The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (17 page)

Ramirez swung his chair around to face Hubbard. “Your elected officials want me to handle you with restraint, and give due consideration to your rights as a citizen, while at the same time keeping the wellbeing of my government paycheck in mind.” Ramirez leaned forward and pressed down on the desk with both hands. “But here’s the interesting thing: They made several veiled references to a person I’ve interviewed for this investigation, but I’m not finished with—
your uncle
.

Hubbard brought his hand to his chin like he was a college professor considering the translation of a difficult phrase in
Beowulf
. He glanced over his shoulder toward the window at the front of the office. Outside, Toil paced on the sidewalk. He held a cell phone to his ear, nodding up and down like he was a human dashboard ornament, agreeing to whatever the caller was saying on the line. Only one man could elicit this subservient behavior from the town’s new sheriff, a man more likely to raise his fists than lose his dignity.
Sheriff, make lots of notes. My uncle likes you to do that.
It shows you’re paying attention
. He turned back to Ramirez, ignoring the new heaviness on his shoulders, and produced a pleasant facial expression. “Well, I’d like to know him a little better, too. I think many folks would. He keeps his own counsel.”

“That’s what I hear. Apparently, your politicos are happy to do his bidding . . . and that cooperative spirit seems to extend to Sergeant Connors. He was in the state police evidence room during the time period your camera and the film inside of it vanished. What’s on that film? Why is it so important?”

“It’s my dad’s old camera. It hasn’t been used since he died. It can’t have anything to do with your investigation. If there was film inside it, it dried up years ago.”

The FBI agent’s mouth twisted as his words slid out. “I can’t prove it, but I believe that busted-up Nikon is now in your uncle’s possession.”

The revelation startled Hubbard. His head bent to examine the floorboards beneath his feet.

The room went quiet. Ramirez waited for Hubbard to look up before resuming. “I warn you, the only thing that those calls from your redneck politicians accomplished was to delay me a bit. Tell your uncle I’m not going to play his game of chess.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Hubbard was surprised by the anger in his voice. “My uncle’s not responsible for the
White River Killer
headline. You need to talk with the paper’s owner.”

“Kid, you better keep your eyes open. There’re lots of ways you can get hurt messing in this. You don’t want to stumble into that kind of trouble.”

Hubbard’s face burned like fire. He reminded himself the three men in front of him carried government badges.
This isn’t a street fight. Stay cool.
He made his voice sound reasonable, just a guy searching for clarity. “Um . . . are you
threatening
me? Remember I’m just a dirt farmer. We’re a little slow on the uptake.”

“Oh no, don’t take my offhand comment as a threat. I just wanted you to know—in case something happens to you.
The agency had nothing to do with it.
Understand?”

Hubbard’s fists tightened reflexively in response to what appeared to be a roundabout attempt at intimidation. The town’s newspaper headline was inflammatory and unprofessional, but Ramirez was overreacting: The
Union Democrat
wasn’t the
New York Times
. This confrontation didn’t make sense. Why did Ramirez think R.J. was behind the scurrilous headline? “Yes sir, I understand. I’m going to steer way clear of this from now on. I don’t want trouble. That’s not what I’m about.”
In a pig’s eye, you son-of-a-bitch. Stop poking me.

Ramirez’s eyes shifted their focus to Hubbard’s clenched hands. He looked up again and raised one eyebrow. “If you think—”

The phone in Hubbard’s coat pocket rang. Hubbard hesitated, but noticed the unexpected interruption had stopped Ramirez. He shrugged sheepishly. Holding up his index finger, he then pointed to the cell he was drawing from his pocket. “This could be my little girl. You know how it is raising a ten-year-old daughter. You’re a dad, too.” He put the phone to his ear.

The subordinate feds stiffened their backs, reacting to Hubbard as if he was challenging Ramirez’s authority. The two young men took an ominous step, leaning forward like prizefighters, stopping only after Ramirez raised his hand.

“Mr. Hubbard?” The elderly voice quavered on the line.

Hubbard recognized her voice instantly and then remembered their appointment. “Oh! Mrs. Fincher! We were just talking about you. I was just telling the fellows here that I was running late for an important client meeting . . . Yes. I’m on my way . . .
Noooo,
it’s not inconvenient at all. The boys here are very supportive of my dream of building a career selling insurance for final expenses . . . I’ll be there soon . . . Sounds
wonderful
.” Hubbard clicked the phone off.

