The Summer House Page 3

  A low bank of thunderclouds is off to the south. I see two flashes of lightning illuminate the gray-black of the clouds. Connie’s thick blond hair, trimmed short, seems to be wilting after a day in the humid Georgia air.

  “Where are the Rangers now?”

  “They’re being held in the town of Ralston, just south of Sullivan. The county sheriff arrested them late last night, at a roadhouse in that town, and took the four of them to the nearest jail.”

  “And the shootings took place Wednesday evening?”

  “That’s right,” she says. “The local paper says a visitor came to the house Thursday morning, found it full of dead civilians.”

  “And less than forty-eight hours later they’ve made arrests for multiple homicides.”

  “Tells you the sheriff’s department there is either very good, very lax, or very lucky. Or a combination thereof.”

  “What else?” I ask.

  She says, “It’s a typical small Southern town, boss. I showed the clerk my ID when I registered the group at the motel, and I’m sure everyone around here will know tonight that the Army’s coming in.”

  “And when do we expect the rest of our crew?”

  Connie looks at a watch encircling her tanned wrist with a thin gold band. I think I can make out delicate blond hairs there. “Captain Pierce will be here in about an hour. Dr. Huang and Agent Sanchez…they’re both coming in from the West Coast, Huang from San Francisco, Sanchez from LA. Barring any flight delays, they should be in Savannah around midnight.”

  “All right,” I say.

  “You need me to pick any of them up?”

  “No, we’re going to need at least three sets of wheels for our work. I’m sure you told them where we’re staying. What do you know about the county sheriff?”

  “Emma Williams,” she says. “Has been sheriff for a number of years. It’s an elected position in Sullivan County, and most of the county is rural. Which means she and her deputies do the bulk of the law enforcement.”

  I take out my iPhone, work a few buttons and tabs, pull up a map, and say, “The Rangers live either at or near Hunter Army Airfield, south of Savannah. And they’re arrested at a roadhouse nearly an hour’s drive away. What, they don’t have good drinking establishments near their post?”

  “It’s a puzzle,” she says, and maneuvers us onto an exit ramp, and now we’re on Interstate 16, heading west. The land is still flat and mostly covered with trees. Not too long to get rural from the grandly named international airport.

  “Along with why they traveled to Sullivan to shoot up a houseful of civilians. Must be one hell of a motive.”

  “Or accident,” she says. “Maybe they planned to hit a certain house and hit the wrong one.”

  “They’re Rangers,” I say. “They plan in their sleep. They don’t hit the wrong house.”

  A few seconds pass and I feel an urge to ask her about the date I interrupted earlier with my phone call, but I decide to drop it. Connie’s gone twice to the marital altar with fellow Army personnel and then to divorce court, and I get the feeling she’s not interested in any particular male at the moment, including me.

  I still have the iPhone in my hand, and after doing a bit of heavy and complicated research with the Great God Google, I find the number I’m looking for and dial it, then activate the speakerphone so Connie can listen in.

  The phone rings once and is then picked up. “Sullivan County Dispatch. What’s the nature of your emergency?”

  A crisp, professional-sounding woman. I put the iPhone closer to my mouth and say, “This is Major Jeremiah Cook, US Army CID from Quantico, calling for Sheriff Williams.”

  The woman dispatcher says, “Please hold for a moment, Major Cook,” and we’re placed on a silent hold. No music, no sound of static, no chirpy voice thanking the caller for choosing Sullivan County for their law enforcement needs.

  The dispatcher comes back on. “Major Cook? I have Sheriff Williams on the line.”

  A stronger, older woman’s voice comes on and says, “Major? This is Sullivan County sheriff Williams. What can I do for you?”

  I say, “Sheriff Williams, I’m from the US Army Criminal Investigation Division, out of Quantico. I’ve been tasked to lead the Army’s inquiry into what occurred with these four Rangers.”

  “Well, you realize this crime took place in my county, on civilian property, correct?”

