Dead Shot Read online

  “I can explain –” Cal started.

  “You better start talking fast. I don’t have time for nuanced excuses.”

  “We started by going to talk with Sheriff Jones, and he started giving us the run around along with a suggestion to more or less drop it,” Cal answered.

  “A suggestion? Like, ‘Stop digging. No one will like what you find’?”

  “Yeah, kind of like that.”

  “And so you had to go keep digging, of course.”

  “Boss, isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? I’m telling you, something strange is going on and people will want to know about it.”

  “According to Joseph and Hunter Jones, nobody in this town wants to know about anything other than funeral arrangements and where to send flowers for these poor boys’ families.”

  “And you’re buying that?”

  “I don’t know what I’m buying yet, but I don’t like anything that gets the publisher and the sheriff crawling all over me. You got it?” The stressed-out editor pointed his index finger at the two as if it were a pistol.

  Kelly nodded her head, but Cal knew she had no intention of halting her investigation. Neither did he. Cal continued his protest.

  “So how are we supposed to do our jobs?”

  “Figure it out, cubbie. But do it without having my boss and the law put the squeeze on me. Now get out of here and let me know when you have something.”

  Kelly got up and headed for her desk. Cal didn’t move.

  “What makes you think we don’t already have something of interest?”

  “You don’t. Now get out of here before you ruin the five precious minutes I have left of this morning.”

  Cal huffed as he returned to his desk and began organizing his notes.

  “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Discretion is the better part of valor’?” whispered a voice in Cal’s ear.

  Cal turned to see a smart-aleck grin spread across Kelly’s face.

  “I think I know who is behind all this, Cal. Let’s go talk about it over lunch.”

  Cal grabbed his briefcase and ignored the rest of the newsroom employees. For the second time today, he was invited to ride in Kelly’s car. Guy’s tirade withstanding, it was turning out to be a pretty good day for Cal.

  Law enforcement feathers ruffled? Check. Big breaking story with potential for an award-winning article? Check. Business or not, riding with Kelly in her sports car? Check. Lunch with Kelly at Ray-Ray’s? Near perfection. And it was only noon.

  Chapter 9

  Cal’s breakfast in his frantic rush to get to the office ended up being two untoasted pop tarts and a cup of coffee. It was hardly the breakfast of champions, but most definitely a staple for reporters. By lunchtime, Cal needed something more substantial. He needed brain food. He needed Ray-Ray’s.

  Ray-Ray’s was the best – and only – barbecue joint in all of Brooks County. Prior to Ray-Ray’s, the only barbecue to be found there was the processed kind found in the refrigerated section of a grocery store. But six months ago, brothers William and Burt Ray from Arkansas relocated to Statenville and opened up one of the best barbecue restaurants in the state. Within three months, Ray-Ray’s word-of-mouth reputation was so strong that a food critic from the Boise newspaper made the two-and-a-half hour drive to Statenville resulting in a glowing review. After that, Ray-Ray’s needed no more help in attracting customers.

  Cal and Kelly inhaled the smell of a hickory wood grill and spicy barbecue sauce as they opened the restaurant door. Nothing could change Cal’s mood like the aroma of barbecue, nothing other than eating it, that is. They both placed their order and then found a table outside to reduce the number of nosy ears.

  “So, Kelly, who do you think is behind all of this?” asked Cal, who, after one bite of ribs, had already managed to get a thick stream of barbecue sauce oozing down the center of his chin.

  “Well, I don’t know if someone left it on my desk as a hint or if it’s just by pure coincidence, but when I sat down at my desk, I had a paper folded to this headline.”

  Kelly pulled a two-week old copy of The Register out of her purse. It was folded so that only one headline was showing.