The two agents looked to the senior man for instructions. Ramirez seemed to be uncertain of his next step. He leaned back in his chair. The well-timed calls from the Arkansas politicians were having an effect.

This was Hubbard’s best opportunity to escape. He began backing toward the office doorway. “See? I’m done reporting on Amir’s murder; got a client on the hook, got a farm that needs tending, and got no time to waste here. Agent, I heard you loud and clear, and this is the last you’ll see of me.” He reached behind him to find the door handle. “Call me before you leave town and tell me how it turned out. Oh, one more thing, I think there’s a phone message for you on Eddie’s desk.”

Ramirez glanced over his shoulder toward the small black desk. The forgetful agent’s face hardened into a snarl. Hubbard opened the door. Ramirez stood, extending his arm to point challengingly at the departing Hubbard. “Tell your hot-shot uncle the next time I catch either of you near this investig—”

Out the door, Hubbard closed it quickly behind him, cutting short Ramirez’s warning. He began to speed walk away.

Toil called to him from behind. “I thought they’d be sending you to the federal pokey for sure.”

Hubbard stopped, eyeing the sheriff’s office door, expecting it to fly open, revealing agents in pursuit of their new public enemy number one. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his truck on the opposite side of the square. “Not this time . . . Well, I need to run.”

“Wait.” Toil approached closer, biting his bottom lip. “So, uh, if he asks, can I tell him you’re going to leave this thing alone?”

Hubbard took a moment to respond. He tilted his head to the side. “If
who
asks?”

Toil made a weak attempt at a chuckle. “Well, uh, Ramirez, of course.”

“
Oh
yeah
. . . You can tell him I’ve dropped this thing like a hot potato. Tell him I’m running away like a scalded rabbit. Tell him I, I’m, uh . . .” Hubbard took a breath. “Yes . . . Tell him I let it go.”

“
Good
. . . So, where’re you off to?

“The Fincher farm. Mrs. Fincher wants to buy an insurance policy.”

“The Fincher place? It’s odd timing to be going all the way out there.”

“Why is it odd timing? She’s seventy. She needs burial insurance.”

“Well, sure, that’s what I mean. It’s kind of late in the game for her to be thinking about buying insurance for that. You sure that’s all she wants?”

Hubbard shrugged. “What else could she want? It’s always a good time to buy insurance. Maybe it’s time for you to consider it as well.”

Toil’s eyes opened wider. He stepped back, as if he wanted to avoid a sales pitch. “Guess so. Well, you be safe.”

Hubbard nodded. “I’ll try. Thanks.”

Hubbard made his way back to his truck like a dazed sleep walker. The morning had created a sea of questions. Why was FBI interviewing his uncle as part of their investigation? Did they think R.J. ordered the headline and Andrews delivered it like a pizza? What did the alarming newspaper banner accomplish, aside from spooking the town? How did R.J. know Amir, a twenty-one-year-old, foreign college student? Simultaneous to that thought, Hubbard realized that his internal questions meant he believed Ramirez’s accusations were true. Somehow R.J. was involved in this.

Hubbard got to his truck. He examined the fresh dents along the vehicle’s side and the dangling door mirrors. His deductible was sky-high. Repairs would have to wait. Was the vandalism a warning to stay away from whatever was going on? Or was it revenge from some long ago fight? He took a deep breath, blew out air between pursed lips and got behind the wheel.

R.J. asked him, almost ordered him, to stop his amateur, or at best semi-pro investigation of the student’s murder. He remembered his uncle’s words:
You don’t give up.
What did that mean? He shook his head, trying to make the tortured thoughts disappear without success . . .

If his uncle murdered Amir, it meant he put a shotgun against the student’s chest, looked directly into Amir’s eyes, and pulled the trigger, oblivious to the sickening blowback of blood that must have sprayed against him. If true, his uncle was the monster that many in Hayslip believed he was.

The haunting memory of his mother, standing on the dirt road adjacent to the deer woods, pushing R.J. away, was as clear as if it happened yesterday. Hubbard fought a wave of nausea. His mother . . . his uncle . . . and the maturing adult features on Hubbard’s face, pointed out by others in town, created a resemblance he ignored each morning when he shaved.