  “Absolutely, Sheriff Williams,” I say, “and I have no intention or desire to interfere with your investigation.”

  “Why am I talking to you and not someone from the MP unit over at Hunter?”

  Connie looks my way, and it’s not a hard look or skeptical. I think she’s just paying attention, and I say, “Sheriff Williams, a matter of this magnitude, involving four Ranger servicemen and seven dead civilians, has gotten the attention of very senior Army personnel.”

  She says, “Well, that makes sense, I suppose. Where are you now?”

  “On Interstate 16, heading to the city of Sullivan.”

  She chuckles. “Don’t call the damn place a city. It’ll just get the Chamber of Commerce all hopeful. Nope, we’re a town, and a small one at that. Tell you what, how does thirty minutes sound? At my office in Sullivan?”

  Now I look at Connie and she looks back at me, smiles, shrugs her shoulders. To the sheriff I say, “Ma’am, that’s incredibly considerate and generous of you, meeting with us late on a Saturday.”

  “Not a problem, not at all,” she says.

  She hangs up and I disconnect the call, and Connie says, “Well, that’s a nice change of pace. Civilian law enforcement offering instant cooperation.”

  I put the phone in my lap. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Connie. She agreed to meet with us. That doesn’t equal cooperation.”

  Out by the horizon, lightning flashes, again and again.

  Chapter 6

  SPECIAL AGENT CONNIE YORK pulls the rented Ford sedan into an empty parking spot next to a Chevrolet sedan painted in the brown and white colors of the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department. Once they left the interstate and got onto a narrow state road, sporadically lined with pig or dairy farms, mobile homes, and one-story houses, a phrase from a Talking Heads song came to her: And you may find yourself / Living in a shotgun shack. The only bits of color were the campaign signs for races, from US Senate to county coroner.

  She switches off the engine and looks across the lot to a small brick building containing three bays for the trucks belonging to the Sullivan Volunteer Fire Department. Two more buildings complete the cluster. A two-story, white-pillared brick one is topped with a pitched shingle roof and a clock tower, and wide concrete steps lead up to its double glass doors. Behind the taller building is a wide, freestanding, brick-and-concrete one-story surrounded by a high fence with razor wire curled along the top. Signs announce that these adjoining structures hold everything governmental for Sullivan County: the courthouse, the sheriff’s department, and the jail. But there are no ramps.

  She says, “Looks like the Americans with Disabilities Act hasn’t gotten this far, sir.”

  In a level voice, Major Cook says, “Who’s disabled?”

  She feels her face warm as she removes the keys. “Sorry, sir. No offense.”

  “None taken,” he says, undoing his seat belt and getting the door open. “I’ll make it work. Come along. We don’t want to keep the sheriff waiting.”

  Connie shoulders her leather bag and walks with her boss as he goes up the steps, leaning heavily on his plain metal cane. The humid air hits her like a soft blanket, nearly smothering her.

  At the top of the stairs she looks across the street, to a small green park with benches and a statue of a Confederate soldier standing in frozen guard. There’s a hardware store, a laundromat, a small restaurant, a barber, a women’s hairstylist, and a few other one-story brick buildings, including a post office. A few residents sitting on park benches are staring at them.

  She looks at her boss, graspin
g one railing with a strong hand, leaning on the cane, face red. His upper body is muscular, and his black hair is trimmed short, with a few flecks of white along the sides. Jeremiah Cook is thirty-five, and before his Humvee was struck by an IED in Afghanistan, she knew, he was a homicide detective in the NYPD and a member of the Army Reserves. Connie doesn’t know the whole story, but she’s heard the NYPD offered him a desk job, and he told them to go to hell, and despite his leg injury, he was able to transfer from the Reserves to regular Army. Oh, and along the way, he lost his wife, who divorced him.

  Even with the painful struggle on his lean, honest face, Connie suddenly thinks that Mrs. Cook was a moron to divorce this man.

  She goes to the double glass doors, opens one, and is surprised to see a woman there, waiting to meet them.

