you said you just found a body. And what was that about
Malcom Griffith?”

“The phone isn’t acting up. Ricky and I found a
body, or at least a hand, so far, and I strongly suspect it belongs to Malcom
Griffith. Can you come out here? We’re at the barn where we got the Z28. While
we’re waiting for the coroner, this nice officer is going to take my
statement.” Rhetta nodded at the deputy who had reached her side. The
sandy-haired, crew-cut-sporting deputy sheriff reached into a breast pocket and
pulled out a small spiral flip notebook, tapping it against his wrist as he
waited for her to get off the phone.

Randolph let out a long sigh. “Oh, God, Rhetta. What
did you do now?”

* * *

Twenty
minutes later, Randolph’s three-quarter-ton Ford pickup roared into the
driveway and screeched to a stop in a dust storm. The powdery clay swirled and
glued itself to the waxed finish of the new bronze colored tuck that Rhetta
named the Artmobile II. The first Artmobile, an older model pickup, had been a
total loss when Randolph was run off the road earlier in the year. Randolph
must’ve left home immediately and more than moderately exceeded the speed limit
to get there so quickly. Their five-acre farmette sat on a gravel road on the other
side of the county, nearly 25 miles away.

The coroner’s dark blue van pulled in behind
Randolph, then barreled around him and down to the barn. It was followed by a
black-and-white county sheriff’s sedan, plus a tan Chevy Suburban with the
Missouri Highway Patrol logo on the door.

“Probably all of the Major Case Squad has been
called out,” Randolph said, and began coughing as the dust engulfed them from
all the vehicles. Rhetta began wheezing, so she trotted away from the cluster
of cars and gulped fresh air. Her wheezing subsided.

Randolph followed her, and cleared his throat. “What
on earth made you come out here? And how did you find a body?” Randolph put his
arm around Rhetta’s shoulders. “Are you okay?”

“I’m all right.” She glanced at Ricky who was
talking animatedly on her cell phone. “Ricky must be calling Jeremy. This is
his development, and actually, I’m not sure if he still owns the barn or not.
Ricky told me Jeremy sold it to a man in Arkansas.”

Before Rhetta could fill Randolph in on the discovery,
she heard Ricky’s voice rise. “Jeremy, what the heck do you think? That we
wanted to find a body? Get a grip!” Ricky ended her conversation and thrust the
phone into her pocket. She strode to Rhetta and Randolph, muttering under her
breath. “Like we deliberately found a body to sabotage his development.”

Before Rhetta could explain to Randolph, they were
again interrupted, this time by the deputy who had initially interviewed
Rhetta. “Mrs. McCarter, I’ll need you and Ms. Lane to go by the sheriff’s office
in Jackson sometime tomorrow morning to sign the statement.” It wasn’t a
request. “Besides the obvious issue of the remains, we received a complaint
call from the property owner.” He glanced at his notebook. “Mr. Jeremy Spears.
Apparently someone called him and told him there were trespassers here.” He
glanced from Rhetta to Ricky.

“I’m dating Mr. Spears, and have been out here
before. In fact, the old Z28 I’m working on for Mrs. McCarter”—Ricky jerked her
thumb toward Rhetta—“came from this barn. I found it very strange that the barn
was locked, so I climbed in and opened the door.” Ricky took a final drag on
her cigarette, then stubbed it out on the ground. She reached down and recovered
the butt and held it in her hand. “I knew the barn was empty. We just wanted to
look around.”

Ricky went on to explain what had turned up in the
Z28. The deputy scribbled furiously.

Randolph shook his head. “I can’t believe it. You
two found a body under that Z28.”

The deputy jotted in the notebook then flipped it
closed. “The area here will be blocked off until the Major Case Squad can bring
in a forensic pathologist to uncover the remains. This barn is a crime scene.
No one can go in or out until it’s released.” Deputies were already stringing
yellow crime scene tape around the barn and across the opening Ricky had
crawled through. They used the tape to impose a makeshift barricade across the
driveway.

Ricky motioned to the deputy, who turned his
attention to her and re-opened his notebook, ready to take down anything she
said. “When we called the sheriff’s office earlier today to let them know we
found Malcom Griffith’s wallet in the Z28, the officer we spoke to didn’t seem
too impressed. In fact he said they weren’t going to have anyone pick up the
stuff until the morning.”

Without answering her, the deputy tucked the
notebook away, slapped his shoulder and stepped back. But not before they heard
him say, “I’ll be 10-20 in Gordonville at Fast Lane Muscle Cars, recovering
evidence.” He turned to Ricky. “Please lead the way, Ms. Lane. We’re all going
to your garage. That stuff you found in that car just might be murder
evidence.”

he phone
call with
Jeremy
must’ve helped Ricky return to feeling like her spikey old self. When Rhetta
asked her if she wanted to ride with them in the Artmobile, she declined, and
instead insisted on driving Rhetta’s Trailblazer to her shop. Rhetta hugged
Ricky before climbing into the truck with Randolph. They pulled onto the
highway behind Ricky, bringing up the tail end of the mini-caravan heading to
Fast Lane.

