The Telltale Tempest
Don McGraw
Copyright 2011
Smashwords Edition
Printed and bound in China. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical
means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer,
who may quote brief passages in review.
Library of Congress Control Number: 201047933168
ISBN-13: 978-1-933549-79-9
ISBN-10: 1-933549-79-8
Copyright@2010 Don McGraw
Contact Don McGraw directly;
Blog: Willhogarth.blogspot.com
Twitter:@whogarth
FIVE STARS! “I loved The Telltale Tempest! I just uploaded Sins of a Nation—can’t wait to get started.”
FIVE STARS! “It’s been years since I’ve enjoyed a book this much.”
FIVE STARS! “It’s nice to find a writer that doesn’t insult your intelligence with a worn out story line and clichés. I’m entertained and educated all at once. Great book.”
FIVE STARS! “Will Hogarth is one of us. Great character you can really relate to.”
FIVE STARS! “I read this book in one day. That’s a first for me. Enough said!”
FIVE STARS! “My only complaint; I lost a lot of sleep the last two nights. Great read.”
FIVE STARS! “Classic McGraw novel—characters you love and lots of twists and turns. Hurry up and write another Will Hogarth book.”
FIVE STARS! “I found my favorite new character in Will Hogarth. Love the first person narrative. Excellent book.”
Chapter 1
There are some men that deserve to die.
Robert Fielding figured Judge Robinson to be one of those men. And now there he lay—dead as dead can be, sprawled out on his side like a sprinter in perpetual motion. One hand forward, one behind, reaching out for something—or someone—but alas—the shooter always wins.
Robert crouched down and placed the back of his hand on the judge’s cold white face. Lifeless eyes stared back at him. There’s a painful innocence in dead eyes, a child-like helplessness that cries out for redemption. Robert Fielding wasn’t moved. He was glad to see him dead. There would be no offer of eternal forgiveness for the rich white judge, the man that threw him away like yesterday’s news. Fifteen years for a petty B&E. Sure there had been prior run-ins—but the sentence was absurd. Men of color always got the max—at least that’s what they preached on the inside. It all worked out anyway—sent up for fifteen—out in three—prison crowding is a beautiful thing.
Robert rose up and shoved his gun beneath the beltline at the small of his back. He found himself captivated by the judge’s vast bounty of lavish furnishings, oriental rugs, and Baroque-era paintings. His tipsters had listed the details of the estate to the tee. And sure as morning fog on a bayou swamp, the master alarm and surveillance system had been deactivated in time for his arrival. But two out of three ain’t good enough. The most critical detail had been botched—the old man was supposed to be out of town.
Robert had intended to loot the joint and nothing more. Exact a little revenge and put some much needed money in his unemployable pockets, but he had floundered and acted with a vengeful heart, he had violated a bedrock rule of the street: know your source. The very moment his tipsters had mentioned the name of Judge Michael Robinson he had signed on to the heist, gladly shelling out one hundred hard-earned dollars for nothing more than a street address, a list of goods, and an exact time. They had met him in the warehouse district of New Orleans south shore. The exchange had taken mere seconds. He received a sealed envelope through a crack in a tinted sedan window; they accepted their payment and were gone.
Robert looked about the estate’s grand foyer for signs of trouble. His thin muscular, body quivered. Something didn’t feel right. He had mingled with dealers and committed armed heists before but he had never been a part of something like this.
Nothing even close to this.
Robert Fielding had never been a cold blooded killer.
He needed to get out, to cut his losses and get as far from the scene as humanly possible. He spun toward the front entrance—a surveillance camera positioned in a far corner caught his eye. Was he certain it had been deactivated? His quivers gave way to uncontrollable shakes. He studied the camera for a long moment, a quick move right and a sly move left rendered no movement. He was home free. Nothing gained, and a meager loss. Or so he thought.
Robert Fielding took his final steps of freedom through a wrought iron-laden Versailles wood door. He crashed to the ground beneath a heap of blue uniforms, glocks clicking in unison, his face scraping along course pebbled stone. Officers rushed past him and through the open doorway; a thunderous clamor upon their entry—a body discovered—a dead judge. A certain verdict. Somewhere amid the blistering heat of surrounding swamplands a big belly judge slapped his hand and said why’d you do it.
The familiar cold steel of handcuffs locked his arms behind him. A knee to the spine revealed his .22 caliber. The handle found its way sharply to his temple.
Judge and Jury need not apply. This time Robert Fielding was going down for good.
Chapter 2
If you ask young Michael what Daddy does all day I don’t suppose you’d get the same answer twice in a row. My little Ellie, on the other hand, well she’ll stand right up and tell it to you straight. “My Daddy puts bad people in jail.” Pretty intuitive for a three-year-old little princess but the truth is a tad more sophisticated.
The resume’ will show you a solid nine years in a little organization known as the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Quantico trained, DC office, shiny glock and the best darn crime busting training money can buy. The whole nine yards, a dream come true for a Memphis kid born and bred on what may well be the smallest functioning pig farm east of the Mississippi. I was Special Agent William Hogarth, a pretty good cog in a twelve thousand agent wheel. But those days are gone. And to tell you the truth I never look back.
I bounced around a bit the last three years with my final stop in a San Antonio field office. Nice enough spot but not really our style. When I parted ways we moved again. With my Lacey’s blessing we left the metropolitan sprawl and found a nice place deep in Texas Hill Country, positively stunning countryside with a hundred miles of rolling hills and plush valleys. The hills serve as our buffer from the urban rat race. Good for me and Lace and so far even better for Michael and Ellie. We built a two-story log home with large wrap around porches on the Sabinal River and spend lazy summer days floating and kayaking the brisk current. Incredible bonding time for a family I don’t deserve. I’ll keep them all the same.
