The Devil's Water: Scenic City Murder Series #1 Page 11

  The clouds which had hung over Chattanooga all morning, dissipated as the day wore on. Patches of blue, the color of a robin’s egg, broke through and sunlight occasionally beamed down. It was five o clock and the streets were becoming congested with people whose minds were on home and family. Hank Gamblin’s mind was on neither. Strolling down a puddled sidewalk, he smiled and chuckled to himself as he thought of the endless possibilities Louisville Kentucky would provide. He didn’t have the job sewn up exactly but Tom Lowery had all but promised him the position. Hank thought about the way Tom almost gushed when he realized his interest. Louisville. My Old Kentucky Home. Some of the finest bourbon ever made, he thought as he continued walking to his car and growing giddier with each step. Finally, Hank would be appreciated. He would also be on a flight day after tomorrow and would be leaving Floyd Banfield with his balls swinging in the breeze. Gamblin was almost to his car when his cell phone vibrated. He reached into his pocket and looked at the screen. It was a text message from a number he didn’t recognize. “new info on flo/meet me tonight/very important!/devil’s water/9pm.” Hank Gamblin unlocked his car and crawled into the driver’s seat. He didn’t normally answer strange text messages but this directive was obviously for him and him only. Hank began typing. In a moment, he hit ‘send’. He stuck the keys into his ignition and sat back in the seat to wait for a response. Two or three minutes later, his phone vibrated again. He lifted it up to read. “who do you think I am/ I have to be discreet.” Gamblin studied the message for awhile before making a decision. Vicelli, he thought. Martin Vicelli was a total wimp and would be afraid of getting caught. He always had been. Gamblin could see, in his mind’s eye, the fat little Italian ratting out the PD. Vicelli never would make eye contact when he was telling his stories but perspiration would cover his face when he was finished. Gamblin thought Vicelli was a candy ass who didn’t know where his true allegiance should lay. Of course, that wasn’t going to keep Gamblin from using the rat to his advantage. Hank smiled as he started typing. He planned on leaving Chattanooga and never coming back. He would, however, go out in style.

  The night was black down on the banks of the Tennessee River. Cloud coverage had come once again and it had probably dropped twenty degrees in temperature since the sun set a few hours before. It was 9:10 and Hank Gamblin was growing restless. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he sat in the dark. The engine was on and heat blew through the vents. He read the digital display for the inside temperature. 72 degrees. He glanced at his watch again. It was 9:11. Shit. Hank really wanted this last hoorah but he wasn’t willing to wait forever to get it. He decided that he would give Vicelli until 9:20 and then he was getting the fuck out of there. The Devil’s Water gave him the creeps anyway and it was beyond reason why Vicelli would want to meet him here in the first place. The only possibility that Hank could think of was the fact that Vicelli wanted the rendezvous completely on the QT. Maybe Vicelli had something important to show him here. Hank mulled that idea over in his head until he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. It was a yellow beam of light. As the light grew closer, Hank realized that there were actually two beams of lights. A car was coming. Hank leaned up in his seat and flashed his own beams on and off twice to signal that he was there. Grabbing the door handle, he reached for the flashlight laying on the seat beside him and opened the car door. He got out of the car and was a little surprised at how cold the evening had gotten even since he had left his house. In the glow of the headlights coming toward him, Hank Gamblin could see his breath in the night air. The vehicle was perhaps thirty yards away but Hank could hear music coming from the car loud and clear. He tried to place it. Maybe the 40’s. Big band like Cole Porter. He raised an arm and smiled at the two headlights which were almost blinding. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he watched as the car finally came to its resting place not twenty feet from where he was standing. In a second, the engine and lights were cut off and he heard the car door open. “Hello, Vicelli.” Hank offered as he heard twigs and limbs breaking underfoot. Closer and closer they came. “I said ‘hello’ Martin. Are you going to say anything?” There was still no answer. Hank turned his flashlight on and aimed it directly in front of him. “What the….what are you doing here?” He asked stupidly to the person standing there. Hank Gamblin never got his answer. The last thing he saw was a pistol aimed directly at his head. Two shots rang out in the cool night air disturbing a resting owl on a limb high above. As the bird flew away, Hank slumped to the ground. Hank Gamblin was most definitely dead.