  “Boise Developer, City Clash”

  Cal kept eating as he scanned the article written by Guy two weeks ago; an article he missed while covering the end of the summer city softball league tournament. The article painted the scene of Statenville’s contentious city council meeting over the re-zoning of a particular property owned by Boise developer, BCH Homes. It was currently zoned as agricultural land, but BCH wanted to build a 100-home subdivision to accommodate the city’s growth. There was rumor that a new pulpwood plant was going to be relocating to Statenville within the next 18 months – and BCH saw this as an opportunity to build plenty of new homes. The article quoted a handful of local men and women upset about the potential re-zoning and what it would do to their property values. Standard reporting.

  Cal didn’t see the connection to the three dead teens.

  “I’m not sure I get it,” Cal answered after re-reading the article.

  “Let me help you out, Einstein.” Kelly took the paper from Cal and circled three names with a pen: Murray, Reid, and Gold. The three last names of the teens who were now dead. She handed the paper back to Cal. “Now, do you get it?”

  “Well, there’s at least two other people quoted in the article and nobody in their family died. Besides, do you really think that a developer would hire someone to kill the sons of three people who spoke out at a meeting? If you’re that sinister, why not put the squeeze on the commissioners themselves?”

  Kelly went on a mini-tirade that reminded Cal of her Uncle Joe.

  “Look, we’ve got nothing right now, but this is as plausible as anything – and you just want to dismiss it like it’s nothing and that people aren’t really that evil? Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Outsider. You have no idea the havoc outside development has wreaked on this town! I will be shocked if this isn’t who’s behind all this.”

  Cal motioned for Kelly to settle down, nearing embarrassment at the scene she was causing. He sucked the barbecue sauce off every finger, using the stall tactic as an opportunity to carefully choose his response.

  He leaned across the table and spoke in a low, calm voice in hopes of tempering Kelly’s excitement.

  “Look, I know I don’t know all of Statenville’s past history, but you’re not thinking with your head – you’re thinking with your heart. Past experience doesn’t always dictate future actions. However, if you want to warn those people quoted in the story, I’m fine with that.”

  Kelly looked down and shook her head as she cooled off.

  “All I’m saying, Cal, is that’s the least we can do. If they are next and we don’t say anything, we might both regret it. And that’s not something I want to live with.”

  “OK, let’s make some calls.”

  The two crammed down the remaining ribs and French fries and headed back to the newsroom.

  ***

  Neither Cal nor Kelly noticed the black Ford F-250 parked at the end of the block.

  As Kelly turned onto the road and headed back to the office, the black truck eased onto the road behind her.

  Chapter 10

  Guy was standing at Edith’s desk when Cal and Kelly returned from lunch.

  “So, did my two least favorite gumshoes crack this case?” Guy demanded.

  Cal looked at the mug Guy clutched with both hands. He wondered just how many cups Guy had to get that cranky by lunchtime. “Uh, no, but Kelly has a theory?”

  “A theory? What is this? CSI? We run a newspaper here. We deal in facts. What facts do you have that we can report in our paper without getting us sued, without getting me chewed out by the publisher, and without making Hunter Jones look like the fool that he is?”

  In the course of 15 seconds, Kelly lost her confidence – and her courage.

  “We’ve got nothing yet, but as soon as we do, I�
��ll let you know,” she said.

  Guy muttered another biting comment about Cal and Kelly’s intelligence and stormed back to his office.

  Kelly looked sheepishly at Cal, who was boring a hole in her with his stare.

  “What? What did you want me to say?”

  “Look, let’s each make a phone call to warn the other two people in the story and get back out there. I want to talk with a few people who might know something about these kids.”

  Cal returned to his desk and began dialing the number for Brady Perkins, the farmer who sold the land to BCH Homes. In Guy’s article, Perkins complained that he thought he was selling the land to another farmer and argued that BCH Homes posed as a buyer under false pretenses. He also expressed his disappointment that precious Idaho topsoil would be covered with pavement.

  From reading Brady’s comments, Cal wasn’t sure if the old farmer was sincere or simply trying to stave off the growing disdain locals felt toward him for selling the property to an outsider.