My time with the Bureau had started with great promise, but had been on a rapid decline to mediocrity for four years. My part in bringing down the man occupying the highest office in the land had taken an ugly turn. The Bureau Director didn’t take too well to some of the less than textbook antics I implemented on the case. But that’s a story for another time. When I discovered that the new Chief Executive had no plans of replacing the Director, I knew I was headed nowhere. I didn’t resign until two years ago but I had mentally checked out a year or two prior.
I gained some notoriety in my big case against the White House itself and I’m not above reminding people of it as a means of marketing myself in my new life. William Hogarth, Criminalist for Hire.
At the moment I found myself slouched down in the driver’s seat of my Chevy Silverado. I don’t hide well. I’ve been a big fellow forever, about 6’ 5” and two-seventy if I watch what I eat. I played lineman in my Memphis State days, even thought I’d take it to the next level for a while, but two trick knees and a mild case of asthma altered that dream. Que se ra.
I’d been watching a 20’ U-Haul rental for more than an hour when two men appeared from a steel grade warehouse and started to fiddle with the lock on the truck gate. I held up my Bushnell’s for a better view. The case I had worked on for six months was about to reach a climax. “Show me the prize boys.” I switched to my digital camera and zoomed in on my targets.
The Bureau calls it “residual loss”; I call it a college fund for a rapidly growing nine-year-old boy and his three-year-old sister. Residual loss is the acceptable failings of a big win. If someone steals a hundred rare paintings and the Bureau recovers ninety-five, the remainder fades into the background and soon doesn’t warrant the resources of the FBI’s limited Art Crime Force. That’s where I step in. With my Bureau connections still intact, I’m alerted to those final five pieces of art and quite a bit of the intel that leads to recovery of the rest. Sounds great, but so far my successes won’t pay tuition for freshman year. Art recovery is an extra paycheck for the Hogarth family, a hobby with a potential upside. It isn’t now, nor do I expect it to ever be, my main source of income.
To date, my recoveries include a ceremonial eagle feather and Butterfly Bustle belonging to the Taos Pueblo, a rare book from the Transylvania University in Lexington, a Springfield Trapdoor rifle housed in the Armory Museum, and a few rare pencil sketches by the late John James Audubon. Today’s find could well render a sum in excess of all of those combined.
Nearly nine years have passed since one-hundred Khmer sculptures disappeared from the eight-hundred-year-old temple of Banteay Chmar in northwest Cambodia, a revered structure commissioned by King Javavarman VII. The sculptures adorned the walls in bas-relief form over a space of thirty-five feet. The reliefs contain paleographic inscriptions that when placed together, as originally intended, tell of a mysterious time in the history of the Cambodian people. To date, ninety-eight have been recovered. The two that are still at large are to be contiguous on the wall. Their absence renders the work indecipherable in a crucial passage of the message.
After years of failure, the Cambodian art world solicited the service of the International Council of Museums; the Council solicited the service of the Bureau and a ninety-eight percent recovery made the opportunity available to me.
Unlike most private works, the sculptures were distinguishable in weight, appearance and material. They were properly registered with ICOM for fast and reliable identification and even had an internet trail of movement from active bounty hunters just like me. I took over about the time the trail went cold. I contacted the last known lead and for a nominal fee collected as many details as I could. Most bounty hunters hold their findings close to the vest. This game is edgy and highly competitive.
The intel told me that the sculptures lingered a while in Charlotte before being moved to Atlanta by a little known band of underworld transporters. The Transporters, as they’re called, are merely street thugs scratching out a buck as launderers of the art world. Sounds sophisticated, but they’re really nothing more than an added layer of handlers to ferret through, and ultimately stall, any would-be bounty hunters. I once ran a stakeout for two weeks in a less than desirable part of Detroit before discovering they had moved the piece two years earlier. I’ve gotten a little smarter along the way.
My Blackberry vibrated as the men pulled two large boxes from the truck. I glanced down at an incoming text message—my Lace at a less than opportune time. I looked long enough to read the words “Big Lead.” As I looked up, the men were headed back into the warehouse. I tossed my camera on the passenger seat and made my move on foot; my glock strapped to my side.
The open truck gate revealed several more brown corrugated boxes—surely they had removed the treasures first, I thought. I passed through the warehouse entrance unnoticed. The boxes they had carried inside were a mere ten feet from my current position and not a soul was around in ten thousand vacant feet of steel and concrete. The boxes were still sealed with packing tape.
Had I finally found the Khmers?
Something was amiss. Where were the Transporters? I raised my gun and pivoted in all directions. The abrupt squeal of tires from the far end of the warehouse shattered the silence. A black sedan streaked by the open doorway in full retreat. And just that quickly they were gone. I had apparently scared them away—and they had left empty handed.
Could it be this easy?
Against all protocol I tore at the lid off the boxes. I sifted through layers of shipping corrugate right down to stone. Patio stone. Nothing more than cheap granite patio stone.
A second squeal of tires brought me to a crouch and a quick pivot, gun raised. The U-Haul rumbled and gurgled to a shaky retreat. The gears engaged and thrust the truck forward. I ran through the doorway and fired two shots at the rear tires. The truck weaved and backfired as it trudged ahead toward the gated rear entrance. I raced to my pickup never taking my eyes off of my target. As the U-Haul passed through the exit the gate began to slowly close. I was in my truck with impressive speed, but my target was well ahead of me. I sped to the gate where I was certain that the mass of my truck would grant an automatic opening; entries had codes, exits were weighted. But not this time—the gate didn’t budge. I’d been duped—the bad guys were gone just like that and there was nothing I could do about it. They’d been one step ahead of me from the start.
I slammed my fist on the steering wheel a half dozen times and let out a mouthful of expletives I never use around the kids. I’d been played a fool, but I was close this time. So very close.