  CHAPTER 28

  The reel chirped like a cricket as the spinner was released into the murky water of the Tennessee River. It landed with a plop. The line was jerked and reeled as the spinner headed toward its home which was a high price bass boat. Tatum Channing brought in his bait and looked toward his fisherman friend, Earl Sanford. “Earl, you reckon we got fish out here? I been throwin’ out and reelin’ back for the best part of the mornin’.”

  “I ain’t ready to give it up yet. You?”

  “Nah. Probably not. Stripers may be runnin’ a little bit later.” He backed off the front of the bow and allowed Earl Sanford a view. “Yeah, we got a ways to go today.” Earl said as he moved his substantial gut down to the rest of the boat. He pulled out a flask from under his sweatpants. Jim Beam straight. He took a long gulp and put the flask back in its hiding place. “Gotta have a nip for the bites, Tater.” He said as he came back up to the bow and slapped the younger man on his back.

  “Whatcha think might turn the fish on?” Tatum Channing asked his friend.

  “I dunno.” Earl said.

  “We could always fish off the bottom.” Tatum suggested. Earl laughed at the possibility. He didn’t normally go for trash fish like shad or drum. He was having a great week. No work at the mill. No punching a time clock. It was late fall and Earl Sanford was having a blast in his friend’s 30 k plus boat. “We need to give it a while.” He said as he watched Tater cast out and slowly roll back in. Though neither man thought about it, the boat was drifting downstream. “I’m gonna catch me a cat.” Earl Sanford said as he brought his line in and grabbed the hook. He reached into the ice cooler and brought out a tin of night crawlers. When he opened the top, many of them squirmed around like they knew the end was near. He unlatched his spinner and ran a worm up the large hook. He cast out and waited for a bite. Earl Sanford watched the water as he rolled his bait in boat side. Glancing to the left, he noticed that the boat was moving toward the banks of the Devil’s Water.

  He saw that deadwood was floating next to a pile of branches which had fallen off into the river. “Cast over there, Tater,” the man directed as he pointed his fishing pole toward the cove of Devil’s Water. Tater obeyed his elder, casting long and high to land only three feet from the pile of branches. He watched the water ripple where his plug had landed. As he brought his lure in, he saw Earl reach back in his waistband for another sip of Jim Beam. “Hey, be careful with that.” Tater said. “The river police are on patrol. Last thing I want is to spend the night in jail.”

  “Aw, relax Tater. This ain’t high season. They ain’t no patrol here and, if they were around, they wouldn’t keep a man from his flask. It ain’t like I’m drinking beer out of a can. Discretion is the better part of valor.”

  Tater shook his head and aimed toward the pile of branches again. He figured he might land a striped bass any minute and show up his drunk buddy. He leaned way back and tossed his lure as far as he possibly could. Unfortunately for Tater, his aim was off slightly and he watched his spinner go sailing right into the pile of brush. “Aw shit!” Tater said loudly as he began jerking his rod back and forth in hopes of freeing his artificial bait.

  “You’ve done it now!” Earl said with a chuckle.

  Tater fought with his lure for at least five minutes while Earl watched. Finally, Earl realized that his friend was fighting a losing battle.

  “Aw hell.” Earl said, grabbing his own r
od. “I’ll reel in and we’ll go over there and get that damn spinner.”

  “I don’t know about getting the boat in that cove, Earl. The Devil’s Water is dangerous. It has been for a lot of folks.”

  “Listen, we’ll get that lure. It’s one of your favorites.”

  “But people have drowned in there.” Tater protested.