  Brady picked up his phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Perkins?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Cal Murphy from The Register. How are you today, sir?”

  “Well, I’m happy with my subscription. Thank you very much. Now, I’ve got to get back to plowing.”

  “Wait, Mr. Perkins, I wasn’t calling about your subscription.”

  “Is this a survey? Cause I don’t have time for that either.”

  “No, Mr. Perkins. This isn’t a survey. I just wanted to warn you that your life might be in danger.”

  “In danger? What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Mr. Perkins, are you aware that three teenage boys have died in the last 24 hours and authorities suspect foul play?”

  “Yeah, I heard. What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Well, sir, in some of our investigating, we discovered that in one of our articles each of those boys’ parents lashed out against BCH Homes during the city council meeting a few weeks ago. And the same article quoted you.”

  “So what, you think I’m next?” Brady said in a mocking tone.

  “Well, we don’t know if there’s a connection, but we thought we’d at least warn you and your family.”

  “What family? I’ve only got myself to look after. You don’t need to worry about me. Me and my Smith and Wesson are pretty good at taking care of me.”

  “OK, Mr. Perkins. I wanted to give you a heads up just in case.”

  Click. The line went dead.

  For a second, Cal wondered if Kelly’s theory was right and maybe some cloak-and-dagger hit man had just offed Brady Perkins. But then he decided it was much more likely that Mr. Perkins simply hung up on a crazy reporter. Cal didn’t give it another thought.

  He spun around to watch Kelly hang up.

  “So, did Mrs. Washburn sound concerned?”

  Kelly rolled her eyes. “No. She laughed at me and said she didn’t have teenage boys. Then she started telling me the rumor she heard about how the boys died.”

  “I’ll bet that was interesting.”

  “Yeah, it actually was quite entertaining. She said the prevailing rumor is that a deranged mountain lion wandered down from the Sawtooths and mauled those three boys. And it’s still roaming around Brooks County looking for its next victim.”

  Cal started chuckling at Mrs. Washburn’s theory and the idea that a mountain lion could roam freely in any Idaho town for more than 10 minutes without getting put down by a high-powered rifle.

  “What about Mr. Perkins? What did he say?”

  “He said he wasn’t concerned – and then he hung up on me.”

  “Nice.”

  “OK, so you ready to hit the road again?”

  “Sure. Where to now, Sherlock?”

  “Statenville High School. Coach Mike Miller’s office.”

  Chapter 11

  Mike Miller’s office would have made Cal’s favorite TV detective, Monk, go into shock.

  Crusty half-eaten sandwiches were wedged next to mounds of paperwork on his desk, some that appeared classroom related, others that looked like football plays. Two pens with chewed off ends oozed ink onto his desk. Phys Ed text books were piled in the corner next to used mouth pieces and broken helmets. The white cinder block walls remained bare with the exception of a cheaply framed 1994 District Coach of the Year certificate hanging slightly off kilter. A wafting aroma of sweaty gym socks and tobacco juice hung in the air.

  After a year of covering the Statenville Wildcats football program, Cal had never met Miller in his office. Now he knew why. He wondered if a hazmat suit was more appropriate attire for this unannounced visit.

  Miller wasn’t in his office.

  “Can I help you?” came a voice from behind Cal and Kelly.

  Cal spun around to see Buddy Walker, the head boys basketball coach and an assistant football coach.

  Walker was new by Statenville standards, set to enter his third year at the school. Coaching jobs rarely opened up at Statenville High. It was so far off the beaten path that nobody considered it a stepping-stone for his coaching career—it was a final destination. You didn’t go to Statenville High if you wanted to coach in Boise or Salt Lake. You went there because you were either from there or you wanted to live there until you died. Walker certainly wasn’t the former, but many of the townspeople weren’t convinced he was the latter either. Walker wasn’t the smartest coach by Cal’s estimation. But he possessed plenty of youthful energy, a valuable trait Walker needed when he was hired to replace his popular predecessor Nick Zentz, who died in a tragic hunting accident.