I calmed down a notch and took stock of what had been gained and what had been lost. The latter was painfully obvious. But there was encouragement; I had finally made it past the Transporters stage. I had seen the front-liners, folks with the actual goods. The second notion burned in my gut; and they had seen me.
I reversed my pickup and headed back across the long lonely lot. I pulled my Blackberry from my hip and read Lacey’s text message. A text that would put lost art on the backburner for a long-time to come.
“Big Lead.” Son framed for murder. Family needs help!
Chapter 3
From all outward appearances Daniel Ryder took his role as the St. Annabelle District Attorney with the utmost seriousness. He arrived each morning by six and seldom darkened his desk lamp before dusk. He was, in fact, the idyllic public servant that he had promised to be when chosen for the post.
Despite being in a position of power, Daniel Ryder was anything but intimating. His demeanor was helplessly softened by narrow tiny eyes and a recessed chin. Years of long hours and rushed meals had produced a pudgy midriff and a round buoyant mug, like a blowfish warding off trouble. But Hurricane Katrina was proving to be a surefire diet plan. Like the staff around him, Daniel Ryder was starting to wear thin. Although the Katrina flood waters had long since subsided, the St. Annabelle DA’s office was rapidly deteriorating. One by one, a once faithful legal staff was jumping ship and heading for higher ground.
A weakened police force in the tri-parish area was losing an ever growing battle against economic despair. Those that remained in the areas surrounding the city fought desperately for survival—none more than those that remained in the dilapidated structures of the city’s Ninth Ward. While pretty celebrities encouraged the nation to return to their cherished French Quarter, thousands slowly died in the surrounding neighborhoods. Katrina’s brutal beating was still evident in the pestilence and despair of the cities less than fortunate. Electrical power and flowing water was a scarce commodity in the Ninth ward—a commodity as cherished as the almighty dollar—a commodity worth stealing and sometime even killing for.
Daniel Ryder’s docket was far more than his deflated staff could be expected to bear. And although Ryder had the simple pleasures of lights and showers, he wasn’t without his own personal hardships left by the great storm. Equity on his home was washed away by the flood waters; the remaining note was far more than he could ever expect on the market. His portfolio had included two small rental homes, a small convenience store, a tidy percentage of a women’s hair salon and full ownership of a sixty-thousand dollar boat stall on the south shore. All were gone; completely leveled with no true hope of resurrection. And although his insurance premiums had been paid faithfully for several years he was yet to see a dime. Hope for restitution faded with each passing day.
At forty-three Daniel Ryder was starting over. A nagging wife and two thankless teenagers did little to ease the pain, but he wasn’t a runner. He honored his commitments and so he’d never stray from his family. His ailing mother-in-law refused to give up on the only town she had ever known, and now in what was more than likely her final years, Daniel knew his wife wouldn’t leave her behind. So here he stayed. Here to somehow find a way to put his life back together.
Robert Fielding was about to give him a big step forward—though it seemed quite the contrary at the moment.
The last thing the DA’s office needed was a lengthy trial with media attention. The murder trial of Judge Michael Robinson would certainly prove to be both.
Ryder had been reading the transcripts for more than an hour and was pleased with the resounding evidence against the defendant. A complete forensics work up was not yet available but there was more than enough damning evidence to put Fielding away.
Judge Robinson had been shot from point blank range with a 22 caliber pistol, the same make and model was found on the defendant. SWAT teams had found no evidence of an accomplice in their sweep of the property, and motive was that age old thing called revenge. Juries liked strong motives. And despite their self-assured moral high grounds, none could deny their personal understanding of revenge.
Fielding’s claim of innocence was as weak as a New Orleans’s levee. But there was an X factor. Something potentially stronger than all of the evidence combined. Robert Fielding could afford the best legal assistance that money can buy, and given enough time, a seemingly slam-dunk case could become the St. Annabelle D.A.’s very own O.J. fiasco.
Ryder’s secretary entered with a man in tow. “Councilman Doyle is here for your ten o’clock, sir.”
“Thank you, Darcy.”
Ryder popped up and greeted Doyle with an earnest show of delight. The councilman was adorned in his consummate egg-shell suit, he held his equally signature wide-brimmed derby tight against his chest.
Henry Doyle enjoyed somewhat of a celebrity status in and around Greater New Orleans. His unprecedented twenty-four-year run as chair of the City Council carried with it a great deal of notoriety and some trumped up lore. Rightfully, he was credited as the mastermind of the city’s rise in popularity. Doyle’s efforts to promote the city beyond the usual Mardis Gras festivities had led to a windfall of tourist dollars. Doyle had opened the city to families and seniors. Added security, a commitment to cleanliness, and the elimination of brothels had been slowly transforming New Orleans’ less than wholesome image—but then came Katrina.
“Please. Have a seat, Henry.”
Doyle dropped his hefty frame into one of two vinyl covered chairs placed in front of Ryder’s government-issued black steel desk with shiny aluminum legs and a faux grained wood top.
Ryder plopped back down behind his desk and leaned forward on clasped hands. Weariness in the councilman eyes told of his personal Katrina demons. A once charming and even jolly demeanor had fallen prey to the all too common Katrina blight. Pleasantries seemed trite amidst the obvious.
The councilman slapped a thick manila envelope on Ryder’s desk. They studied each other’s eyes for some show of unity. Although Ryder could not be certain of the envelope’s contents, the presentation and impending sly look spoke of deviance.
“Open it, Daniel.” The councilman’s loose jowls shook as he spoke. “Go ahead.”
Daniel Ryder reached slowly for the envelope, flipped it over and began to unravel the string that held it closed. Their eyes met again and before Ryder could reveal the obvious, Doyle filled in the blanks. “It’s yours, Daniel. One-hundred grand. All yours, no questions asked.”
Ryder reached inside and fanned through one of many tightly wrapped stacks of hundreds. “I don’t believe I understand.”