  “Dammit, Tater! We’re in a fuckin’ boat. What could happen?” Earl moved to the bow. “Now get back there and start the motor. We’ll move in real easy like, ‘kay?”

  The motor rumbled soft and low as the craft moved slowly through the water to the pile of brush. “Easy, easy.” Earl directed as they approached. He reached out his arm and grabbed the branch which the spinner was hooked to. He let out a loud grunt as the branch snapped and the spinner was dislodged. “Got it!” he announced triumphantly and glanced back at Tater smiling.

  Tatum Channing wasn’t looking at his friend. His eyes were fixed on something else. Something was going on behind Earl. “What is it?” Earl Sanford asked. Tater’s eyes were as big as saucers. He didn’t answer his friend. “What the hell is it?” Earl asked once more before turning to look. There, approximately twenty feet from the water’s edge, was a tall oak tree. The fall colors of its leaves were red, orange and yellow. Earl had noticed the tree many times on previous fishing trips. He would gaze at it from time to time as he would cast out trying to catch the ultimate big one. He had always thought it to be one of the prettiest trees on the Tennessee River. Today, however, Earl Sanford’s attention wasn’t drawn to the fall foliage. Like his friend, Earl found himself staring at the trunk of the tree.

  “Holy shit.” He said in a whisper.

  Leaning against the tree, in a relaxed repose, was the body of a man staring out at the Tennessee River. With his hands neatly folded on his lap, he could’ve just been daydreaming but for the two bullet holes in his forehead. “Jesus. We gotta do something.” Tater finally stated.

  “You do something. I’m getting the hell out of dodge.”

  “We can’t just leave the man like that, Earl.” Tater protested.

  “Well you know all the bad business that’s been goin’ on around here. If we go over there, it could be dangerous.”

  Tater, still not convinced, cut the motor back on and aimed the boat toward the river bank. “We have to help him, Earl.”

  “Hell, Tater! They ain’t no helpin’ him! He’s deader than four o’ clock.”

  Tatum Channing continued to the bank despite his friend’s protestations. He landed the boat on a large rock and walked back up to the front.

  “Well, I’m gonna see what I can do.” Tatum said as he stepped off the bow onto dry land.

  “I’ll stay right here.” Earl answered as he reached for his Jim Beam again.

  Tatum climbed the rocks and walked the twenty feet through the grass to the tree. “Hey mister!” he called as he approached the man. Tater came to a stop not three feet away from where the man was situated. He felt a chill crawl up his spine. The man’s eyes were a milky white and his mouth was partially agape. Indeed, he had two small bullet holes on his forehead. Whoever had shot him, definitely wanted him dead. “Whatcha see?” Earl yelled.

  “Yeah, he’s a dead man.” Tater called back. He turned to look at his friend who was still keeping a safe distance from the corpse. “What do ya think we oughta do?” Tater asked.

  Earl reached in his pocket and took out a cell phone. “We’re gonna call the cops and wait for them to get here. Meantime, you get back in the boat Tater. I watch them detective shows. We don’t need to touch nothin’.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Tasha Yoder and Dan Mclutcheon were flying down the interstate toward the Tennessee River. Tasha glanced over and noticed that the Volvo’s speedometer read 80mph. “Jesus, Clutch. Would you slow down?”

  “Can’t. We shoulda been there 30 minutes ago. I’m sure Wilder and the rest of the guys are waiting for us.”

  “Well, we won’t get there at all if you run into the back of this car in front of you. You’ve been eating his ass for miles!”

  “Lead, follow or get the fuck outta the way.” He said as he jerked the steering wheel sideways and the car careened into the passing lane. Tasha noticed that his jaw muscles were working overtime.

  “Look, I don’t want to die today. I don’t want my gravestone to read ‘she barely outlived one of the greatest pricks of all time’.” Tasha said. She noticed Clutch’s face begin to soften into a smile.

  “Yeah, I ain’t exactly torn up that Gamblin is gone for good either.” He geared the car down to 70 since they were entering the Chattanooga city limits and traffic had started to pick up.