  “Hi, Coach Walker. How are you?”

  “Oh, hey there, Cal. We could be doing a lot better today.”

  “Yeah, I’m still in shock that those three boys are gone. I interviewed Cody last week for our football preview.”

  Walker looked down and dragged a used mouthpiece across the floor with his foot. His face silently agreed with Cal.

  “How’s Coach Miller holding up?” Kelly asked.

  “He’s doing all right under the circumstances. But he’s pretty torn up. This team is like a family and right now we’re all hurting.”

  “Is Coach Miller here?” Kelly asked.

  “Yeah, you can find him in his own private sanctuary—the football field.”

  Up until this moment, the report of the three boys’ death was just a sensational news story. Now, the human element of what happened struck Cal. He began to feel a little uncomfortable, even embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of how Miller might be feeling. But he still had a job to do no matter how awkward it was.

  “Thanks, Buddy,” Cal said somberly.

  Cal and Kelly quietly exited Miller’s office and headed for the football field.

  Statenville High may play eight-man football and have only 3,500 people living in the city limits, but Wildcat Stadium had a seat for every one of them.

  Cal often wondered why. When it came to wins and losses, the whole athletic program was an embarrassment. But that didn’t seem to matter to the people of Statenville. They supported their team no matter what. And if you didn’t believe that, the fact that Miller had two winning seasons in 20 years – and about to begin his 21st – was proof enough.

  Cal figured the death of three team members would be devastating to Miller under any circumstances. It was hard enough to find enough boys to suit up each season. In a tragic 24-hour period, his roster had been reduced to 14 players. But these three boys were supposed to lead Statenville to a district crown and maybe even a state title. That only added to an already difficult professional situation for Miller.

  When Cal and Kelly reached the stadium, they found Miller sitting in the bleachers at the 50-yard line, staring blankly at the field.

  “Cody had a good shot to start at Washington State next year,” Miller said without even looking at the reporters. “Those boys had their whole lives in front of them. I can’t believe they
threw it all away for drugs.”

  “It does seem a little odd, doesn’t it?” Cal responded.

  “So, I guess you want some comments for your story.”

  “If you don’t feel like talking right now, I understand. It’s OK. We can come back later.”

  “Now is as good of a time as any.”

  “Coach, I guess the biggest mystery to me is why a kid with such a promising future would be doing drugs.”

  “What promising athlete isn’t doing some type of drug today?” Miller’s cynicism took Cal aback. He continued. “I know some of these boys do drugs, but nobody in this town seems to care. Not even the parents.”

  “Did you ever talk to Cody’s parents about his drug usage?”

  “Yeah, one time I saw Cody’s dad after practice and I mentioned that he might be using. But his dad just laughed at me and said, ‘If it helps him get ahead, I’m all for it.’ It made me sick.”

  “Does meth really help you as an athlete?” Kelly interjected.

  “I’ve heard it gives you a lot of energy. So for a guy who really wanted to make it out of Statenville as an athlete, it helped him work out longer. And the more you work out, the stronger you get and the more you can do physically. Heck, most college coaches don’t care if you’re smart as long as you look good gettin’ off the bus, so where do you think an athlete who wants to play in college is going to spend his time? It ain’t studying after school, that’s for sure.”

  Miller’s straight talk stunned Cal into silence. Coaches always had standard answers for his questions, but Miller was off script. It was refreshing – and shocking.

  Kelly noticed Cal was entranced by Miller’s honesty. She continued her line of questioning.

  “So, how long did you know Cody was using?”

  “It started last summer, probably just as a way to help him gain an edge in the weight room. But it wasn’t too long before he was addicted. He impressed enough college coaches in the fall to get a handful of scholarship offers, but I didn’t suspect he’d ever really make it to campus.”