“Consider it a gift.”
“For?”
“For honoring Judge Robinson with a quick and tidy trial, that’s all. The boy is guilty, we all know that.”
Ryder looked puzzled. “The evidence is overwhelming, Councilman. Judge Robinson’s family will be served justice.”
“Of course they will, Daniel, I have no doubt you will see it to that end.” His tone was warm but carried a hint of condescension. “But we know they won’t go down without a long drawn out fight.”
“We’ve battled deep pockets before.”
“Yes, of course, but these are different times.” Doyle made a point to cast his eyes on the burgeoning stack of documents on either side of the District Attorney’s desk. Ryder didn’t intend to challenge the point. “Furthermore, there’s the matter of decency and respect for a long serving member of our judicial system. We don’t need any Texas lawyers poking their noses in the judge’s personal affairs.”
“So this is family money?”
Doyle manufactured a canned laugh to hide a flush of red in his ample cheeks. He leaned forward and patted the envelope. “It is your money, Daniel. Isn’t that all that really matters?”
“But it’s from the Robinson family?” Ryder asked just to be certain.
“Sure,” Doyle said as if the thought just came to him.
They say that money can’t buy happiness, but it sure helps smooth out the rough edges. One hundred grand would go a long way in lifting Ryder out of his rut. He nodded to the councilman. “OK.”
“We need you to rearrange your docket and bring this quickly to trial.”
“I’ll do what I can, Henry, but it’s not as simple as it may seem. The defense has a constitutional right to discovery. They’ll need adequate time to examine the scene, do background checks, review lab reports from state attorneys. Each phase could drag out for months.”
“I’m sure you can find a way to expedite the matter.”
“It’s not entirely in my control, Henry. The defense. . .”
“Handle the defense!” Doyle barked. “That’s your job.”
Doyle’s tone set Ryder back on his heels. He responded lightly and with a sense of dismay. “I’ll put everyone I have on it.”
Doyle shifted a bit and took control of his demeanor. “Forgive me, Daniel. I was out of line.”
Ryder nodded. “It’s OK.”
“You see, Judge Robinson was a good man but like most he had his share of skeletons. It would be such a shame to have his good name smeared posthumously. Hasn’t his family suffered enough?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Ryder said meekly.
“Help me honor his name.”
“And this is worth one hundred thousand dollars to someone?”
Doyle only stared.
“Surely this is about more than honor, Henry. What kind of secrets did Judge Robinson take to his grave?”
Doyle lifted his bulky frame from the chair, moved toward the door then turned back toward Ryder. “This is about honor, Daniel. Plain and simple honor.” He slapped his derby on his head and positioned it at just the right angle. He gave an icy grin and flicked the brim of his hat. “Good day, Daniel.”
Chapter 4
With each beat of his heart, Robert Fielding received an explosion of stinging pain in his bruised right temple. After two days in a small holding cell, his facial abrasions were still tender to the touch and constantly sticking to the scratchy wool blanket covering the soiled mattress of his bunk. Despite his efforts, he had hardly slept in two days, his mind searching desperately for hope amid his dire circumstance. But there was nothing there to be found.
And although he was no stranger to the perils of incarceration, nothing had prepared him for the inevitable outcome of this latest and most devastating lapse in judgment.
He pulled his legs tight to his chest and curled up on his side.
“You fool, Robert. You stupid, stupid fool.” He rocked back and forth involuntarily. Images of the judge lying in a pool of blood returned on an infinite spool in his mind—a haunting image of death—a lost life that he would now pay for with his own.
How had he fallen so far?
His fear revealed the truth behind his hardened façade. A truth he had tried so desperately to conceal from others, not the least of which were the parents he had abandoned. For the first time in many years he just wanted to go home. To start anew, to heal, to return to the life he had fled, a life that now seemed like Elysian Fields. But it was too late. Far too late. He was never leaving this place again.
Activity picked up outside the steel door. Heads passed by the small window until one peered inside. Piercing eyes met with his. The meal slot slid open, Robert sat up, he knew the routine; he moved to the door and shoved his hands through the slot. A set of cuffs slapped his wrists. He pulled back and waited for the door to open. He was greeted by the piercing eyes; a mammoth of a man in a blue guard’s uniform with a curled brow and a drooping mouth spun him in the direction of a long hallway and shoved him forward.
“Let’s go.”
Robert knew better than to speak. He stumbled slowly forward until another slap of a massive paw quickened his pace. It was time to meet with counsel. Or so he figured. And although he had foolishly passed on his sole phone call, he knew he wouldn’t be denied his rights.
He felt the hot breath of the guard on his neck.
“Move it.” He barked in a garbled tone.
The hallway was nearly barren. Nothing but a door to a storage room, then an adjoining hallway. They were alone for only a moment before three others joined them from the far end of the hall. Three convicts, each in orange jumpsuits, moving rapidly toward him—something clearly wasn’t right. Where were their guards? Where were their cuffs?
A glance over his shoulder caught but a passing glimpse of a fist the size of a melon slamming downward against his temple. He crashed onto the coarse concrete, his shackled hands powerless to break his fall. The convicts were on him in an instant, cajoling like children under a busted piñata, all Hispanic, with lean bodies and powerful hands. They tossed him like refuse against the storage doorway. The behemoth turned the knob with one hand while grabbing him by the collar with the other. The cons fired sharp kicks into his ribs. Robert had yet to offer any resistance. It had all happened in an instant. The guard tossed him into the room and locked the door behind them, all five securely inside.
Robert scrambled to his feet and moved swiftly to a corner. It was all he could to mask his fear but he knew that was essential.
The room was little more than gray steel lockers, a few chairs, and wall to wall metal shelving lined with cleaning supplies.
The guard blocked the doorway and cast a menacing gapped-tooth smile, the cons still giddy with delight.