Hubbard tried the truck ignition. It still ran. He drove down the alley and stopped at the intersection with the street. Heavy mid-day traffic circled the town center. After several cars passed by, he spotted a TV van approaching. A return media visit was surprising, since according to Toil, there were no developments in the investigation that would make the long drive from Little Rock worthwhile. As the news vehicle sped by, he saw an unfamiliar logo,
Shreveport’s Favorite News Team
. Shreveport? Close behind, two Little Rock news trucks followed the out-of-state competitor down the street.

Why the fresh interest from the reporters . . . ? Of course . . . The murder of a college student was local news.
But
the unexpected return of the notorious White River Killer, a murderer who once left a bloody trail of dismembered female corpses along the banks of the White River near Pine Bluff could get wider coverage thanks to the reckless
Union Democrat
headline.

Ramirez wants to keep Amir’s murder out of the national press.

He took out the FBI’s photo of Amir distributed to the media. The image had been altered from the original he saw on the college student’s driver’s license. The kid’s eyes were Photoshopped. Looking to his left in the DMV photo, they now stared directly into the camera. What other alterations had the feds made to mask his identity?

The narrow alley began to spin around Hubbard like a pinwheel. Becoming dizzy, he draped his arm across the truck’s steering wheel. He lowered his head and took several deep breaths, fighting the darkness overwhelming him. His black mood was as familiar as family, a backdrop to this bleak homecoming to murder, lies and his obsession for the truth.

And like a distant summer from the past, R.J. Hubbard was front and center.

Hubbard raised his head, letting the sun bathe his face. The FBI’s investigation was targeting R.J. If his uncle was capable of
one
ruthless murder . . . he was capable of two.

He wanted to hit something . . . He wanted a drink.
Let it go. You’re sober. You’re peaceful. Emily’s home
 . . .

One day your anger will kill you.

18

T
HE
P
AWN’S
O
PENING
M
OVE

D
RIVING DOWN THE
M
ONTICELLO HIGHWAY,
Hubbard tried to keep his thoughts on the task at hand. After he delivered the necessary paperwork to Mrs. Fincher for her renewal, he’d make a quick dash to the college.

How did R.J. know Amir? Andrew’s wife was Amir’s friend. If they talked over several different afternoons in the diner—long enough to keep Sinclair late—then there was a good chance his uncle’s name came up in their conversations. He needed to know how they connected to understand the FBI’s interest in his uncle.

Approaching traffic that had slowed on the highway, he tapped the brakes of his truck, causing both side mirrors to rattle against the doors.
Is the damn highway department ever going to finish whatever the hell they’re doing?
Traffic was slowed again due to a flagman and workers depositing barrels along the highway.

He got to the turn to the Fincher place. Just beyond a thick row of pines and oaks, lay the most miserable 200 acres of farm land in Warren County. The Fincher family had lived here, stubbornly, for generations, with each successive generation doing worse than the one before. Not only did the land lack adequate drainage, it was poor soil. The hard ground consisted of little more than a layer of topsoil blanketing a sea of rocks like oil on water. Mrs. Fincher’s only son had given up on the place decades ago, leaving Mrs. Fincher to fend for herself on a farm that fell into disrepair and weeds after he left.

Now at the end of her life, the old widow just wanted to ensure she had enough money to be buried in the Hayslip cemetery next to her late husband. Since Hubbard had been working with her, she had started and stopped her small burial policy with the ebb and flow of her finances. Now, she was starting her policy up again, which meant she believed she had the money to pay for the premiums she missed as well as keep current going forward. It was a sad variation on Russian Roulette: Would her insurance policy be in effect when she died? The company agent before Hubbard had grown frustrated with the repeated starts and stops on her account and quit it. Hubbard persisted. There was no easy money here, just an old woman who wanted to be buried properly. He would keep doing this as often as he needed and would hope, along with her, that her policy would be in force at the right time and she’d cash in on her grim jackpot.

As he approached her dilapidated farmhouse, he saw Mrs. Fincher open the door and step on the front porch. She raised her hand in welcome and smiled. Hubbard nodded, but had the lonely thought that he was one of the few visitors to her isolated farm. He parked in front of her house, gathered his paperwork, and got out of his truck.
Please no silver dollar biscuits today. Please have mercy on me.

As he approached, the frail woman wrapped her sweater around herself and folded her arms. “Mrs. Fincher, you shouldn’t be standing out here. You’ll catch cold.”