  The woman is in her fifties, a bit stout but fit, wearing black sneakers, blue jeans, and a dark green polo shirt that has an embroidered department badge on the left side and “Sheriff Williams” in white script on the right side. On a wide leather belt is a holstered pistol, two spare magazines, and a set of handcuffs, along with a clipped-on gold sheriff’s badge. She looks past Connie and says, “Is that Major Cook?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is,” she says. “I’m Special Agent York, with his team.”

  The sheriff smiles, revealing deep dimples, and offers her hand. Her face is worn but attractive, and her thick black hair is cut short. “I’m sure you’ve figured out who I am,” she says, and in a low voice adds, “What happened to the major? Was it the damn war? Which one?”

  Connie says, “Afghanistan,” and then the sheriff bustles past her to shake hands with Major Cook, and they all go down a dark and cool hallway.

  The office is large, with tall windows overlooking a closely trimmed lawn and another parking area with two more cruisers, three pickup trucks, and a Ford SUV. Sheriff Williams sits behind her desk, which is large and covered with neatly organized file folders and a white legal pad.

  Connie takes the left leather-upholstered chair while her boss takes the right. There’s a small round conference table at the rear, next to a leather couch and coffee table, which is stacked high with police magazines. Connie reaches into her shoulder bag and takes out a yellow legal pad, thinking, White versus yellow. We’ll see who takes better notes.

  “Good trip, both of you?”

  Cook says, “It was just fine.”

  The bookcase is filled, and so are the walls. Plaques and photos line every inch, and Connie recognizes the sheriff posing with important men and women, including two FBI directors, two presidents, a vice president, and three senators from Georgia.

  A player, she thinks. She loves her politics.

  The sheriff appears in all but one photo, and in three shots she’s wearing an Army uniform, smiling and standing in front of a US flag, shaking hands with superior officers. Either Army Reserves or Georgia National Guard, Connie thinks.

  The outlier photo is black-and-white, of a stern-looking man in a gray suit holding a homburg hat in his big hands and standing on the steps of what looks to be the US Capitol Building.

  Cook says, “Again, my thanks for seeing us on such short notice.”

  The sheriff smiles, but her words don’t match up. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but that might be the only cooperation you get from me. Sure, the crimes were committed by four of your boys and they’re stationed over at Hunter, but everything took place here, in Sullivan. Not on government property.”

  Connie waits to see how Cook plays it, and no surprise, it’s going to be the apologetic and soft-spoken Army officer, grieved that fellow soldiers have been arrested for such a horrible crime.

  “You’re quite correct, Sheriff,” Cook says. “And we’re not here to obstruct or take over the investigation.”

  “Then why are you here, and all the way from Virginia?” the sheriff asks, pleasant steel still in her voice. “Twice I’ve had run-ins with your boys from Hunter Airfield, once for a DUI that ended in a jeep crash and the other for a brawl. Both times I worked with the Hunter MPs. How come you’re here and they aren’t?”

  Cook tells the sheriff exactly what he had reminded Connie of that morning. “It’s our job,” he says. “We have a team that consists of investigators, an Army JAG lawyer, and an Army psychiatrist. We want to get to the facts of the case as soon as possible so that justice is done.”

  “What kind of justice?”

  “The kind that means if we—working with you—determine that there is clear evidence of their guilt, we’ll make sure it gets to the right hands, either your office or your district attorney’s.”

  The sheriff runs a finger alongside one of the manila folders. “I suppose that also means if you think these four are being railroaded or set up or somehow are innocent, you’ll put that out as well.”

  “We will,” Connie’s boss says.

  “Sounds like you’re more interested in a cover-up than getting to the truth,” she says.

  Cook says, “Then perhaps I’m not making myself clear. My team is here to get to the truth, whatever it may be. And again, we respect your position and authority. We would just like to work here with your knowledge and cooperation.”

  The sheriff slowly nods. “All right, then. Nice to make everything clear and out in the open. What first?”