Robert said nothing. Any displayed confusion over what would take place next would only expose his naiveté.
He had been here twice before, once rescued by guards, the other time remained a horror he now fought daily to vanquish from his memory.
The cons moved in. Robert took the offensive. He charged forward knocking one into the next like a rack of bowling pins. He lifted his shackled arms and slammed down hard on one and then the next. The guard offered no assistance to the cons.
Robert was a head taller than each of the cons but sheer numbers and their behemoth ace in the hole couldn’t be ignored. He needed an edge. The largest con recovered and lunged forward. Robert side stepped him and wrapped his shackled arms around his neck. He twisted his arms to tighten the grip. Shackled arms are a weapon when used correctly, any con knew that. The right position and movement could snap a man’s neck in an instant.
“Back off or he’s dead,” Robert shouted. The con swung his arms violently to break Robert’s death grip but to no avail. No one moved. Robert reared back lifting the con from his feet—his air supply now completely cut off. “Back off. Now!”
The other cons backed away but the guard stayed put. And then like a deranged psychopath laughing in the face of a lethal injection he cast a sinister smile that shook Robert to the core.
“Kill him,” he said. He moved forward and repeated what was now more a command than a suggestion. “Kill him,” he repeated. He pulled a knife off his hip and waved it back and forth. He moved closer yet. “Kill or be killed.”
The cons appeared equally rattled by the turn of events.
The guard moved in and placed the flat of the blade on Robert’s neck. “Do it!”
The weight of the con had become too much to bear, his feet found the ground and loosened Robert’s grip. With what little strength remained he thrust his head back violently onto the bridge of Robert’s nose. The death grip was broken. Robert raised his arms and instinctively brought his hands to his face. The guard slammed him against the wall, the knife once again cold against his neck. The other two moved in, the third still doubled over desperately sucking air.
The critical edge had lasted but a moment. He knew the battle was lost.
The guard yanked his collar until the zipper of his jumpsuit gave way, the other two pulled at the remains until his torso was completely uncovered. With a powerful hand wrapped tightly around Robert’s neck, the guard lowered the blade from his neck to his chest.
“You like to play, do ya?” He slid the blade down to his abdomen and pivoted it onto the point with just enough pressure to draw blood. “I like to number my victims.”
Robert shook violently, his flexed jaw muscles nearly piercing his skin.
“Relax, Robert. I’m still in single digits.”
Robert’s strong silence gave way to a shrill scream of pain as the knife twisted and slowly carved the number nine into his abdomen. The guard backed away to admire his work like a deranged duke of Exeter—a medieval sadist experiencing pleasure from his handiwork.
“Perfect,” he exclaimed with pride. “Bring me a chair,” he motioned to whomever was most willing to comply. They slid a hard steel desk chair toward him and as a matter of apparent routine he pushed the seat against the wall. He grabbed the back of Robert’s neck and bent him over the seatback. Robert was strong but this man possessed strength like he had never seen. He fought back the best he was able, but his squirming earned him nothing but a smashing and debilitating blow to the back of the head.
“Hold him still.” The guard yelled to the others
Sufficiently re-cooperated the third con joined in with a vengeance. He yanked Robert’s jumpsuit below his knees and the guard pressed up behind him. He leaned forward and whispered into Robert’s ear. “Number nine is my new favorite number.” Robert braced himself against the unavoidable. The horrific anticipation was all part of the game.
But the game never started.
The guard grabbed Robert by the shoulders and stood him upright. He spun him around and spat in his face.
“Cover yourself up, you pig.”
Robert’s shackled hands failed miserably.
“Help him,” the guard barked. “Cover him up.”
The others pulled Robert’s jumpsuit over his hips and then his shoulders. The torn clothing slipped off one shoulder.
The guard’s hand was around his neck again. “You see how easy this would be?” He grabbed Robert’s crotch and squeezed tight.
The con’s giddiness returned. “Shut up and get out of here,” the guarded ordered them. They shut up but stayed put. “I said get out of here! Now!” They wouldn’t need to be told again.
He turned his sights back to Robert. “You listen and you listen good— you get just
one warning. After that you become my nine, ten and eleven.”
Robert grimaced in pain but listened—quite eager to listen.
You killed that judge, you understand me? No one’s ever gonna believe otherwise so let’s leave well enough alone.”
“I won’t,” Robert shouted.
The guard reached inside his chest pocket and pulled out a photo, he studied it for a moment then turned it around for Robert to see.
“That’s my mother,” he cried out. “What have you done?”
“Nothing yet.”
“I swear to God. . . “
“Shut up! The guard shouted. He cast his eyes on Robert for a long and chilling moment. “The choice is yours. Take the fall and your mother lives. You talk— she’s dead. And not before we have a little fun with her. Just for sport we’ll have Daddy watch then kill him too.”
“This isn’t about them.”
“It is now.”
“Who are you?” Robert pleaded.
The guard shoved the photo back in his pocket and patted his uniform. “A messenger.”
Robert studied his eyes for some understanding.
“You do as I say or people get hurt—including you,” he said with firm resolution. “No jury in the world will believe your plea of innocence anyhow, no way, no how. The only thing you got to think about is whether your momma is around to visit.” His face curled up in the haunting grin. “Got it?”
Robert’s eyes narrowed then he nodded his consent.
“Good.” The guard opened the door and checked the hallway. “Let’s go.”
In two minute’s time Robert was once again curled up and rocking on his bunk. What little hope had remained was gone for good.
Chapter 5
By midnight I was sleeping next to my bride of ten years, she sensed my presence with closed eyes and gave me a smile of contentment. She rolled over and drifted into a deep slumber. I found myself staring at her for a full two minutes. I’ll be the first to admit that I married out of my league. Lacey is a classic beauty with high cheekbones, a straight and chiseled nose and haunting brown eyes. She’s a focal point in any room, pretty with edginess toward exotic. I’m just big and maybe a notch or two past the male version of a plain Jane. Lace vehemently disagrees with my self-assessment but that’s the delusion that love will bring.
