Moon Underfoot (4 page)
J
AKE AND MORGAN
had spent several anxious days and sleepless nights since the man had been spotted in their backyard.
The police, along with assistance from the sheriff’s department, finally had determined that the Peeping Tom had not driven himself into the neighborhood or been dropped off. Law enforcement had carefully followed his tracks and determined that the perp had boated Tibbee Creek, which ran near the back of the golf course, and then walked in. This really perplexed everyone. To do this took an enormous amount of effort and a tough thousand-yard hike through dense woods and thick undergrowth. “Not typical of a burglar,” said one deputy. “They’re usually lazy. Opportunistic.”
Security was heightened. All the community’s residents were on edge. Security alarms that had had never been used were suddenly being activated and monitoring contracts signed. The sheriff’s department had an undercover team working, as hunters patrolled the large creek, which in some states would have been considered a river. Law enforcement of both West Point and Clay County were doing their best to protect their citizens.
Jake’s motion-sensitive game camera had several profile images of an unidentifiable man from seven different nights. The photos confirmed Morgan’s account of the man, but they didn’t establish his identity. All that the police knew about the man was that he was white and probably thin, but winter clothing made it difficult to be certain. He was obviously knowledgeable in nighttime navigation of both woods and waters. He also smoked Marlboro Lights.
Morgan’s initial response was that the family should move again, but they couldn’t afford it. “How and to where?” Jake asked.
They’d sunk everything they had into this house after they had taken a bath on the one they had just sold to move quickly. The housing market was now almost another two years in the tank, not to mention that no one would buy a house with a recent history of a stalker in the backyard.
Jake and Morgan owned a small cabin on the Tombigbee River that they could sell if absolutely necessary. It had been in Jake’s family for decades, so he wasn’t too keen on that idea.
A frustrated Jake Crosby had met with law enforcement officials to discuss the possibility of the stalker being connected to what had happened in West Alabama about eighteen months earlier. Departments collaborated and files were studied, but nothing had been decided yet.
During the night of the Dummy Line incident, an Alabama deputy sheriff had encountered a suspicious male at Johnny Lee Grover’s trailer—one Ethan “Moon Pie” Daniels, who had disappeared after evading the deputy’s attempt to follow him. Moon Pie had flown under the radar for most of his adult life, but he had basically dropped off the grid since that awful spring evening in Alabama. Since his involvement in that night’s crimes could not be established, law enforcement from both Alabama and Mississippi were content to let Moon Pie and the matter quietly fade away.
Another Dummy Line suspect was Tommy Tidwell, commonly known as Tiny. He too was thought to have been in the area of the crimes and was a known associate of the gang. He was located several months after the killings, but the police could never get him to talk about that night. Since Jake could not positively identify him in a lineup, the local district attorney had been forced to close the case, knowing that three very bad guys had been killed that night and two more may have been involved.
Tiny had a solid alibi for the recent events in West Point, and he didn’t match the physical appearance of the suspect’s outline that had been captured in the game camera photographs. Tiny weighed 365 pounds without bulky cold-weather clothing. Additionally, for the last year, he had worked the day shift at a fish hatchery in Montgomery, Alabama, and nights as a maintenance man at an Indian casino. He hadn’t missed any work in over a year. The law enforcement officers were left wondering when he had time to sleep. His live-in girlfriend mildly complained of the same, but somebody had to work to pay the bills, and it obviously wasn’t going to be her.
“W
HOA. HANG ON
. Okay—let me get this straight,” Samantha said, holding up a hand and then flipping to a clean sheet of paper.
She leaned forward, staring at the two old men, and then asked, “The two of you robbed the Kroger. We’re talking about that giant grocery store?”
“That’s the store. But we didn’t exactly rob it. We sorta embezzled the weekend deposit,” Walter said with a sly grin. “And we had two more people helping. It was an inside job, and we didn’t use guns—just brains.”
“We doubt they’ve even figured it out yet,” added Bernard Jefferson with a sense of confidence.
“And you want me to help you start a legitimate foundation with this stolen money to help older people who don’t have any money.” She stared back at them and noticed a distinct twinkle in Bernard’s eyes.
“That’s a bit of oversimplification. We want to start a foundation to help older people who worked all their lives and don’t have anything to show for it…like us—to do one final, life-changing act for their families. Help them get a break, a leg up, so to speak,” Walter explained calmly.
Sam, in obvious disbelief, took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
Walter allowed his comments to sink in for a moment and then continued, “For instance, we have a guy in our group with a grandson who’s going to medical school and having to work two jobs just to pay the bills. He doesn’t even have time to study. Imagine not being able to study properly at medical school because you’re worried about paying the rent, buying gas and books…and eating. He’s a great kid who’s trying really hard. Imagine what twenty-five thousand dollars would mean to him. Imagine his granddad being able to give it to him. The kid could study properly, be competitive with the other students, and perform at his best. People like him deserve some help.”
“You’re serious.”
“You betcha! You see, we help him, and in return, he pledges to help someone else when he can,” Walter added with an unvarnished Minnesotan accent and a broad smile.
“So that’s how it perpetuates,” Sam remarked.