“You’re just in time. I’ve got a pan of silver dollar biscuits straight out of the oven.”

“
Great.
I can’t believe my timing.” Hubbard felt his stomach ache in protest.

They walked into her overheated home. Hubbard watched the woman’s old gray cat twisting its skeletal frame through his legs, wiping her feline face against his boots.

“Old Puss likes you,” she said. “She’s a good judge of character. She keeps me safe at night.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Hubbard said, trying to sound pleased, but he had mixed feelings about her reliance on a rheumatic cat for both companionship and security. Hubbard tried to keep his focus on the woman and ignore the worn furniture. Every possible seating place in the living room was loaded with tall stacks of old magazines and newspapers. He guessed the yellowing periodicals were the same ones he saw on his previous visit almost a year ago.

Based on more clutter lining the home’s hallway, the old woman’s home life was restricted to the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. “Let’s go into the kitchen,” she said, shuffling in front of him. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Well, I could always eat one of your silver dollar biscuits. That’s for sure.”

A half-hour later they had consumed a meal consisting of rock-hard biscuits, fried salt pork, beans, and dark ice tea. In contrast to the dismal surroundings, she glowed through lunch, as if sitting at her small table was the social event of the season, gossiping happily and incessantly with Hubbard. She retold the same tales he had heard before, stories of her and her late husband living and loving, but most of all, struggling to make a success of this misbegotten family farm. As always, absent from this discussion was any mention of her son, Tom. The woman needed him now. She shouldn’t be alone here.

“So, how’s your son? Still living in Chicago?”

“Oh, yes.”

She tilted her face down toward the table, hiding any emotion from Hubbard. He heard in town that it had been years since her son had contacted her. Didn’t anyone have a normal family? If so, what did normal look like? Hubbard tried to get back to business. He reached down for his briefcase. “I’ve brought the paperwork—”

Mrs. Fincher didn’t realize that she hadn’t shared her news with Hubbard. She began as if he already knew the details. “Isn’t it wonderful!
Someone buying
my
farm
. I can’t believe I’m so lucky. A young man comes by one day and takes a bushel of pictures and tells me my place is beautiful. And then a week later an older gentleman drives his fancy car all the way over here to make me a top-dollar offer. It’s an answer to a prayer. I’m just hoping they won’t change their minds.”

Hubbard was silent for a moment. Had the woman descended into Alzheimer’s? It was difficult for any farmer in Arkansas to sell land without the bitter assistance of a foreclosure sale. Although she held a nice-sized holding, her property had little value. The luck of a spontaneous offer to purchase this barren farm arriving unbidden at her doorstop was difficult to accept as genuine.

“
Who
took photos of your property?”

“Let me think. He was one of those rap singers I believe. You know like Jay-Zee-Lo and what have you.”

“A rap singer took photos of your property? Are you sure?”

Mrs. Fincher nodded. “His name gave it away. He said that folks called him “Double A”.

“Double A . . . ?” Hubbard thought for a moment.
It couldn’t be
. “He didn’t give you another name, did he? Something that sounded like
Amir Abadi
.”

“No . . . I don’t think so . . . Oh, I don’t remember. He said that I should call him
Double A
. All the young people call him that. I guess he meant his fans. He was a very sweet boy.”

“Mrs. Fincher, um, could I ask you about the older man with the fancy car? Do you remember who that was?”

Mrs. Fincher’s brow wrinkled as she tried to remember. “It’s uh, um, now what was his name?” She stood and padded in her slippers to the kitchen cabinets. Painted white, their latex color was yellowing with age. She reached up and pulled off a business card secured with a red push pin to the wood front. She turned around, holding up the card. “
This man
. . . He says it’s important that I act now. I have to sign the papers right away to get this wonderful deal. I told him
I’m so ready
. This will allow me to start my burial insurance again.”

Hubbard extended his arm and she handed him the card. He took a breath. He flipped it over. “Are you sure this was the man that made you the offer?”

“Yes. That’s my savior. Do you know him?”

“Yeah, I do.” Hubbard examined the photo on the card. It was Chet Herring, a sleazy realtor out of Little Rock. Billboards in the city featured large images of the gap-toothed man, wearing a bow tie that spun in the wind. It didn’t make sense that Herring was interested in farm land; he usually was involved in commercial or residential developments. Two hundred acres of rural property was not something that would interest him.