I’m quite certain that she and the angels slept a little better when they knew Daddy was home, that’s a father’s job, one I don’t take lightly. Our little hideaway in the hills is as safe a place as I have ever lived but I still worry. I’ve been chasing bad guys for a decade and the truth hurts—most of them never get caught. They’re still out there, and not just in big cities. And although our seclusion guards us from the random crime it also entrusts our protection to a limited small town police force; a trade-off of sorts, I suppose.
I had peeked in on the kids like I always do and kissed them gently in their deep sleep. My little El’ still has those kissing cheeks that just beg for multiple Daddy attacks. Michael still has a little puff to his jowls, too, but he is getting to that age where Daddy kisses aren’t always allowable. So here in the darkness of night, with him in a semi-conscious state, I nibbled on his ear and brushed his hair. There is no love as pure and uninhibited as that of a young child. I would quite literally swim through a stream of piranhas just to save them from a mosquito bite. I knew I would have to let them find their own way someday, but that was some time off and for now I’d rather not even think about that reality.
Lace and I had caught up a bit on the “Big Lead” on my drive from the San Antonio airport. She did her best to respond to ringing of the phone in my makeshift office just off the family room of our twenty-five hundred square foot log home, but most calls went to voicemail. She’s a mother, not a secretary—she’s made that abundantly clear to me on more than one occasion.
Her conversation with the Fielding’s had been short and to the point. That’s the way Lace always did it. She told all callers that she was Mr. Hogarth’s assistant and only there to take names and phone numbers. This approach limited the amount of information she had to record and guarded her from getting caught up in the less than desirable leads like cheating spouse surveillance, petty theft, delinquent tenants, domestic disputes, and the whole Jerry Springer crowd.
Murder, on the other hand, merited a text message. And a framed murder, well that’s juicy stuff—or it should be. I’ve become a bit too jaded over the years to get too excited over such matters. I suppose it’s from the thousand interviews with “innocent” suspects with blood dripping from their hands. I’d give a year’s pay to have someone tell me, “Yeah I did it, you caught me.” Everyone’s framed, did it in self defense, or a victim a faulty identification. This is a serious business I’m in but if you don’t keep a sense of humor you’re bound to reach out and choke someone.
I got all of four hours sleep when the clock radio started its incessant beeping. Lace keeps telling me to wake to music but that doesn’t seem intrusive enough to a sound sleeper like me. I need something real irritating that demands my awakening.
I slipped into a pair of coveralls and sat back down on the bed to lace up my brand new pair of work boots. A soft hand stroked the side of my arm. “Glad you’re home Will.” I think she was asleep before I could turn my head to respond. It didn’t matter. Those little touches did more for me than a hundred love you’s. It meant I was this beautiful lady’s man, her one and only. Ten years in and she still gives me chills. Glad you’re home Will.
I finished lacing up and headed out. I had a job to do. Four days a week for the past two years this had been my routine. Will Hogarth Criminalist became Will Hogarth farm hand.
Tommy Fisher was already rocking on the porch of his limestone home when I pulled my Chevy up the long dirt drive. Tommy’s father had built the home from stone he pulled from the surrounding hills; I’d heard the story more than a few times over the past couple of years. He had built it a few years before Tommy was even a twinkle in his mother’s eye. To be exact, that was eighty-five years ago, and except for a stint in Normandy during the Big One, as he called it, Tommy has never laid his head to rest anywhere else.
I’ve always had a soft spot for the elderly of this world, never forced, nor altruistic, just a genuine intrigue and interest. And my, the stories they can tell—the things they’ve done, the changes they’ve seen.
The bond between Tommy Fisher and me was almost instantaneous. Tommy had ten horses with three hundred pristine acres to run them. Most were a bit too broken down to endure much more than a short gallop but they could canter or trot all day long. This was Tommy’s means of income. Every summer he rented them out for a day at a time to the snowbirds that rented cabins lining the Frio and Sabinal Rivers. And although most renters thought they wanted horses that ran, they were soon to find that a trot was a lot more comfortable. Those people that tamed the west were a bit more calloused where it counts than weekend warriors from the city. Only now had I begun to toughen up in the soft spots.
We met Tommy in the offseason. We hadn’t been in town a full week before Michael started showing interest in the horses he saw in pastures off the winding Hill Country roads. We discovered Tommy from a hand-made flier in the Main Street General Store. That same day we were saddled up and off on one of those kinds of days that you know you will remember forever, even as it’s happening.
Tommy chose our stallions for us. Michael had at first got on with me until Tommy told him he could handle his own. He pulled a stout stallion from the stable and strapped on a Western saddle. He helped a tentative Michael atop Ranger then gently slapped the stallion’s hind end with a switch. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a child beam with such pride as I saw that day. And from that day forward Ranger has been Michael’s very best friend.
Ellie was still little more than a stitch so I held her fast to me and kept stride with Michael and Mom. Lace was a natural, a trait that seems to transcend areas of expectation. I had done some riding in my farm days but time and sore joints seemed to dilute what skill remained.
That night we sipped lemonade with Tommy on his porch for hours. And for all of his tales, he listened as well as he talked. We talked about the history of the area and shared family heritages, a segue to a sad revelation; Tommy Fisher was alone in the world. “have only my horses to serve as friends and family,” he said. Everyone was taken by Tommy’s charm and gentle candor but most stopped in but once a year and didn’t show again until the following July.