“Absolutely. But we can’t help everybody. We know that. We want to be selective. We need requirements and a means to help us decide who really qualifies and to spot the freeloaders. Whether it’s school tuition, helping start a business, paying for a surgery, whatever…there’s a lot of need out there, and there are a lot of people like us who want to help but can’t. We need a lawyer to set up the foundation and then to monitor, administrate, and help it continue,” Walter explained and then glanced over at Bernard, who was excited to add, “That’s why we hired you.”
“You haven’t hired me yet,” she shot back.
Sam’s mind was racing. She could count her clients on one hand and still have a couple of extra fingers. That did not translate into a healthy practice. Now these crazy old men waltz in, lay down an envelope full of much-needed cash, and then casually admit to stealing the money to help those in need. Her ethical compass was spinning wildly.
“I haven’t seen anything in the news about the robbery,” she said with certainty. Sam watched the local news each night while thinking about exercising.
“It wasn’t robbery, and we’re good guys.”
“How much money are we talking about here?”
“One hundred and sixteen thousand dollars. There’s five grand in that envelope to retain your services,” Walter replied as he gestured toward her desk.
“We saw your commercial on TV,” Bernard contributed confidently.
“Actually, I did a pretty thorough background check on you,” Walter said with a smile.
“On me?”
“Walter Googled you,” Bernard interjected enthusiastically.
Before Walter could clarify, Bernard added, “We know about the panthers.”
Sam looked at him with a furrowed brow.
“It’s important to have the right person help us,” Walter explained.
“Well, gentlemen, I’m not sure I’m buying your story, and even if I did, that’s not enough money to start a foundation like what you’ve described. You could start it, I suppose, but you just couldn’t help many people.”
“Oh, we’re gonna get a lot more money. I have a plan for that,” Walter explained.
Sam blinked. She had to ask, “How? More Krogers?”
“No, ma’am. I can’t tell you. I don’t feel comfortable explaining crimes we’re considering.”
“But you told me about the Kroger felony.”
With steely resolve, Walter stated, “What we’ve done is done…and you’re our lawyer, so you can’t betray us.”
“I’m not your lawyer, yet.”
“I told you because you need to know that we’re being totally honest.”
“Nobody’s gonna get hurt,” Bernard promised.
“Look, gentlemen, y’all seem sweet, and I’ve enjoyed talking with y’all. The foundation concept is worthwhile, but your funding methods don’t make sense. Doing something bad to do something good? If everything you’ve said is true, this creates an ethical, if not legal, dilemma for me.” Sam leaned back and stared at the cash on her desk.
Five thousand dollars sure could go a long way around here
, she thought.
“We aren’t asking you to break the law. Just execute our wishes. We’ll pay your hourly rate and allow you to be the administrator—for a fee, of course. It’s our legacy, and we are very serious about it,” Walter explained as he leaned in for emphasis.
Walter let a long moment pass and then sat back to study her office. From the looks of things, it appeared she needed the retainer. Need was everywhere. Everybody needs something.
Sam glanced down at her watch and then at the two old men smiling at her. She could hear her receptionist explaining to a confused walk-in that the therapist was gone. Sam sighed and wondered just how much of their story was true. At least they could pay.
“Okay, here’s my proposal: we go to lunch, you buy, and I bill you for a minimum of one hour and pro rata every fifteen minutes beyond the first hour, including travel time. You tell me everything, and I’ll decide if I’m going to be your attorney.”
“Deal,” the old men said in stereo.
Walter smiled; after a few more heartfelt stories about helping others, he would have the lawyer he wanted. He would bide his time before explaining to her what he really wanted the foundation to accomplish.
E
VERYONE WORRIED ABOUT
Katy. She had been only nine years old when she and Jake endured an unimaginable night of terror. Jake and Morgan took her to the best counselors in Mississippi. She talked, they listened, and everybody felt like Katy was improving. Initially, the counselors all said she simply didn’t know how to process the information. They also spoke about her compartmentalizing the issues. Talking seemed to help Katy. To Jake, it seemed all the counselors did was listen and ask, “How did that make you feel?” But, since he was worried about his tiny daughter, he participated, and he would have sold a kidney to get her the best help. Their insurance soon quit picking up the tab, forcing him to sell a few old guns to help Morgan balance the budget at home.
Katy was remarkable in her ability to process all that had occurred. The professionals—the counselors and educators—ultimately attributed her resiliency to her knowledge of the fact that she was loved and also that her father would do whatever was necessary to protect her. The community helped by reaching out to the Crosbys, particularly Katy. Local churches and Sunday-school classes regularly placed the family on their prayer lists.
Jake and Morgan were extremely concerned about the long-term effects of what Katy had seen and heard. No one—especially a nine-year-old—should ever be that close to such evil. It wasn’t until three weeks after that harrowing night that Katy had started to fear being alone, and she would cry when her dad left the house. She had a few really bad nightmares, and once Jake had to pick her up from an overnight party at 2:00 a.m. Morgan and Jake grieved for the pain of their only child. Morgan never openly blamed Jake, but when Katy got really upset, he knew she was thinking it.
Morgan had spent countless hours searching the Internet, looking for the best therapists and treatments for Katy.