The Gone Dead Train (36 page)

“We must never forget the past when, for one brief moment, God turned his back on his people. The devil had his way. Dr. King was murdered right here in our city. My brother Robert paid with his life because he dared to stand up for what he believed. Many of us have worked since that time to defeat that kind of evil and prove the devil hasn't won.”

Billy opened the manuscript and flipped to the second page:
God turned his back on his people. The devil had his way . . 
. Garrett's words struck him like juice off a frayed electrical cord. Garrett had lifted words straight out of the introduction.

Son of a bitch. Garrett did it. He killed Augie and stole the manuscript
.

Billy walked around to the car door, hands shaking so badly he could hardly hold on to the pillowcase and manuscript as he laid them on the car seat. He didn't need props to set off Garrett. He had the truth. His vision tunneled down to Garrett's face as he walked through the crowd to the podium.

“The residents of Robert House thank you,” Garrett was saying, “and the museum thanks you. We'll now gather in the west garden for our ground-breaking ceremony. After last night's rain, that should be easy work, even for us old folks.”

Everyone laughed politely.

“The culinary students have prepared lunch—”

“Stop there,” Billy said, standing a few feet in front of Garrett. “I have a question.” He waited a moment until he had people's attention. “Did Augie Poston beg for his life before you crushed his skull or did you kill him with the first blow?”

The woman beside him gasped. Others shrank away as if he were a felon with a knife. The bodyguards sprang down the steps to flank Garrett.

Garrett's reaction was immediate. His head dropped forward, his fingers wrapped the edge of the podium for support. Then his head came up slowly, eyes narrowed like the slits of a cottonmouth. He wasn't done.

“Do
not
interrupt me,” Garrett said, power rising in his voice.

Billy held up his hand. “Sir, you've spoken lines from Walker Pryce's unpublished manuscript, a man who nearly died in a house fire yesterday. Pryce allowed only one person to read that manuscript. That was Augie Poston. Poston was murdered and the manuscript stolen from his home. I'm going to prove that you not only have that manuscript, but that you killed Augie Poston.”

Garrett stabbed a finger at Billy. “Detective Able, according to the police, you're the number-one suspect for Poston's murder. You are a renegade cop, possibly delusional, most likely dangerous. Whatever you think you're going to do, it will be done from a jail cell. I'll make sure of that. My friends and I have seen all we want to see of you today. Leave now. If you refuse, I will have you hauled out of here in handcuffs.”

Garrett then swept the crowd with his gaze. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for this unpleasant interruption. I will curtail my speech and ask you to step to the gardens where I will join you shortly.”

He clipped off his mike and churned up the steps with amazing quickness, disappearing through the doors.

Behind Billy, Jasmine Cooper and her cameraman were elbowing their way toward him. He was pissed off, realizing too late the mistake he'd made. Only part of the crowd heard his accusation, but because Garrett had a mike, everyone heard what he had to say, including the TV cameras. Jasmine would verify with Middlebrook the accusation Garrett had made. The chief would have no choice but to confirm it. Within hours, every local station would name Billy Able, former detective for the MPD homicide squad, as a person of interest in Augie's murder. He'd dug himself a deep, damned hole. Middlebrook was going to be furious over this.

Jasmine stuck the microphone in his face. “Detective Able, how do you respond to the allegation that you're the prime suspect in the Poston murder case?”

The camera lens stared at him from behind Jasmine's shoulder.

“No comment,” he said, and started for the car.

D
etective, Detective.” Jasmine Cooper's heels clopped on the asphalt behind him.

Billy stayed ahead of her, keeping his stride regular so he wouldn't appear hurried on camera. He could walk like Mother Teresa and Middlebrook was still going to be all over him when this footage hit the news. Dunsford must have told Garrett he was their primary suspect. Or Garrett made the story up on the spot. The old guy could have done it. He was that good on his feet.