“I’ve been widowed for twenty years and our only child didn’t live to see his thirtieth birthday.” Lace placed her hand on his arm as he told us of his tragedies. Time had softened the blow but his eyes still fluttered as he spoke of it. He dropped his head to cover his emotion. Old school men don’t show the effects of feelings, they let them boil inside.
What Lace said next put a catch in my throat. “We’re not tourists, Tommy. You’ve got us now.”
Something magical occurred in that moment, something that has been growing stronger with each passing day for the past two years. Lace and I both lost our fathers before we took our vows. Tommy Fisher was about to become the perfect surrogate grandpa for Michael and El’.
Somewhere between that meeting and now I had signed on as Tommy’s morning stable mate. Five days a week at five a.m. sharp we get started on the daily routines of a stable hand. My pig raising days prepared me for the aroma but little more. Tommy seemed to get quite a kick out of training me, and if I do say so myself, I’ve become quite adept at the horse business.
Together we put in about two hours a day and I do what I can in the evening if any extra work needs to be done. This past fall we built a one acre turn-out for the herd’s morning runs. We cross fenced an acre and the adjoining run to the stable—looks real nice for an old timer and an amateur.
Tommy had long ago given up on the boarding business. The seven quarter horses and three thoroughbreds all belonged to him—and Michael and Ellie whenever they cared to ride.
I go straight to the shovel each morning and start with the necessary evil of cleaning up. A healthy thoroughbred will grace you with forty pounds of the lumpy stuff each day. With Tommy a bit too frail to scoop and throw, that leaves me with a four hundred pound morning workout five days a week. Keeps me strong and humble all at once.
Each horse has a twelve by twelve wood stall that leads to an adjacent paddock. I let them roam one at a time in the paddock as I play housekeeper. I feed them all a daily wormer, refresh their water and spray for flies as I see fit. By the time most people are fumbling for the shower knob I’ve put in two hours of good salt- of-the-earth work. Besides the physical and mental benefits, Tommy has insisted on sweetening the pie. The deal is simple; the Hogarth’s receive ten acres a year for my efforts. At a market price of about five thousand per acre that’s pretty darn good pay for a ranch hand. Lacey insisted it was too much but Tommy wouldn’t budge. And despite my offer to settle the deal with a handshake, Tommy insists on making the deed official at the County Courthouse with each passing year. There is a bit of a catch though; his way of keeping his new family around for the remainder of his days. I chuckle whenever I think of the cleverness of his little scheme.
Tommy unraveled the aerial plat of his three hundred acres when our deal first took root. He partitioned a one hundred acre square in the northwest corner of the land with a thin sharpie marker. He then cross hatched it into ten even parcels in checkerboard fashion. He began numbering them in random order. He tossed his head back and howled as the intent of his plan became clear to me. The first ten-acre square was in the farthest northwest corner; number two filled the southeast corner. The remainder were scattered in no particular order. After two years of manure slopping I was the proud owner of twenty beautiful hill country acres some thirty acres apart. In fact it would be two more years before any of the acres were adjoining. After twenty long years, old Tommy Fisher had a family and he intended to keep them around for a decade.
Chapter 6
Lacey met me at the door just before eight with a note in hand. “Seems your newest potential clients didn’t intend to wait for you to respond. I took the liberty of setting your schedule for you. In three hours time you are to meet with Carlton and Cynthia Fielding, leaving you with precious little time to familiarize yourself with the grieving parents of a young man destined for death row.”
My Google search took but one entry to give me all I needed to know. Carlton Fielding was an elite investor, a Who’s Who in the high stakes game of hedge funds. A man with the means to hire the very best, and somehow he had decided I was it.
The young man at the guard shack was expecting my arrival. He directed me to take two quick rights and sent me on my way. I had made a last minute decision to upgrade from my normal denim to a pressed pair of kakis and a ten-year-old Izod polo. The Fielding’s were people with unlimited options at their disposal, the very least I could do was honor their choice with a small show of class.
With the help of two escorts I found myself seated in a finely appointed parlor with furnishings I opted not to become one with. I paced the vast room for no more than a minute before my hosts joined me.
Carlton and Cynthia Fielding entered together and closed the set of double doors behind them. They extended their hands to greet me, first Cynthia and then Carlton. I would be quick to learn that Cynthia was much more than a woman behind the scenes. They had been together for a quarter of a century, long before their portfolio was anything newsworthy.
My internet search had told me that Carlton was fifty-two years old and unless he had robbed the cradle some twenty-five years earlier, Cynthia was close to the same. They were attractive and fit and a bit more serious in appearance than my typical clientele. Carlton had the appearance of a grad school professor, a bold look of intellect with deep set eyes, a strong chin and just the right amount of gray around the temples. A pair of reading glasses rested below his eyes on a wide nose that dominated his facial features. The spectacles helped cover the weariness growing beneath his eyes.
Cynthia could best be described as a handsome woman. She stood nearly six-feet tall with a proud and steady build. Like Carlton, her skin was a deep rich black. Her dazzling brown eyes softened an otherwise calloused face. She kept her hair closely cropped to the scalp as if to challenge men on even terms. To be honest, she intimidated me a bit, and that’s not an easy thing to do.
Carlton took the lead. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Hogarth.”
“Will. Please.”
Carlton nodded, “Will.”
“Please, have a seat,” Cynthia said.
We sat across from each other on two matching Paragon love seats. A young Hispanic woman placed a china platter with matching cups and a carafe on the table between us. She retreated as quickly as she came.
Cynthia wasted precious little time. “Where do we begin?”
I took the lead with full the intention of coming on strong. I don’t waste time dancing around facts nor do I powder hard truths with fluffy and chic similies.
“This is what I know. Your son Robert, twenty-two years old, is being held in St. Annabelle Parish, Louisiana County lockup awaiting interrogation. At this time he is the sole suspect in the murder of Judge Michael Robinson of the 38th District Court. It took but a few phone calls to convince myself that the St. Annabelle Parish PD doesn’t intend to spend a single additional man-hour on rounding up additional suspects.”