“He said the photos showcased the natural beauty of my property. I told him that this was the most beautiful view in Arkansas.”

Hubbard imagined Amir’s portfolio of images from the Fincher farm: photo after photo of wild grass, rocks and weed. “Uh . . . Yes. It’s picturesque.”

“Double A spent a lot of time on the ridge. Oh course, that’s the best part of the property. Mr. Fincher and I used to have picnics there.”

“The ridge?”

“Here.” She put the paper towel that she was using as a napkin down on the table. “Let’s go look. I haven’t been out there in quite some time.”

Hubbard helped her as she struggled with a coat. When they made it out to the front porch a chilly breeze swept over them and the woman shivered. She pulled her arms around herself.

Hubbard scanned the farm, looking for a ridge. On the long edge of the acreage there was a rocky outcropping, no more than ten feet in height on the far border of the farm. It was spotted with brush and a few scrub pines. He pointed to the distant barrier. “Is that the ridge?”

Mrs. Fincher nodded.

“I’ll walk over there. Why don’t you wait here while I go take a look?”

Mrs. Fincher shoulders fell in relief when she heard she didn’t have to make the trek. “I could heat up some more biscuits. There’s always more. They keep just fine for weeks and weeks and weeks.”

Hubbard nodded and faked a look of delight. “I’ll hurry back.” With a tip of his hand, he headed out. He knew her farm was near the White River, but couldn’t visualize how far the waterway might be from her property. No one approached the river from this side. The Monticello road followed the higher and more difficult to access north bank of the river. At the entrance to her fields, he forced open a rusted gate and trudged across former cropland, now choked with dandelions, pigweed, uncut rye, and Bermuda grasses, and dozens of baby pine trees reclaiming the Fincher land as forest.

After some difficult walking, he reached the outcropping, a short rise comprised of sandstone, shale, and a streak or two of coal. Grass, stray vines and one foolhardy azalea bush had made homes in its nooks and crannies. Hubbard found a foot hold, then a second, and was able to spring to the top of ledge.

He stopped short, stunned by the unexpected view.

Before him, stretching out to the horizon was the White River. The waterway, contrary to its name, was usually colored brown by farm runoff, but here it actually became white water thanks to the bedrock underneath the Fincher farm, constricting the river channel. Large rocks that had fallen from the canyon walls eons ago obstructed the river current, aggravating the water and whipping it into froth as it made a constricted turn to the southeast. It gleamed brightly in the sun, cutting through the Black Jack Pershing State Park forest on the opposite side, racing to join up with the Mississippi River.

Once the rocky ledge was leveled by bull dozers, this million dollar view would be revealed, a selling point for an upscale residential development. But where did Herring think the buyers would come from? No one in Hayslip could afford . . .

Andrews, you son-of-a-bitch! You got the highway commission to approve the Interstate extension to Shreveport.
A divided highway would shave off almost an hour of drive time to Little Rock. This panoramic view would lure new weekend homes of Little Rock’s wealthy.

Herring, probably in concert with Andrews and others, were buying land before the public announcement. When the new highway became news, this property would skyrocket in price. Profiting from this insider knowledge was a highly illegal move for Andrews. No wonder he didn’t boast about his accomplishment when they talked on the phone.

Hubbard remembered the photo he had seen laying on the porch when he stumbled from Amir’s apartment. That image was a different from this; empty like Mrs. Fincher’s property, but with large oaks framing the field. Amir had been taking photos of other attractive parcels being considered for purchase. Who was funding this land grab?

Perhaps guessing was unnecessary.

He hopped down and made his way back to Mrs. Fincher’s farmhouse, while considering the magnificent view. Hubbard had seen this part of the river before, approaching it, like everyone else, through the state park. He had no idea that the Fincher farm was located at the top of the sheer rock wall that towered over the narrow bank. Directly below it was the spot where R.J.’s best friend died in a fishing accident years ago. It was another unexplained death during the first month of that grim summer.

But that was then, this was now.

Hubbard was going to get Mrs. Fincher the deal of her dreams—dreams she didn’t realize she had at the moment, but soon would. He strode back to the farmhouse with a sense of grim determination. Did R.J. think this was a game of chess?

Pawn takes castle
. . .
rook?

Whatever.