  Cook says, “My apologies, but all we know is that you’ve arrested four soldiers from the Fourth Ranger Battalion, stationed at Hunter Army Airfield. Could you confirm their names and ranks for us?”

  Sheriff Williams goes right to the top of the pile, passes a file folder over to Connie. “I had a duplicate made of their personnel information and their booking photos.” She opens the top drawer of her desk and puts on a pair of reading glasses as Connie opens the folder and slides out four color booking photos with names and IDs printed below.

  The sheriff leans over her own copy of the information and says, “Here we go. Top to bottom. Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson, age twenty-eight. Corporal Curtis Barnes, age twenty-six. Specialist Vinny Tyler, age twenty-three. And Specialist Paulie Ruiz, age twenty-four. All belonging to…let’s see, Second Platoon, Alpha Company, Fourth Battalion. The rest of the staff sergeant’s squad are out on medical leave for various wounds and injuries.” Williams looks up, taking off her reading glasses. “That’s who they are. All residing either at or near the air base.”

  As the sheriff read off the names, Connie gave each photo a good hard stare. The senior NCO, Jefferson, is African American with a shaved head, small ears close to his skull, and a confident, staring look into the police camera. Corporal Barnes is white, Specialist Ruiz is Hispanic, and Specialist Tyler is also white. Ruiz is like Jefferson, staring into the camera with quiet confidence, black hair trimmed short. Corporal Barnes’s hair is nearly white-blond, and his face is a blank slate. The last specialist, Tyler, has red hair—also trimmed short—and he’s the only one who looks out of place, like he can’t believe he’s having his photo taken as part of a multiple-homicide investigation.

  All four are lean, muscular, and wearing civilian shirts, from checked short-sleeves to polos.

  “Tough-looking crowd,” Williams says.

  “That’s their job,” Cook says. “Tough and smart.”

  “What next?” Williams asks.

  Connie expects the major to ask questions about the victims and is surprised when Cook goes in another direction.

  “I’d like to take a look at the murder house,” her boss says.

  Sheriff Williams clasps her hands together on top of her desk and says, “Well, that’s going to be our first disagreement.”

  “Excuse me?” Cook asks.

  “The scene of the crime,” she says. “It’s sorta well-known around here. It’s called The Summer House and is on its way to getting on the National Register of Historic Places…Lots of famous folks stayed there, including FDR when he was visiting Warm Springs.”

  The sheriff’s face hardens. “And sorry, I’m not giving you or
anyone else from the Army access.”

  Chapter 7

  I’M GOING STARE to stare against this county’s sheriff, and I realize I’ve just struck the first shoal of the investigation.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry if I’ve crossed a line, Sheriff Williams,” I say, trying to make my voice as quiet and reasonable as possible. “May I ask why you won’t give us access?”

  “Because,” she says, “it’s our department’s policy only to allow sworn Georgia peace officers and forensics specialists access.”

  “I see,” I say. My NYPD style of dealing with competing law enforcement agencies by raising my voice and pounding the desk won’t work here. “Well, perhaps we should move on. The victims. Do you have an accounting of who they are?”

  The sheriff goes to another file folder, and I have to admire her for her neatness.

  “All right,” she says, “and I warn you, it ain’t going to be pretty.”

  “Warning taken,” I say.

  The first color photo comes to Connie and me. A man on his back on an old, wide-planked wooden floor, eyes open, forehead and nose torn away by bullet wounds. Lots of blood and exposed flesh and bone. Long brown hair. Upper part of a black T-shirt.

  “Gordon Tilly,” she says. “Age twenty-one. Student at Savannah Technical College, studying commercial truck driving.”

  The next photo is not as graphic. A young man sprawled out on an overturned couch, the couch covered with a dark gray blanket. The back of his head is a mess of hair, bone, and blood.

  “Randall Gleason,” she says. “Age nineteen. Not sure of his status.”

  Another flip. A woman this time. Black T-shirt as well. Eyes closed, mouth open, thick brown hair, neat round hole in her forehead. Resting on the same old battered wood floor.