Carlton and Cynthia shared a troubled look.
“I also know that Robert has a list of priors as long as my arm.” I looked around the lavish parlor to add effect to my next words. “What I don’t know is how a young man of such privilege falls into a life of crime typically reserved for the destitute and impoverished.”
Indeed I can be painfully blunt. I don’t enjoy it as a twisted fanatical power display; my demeanor is truly more pleasant. But this is my job. And though one’s occupation is often interchangeable with one’s identity, this is a rare exception. I’m a fact finder first and foremost, plain and simple. With all the bull I inevitably need to sift through, it makes little sense to start by creating my own distorted view of reality. Robert Fielding was caught red-handed at the scene of a murder. It wasn’t my intent to manufacturer false evidence for the sake of a bulky paycheck. We needed to establish honesty right up front.
Cynthia put up her guard at my coarse words. “Robert is innocent.” Her tone was less than congenial.
I backed down just a bit. “I can assume you’ve retained adequate counsel.” The word adequate came out more condescending than intended. I was certain it was the best that money could buy.
Carlton responded almost matter-of-factly. “Of course.”
“Then why me?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer but I wanted to get the Fielding’s response, not only their words but also the strength of their conviction.
A fully composed Cynthia was quick to respond. “You know perfectly well what the attorneys intend to do, Mr. Hogarth. It’s just a matter of time before they try to plead this thing out.”
Carlton stared without a blink over his reading glasses. “I can afford the very best, Will. But this case is going to be a political hotbed for any legal firm. A white judge allegedly killed by a black man still warrants swift justice in the deep-south. Avoiding the death penalty will be considered a win in legal circles.”
“What has Robert told them?” I asked. “What defense has he offered counsel?”
Carlton and Cynthia shared yet another troubling glance. “He offers them nothing.”
My look of bewilderment was genuine. “Silence is near admission of guilt,” I said with what must have looked like a painful grimace. “What is he thinking?”
“We don’t know,” Carlton said, shaking his head in dismay. “We just don’t know.”
“You know how this looks?” I asked.
Cynthia was quick to respond. “Our baby isn’t doing twenty to life for a crime he didn’t commit.” She remained firm.
Carlton placed his hand gently on her lap as if to take control of the discussion. “We’re well aware of how this looks, Will. We know that we need the best and that’s why we’ve contacted you.”
I couldn’t help but wonder how contrived that line was—it felt good all the same.
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“I appreciate that, sir.” My response was sincere. There was no need to discuss my resume with the Fielding’s. Like most, they knew nothing of my many wins since “the big one.” My part in toppling President Burns and his corrupt administration made international headlines for a solid year. I was destined to be forever linked with one of the biggest scandals in U.S. history. There were certainly worse crosses to bear.
“We’re prepared to compensate you substantially for your expertise.”
I masked a pleased reaction with a quick diversion. “Does Robert have any known enemies I should be aware of?”
They both shrugged. “None that we know of. “
“Do you know anything about the circles he runs in?”
“No. I’m afraid Robert kept mostly to himself.”
“Tell me about the conviction for armed robbery,” I said firmly. “The fifteen-year sentence. Tell me. . .”
Carlton cut me off with a wave of the hand and a pointed response. “We’re not trying to paint the picture of a choirboy here, Will. His record speaks for itself, we’re well aware of that. For what it helps, Cynthia and I make no pretense that Robert is innocent of any of his priors.”
“OK. Fair enough.”
They mumbled a bit between themselves then seemed to regroup. There was more they needed to say. Carlton started then recoiled, Cynthia prodded him along. “Robert left us nearly four years ago. We didn’t even know of his incarceration until a few months before his release, and by then he refused to see us. When he was released he went missing again. We followed some leads and learned that he was living in the Charleston area but that was three months ago. We had no idea he was in New Orleans until we were contacted by the Attorney General’s Office.”
I had them talking and didn’t intend to divert them in any way. Great pain was evident in their eyes. I thought of Michael and the years to come. As a father of young children I was certain that nothing of this magnitude could ever happen to me. I took comfort in believing that parents played a key part in the destruction of a relationship. That I could prevent such devastation from ever occurring in my home—at least I hoped that’s how it worked.
“I’ve made mistakes, Will. I’ve spent my life building a fortune only to lose sight of what was most important to me.” Cynthia gave him a warm look of support.
“I amassed my wealth with hedge funds in the China market. In the years that Robert needed me most I wasn’t there. I spent most of his high school years thousands of miles away. I never saw my son play a single football game. I never met the girls he dated or helped him with his studies. I simply lost sight.” His voice rippled a bit, it was difficult to watch.
Cynthia came to his aid. “The strain of his absence became too much to bear. I started to accuse Carlton of infidelity, and eventually he confessed. We separated for nearly two years before reconciling. I’ve forgiven Carlton but Robert never has. When we made plans to save our marriage Robert become enraged, he threatened to leave. His behavior became erratic.” She narrowed her gaze. “I think he was using drugs. I had suspected it for some time. We hadn’t spoken for two days, then one night he was gone. He left a simple note on his bed before he departed, just enough to let us know he left of his own volition.”
“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely.
“We’re good Christian people, Will. Not perfect by any means but good nonetheless. And above all we love our son. There is nothing he can do to stop us from loving him.” Tears streamed down Cynthia’s cheeks.
“I forced Robert away,” Carlton stated bluntly. “His leaving was an act of rebellion toward me. His mother raised him with strong morals. I can’t explain his run-ins with the law, desperation I suppose. What I have been made painfully aware of is that he would rather steal than turn to his father for help. That is a pain too devastating to explain. But this much I assure you, Robert Fielding is not responsible for taking another man’s life.”
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