The phone in his pocket vibrated. Probably Frankie. He'd let it go while the camera was trained on him. He got in the car and cranked the engine. Jasmine stood with the cameraman thirty feet away, waiting. She wanted a cutaway shot—guilty cop fleeing the showdown.
Not this time, lady
.

He rested his hands on the steering wheel then waved to her. Jasmine got the message. She made a beeline for the building to go after Garrett.

He took out his mobile and checked the call.

He texted Frankie to meet him at The MED, then drove out of the parking lot.

I
appreciate you coming so quickly, Detective,” Nurse Teri said. She was blond, pretty, dressed in blue scrubs, and had that pleasant but no-nonsense air he admired in the ICU nurses. They walked past several glass-wrapped rooms.

“The doctor inserted a catheter through his skull to monitor intracranial pressure,” she said. “Mr. Pryce is lucid, but he might go in and out while you're talking.” She fixed him with a steady gaze. “He's in serious condition. I realize you're here on a police matter, but don't press him.”

They entered the room. Walker Pryce looked rough—head shaved, face swollen, eyelids bruised, IV tubing draped over the bed rails and into both arms. Compression boots pumped away, forcing the blood in his legs to circulate. The blood pressure monitor and infusion pumps beeped. The catheter sticking out of Pryce's head looked like a meat thermometer.

Billy knew about brain trauma—bodies thrown through windshields, heads cracked open on concrete. The brain swells and the skull cuts off blood and oxygen. If the pressure becomes too great, a surgeon has to remove a chunk of skull to let the brain expand. Some survive it, some don't.

He felt bad for Pryce, but he hadn't come to the ICU to hold the man's hand. He would keep it simple, a couple of questions.

The nurse moved to the bedside to adjust the saline drip. Pryce stirred and looked around. It took a few moments for him to realize Billy was standing at the foot of the bed.

“Hey, Detective.”

“Hey, Pryce. You look like shit.”

Pryce tried to grin.

“Need some aspirin?” he asked.

“More like a martini.”

Billy took a breath to let his anger with Garrett recede and tried to look reassuring. “You're going to beat this. In the meantime, I'm going to catch who did this and kick the crap out of them. Are you up for a couple of questions?”

“Sure.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Pryce frowned, his eyes fixed on a spot near the window. “Is the house gone?”

The house had been gutted. A man this sick didn't need to hear that news. “I'll look into it and let you know.”

Pryce swallowed. “There's a draft of my manuscript in the Cloud.”

“Great. Then it's safe. Listen. Someone called you yesterday as I was leaving. Do you remember?”

Nurse Teri cleared her throat.
Ease off
.

“My book comes first,” Pryce said. “That's why I called you here.”

“What about it?”

“You have to promise you'll get my manuscript published if I don't make it. Bird-dog the project until it's in print.”

“You have Roxanne to handle that.”

Pryce was watching him. “You're thinking I manipulate people. Roxanne, Augie. I admit it. But this book's important. It's my job to expose the bad guys whatever it takes. I won't apologize for that.”

Pryce looked at the nurse. “Would you step out a moment?”

“Ten minutes,” she said. She gave Billy a dark look and left.

“Roxanne can't handle it. Swear you'll get the book out, or this conversation is over.” Pryce was slurring. One pupil was more dilated than the other and the whites of his eyes were blood-red.

Billy knew this might be his last chance to get information. If Pryce needed help with the book, he'd ask Freeman to step in. “All right, I swear. I'll do it for Augie if for no other reason.”

“Deal. My password is . . .” Pryce looked puzzled. “Umm. My name with my birthday backward.”

Billy took out his memo book and recorded it. “Got it. Do you remember who did this?”

“I remember a knock at the door.”

“Have you talked to Dunsford?”

“Who?”

Billy reminded himself to keep it simple. “The detective in charge of Augie's case is named Dunsford. He may have stopped by to talk to you.”

“Dunsford. Oh, got it. No, I'll put him off. What I'm about to tell you isn't recorded anywhere, so get this down.”

Nurse Teri stuck her head in the door. “Gentlemen, Mr. Pryce needs his rest.”