  “Who found the body?” Tasha asked.

  “Couple of good ol’ boys. They were out fishing in a bass boat and floated right by him. One of the guys was scared shitless according to Wilder. Probably helped some that he was loaded.”

  “He was drunk?”

  “Yep. Wilder said you could smell him from twenty paces away.”

  “Did Jeff give you any more information?”

  “Not much. That’s why I wanted to get down there as soon as possible. I’d like to see it for myself before people start fucking with the crime scene. He did tell me this though. Gamblin’s body was posed.”

  “What do you mean?” Tasha asked.

  “I mean he propped ol’ Gamblin up by a tree. Just like he did with Monica Balzer. Wilder told me that it’s even the same fucking tree. He said that Hank is just staring off across the Tennessee and watching the river float by.”

  “Creepy.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Gary Berndt ain’t right. I’m not sayin’ he’s crazy but he definitely ain’t right.”

  Clutch slowed his Volvo down and took the River exit ramp. “Wow. It’s been a while since I’ve been down here.” Tasha said. He smiled at her before he took a right on the road and followed it for two or three miles. After a small bend in the highway, they came to a gravel trail situated between two wooded banks. Clutch pulled onto the trail and prayed that his car wouldn’t get damaged. “Jesus, it’s narrow.” Tasha noted.

  “Yeah, it’s not easy to get back here.”

  Clutch let off on the pedal and crept along. He dodged several huge holes as he made his way toward his destination.

  “It’s really just a pig trail to get back here.” He said.

  “How far do we go? It’s been so long I forgot.”

  “Should be around the next turn.” Clutch’s speedometer read five miles an hour. He was determined to not fuck up his new car. He wished that he had the foresight to have taken one of the cars at the precinct. He looked in the rearview mirror at the narrow gravel road behind him. Too late now. Glancing back ahead of him, he saw a clearing to the left of the narrow trail. “We’re almost there.” He said with more than a little relief. As the car came to the clearing, Clutch and Tasha noticed several cruisers parked along the bank of the Tennessee River. Clutch maneuvered his car across a small grassy field toward the other parked vehicles. He came to a stop about 30 yards from the water’s edge and cut the engine. “Let’s go.”

  The path down to the water was rocky and Tasha almost tripped more than once. “Shit!”

  “What’s the matter?” Clutch asked.

  “I think I have a rock in my shoe. Hold on and come here.” Tasha waited until Clutch was standing beside her. She put an arm on his shoulder and lifted her leg, grabbing her shoe at the same time. With a grunt, she stripped the shoe off her foot and a small pebble fell out. “There,” she said, still holding onto Clutch’s shoulder. She slipped her dress pump back on her foot and stood up. “Now would you slow down?”

  “Sorry.”

  Clutch allowed his partner to take the lead and the two of them eased down to the bank of the Devil’s Water. There was a small gathering of men standing beside a huge oak tree. Tasha couldn’t see what they were looking at but was pretty sure it was the body of Hank Gamblin. “I guess we n
eed to go over there.” She said, still leading the way.

  As they approached, Jeff Wilder turned and made eye contact with her. “Hey Tasha.” He said, offering his hand. She reached out and took it as Clutch came up to stand beside her. “Tell me what you know Jeff.” He said as he glanced toward the body.

  “Well, we know that Hank Gamblin is dead. Apparently the victim of gunshot. Two slugs to the forehead. Why don’t we take a look, boss?”

  The other men standing near the body turned and, without being told, walked quietly away from the large oak tree. Tasha noted that everyone besides Jeff Wilder and Clutch were talking in whispers. It really didn’t surprise her. In her experience, people always got quiet when in the presence of a body, especially a homicide victim. As the crew dispersed, Jeff took a few steps backward and made way for Clutch and Tasha to walk past him. “I really wanted to wait on you guys before we did too much to the scene.” Jeff was saying as Tasha and Clutch stood within three feet of the corpse.