When they were on the county road, Randolph glanced
at his wife. “Why did you two go out there? Were you thinking you could do a
little investigating?”

“I had no intention of investigating, as you put it.
I only thought we might find more clues, and be able to turn everything over to
the police, since they were supposed to come out tomorrow. I’m more than
willing to let them handle it. I sure don’t know anything about solving a cold
murder case, or any other murder case for that matter.” She pulled down the
visor mirror to check her hair. Just as she feared, her short spikes had
flattened against her head and were covered with a halo of clay dust. She shook
her head and watched the dust cascade to the top of the dash. She also sported
a streak of dirt across her left cheek. At least she hoped it was dirt, and not
a crayon of dried cowpile. All the dust had made her eyes water, so she removed
her contact lenses. She stared at her eyes in the mirror, barely distinguishing
where green ended and bloodshot began. Groping into the back seat, she produced
the tissue box Randolph kept. She snatched a handful and spit-wiped her cheek.

Randolph reached into the console and produced a
packet of wet wipes. He handed her one of the foil wraps. “Here, this may work
better.”

She grinned.

*
* *

Rhetta
and Randolph edged in the crowded driveway at Fast Lane and parked behind a Cape
Girardeau Sheriff’s sedan. Although several police cars had crammed into the
short drive, there was no sign of the Highway Patrol SUV. When they entered
Ricky’s shop, they spotted her perched on her stool watching a crime scene
technician meticulously bag the wallet, sunglasses and the wrench. Two other
deputies were scrutinizing the Z28.

“Your car’s going to the lab,” said Ricky, holding
her hands up in surrender. “I explained everything to that nice deputy over
there.” She jutted her chin toward the officer who was dusting the car for
prints. “There probably isn’t much left of this car to process, because I’ve
sanded and cleaned so much of it, but oh, no, they’re going to gather and bag
up all the pieces.” She hopped down from the stool and stood in front of the
car’s original small block 350 engine and turbo transmission, and the rear
bumper cover that lay against the wall.

“Even this stuff.” She pointed to the pile of parts.
“They’re going to load all of it up, take it to the lab and go over everything.”

Rhetta glanced at Randolph. “I guess that puts my
Z28 on hold for a good long time.” She took Ricky’s place on the stool and
swiveled back and forth.

“Sergeant,” Randolph said as he walked over to the
deputy. “I understand you fellas have a job to do, but since my wife and I have
a lot of money tied up in this car, we’d like to have an itemized receipt of
all the pieces you take. That way we can match up everything upon its return.”

The deputy nodded, signed off on the evidence sheet
the tech presented, then watched as the tech lugged an armload of evidence bags
to his car before answering Randolph. “Judge McCarter, you know as well as I
do, you may not get this car back for a very long time.” He withdrew a pad of
forms from a sheaf of papers he’d placed on the workbench and began filling one
in. “Maybe never, if the body found has anything to do with this car and
there’s a trial.”

Rhetta pointed to all the bags as they left and
said, “That pile of bags is my car?”

Ricky patted her arm. “Don’t worry, we’ll put it all
back together.”

Rhetta’s stomach knotted, as though she’d just taken
a kick to her gut. Even though at first, she’d been reluctantly enthusiastic
about Cami’s replacement, the thought that this Z28 was now probably lost to
her made a tear escape. She snuffled to mask it. “Dang allergies.” She grabbed
a paper towel on Ricky’s workbench and blew her nose. She mumbled into the
towel, and cleared her throat. Randolph put an arm around her shoulders.

The deputy called out to Ricky. “Ms. Lane, I’ll need
your help getting me the serial numbers and part numbers on the larger parts
for my compilation.” He tapped the pen against the clipboard and nodded toward
Randolph. “Let’s start with the Vehicle Identification Number.” The deputy
wiped his brow with a paper towel. “This could take a while.” They trudged
toward the car. Randolph followed them.

“Can I offer you a bottle of water?” Ricky asked.
When the deputy nodded, she detoured to the refrigerator in the corner, grabbed
a cold bottle of water, and met the officer at the car.

The tech returned and was repacking his satchel.
“How long did you say this car spent in that barn?” He turned to Ricky.

“Close to twenty-five years, I was told,” Ricky
said.

“But the man they think was under the car has been
missing fifteen years?”

Ricky nodded.

The tech shook his head. “Unbelievable. I’m heading
over to the barn as soon as I finish up here. This is the strangest case I’ve
ever been called to work.” He headed for the door. “We don’t get many murders
here in Cape County, especially not cold cases. This one could take a long,
long time.”

Rhetta’s nicotine craving skyrocketed.