Pryce waved her off. “Most of the Department of Justice documents I've read were redacted. I had pieces, but not the whole story. Then Augie brought over that surveillance photo with the agent talking to the kid. The kid's face was familiar. I pulled a file and went back through FBI reports related to an incident outside of Greenwood, Mississippi. The reports indicated an agent had screwed up badly. It didn't say how.”

Pryce pointed to the water glass. Billy gave him a sip through a straw.

“Thanks. You getting this down? I said that already, right?” He swallowed. “This involved an FBI agent named Grant, the guy in the picture, one of his informants, and an agent in Mississippi who had infiltrated the KKK. Grant's informant had information on a voter-registration drive about to take place in Greenwood. He had the names of workers, meeting places, and how funds were to be distributed. In exchange, this informant wanted extra protection for one person. Grant was eager to get his hands on specifics, so he agreed.”

Billy stopped writing.
God almighty
. He had an idea of where this was going but didn't want to interrupt.

“The informant told Grant that a civil rights worker from Memphis was to meet with Oswell Carley, a black leader in Mississippi, a very militant dude. The FBI and the KKK had been trying to track Carley, but he'd managed to stay out of sight most of the time.

“The meeting was to take place at night at an abandoned cotton barn off Highway 82. The Memphis guy was delivering nine hundred dollars to fund the ground game for the registration. You know what I mean. They paid people to knock on doors, for transportation and the occasional bottle of whiskey.”

“Hold on,” Billy said, writing.

“Would you read some of that back?” Pryce asked. “I lost my place.” He listened as Billy read, and nodded. “Right, so Grant told the Mississippi agent about the meeting and that he should watch for trouble. Grant didn't know the Klan had become suspicious of the agent. This guy was looking for a way to prop up his cover. You know, maintain his credibility.

“The Klan wanted to get their hands on Carley, so the agent blabbed about the meeting at the cotton barn. He thought they would beat Carley up, scare him out of the state. He assumed it would be over and done with before the Memphis guy arrived. The agent asked to be posted as lookout on the highway so he could wave the Memphis guy off if he showed up early. But it all went to hell. The Memphis guy was already at the barn with Carley when the Klan got there.”

Billy stopped writing. He knew what was coming next. “The Mississippi agent was standing on the highway while the Klan was at the barn killing Robert Garrett.”

Pryce gave him a lopsided smile. “I figured you'd get it. The Klan hated Garrett even more than Carley, because they saw him as a traitor to the white race. When they found Robert with Carley, they shot him. The agent never learned what happened to the body. They hauled Carley a couple of miles away and lynched him. No one was prosecuted for the lynching, and the two murders were never connected.”

Pryce closed his eyes. “Hang on,” he slurred.

Billy was acutely aware the nurse would throw him out at any minute. He waited for Pryce to open his eyes before he spoke.

“When Augie showed you the photo, he had no idea the kid was significant,” Billy said. “But you knew it was a young Sid Garrett talking with an FBI agent.”

“That's right. I kept a file on the Garrett disappearance. The papers ran several photos of Robert posing with his kid brother, Sid. The face didn't click with me right away, but when it did, I realized it had been Sid who demanded special protection for someone. He was exchanging information because he was afraid for Robert's safety. Poor kid, the whole thing backfired.”

Pryce continued. “I called Garrett a couple of days after Augie died and told him I had a photo of him as a teenager talking with his FBI handler. I wanted an interview. Pure arrogance on my part. He called when you were there to say he was coming over. I don't remember what happened, only the knock at the door.”

“I saw Augie and Garrett talking at the mortuary,” Billy said. “Augie had a piece of paper in his hand. Garrett looked upset. I assumed they were discussing the estimate for Red and Little Man's funeral. Augie must have shown Garrett the photo. Later that night, Garrett must have gone to Augie's apartment and killed him. He tore the place up looking for the photo.”

Pryce nodded. He made a grunting noise, trying to clear his throat to speak. The blood pressure monitor sounded an alarm. He sighed, closed his eyes.